Son of Magic

Chapter 9

27th November, 1941

Hospital Wing, Hogwarts

Pandemonium—that appropriately described the present state of Hogwart's Hospital Wing.

It was probably safe to say that it had been decades since the Hospital Wing had seen so many students rushed in at once. In fact, Headmaster Dippet had to expand the wing to twice its regular size to accommodate all students and Hogsmeade villagers in need of medical assistance.

It was plain to see that Hogwarts hadn't been prepared for its students to be attacked, which, in hindsight, was rather careless and foolish of the Headmaster and the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Considering the recent calamity outside of Hogwarts' walls it was awfully arrogant to assume that Hogwarts, wouldn't, at some point, be drawn into the war, especially with the recent attack on Beauxbatons.

Headmaster Dippit could have, at the very least, had the foresight to employ another matron. But the stingy bastard was probably more concerned with the school's budget.

Now, due to his own oversight, Headmaster Dippet was left with a Hospital Wing filled with injured students and barely any idea how to proceed.

Several students were crying out in various degrees of pain, while others shed concerned tears over the unconscious bodies of their partners and comrades. Then there were some sat silent and unmoving, their bodies stiff and locked in shock with the trauma they'd just experienced.

All the Professors and some older students were doing their best to help the injured since the only employed matron currently had her hands full with the most grievously injured student—Hadrian James Peverell.

Many students and villagers were injured, but none were fighting for their lives as Hadrian was. He was the only reported 'possible casualty' of the attack.

It seemed unjust that it was Hadrian who was fighting for his life when he was the only reason why none of the other students had become 'possible casualties' or even 'deceased'.

It wasn't right. Hadrian didn't deserve to be unconscious with his life hanging on a delicate thread.

Not Hadrian.

Not Hadrian, who had worn the most exuberant expression on his face while taking down thirty-two men without breaking a single sweat.

Hadrian, who had saved Tom's life at the risk of his neck.

Hadrian, who had conjured the most magnificent Patronus ever heard of, sending the Dementors fleeing with their tails between their legs.

Hadrian, beautiful Hadrian who had such potential and was brimming with power.

He couldn't die. He simply couldn't. Tom won't allow it.

But what could he do? What could he do?

Nothing—he could do absolutely nothing to help him.

The helplessness Tom felt as he watched Hadrian's frail body hovering over the hospital bed was almost too much to bear.

Tom was no stranger to helplessness. He'd felt it before—that rising panic one feels the moment they realise that there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. He had felt it often enough before he'd learned how to control his magic to fend off the bullies at the orphanage. He'd also felt that same helplessness for the whole duration of his first year at Hogwarts—before he had gained the respect of his peers. But it was still a confusing concept to Tom when associated with another person.