Harry Potter One Shots

Alive

All rights belong to the author, Siriuslyfun19212

He would have slept longer if it weren't for the steady, loud, rhythmic pings radiating throughout the room. They were certainly louder than need be, whatever they were.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Steady and rhythmic. Loud.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Pulsating.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Nerve-wracking. Temperamental. Beastly.

He opened his eyes a sliver of a fraction and looked around him, breathing it in. He was in a bed. He felt restrained. Silver disks were on his wrists, monitoring his pulse, his life. Constricting bands held firmly around his forearm, measuring his blood pressure. Loose ropes tied him to the bed—even if he tried to undo them, they became knotted and gnarled, completely unwilling to give, as if secured by magic.

He used his eyes to examine himself. Shocking, really. He looked mangled. He felt mangled. He felt sickly. He wanted to throw up. He lurched forward, looking for something near enough. He found it, a small bucket, perfect. It immediately emptied itself, returning to its previous, clean state. He was in a white tartan dress. Was it really a dress? How odd. A large M bore the front of it. M. M. Where had he seen that emblem before? M... M... Mango. Mushroom. Millimeter. Mungo. St. Mungo's. The hospital? He shifted his legs to see what he could, trying to inch the dress up further. It revealed a long gash, from thigh to mid-calf. Bruised-, torn-, insidious-looking skin. The same could be said for his arms. Both held different degrees of cuts, cuts worthy of scar-tissue.

His young, five-year-old brain worked. He'd heard of St. Mungo's, in passing. Wasn't it the wizard hospital? The one where they just swished their wands and all was right again? Then why were these cuts still there?

He heard voices outside his room, hushed, as if clandestine.

"A normal life is imperceptible. Not in this state."

"He is our son," a familiar voice, male, hissed. "Bitten or not."

Bitten? These gashes didn't look like bite marks. They looked like tears, rips, overtly encompassing his entire body, it seemed.

"Euthanasia is the best option. If he were to live—"

"We are not putting him down like a sick puppy!" the other voice shouted, surreptitiousness forgotten. "He is our son!"

A sigh from his counterpart. "Ministry regulations state—"

"Ministry regulations be damned! He is a child!"

The other continued. "They regulate that anyone under the age of ten either be euthanized or transform monthly within a guarded ministry holding cell. I've seen this before—it's more trouble than it's worth."

A hush.

"How can you possibly say that? More trouble that it's worth? He is a five-year-old boy. He did not ask for this. He deserves a chance to live! You're a Healer! Life should be important to you!"

Remus could not see either physiognomies, but he was sure both were defiant, maybe one of them was giving in....

"I can see that I will not sway you."

"You are damn right." The voice broke. "That is my boy in there. My boy! I will do what I can to protect him. To keep him safe."

A sigh. "Very well."

Beep! Beep! Beep!

It continued.

A week more in St. Mungo's. A week under the careful eye of Healers, under the guard of his parents, under the watch and inspection of the Ministry. He remembered faintly a conversation the other day, between an unfamiliar person and a regular to his room, the one that documented the radiations of the silver disks on his wrists.