The Clock Tower at Hogwarts struck eleven, each great toll rolling across the silent, moonlit grounds. Most students were in bed, professors tucked away or patrolling the corridors. In the Infirmary, two figures whispered animatedly in the dark, trying not to wake the patient, knowing he would not be woken regardless. Their voices carried a renewed, quiet desperation, one that had not been felt since the downfall of the greatest threat the wizarding community had ever seen.

"What will we do, Poppy? If the boy doesn't recover, that is?" said the first.

"Hush, now, Minerva," said the other. "He's hardly a boy anymore. Not after what he's been through. Not after what he's done. He will be okay, I can promise you."

"The injury, though—are you quite sure you can fix him here?"

"Of course. Taking him to St Mungo's is unnecessary and you know well enough the disturbance it would cause."

"Yes, I... I know." She sighed heavily. "And I trust your skills wholeheartedly. I just worry about him, you know."

The other woman patted her tentatively on the back. "He should be waking up in the next twenty-four hours. We can see how he's doing then. For now, we both need to get some rest."

The two departed, leaving the room calm and quiet. The only noise was the deep, even respiration of the unconscious patient, who was completely still. The shadows and moonlight crept slowly around the room, passing over the lone occupied bed, and still he did not move. His breathing filled the room.