Despite still being quite small for his age, he walked with a spring in his step, arms swinging freely, like a little lion cub. He moved with the same natural grace his late mother had possessed. Only someone in perfect health, who had never known pain, never broken a bone, strained a limb, or had anything heal badly, could move like that.
Harry Potter, however, had been quite the opposite case. In all her years as Hogwarts's matron, Madam Pomfrey couldn't recall having treated a child who had suffered more at such a young age than this green-eyed boy, the son of Lily and James Potter. Had the potions worked so well—so unbelievably well—that they'd truly healed Harry to such an extent? Was that why he now looked the picture of health?
Poppy observed him professionally, her well-trained eyes scanning the boy's form, and her surprise only grew. It wasn't just his gait that had changed. His eyes shone with an otherworldly green, his hair seemed darker and softer... Wait a moment. Where were his round glasses—those unmistakable bicycle-lens spectacles that both he and his father had worn?
Everyone knew about James Potter's unusual nearsightedness—especially rare among wizards. It had appeared during his later years at Hogwarts, after the death of his parents, a loss he had taken very hard. The glasses had perched on his nose ever since, becoming a trademark of the sharp-eyed troublemaker—glasses or no, you didn't mess with James Potter.
After graduating Hogwarts, James had joined the Auror Office and married Lily Evans. During one particularly secretive mission—possibly under the Ministry or the Wizengamot—he had been struck by over a dozen vile curses hurled at him by Death Eaters, one of which included a powerful Obliviate. He spent several weeks recovering at St. Mungo's. The Healers had reported that shards of his broken lenses had lodged deep into his eyes, leaving him completely blind. Everyone pitied Lily—young, pregnant, and facing life not only with a baby on the way but a newly crippled husband.
But St. Mungo's Healers had done the impossible: they restored James's sight. He could see again—though only peripherally. A dark blot had claimed the centre of his vision, and no magic, no Muggle optics, could fix it.
Eventually, Albus Dumbledore himself found a pair of lenses that managed to compensate for the strange affliction, after months of searching. They worked—but there was a cost. The lenses blocked the Potter family's hereditary ability to perceive magical energy currents, a rare and precious gift. Still, James had accepted the trade in order to regain some independence and remain useful.
Madam Pomfrey had heard all this from young Mrs. Potter herself, who often invited Poppy for tea, a quiet cry, and the occasional consultation during her first pregnancy.
The second time Madam Pomfrey saw those same peculiar glasses was on the nose of eleven-year-old Harry Potter, when he timidly entered the Great Hall at the start of the school year in September. She'd been thoroughly surprised—and immediately resolved to order a full medical examination. But with the Hospital Wing in chaos and her to-do list a mile long, it had slipped through the cracks.
Every time she saw the boy, that nagging curiosity returned: how could a child inherit his father's injury-induced myopia? But the thought always vanished the moment Harry disappeared from view.
Now, today, he stood before her with no glasses at all. Which could only mean one thing—he could see perfectly well. And yet… she distinctly remembered repairing those very glasses just two days ago, from shards she had found near the wall of the ward. And she had not, to her memory, given him any potion for vision restoration.
Just to be safe, she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity:
"Where are your glasses, Mr. Potter? Why aren't you wearing them?"
"I realised back in the Hospital Wing that they were only getting in the way, Madam Pomfrey. I can see just fine without them. In fact, I feel wonderful. I think the potions you gave me must have worked some kind of miracle—my sight's completely restored, and I'm very grateful."
"Is that so? But I never gave you a vision-correcting potion, Mr. Potter," she said, now even more perplexed. "You must be mistaken."
"Don't worry about it, Madam Pomfrey," Harry replied gently. "Accept the fact of my recovery the way I did—with relief. I don't need glasses anymore. But I didn't come here just to talk about my eyesight. There's something else I need to show you—and talk to you about. But I need your absolute discretion. Look here."
He rolled up the leg of his trousers, revealing a smooth, unblemished shin.
"What exactly am I meant to see? There's nothing here," she said after a careful inspection—touching the skin, muscle, tendon, and ankle. "No injuries at all."
"Exactly! Just this morning, there was a large scar right here—from Aunt Marge's dog bite. Now it's gone. So is the belt scar from Uncle Vernon. I'm also quite certain that if you scan me with your wand, you'll find a few more surprises."
"Well, if you say so… Let's have a look, Mr. Potter. Lie down on the couch, please."
Harry took a step toward the examination couch—then stopped and turned to look at the matron with a cryptic expression.
"I have one condition, Madam Pomfrey," he said, stepping back toward the door, clearly ready to bolt if she refused. He looked slightly embarrassed, but not guilty—and that made her wary. Still, she decided to hear him out.
"Go on. What's your condition?"
"I want you to swear that everything you observe will remain strictly confidential."
"Even so?"
"Even so."
"From everyone—even your Head of House? Even the Headmaster?"
"Especially from them."
What he said struck her speechless. But long ago, before she was ever granted her Healer's wand by St. Mungo's, Poppy Pomfrey had sworn an oath: the patient's will and well-being above all.
"I agree, Mr. Potter," she said at last, raising her wand. "I swear by my magic to keep confidential all medical observations regarding Harry Potter."
"I accept your oath."
To Harry's eyes, the glow of the oath around the elderly Healer flared like violet flame. Madam Pomfrey merely felt a tugging warmth around her heart.
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