Almost a full day after recovering from the effects of merging and synchronizing the different parts of his unified magical core, the Hero of the Wizarding World made a decision: he would continue to be known by the name Harry Potter.
The newly transformed Harry opened his eyes and realized he was seeing the world from a new perspective. His face adopted an impenetrable expression, and his lips curled into a crooked smile. Feeling the call of nature, Harry decisively got up from the bed and quickly headed to the bathroom. Based on the sluggishness of his body and the numbness in his limbs, he concluded he must have slept for over a day, which meant it was time to act. His stomach growled in agreement.
Methodically and unhurriedly, Harry began preparing to leave the hospital wing. He straightened the rumpled bed, tossed his hospital gown into the laundry, and pulled out his clean clothes: socks, shirt, trousers. As he reached into his pocket, he noticed the crumpled edge of a handkerchief sticking out. In a desperate hope, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief, finding inside it the crumbled remains of the Philosopher's Stone. It seemed the house-elves had collected the fragments and wrapped them up for him. At least it was something.
Putting the bundle with the Stone back into his pocket, Harry continued dressing. Thinking that even the dust of the Stone was invaluable, he felt slightly encouraged. As he was tying the lace of his second shoe, Madam Pomfrey's voice interrupted him unexpectedly.
"Mr. Potter, where do you think you're going? Get undressed and back in bed right now. You're still under treatment for at least another week. You'll spend all that time resting in bed, gaining strength. Injuries like yours don't heal quickly, and I'll be insisting you follow this regime even through the summer!"
"Madam Pomfrey, believe me, my desire to spend the entire summer lounging in bed is unusually strong. If it were up to me, not even a herd of hippogriffs could drag me out of the hospital wing! But there's only a week left of the school year, and I have so much to do. I also need to mentally prepare for… a not-so-pleasant summer ahead."
"What do you mean, not-so-pleasant? Mr. Potter, you're going home for the summer! Holidays are the happiest time of the year for all children. You get to run around and make mischief."
"Maybe for some, but not for me. Living with my relatives, I'm more of a walking annoyance than anything else."
His last sentence, spoken with a certain resignation, left the mediwitch momentarily speechless, and she stood there blinking at the fully dressed boy.
"Madam Pomfrey, please let me go," Harry asked again, blinking his green eyes through his glassless frames. "I slept the whole day and feel fine. I still need to talk to my friends before we leave. If you don't believe me that I'm okay, use magic to check!"
A brilliant thought struck Harry—this might be his only chance to get out of excessive work at his "beloved" relatives' home.
"All right, for the sake of your eyes, I'll make an exception. Lie back on the bed."
Without a word, Harry smirked and swiftly lay back, watching with interest as Madam Pomfrey conducted the diagnostic spellwork with her skilled hands. She drew her wand above his body, murmuring healing incantations, moving it from his feet to his head and back. The soft muttering caused the wand to emit a multicolored glow, enveloping the boy's body in turns, sometimes warming, sometimes chilling him. Harry suddenly realized he understood the diagnostic patterns quite easily—the colors indicating the age of scars, illnesses, and injuries. When she finished, Madam Pomfrey spoke:
"Well, Mr. Potter, I can congratulate you—you have significant physical and magical exhaustion. No magic, no Quidditch, either here or during the summer. I'll inform the professors about this. You've got a healing jaw fracture, as well as fractures in your ribs and ankle—likely from your near-sightedness and lack of caution. And surprisingly, I found a professional Seeker's injury—a broken arm and torn ligaments."
"But I didn't break my arm playing Quidditch," Harry protested. "It was broken by—"
"No matter," Madam Pomfrey interrupted. "Everything can be mended with potions, but it's quite strange—your regeneration is remarkably fast. It's almost as if you're healing yourself! Compared to the condition in which you were brought here, you're almost recovered. Now, Mr. Potter, where did Professor Dumbledore find you? What happened to you?"
"All questions regarding the incident should be directed to Professor Dumbledore, ma'am. I barely remember anything."
The bundle with the Stone burned against his leg, but Harry didn't give any sign. Madam Pomfrey nodded and continued muttering.
"Eat well, drink the vitamins and potions I'll be sending you every two weeks all summer. Less physical exertion, more fresh air and rest. I repeat, your health depends on you."
Harry decided to test his luck:
"And what if my guardians make me work more than I should?"
"Then you write to me, and I'll come and have a word with them," replied the mediwitch. Harry, in his mind, applauded himself. "For now, I'll write you a note for them. Come back later to pick it up. Now, drink this potion," she pointed to one of the bottles on the shelf, "and you're free to go see your friends. Believe me, this summer will be different for you. I swear!" she assured the boy, oblivious to the faint glowing that momentarily surrounded her when she made the vow.
Had Madam Pomfrey known how prophetic her words would be, and how differently the summer would unfold—not at all how she imagined—she might have hesitated to make such a promise.