The Furred Dragon

Havermouth, Present Time

Harry did not know how long they had been tending to Jules in the small cold room. Time had lost any meaning as the room had no natural light. They fed when Fatima brought them blood, or one of the ancients descended the stairs in order to donate. And then they would patiently drip blood into Jules’ slack mouth, watching for a sign that he had swallowed, before unbandaging the ruin of Jules’ hand, examining the wound for signs of healing before coating it again with blood and carefully, tenderly re-wrapping it.

Jules was not dead. They were certain of it. Although he did not breathe, did not swallow, and his heart did not beat, Harry was certain that they sensed a spark of life within him, that they would know if the body that they held was nothing but flesh.

They had, after all, handled many dead bodies in their long, long life.

And the hand wound... It looked better. They could not precisely say how it was so - it was still a mess of bone and meat, and the b