Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

The rain had eased into a fine mist by the time they reached the outskirts of the neighborhood. Harry noticed the gradual shift in the architecture—the neat rows of townhouses giving way to crumbling facades, peeling paint, and boarded windows. It was clear that this part of the city had been neglected, left to decay under the weight of systemic poverty.

Eli walked a few steps ahead, his pace quicker now that they were close. Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, a kind of wariness that seemed ingrained.

"How long have you been living there?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.

Eli glanced back at him, his expression guarded. "Since I was seven. My mom died, and my dad…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Let's just say he wasn't around much."

Harry nodded, his heart sinking. He didn't press for details. He knew the look in Eli's eyes all too well—the kind of pain that came from being left behind.

"What about you?" Eli asked suddenly. "Where are you from?"

Harry hesitated. How was he supposed to explain that? "It's… complicated," he said finally.

Eli gave him a sidelong glance. "You're not from the city, that's for sure."

"No," Harry admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Definitely not."

Before Eli could press further, they rounded a corner, and the orphanage came into view.

The building was three stories tall, its brick facade weathered and cracked. A faded sign above the front door read St. Ignatius Home, the letters barely visible through the grime. Despite its dilapidated appearance, there was a faint warmth about the place—a flickering light in one of the windows, the sound of children's laughter drifting faintly into the night.

"This is it," Eli said, gesturing to the building. "Not much, but it's home."

Harry followed him up the short flight of steps to the front door. The wood was worn and splintered, but it opened smoothly as Eli pushed it inward.

The warmth hit Harry immediately—a mix of musty air, cooked cabbage, and faintly burned toast. The hallway was narrow, lined with scuffed floors and faded wallpaper. Children's voices echoed faintly from somewhere upstairs, mingling with the creak of footsteps on old floorboards.

"This way," Eli said, leading Harry toward a small sitting room near the back of the house.

The room was cramped but cozy, with mismatched furniture and a fire crackling weakly in the hearth. A stack of books teetered precariously on a side table, and the walls were lined with faded photographs of smiling children.

Seated in an armchair by the fire was a woman Harry guessed to be in her early forties. Her deep brown skin glowed in the firelight, and her coiled hair was tied back in a scarf. She wore a simple blouse and cardigan, her hands busy mending a tear in a child's jacket.

She looked up as they entered, her sharp eyes immediately landing on Harry.

"Eli," she said, setting the jacket aside, her voice rich and commanding, trying to hide her anxiousness. It was a tone he was familiar with, the same he's used to not worry others when the weight of his responsibility felt too heavy. "Who's this?"

"This is James," Eli said quickly. "He... he helped me out."

Her gaze flicked to Eli's side, where the bloodstain was still faintly visible on his shirt. Her brow furrowed, and she stood, her presence commanding despite her small stature.

"What happened?" she asked, her tone sharp but not unkind as she moved closer, gaze soft but assessing.

"Some idiots in the alley," Eli muttered. "Harry scared them off." 

Her eyes narrowed. "You're bleeding."

"Not anymore," Eli said, glancing at Harry.

The woman's gaze snapped back to Harry, her brow furrowing. "What does he mean, 'not anymore'?"

Harry hesitated, unsure how much to say. "I patched him up," he said carefully.

Her eyes swept over him, taking in his worn coat, his steady posture, and the faint air of exhaustion clinging to him. She didn't look skeptical. She looked intrigued.

"You a doctor?" she asked.

"Something like that," Harry said.

She studied him for a long moment before nodding. "We've got others who could use your help," she said, her voice softening. "If you're willing. Oh, where are my manners? I'm Mary Anne Turner, the matron of this orphanage. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"My name's Harry," he said, looking around as she lead them deeper inside. The hallway was narrow, lined with peeling wallpaper and scuffed wooden floors. It smelled faintly of damp wood and something Harry couldn't quite place—cooked cabbage, maybe? "And don't worry about it. I would like to heal the children first."

Mary Anne nodded as she turned from where was clearly the kitchen to the upper floor, her steps purposeful despite the sag in her shoulders. Eli fell into step beside Harry, glancing up at him with a shy grin.

"You don't know how lucky you are," Eli said, his voice low enough not to carry to Mary Anne.

"Lucky?" Harry asked, arching a brow.

"To have met her." Eli tilted his chin toward Mary Anne. "She's the best. Took over this place when nobody else would. Fought tooth and nail to keep it open when the city tried to shut us down. Half the kids here wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her."

Mary Anne didn't turn, but her lips twitched into a faint smile, as if she'd overheard.

Harry's gaze lingered on her back, his mind swirling with questions. What kind of world is this, where someone like her has to fight just to keep children safe?

They stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway. Mary Anne pushed it open, and Harry's nose was immediately assaulted by the sharp tang of vomit. He wrinkled his nose instinctively but stepped inside without hesitation.

The room was small, lit by a single dim bulb overhead. A boy no older than ten lay curled on a narrow bed, his face pale and pinched. He clutched his stomach, groaning softly, his breaths shallow and labored. A basin of bile sat on the floor beside him, half-filled.

"This is Andre," Mary Anne said, her voice soft. She moved to the boy's bedside, brushing a hand over his damp forehead. "He's been like this for three days. Can't keep anything down—not food, not water, not even medicine. The hospital turned us away and we don't have the money for a doctor." Her jaw tightened, but her touch on the boy remained gentle.

Harry's heart clenched. He crouched beside the bed, his eyes scanning the boy's trembling frame, his face was pale, his cheeks flushed with fever, and his shallow breaths wheezed faintly. He was malnourished, his thin arms clutching at his stomach as though trying to contain the pain.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" he asked, glancing up at her.

Mary Anne shook her head, her expression clouded with worry. "We've tried everything we can, but…" She trailed off, her hands falling to her sides helplessly.

Harry didn't answer immediately. He reached out carefully, placing his hand against the boy's forehead. The heat radiating from his skin was alarming—far too high for someone his age to handle for long.

"Fever," Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Severe dehydration. Malnutrition." His voice was clinical, his mind switching into problem-solving mode. He glanced back at Mary Anne. "Do you know what caused it?"

She shook her head. "He complained of a stomachache a few days ago, and then it just… got worse. We can't afford a doctor, and the hospital turned us away. Said they were at capacity." Her voice hardened, anger flashing briefly in her eyes before she turned her gaze back to the boy. "I don't know what else to do."

Eli hovered in the doorway, watching Harry with wide, expectant eyes.

Harry hesitated. He could feel the weight of their trust, their hope. He reached for the Elder Wand, hidden beneath his coat, and whispered, "I'm going to need you to trust me."