It rankled, and Chester despised this lasted setback.
And to make things worse, Chester had to wait to heal. Going to St. Soliño’s Hospital for Magical Maladies would reveal his presence to the authorities, and he was so close to retrieving Harry.
Chester would rather die than go back to prison.
“Morgana’s tits,” Chester swore as he pushed the torn rag against his bleeding side. His vision blurred as he gripped the edge of the sink, and he swayed on his feet.
Chester left a crimson stain on the white porcelain.
He managed to scrape up enough strength to call the house-elves and, miracle of miracles, Chester ordered them to pick up a healing potion for him.
Chester quickly snatched the vials out of the pathetic creature’s hands and dismissed it. With shaking hands, he took a basic healing potion, then a pain potion, and finally a blood-replenishing potion.
Feeling steadier on his feet, Chester traced Harry’s wound with his wand. He had been hesitant to heal it. This was proof that Harry’s magic had been on his skin.
But he sighed, and the wound knitted back together.
Chester wondered whether Harry had left. He certainly hoped that Harry wouldn’t go far. He didn’t want to have to follow him to another Merlin forsaken place.
After taking the potions, Chester didn’t have the energy to do much of anything, and so he reluctantly went to bed.
He slept for 12 hours and, thankfully, he felt much improved. Chester had a brief breakfast and then apparated to Harry’s house.
To his surprise, he stood in the middle of Harry’s living room. Chester fully expected to appear at the gates. ‘Why hadn’t Harry repaired the wards?’
Wand out, Chester walked through the house, seeing no sign of Harry or his beast of a dog.
The house was nothing like he would imagine someone of Harry’s station to live. It was small with none of the grandeur of Brierwell Manor.
His fingers drifted over the books on her shelves, then to his sofa, and then down the hall. Chester ducked his head into the simple guestroom and a linen closet until he got to Harry’s bedroom at the end of the hall.
In the center was a large bed. The white duvet and sheets were untidy, as if they were an invitation to slip into the bed.
He wondered what Harry would look like underneath him. Would he have the same look of fear in those wide green eyes?
Chester sat on the bed, his fingers petting the soft duvet as he waited. He wondered where Harry was right now.
So Chester waited; the minutes stretched endlessly into hours until the sun dipped beyond the horizon.
His rage grew gradually as he sat there and waited for the rest of the day. ‘He’s not coming back, ’ Chester thought angrily to himself.
He knew logically that Harry would be foolish enough to come back there. But Chester had hoped, and his disappointment twisted inside him and transformed into impotent rage.
Chester threw the lamp against the wall.
“Diffindo!” he shouted as his magic surged through him and slashed through Harry’s nightstand. The wood of the nightstand split in two. And then he turned his rage on all the furniture, Harry’s clothing, and the paintings on the walls.
When he was done, Chester marched down the hall, destroying anything that caught his eye, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
“Where are you!” He roared, but no one answered.
