The mirror was shattered into pieces, and the hall... the hall lay in ruins. Stones from the collapsed columns and chunks of plaster were strewn everywhere, and dust hung heavily in the air.
Harry's cloak was irreparably damaged, torn in several places and so dirty it looked as if he had rolled under his bed back when he still lived in the cupboard. But most concerning was the black stain on his chest. It marked the spot where the spirit had tried to take over his magical core—a large soot deposit remained. Harry instinctively tried to wipe it away, but not only did it not help, it also filled the air with a stench of decay and swamp. Cursing everything, he staggered as if caught in a storm and bolted, all the while racing through his thoughts about the current situation.
Suddenly, Harry realized that he fully understood the depth of the potential problems. Old childhood instincts screamed that he wouldn't be able to explain this away with stories about a magical outburst—no one would believe him. Quirrell had vanished, leaving only his clothes, wand, and purple turban, now lying somewhere under the partially collapsed ceiling. While the clothes could be passed off as part of the professor's odd, nudist habits, the same excuse wouldn't fly for his wand. It wouldn't be easily found, but there was a high likelihood it would be discovered during the clean-up, and the questions would then be directed at him. Yes, Quirrell disintegrated after Harry touched him, but Harry hadn't intentionally killed him... or had he? The real question was, who would believe him? If anyone knew the professor had been here, everything would be pinned on him. Acting clueless wasn't an option, and he couldn't come up with a logical (or magical) explanation for what had happened.
Would it be better to run before they found him at the scene of the crime?
Without fully thinking through what the adults might accuse him of, and forgetting about Hermione and Ron, Harry dashed up the stairs. But a sudden wave of overwhelming exhaustion and weakness struck the first-year student. His strength was gone, and when his right foot slid on a loose piece of rubble and his left leg buckled, it sent him tumbling back down the stairs. The injuries he sustained from the fall were enough for his body to shut down and begin the process of saving what strength and health it could.
Lying unconscious, Harry Potter still had no idea what he had gained—or lost.
The Philosopher's Stone had shattered into fine dust after Harry's reckless fall. As he lay on the shards, his blood seeped into the small fragments that had once made up the brilliant stone, dissolving them in the process. The resulting substance was absorbed into his wound, casually healing the injuries it had caused.
There wasn't a single trace of blood left on the fabric of his trousers.
In the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, on one of the many beds, amidst the white sheets, lay the small, dark-haired figure of a boy, his face blending with the white pillowcase beneath his head.
The school nurse, Madam Pomfrey, had prepared the bed by the window so that the sunlight would constantly brighten the boy's room. Sometimes, as she looked at the gaunt and frail figure of the last Potter, she realized that such things couldn't have developed overnight, even with the trauma and accelerated healing. That meant he had arrived at Hogwarts in this state. Every glance at him brought a sharp pang of guilt, and she bitterly regretted letting Dumbledore convince her not to conduct a full medical examination of the first-year students this year.
A snippet of conversation with the headmaster played over in her mind: "Poppy, dear. Look at the calendar and recognize that it's the end of the twentieth century. Even among Muggles, it's rare to see such blatant neglect of a child these days. Yes, there are orphans and the underprivileged, but they have plenty of time to recover. Think of how many such children you've treated, and remember how they left Hogwarts in the end. Why waste time on unnecessary procedures when there are more pressing matters? Besides, your report won't write itself."
Then, when the headmaster had brought Potter's limp body in later that evening, suspended in mid-air by a Levicorpus spell, suffering from all kinds of exhaustion and slipping in and out of a jittery faint, Poppy Pomfrey had truly been frightened. She was horrified at the thought of what magical backlash she might face for her negligent actions and lack of proper supervision over this child. Treating a member of the Ancient Families with such disregard was like playing with fire. It was one thing to get a scolding from the headmaster, but it was entirely different to be punished by the magic of an Ancient House.
Dumbledore's light dismissal and mocking parting words, "The boy just needs rest," followed by his signature twinkling glasses, had nearly driven her to fury. After he left, she gave Harry the best potions she had, making sure he was truly "just asleep" before finally retreating to rest herself.