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Water from a Stone	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 14851 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Six—This Is Just Not Harry’s Week

            “But what did you hope to accomplish?”

            Harry rolled his eyes. He just wanted to eat his breakfast in peace, but Hermione wanted explanations, and Harry knew that he wouldn’t have that peace until he gave them. He put his spoon down and leaned around Ron so he could see her.

            “Cause them fear,” he said. “I know that most of them aren’t going to stop bullying the Slytherins just because I say so. If we can terrify them into it, then that’ll work better.” He picked up his spoon and got exactly three bites of cornflakes before Hermione spoke again.

            “But reasonable argument would work so much better,” she said, eyes slightly misty. “Honestly, Harry, speak to most people long enough and they’ll realize that they’ve done something wrong. You don’t have to torture them.”

            “Funny,” Harry said, when he swallowed, “that you care so much about me and Malfoy terrifying these people but you didn’t care when it was Slytherins suffering that.”

            Hermione opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. Ron chortled, which caused a small flight of airborne pieces of toast. Harry could imagine them crying Free! Free! in silent voices as they flew. “He’s got you there, Hermione,” he said.

            “I didn’t—I do care,” Hermione said, but weakly. Suddenly she took an interest in her eggs that Harry hadn’t seen her display before.

            Harry snorted and finished his breakfast, leaning back in his chair to look around the Great Hall. For the first time since swearing the oath, he hadn’t been pulled out of bed last night. He hoped that people had taken his warning seriously and would stop that.

            Quite a few empty chairs stood at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables this morning, while the Slytherin table seemed more crowded than Harry remembered it being. He hoped that was a good sign, even as the thought that the Slytherins might have felt too scared to come to meals made his stomach clench with anger. If the school could just take a lesson and not have to have it re-taught every few days, things would get more back to normal.

            Harry thought he was starting to know how Snape had felt, with so many people who simply refused to learn.

            Malfoy was sitting at the head of the Slytherin table, of course, his face so pinched Harry thought it was a miracle he could swallow anything. He caught Harry’s eye and leaned forwards, staring, before he nodded pointedly. He wanted everyone else to know who he associated with, Harry thought as he nodded back. Already counting on how he would use his “friendship” with the Boy-Who-Lived to good effect. Well, Harry didn’t mind that much as long as he didn’t do anything criminal.

            A stir at the High Table made him turn his head. McGonagall was rising to her feet, a stern expression covering so much of her face that Harry groaned. When her eyebrows bent deep like that, someone was about to get not only detention, but a whole lot of sententious moralizing.

            Hermione had noticed, too, and was nudging people around her to be quiet, hissing more loudly than anything at the table but Ron’s chewing. Harry rolled his eyes and tapped her shoulder. “Stop telling people to hush,” he whispered.

            Hermione blushed and fell silent just as McGonagall began to speak. Harry wondered if she had cast a Sonorus Charm on her throat, because her voice was more carrying than usual.

            “There was a serious attack on certain students in the library last night,” McGonagall said. “Involving illusions and panic and fear.” For one second, she looked at Harry. Harry gazed back, his arms folded behind his head. She could try to stop him from doing things to protect the Slytherins, but he doubted the oath would like that.

            McGonagall shook her head and glanced away. “The students involved have admitted that it happened to them, or they believe it happened to them, because they were trying to deny access to the library to Slytherin students.” She leaned forwards, hands braced on the table. Harry blinked. An even deeper silence descended over the Great Hall.

            Is she really—?

            “This is a school,” McGonagall said. “A school founded by four people who worked together to create an institution of learning, one where all students would have the same chance, though not in the same way. The reason the Sorting Hat places you into Houses is to play upon your particular strengths and give you a chance to be with people like yourself. No House is inherently evil, though some may produce a higher percentage of Dark wizards than others.”

            Thank you for that little reminder, Harry thought crossly, but he knew McGonagall tended to be fair before any other consideration, so he should have expected it.

            “Anyone who blocks the learning opportunities of other students, whether by barricading the library or taking their books or creating an environment where they must care more about defending themselves than about doing their homework, will be disciplined in the future.” McGonagall paused, then pressed the next words into that careful, listening silence. “With severity.”

            Then she sat down and began to eat her breakfast again. The silence broke into stares and chatter.

            “There,” Hermione said, sounding like someone who had run a race. “She’s going to punish anyone who goes after the Slytherins!” She beamed at Harry. “Does that address some of your concerns?”

            “Some,” Harry said. “Not all.” He turned his head, and sure enough, Malfoy’s eyes were waiting for him. He nodded, as though Harry had asked a question aloud, and then turned to listen to a first-year girl beside him. “It would have been nice if she could mention how the Slytherins are being singled out, instead of sounding as though the restriction on studying applied to everyone equally.”

            “Well, it might,” Hermione said. “If someone from Slytherin decides to barricade the library against Gryffindors, then it would.”

            Harry abruptly found that he didn’t want any more of his breakfast. He stood up, pushing his plate back, told Hermione, “See you in Potions,” and left the Great Hall.

            Hermione said something to his back. Harry just shook his head and kept walking, and when he got outside the Hall, leaned against a staircase and took deep breaths that he hoped would wash his lungs clean.

            I’m not—yes, that could happen. But it’s not what’s been happening. Why are people more interested in hypothetical situations and making good arguments than what goes on in front of their eyes?

            Harry stood there until he thought he’d calmed down, and then made his way to Potions, where his mood was not improved by the one Hufflepuff in the class glaring at him and Slughorn looking triumphant, as though he had personally solved the problem.

*

            Harry landed lightly, the wind skimming through his hair as he brought the broom down. He knew he was grinning like a moron. Well, no one was on the pitch to see it, so that didn’t matter.

            He hopped off the broom and made his way towards the Quidditch shed, bending at the waist and stretching his arms above his head to relieve sore muscles. It had been a while since he had a flight that good—a while since he’d gone up on his broom without worrying about the Snitch and flown in circles and dips and dives, just trying to exercise.

            It had taken time away from the Defense essay that he had to finish tomorrow, but that was totally worth it, Harry thought as he started to put his equipment away. He could write Defense essays in his sleep, and it wasn’t bragging to say that he knew more than Professor Meadows, the theory-oriented bloke McGonagall had hired for the position this year. Besides, Meadows would probably bow his head and accept whatever the Great Harry Potter handed in.

            Sometimes it’s good to be the Chosen One.

            A spell hit him in the middle of his back, blasting him off his feet and into the wall of the Quidditch shed.

            Harry rolled with the impact, wrapping his arms around his head and ducking it so that it would be as safe as possible. He was rewarded with a blow on his shoulder as he hit the wall rather than a blow on his head, and his left arm promptly tingling and going numb from the shoulder down.

            Fucker, too bad for you that’s not my wand hand, Harry raged as he stood up and reached for his wand with his right hand.

            There was no one in the door of the Quidditch shed. Harry stomped over and stared around, panting, narrow-eyed, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see any possible places for an attacker to hide. It was highly probable that they’d fled rather than sitting around and waiting for him to see them.

            As the adrenaline faded, Harry started to take stock of his injuries. Bruised shoulder and numb arm, yes. But the small of his back, where the spell had hit in the first place, also really fucking hurt. He twisted around, trying to see the injury there, and then finally went into the showers and stripped down in front of the mirror.

            He hissed. A large, blue-black bruise took up half the skin on his back, it seemed, and it hurt more as he looked at it. Harry poked at it, and ended up pulling his hand back as if he’d touched a hot stove. At least sensation was returning to his left arm. The original spell—which he didn’t recognize—had done a lot more damage than the fall.

            What the fuck was that, anyway?

            Harry shook his head and dropped his shirt back into place. At least it didn’t look as though he was bleeding anywhere, and he knew exactly why this had happened. Someone was angry about the way he was defending the Slytherins. All this did was made Harry want to have more sessions of that defense club for the Slytherins, and set up something else.

            Harry paused with a small smile when he thought about it. Yes, there was something else he could do, something that would make the harassment of Slytherins anywhere in the school everyone’s problem until they did something about it.

            I was right. Reason doesn’t work. Trying to get the teachers involved doesn’t work, although it might have subdued one or two people. The only thing that works is annoying people or frightening them until they stop.

*

            “Attention,” a calm voice announced above their heads the next Monday in potions. “Attention. A Slytherin is being abused in the dungeons.”

            Slughorn blinked and lifted his head, as the rest of the class turned to stare. “What is that?” he asked of no one in particular.

            Harry knew exactly what it was, of course: one of the alarm wards that he’d set up throughout the school, to react when someone with a Slytherin tie started suffering pain in the immediate area. Of course, the oath scar burning on his chest would tell him about that, too, and it tugged him out of his seat and in the direction of the dungeons, but this way, everyone would know what was happening.

            “Attention,” said the voice, in a much more strident tone this time. “Attention. A Slytherin is being abused in the dungeons.”

            “Who caused that?” Slughorn demanded. “Turn it off. And Mr. Potter, where are you going?”

            “You heard the voice,” Harry said innocently, and ducked out of the classroom. Really, he was glad to get out of there, away from Slughorn’s fawning, though he was sorry for the cause of it.

            He’d run most of the way in the direction of the incident—with the alarm ward above him repeating itself louder and louder every few seconds—when he realized that he had someone following him. Harry whipped around with the wand in his hand. Whoever this was, he was going to deal with them quickly and then get back to handling the immediate threat to whatever Slytherin was in trouble.

            His back ached as he moved, and the edges of his vision went briefly white with pain. Harry hissed between his teeth. The stupid bruise on his back was still there, and he had started noticing blood in his urine when he pissed. But it would just have to go away and sit at the end of his list of problems for a while.

            Malfoy stepped back from him, one hand raised. “I just want to help, Potter. I think it’s time that we did some defending of our own.” He frowned and peered more closely at Harry. “What’s wrong with you?”

            “I’m angry that this is happening yet again,” Harry snapped, and began running, while the alarm ward shrilled and screamed. Malfoy followed him, or at least Harry thought so from the thump of his footsteps. Well, fine. He could come along, and maybe do something. Harry just hoped that he wouldn’t get in the way.

            He found the Slytherin, a fourth-year, being cornered in one of the abandoned classrooms Harry suspected Snape of making into torture rooms. The two students above him were both in Gryffindor robes and ties, and that was all Harry saw before the rage took over.

            “Alapa!” he shouted, and both Gryffindor students leaped and bellowed at the same time as the spell gave them a box on the ear. Harry, gritting his teeth against the idiotic pain in his back, leaped between them and the Slytherin and aimed his wand at both.

            He didn’t know either of them, he saw with some relief, though they were both fifth-years. He was tired of knowing people who were involved in this mess. It had been bad enough that Gryffindor students joined in blocking the library last week. He gestured with his wand, and the alarm ward shrieked once more and then fell silent. Harry wanted these two gits to hear every word he was going to say.

            “Go away,” he said. “Or I’ll tie your ankles together and turn you into balls for werewolves to play with.”

            The two boys exchanged glances. One of them muttered something. The other shook his head, and then turned and faced Harry with a deep breath.

            “My name is Ian Gerrold,” he said.

            “And?” Harry asked, although he was partially glad that he had a name to pin on a face. He shifted his weight as something seemed to kick him in the back again, and grimaced. That can stop any time now. He darted a glance at the corridor beyond the two boys, and discovered that Malfoy wasn’t anywhere in sight. Harry snorted. Must have buggered off.

            “I challenge you, Harry Potter, to a formal wizards’ duel.” Gerrold inched nearer, his eyes bright.

            Harry cast a quick look back at the fourth-year Slytherin and found that he seemed to be all right except for a bruise or two on his face. He nodded to Harry and then flattened himself against the wall. More and more, Harry was suspecting that this was a trap for him rather than the boy.

            “Fine,” he said. “When and where?”

            “Here,” said Gerrold, and he bowed to Harry and flung his first spell so quickly that Harry had no time to bow back.

            Harry swore as he caught the first spell on his upraised arm, and a bright, painful sensation flashed down the bone and into his eyes. It was the stupid surprise, he thought, or he would have been on his guard. As it was, he had to fall backwards, tripped over a desk, and ended up on his back as Gerrold launched something else. Luckily, a Shield Charm seemed to deflect more of it.

            Gerrold’s friend had stepped away, and the Slytherin boy was no longer hiding directly behind Harry but against the far wall. That would help somewhat, Harry thought, as he slowly and painfully picked himself up. His back flared, his arm flared, and the bruise on his shoulder seemed to be getting into the act, too.

            “I was unaware that a formal duel started without drawing a circle,” he told Gerrold as he started to pace from side to side, hoping he could use his movements to distract Gerrold’s attention from his hands.

            “That’s for fools,” Gerrold said, and then moved his wand in an elaborate spiral. “Arcuo!”

            Harry snapped another shield into place, but a bit of the spell slipped through, and he gasped aloud as his spine bent like a bow. Much more of that, he knew, and the spell would force him into a more and more curved position, until bones broke or, at the very least, he dropped his wand.

            Luckily, he had a high pain threshold. Harry leaned his wand arm around to the side and cried, “Finite Incantatem! Incarcerous! Expelliarmus!”

            The spell let him go, dropping him to the floor with another gasp, and he watched with grim satisfaction as his spells slammed home, one by one, dropping Gerrold in bonds and sending his wand flying to Harry’s hand. Harry got back to his feet, wincing, and looked over his shoulder to make sure the Slytherin was still all right.

            “My name is Oswald Everhardt,” said the other Gryffindor boy.

            Harry groaned aloud. He could see their strategy now: wear him down with formal duels that he wasn’t allowed to refuse, and keep on going until he was so wounded that he couldn’t continue.

            “Stupefy,” a voice said beyond the entrance to the room, and Everhardt’s eyes crossed as the red light felled him. Harry Summoned his wand just to be sure and then glanced up, shaking his head as Malfoy stepped in.

            “About time you got here,” he said. “Can you check on your Housemate? He might have other injuries I didn’t see.”

            “He’s fine,” Malfoy said, without a glance at the boy as he came towards Harry. “You’re the one who should see Madam Pomfrey.”

            “The one spell just made my arm hurt, and it’s wearing off,” Harry said, shaking his right arm. “See? As for—” He turned to the fourth-year boy. “What’s your name?”

            “Xavier,” he muttered, eyes on the floor, and then seemed to realize that wasn’t sufficient and looked up, blinking. “Xavier Reynolds.”

            Harry nodded encouragingly, then turned back to Malfoy. “I’m so glad that you can diagnose Reynolds as having no injuries just by looking at him, and I’m sure you’ll make a great Healer, but in the meantime, maybe you could act as though he deserves some attention and escort him up to the hospital wing?”

            “Potter, don’t be an idiot,” Malfoy said, voice so low and vicious that Harry stared at him. He had thought he and Malfoy were getting along, though he wouldn’t say they had gone on the road to being friends. But at least they were past insults for no reason.

            “You’re being the idiot,” Harry said. “Look, we’ve got a case of yet another abuse, and one we should take up with McGonagall this time, because she made that announcement and it still didn’t stop some people. And this time the alarm wards let more people know what was happening. We should publicize the names of the ones who did this as soon as possible.” He looked scornfully at Gerrold and Everhardt where they lay, and shook his head. “And maybe discover a cure for the terminal stupidity they have while we’re at it.”

            Malfoy seized his arm. Harry hissed beneath his breath, and Malfoy nodded. “Hear that? It’s a sign that the spell went deeper than you know.” He started pulling Harry in the direction of the door, ignoring the fact that Reynolds was still gaping after them and that the tugging was more likely to hurt Harry than otherwise. “You need to see Madam Pomfrey.”

            Harry opened his mouth to object, and at the same moment, Malfoy’s arm curved around behind him and pressed against his back. Harry couldn’t help it this time; he cried out, and Malfoy immediately stopped moving and turned to him with a pale face. Well, paler than usual, Harry amended, already feeling his own face flush because he couldn’t keep quiet.

            “Did I hurt you?” Malfoy bent down in front of him and reached out to touch Harry’s back again, fingers gently probing at the bruise.

            “Yes,” Harry said, and dodged the touch. “Look, it’s nothing, all right? Someone ambushed me in the Quidditch shed the other day and flung some spell at me that hurled me into the wall. But I can’t let them know that they succeeded at that, because they did it specifically to discourage me from helping you lot. So—”

            Malfoy ignored him and pushed his shirt up. A moment later, he mentioned a few creative acts that he apparently thought hippogriffs and centaurs should do together. Then he whirled back around in front of Harry, his mouth so tight that Harry shook his head. He could understand why Malfoy would be distressed that his protector was down and suffering an injury, but he looked…personally distressed, somehow, as though Harry really was a friend.

            Well, I reckon one person can think of the other as a friend even though the other doesn’t.

            “I know that spell,” Malfoy said. “It’s meant to create internal bleeding that gets deeper and more severe as it goes on.”

            Harry rolled his eyes. “Oi, Malfoy, I think I would have noticed if I had that. It’s not internal bleeding. There’s lots of pain and blood when I piss, that’s all.” He paused and eyed Malfoy suspiciously, wondering if he had cast some spell that would loosen Harry’s tongue. “And I can’t believe that I’m telling you this.”

            “That’s even worse,” Malfoy said. “A worse variation of the spell, which eventually causes kidney failure. Potter. Harry. Come with me. We need to get you to Madam Pomfrey before it spreads any further.” He curved an arm around Harry’s shoulders this time and started helping him towards the door, his expression weirdly tender. Harry had to look away from it because it made him feel weird and goopy inside.

            “But that’s what they want,” Harry said, wriggling fiercely and yet somehow not managing to get out of the hold. “They want me to be laid up in the hospital wing and unable to help you. It’s bad enough that I was sent there because of a stupid plate from Matthieson, of all things. I can’t go now.”

            “This is a spell,” Malfoy said, face so close that he looked as though he would butt it into Harry’s face. Harry clutched his wand, to be ready for that. “A curse. No one’s going to blame you, not once they hear about it—and the Slytherins will, so we can organize a guard for you.”

            “This is getting ridiculous,” Harry said. “Do you know your eyes go grey and look like they’re going to swirl when you’re staring at someone from this close?”

            “You’re clearly delirious and can’t be trusted with your own care,” Malfoy said sweetly, and then paused. All expression dropped away from his face except a look of burning intensity that made Harry feel as if he were once more inside the Fiendfyre. “Harry. Please trust me. This is bad.”

            Trust him? Harry’s shoulders hunched and his skin prickled. This was weird and strange—stranger than the oath and the fact of protecting the Slytherins in the first place—and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He couldn’t deny, much as he wanted to, that Malfoy was doing more than he needed to to protect his own skin.

            And the way he looked at Harry wasn’t the way you’d look at a friend.

            But it was compelling, in its own right. Harry bowed his head, sighing as the bruise on his shoulder and his back and his arm that had been hit by Gerrold’s spell today, and even his spine, all joined in a chorus of pain.

            “All right,” he muttered. “Just this once.”

            Malfoy reached out and touched Harry’s face, lightly, one hand cupping his jaw and cheek as though he assumed it would hurt Harry if he laid a heavier touch on him. He opened his mouth, started to say something, and then shut it again.

            His hands as he helped Harry out of the room and towards the hospital wing were absurdly gentle. Harry walked as carefully as he could and avoided looking Malfoy in the eye again all the way there. He told himself it was because Reynolds trailed behind them and he didn’t want to make a scene in front of an audience.

            There were some things he would never be ready to say aloud, and there were some things he could just stop feeling, right now. The warmth in his stomach and the weakness of his spine would go hide if they knew what was good for them.

            Can I blame the spine thing on Gerrold’s spell?

*

            Lady_of_Clunn: Harry’s major frustration at the moment is that nothing is working. He hopes that fear might at least persuade the other students to preserve their own skins.

            Thank you!

            delfina1987: Thank you!

            Larimar: Thank you so much for reviewing.

            SP777: Glad you approve(?) of the condor.

            Harry and Draco would have led very different lives if they’d become friends. Maybe it’s just as well they didn’t.

            I’m not having a particularly hard time, no.

            MewMew2: Thanks!

            polka dot: Let’s hope you get some amusement out of this chapter, as well.
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Water from a Stone