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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
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

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Chapter Seven—The General in His Hospital Bed

            Harry had to admit that he didn’t remember most of the trip to the hospital wing or what happened immediately when he got there. There was a voice exclaiming in dismay and a wand prodding at him, but it wasn’t like that was new. Then someone scolded him. Harry could tell it was a scolding from the depth and speed of the words even if he couldn’t make out anything they said. He just nodded. That was what you did with scoldings: nodded and acted contrite, like you wanted to do better next time, and then they were satisfied and left you alone.

            Harry wondered if anyone smart in the history of the world had ever used scoldings.

            He came back to consciousness just as Madam Pomfrey held out a vial of red liquid towards him. Harry eyed it. He didn’t distrust her the way he had Snape, but this time, there were other things to consider.

            “What will drinking that do to me?” he asked.

            Malfoy, standing beside the bed, stared at him as if Harry ought to have jumped for joy at the sight of the potion. Harry ignored him and focused on Madam Pomfrey. Her reaction would be his guide, really. After all, Madam Pomfrey was the one who had Healed him dozens of times, and Malfoy was only the one who had noticed his wound, brought him here, reassured him, and acted as though he would be really upset if Harry wasn’t cured…

            Stupid comparisons.

            “It will make you sleep,” Madam Pomfrey said, putting her hand on her hip in a familiar gesture of exasperation. Harry had the feeling she’d have liked to have put both hands on her hips, but doing that would have meant crushing the vial and spilling the potion. He tried to telepathically tell her she could do that, for all of him, but apparently her brain was closed to receiving new messages today. “Your body needs a period of enforced inactivity to heal the internal damage.”

            “Malfoy said that there wasn’t internal damage,” Harry pointed out. “This is the worse version of the curse, not the one that just caused internal bleeding.” He was going to show that his memory was intact.

            “Potter,” Malfoy said, in the voice of someone who has stepped into a room of idiots and been accosted by the lead one, “your kidneys are internal.”

            “But you still made a distinction.” Harry wasn’t going to look at him. His attention was for Madam Pomfrey and not Malfoy and his dumb melting expressions. “So why do I need the potion?”

            “The damage was advanced,” Madam Pomfrey said grimly, and leaned forwards until her nose almost touched Harry’s. “Do you know how close you came to death, Mr. Potter? Much closer than I like or than is reasonable, given the amount of pain you must have been in. You would have collapsed not long afterwards, if Mr. Malfoy hadn’t brought you here.”

            The glance of quick wonder she gave Malfoy was the only thing that made Harry feel at home in an increasingly hostile situation. Madam Pomfrey thought he’d been in danger. Malfoy thought he’d been in danger. Malfoy was trying to humiliate him in front of an adult, except not really. Malfoy had looked at him like—

            If I’m not thinking about that look, then it doesn’t exist, Harry told himself determinedly. It wasn’t like Malfoy would ever have the courage to pursue it or what it meant. Harry only had to ignore it and the problem would stop there.

            “Yes, but if I’m asleep, what happens if the oath summons me out of bed?” he asked Madam Pomfrey. “Then your hard work is all undone. Can’t you give me something that will leave me alert and able to move?”

            Madam Pomfrey said something under her breath about “bloody oaths.” Harry hoped she knew that he fully agreed with her about the uselessness of oaths in general and this oath in particular.

            “There is nothing,” Madam Pomfrey said at last. “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter,” she added when Harry opened his mouth to protest. “But the damage—you don’t understand how bad the damage truly was. You’ll have to rest and hope that no one molests a Slytherin for at least a few hours. There’s no other option.”

            Harry gritted his teeth and turned to Malfoy. “Then I need you to go to McGonagall and tell her about those boys who attacked Reynolds,” he said. “She was the one who said that she was going to do something about people who obstructed others’ learning. I think that was really only a way of phrasing things so that she wouldn’t have to get involved in attacks that didn’t happen inside the library or classrooms, but it’s time to test it.”

            “Mr. Potter!” Madam Pomfrey gasped, shocked.

            Harry ignored her, although he could feel the return of the pain she’d numbed with her spells, or what had felt like spells. He had to focus on Malfoy, because he was the only one who knew the situation and could act for Harry right now.

Malfoy slowly nodded, eyes fixed on him and face regaining a little color. “I wondered why you weren’t more reassured by her public declaration,” he murmured. “But I think she meant it, and Reynolds’s case would certainly qualify under the expanded definitions.”

“I don’t want to talk about the size of things right now,” Harry said impatiently. He could see Madam Pomfrey’s hand twitching, and he thought she would launch the potion down his throat like a stone from a slingshot if she didn’t get her way soon. “Go.”

For some reason, Malfoy lingered long enough to lean near the bed and whisper, “Oh, but we should talk about the size of certain things very soon.”

            There were lots of things Harry could have said about crushes and the stupid people who had them then, but he didn’t, partially because that would involve more delay and partially because he thought he knew what else Malfoy was talking about, and it was best not to encourage him.

            “Go,” he said, and added something else that he thought might spur Malfoy along, at least if he understood him correctly. “I’m depending on you.”

            Malfoy’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed a dusky rose. (And for fuck’s sake, why was Harry thinking about them in those words? He wouldn’t know a dusky rose from a sunrise one). Then he took off running.

            “Finally,” said Madam Pomfrey, and held out the potion so fast that she almost hurt Harry’s face and broke his glasses and sent the shards into his eyes and blinded him and rendered him helpless so that the last Death Eaters could come and get him. She would be sorry then, Harry thought, as he accepted the potion and drank it with some dignity.

            While he lay down and grumbled over the softness of the pillow—it was perfectly soft, which meant it would be hard to sit up if someone came into the infirmary suddenly—he felt Madam Pomfrey looking at him. He rolled his eyes. They were closed and she wouldn’t notice. “What?” he asked.

            “I hadn’t realized that you distrusted Headmistress McGonagall so very much,” Madam Pomfrey murmured. “It explains much about your actions this year.”

            Harry had a wonderful, cutting, adult speech prepared about how he wouldn’t have distrusted her except that she had ignored the persecution of the Slytherins, and even then she didn’t encourage other students to stop thinking about and dwelling on the war, and how she had known about this and ignored it, and how he was tired of having to do other people’s jobs for them.

            But he ended up making it only in his dreams, which was probably better all around, anyway.

*

            “How do we know that you lot aren’t using Polyjuice?”

            The words woke Harry from a blurred dream where Malfoy was caught in cobwebs and he had to save him, and Malfoy was making it harder by looking at him the way he had when Harry agreed to go to the hospital wing. He blinked and tried to push himself up, whereupon the pillow got its dastardly revenge and made him fall back again.

            At least that made the people gathered around his bed like it was a tomb turn and look at him, and Harry got his first glimpse of the situation.

            “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he said aloud.

            “What do you mean, Potter?” That was Blaise Zabini, leaning against the wall nearest his bed and grinning like the idiot he so clearly was to have participated in this in the first place.

            Harry just shook his head. Malfoy had only gone and put a guard of Slytherins around him, mostly sixth- and seventh-years, though Harry saw a few younger students among them, all puffed up with their self-importance. Beyond the Slytherins stood Ron, Hermione, and Neville, all looking around as though trying to determine where Madam Pomfrey was before drawing their wands.

            “He wasn’t serious about the guard,” Harry told Zabini. “You must have known that.”

            Zabini’s face took on a weird expression that Harry could only compare to the expression Aunt Petunia used when speaking with one of her more pious neighbors. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I know that the unofficial leader of our House came back this afternoon and gave orders that you were to be protected at all times.”

            “If he’s the unofficial leader, then those are unofficial orders,” Harry said firmly, and flung the blanket back.

            Zabini caught the corner of it in his hand. His smile had vanished. “Not so,” he said softly. “We’re going to keep you safe no matter what, Potter.”

            Harry narrowed his eyes. “That’s an interesting reversal of roles, considering you couldn’t even keep yourselves safe.”

            “The situation is different, and you know it.” Zabini’s gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t pretend to be that stupid. Maybe it fools them—” he jerked his head at Harry’s friends “—but not us.” He relaxed into another grin. “Not to mention the importance that you have to our glorious unofficial leader.”

            Harry gaped at him. He had hoped the emotion he saw in Malfoy’s eyes would die a natural death, but it couldn’t if other people knew about it.

            I’ll have to bribe Zabini not to mention it again, he thought, and turned to his friends. “Hermione, what did we do first year together that was so important to make us into friends?” he asked.

            Hermione looked puzzled for only a second before she smiled. “We killed a mountain troll together,” she said. “All three of us.”

            Harry nodded to Zabini. “They are who they say they are. Let them through.”

            “Yes, O Glorious One,” Zabini said solemnly, and then turned and gestured at the Slytherins. They parted like a real guard, sweeping away to the sides in a way that reminded Harry of the Aurors who had fetched him from the Dursleys’ house the summer before fifth year. Harry rolled his eyes and managed to rise to his feet, though Zabini hovered beside him as if he would need more help than the support of the bed.

            Hermione stepped forwards and hugged him. Harry patted her back. “I’m all right,” he said. “I was hit with a nasty curse, but Madam Pomfrey cured me.” He decided that he wasn’t going to mention when he’d been hit with the curse, because that would only make Hermione scold him, and Harry didn’t think he could explain his theory of why scoldings didn’t work to her.

            “Oh, thank goodness,” Hermione sighed, and stood there holding him even when Harry wriggled uncomfortably. Ron put a hand on her shoulder and raised his eyebrows before she came to her senses and let him go. Then she put her hands on her hips. Harry wondered if she knew the circumstances and was going to scold him after all for letting the curse go on so long, but she had a different target.

            “Don’t you think that this has gone on long enough?” she asked grimly. “All the fighting, all the demonizing of those people who aren’t Slytherins, all the struggling and fighting for the Slytherins on your own?”

            Harry didn’t think; he just grabbed his shirt and jerked at it so that she could see the oath-scar. Hermione blushed, but didn’t look away, and Neville and Ron nodded. “What else am I supposed to do with this?” Harry demanded. “I don’t even know how long the bloody oath’s going to last. I just can’t stop protecting the Slytherins because you think it’d be a good idea.”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Hermione said. “It’s just—that alarm advertised itself to everybody, Harry, and not just who was at fault.”

            “How was I supposed to know who was at fault before I got there?” Harry dropped the shirt back into place and glared at her.

            “I meant—” Hermione frowned the way Harry had seen her frown at complex Arithmancy problems. “I meant that you’re acting hostile to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students,” she said at last. “Not everyone wants to hurt the Slytherins. Some of us are trying to help. Why are you so hostile?”

            Harry shook his head. “You and Ron and Neville and Ginny have helped, yeah, and I’m sorry if I was hostile to you.” Hermione looked stunned. She obviously didn’t expect me to apologize, Harry thought crossly. Well, I did now. “But the other students aren’t speaking up against it. They want to be excused being lumped in with everyone else, but apparently they don’t care that some of their Housemates are bullies. That suggests that they only care about this when it affects them, which means the alarm wards are a good tactic. If I make them have to care about it, they’ll act against the bullies eventually.”

            “You haven’t asked for help,” Hermione said.

            “Everyone knows about this by now.” Harry waved his hand around the hospital wing, hoping Hermione would understand that he meant to indicate the rest of the school, too. “Lots of people knew about the bullying. Did anyone else from another House ever try to stop it, or say that it was unfair?” He turned and looked at Zabini.

            “No.” It was Parkinson who answered. Harry hadn’t even noticed that she was among the guards. She had her arms folded and an expression of complicated enjoyment on her face, despite the topic they were discussing. “I was attacked once with rotten fruit in full view of a Ravenclaw girl, Veronica Wittington, that I used to study with. She hunched her shoulders up and ran away. Oh, she came to me later and begged my forgiveness, but apparently she was too afraid for her own precious skin.”

            Zabini nodded. “The same. There was a Hufflepuff prefect who I know disapproved of Matthieson’s bullying, and at first I thought he might have tried to handle it privately, rather than in public where it would disgrace the House. But Matthieson got worse and worse, and the other prefect would sit there staring at his hands. I’m sure he felt sorry about it, but being sorry did absolutely nothing.”

            “They might have been victims themselves,” Hermione said. “It isn’t easy to go against your entire House.” She gave Harry a sideways glance. Harry was sure she was remembering some of their rows over Quidditch, where most of the Gryffindors had taken Harry and Ron’s side about having to practice instead of study.

            “Yeah,” Harry said, “but they can’t have it both ways. Either they believe that the bullying’s wrong and they say so, or they can keep silent and have the approval of their Housemates. They don’t get to get exempted from it, and their whinging about how we’re being so mean to them isn’t high on my priority list.”

            Hermione sighed. “That doesn’t sound like the Harry Potter I know,” she said.

            “The Harry Potter you know has been through a war,” Harry said briefly, “and he’s tired, and worried, and has to save a bunch of people practically on his own. These other people are just going to have to save themselves.” That was one thing he was almost grateful to the oath for, he thought. He couldn’t be expected to save the arses of people who were acting directly contrary to it.

            Hermione looked at him sadly. “I understand your position, but I hoped we could come to some sort of agreement on this. I know a lot of people are really upset about what’s happened and dislike what you’re doing.”

            Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you inferring this, or did they come to you and complain, or are you talking about the feelings you’re experiencing, or what?”

            “A few of them came to me and talked about it, yes,” Hermione said, “and then asked me to speak with you.”

            Harry nodded slowly, feeling bitterness move through him like an ocean current. “I see. They lacked even the courage to face me.”

            “That’s not fair, Harry,” Hermione said. “Everyone suffered last year. Everyone’s trying to recover this year. It’s what McGonagall said. The school has to be a good learning environment for everyone, not just the people you like.”

            “Then why am I the only one who has to live up to that standard?” Harry snapped. “Why aren’t these people who’re so concerned about the way they’re treated also the ones trying to make things better? Not to mention that there’s a big difference between memories and being mistreated right here, right now, in the present. The curse I was suffering from could have killed me. I’m more concerned with that. And I don’t like the Slytherins,” he added belatedly. “The oath, remember?”

            He thought that would get a bad reaction from behind him, but the only one who responded was Zabini, and that with a chuckle. Harry shook his head. “Do you have an answer?” he asked Hermione, his anger puffing out like a candle flame. “I really would like to hear one.”

            “No,” Hermione said. “I only know how they’re feeling.”

            “Tell them to stand up for themselves,” Harry said. “Or stand up for the Slytherins, or suggest some other solution I can use besides the alarm wards. I refuse to worry about whinging from people who might not be just like everyone else but who are sure as fuck acting just like everyone else. I only have so much energy.” He turned and climbed back into bed, tugging the sheets up again, and silently thanking Malfoy for bringing him to the hospital wing. It made the perfect excuse to hold off Hermione’s demand that he think about everyone in the entire world.

            And he understood why she would think that way, he really did, and he was sorry if he’d hurt her, like he said. But the mere thought of trying to be nice to people who wouldn’t help and wouldn’t stop their Housemates was another layer of complexity he just couldn’t deal with.

            Not alone.

            “We’ll see you later, mate,” Ron said in subdued tones, and Neville nodded when Harry peered back over his shoulder. Then they all trooped out of the hospital wing.

            Harry sighed and started to go back to sleep, but Zabini tapped him on the shoulder. He rolled over and raised his eyebrows. “What?” he snarled. He thought he managed to snarl it politely, all things considered.

            “I won’t tell our unofficial leader that you showed Granger your chest,” Zabini said. “In case you were concerned about that.”

            Harry stared. He wondered if he had dropped into a world where everyone else knew a series of secrets that he didn’t, and then discarded the thought impatiently. He’d felt like that most of his life, thanks to Dumbledore and Snape. “What?”

            Zabini nodded, and there was no trace of a mocking grin now, though Harry didn’t know how far that actually meant he was serious. “He would be jealous. So I won’t tell him. I think you’re doing the best you can.”

            He stepped back and left Harry wrapped in confusion as profound as the end of the war. Then Harry decided that he wasn’t going to think about or worry about it, and closed his eyes in determination.

            People can just make up their own moral dilemmas for a while.

*

            “Hullo, Potter.”

            Harry blinked and sat up before he realized that he didn’t know what was going on, and he had apparently slept again. He scowled and touched his chest. Well the oath-scar still seemed to be there and he manifestly hadn’t been burned alive—there would be more pain—so he reached for his glasses and looked around.

            Malfoy was sitting on a stool next to his bed, gazing at him in interest. Beside him was a tray with a bowl of porridge and a plate with what looked like several kinds of sliced fruit on it. Harry glanced at the porridge, then the fruit.

            “Something wrong?” Malfoy asked in a bright tone that didn’t disguise the sharp glint in his eyes.

            “Yes,” Harry snapped. “You’ve chosen food that’s hard to put poison in. Are you losing your touch?”

            Malfoy let his lips twitch, as though Harry had said something funny, and then reached out and took Harry’s hand in his. Harry sat there, too startled to stop him. Then Malfoy reached down for the bowl of porridge and the spoon that was lying on the tray, and Harry pulled back his hand sharply.

            “What the fuck?”

            “I was going to eat some of the porridge,” Malfoy said, staring at him with brilliant eyes, “so that you would see it wasn’t poisoned.”

            Harry sighed. “You’ve made your point. Give that here, and tell me what’s been happening.” He looked around the hospital wing, noticing that it was empty except for a student two beds away from his who was muffled in bandages like a Muggle mummy. “What happened to him?”

            “Which answer do you want first?” Malfoy looked at him with his head tilted to one side. “Some of us don’t have mouths bigger than one response, you know.”

            Harry dug into the porridge with his spoon. He disliked Malfoy’s version of friendly banter, but he reckoned it was better than the git doing some other things he could have with—well, what he was feeling.

            Not thinking about that. Those feelings don’t exist, he chanted to himself, and kept chanting it while he worked through the porridge, so that when he was done he had a bit of practice in thinking that way.

            He put the bowl down, and only then realized that Malfoy hadn’t answered any of his questions. He turned and gave a frown that he knew was impressive. Dudley had started being wary of that frown during the summer before his fifth year. “Well?”

            “I wanted to wait until you were done eating so that I could have your input,” Malfoy said innocently. “And, obviously, I wanted to make sure that you would take in the food that’s necessary to maintain your health.”

            “You appointing yourself my health monitor is going to get old pretty bloody quickly,” Harry said crossly. “Tell me what that boy over there is doing first. Is that Reynolds?”

            “No, he was fine,” Malfoy said. “I told you. That’s one of the attackers. Everhardt, I heard him say his bloody name was. He apparently had a run-in with one of the other Gryffindors.” He let the smirk Harry was sure he’d been holding back blossom across his face. “It looks like we finally have allies.”

            Harry sighed in relief. “Who was it? The one who attacked him, I mean.”

            “No one seems to know.” Malfoy shrugged when Harry glared. “I prefer it that way. That means no one knows who among their Housemates might disapprove of them, and who might come up behind them and attack them one dark night. It gives them a taste of the fear we’ve lived with for so long.” He smiled dreamily.

            Harry shivered, and hoped that he never did anything to cause that dreamy smile, for more than one reason. “What did McGonagall say when you reported Everhardt and Gerrold? Did she punish them?”

            “Detention,” Malfoy said. “Of course, Everhardt was punished by our mysterious friend shortly after that. I believe Gerrold is already serving his detention. It’s almost eight now.” He looked expectantly at Harry. “What do you think we should do next?”

            “Why am I suddenly the leader?” Harry complained. “Zabini said that you were the leader of Slytherin.”

            “Oh, don’t worry, Potter, I’ll take the position back when you least expect it.” Malfoy said that with a soft tone and glittering eyes that Harry could pretend were normal, as long as he didn’t spend too much time looking at the glitter. “But in the meantime, you’re our liaison with the rest of the school. What should be next on the list?”

            “More defense classes,” Harry said. “And more alarm wards, more specific if you can make them so. Wards that announced the names of the people attacking your Housemates would be favorite.”

            Malfoy nodded. “But beyond that? I feel we have to do something to step this up, to make it more dramatic, but I don’t know that fear is the right way to do that.”

            Harry grimaced. He could think of one way to make it more dramatic immediately, but that wouldn’t be his first choice. Luckily, there were other options available.

            “I can get Slughorn to do what I want if I promise him that I’ll attend one of his parties or give him an autograph to sell or something,” he said, rolling his eyes so that Malfoy would know this wasn’t exactly normal behavior for him. Then he wondered why he cared what Malfoy thought. That was another stupid idea, and he put it aside. “If I persuade him to let me stay in the Slytherin common room for one night, do you think you could persuade the rest of them to let me?”

            Malfoy stared at him with his mouth open. Harry waved his hand in front of his eyes, concerned, when he hadn’t moved for several minutes. He was glad that he hadn’t mentioned the option that involved him kissing Malfoy now, even as a joke. It probably would have meant a heart attack. Not that he was mentioning that, or thinking about that, because the choice didn’t exist, because the feelings didn’t exist.

            It was nice, Harry thought, how many things tied themselves up in a neat ball of nonexistence once you really tried.

            Malfoy recovered and whispered, “You’d do that? Really?”

            “It’s less than what I’m doing now,” Harry said, amused that Malfoy still looked as though someone had hit him. Well, maybe someone had recently. Harry put aside the frown that arose at that thought, and said, “Well, it is.”

            “Staying with us, in friendship, and trusting that you won’t be attacked,” Malfoy said. “That’s bigger. You know it is.”

            “This is some strange Slytherin custom, obviously,” Harry said. “Probably since you lot almost never have friends.”

            Malfoy scowled at him. Back on familiar territory, Harry raised his eyebrow and said, “Well, can you persuade them?”

            “Yes,” Malfoy said, and stomped to the door of the hospital wing. He stopped there, and Harry watched his back, hoping that he wouldn’t reverse himself and bring up some other consideration now.

            “This is bigger than either of us,” Malfoy said, without looking over his shoulder. “Bigger than you can stop.”

            He turned around, gave Harry a smile light could have bounced off with an audible sound, and departed. Harry shook his head and reached for a banana on the plate, glancing at the bandaged Everhardt.

            “Somehow, I think you might be the lucky one,” he said.

*

            qwerty: Harry somehow thinks he would have been just fine. Don’t ask me how.

            Thank you!

            polka dot: It would probably be hard for Harry to let him keep it.

            SP777: Well, Draco does have a plan to get back at them, one that he hasn’t informed Harry about.

            The house-elves have to take care of Hogwarts first and foremost, so Harry probably couldn’t do that.

            Lumcer: Five more chapters after this one! I hope you continue to enjoy.
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Water from a Stone