Title

Amicitia

Author

Sar'Kalu

Summary

HP:AUPostHogwarts. ey learnt to kill before they learnt to live and it's left them in ruins, un-saveable and useless in the wake of their destruction. America is the land of the free, perhaps here they can find what they were looking for, unless it kills them first...

Disclaimer

Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Brothers, and their affiliates. House M. D. is the intellectual property of David Shore, Heel and Toe Productions and their affiliates.

Rating

MA15+: Trigger warnings for abuse, torture and suicide. Contains strong language, sexual references and themes.

Authors Note:

This is more exploratory than anything else, there will be mistakes because I have no Beta reader and proof reading only finds so much. Let me know if I missed anything or if you think anything needs changing.

Regards, Sar'Kalu

As It Begins…

They were on the road again. The trees blurring to green streaks as he pushed the pedal to the metal, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight as he swerves around a camper van, his green eyes brittle and angry. The sun was setting fast as he pulls out of the tiny town that had been their stop over for the night. Beside him, a red haired man with blue eyes grips the seat with white knuckles, his jaw tight as he refrains from screaming at the driver for his reckless behaviour. The woman in the backseat, however, had no such qualms.

"How could you, Harry?" She shrills, her brown, flyaway hair frizzy with stress and frustration while her normally brown eyes crackled with fury. "We were so close to being normal!"

The dark haired man, Harry, narrows his green eyes and stomps on the accelerator harder. It was the seventh time in as many months that they'd had to leave the area because of the dark haired man's paranoia. First in Washington D.C., and finally in Columbus, Ohio; each time because Harry has been unable to keep from freaking out and stabbing someone with a home made weapon. That wasn't to say that his companions were completely guiltless either.

Ron, the red head, had actually torched a building he said had been filled to the brim with dark magic and satanic items. Of course, that the building had housed the Mayor had only compounded the problem. While Hermione had a tendency to go for peoples weaknesses, shredding them with her wickedly sharp tongue and has actually sent several people into therapy because she's unearthed several long held secrets driving them from at least four towns and schools.

"I'm not sorry," Harry finally manages to say, his voice gruff. "Bitch had it coming."

"You fucking shanked her!" Ron barks, his annoyance overriding his desire to stay the hell out of this argument. "Where did you even learn to make a shank anyway?"

Harry shrugs, stomping on the brake as they hit traffic. "Fuck!"

Hermione rubs at her chest from where the rapid deceleration plus seat beat had equalled in bruised ribs and whiplash. "I'm choosing our next destination!"

"Not Portland!" Ron snaps, remembering how, upon arrival, he had nearly taken off the Police Chief's head with a sawn off shot gun that he kept on him at all times. Hidden in a secret pocket of his denim jacket, compressed into non-space. He was a quick draw; he'd nearly killed several people because of his paranoia, the Police Chief had simply been the latest in a long string.

"I was thinking Pennsylvania actually," Hermione snaps spitefully, glaring at her ex-boyfriend and best friend. "Or do you have a problem with Pennsylvania too, Ronald?!"

Ron grinds his teeth together, gripping the seat beneath him tightly so that he didn't spin around and punch her. Hermione meant well. She always had, but recently they had found themselves snapping and snarling at each other as frustration and anger over took them. It was like they were poison for each other, or heroin. Addictive but dangerous. Harry was the same. Not one of them could manage on their own yet the longer they spent together the more likely they were going to kill each other.

"No, Hermione, Pennsylvania is fine," Ron hisses cruelly, sliding an intense glare in Harry's direction, taking in his best mates tense profile. "How far are we from Pennsylvania, Harry? Think we can make it before Easter?"

Harry grunts, shrugging. "Probably."

"Don't be stupid, the Easter weekends in a week and a bit!" Hermione argues, knowing that Ron and Harry were liable to floor their rust bucket northwards and nearly kill all three of them in an attempt to prove her wrong. "I wanted to spend Easter in Time Square! You promised Harry!"

"Did I?" Harry growls, narrowing his eyes even further. "Such a shame that us going to a crowded place is liable to end up in a "terrorist attack"." Harry made finger quotes with his two forefingers, lifting them off the steering wheel. "Face it Hermione, we're fucking trashed mentally, emotionally and physically. You and Ron are both five pounds underweight and I'm closer to seven. We have nearly killed close to three dozen people with our paranoia over the past year, we're on the fucking FBI's watch list and it's only because of my political pull that we're not rotting away in some fucking psycho nut-house!"

Ron scowls, he hates being reminded that he wasn't mentally stable. He felt as though it made him a failure because everyone else back home was just fine. Hermione believes they just hid it better. Mind you, Neville and Ginny had also hit the road, disappearing into the wilds of New Zealand, unable to deal with loud noises, screaming children or the sight of anything more than picturesque mountains and fields. No one who had fought in the War had managed to escape unscathed. Not really. They all had scars, some were just more visible than others.

"We're not crazy," Ron grumbles. "We just have an extreme case of PTSD."

Harry rolls his eyes, pulling the car off the side of the road in a shower of gravel. Once they'd stopped moving, Harry turns to Ron and stared into the red haired man's eyes. "Of course we're not," Harry states, feeling oddly at peace surrounded by trees, the flashing of passing cars headlights like a hypnotic strobe light behind Ron's pale face. "We're damaged."

"And that's okay with you?" Ron asks, feeling the darkness pressing in on him. Memories of being trapped in a Death Eater dungeon creeping up on him. He doesn't say anything though, because while he loathes the dark and all the uncertainty it represented; Harry adores it. Hiding his face, his scars from sight and revelling in its quiet solitude. Unseen.

"No," Harry acknowledges. "But I'd rather face it head on than live in denial."

Hermione watches the two men carefully, this kind of mutual TLC could quickly turn into a vicious fight that would more often than not lay one or both of them up in bed for the next three days, nursing their wounds. It was so lucky that the three of them had agreed early on that magic was off limits; not for the least of which was because the sight of magical energy had a tendency to send them into panic attacks where their own magic would lash out. The last time that had happened half of Hogsmede had been rendered to splinters and was the catalyst for the British wizarding world kicking them out of the country and onto a plane to America.

"I know of a place," Hermione finally says.

"Not Philadelphia or New York, Hermione," Harry denies immediately. "Big towns are bad news for us. You know that."

Hermione pouts in reluctant acceptance. "What about near Philly then?"

"In some tiny, shitty town where it's gonna be like Hicksville, US of A?" Ron sneers.

"Well," Hermione stammers, looking a bit bewildered by Ron's snarky reply. "Yes, actually. I was thinking somewhere by the sea for you and near a park for when Harry needs to get lost for a bit."

Ron's mouth flaps for a bit, clearly trying to find something wrong with that idea. Harry shoots the red head an amused look and starts the car up again, pulling off the side of the road and narrowly missing a red pick up with two massive spotlights on the roof. Hermione smiles as Ron grumbles but otherwise seemed okay with the idea. Crossing his arms petulantly when Harry refuses to pull over at a diner for cheeseburgers.

"Dammit Harry," Ron whines. "Why couldn't we have stopped there?"

Harry shoots his brother-in-arms a dry look. "Probably because we've been there before and were banned for starting a riot."

"Wait, that was that place?" Ron asks, cocking his thumb behind him stunned.

Harry hums in agreement, pulling the car off onto a ramp that directed them towards Pennsylvania. It would take them maybe two, three days to get there driving as they were. Merging onto the freeway, Harry floors the car, his headlights flooding the bitumen road making the white lines glow dully in reflection. "We have hours to go, guys, you might as well get some rest."

"What about you Harry?" Hermione asks as she tugs her rucksack up onto the seat behind her and using it as a pillow. "When will you get some rest? I haven't seen you sleep in nearly forty-eight hours now."

Harry shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. "Whoever wakes first, drives."

"Sounds good to me," Ron snorts. "So fucking happy to be leaving Ohio."

"Yeah, me too, Ron," Harry smirks. "See you on the other side."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Ron grumbles, resting his head against the window and trying to ignore that fuzzy, itchy feeling that he gets from the cars vibrations. "Race you to the finish, Hermione."

"Gonna beat you there, Ronnie," Hermione slurs, her eyes heavy and crusty with sleep.

Harry chuckles darkly as he listens to his friends fall into Morpheus' arms, their breaths evening out and smoothing into regular deep sighs. It would be three, maybe four, hours until either Hermione or Ron would wake screaming from nightmares or flashbacks. It was bad enough that they experienced terrors at night, but at least at night you got to wake up, fleeing from the terrors of the dark. It was when they were awake and had a flashback that things got really bad. It was hard to remember where they were, that they weren't locked up in some hell hole, waiting for their torturers to return.

Dodging a heavy truck bearing an oversized load, Harry nudges the car past two hundred mph, screaming past a cop car and loosing them in the night. Pulling off the freeway, Harry noses past a sign reading: Philadelphia, 1046 miles as he crosses the border into West Virginia. There may be 'quicker' routes to take, but this was was prettier and had less traffic. Besides, it is hypnotic, driving in the dark. There is little to distract him from his task but the monotony manages to keep the dark thoughts of the past year and a bit at bay. At nearly twenty-three, Harry feels broken, damaged and beyond all hopes of repair. It shouldn't be like this. Not for them.

They should have been back home. Settling into their jobs after finishing their final year of Hogwarts and revelling in the adulation of their people. Not driving down a motorway in a shitty rust bucket of a car, the sides battered from too many close calls during their frequent flights from townships filled with people unwilling or unable to deal with three war-torn teens. They needed to find somewhere safe. Somewhere where they could hide out and just be themselves. Harry blinks rapidly, his eyes burning, as he thinks of all the things he'd one day like to do. Sleeping through the night without waking up screaming was high up on that list, as was being able to look someone dead in the eye and not feel the need to reach for a knife. Fuck but they were messed up!

Three hours later he was passing a sign reading: Baltimore 507 miles, Next Right, when Ron wakes with a terrified scream. Harry swears loudly as he jerks the car sideways, narrowly missing a Chevy with a broken taillight. "Fuck, Ron!" Harry barks, pulling over to the side of the road, gripping his chest as he tries to calm his racing heart.

Ron, still shaking with the after effects of a remembered cruciatus, lets out a muffled sob. "I'm sorry, Harry, I couldn't help it."

"Who was it this time?" Harry asks, calmer now but still rubbing his chest. "Malfoy?"

Ron shakes his head, his blue eyes haunted. "No, it was old red eyes himself."

"Fuck," Harry groans, knowing that Ron wouldn't be able to drive or do much else beyond drink himself into oblivion. Memories of Voldemort were by far the worst. Harry groans again, shoving the heavy door of his Riviera open and slamming it closed again as he steps out onto the shoulder of the road. No one knew of the three months they had spent at Malfoy manor under his gentle hands. How they had heard the Death Eaters drag in Luna and Ollivander from places unknown. Had heard them scream and plead and fucking cry for help. For it to stop, please, no more!

Thumping his hands on the black roof of the car had Hermione jerks awake inside and notices Ron in the front curled up and sobbing. The sound drove away Harry's memories while she let out her own groan, knowing that whatever nightmare Ron'd had was going to set them back a few days. Outside, Harry had pops the boot and by the rustling and clinking, was pulling out bottles of booze for them to drink. Sometimes, even though it was a bad habit to get into, there was nothing for it but to drink yourself into oblivion. In the front Ron was crying still, his shoulders shaking with quiet howls. Harry watches him, hands weighed down with Tennessee Jack.

Hermione lets out another hollow groan and rubbed her face, watching Harry pull the passenger side door open and shove a bottle of Tennessee black label into Ron's arms. "Harry," she calls, startling the green eyed man into looking over at her. "Chuck us the keys, I'll drive."

Harry nods, doing as she bid and climbed into the back where Hermione had set up a nest of blankets and rucksacks. Meanwhile, Hermione settles herself into the drivers seat and turns the car on, trying to ignore the way it sputtered to life. Like it was reluctantly dying, determined to hold out for one more hike across the States. She flicks the radio on, so as to create yet another disorientating background noise that hopefully would prevent any further nightmares. Ron was already halfway through the bottle of Jack's, leaning against the passenger side door drunkenly, tears rolling like waves from his eyes. Hermione pulls onto the road carefully. She is a much safer driver than Harry was, mainly because she hated the feeling of poor control that driving too fast gave her. It wouldn't take long for the boys to get rocked back to sleep, holding their bottles of shit whiskey like lifelines.

Sure enough, Hermione finds that her prediction was correct as she navigated Hagerstown's empty streets an hour into her driving shift. She stops long enough to fill the tank with gas, tipping the sleepy guy manning the register his ten percent and then pulls back out onto the main road, swearing at the truck that nearly clips the front of the car. Then it was down the highway that bordered Gallatin National Forest. Route 81 then took her through Harrisburg and then onto route 76 through Reading and Lancaster, before Harry wakes up howling, startling the still drunk Ron and sending Hermione down the side of the road and crunching against the side of a tall pine tree.

"Dammit," Hermione curses, backing the car up with the aid of Harry and Ron pushing the front, back up onto the road. Thankfully they were alone on the pre-dawn road as there would have been many a dumbfounded gaze at the suddenly repaired Buick where there had been a messy wreck before.

"Here, I'm not gonna sleep again tonight," Harry says tiredly, dark circles underlining his eyes. "Give us the keys and you catch some z's."

"Sounds good to me," Hermione agrees, she'd been driving for nearly six hours now. Which was a record for Harry to sleep without 'aid'. Aid which usually constituted drinking himself into a stupor and waking up screaming, as they all did, seven or eight hours later. Dreamless sleep no longer works for them anymore, and the last time Ron had fallen into a coma thanks to a severe concussion, his extreme paranoia had only emphasised just how bad forced sleep was for them.

Harry smiles as Ron drinks the last of the Jack and slumps into a drunken stupor for some more restless sleep while Hermione skulls a bottle of Russian branded Vodka. Unlike Ron, Hermione only drinks expensive alcohol, stating that if she was gonna die of a pickled liver that at least it would be an expensive pickled liver. Continuing on his way, Harry makes it to Missoula by first light, averaging at nearly two hundred miles per hour. They hit Philadelphia by mid morning, the bustling streets an antithesis to comfort for them, but they haven't eaten in three days, not a proper meal at any rate and so getting food into their wasted bodies is something of a priority for them. That is, if they can manage to keep it down. Chances are though, they won't be able to.

Before they can park and subject themselves to the horrors that is humanity in a large gathering, Harry has a panic attack and has to nose their car back out ono the open road, heading towards New York. Philadelphia is too busy for them, the crowded streets too crushed full of people. It's all he can do to not curl up in a ball and cry till his body runs out of tears to produce. He's done that before, it resulted in a massive headache and itchy eyes for the next three days.

When Harry reaches Princeton, he's feeling much more calm and collected and Hermione's awake and dozily staring out the window. Ron has sunk into a drunken stupor, slowly coming off the natural high that too much alcohol produces and is sinking into a deep depression. Harry will have to confiscate the red heads gun and knife collection at some stage, because they were all at risk of suicide. Sometimes, when the going gets rough, the tough loose their nerve and spiral ever downward. PTSD does that to you, Harry snorted to himself.

Just before Princeton Junction there are three diners. Harry could have chosen to eat healthy like Hermione would have preferred or he could have chosen the 'bar and cantina' that Ron would have loved. But Harry wanted steak and he was going to get steak, so he chose the pretentious sounding 'Princetonian Diner' which promised standard American fare. And had better bloody include a steak. Pulling into the car park and sliding between two fairly up-market BMW's that had seen better days, Harry turned the engine off and twisted around his seat and pulled out a pair of sobriety potions from Hermione's bag. They were running low and the chances of any of them gathering up the nerve it took to stake out the wizarding section of a major city was fairly unlikely. They'd have to make do.

Harry's the first through the wood and glass door, his hand splayed wide as he presses it against the clear glass and pushes the door open, stepping into a blast of air conditioned air. His gaze sweeps the length of the diner, noting the solid looking table and chairs filled with chattering couples, families and friends. It's so ordinary that it takes him a moment to regain his mental balance. The sight of a perky brunet with blue eyes unnerves him enough that it takes him half a minute to regain his sense of self. She looks like Lavender Brown, and for a moment the image of his house mate overlaps the waitress, blood smeared over her face and her neck a ruin of sharp teeth marks.

"Hi!" The brunette smiles welcomingly, her teeth even and white between cherry red lips. Her name badge reads 'Jenny' and her shirt is tight enough that she looks like she's busting out of it. Harry thumbs his lordship ring and waits, Hermione behind him regaining her own sense of reality while Ron hides behind Harry's thin but broad shoulders.

"Table for three?" Jenny asks chirpily, leading them through the bustling restaurant to a table at the back of the room next to a pair of men in a military uniform and their white-picket fence wives. "Here you are! Just yell if you need anything!"

Jenny then sweeps away with a broad smile to collect clear tumblers and a pitcher of cold water, condensation streaming down the sides. Ron avoids her eyes and ducks his head, his long red hair falling into his eyes as he stares at his hands, their trembling taken for nervousness than the impending shock and fear that her appearance inspires in him. Hermione grabs one long-fingered hand in her own brittle and bony one, holding Ron tightly as Harry grips his arm, steadying him.

"Breath, Ron," Harry murmurs, ignoring the curious gazes drawn their way. "Breath, mate, just breath nice and steady."

Ron nods shakily, bobbing his head up and down. "Yeah, breath, good idea."

Hermione smiles, bringing the waitress over one last time, her mouth pinched and thin as she does so. "Three burgers with a side of fries," she orders.

"And three cokes," Harry adds swiftly, gripping Ron tightly, centring him.

Jenny smiles brightly, nodding. She then turns to Ron, concerned. "Is he okay?" She asks them, curious.

"You remind us of someone who died," Harry replies coldly, his eyes glacial.

Jenny pales, stepping backwards. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be," Hermione says tiredly, "you didn't know. It's not your fault."

Absolved, the waitress backs away, fleeing the area clearly uncomfortable with the idea of reminding a damaged man of the death of a friend. Behind them the two soldiers are watching them, their eyes suspicious and sympathetic. Somehow, Harry knows they've guessed that he, Ron and Hermione are 'suffering' from PTSD. As though it was their choice to be this fucked up and damaged. He rubs his thigh, the burning pain of a tightening muscle distracting him momentarily from his friends plight before he shoves the pain aside and re-concentrating on the matter at hand.

Ron's eyes are red-rimmed and glazed, he's burning up beneath his clothing but Harry's can't tell if he's actually sick or has the shakes. They all drink enough that they are easily diagnosable as alcoholics; that they suffer from substance abuse because it's the easiest way to manage their pain and forget who they are. Harry suspects that without help, it's very likely that they'll be dead before they're fifty. Hermione has theorised that it will be sooner than that, but none of them seem to be able to care enough to change it.

"I feel sick," Ron mutters, shaking.

Harry thins his lips but doesn't do anything, what can he do? Any trip to a hospital will result in numerous tests that will only point to things they already know. They are alcoholics because of their PTSD. They have PTSD because they fought in a War. What else is there to know? His chest aches at the thought and he rubs at it, digging the heel of his hand into his sternum while his other does the same to his leg. He suspects that if he didn't have extreme nerve damage from the cruciatus curse that he'd be on the floor screaming in pain.

"Here you are!" Jenny is back, bearing three plates loaded with food and is quick to place them onto the table and to flee once more. She throws a quick: "enjoy your meal!" over her shoulder as she darts over to where three teens sit, calling for more root beer.

"Eat," Hermione advises them and Ron and Harry do so, knowing that their appetites might not last longer than a few moments.

Ron barely manages a few mouthfuls before he collapsing backwards, his legs splayed, his face pale and sweating. "I am tired, guys, can we go now?"

Harry, bolting down his meal still, grunts in vague answer. Ron does look sick but not nearly enough to drive him from his food and back onto the road. Hermione solves their dilemma by gathering their food up and packing it away and sending Harry off to settle the bill. By the time Harry's returned the military guys have cornered Hermione and are giving her unnecessary advice, eyes concerned while their wives baby Ron, plying him with damp napkins and glasses of water.

"Lets go," Harry barks, driving Ron from his chair and Hermione out the door. He casts the military types a dark look, suspicious and wary of their motives. Everyone lies and everyone had ulterior motives; even those who are heroes. He stalks from the diner in a foul mood and drives them to the nearest motel, settling the account for at least five days.

Harry doesn't remember falling asleep, but waking up in Hermione and Ron's shared queen bed isn't something he's inexperienced in. They often sleep better with another person beside them; memories of the War, when they had no idea of whom to trust. Knowing that someone had your back, even while asleep, was more often than not the only thing that kept them as sane as they were. Beside him Hermione is curled up into Ron's side, the redhead sprawled across them, burning up with fever.

A side long glance at the clock alerts Harry to the knowledge that he's been asleep for close to ten hours, his eyes gritty and sore while his head aches mercilessly. He knows these symptoms. Knows that they have the flu. So he grabs a bottle of water, spelling the contents into their stomachs to keep them hydrated before collapsing once more. Who knew that in order to get over awful dreams and memories, one just needs to get dangerously sick. There's got to be some kind of irony to that.

It takes him a further ten minutes to gather up the strength to move once more and he staggers from the room without shoes or a jacket. He's too hot anyway and it's not like it's winter with six foot of snow on the ground. Of course, it's unlikely that there'd be that much snow here, because as far north as it is, it's equally domesticated and covered in too many buildings for the last lingering heat of the summer months to escape. He climbs into the Buick, starting the engine with a swift rev and the turning of a metal key. Their neighbours watch him go, peeping between the blinds. Humans are curious creatures.

He returns to Princeton Junction and follows the signs out to Princeton General. It's packed with buses of people filing in, each one receiving a small card hung on some string to be placed around their necks. He joins the fray, darting up to the medicine counter which was unattended and slipping inside. The sheer number of medication bottles and boxes is overwhelming, but Hermione had been training to be a Healer after the War, so he knows something of colds and flus. He picks up enough cough syrup to last for two months between three people and follows it up with a pack of codeine.

Slipping back into the fray of screaming children and whinging adults all moving onto the many doctors and nurses that were wallowing in numbers twice as many as they were used to. Listening to the repeated orders of "yellow to the first floor; blue to the doors; everyone else, wait to be called". Harry slides between two people and slips his hand into the the pocket of a Mum who's wrestling her screaming two year old. A blue slip returns along with his hand and he drops his own untouched slips to the floor and, with a small smile and a glamour charm on his face hiding the pallid, sweaty truth of his features, stalks free of the hospital and back out into the car lot.

Harry returns to the Motel with a spluttering engine and a desperate desire to sleep. Entering their room he finds Hermione awake and hazy eyed, clearly having just woken up. She looks like a wreck, the downside of being unable to sleep unless someone is beside you tends to result in getting sicker much quicker than usual. Particularly with their shot immune systems. Drinking heavily and being in constant emotional pain drains a person quicker than expected. He hands her a codeine before measuring out three shot glasses of cough medicine. If nothing else it should help them breath easier.

Ron protests faintly when Harry wakes him long enough to pour both liquid medicine and tablets down his throat. The red head subsides his grumbled complaints once his head stops throbbing and his chest yields a shit ton of pale yellow mucus. Harry wrinkles his nose in disgust even as he wipes the sputum away. Hermione, uncaring of where Harry acquired enough drugs to last them the next six months, happily collapses next to her best friend, dragging Harry down with her. Harry tugs the little cup of medicine that he'd nicked from an overwhelmed doctor in the hospital, figuring that them handing out medicine was probably good reason to take it. He does so, dry, wincing at the way the tablets stick to his throat and feel like they're choking him.

The next three days are a haze of sleep, piss, drink water, take medication, ensure Ron and Hermione (who are sicker than he is) take their medication, spell water into their bodies, spell urine from their bodies and try and coax them to eat the 'healthy' sandwiches he buys at a local deli. By the time Hermione's better, they've been her seven days and the managers getting antsy for them to leave. Ron's still sick as a dog, his face white and his breathing shallow.

By day nine Hermione's done everything she can for the red head and admits defeat. They need to go to a hospital. Harry settles the accounts, adding on an extra three hundred dollars for the fumigation of their room after admitting that the reason they overstayed was because they were really, really sick. The manager watches him go, not pleased. Meanwhile Hermione packs up the car, tossing the various bottles and pills into Harry's duffle bag and then bundles Ron into the backseat, unashamedly stealing pillows and blankets from the Motel. She leaves a fifty to cover their cost.

Harry drives them back to Princeton Junction, stopping only to refuel and pick up sandwiches and a two, gallon bottles of warm water. Harry considers returning to Princeton General, but the chances of someone recognising him, whether the Doctor or Security staff, is too high. So with a resigned sigh and a smugly knowing look on Hermione's face, Harry turns the nose of the Buick towards Princeton Plains Teaching Hospital. Harry only hopes that in trusting baby Doctors with his friends life, he doesn't end up killing Ron. Princeton Plains is halfway between the University and the very edge of Pennsylvania. Harry suspects that they get patients from Princeton, New York and Philadelphia. Once Harry's parked the car, Hermione takes charge of Ron and Harry, directing the darker haired man to support their red headed friend, still bundled up in blankets, and chivvies them into the hospitals entrance, guiding the two men into the 'free' clinic and checks in with the nurse in charge, 'Brenda'.

Brenda is apparently impressed with Hermione's concise ability to distill the past five years into three sentences and then expand on what the problem is today because she assures them it's only a twenty minute wait despite the crowding of at least fifty other patients around them. Admittedly, it could be because Ron looks like he's about to keel over at any second. After all, Harry's pretty much holding his practically comatose friend upright, one arm on his chest, being soothed by the faint by steady heartbeat and the other rapped around his shoulders, keeping the blanket firm about him.

It's closer to forty by the time a doctor can see them and Ron's breathing has become so faint that both Harry and Hermione take turns at pressing their ears to Ron chest, counting his heartbeat and feeling his pulse. Its weak and thready, and Hermione's more than a little concerned. The doctor assigned to them is 'House', a tall man in jeans and a t-shirt with a suit jacket thrown over the top as though trying to pretend he's a professional. Harry settles himself in the corner, one hand in his pocket gripping his knife tightly, the other wrapped around his chest loosely, stroking the scar that runs down his right side. Hermione takes charge, setting Ron up on the examination table and stripping him free of the blankets they'd stolen from the motel and bundling them up into a corner.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" Doctor House asks, leaning heavily on his cane, his blue eyes intently watching Ron and Hermione's interaction.

Hermione turns to him, her honey brown eyes serious. "Shallow breathing, thready heartbeat, sweating, fever of 107 Fahrenheit and he's been like this for a while now."

"It got worse over the past two days," Harry interjects, his concerned gaze resting on his friends.

"And you didn't think to bring him in earlier?" Doctor House snarks, moving forwards jerkily, swaying from side to side, nearly knocking into Hermione as he shuffled up into Ron's face, his hands smoothing along the redheads throat. "Swollen lymph nodes, he has a cold."

"That's what we thought too," Hermione agrees, staring up at the Doctor determinedly. Harry knows that look. It's the look Hermione gets when she's being stubborn and refusing to give ground. She got that look a lot when they were in the company of the Malfoys and their houseguests. "He can't swallow now though, and he's been complaining of his hands and feet going numb and severe back pain."

Harry wrinkled his nose, "Hermione…"

"No, Harry," Hermione snapped, turning on her green eyed friend. "I'm aware that the back pain could be nothing, but to exclude anything could exclude the correct diagnoses!"

Harry held up his hands, backing down. "As you say."

Doctor House watches them carefully before returning his wary gaze onto Ron who was sliding sideways, Hermione just barely managing to catch him in time. Harry joins his friend, hiding his limp with difficulty. Apparently his scars that ran the length of his leg were playing up, stiffening the muscles badly enough that he'd need to work them through later on. It wasn't as though they hurt after all.

"Easy Ron, easy," Harry murmurs, wrapping an arm around his friend and steadying him. "Come on mate, open those baby blues."

Doctor House snorts, rolling his eyes and he shuffles closer. "Wake up!" He orders, snapping his fingers in Ron's ears.

"No!" Hermione shouts, shoving Doctor House backwards and into the cabinets behind him. Ron freaks out, his eyes snapping wide open and watching him, Harry knows that his friend is not seeing the hospital but the Malfoy's dungeon. An assumption that proves correct when Ron starts screaming.

"What the hell?" Doctor House shouts, leaning heavily on the bench behind him, wide eyes watching Harry and Hermione fight with Ron, slapping his face and yelling at him to snap out of it, please, Ron, please! Realising that the two weren't going to answer him soon, Doctor House throws the door to the examination room wide open, hollering for help.

Brenda answers him with alacrity, swooping in to aid Harry and Hermione into holding the thrashing Ron down, slightly stunned to see the young man screaming and crying for the two people that were right beside him. House staggers over to the cabinet holding the sedatives and grabbed the nearest one containing .1 milligrams and then, with the aid of Brenda and Hermione, injected the dosage into Ron's arm.

Harry slumps over his friend, still holding his head and presses their foreheads together. "Ron," he breathes, staring into wide blue eyes. "You're okay, we're out of there, mate. They're never gonna get us again."

Ron winces as he nods, still shaky and fearful. "'Mione?" He whimpers, searching for his other friend who's busy explaining to Doctor House and Nurse Brenda just what the hell happened just now. "'Mione?" Ron's voice is shaking and his grip on Harry's arms is weak enough to break when he pulls back. Hermione shoots the redhead a curious glance, pausing her conversation long enough to meet his eyes. "I can't feel my legs," he whispers, looking terrified.

Hermione pales and grabs his hand. "It'll be okay, Ron, we'll get help for you."

"Can you hold my hand Hermione?" Ron asks, scared. "Please?"

Harry feels himself sway, terror overtaking him. "We are, Ronnie, we are holding your hands." Harry tells him, shaking.

"What's happening to me, Harry?" Ron asks, turning his head to his dark haired friend. "Am I dying?"

Harry thins his lips and shakes his head, ignoring his trembling. "No, I won't let you. Not now, not ever!"

Ron smiles at Harry, relaxing because he believes in Harry. He knows that Harry won't ever let him down. Not now. Not ever. "Okay," he breathes, sinking into a stupor, exhaustion rolling over him like a tide. "Okay, Harry. I trust you." Ron falls asleep with a smile on his face, his hands resting in his friends own.

Doctor House watches them carefully, curiously, before turning to Brenda and meeting her concerned gaze. "Admit him, send green eyes up to my office when they're settled in ICU."

"ICU?" Brenda questions, watching the irreverent doctor make his way over to the door. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Doctor House looks at the trio and shifts his grip on his cane. "I get the feeling this is only going to be the beginning." He leaves the room, swaying from side to side as he uses his free hand to tap out a message on his pager, contacting his team.

Brenda watches him go long enough to see him slide around the desk and out of view. She then pages her assistant for a gurney and shuffles over to the trio of PTSD sufferers, helping the brunette woman and raven haired guy steady the slowly dying redhead. Somedays Brenda wonders just why it's always the kids that are hit hardest. They're all wearing long-sleeves and jeans, their clothes are baggy, hanging loosely on them like a second, ill-fitting skin. None of them are well, but for the moment Brenda will focus on the dying one, leaving the other two to their own devices.

The assistant nurse comes in, an intern following her, his eyes bright and curious which swiftly dies as he takes in the frail trio of patients in front of him. It always hurts watching the naïvety and innocence of the baby doctors ding swift deaths, hardening into cynicism and suspicion. Every one starts as the naïve idiot who wants to save the world. Every one of them finishes as the sarcastic arsehole who knows they can't but is too stubborn to quit at it anyway. House had been like that once, Brenda reflects as she hoists the skinny redhead onto the gurney, tugging his shirt down when it rides up and feels sick to her stomach at the thin white lines that decorate his pale skin. Once being the operative word.

The intern takes charge, barely stammering as he directs the redheads friends to follow him up t intensive care, the nurse helping him wheel the gurney out of the clinic drawing Cuddy's attention from behind her desk, the ever present phone glued to her ear as she watches them leave. Brenda gathers up the days old blankets smelling of sweat, piss, medicine and sickness and tosses them into a bin marked: Hazard Waste. She then leaves the clinic briefly to wash herself down and change into new scrubs. Its the second time today she's done this. It won't be the last either.

Harry watches Hermione draw the pale green blanket back, Ron, now dressed in a white hospital gown, collapses into the bed, shaking from the exertion. Harry picks his friends pale, narrow feet up off the floor and slides them beneath the waffle blanket and crisp sheets. Ron's red hair is stark against the pillow and Harry feels awful as he sinks into the chair by Ron's bedside, watching the intern slide needles and catheters into his arm; tapping, pulling and pricking the redhead, setting up an IV and a bag full of nutrients.

The monitor beside Ron's bedside reads 40 beats per minute with 80 percent oxygen saturation; Hermione, fearful for Ron's health, demands that he gets an oxygen mask. The intern, knowing more about medicine than a half trained healer, doesn't argue the need for oxygen but does argue the need for a mask. He provides the tubing that will distribute the oxygen to Ron, hooking it behind his ears and beneath his nose. Ron breathes easier and Harry feels himself relaxing. Ron is stable now, so he stands and makes his way around the bed to Hermione's side.

"Doctor House demanded my presence," he reminds her, watching Ron slide once more into unconsciousness. "Or do you want to be the one to be present for his diagnosis?"

Hermione doesn't remove her eyes from Ron's face, her feelings obvious and painful for Harry to see. He has the feeling that should they ever get better, Ron and Hermione will end up together once more. Happy and healthy and together. It should make him happy but all it does is inspire bitterness and anger. He doesn't want to be alone.

"You go," she says finally. "I'll stay here, with him."

Harry nods silently, backing away feeling as though he's intruding, his heart aching. "I'll be going then." A stop at the nurses station in ICU gets him the directions he needs. It's on the same floor and just around the corner. Harry suspects that Doctor House is more than just a clinical doctor, that he has a speciality that is of far more worth to the hospital than his bedside manner. Sure enough he ends up in a corridor of glass panelled walls partitioning off the side into a conference room come break room and an office concealed by closed blinds. The nearest door reads: Gregory House, M.D, Head of Diagnostics. Harry suspects that they've lucked out on this one and he limps, cursing his scars, over to the conference room door and knocks drawing a trio of surprised gazes and House's own smugly satisfied one.