Scrooge Versus the Mistletoe Chapter 4: Part 4, My Harry, a harry potter fanfic

S c r o g e V e r s u s T h e M i s t l e t o e
Part Four: My Harry

He is in danger. I know that there must be something wrong for him to have been gone for so long. Why must these things always happen simultaneously? And so damn frequently--

I must find him. Just as soon as I sever my arm off, I must search for him. The smallness of my Scrooge room is getting to me, that and the fact that I have lost full feeling from the bottom of my Mark down to my fingertips. Where was a dratted Muggle plastic knife when one was in need of it?

Find him.

The door is open and I hear a commotion from somewhere down the corridor. If I were able to move faster, I might have ran out of the room to look for my lover, though my damaged leg is wrapped so tightly in bandages that I am forced to slide off the edge of my bed slow enough to not end up flat on my face. Damn these Muggles for wrapping me up instead of fixing me like any decent mediwitch would. Irritating, primitive, frustratingly simple--

These Muggles.

My lover is a Muggle. I mustn't forget that, I can not forget that. If I were to forget who he is, I would have nothing worth the pain and suffering of trying to fight the monster whose Mark is burned into my damned throbbing arm.

Not forget.

I grab my shirt from the Scrooge chair and pull it over my head while leaning against the bed for support. I am sure that the damned batty old nurse should have given me some sort of cane or walking stick; I have seen others using them in this Muggle torture chamber.

With a wobbly kind of walk, I make it to the door in time for the sounds of a disaster happening to reach my ears. That disaster is lying on the floor looking pale and lifeless. That disaster is my lover, my Harry, collapsed on the dirty floor not three rooms down from the Scrooge room.

That disaster.

I cannot seem to move my eyes from the sight of it, and I am unaware of my legs moving for me, fast as they'll go.

Halfway to my lover's body, I stop. My mind has blanked for just a moment, and things are frozen. The cast on my leg does not exist. The burning on my arm is cool. I am no longer a spy for Albus. My lover is no longer ill. I am out of the Muggle hospital. Voldemort is no longer a threat. The sky has no clouds to be seen.

A moment.

And then my mind re-adjusts itself, and I am back to limping like a maniac to get to where I need to be, right beside my dear Harry.

My mind.

The white plaster on my leg keeps me from kneeling at the side of my lover, but that does not keep me from looking down at him. His color is off, and his body is limp, but I can see the numerous doctors and nurses milling about him, working their Muggle magic. There is something to be said about the speediness of Muggles, but I don't feel the need to waste my energies on such compliments, especially for Muggles. My lover is sprawled on the floor, and I feel I must be losing my mind for simply standing there above him, useless.

Muggle magic.

I am being shoved away by some nameless Muggle who is trying his best to lift my lover onto a stretcher for transport. I am unsure which way I should be going; the nurses wish me to leave for his own well-being, to get him needed care, but he is my Harry, I can not simply leave him. I'm confident that he would not leave me, were I the one limp on the dirt-covered floor. I simply can't do it.

My own uselessness is nearly as painful as watching those Muggle contraptions being set up and stuck into my lover. The sight of it chills me deeper than the thought of what the master of the Mark will do to me when I do not turn up for the meeting I am missing. Never has there been anything to rival that constant fear of Him. Not until my Harry came along.

Chills me.

The Muggles are rolling him away. They can sure move quickly. They race by as if the Dark Lord himself is upon them. My own eyes won't even blink for me. There is no real noise around, just the persistent buzzing of Muggle lights overhead.

Around me.

Then, just as if I'd accidentally mentioned the unmentionable Dark Lord's name, a jolt of energy moves me one step forward. And then I am sprinting down the corridors as fast as the cast on my leg can be lifted and dropped repeatedly. I have no choice but to ignore the embarrassment I feel at the glances and stares I'm receiving from the number of patients in Muggle hospital gowns. And they find me ridiculous. At least I am wearing my own garments, the imbeciles. No one gets near the Scrooge room with a paper dress and expects to live for their next meal.

The unmentionable.

I fumble with as much dignity as I can manage when I reach the entrance to the emergency area. The walls are painted red in spots, and that miniscule detail drives me to snarling at everything I see. There isn't a measly smirk or a scowl to be seen from me, because I am not annoyed. I am frightened.

Drives me.

There is more adrenaline in my body now than there was when I forced myself to face the Dark Lord as a newly betraying follower. This frightens me more than even that! I've had a hard time believing that I could ever come close to being defeated by my fear, to being so afraid that I would end it by any means. The duty and meaning I felt in my previous terrified moments, my moments of total betrayal in the face of my former master… the rebellion I had inside me then is not even hinted at this time. There is nothing I can do but be afraid.

Any means.

Everything I've felt with Harry, everything has made me different. I can feel hope. I can be elated. I can feel the passion of another's touch and words.

There is a chance for me to live with meaning, meaning that will be recognized, not ignored as my spying constantly is. The one thing that appreciates me is drifting away into a whiff of smoke. I don't know what to do with myself if I can not have that comfort of him next to me, in front of me, behind me, near me!

"What can I do?" whispers I.

I lean myself against the rough wall and lower myself until I feel a cushion underneath me. I am sitting on a chair that for once in this place does not need to be considered Scrooge-like in any way. My hands are upon my knees until I feel the sudden need to cover my head and hide from the world. The Muggle world isn't all that great to look at anyhow. I slide my arms down until my elbows reach my knees, and my back is bent forward like a bow. My hands run through my hair on either side of my face, and I grip the ends of the greasy locks and pull as hard as I can take while squeezing my head between my arms. It doesn't help, but it makes me keep my grief inside and quiet.

My grief.

I shake myself out of the daze and stand without actually thinking of doing so. I force myself to go up to the Muggle hospital's help desk and ask for my Harry's room.

"Hold on a moment, sir," says the attendant in a most bland tone.

I make no reply and continue to lean against the high desktop. The Muggle woman makes an enquiry over the phone, and for once, I do not bring myself to listen in on a conversation.

The woman hangs up the phone and repeats to me, "Just a moment, sir."

My hand clenches into a fist, but I can't seem to formulate my habitual response of an insult. Frustration makes me glare at whatever my gaze hits. A Muggle child who is waiting with its mother happens to look up at me at that exact moment, and I take only some satisfaction in the tears that I've frightened it into crying with my glare.

The child is quieted by its mother at the same moment as I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I turn my glaring eyes onto a young woman dressed in the formal white of a healer, or in this case, a Muggle doctor.

"Yes?" hisses I.

"Are you the man inquiring about the young, male cancer patient?" questions the woman with practiced gentleness that makes me feel ill to hear directed toward me.

Some of my anger disappears and I allow myself only a stiff nod in reply. The Muggle doctor gestures to the corner, away from the other people in the waiting room, and I go without a fuss. I need information, and I need it quickly; I can not delay with my normal routine of being difficult, so I do not.

"I have to ask what your relationship to Harry is. He is very popular amongst the staff and the more… long-term patients. I can't recall him having any visitors prior to today."

My jaw clenches but I make myself answer with civility, if not outright goodness.

"We are together," states I stiffly, but the woman continues to look expectant for a more precise answer. "Romantically," adds I with nothing short of a growl.

The Muggle woman glances down at the cast on my leg, most likely concluding that I am a patient in this hellhole, and nods in satisfaction of my answer.

"How much do you know of his condition?" asks the woman.

I've got cancer, he had told me the last time I had stayed here.

"Cancer," hollowly replies I.

"I am afraid that Harry has reached the point where he can no longer leave from his bed rest. The cancer has progressed to a level that can only be improved by a transplant. His current treatment will not be enough to keep the organ functioning, even though we have not detected metastasizing of the cancer. Without a transplant, he will die."

I detest her succinct reply, even though it is useful.

"I must see him," demands I with the same tone that I project during my classes.

"Of course," agrees the woman, and she gestures me down a corridor.

He is still hooked to Muggle contraptions. His brilliant eyes are open and alert and, judging by the small smile he gives me, awaiting my presence. The Muggle woman leaves quietly and closes the door behind her.

My presence.

The goodness that accompanies my being with him comes back in a rush, simply knowing that he is not dead. It reminds me of our second meeting, this time around in my being at this Muggle hospital, when I had believed him to be dead already from his illness. I feel recharged with energy at just a sight of him.

"Hey," rasps out my Harry.

"Hello," comes my level reply, though I can't move my gaze from him.

"How's Scrooge today?" is his cheeky question.

I go along with it as I will do only with him and tell him that I am fine. His green eyes seem so tired, and I walk up to the side of his bed to better look at him.

"Tired," says he with some sorrow shining through his gaze.

"I know," is my reply as I lightly run my fingers over the top of his left hand. "It is alright to sleep. I shall be here when you wake."

He lets through the smallest of grins at my words and turns his hand over to take my own in his. Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, he allows his green eyes to close and he is breathing evenly within minutes. I gaze at him only a short while before I force myself to free my hand from his. He does not stir, and I leave the hospital room without a sound.

The Mark is dully throbbing, no longer burning as before. Determined, I make my way to an unused storage closet.

No longer.

With the door closed, I retrieve my wand from my sleeve.

"Diffindo."

My cast is cut open and I remove my poorly treated leg with as much speed as I can manage. Gritting my teeth, I stand as straight as I possibly can without holding onto the wall. With a spin and a destination in mind, I disappear with a pop.

The Hogwarts grounds are as magical as ever, I note as I make my way painfully to the gates and then to the main entrance.

Without being seen by anyone, I reach the Hospital Wing in more time than I would like. Poppy is clearing up a mess as I limp in, but she sees me immediately.

"Severus," gasps she with worry in her tone.

"Broken leg. Fix it," I grind out as pain shoots up my leg.

She does this so simply and easily that I want to break my wand in two at the sheer incapability of Muggle healing and those damned casts.

My wand.

I do not spare her a thank you because of my frustration, and I summon my robe and mask as I move quickly down to the dungeons. Both items in hand I leave the castle with an agenda firmly in mind.

An agenda.

-- -- --

Harry is still in slumber when I return to his hospital room, sans cast, though I do not bother with what questions might come up at my miraculous recovery.

I sit in the chair beside his bed, take his hand in mine once more, and wait patiently for the nurse to rush in.

Wait patiently.

She takes a bit longer than expected, but she does eventually turn up.

"We may have a donor for Harry," announces the Muggle woman excitedly.

I tug at Harry's hand to wake him, wishing slightly that I did not have to do so. My Harry awakens slowly and I give the hand I hold a small squeeze to show that I am near. Harry smiles at me sleepily, and I allow my face to be a fraction less stern for him.

The Muggle doctor informs my Harry of the organ he could receive, and at first, I do not think that my lover believes it. He looks to me for answers and I nod in confirmation, to which he can't seem to hide his happiness. I find myself enjoying his surprise and happiness. It is all that I could wish for, his elation.

His surprise.

The Muggle doctor leaves the room to prepare for my lover's coming surgery, and I find myself alone with the smiling machine that is my lover.

"Severus," whispers Harry with a grin large enough to break his face.

I stand from the chair and come closer to my dear Harry. His green eyes gaze at me and I recall the first time that I saw him.

Dear Harry.

Scrooge bed, Scrooge chair... a very Scrooge room all together, I remember him saying on the second day of our acquaintance. My reaction hadn't been one of smiles and agreeing nods, but he still had come back the next day.

I lean down to give Harry a quick kiss. His lips are warm, and he warms the coldness I'd had inside me for a while now.

The coldness.

"Severus," repeats Harry with those brilliantly beautiful eyes of his looking up at me.

I kiss him once more before I sit back down at his side.