Chapter Nine
Even from fifty yards away, the double doors of the hospital wing glared at him. Harry could see a blur of white robes bustling to and fro behind the clouded plates of glass, but it was difficult to tell if any of the beds were occupied.
All Harry knew was that he didn't want to be in one of them; not on his second day back. Not with Malfoy creeping about, throwing hexes at Harry when he wasn't looking.
Harry wasn't sure what was worse: the fact that his skin had just been bubbling or that that Malfoy had caught him unaware.
Harry could just picture that wanker in Herbology tomorrow morning with the rest of the Slytherins, laughing at his expense. Malfoy would mimic the droopy, shocked expression on Harry's face; he'd probably tell everyone how Harry had cried, like the baby he is. Or fainted. Malfoy had had a ball with that one last year, after all…
The hospital doors banged open.
Harry turned, ducking his chin, leaning his hip against a stone drinking fountain as he listened to footsteps thudding toward him. The sudden movement had his recently healed skin tingling again.
Harry peeked up to identify whoever was passing: Durmstrang's champion, Viktor Krum, was easing the collar of his tunic over his freshly bandaged shoulder as he lumbered away from the hospital wing, followed by Igor Karkaroff, headmaster of Durmstrang; Karkaroff's glassy eyes darted toward Harry, and then he muttering in low tones, in a language Harry didn't understand.
Viktor nodded at Harry as he rounded the corner.
Harry tried to nod back, but his neck felt too stiff; his face grew warm as he listened to their heavy-booted footsteps fade down the corridor.
Most likely, Viktor Krum had been injured during his training for the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, unlike Harry, who wasn't completely positive of how he had got his injury.
Trying to explain that to Madame Pomfrey wasn't Harry's idea of a jolly-good afternoon.
The more Harry thought about sitting through a half-hour's worth of the woman's poking and prodding, the faster his spirits plummeted.
Cheers, Sirius, Harry thought glumly. He was obviously better at keeping his chin up than Harry was.
Pressing his lips together, Harry watched the Madame-Pomfrey-shaped blob whisk by the window again.
If Krum had just been treated, anyone could be in the hospital. Anyone could hear Harry fumbling for an excuse behind the curtain.
Seconds later, Harry felt his feet move, carrying him, the strings of his trainers flicking against the stone floor, and before he knew it, he was climbing the staircase that led to the seventh floor and the only place he felt like being at the moment.
When he reached the base of Gryffindor Tower, the voices at the end of the corridor sparked Harry's brain in to action; his feet lost the battle.
Quieting his breathing as best as he could, Harry listened.
It wasn't that the voices were unfamiliar; it was just that they fit together about as well as woolen socks with sandals; or pumpkin juice poured over cereal; or oil floating on top of dish water.
There were a thousand ways to describe the strangeness of hearing Snape's and Sirius' voices mixing together in conversation. None of them were agreeable in the least.
Out of sheer curiosity, Harry kept walking and was surprised to see a bald Black man in shimmering robes standing in a tight circle with Sirius and Professor Snape, none of whom were smiling. None of whom noticed Harry standing at the end of the corridor gaping at them, either.
Snape was gripping his lapels in white fists, pursing his lips in Sirius' direction; he somehow looked bored and disgusted at the same time.
Sirius had his arms half folded, knuckles against his lips: his thinking stance.
The other man stood calmly, his hands clasped behind his back.
Meanwhile, Barnabas the Barmy was shoving his own sword down his throat, his dusty tapestry waving serenely in the everyday corridor draft; he ignored the lot of them.
It was Snape who noticed Harry first; his eyes crawled over Harry's face, like black beetles.
Sirius stopped talking, his mouth hanging open mid-sentence. He turned his head, the frown that had pinched his face immediately loosened when he saw Harry. Stepping around the man with the shiny head, Sirius broke away from the circle, the corner of his mouth making a diligent effort to smile; he beckoned Harry forward with a tilt of his head.
Dragging his feet, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes, Harry obeyed.
"Hey," Sirius said slowly as Harry came into earshot. The frown returned to Sirius' face, but it was a different one than before. "I think I missed the bell—is it your dinner time?"
A disdainful sniff filled the air.
All eyes fell on Snape, whose lip had curled upward. "The dinner bell," the Potions master mocked. "On the contrary, Potter answers to the bell in his own head."
Sirius stared at him.
"You were unaware?" Snape sneered, his voice slimy with feigned innocence. "How unfortunate. Unsurprising, but a pity, nonetheless."
Copying Sirius' glare, the next thing Harry knew, he was brushing past the three of them, even Sirius, and knocking aside the tapestry; he let the heavy fabric flop down over his shoulders as he pushed his way into Sirius' quarters.
Yanking off his school robes, Harry wadded them up into a ball and chucked them, along with his satchel, into an empty armchair near the bookshelf in the corner and bounced, stomach-down, across the foot of Sirius' bed, his arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, the toes of his trainers still anchored to the floor.
Harry kept his face pressed into the clean quilt for a bit, hoping that any minute now, he would sit up and blink, find himself in his own room, and realize that today was nothing more than a dream-gone-wrong.
Harry rolled over onto his back and blinked, instead, at the vaulted stone ceiling overhead.
It was worth a try, at least.
The click of a door snapped Harry out of his brief reverie, as did the heavy sigh, like snow sliding from a roof.
As did the rumpled black robes that landed on Harry's face a second later…
"Early dismissal, then?" Sirius' voice seeped through the fabric muffling Harry's ears.
"Something like that…" Harry's voice was equally muffled, but not for long.
A cool breeze brushed Harry's cheeks as Sirius lifted the robes off of his face and squinted down at him, holding the bundle of cloth shoulder-level as though it were the lid of a pot.
Harry had been sort of boiling underneath: his temper, his own bloody skin…
He supposed it fit.
Sirius studied him. "You look as though I've just chopped your broom up for firewood. What gives?"
Draping his forearms over his glasses, like way he'd seen Sirius do a couple of times when he didn't think anyone was watching, Harry spoke into the folds of his elbows.
"Do what, now?"
"Sodding…MALFOY." If it weren't for the muzzle of his own arms, Harry would have blown Sirius' hair back with that shout.
Surely.
"Malfoy again?" Sirius piped up. "What is it with that runty…" he trailed off.
Harry felt the mattress dip, felt his shirt creep halfway up his torso; Harry pulled his arms away from his face, lifting his head off of the mattress.
"What," Sirius began slowly, clinically, "could this possibly be?"
Gentle fingertips prodded the skin on one side of Harry's belly button.
Harry jolted up onto the points of his elbows. "It's nothing…it's—oh…" Gazing down in horror at the rosy patch of skin that was beginning to blister again, Harry felt his throat grow thick. The blisters were weeping this time. "Er…I didn't think…" Harry mumbled stupidly.
"What did you do?" The only part of Sirius that was visible to Harry was his godfather's scalp, as his face hovered mere centimeters from Harry's stomach.
"It's just a skin-boiling spell," Harry heard himself say as he sat up, with Sirius' help. Hex, his brain corrected for him. "It backfired on me." Was hurled at me.
Stickler for details, his conscience.
Sirius was gripping Harry's torso now, his thumbs framing either side of the burn.
"A skin-boiling hex?" Sirius repeated. "Who would agree to have his skin boiled off for practice? Here, stand up—"
"We thought it was healed…it only itches."
Sirius was bending at the waist, still gawking at the monstrosity under Harry's shirt. Harry stood awkwardly, frowning downwards.
"We?" Sirius said incredulously. "You and who else?"
"Who was that bald bloke you were talking to outside?"
Sirius peeked up, his face contorted. "I'm about to be holding half of your skin in my hands, by the look of things, and you're wondering about the 'bald bloke'?"
Harry craned his neck down further to see if Sirius was speaking the truth.
"Hold this away from your stomach," Sirius said, bunching up the hem of Harry's shirt as he stood. "You need the hospital wing."
"Aw, Sirius—"
"Spare me that, eh?" Sirius said. "One of us has to be worried…you can't even feel that?"
Actually, the more Harry observed the shiny blisters, the more he realized the itching was slowly giving way to an odd sort of smarting.
"Dunno."
"It's your skin, you nutter…"
They stared at each other for a moment. As usual, Sirius cracked first.
"Well, come on, then."
Making a face, Harry opened his mouth to argue, but it only took one quick snap and a beckoning wiggle of Sirius' fingers to get Harry moving.
Once they were out in the empty corridor, they walked next to each other in silence for a moment, matching each other's brisk footsteps.
The air that swept over Harry's exposed skin felt cool and, oddly enough, moist. Like morning fog.
"I look like a dolt…"
Sirius gave Harry a passing glance. "Your hair does need trimming."
"I'm talking about my shirt: holding it like this," Harry clarified, as he retraced his steps to the hospital wing. "I look like—" He caught Sirius' eye. "Wait, what's wrong with my hair?"
A wink; a trace of a smile. Sirius kept moving.
Fair try, Harry thought. Sirius' worry radiated on a deeper level, though, and Harry knew it.
Even beneath all that tingling and itching, Harry's stomach managed to clench in dread once they reached the familiar double-doors. Sirius held open one of them with an outstretched arm and ushered Harry through with a gentle press of his fingertips.
Like the corridor, the hospital wing was blissfully empty, save for a young-looking ghost in Hogwarts robes drifting about the row of windows.
Madame Pomfrey bustled into sight round the curtain that concealed one of the examining tables. She was holding a jar of cotton balls in one arm and a stack of fresh linens in the other. Her eyes narrowed once she spotted Harry.
"You again, is it?" she chirped, sending the sheets flying in ten different directions with a quick wave of the wand she'd somehow managed to retrieve from her pocket. She gave Sirius a pointed nod. "And you."
Harry looked over at Sirius, surprised that, unlike most everyone, Madame Pomfrey seemed to bypass the gawking part when it came to his godfather. Didn't seem nervous, either.
Sirius gave Harry a meager shrug.
"Up onto this table," the healer ordered, patting the one behind the curtain. "I daresay you know the drill, Mr. Potter."
It was Sirius' turn to look at Harry, but Harry could only manage a half-smile that ended up as more of a crooked squint.
"As would you, Mr. Black." Madame Pomfrey's back was turned, but Harry could still hear her muttering about "those four" giving her nightly migraines.
Harry glanced over at Sirius again, but this time, his godfather was squinting at a small portrait on the wall of a young wizard getting his arm bandaged. "He looks terrified."
"Give him a minute," Harry commented, recognizing the portrait all-too well. "He's a right git."
On cue, the boy in the painting squirmed off of the examining table and went skipping around the room, leaving the healer to chase after him.
"Ah." Sirius nodded. "I remember him now; shifty little bugger."
Harry tried a smile, but his face felt droopy; a melted wax face.
Meanwhile, Madame Pomfrey stalked down the aisle, her heels clicking against the floor as she flicked her wand against the air; a dozen hospital beds were instantly stripped and redressed with clean linens.
Harry lifted himself onto the table, but he allowed Sirius to help him pull his shirt the rest of the way over his head and off, since his arms were suddenly feeling stiffer than normal.
"You're sweating." Sirius' voice sounded funny. Muzzy and strained.
"Huh?" Harry blinked at the spots that had begun to reappear in his peripheral vision. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled. " I know. It's warm in here."
Sirius frowned, touching the backs of his fingers to Harry's cheek. "No, it isn't."
"Well…" Madame Pomfrey came into view, sliding the curtain back a bit. "What is it this—" She absolutely stared at Harry, her eyes sliding down to the circus freak show attached to his body; the metal container full of thermometers nearly slipped from her grasp. Her lips became thin, as though they were sewn together; she swept the curtain closed and then advanced on Harry. "Lie back, please—no, head right here."
Sirius lurched away from the spin of her robes and moved to stand by Harry's head as Pomfrey puttered around the area; she remained silent while she gathered up a heavy glass bottle full of purple liquid, a small corked vial, and a pile of cloths.
"Drink this," she ordered, uncorking the vial and pressing it to Harry's bottom lip. Sirius cupped his hand around Harry's neck and helped him to lift his head. "You'll thank the stars for it."
It tasted potent and familiar; Harry wrinkled his nose as it went down.
"What is that?" Sirius' voice drifted high above.
"Pain-relieving potion."
She took hold of Harry's shoulder and hip and turned him on his side, much too easily for Harry's liking. "Hold him still, if you would," Pomfrey muttered to Sirius, who immediately took hold of Harry's shoulder, leaving Pomfrey hoisting up his other end to keep him balanced.
Harry nearly died of embarrassment, even in the midst of the tingly, warm haze that seemed to be smothering him. But soon, even Pomfrey's hand on his bum became a distant memory as something cool and wet trickled all over the burn on his stomach.
Harry felt the stinging first, saw the smoke rising from his abrasion, and then he knew: he'd had enough Quidditch injuries cleaned out with that same purple liquid to know what it was. He also knew that with the size of his injury, the pain reliever had kept the cleansing potion from burning like fire.
Didn't stop him from tensing up, though.
Sirius tightened his grip on Harry's shoulder.
An instant later, the stinging stopped and Madame Pomfrey was patting Harry's stomach dry with one of the cloths. "Good lad."
Harry realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a great whoosh through his nostrils. Sirius let out his breath as well. He squeezed Harry's shoulder again before letting him down gently, and Harry suddenly felt hot all over with embarrassment.
"I have seen some dueling injuries in my time, Mr. Potter," Madame Pomfrey muttered, clucking her tongue every few words. "But I can easily say I've never…" She trailed off as she concentrated on healing Harry's burn—for the second time—though her wand movements looked far more complex than Remus'. She cast a sharp eye in Harry's direction once she had made his skin pale again. "You children ought to be more sensible…"
"With what?" Harry couldn't help but ask.
"Hm." She narrowed her eyes in thought as she continued to stare at Harry.
In the midst of all the stinging and humiliation, Harry found it wasn't difficult to scowl at her either. "I wasn't dueling."
"Spilled a potion in Professor Snape's class, then?"
"No," Harry insisted. "I don't have Potions until tomorrow; I was in Defense Against the Dark Arts—"
"Practicing hexes?" The woman's questions were relentless, like an index finger poking Harry in the chest.
If only he could bat her away.
"His spell backfired," Sirius spoke softly, though he wasn't smiling. "It was only an accident."
"You were practicing in pairs, I see."
Harry shook his head; the spots in his vision seemed to have grown larger. "It was just Finite Incantatum." He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the pressure on his shoulders had him lying right back down.
"Rest a moment," Sirius said. "You're looking a bit white."
As Madame Pomfrey took Harry's pulse with two fingers at his wrist, a thermometer floated across the bed and hovered over Harry's nose.
"Lift your tongue," Madame Pomfrey commanded.
"I don't need my temperature taken," Harry told her.
"You might," Sirius commented.
The healer muttered some numbers in the direction of a floating quill and pad of paper; obediently, the quill began scribbling.
"Pulse at a gallop," Pomfrey said to herself. "Come, now, open up." She gestured toward Harry with impatience.
"Really, I think I'm all right—Oy—" The thermometer moved in blinking speed and slid itself into Harry's armpit. "Okay…okay, fine," Harry muttered, reaching for the glass stick. "It can go under my tongue." But Sirius pulled his hand away.
Madame Pomfrey ignored him as she bustled around.
"Just relax, Harry," Sirius said gently; the amusement in his voice was evident. "It's charmed—it barely takes a second."
Harry knew that, but still.
His armpit.
Madame Pomfrey had some nerve.
Harry lay stiffly for a few more seconds until Pomfrey swept over and rescued the thermometer from under Harry's arm.
"Just as I thought," Pomfrey said. She glanced down her nose at Harry, who was glaring up at her sourly.
"What is it?" Sirius asked, twisting around to catch a glimpse of the red stripe.
"One-hundred point three."
Harry pushed himself up by his elbows. "That's not so high."
"Just wait, you," Madame Pomfrey said, the vague threat in her voice a nagging fly round Harry's face—another thing he wouldn't mind batting away.
"A skin-boiling hex is meant to affect your temperature?"
Harry looked over at Sirius; his godfather had a grim look about his face, but it didn't quite mirror Harry's frustration.
Near Harry's feet, Madame Pomfrey was bent in half, rummaging through the same drawer in which she'd taken the stack of bed linens. "It's a dark curse," Madame Pomfrey replied after a moment; her voice echoed hollowly in the drawer, and Harry longed to nudge it closed, trapping the voice inside. "One that takes intention," she continued, straightening up, now quite red in the face. She held a pair of green and white striped pajamas, which Harry zeroed in on immediately. Her next words were a blur. "I've yet to see someone suffer the effects of a curse like this one from a backfired incantation, I might add." Eyeing Harry skeptically, she placed the pajamas in his lap. "Might as well settle in for the night, Mr. Potter; I shall be keeping a close eye on that fever. You may change behind this curtain."
Madame Pomfrey swept the curtain closed without another word; the scrape of the metal rings assaulted Harry's ears like the falling blade of a guillotine; he was suddenly smothered by the whiteness of the enclosed space: white cotton, white curtain, white sheets, white noise…
But when Harry looked down at those green-striped pajamas, he felt more clear-headed than he had all day. He shook his head at Sirius. "I'm not staying here; she can forget it."
"It's only for the night," Sirius said; the words came out cool and soothing, but there was something about the way Sirius' eyes were scanning Harry's hospital pajamas, something about the way Sirius leaned with his hip against the examining table: bracing himself. "She used to threaten to harness your dad in his bed." A remembering smile. "Don't give him a run for his money…"
Ha ha, Harry thought dully. He pushed the pajamas off of his lap and reached for his shirt, avoiding Sirius' eyes as he tried to put his arms through.
"Now just hang on a moment." The soothing voice returned but the laughter had drained right out of it.
Weakly, Harry shrugged away from Sirius' hold on his shoulders; one arm of his shirt still dangled.
"Hang on, I said."
Harry didn't struggle this time; his muscles sagged like dough in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen. He blinked hard at the metal tray across from him; the thermometer lay where Pomfrey had set it, straight and obedient, like everything else in this wing, leaving Harry feeling as out of place as the squirming boy in the portrait.
Enough time passed with Sirius standing there, squeezing Harry's shoulders but not saying anything, that eventually, Harry's eyes grew tired of staring at medical supplies.
Sirius was searching Harry's face; his own eyes looked tired as well, shadowed. "Tell me what's wrong."
Harry's swallow seemed to stick in his throat. "I can't stay here."
"Here at Hogwarts, or here, here?"
Harry flapped a hand toward the examining table beneath him.
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
"Hm," Sirius murmured, drawing in great breath through his nose, "that tells me loads." His eyes were soft. He threaded his fingers in Harry's fringe and pushed the hair away from his specs. "C'mon, Bub," his godfather continued. "You're a bit listless these days, and that's enough to worry anybody. I'm listening."
Harry twisted the button on the cuff of his school shirt. "It's just—"
"Are you decent, dear?" Madame Pomfrey's bellowing had Harry's heart skipping a beat; he'd nearly forgot she was here. The curtain twitched.
"Half a moment," Sirius called back, hurtling forward as though preparing to become a human partition.
But the clicking of Madame Pomfrey's heels on the floor had already resumed in steady staccato. "No hurry," she chirped from the middle of the room.
Very likely, Harry scoffed. Hurrying was Pomfrey's whole life.
As her bustling noises grew more distant, Sirius reached into his outer robes, which hung loosely about his shoulders, and drew his wand from the holster hooked onto his trousers. Casting a quick Silencing charm—Harry recognized the wand movement—Sirius slipped the stick back into its holster and used his hands to lift and settle himself onto the examining table, right next to Harry, his toes skimming the floor.
Harry glanced down at his own leather lace-ups dangling in mid-air.
"All right," Sirius said with resolution. "I'm still listening—and she can't—go on."
Even with the Silencing charm, Harry barely spoke above a whisper. But once Harry mentioned Cedric and the Hufflepuffs the laughing and Malfoy being a git, he found his voice again; the words seeped out like sand through a sieve, leaving only the bit about the skin-boiling hex.
"Once the First Task is over, I doubt anyone will remember your name came out of the Goblet with the others in the first place," Sirius consoled. "I know it doesn't seem like that now…"
Harry gave him a look.
"It's only been two days."
"It barely took Ron two minutes to start hating me when he thought I was showing off," Harry mumbled toward his trousers, warming unpleasantly at that memory, which stung more than any other he could remember. "Two days is bloody long, Sirius." His godfather didn't say anything to that, so Harry took that as leave to continue. "You don't know what it's like."
"Hm," Sirius murmured, nodding slowly. "Try twelve years."
Harry's head snapped up. His stomach clenched as he scanned Sirius' face for signs of anger. "I'm sorry…"
Sirius lifted his eyes, frowning.
Swallowing hard, Harry picked at the only part of his shirt he was still wearing: the right cuff.
"That brow," Sirius said, reaching over, pressing the pads of his fingers against Harry's forehead. "Entirely too much worry. You'll have wrinkles by the time you're out of Hogwarts, old man." He let his arm fall to his side again.
"Maybe not," Harry croaked, his chest fluttering in relief: massive, flapping wings. He relaxed his forehead.
Sirius' eyes shone. "You're putting up a tough fight against those people," he continued, "and you're very brave for that. But it's hardly easy, is it?"
Focusing on his trousers again, Harry shook his head.
"Not at all," Sirius agreed. "I know."
They sat quietly for a moment, and then Harry pulled his sleeve the rest of the way off. "Everything feels like it did two years ago," Harry said in frustration, "when everyone thought I'd petrified Filch's stupid cat…" And Harry hadn't anyone but Ron and Hermione to tell about that then, so he'd had to let the hurt simmer inside of him. He could recall the awful, stuffy feeling in his chest every time someone had glared his way, and Harry didn't want to go through another several months like that. "It's embarrassing," Harry finally admitted.
"It probably doesn't help that I'm trailing after you like your shadow," Sirius sympathized. "Add Remus to the mix, and you've got your very own bodyguards." He poked Harry's knee.
"You don't trail me," Harry said with a small smile. "It's been all right, actually."
Sirius' face lit up with a slow grin and then he leaned forward, his wrists against his own knees. Even though his godfather didn't say anything, Harry could feel Sirius beaming beside him.
"I should've known it would be like this," Harry said, "with Malfoy, I mean. Maybe I did."
Sirius looked over his shoulder. "What did he do, exactly? I was a bit preoccupied with keeping you from melting on the quilt—we never quite got to that."
Harry scratched at his stomach, where the skin was still tender from healing. "Dunno, really." It was the truth.
"Did he do that?"
Pausing mid-scratch, Harry flicked his eyes toward Sirius'. "Might have."
"Might…" Sirius trailed off. "Why didn't you say something?"
"I said he might have, Sirius." Harry shifted on the table.
"'Might' as in 'a very good chance', yes?"
"Mm," Harry disagreed, shaking his head. "'Might' as in 'might'."
Sirius' eyes traveled from Harry's stomach to his face. "I see no difference…"
Gripping the table beneath him, Harry considered this. "Look, it's not—"
"Is that why Pomfrey asked if you'd been dueling," Sirius cut in. "You hadn't, had you?"
Harry gaped, owl-eyed at his godfather. "You're joking, right?" Harry asked, disbelieving. "Why would I do that? McGonagall would put me on dorm restriction, if she didn't kill me first—and then you'd kill me…"
"I'd never kill you," Sirius countered with a twitch of a smile on behalf of Harry's effrontery. "I'd have no one to talk to."
"And besides," Harry continued, hardly finished, "why would I duel in the middle of Remus' class? I'm not that stupid."
"Rather bright, actually."
"She's stupid if she thinks I did," Harry said sourly.
"Then what's this rubbish about Lucius' kid, and boiling skin, and you ending up here in these smashing pajamas?" Sirius tossed his hair away from his eyes and frowned, appearing more confused than before. "You've lost me."
Harry shrugged his response; the words stuck stubbornly in his throat.
"I need more than that, Bub, if I'm going to be of any help…"
"Yeah…" Harry could feel Sirius' eyes on him. "I know."
"Can't be that awful, can it?"
Harry shrugged again, shook his head. "It's just…I dunno…it's embarrassing."
"What is?"
"This." Harry gestured toward the pile of pajamas to his right. "Being stuck in here when everyone already thinks I'm a nancy for dropping out of the Tournament." There. He'd said it. And once he did, the rest tumbled out quite easily. "Getting hexes thrown at me when I can't see, just to make me look like a prat—trying to make me pass out again, like last year…"
"Pass out?"
"And Snape stares at me all through meals," Harry grumbled, bypassing the fainting issue altogether. The anger he had felt several days ago was rising to the surface, even though he wasn't sure where he was directing it. "It's bad enough he was tracking me all summer; why can't you tell him to leave me alone?"
Sirius blinked at him.
"I hate being the one everyone stares at." Harry jammed his bare shoulders against the cold wall. "And I hate that someone put my name in the Goblet." He swallowed hard against the tingle of fear that had crawled up his spine and settled in his throat. "And I hate these sodding pajamas."
Slowly, his godfather relaxed his back against the wall, so that he and Harry sported matching slumps.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, still feeling rather miserable but less like a flaming boil about to pop.
His glasses were slipping down his nose. He left them alone.
"I hate that your first Quidditch World Cup was cut short," Sirius began.
Harry looked over at Sirius, but it was his godfather's turn to study the metal tray. It was the first time since the end of August that Sirius had mentioned the attack at the World Cup.
"And," Sirius continued, twisting the button on his own shirt cuff, "I hate that you can't even enjoy the first Triwizard Tournament they've had here at Hogwarts for who knows how long..."
Harry shrugged. "It's not so bad."
The corner of Sirius' mouth curled, but he kept staring. "I'm not sorry to say that I hate those pajamas as well. She's offered those since I was eleven…probably when your granddad was eleven."
"Or his granddad," Harry added. "They're awful."
"Color's not too horrible…"
"That's the worst part."
"Hm." Sirius leaned over, away from the wall; he tilted his head, sizing up the green stripes. "You may be right."
They shared a brief smile.
Sirius reached over and nudged up Harry's nosepiece with a fingertip before resting his palm on the top of Harry's head.
They sat that way for a moment.
Madame Pomfrey's shoes click-clacked in the distance.
"We'll send for your pajamas and slippers…your toothbrush and everything. How's that?"
The words hung over both of their heads. And then Harry understood. "Sirius," he groaned. "Do I have to?"
"Oy, give us a listen…"
"I feel better," Harry pleaded. "Really."
Sirius pressed his hands against his knees. "Did you hear what Madame Pomfrey said? About monitoring your temperature?"
Harry nodded glumly.
"She knows a curse when she sees one," Sirius said. "Believe me."
"I know, but—"
"But…" Sirius echoed. "But what? You said you believed me."
"I do, but—"
"You're at it again."
Harry twisted his lips together, his shoulders sagging.
"Go ahead and put your shirt back on," Sirius urged, nodding toward the rumpled heap. "I'll explain about the pajamas."
Harry obeyed in slow, rusty movements, his neck receiving a warm squeeze of approval as he did up the buttons.
"How much of your class do you have left?" Sirius asked. "Twenty minutes?"
"I think so."
Sirius glanced around for a clock before suddenly remembering the watch he kept in his robes pocket. "Just about twenty-five," Sirius confirmed, squinting at the small, pearl clock-face. "I need to go on a quick hunt for Dumbledore. Will you be all right, getting settled in here until I come back?"
"How come you have to find Dumbledore?" Harry asked. And then he added, "Yeah, I'll be fine."
"Just a few questions for him," Sirius supplied. He eased off of the examining table.
Harry sat as tall as he could, trying to tuck in the tails of his shirt. "Does it have to do with whatever you were talking to Snape about? And that man with no hair?"
"Ah," Sirius said as he lifted his chin to clip the neck of his robes together, "you remembered."
"It's a bit hard not to," Harry admitted. "You standing there with Snape. . . "
"Unforgettable, that one."
"Sirius?"
"Hm?" Extending a hand, he helped Harry slide down from the table.
"Will you tell me what you three were talking about?" Harry asked. "I mean, you can tell me later if you'd like."
"I'll give you the gist," Sirius said warmly; he kept his hand on Harry's shoulder as they escaped to the other side of the curtain. "Let's worry about this first—Oh—"
Madame Pomfrey's shoes squeaked against the floor as she halted just before colliding into them.
"Heavens," the woman exclaimed, wide-eyed, pushing back the white cap that had fallen over her eyebrows. "Thought the two of you had managed to sneak away—where on earth are your pajamas, Mr. Potter?"
"Er…"
"I'm going right now to collect them," Sirius said smoothly.
Pomfrey gave Harry her best cat-eyed expression.
Hand still resting on Harry's shoulder, Sirius guided him toward the bed that had its sheets and blankets turned back at the corner, leaving the woman staring after them.
TBC…
Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone :-) If you're following my other story, Mindful Eyes, it'll be updated next!