A/N: Dear me. It's been a hot while. Quite literally, the heat is killing me. Anygays! In case there's anybody left who hasn't given up on this fic yet, I finally managed another chapter. I wish I was kidding when I say I wrote this over the course of half a year, alas, I am not. Originally, I had more in mind for this chapter, but I figured another 1,000 words wasn't worth keeping y'all waiting another year.

'Really, Mr Potter, I don't think I have ever had to treat any student as many times as you. I would have thought that by now you would have learned to stay out of harm's way a little better.'

'Sorry Madam Pomfrey.'

The nurse huffed and spread the last bit of salve over the burns on Harry's arm—the result of an accident with a particularly nasty substance during Potions class—before waving her wand to summon some gauze. His skin had taken on a sickening green colour and looked quite worrisome.

'I'm afraid you will have to stay for a while. It's nothing dangerous, but it will require a few hours to heal, at the very least.'

Madam Pomfrey seemed to have read his thoughts, or maybe his concern was writ large all over his face.

'Hours? But what about the match? I can't—'

'I'm sorry, Mr Potter, but seeing as I am your attending physician, you will have to take my word for it when I say that it would benefit your recovery to stay for the rest of the day and not expose your injury to any kind of stress.'

She hesitated briefly, before adding, 'of course, it is your right as a legal adult to discharge yourself, but be aware that this would extremely ill-advised to do.'

Harry sighed in resignation before nodding. He'd been looking forward to watching the Gryffindor–Hufflepuff match, but he knew better than to disregard Madam Pomfrey's advice, or so he tried to convince himself. He let the nurse direct him towards a bunch of chairs and grimaced at the sight of the newspapers and magazines placed nearby. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly and Spella, no thanks. He dug a little deeper into the pile and eventually pulled out an older issue of Seeker Weekly, between a torn-up version of Which Wizard and an obscure German magazine with a mediwizard on the cover.

Two hours later, Harry chucked the paper aside. He had solved the crossword puzzle, thrice, had memorised Billyseed Hazeltwig's Weekly 'From Chasers for Chasers' Column in its entirety, knew everything about Victoria Adalia von Rothenhof's purchase of the Vienna Vampires Quidditch team and their new sponsorship agreement with a manufacturer of Quidditch-branded hair products, and could recite the entire commentary of last year's Lower Saxony versus Sussex match. It was barely five in the afternoon and he was bored out of his mind.

He glanced out of the window. In the distance, he could see the players above the Quidditch arena—the match had started about an hour ago—but they were too far away to make out any details. A light drizzle had set in early into the match, but he'd still have preferred the ranks of the stadium over being trapped in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey had come by twice to take a look at his injury and apply new ointment, but that had been about it. Groaning in frustration, he reached for another magazine and ended up with some pamphlet about the latest magical celebrity gossip.

It was going to be one long afternoon.

Yet another hour later, he had finally given up on trying to find any interesting reading material, after deciding mid-page that an article about the Tornadoes' seeker's new boyfriend wasn't worth his time anyway. When Madam Pomfrey finally returned, he had never been more glad to see her. While she frowned disapprovingly when he asked her whether he could leave, she changed his bandages once again and, reluctantly, declared him fit to be discharged.

Harry was still a few steps from the exit when the door swung open and in stepped Hermione and Ginny. He felt kind of awkward, his hand already stretched out to reach for the handle, and quickly hid it in his robes.

'Harry!' Hermione seemed relieved to see him. She pointed at his injury. 'How's the arm? We were getting worried when you didn't come back, so we figured we'd check in after the match.'

'It'll be fine', he brushed her off. 'How was…?'

Hermione's face fell a bit. 'I'm not an expert, but—'

'They wiped the floor with us', Ginny interrupted. It was the first thing she spoke, grimly staring at the ground a few feet away from Harry.

'40 to 260', Hermione added. 'It… was not really a fair game.'

'Oh.'

He listened numbly as the two took turns informing him about the match while they walked towards the Gryffindor tower. Apparently Peakes had been sent off the pitch fifteen minutes into the game by Madam Hooch for getting a little too physical trying to tackle one of the Hufflepuff chasers, and then twenty minutes later, Robins had crashed into Ron and then into a goal post, trying to dodge a throw at the Gryffindor goals. The way Ginny described it, by the time the Hufflepuff seeker finally caught the snitch, all of both teams had been longing for an end to the pitiful display.

'How'd Ron take it?'

Ginny shrugged. 'I don't know. He hit the showers before the rest of us even landed and disappeared off to Godric-knows-where to brood.'

That did sound like Ron. The three of them kept chatting about the game while Harry gathered his things before leaving the Hospital Wing. A few hallways later, Ginny and Hermione excused themselves to head for the kitchen—a 'consolation party', they called it, was in order and that meant snacks and butterbeer—while Harry continued alone towards the Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were mostly empty, save for the occasional student scurrying towards their common room after the match, dinner still an hour away.

With his thoughts still at the game, Harry didn't notice he'd lost his bearings until he looked up and found himself several wrong turns away from where he'd meant to go. Upset with himself, he turned to head back, when he heard voices from a nearby room.

'…know you're up to something.'

'And we're warning you, alright? Stay. Away.'

The voices were too muffled to make out who was speaking. The room – a storage closet, as far as Harry knew – was a few metres down the hall, and he carefully snuck closer to the door.

'Keep your filthy Slytherin hands off him, you hear me?'

Slytherin hands. The implications weren't lost on Harry, and he felt for his wand. It didn't necessarily have to be Draco in there—

CLANK.

The bucket he had stumbled over had barely hit the floor when the door flew open, hitting Harry and sending him tumbling, and two figures in Hogwarts robes shot out of the room. With their backs to him, he couldn't make out the faces; one of them disguised under a hood, the other hidden behind a bunch of brown hair.

Battle reflexes took over, and the first person had just made it to the end of the corridor when Harry pushed himself up off the floor and began to chase after them. The two disappeared around a corner and he followed suit. Before Harry had even consciously thought about it, he had drawn his wand and aimed it at the fleeing bullies.

Two trip jinxes missed their marks and hit the walls, a petrificus totalus came over his lips with ease, and just as one of the bodies hit the floorboards with a loud thud, the second bully took a turn and the slamming of a door and clicking of a hastily charmed lock told Harry the person would be long gone by the time he'd be going after them. He sprinted past the petrified bully laying face-down on the floor, but just a few moments of trying his luck in unlocking the door confirmed his suspicions. No such luck there.

When he turned back towards where he'd come from, the next unpleasant surprise awaited him. Standing over the person he'd stunned stood no other than Draco Malfoy.

Cradling what looked an awful lot like a broken wrist.

Also, as Harry couldn't help but notice, sporting a split lip and some bruises.

He was about to say something, anything, although he wasn't sure what, but Draco beat him to it.

'Did I make myself unclear when I told you to stay out of things that don't concern you, Potter?'

It wasn't the usual snide and sarcasm, though. Rather, Harry thought he could hear something akin to frustration in it.

'Maybe I should have specifically asked you to not creep around and sneak after me?'

'I wasn't creeping', Harry protested. 'I got lost, that's all.' He gestured towards the other boy's injured arm. 'Do you want me to, uh, fix that?'

'No thanks, you've done more than enough.'

'Right. Madam Pomfrey then.'

Draco looked like he was about to protest, but he didn't say anything.

Harry squatted down to turn the body between them on its back, ready to either unpetrify them or stun them again, and was met with the second – no, third, he contended, if he counted the disastrous Quidditch match – third unpleasant surprise of the day.

With his small build and brown hair, Dennis Creevey's resemblance to the late Colin Creevey was obvious. Harry's Petrificus Totalus had caught him mid-running, the grim expression frozen on his face still. His wand was still clutched in his hand, and Harry carefully pulled it out from between his fingers before aiming his own and reciting the words to reverse the petrification.

'Bloody hell, Potter' were the first words out of Dennis' mouth once he had pushed himself up off the floor and taken a disoriented look around, expression darkening at the sight of Draco. 'Are you out of your mind?'

'This', Dennis' finger pointed at Draco accusingly, 'is who you should be fighting, not me!'

He felt around for his wand before discovering it in Harry's hand. 'Are you attacking your friends now? For a Death Eater? What are you, a Gryffindor or a Slytherin?'

Harry felt the anger rising and fought the urge to tell Dennis just where he could shove his thoughts on whom Harry should fight, or – even worse – send him to the Hospital Wing as well. He wouldn't ever have thought he'd be one to get emotional in defence of, of all people, Draco Malfoy, alas…

His train of thought was interrupted when the other boy, clearly seeing an opportunity in Harry's distraction, lunged at him and made a grab for his wand. Harry evaded him by a few inches, although he hesitated to hit back at the younger student. Dennis, however, knew no such qualms, and when his fists hit Harry's stomach and collarbone, the latter's hesitation vanished.

'Shut. Up.' Harry growled, pinning Dennis to the wall, with Harry's wand against his temple.

From somewhere behind him, Draco uttered a nervous 'Potter…', but he chose to ignore it.

'You're a Gryffindor', he continued. 'You didn't put on the hat and robe of a Gryffindor to go and pick on the weak. That's not what we do, understood?'

'Potter…'

'Not now!' snapped Harry, and shook Dennis a little when he failed to answer. Whatever was making Draco nervous, he couldn't be bothered right now. 'Look I know you're upset', maybe upset wasn't quite the right word, 'Colin was my friend too, we all lost people, alright? But that's no excuse—'

'HARRY!'

He let go of Dennis, whose face made it clear he wasn't going to forget Harry bringing up Colin, and turned towards Draco.

'What?'

Instead of an answer, Draco gestured towards the corner where the next corridor lay. Standing there was Mrs Norris, her yellow eyes boring into the two of them, sizing Harry up before turning around to hurry away.

Great, Harry thought. The last thing they needed was Filch's abominable cat alerting its owner of their fight.

'We better hurry', he decided. 'To the Hospital Wing is this way. You go ahead', he looked at Dennis and waved his wand, 'I'll be right behind you.'

Dennis looked like he wanted to protest, but with his wand in Harry's pocket and one—two, if you counted Draco—older students against him, he was hopelessly outnumbered, and a whispered 'you'll regret this' as he passed Harry and took the lead was all he could do as the group wandered through the corridors towards their destination.

Madam Pomfrey seemed about to chide Harry for requiring her services yet again when he pushed the door open, but the words died on her lips at the sight of Draco and Dennis. For all the countless times she had been head of the Hospital Wing, Harry couldn't imagine she'd ever seen a student admitted at wandpoint.

'Mr Potter—Mr Malfoy—what in Merlin's name—?'

'Later', Harry shook his head. 'Dra—Malfoy here needs his wrist looked after. I have to go and find Professor McGonagall.' He gestured towards Dennis.

The matron didn't answer, and her staring past Harry at something behind him caused him to turn around, only to be facing none other than Professor McGonagall herself, standing in the door, with Filch and his cat a few feet behind her, meeting his eyes with an expression that promised he wouldn't get away easily this time.

'Poppy, I believe Mr Malfoy requires your attention', she said calmly, without breaking eye contact. 'Potter, I suggest you put that wand away right now.' Her voice made it clear she wasn't suggesting as much as ordering, and Harry noticed that the headmistress' own wand was in her hand as it occurred to him what the situation had to look like to her.

'Right', he let go of Dennis' arm and slid his wand into a pocket of his robe. 'Professor, I can explain—'

'I would hope so, Mr Potter. And for your sake, it had better be a good explanation.'

'Argus', she waved Filch closer, 'take Mr Creevey to wait outside my office, please. Mr Potter, with me. Poppy—'

'Excuse me, Professor', Draco interrupted, with just a hint of his old, arrogant self audible in his voice, a trace of the Draco Malfoy that had felt right at home in a world of complaints and letters to school officials, 'if I may offer my assistance? I believe I can shed some light on Potter's', he paused briefly, 'overreaction.'

'Very well. My office, all of you.'

It wasn't until the two of them had been seated opposite her, with Dennis outside, being watched over by Filch, that she spoke up again.

'I have always held you in high regards, Mr Potter, and it's been a while since I've had any trouble from you as well, Mr Malfoy.'

No biscuits this time, Harry noticed.

'Imagine my surprise', she continued, 'when Mr Filch informed me that you two were involved in violent fighting in the corridors. Of course he implored me to let both of you rot away in the dungeons, but I would very much like to hear that explanation you promised first.'

Minutes turned into an hour as they began to explain what had happened. At some point, Professor McGonagall sent for Dennis Creevey to be brought in, and a quick examination of his wand confirmed much of what Harry and Draco had already told. Yet another hour passed, during which Dennis did his best to demand increasingly absurd punishments for Draco, until they were, eventually, sent back to their common rooms—by now, night had fallen—with the promise that the faculty would confer about the incident tomorrow.

They were about to part, both of them heading different ways for their houses' dorms, when Draco spoke up. Nothing like the confident Mr Malfoy Jr from earlier, this Draco was much more reluctant—not quite shy, but bordering on it.

'Potter, I…'

Harry waited expectantly.

'I guess I owe you a thanks', Draco eventually managed to say. 'You've done remarkably little damage, I guess. Under the circumstances.'

Which was basically an overabundance of praise from him, Harry mused.

'You're welcome', he replied, feeling a little awkward. How did one react to such a statement?

'Good night, Potter', Malfoy relieved him from having to talk further.

'Night, Malfoy.'

It was only when he lay tucked in his bed that Harry realised the one thing Dennis had, for all his speeches about Draco's guilt and needing to be knocked down a peg, consistently refused to speak about was the identity of his co-bully.