Chapter Eight: Octopus and Sauce
"Oh Ron, I can't believe we're here together at last!"
Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, and Ron brushed a kiss against her upturned cheek. He gestured at the panorama before them. "I told you I had World Cup tickets. Box seats."
"Yes, you told me so." Hermione giggled while she caressed his bicep. "Flex again. Please, Ron?" Her eyes shone as she looked up at him in awe. "For me?"
"All right," he said. He stripped off his shirt, gratified to hear Hermione's gasp when the well-defined planes of his chest were exposed to her appreciative cinnamon-colored eyes. A few spectators seated nearby broke out in spontaneous applause; a woman across the aisle swooned.
"Oh, Ronald." Hermione ran her hands over his shoulders and down to his waist. "You're so strong and handsome and brave. Come on, get your arse out of bed."
"What?" Ron took both of Hermione's hands in one of his. They were so little. In a moment, he'd sweep her off her feet without any effort at all and take her down to the pitch so that she could get a close view of him releasing the balls to begin the match.
Her voice plummeted through an octave. "I said--"
"Get up, Ron."
Ron opened his eyes. The sun, even filtered through cloth, was too bright. He covered his head with a pillow and groaned.
"Oi." The covers were snatched away roughly. "Get your arse out of bed."
The cool temperature of the room against his bare skin was enough to get Ron upright and searching for a pair of shorts. "I was having a good dream, you wanker."
"Who? Me?" Harry looked around the room with an exaggerated expression of innocence. "What's this? Breakfast in bed?" He poked a finger at the dishes piled on the tray near the door.
"Tea. Hermione brought it." Ron ducked his head inside a jumper so he wouldn't have to meet Harry's gaze.
"Hermione brought it," Harry repeated. "And you in your birthday suit, too." He snorted, then snickered, then sat down on the end of the bed, clutching his side and laughing. "So, did you show her the little weasel?"
"Haaaaaarry!" Ron swung his pillow around and smacked Harry so hard his glasses came off. "Nothing happened!"
"Nothing happened but you going to bed naked!" Harry said, sprawling across the bed to reach for another pillow. "Ron and Hermione, sitting in a tree--ow! Ow! The scar, Ron, watch the scar!"
"We know that hasn't hurt you in years, mate." Ron indulged in one last, satisfying blow against Harry's arms before he let up. "Now bugger off and let me go back to sleep."
Harry's eyes widened. Ron thought this made Harry look like he was all eyes, since his glasses were still somewhere on the floor. All eyes and skin and bones. Maybe Molly would invite them around if he sent an owl. Come to think of it, she'd mentioned she wanted them to come for tea in her last. Harry needed some fattening up.
"You forgot. I can't believe it."
"Forgot?" What in the hell was Harry on about now? Ron gave up the idea of having a lie-in.
"I came all this way--"
"Apparated down the street, you mean." Ron fumbled through a chest for a pair of trousers. He didn't have to work until tomorrow; the pair with the holes at the waist that Molly was always trying to bin would do. He needed to keep them for pick-up Quidditch games on the weekends. The conversation made sense all at once. "The match! Today! The tickets you got from somebody?"
He spun around. Harry was holding up two bright orange tickets. "Keep your trousers on. Match doesn't start for, oh..." He checked his watch. "Three minutes."
"Damn." Ron grabbed a pair of trainers and his wand, then reached for one of the tickets in case he didn't Apparate to the same spot as Harry.
It turned out to be a Portkey. Ron closed his eyes against the queasiness that came along with a Portkey ride. He'd never heard two people describe it in quite the same way. To him, it felt an awful lot like whichwayisup crossed with a bucketload of slugs.
When the world righted itself, Ron was standing within the concealed boundaries of Saskatchewan Pitch. A banner hung across the back of the stands announced Seventeenth Annual International Exhibition Match, Sponsored by Magic Maple Furniture: The Only Chair That Will Change From a Rocker to a Recliner and Act As a Security Alarm!
"You! Had too many already, eh?" A security guard pointed his wand at Ron's back. "The loo's over there, and if you don't cover yourself right now, you can expect a fine or a holiday in Herschel Island Prison."
"All right, all right, keep your, well. I'll just be, er, over here getting dressed, then." A cheer rose from the other side of the stands. "On my way."
Ron took off running while he shoved one leg, then the other, into his trousers. After stepping in a puddle of butterbeer, he stopped to put on his trainers. He was far too excited to Apparate. The only solution was to sprint up the eleven flights of stairs to...
A box. A fabulous box. Ron checked his ticket again. He was in the right place. The floor was covered in thick, red pile carpet. Crimson velvet chairs, round and squashy like the ones he'd loved in Gryffindor, were scattered--scattered--around the box. Orange and gold paint licked flames up the walls and there were complimentary Omnioculars, refreshments, and programs on a table to one side.
The shrill whistle of the referee starting the match brought Ron forward to the railing. The Quaffle was up...and the Meteorites took possession. Ron settled back into a chair with a happy sigh. But where was Harry?
The Portkey was a tiny circle of tin, stamped with the logo PoRtKeyFeVeR and glued to his ticket. Ron scraped it off with his fingernail. Of all the places he could have touched, he'd had to touch the Portkey. Brilliant of Harry to have thought it up. Miniature, one-way Portkeys were doing a booming business with long-distance travelers; it was cheaper and faster than waiting in long lines for the International Floo Network and easier than Apparating. They'd have had to Apparate several times to get to the match and they might not have made it on time. Of course, Harry hadn't.
Ron listened to the Meteorites fans chanting with half an ear. Where was Harry? Probably didn't know that the box was catered, most likely. Down waiting in line for a butterbeer instead of trying the spread here. With one eye on the game, Ron picked up a plate and took the cover off a platter.
Some sort of tentacles in sauce. Maybe he had known about the catering.
Forgoing the octopus, Ron turned his attention back to the match. There would be a time-out sooner or later. With the Cannons, it was usually sooner.
* * *
"Cannon Chaser Barnabas passes to Edwards, Edwards to Cooney, and Cooney back to Barnabas. Barnabas heads down the pitch--he ducks a well-hit Bludger from Meteorite Parker, and aims for the goal--he drops the Quaffle! The game stands at three hundred and twenty to forty, Meteorites."
Ron heard Harry before he saw him. He sounded like he was breathing through a paper sack. "A lot of stairs will do that to you. Where've you been?" He watched the Cannons give away another ten points. "Decide to walk?"
Harry wheezed something inaudible. Finally, Ron managed to tear his eyes away from the game. Harry had both hands clutched to his chest and his face was ashen. Here, in the full afternoon sunlight, Ron got his first real look at Harry in weeks. He had dark circles under his eyes and his collarbone looked painfully sharp.
"Apparated," Harry forced out.
"What happened to your Portkey?" Ron knelt down beside Harry's chair and put a tentative hand on his back.
"Didn't ha Por'key."
Ron was confused. "There was only one?" He'd taken Harry's, then. Shit. "Didn't you want to Apparate?"
Harry grinned in a way that someone who didn't know him would think sheepish. Ron knew it as the company smile. It was as false as one of Lockhart's books. "Takes a lot out," he gasped, "of you."
"You're a champion Apparator. Remember that time when you Apparated and took me and Hermione with you to Fortescue's when we didn't even want to go?" A funny feeling had settled in Ron's stomach just as if he'd actually eaten the octopus. Or some of Hermione's beloved snails. "Maybe we should get you to a Healer."
"No." Harry shook off Ron's hand and leaned his head against the back of his chair. His chest rose and fell irregularly. "Just, no. No Healers."
"Then you're going to have to start breathing normally." Ron moved his hand back to Harry, closing a hand around his wrist. As casually as he could, he checked Harry's pulse. Rapid and shallow.
"Then give me a minute."
Ron backed off, thinking. He wasn't sure what sorts of things would be available here at the pitch. A nurse, probably, with willowbark tea and some bandages for the fans. There would be a Healer traveling with each team, though he didn't stand a chance in hell of getting through security to one. He poured a glass of water and held it out to Harry but then thought better of it. His lips were blue. "Harry. Breathe."
"Fuck off a minute. I'm...trying."
"No, you fuck off a minute." Ron slammed the glass down. He reached one arm around his friend and hooked the other under his knees. He hefted him and nearly fell over backwards; Harry was lighter than he'd thought he would be. He struggled for a moment against Ron's grasp and then lost consciousness. Dear Merlin, please don't let us get splinched.
Moose Jaw. Crack. Montreal. Crack. St. John's. Thule. Reykjavik.
One last leap, and they were on the rain-slicked roof of St. Mungo's. Ron kicked open the doors in his path. Nurses scattered, then followed, their questions running together. He stumbled past the main entrance toward the Emergency Floo.
Susan was arguing with Muriel about something, but when she caught sight of them she stepped in Ron's path. "There you are--I've been worried sick since you left without--are you--is he--take him to curtain three, Ron."
"Move and I will!" Ron snapped back. He pushed past her and found a bed for Harry down the hall. While Susan fumbled with a cart, he rested his patient on the mattress as gently as possible. "His pulse is rapid and shallow," he said as Susan checked for one.
"Not anymore." Susan glanced up. "What did he say before it happened?"
"Say? Do. He Apparated. But that shouldn't have been a problem for him." Ron reached for the bottle of bloodroot on the top shelf. "Bloody hell. It's empty. You," he said, pointing to a nurse, "check the other carts until you find some."
"And you get out," Susan ordered him.
"I have every right to be here."
"No, you don't. You're not in your scrubs, you're not on the clock, and you're not under the hospital's direction. You're a liability. Out." Susan injected something into Harry's arm and pocketed the syringe before he could get a look at what it was.
Ron seethed. "He's my best friend."
"And you're not blood relations. Now, out, or I'll have you thrown out."
Susan's eyes flashed and Ron felt like breaking something. She was following policy: He wasn't allowed to do any work in the hospital when he wasn't on duty. If he were two steps outside, he could--and would--save someone's life; inside, the threat of a malpractice suit reigned supreme. She was right. But he hated it.
"Why don't you go get your sister. He'll want to see her when he wakes up."
The reassurance that Harry would wake up was so strong coming from Susan that Ron didn't even think her request odd. Susan never lost patients. Not that he knew about, anyway.
* * *
A week later, Susan was on a midnight patient check when Harry woke up. She'd had him transferred up to Creature-Induced Injuries, and after Smethwyck ran into Ginny during visiting hours, he'd turned over all aspects of Harry's care to Susan.
Light from a half moon illuminated Harry's face. His eyes were wide and dark, and Susan wasn't sure he was awake until he spoke. "Who won?"
"What?" Susan whispered back. She put a hand to his forehead.
"Never mind. Could I have my glasses?"
"Oh, of course." She picked them up from his bedside table and polished them awkwardly on her sleeve before handing them over. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been asleep for a week." Harry settled his glasses on his nose.
"You have been asleep for a week," Susan noted. "Missed all your visitors. Even the chief of staff paid you a visit, although it was just the one. He saw Ron's sister and left quickly. I take it she's not too fond of him. Do you want some water? Are you hungry?"
"Water, please. I'm not fond of him myself. He grabbed Ginny's backside one day after a...session. She kicked him in the crotch and we ended up sending for another Healer. Neville eventually got him walking well enough to go home."
Talking about Neville made Susan ache in that region where her heart was supposed to be. She picked up Harry's chart to cover her discomfort. A stack of parchment, mocked up to discourage Ron and Hermione, covered a brief summary file that she'd brought over from the Ministry and hidden with a Disillusionment Charm. Hopefully, neither Ron nor Hermione had noticed that the sheaf was slightly larger than a read-through would suggest.
"Nobody knows anything. Except Ginny, of course. However, you gave your friends quite a scare, and we'll need to come up with a story." Susan peered around the room; the only other patient on the ward, an elderly man who'd eaten a Malaclaw and lived to tell about it was sleeping peacefully. "I was going to suggest--"
"I'm dying."
Susan felt herself go very still. "You want to. You think it will kill You-Know--him."
Harry nodded. "Maybe."
"What if it doesn't? What if the prophecy you told me about only means that you have to hang on? I can start you on salamander blood infusions and we can look for some way to end this. Surely he can't live long without a body."
"But he has one. Mine. I'm tired of sharing." Harry closed his eyes. "So tired."
"Harry," Susan began. She didn't know what to say. She was supposed to talk about treatment options and only if all else failed would she talk about death. "I think you should talk to Hermione."
"Hermione doesn't know."
"I know she doesn't. I've done my best to ensure that. Hermione's the one who came up with the loyalty measures for Dumbledore's Army. She learned how to make Wolfsbane Potions in sixth year. She came up with that Arithmancy theory that explained how the charms to heal broken bones work." She sat down on the bed. "I studied at the Healer's Academy with the Healer herself. Not her underlings. I'm no Hermione. If there's anyone who can find something..." She trailed off. Harry was listening, but not hearing.
"I don't want her to know. She'll worry."
* * *
Susan left Harry in the first natural sleep he'd had in a week. She hadn't got anywhere with him, except to come to an agreement to assert that he'd had an allergic reaction and a high fever that had knocked him flat. It had been a terrible admission to tell him she couldn't do more.
And sooner or later, probably sooner, he'd die.
She stopped at the medical records and research room. The drowsy attendant sat at a desk, dealing a game of solitaire. On one side of the room were shelves upon shelves of patient charts; on the other, there were bookcases full of medical books and more could be borrowed if there was need.
"Pull me everything you have on possession. In fact, pull me everything you have on possession and have it sent by owl to my flat." She scribbled her number in Fine Alley on a request card. The attendant dated it and shuffled sleepily toward a card catalog.
Yawning, Susan wandered down to the main entrance. A nurse sat behind the Welcome Desk to direct the few who didn't come to the Emergency Floo after midnight. Susan nodded to her and walked near to the schedule while unpinning her badge. Her status shimmered and became off duty. Next to it, a sparkling addition read returns Wednesday to supervise Creature-Induced Injuries trainee.
So. Earlier than she had been expecting, by several days. They were eager to be rid of her, apparently. Or to move her to a new department. Time to think of that later. Time to get some sleep.
* * *