Disclaimer: There is nothing new under the sun - and I am playing in JKR's sandbox here people.
So here's the third chapter (finally) - In which several things happen, and the mystery deepens. And please, if you want more of this... let me know? I'll give you a cookie if you do :)
Harry knew what it felt like to be drunk.
Over time he'd come to be rather familiar with the feeling. There had been times when a pounding headache had been his best friend. When the toilet bowl was the most attractive sight in the world, and the heavy loud thump of his heart had been all that could drown out the world.
Now though, he couldn't help but feel the hangover wasn't such a good idea.
He considered requesting a SoberUp potion from one of the medi-witches who were bustling around Malfoy's bed. He even got so far as an 'excuse me', before realising what a phenomenally stupid idea it was.
And he wasn't that stupid. At least not yet... not even under the influence.
Rita Skeeter had contacts everywhere. Thousands of people would be willing to carry all sorts of malicious stories to her because, and let's admit it, she paid bucket loads for any dirt on the world's favourite hero.
And if Harry said and did nothing to suggest he was drunk, then – despite hundreds, thousands, of bottles back at the apartment – no one had any proof he had ever been drinking.
"Mr. Potter?" the voice echoed in his ears and set off the percussion section of what felt like the London Vampiric Orchestra in his cochlea.
He forced himself not to cringe away.
"Yes?" he said tentatively.
"Mr. Malfoy: what can you tell me of his condition when you found him?"
Harry barely prevented himself from asking blearily 'found him?' Because if the wonderful, wonderful personages of St Mungo's where under the misapprehension that he had found Malfoy in this state (as opposed to say... causing it) then he wasn't going to say anything to disabuse them of the notion.
"He was asleep," said Harry, truthfully, "nothing I did would wake him up. And I thought he was bleeding."
"Mr. Malfoy is, I'm afraid, suffering from several skin lacerations. Though that isn't our main concern," said the medi-witch, in a true monotone. A monotone of disinterest and boredom. Yay, for job satisfaction, thought Harry, maybe they're not so wonderful , all fortuitous misunderstandings aside.
"Oh?" he asked.
"No, rather we are concerned by the Boolean curse that's infiltrated his bloodstream. I must ask," and apparently she really must, because her tone of voice suggested nothing resembling actual interest, "were you aware of the fact Mr. Malfoy was suffering from this disease?"
"Uh, no?" said Harry.
"In that case..." began the medi-witch advancing monotonously towards the end of the sentence. Thankfully Harry managed to interrupt before she even approached any punctuation.
"I did bring him in the other day, though," said Harry helpfully. "The medi-witch said there was nothing wrong with him."
"'The..." began the medi-witch.
"The other day, yes," said Harry. "To be exact..." he looked at his watch, realised it was the wrong one and restarted the sentence. "Or rather, to be sort of exact, three days ago when I found him in an alley unconscious."
"Comatose?" asked the medi-witch, thankfully monosyllabically.
"Yes," said Harry. "Just like this morning."
"And who was the medi-witch?" she asked, disinterestedly.
"Uh..." said Harry, because who was the medi-witch? He couldn't recall a name. Had there been a name? A title? A job description? "Malfoy would probably know," said Harry eventually. "He had to sign the discharge papers." And yes hadn't that been the death of a rainforest. "I'm sure there must have been something in there about who was treating him."
"Mr. Malfoy, as I'm sure you're aware cannot currently answer any such questions," intoned the medi-witch.
Harry looked at her, because really: he was hungover and apparently still more intelligent that she was. Because well, death of a rainforest and all that. "I just... wouldn't it be in the paperwork?" he said. "Because..."
"Mr. Potter, those are confidential patient files. Only a qualified..." finally there was emotion in her voice. She halted as the scandalized.
"And who would be qualified?" asked Harry, tiredly. The wizarding world was never logical. He should know that by now. He did know that by now. But for some reason he never lost hope.
"Only the High Healer," said the medi-witch.
"Well, can't he look at them then?" said Harry.
"The High Healer..." began the medi-witch, looking affronted, as if the question had lynched her in an alley and proceeded to attack her personally.
"Let me guess," interrupted Harry. "The High Healer cannot be asked because he is such an important personage, high and mighty, and all that?"
The medi-witch visibly agreed. Her entire body getting in on the nod. Swaying a little.
"Tell him the hero of the wizarding world disagrees," said Harry. "I want to see him here in ten minutes." He didn't add an 'or else' but it was there.
...
Of course, nothing was every simple in the wizarding world. Wizards placed too high a value on tradition, ceremony and archaic rituals to just let them go without a fight.
Look at the clothes wizards wore. Sure they looked good. Stunning and wizardly... and stunning. And all. But really, they weren't practical. Most wizards when they got home and closed the door stripped off the robes and jumped into the nearest pair of slacks. Because robes were part of the performance, keeping face amongst ones fellow wizards. It was peer pressure on the rampage.
But tradition demanded wizards wear robes. And so, in public, they did.
Tradition also demanded other, even sillier, things.
It demanded that every wizard have a familiar, despite the fact using animals for magic had been banned several years ago on grounds of animal cruelty. It demanded that wizards use Latin, a language hundreds of year's dead, to speak they're spells – when any language, spoken with the right intent, would work just as well.
It demanded the use of wands, when only very weak wizards needed something to channel their power.
Tradition was silly. But precious, like money was precious. Because it was a make believe currency that could be traded in for power and prestige.
Entire Families made their reputations on tradition.
The Malfoy's had been one of only twelve families in wizarding Britain that had keep purely to the old ways. Feared and respected they were the closest thing to royalty the wizarding world had ever had.
And then Harry had destroyed Voldemort and every one of those families had been destroyed with him.
Whether or not they had actually been loyal to the Dark Lord. Being loyal to the old ways had been enough.
The last of the Malfoy's was the last free child of the twelve.
It was a time for reform. And Harry knew that several of his friends were at the centre of the changes. And though he hadn't felt the spirit of the post-war revolution rise in him, there were some traditions that just needed to be turned on their heads.
Such as archaic rules about talking to the Head Healer.
...
Aptly named the Head Healer seemed to be nothing more than a receding hairline. Harry came away from his discussion with him with the distinct impression of 'not-quiet-bald' and an annoyingly persistent temptation to run his hand across his scalp every three seconds.
But he had succeeded. He had a name.
The Medi-witch was apparently a Sister Loretta De Varcie. A veteran of Mungo's. With a reputation for having a personality thoroughly at odds with her healing hands.
Even the Head Healer had paled a little when he'd read her name. But Harry had come away having secured a promise for a full and thorough investigation. He didn't know what they would find. They didn't know what they would find. But Harry hadn't survived a war without developing a sixth sense for things that were fishy.
It had taken several assassination attempts and three seductions (to which he'd been totally and absolutely oblivious - until the clothes started coming off) but he'd woken one morning and started reading people with the natural ability he'd had when he'd first flown a broom.
Of course, he was still oblivious ninety percent of the time, but from choice – not ignorance.
...
Once Harry was back in Malfoy's room he stopped at the foot of the bed. Wondering just why he'd come back.
It wasn't like there was anything he could do here. Or any reason to stay.
One of several suitably awed interns had promised to contact him immediately should Malfoy wake. And the Head Healer had hinted very strongly that any individual investigation Harry chose to take would be frowned upon.
Not that Harry wasn't tempted to try and discover what he could about Malfoy's situation. But well... blatant threats apparently – unfortunately – hadn't died with Voldemort.
Prosecution for Invasion of Privacy would not be a good look on the-boy-who-lived. Harry knew this. As did the Head Healer. Who'd made sure to tell him so, threateningly.
Indeed Prosecution for anything at all wouldn't look good. And the Head Healer had threatened to throw so much mud in Harry's direction that Harry had actually lost count of the issues over which he could be taken to court. And mud once flung was almost impossible to wash off. Harry knew this too.
Just like he knew a story would hit the Prophet tomorrow about said hero standing for an inappropriate amount of time at the bedside of his former enemy.
Which was why he should leave. He really should.
Sitting down was not an option. Not really. Nor was shifting the chair closer. And closer still. And tentatively touching Malfoy's hand.
In fact, touching was so far from being an option Harry had no idea whose hand had grasped Malfoy's, until of course, that treacherous part of his brain reserved for being practical observed that it was his.
Supplying it's now familiar plaintive of 'why the hell can't you lust after someone normal?' Before being ruthlessly squashed by the majority of his mind that was revelling in just how soft Malfoy's skin felt.
And fuck, he was so doomed.
...
"Merlin, Potter we really need to stop meeting like this," muttered Malfoy trying to clamber from the bed, and managing to get amusingly tangled in the sheets in the process.
"You're telling me," muttered Harry trying to help Malfoy untwist the blanket from his legs and prevent the inevitable faceplant on the floor.
"Stop," groaned Malfoy battering his hands away, "you're only making things worse."
Harry stepped back and watched as Malfoy twisted the wrong way and faceplanted on the floor.
"I know, I know," murmured Harry, bending to help him up. "That was all my fault, wasn't it?"
"Merlin Potter, You really do like me, don't you?" said Malfoy once Harry had him sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Blanket pushed to the side.
Harry blushed. Which he thought answered the question rather more honestly than he'd intended.
"No," he offered.
"Liar," said Malfoy.
"Maybe," muttered Harry, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So what's wrong with me this time?" asked Malfoy, almost brightly. "Wait, let me guess. Nothing."
"Uh, well, no," Harry said. Sitting back down in the chair, which comfortable though it may be, hadn't made the best bed. "Apparently you have a Boolean Curse."
Malfoy blanched went white as a sheet and almost fell off the bed again.
"Fuck," cried Harry jumping forwards only to pat his arm awkwardly. "Are you all right?"
"No," hissed Malfoy through clenched teeth. "Just where do you get off Potter, just where the fuck do you get off?"
"What?" asked Harry. Genuinely puzzled because What?!
Malfoy was fumbling at a dressing gown, pushing his arms roughly into the sleeves. Refusing to even look at Harry. He was still pale. And... Harry felt his stupid, stupid heart clench as he watched Malfoy's lips quiver.
And then he was gone and Harry was left clutching idiotically at a blanket wondering what?
...
"Hermione!" Harry bellowed, entering the Burrow.
"Harry, how nice to see you," said Molly from the head of the table as an awkward silence fell over the dining room. "Would you like some dinner."
"Uh, no... sorry Mrs. Weasley," Harry paused in the doorway and scrubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to talk to Hermione."
"So we all heard mate," said Ron lightly, "come on, have some dinner, then you can talk to 'Mione."
Awkwardly Harry sat down next to Ron. Wishing he could disappear, and strangely glad that having food in his mouth was as good an excuse as any for not... you know, speaking.
The awkward silence held reign for several minutes. Only broken by George cracking some lame, lame joke about spiders and causing Ron to spit in his soup.
Silence duly broken Hermione and Ginny struck up a conversation about the GlitterGirls, one of the most recent pop sensations in the wizarding world. Ron spent ten minutes holding court on the marvels of the musician named Archangel and Mrs. Weasley held firm that no-one would ever destroy her faith in Celestina Warbeck.
Harry sat uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he had something witty to say about... well, anything. Anything at all.
Feeling incurably awkward was fast becoming old.
He shifted uneasily. And stared at his plate. Twirling the strands of pasta about his fork, but not actually eating anything.
Truthfully? Feeling awkward sucked.
Dinner took forever to finish and Harry found he was itching for the chance to push his chair away from the table. Not only because he had to accost Hermione for information - Vital information. Right Now! – but also because he was feeling uncomfortably as though he was there under false pretences.
It wasn't like he'd ever promised Ginny or anything. But everyone seemed to assume he had. And she kept sending him those hurt little looks.
And someone's foot kept brushing his leg. Almost apologetically, and he was sure it wasn't Hermione's.
He felt an absolute coward... and really rather bad. Because Ginny shouldn't be the one apologising.
Even if it was through such a particularly nausea inducing method.
And he really needed to sort out that particular tangled mess of a relationship before he made it worse.
But really, if there was one thing he didn't want to have to do tonight it was break some girls heart for no good reason. Because dammit, he was in the middle of having his own heart broken, and really it just wasn't fair.
Eventually dinner ended. Molly shooed them from the table and Harry dragged Hermione into Mr. Weasley's study before anyone could register what was happening.
...
"Harry, what on earth do you want?" asked Hermione. Maybe just a little peeved by his proprietary treatment of her arm. But he hadn't grabbed her that hard. Honest.
"What is a Boolean Curse?" Harry gabbled just a little. Because he'd just spent an hour pretending he wanted to eat when really all he wanted to do was get an answer. Any answer. Preferably a good one. But really, any answer. To this question. And nothing was going to stop him from asking it now.
"A Boolean... Harry..." her eyes widened a little and Harry realised just how misleading his question had been when she asked, "are you all right?"
Really, the answer would be no. Because, well all weird lust issues aside he hadn't actually slept properly in... oh, three days? Unless you count passing out drunk. Which he didn't. Because well. Comatose did not equal asleep.
"I'm fine, 'Mione," he said reassuringly.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're not," she accused. "When did you last sleep?"
And well... er...
"'Mione, I really am fine. Really. Couldn't be better – I just... It's – well... I can't explain...Please..." And really, Harry has heard gabble before, even heard gabble on level with the drivel his mouth is producing, but well... if 'Mione could form that sentence into something meaningful, then she's a mind reader.
Harry really, really wants her to be a mind-reader. Because he just doesn't have the patience to have to explain it to someone. He's not sure he can explain it to someone.
'It' being of course the entire fuckedupedness that has been the past week. 'It' being Draco Malfoy. 'It' being all the stupididioticstupid feelings that have lodged in his chest – taken up residence and refused to move. 'It' being something he thought might be lustlovehope all tangled up together and revolving around a stupid git with stupid blond hair.
All he wanted was an answer. Not a lecture. Not a calming influence, not someone who'd help him realise just how stupid it was to think he'd fallen in love with someone he'd always thought of as an enemy. Not someone who'd point out that there is no such thing as instantaneous love. He just wanted a friend who would, maybe, help him figure it out by himself.
"Harry?" 'Mione asked quietly obviously wondering just what made him snap. What finally broke him. Just which straw was too much for the camel's back.
"Is this about what happened to Seamus?"
And... Seamus?
Harry almost gaped at her. Would gape at her if it weren't for that fact that something in his brain clicked over and he gasps, "Seamus, yes."
Because... Seamus. Poor, poor, Seamus hit by a curse in the middle of the battlefield dead by the time Harry arrived. A friend he'd mourned, one amongst many. But... he'd never been told why Seamus had died. And Hermione obviously thinks he's asking.
And maybe he is. Maybe a Boolean Curse is...
"Oh, Harry," Hermione throws her arms around his neck and mumbles something incoherent into his shoulder. "I told the others you'd want to know. But they said... at the time... too much for you... too hard..."
And Harry knows now why no-one had ever told him how his friends had died. They'd had to give him the list of the dead. (Oh, yes he'd insisted on that.) But when the war was over and he'd left. Hurting and (he thought) alone – no-one had ever thought to tell him how several of those close to him had died.
But... Seamus.
"There wasn't anything we could do Harry," says 'Mione. Earnestly. Reassuringly. "There's really nothing anyone can do."
And... oh... so not the answer Harry was hoping for.
"I don't know how to explain... except. Muggles have cancer Harry. Wizards have curses like the Boolean."
"But Seamus died instantly?" says Harry, wondering, thinking how in hell has Malfoy managed to survive? Seamus died. Instantly. And Muggle cancer kills. Not instantly. But...
"It's exactly like cancer Harry," Hermione said. "And Seamus had the equivalent of a tumour explode in his frontal lobe. There was nothing anyone could do."
"Oh," muttered Potter. Just: "Oh."
...
"Malfoy, I know you're in there," hissed Harry at the crack between door and lintel. "I bribed the chambermaid. She saw you go in. Malfoy. Malfoy!"
"Merlin, Potter. Your stalkerish tendencies surprise even me," Malfoy observed as Harry stumbled into his room.
"I'm not a stalker," protested Harry, carefully righting his glasses.
"You could have fooled me," commented Malfoy, making his way back towards the bed. Whereupon he crawled under the covers. "Couldn't you just leave me to die in peace?"
"No," muttered Harry to the carpet. "No," he said more loudly. "I asked Hermione."
"About leaving me to..." began Malfoy.
"No," said Harry. "About you know, the Boolean thingy."
"The Boolean thingy," said Malfoy in an almost, yep definitely, irate tone. Sitting up to give Harry the best of his scathing looks. "Only you Potter could diminish a deadly, nay terminal curse. One that will be the cause of my tragic untimely demise and lower it to the lever of 'the Boolean thingy.' Only you Potter."
After which he collapsed back on the bed.
"There's no cure," Harry said – semi asking.
"No Potter, there is no cure. As you would have known had you two brain-cells to knock together and half a tendency to listen to what people are trying to tell you." Draco intoned staring up at the ceiling.
"But you can't die," Harry said. More to himself than Malfoy. Well, truthfully all to himself. Selfish, selfish Potter. Malfoy can't die - you've only just realised you have a crush on him. No way can he die before you sort out your self-inflicted mess of emotions.
"Not that it's personal or anything," said Malfoy, "but I can. Though the Medi-witches – charlatans that they are – have given me at least a year. I mean, what a fucking arbitrary timeframe in which to live out the rest of your life." Then to Harry's absolute horror he burst into tears.
Well, maybe not so much burst as squelched.
There was none of the usual desperate sobbing or useless histrionics the Harry normally associated with crying. He just lay there with water leaking out his eyes and into his hair, still staring at the ceiling.
And, Merlin, was Harry bad at this.
So, so bad. Terrible, in fact. Tentatively he sidled towards the bed. Inching forward as silently as he could manage. Worried that if he made a noise Malfoy would do something. He had no idea what, but was of the decided opinion that if the squelching escalated he would become exponentially more useless. And, well Malfoy had just found out he was going to die. Harry wasn't so self centred that he didn't want to help him.
Saying 'there, there' and patting him on the shoulder didn't seem to help any though.
In fact, if anything, Malfoy's not-crying just seemed to become even more squelchy, and Harry's commiserations even more desperate. "Shh," he whispered softly. "Shh."
Somehow Harry's hand found its way into Malfoy's hair, running its way through the sweat slick and, actually rather oily, strands.
"Shh, it's all right," murmured Harry running his hand across Malfoy's forehead and through his hair. "It's all going to be all right."
Believe me, believe me, Harry chanted, believe me, it's all going to be all right.
But Malfoy stared at him with bluegreyblue eyes and nothing was ever going to be all right ever again.
"Even you can't make promises like that Potter," said Malfoy. "Not even you," and then he reached up and twisted until his face was hidden in Harry's shoulder mumbling. "Not Merlin, fucking even you."
...
Harry wasn't sure how it happened but he found himself waking up in bed with Malfoy.
Well, truthfully he found himself waking up on top of the bed that just by chance happened to have Malfoy in it.
The night before was just a little bit of a blur. There had been a lot of crying involved and tissues. And general uselessness on his part. But Malfoy had calmed down eventually and fallen to sleep. And really Harry hadn't been about to complain about the fact that there was an elbow poking into his stomach or that the arm Malfoy had decided to use as a pillow was just a little numb.
He'd just frozen as still as possible and finally given into an exhausted sleep.
But now he was awake.
And his arm was still numb and Malfoy was sighing gently in his ear as he slept.
"Malfoy?" Harry hissed. "Malfoy wake up."
Malfoy just flung an arm over Harry's waist proprietarily and tugged him closer.
"Er..." said Harry, "you really probably had better should wake up right about now." Malfoy's arm warm and solid across his stomach. Malfoy's breath, warm and damp in his ear. "This really isn't a good idea," he hissed. "And you're going to kill me when you wake up."
"Why would I kill you Potter?" asked Malfoy yawning a little and blinking sleepily into Harry's startled face.
"Fuck," said Harry almost falling off the bed as he scrambled away. "You're awake."
"I thought that was the idea," said Malfoy sitting up and pulling the quilt cover with him. "You were speaking rather loudly into my ear Potter, and the actual words 'wake up Malfoy' were used. If you wanted me to stay asleep I'm afraid you chose the wrong tactical approach."
"Well," croaked Harry, "er..."
"You really are permanently incoherent, aren't you Potter?" said Malfoy flopping back on the bed.
"Er, no?" said Harry.
"Um, yes," said Malfoy.
"Er..." said Harry as Malfoy gave an inelegant snort.
"How are you, ah, feeling?" said Harry, as a peace offering.
"Like shit," said Malfoy practically. "I can't wait to get out of this place. Do you know how bad this bed has been for my back?"
"Bad?"
"Really bad," confirmed Malfoy. "But, only four days now Potter, and we'll be back in Hogwarts." He sighed happily. "Where you can be heroic and I can snark unmercifully, and the mattress won't cause fatal subluxation of my spine. Going back to school never seemed half so fun."
"So you're still planning on going back to Hogwarts?" asked Harry awkwardly.
"Of course I am," said Malfoy gazing at Harry. "If I'm going to die Potter, I'd like to die at home."
Harry blinked. And then almost exclaimed something soppy and stupid like, oh, you think of it as home too! But instead said, "fuck, yes, I can't wait to be home too."
A/N: Again huge enourmous thanks to every single person who took the time to review. You know who you are.