Ever Continuing Onwards...
Sure enough he ends up in a corridor of glass panelled walls partitioning off the side into a conference room come break room and an office concealed by closed blinds. The nearest door reads: Gregory House, M.D, Head of Diagnostics. Harry suspects that they've lucked out on this one and he limps, cursing his scars, over to the conference room door and knocks drawing a trio of surprised gazes and House's own smugly satisfied one.
. . . .
House limps over to the door and yanks if open, hustling Harry inside and directing him to the seat beside the blonde doctor that looks like a model and is watching him with curiosity and a small amount of disdain. The woman beside him has reddish-brown hair and concerned grey eyes, she looks at House like he hangs the moon each night and Harry wonders if this will impede her ability to help his friend. The other man looks like Kingsley, dark skin, dark eyes and a smooth way of observing that sends chills down Harry's spine. Somehow he thinks he'll hate being here, under their gazes. He feels like a amoeba under a microscope and exposed like a nerve.
A second knock on the door has Harry spinning around and watching a tall, brown haired man slide inside, his eyes are kind and he has a sardonic smile on his lips as he takes in the gathering of doctors before a white board written up with symptoms in black ink. House smirks at the other man, watching him closely as he leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, still smiling.
"Excellent, now we're all here," House leans on his cane, pinning Harry with a close glare and Harry feels anger stir in his gut. He's been looked at like that far too many times in the past to be unnerved by it, but that doesn't mean he's happy to be here. "Green eyes, your name?"
"Harry Potter," Harry replies amused. "Gregory House, I presume?"
"British," House muses, looking interested. "You didn't sound British before."
"I've been away for a fair amount of time," Harry deflects, his gaze roving the trio of doctors seated beside him. "And they are?"
"Sitting right here," the blonde says, annoyed. Australian by the accent, Harry observes, but not suffering the same predilection to foolish mate-ship like the rest of his idiotic countrymen. Damaged then. Pretty too.
"Chase!" The woman scolds, glaring at the blonde. She turns to Harry then, smiling tightly. "Alison Cameron, the idiot over there is Robert Chase and this is Eric Foreman." She gestures first to herself, then the blonde and finally the tall black guy. Harry nods at them silently.
"And you?" He turns to the guy leaning against the wall behind him, he feels discomforted by this hut doesn't dare move. Doing so would inspire more curiosity on Houses part and that would not be a good idea, he thinks.
"James Wilson," the brown haired man introduces himself with that sardonic smile. As if he was laughing at the world. "Oncologist."
"Cancer doctor," Harry notes dryly. "Delightful." He turns his gaze on to House, "I presume you want the symptoms my friend has been showing?"
"Yes," House admits freely, limping over to the white board and picking up his marker once more. It's blue this time and Harry knows this is because he's about to be asked about Ron's fit in the clinic examination room. "You're going to tell me-"
"About Ron's reaction to loud noises and why he tried to scream the clinic down," Harry drawls, making his way over to the sink slowly, trying to mask his limp as much as possible.
"Is your leg hurting you?" Cameron demands, half-standing as if she wanted to race over to him and shove him into a chair.
Harry smirks, "not as much as it once did." Honest enough, but then his leg had once been cut from hip to knee down to the bone. A raised, ridged scar was all that was left.
Wilson is watching him, putting two and two together and getting four; like House already had done. "You have post traumatic stress disorder," it's a statement and all Harry has to do is nod in acknowledgement and they can all get back to Ron like they should. Harry however is finding it harder and harder to regain his common sense as he fills a deep blue mug with cold water, the sides spilling over as water and oxygen mix and create an upswell of bubbles. He shrugs in non-answer.
"You do," House interjects, his voice as curious as his face. "It's on your friends paperwork. You and your pretty little girlfriend have PTSD, don't deny it."
"What's to deny?" Harry muses out loud, missing or perhaps ignoring the flashes of horror crossing Cameron's face while Foreman closes his eyes tightly. Chase however seems to have more of an idea and the look of realisation that floods his expression is revealing as it is disconcerting.
"You ran afoul of those Death thingy's in the nineties, didn't you?" Chase asks, his voice tight. "It was all over the news. Terrorist attacks in London and natural disasters everywhere."
"We ran afoul," Harry nods tiredly. "We were help captive for three weeks before we escaped with three other prisoners." He turns, ignoring the way that water still spills from the cup in the sink behind him, soothed by the sound of running water.
Cameron watches him, her hand pressed to her mouth, horrified. Chase just looks darkly unhappy, his hazel eyes stormy with an understanding that no one else can match because he knows. A knowledge that is hard pressed to be met unless you were in the know. Foreman is attempting to look bored but not quite managing it, while Wilson is teary eyed and sympathetic, as if he can possibly understand. House just looks vindicated and triumphant, smugly assured in his assumed superiority.
"So, we have a twenty three year old male," House writes on a clean board, ignoring the other one that has 'strokes', 'strangulation', and 'infection' written on it. Harry assumes this is another case, one they're yet to solve, or have solved and are yet to clean off. He returns his gaze to the board House is writing on, watching the older man scrawl 'back pain', 'PTSD', 'flu?' and 'paralysis' on the whiteboard.
Harry shuffles closer, snatching the marker from the doctors hand and writes three words up that cause chills to run down the diagnosticians spine: Peripheral Neuropathy.
"Peripheral Neuropathy?" Foreman looks interested now, leaning forwards and staring at the narrow chicken scratch that stands out amongst House's blockier, harsher writing. "How-?" He stops himself, maybe he doesn't want to know the answer to that.
"The terrorists," Harry shrugs, as if it doesn't bother him. "They found a way to light up the nervous system. Turn it on and make it radiate pain. They've been fired up so much that none of us can quite feel pain like we used to."
House shudders beside him, rubbing at the top of his thigh, as if trying to work out if the pain he experienced daily could compare to your entire body feeling as though it was on fire. He suspects not. "Nasty," he drawls, snatching his marker back. "But that's mine, get your own."
Chase rolls his eyes and Harry smirks, shrugging. "Possessive much, you compensating for something?" Harry grins brittle and shark-like while House pauses in stunned amazement. Clearly no one had traded barbs with him for too long.
"Yes, my leg which is crippled," House shoots back, turning around to meet the dark haired mans green gaze. It's intense and dark, speaking of pain filled nights and cruelty unknown to most.
Harry's smile is sharp, too many teeth shown between tight lips. "That's not all that's crippled, old man," his voice is cruel. "Fix my friend, and soon." He then turns to the sink and shuts off the water, making his way from the room, pausing long enough to add one last thing. "Everyone is broken, House, all that differentiates are the levels."
With that parting shot Harry leaves the doctors behind, three baby doctors gaping after him while Wilson unrepentantly grins happily. House just smirks, amused. Potter is interesting, as are his friends. This was going to be fun. Limping back to the white board, House decides to actually start this case, the other guy -Harvey?- has already been cured, well mostly, and will be leaving the hospital in a week.
"Differentials, go!" House barks as he fixes himself a coffee, listening as Cameron and Foreman jockey for head position, offering their own ideas at the expense of the others. Business as usual then.
"It's not cancer," Wilson offers, knowing that he was here to meet the dark haired man and give House an opinion, not to fix the dying friend who was less interesting to the blue eyed doctor.
House shoots his friend a dark look, uninterested. "It's not an infection." He states, "the flu is simply what started it."
"It could be autoimmune," Chase offers, startling Cameron in her angry diatribe against Forman's suggestion of an angiogram. "We should do an MRI."
"An MRI won't tell if it's autoimmune," Cameron says, confused.
"No, but I offered a good idea along with a terrible idea," Chase states, waving off her confusion. "I thought that's what we were doing."
House stares at his Australian fellow in amusement, "Blondie has a point." He snatches up the startlingly complete medical file written in tiny, cramped handwriting that is oddly spiky and flowing. "The patient has had intermittent back pain for the past year and a half."
"The longest running symptom," Chase adds, backing up the older man, looking at his own file. "He's also paralysed."
"That only started recently," Cameron interrupts, as if the most recent symptom should be overruled because it loosed relevance.
"He's been having trouble eating and sleeping too," Foreman assesses, noting that the writer had listed that their patient was an alcoholic because of his PTSD.
"Alright," House sighs, bored. "Get an MRI, angiogram and PET scan."
Chase led the charge from the room, Foreman swift on his heels, Cameron lingered behind only to realise that Wilson was still there and clearly waiting for her to leave. She did so with a huff, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and stalking off.
"What did you do to piss her off?" Wilson wonders, amused.
"Like you don't know," House snarks back, leading the way into his office. A tall thin brunette is standing outside his door, she looks lost and sad. House groans but lets her in, recognising the female friend of his red-haired patient.
"Doctor House?" She asks, worried. "Uh, not to be rude, but what did you say to Harry?"
"That he has a cute butt," House snorts, uninterested.
She smirks slightly, amused. "Unlikely, because somehow I don't think he's your type."
"You say that like House is his," Wilson smiles, his brown eyes warm as he takes in her thin figure. House rolls his eyes, his Jewish friend did like them small and sporty. The brunette was both, albeit a tad more fragile than usual.
"There's potential," she admits. "Sorry, Hermione Granger; Harry's best friend and conscience."
"Tough gig," House snarks, rolling his eyes. "Why are you here?"
Hermione shrugs loosely. "I really don't want Harry to go postal on people, so I try to keep his metal state as balanced as possible. He carries a lot of guilt around with him. We all do." Her voice is quiet by the end and sad. House meets her brown gaze and wonders if she could ooze more compassion if she tried.
"What are you talking about?" Wilson is confused, staring at the woman with concern now, rather than a small dose of lust and desire.
Hermione smiles tightly and raises the sleeves of her shirt, baring thick, white scars that are angled in such a way that it's impossible to believe that they were caused by her. In the middle of her left arm is the word 'mudblood', carved deeply into her flesh.
"Oh god," Wilson breathes, shocked and dismayed.
House rolls his eyes, "shouldn't that be Yahweh?" He snipes, circling his desk to stand beside the brunette woman, looking into her eyes. "You're scared. Not for green eyes, no, for the other guy. Why?"
She takes a step backwards, looking conflicted and guilty. House thinks she'd make a good Catholic, the cross in the hollow of her throat, only visible because he's looking for it, suggests she is. Unless of course she only has that because it offers comfort to a sick woman with a dying boyfriend.
"Harry," she licks her lips and clenches her eyes tight. "We're all fucked up, but Harry. He had it worst. Always drawing their attention from Ron and I. Always taking the fall. Its our fault but we can't deal with him anymore. Ron," she rubs her mouth, fingers tracing the seam of her lips. "Ron suggested that we leave. Had Ron not been sick we'd be back in the UK; he want's to make up with his Mum, but Harry." She shrugs. "He's not ready."
"So you figure, what?" House leans on his cane, smirking and staring at her, daring her to refute his assumptions. "You'll just leave him? Let him survive or starve?"
"No," Hermione denies, shaking her head. "It's not like that!" She rakes a hand through her hair. "We want kids. We want a family!" She paces for three steps before spinning around and pinning him with a furious gaze. "But Harry just wants to drive and mess about. He doesn't seem to even want to live!" She pauses once more, hands buried in her hair. "What am I supposed to do?" She asks rhetorically.
"Why do you need me to answer?" House asks her sarcastically, stumping back behind his chair. "You have it all figured out. What do you need me for?"
Wilson is staring at Hermione in disgust, recognising the symptoms of PTSD inspired desperation of a person to cut and run from a person that reminds them too much of the trauma that they experienced. Hermione stares at the doctors in desperation and fear, knowing that they cared little for her problems that they thought she was running from. She shakes her head once more and flees the office, a tall dark shadow pushing off of the wall around the corner and stepping out into the light.
Harry has tears running down his face, his green eyes alive with misery and as he meets Wilson and House's eyes, he nods slowly, acknowledging them. Thanking them, before turning and limping back down the hall. Leaving the two doctors to feel as though they had just seen the death of something precious and beautiful. Something special.
"Well," House huffs. "That was fun, we should do that more often."
"Oh yes," Wilson snarks, rolling his eyes, his hands on his hips. "That was completely delightful."
"You say that like it's my fault our three patients are falling apart at the seams!" House protests, amused.
Wilson rolls his eyes again, "no, but you aren't helping them either."
"Oh please, better he finds out now than later," House states, his expression pained.
Wilson sighs tiredly, knowing that there was nothing more he would get out of House for the day. Decided, the oncologist ducks from the office, leaving his friend to his Vicodin and soap opera. House wouldn't miss him, but he would want his puzzle to unfold a little more. Perhaps he could oversee the angiogram. Striding down the hall Wilson nods to the various nurses, doctors and patients he recognises, stopping briefly at House's patients room which was empty and then making his way to where he suspected House's team had the patient tucked away in an MRI.
Harry leant against the wall just outside the MRI room, his green eyes hooded as he watched Hermione cry and plead to a non-existent god. She was on her knees, cross clasped between her hands tight enough to cut into the fleshy pads of her fingers and palms. Its agonising to see, but Harry doesn't move from his unseen corner of the room. He feels more than sees Wilson arrive at his elbow, the taller and older man curiously torn between moving and comforting the wailing woman kneeling over the black plastic chair or Harry, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.
"Are you okay?" The oncologist asks finally, directing his words to the emotionless man beside him. "You look pretty pale."
Harry smiles thinly, tiredly and shrugs. "I'm fine," the lie doesn't taste as bitter as it once did, because it's true now. Because he knows that while he's not okay now, he will be. "You should help Hermione though, if you can. She thinks Ron is dying."
"And you know he isn't?" Wilson shoots back, king of detecting lies thanks to his friendship with House. Sometimes you have to read between the lines, catch what isn't said more than what is.
Harry shrugged, tugging his right sleeve up far enough to reveal the red burn on his wrist. A marker of wandless magic transfer between human beings. Wilson raises his eyebrows in surprise, he'd known of course, that the trio were magical. It was hard not to notice, it all but poured off of Harry in the conference room. Turbulent and cruel, tugging at Wilson's own mediocre core in a show of blatant dominance. Hermione was like a cool spring in comparison, undamaged and unscarred by her experiences compared to Harry.
"You're bleeding magic into his core?" Wilson asks, curious and cautious. Over bleeding magical residue into another being can cause all kinds of problems, particularly if the other being is a person and unknowing of the bleed.
"It will keep him alive while they run their tests," Harry replies shortly. "Your friend, Gimpy, does he know you're magic?"
"No," Wilson admits. He shrugs at the green eyed mans curiosity, "technically I'm not. Can't even levitate a feather, let alone support another magical being."
"And the blonde, is he as magical as you are?" Harry inquires, accepting Wilson's answer for now.
"Chase?" Wilson mulls it over, wondering why he'd never put together Rowan Chase's dominating magical core with Chase's own non-existent one. It certainly explained the other doctors silent dislike and disgust of his son. Chase was a great doctor, brilliant even, but damaged from his father's uncaring nature. "He has no core."
Harry frowns, confused. "You sure about that?"
"Very sure," Wilson confirms.
Harry rocks back contemplatively, "that doesn't explain the gaping hole I could feel in him. Like it had been ripped from him."
"You think his Father stole his magic?" Wilson is horrified. The theft of magic was tantamount to rape, if not worse. It led to all kinds of instabilities and inability regarding mental and physical conditions. Research had suggested that the magical rape of a child could lead to murderous inclinations and volatile tempers.
"Perhaps," Harry deflects. He considers the floor and his dirty shoes. "Fix Ron for me and I'll fix Chase for you."
Wilson regards the other man, worried. "How?"
"Painfully," Harry admits unconcerned. "I'll call it back to him, likely resulting in the death of the one who stole it from him."
Wilson doesn't know what to say to that so he leaves it be. Somedays it paid to be ignorant, House has taught him that over the years. "Where are you staying?"
Harry barks a sharp, short laugh. It lacks all humour and draws Hermione's attention. The brunette is silently sobbing in the middle of the room, being comforted by a nurse who had wandered in on the woman self-flagellation of crying out to god in perfect Latin. She stares at him as though she's never seen him before, taking in the sharp angles of his face and jaded eyes.
"Harry," she whispers, regretting her harsh words from earlier. Harry smiles brittle and cold at her but makes his way over to her side anyway and she knows that he, somehow, knows every foolish thing she spoke. She also doubts that the doctor told him anything at all, he doesn't look guilty enough. Sad, yes, but not guilty.
Harry wraps her up into his arms, all bony, pointy bones and thin muscles that bulge with protective instinct. The door opens up with Ron in a wheelchair, listing to the side, and Doctors Cameron and Chase pushing him from the room. Hermione sheds Harry's embrace and launches herself at her friend, checking him over desperately. Harry follows, nervous and tightly wound. Ron smiles at them dopily, the sedative from hours ago still in his weakened system.
"Harry," Ron breathes, tugging his dark haired friend into a loose hug. "I thought you'd left me."
Harry smiles tightly, pressing the other man into his chest. "Sorry mate, not just yet."
Ron nods dully, still grasping Hermione's hand and tugs Harry into position behind him, silently asking the other man to push his chair. Cameron and Chase watch the trio stumble down the hallway in utter confusion. Chase regains himself swiftly and darts after them while Wilson joins Cameron in the waiting area, his hands in his pockets.
"That's against protocol," Cameron complains half-heartedly, not really caring. After Harry's admittance in the conference room earlier, the trio could get away with murder according to Cameron.
"Like you care," Wilson jibes, knowing Cameron better than herself at times. She smiles at him, smirking slightly. "Come on, we'd better catch up, you never know what they might do!"
Cameron rolls her eyes but follows the oncologist towards intensive care. "You know," she murmurs as they reach the nurses station, pulling Wilson to a halt beside her. "Chase said something funny earlier."
"Oh?" Wilson is intrigued, what could their resident squib and liar have to say that isn't good news for the three war heroes in the room down the hall.
"He said that Ron and Harry and the girl are heroes," Cameron says, confused. "That they should be treated respectfully because they fought in a way."
Any comment to that statement was put on hold as Chase screamed through the door: "Code Blue! I need help in here STAT!"
Cameron and Wilson launch into action, racing down the hall and into the ICU room, taking in Harry restraining a screaming Hermione in the corner, his face white with pain, and Chase trying to intubate the patient so that he could get air into the redheads lungs. The man was flatlining and seizing, his limbs flailing wildly. Cameron leapt into the fray, snatching up one CC of sedative from the drawer and connecting it to the redheads IV line, pressing on the plunger steadily and carefully.
Ron subsided almost immediately, collapsing backwards onto the bed and gasping around the tube that was slowly being removed from his oesophagus. Wilson, who had been helping Chase intubate the patient, collapsed sideways, wondering how the blonde intensivist did this daily. His nerves were shot straight through and he was shaking badly to boot. Cameron was moving to help Harry restrain Hermione who had belted him a good one with her elbow in his face, his nose crooked and bleeding.
Chase checked Ron's stats, determining the need for an oxygen mask when he noticed that the oxygen saturation was almost at eighty percent. Hermione had been restrained by a determined Cameron who was now settling the brunette woman beside the red haired man, plying her with sugary water and food. While Wilson dragged the raven haired man into the adjoining room, patching him up silently, noticing the developing black eye and clearly painful swelling across his cheek bones.
"How do you feel?" Wilson asks, pressing against the green eyed man's cheek bone, wondering if he'd feel it shift beneath his fingers.
"It doesn't hurt," Harry admits. "Shot nerves, remember?" He shrugs, dismissively, "she's just worried about him. She loves him."
"But not you, huh?" House's acidic voice asks from the doorway. He limps into the room, oblivious to Wilson's disapproving stare. "So, why him and not you?"
Harry shrugs, "she's more like a sister to me. They're family." But the way he speaks suggests a deeper underlying problem and the way he's looking at Wilson leaves House to believe that Harry bats for the other team. Until Cameron wanders in and draws an equally appraising eye. House rolls his eyes, disinterested already. Bisexual, how boring.
"The patient is stable," Cameron reports, missing Harry's wince. "The girlfriend has requested another bed and leave to sleep in his room. She doesn't want to leave his side."
"Granted," House smirks, not missing the way that Harry pales. His eyes widen at the sight of the raven haired man rubbing at his leg. "Are you in pain?" He asks, curious.
"A little," Harry shrugs, dismissive. "My scars always hurt when they're cold."
"But it's not cold," House states, his narrowed eyes like lasers as they take in Harry's slight form. "Let me see."
"What?" Harry yelps, shocked. "No!"
"Drop your pants before I do it for you," House orders, ignoring Wilson's rolling eyes and Cameron's scandalised expression.
Harry grumbles but complies, recognising the bitterly determined look on House's face as the one his own would get during times when he knew/thought he was right. The buckle of his belt slide open and the tongue slides free easily, clinking gently as he undoes his button and the slide of fabric against skin is loud in the silence. He hops up onto the bed and tugs off his shirt, revealing his emaciated and malnourished body for the three doctors, knowing that they'd just ask him to do so later on.
Sure enough House wastes no time in poking and prodding at the scar tissue on his leg while Wilson silently counts the ribs that press through his thin, pale skin. Cameron is quietly crying, shocked and horrified because she has moved around him and is looking at the belt marks across his shoulders and knows that Harry might have been tortured at seventeen but it wasn't the first time. This is how Chase and Foreman find them, crouched over the skinny body of their patients best friend and cataloguing ever mark, scar and blemish. Harry is oddly quiet and submissive, his green eyes nervous and wary but equally calm.
Only Wilson knows this is because he has a way of defending himself that is beyond the norm. Although, gathering from the way that Chase is watching the dark haired man, Wilson suspects that the blonde Australian doctor is close to storming from the hospital to burn the world for treating his hero like this. That, more than anything, convinces Wilson that Chase is ultimately a good guy. Even if he did screw House over several months ago with Vogler. Yeah, Wilson hasn't forgiven him that yet, nor will he any time soon.
"How long has your leg been hurting?" House demands, probing the area carefully and taking note of every shiver, wince and shudder.
Harry shrugs, "not long."
"He wouldn't be able to feel it," Cameron interjects, having regained a modicum of professionalism. "His nervous system has been destroyed, remember? For him to feel this would be agony for an or-" she gulps pathetically, wincing.
"Ordinary person?" Harry finishes for her sardonically. "Because there's such a thing, of course." He rolls his eyes.
"You sound like House," Chase smirks, amused.
Harry shoots the blonde a Look. "Charmed, I'm sure." He snarks. He shifts on the examination bed, uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Look, I get it. I'm messed up. Hell, I'm probably dying." He shrugs tiredly, "I've been dying since I was eleven. This is nothing new. So my leg hurts, it doesn't matter."
"Your leg doesn't matter or you don't matter?" Chase questions shrewdly, his hazel eyes narrowed. "Because I've seen this before. Act like nothings wrong. That everything just fine and dandy, but it's not, is it? But if you pretend it doesn't matter, then it's fine isn't it? You don't have to know and accept that your life is unfairly shit and there's nothing you can do about it."
Harry stares at the blonde doctor, sardonically amused. "Oh you're good, you get that psych degree on top of your medical one?"
Chase rolls his eyes, "no. I have personal experience, or don't you listen?"
"Chase!" Cameron scolds, shocked. "You can't say that!"
Harry shoots the auburn haired doctor a dry look, "well, he just did, so clearly he can."
"Your muscles are atrophying," Foreman announces, cutting across the cutting dialogue between Chase and Harry. He felt frustrated by their snide remarks, knowing that they were doing this to distract from the possibility of something truly bad happening. Because that would completely solve everything, Foreman snorts internally.
"Atrophy?" Harry asks, curious. "As in they're dying?"
"Exactly," House agrees, leaning on his cane and staring at Harry with intense blue eyes. "Now we just need to find out why."
"Alcohol-associated myopathy?" Foreman suggests, remembering the file of the man next door that read 'alcoholic'. "His friend is a heavy drinker suffering from PTSD, stands to reason he's the same."
Except that magic protects the body from alcoholic poisoning and related illnesses, Wilson remembers, its one of the reasons why you can't drink magicals under the table without concentrated effort and why they've created their own alcoholic drinks that are closer to 300proof.
"Unlikely," he says, casting a knowing look at Harry who is amused and equally knowing. "Their genetics will protect them from it." It's the only suggestion he can give but he know it intrigues House while Foreman and Cameron stare at him incredulously. Chase just looks pained, which only confirms Harry's earlier diagnosis of the blonde doctor for Wilson.
"Genetics doesn't stop muscular atrophy induced by heavy drinking," Cameron protests, her blue eyes bemused.
Foreman however knows that Wilson won't elaborate and rolls his eyes before continuing the differential. "It could be MS."
"Or any number of other diseases," Chase interjects, staring at Foreman like the dark eyed man is an idiot. "We should scan the leg and take a biopsy."
"Or you could ask me if I even want to be 'fixed'," Harry says nonchalantly. He meets the trio of Fellows gazes firmly, "look, my leg doesn't hurt and it's not impacting on my life."
"Not yet it's not," Cameron says, her voice shrill and frustrated.
House watches them curiously, wondering what is making the dark haired man tick before concluding that he didn't want to steal the red heads thunder and chances of surviving. "We'll fix your friend first, but afterwards you will submit to an MRI and a biopsy."
Harry rolls his eyes at the older man, shrugging. "Yeah, whatever."
House considers him carefully, nodding sharply once, he then turns his attention to his subordinates. "Well," he says sharply. "You heard the man, get to work. Quicker we can fix carrot top in there, the quicker we can save green eyes in here."
Wilson hides an amused smile as he watches Cameron lead the charge from the room, Chase lingering long enough to shoot Harry one last look before disappearing in a whirl of blue scrubs and white lab coat. His sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. Harry pulls his jeans back on, his muscles jumping beneath his skin, making his many, many scars writhe like white snakes.
"There's a simpler explanation for the muscle atrophy," House announces, rolling his cane between his hands and regarding Harry with wary eyes. "The damage, the scaring is too great for the blood to get through to the muscles in your leg. This results in limited oxygen and with all the walking you've been doing recently, it's setting off a chain reaction."
Harry nods tiredly. "I know," he accepts the news easily. "Or rather, I suspected."
"You realise that your neuropathy is also a potential cause," House adds seriously, meeting Harry's green gaze with his own intense blue, as if trying to enforce this understanding on him. "It's also a possible factor in your friends sickness."
"I know," Harry nods, reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head. "I understand."
"And you're okay with this?" House asks, confused. "How can you be okay with this, you should be angry, screaming the place down. There is no cure for this. It's a slow, painful way to die!"
"That's not entirely true," Wilson interrupts, looking between the two men. "We can put him on a regimen of pain medication and physiotherapy. Maybe even remove some of his scarring, increase blood flow to his extremities."
"It won't work," Harry says tiredly. "This isn't the first time I've had this diagnosis." Wilson shoots him a surprised look, stunned. "After I escaped, I went to a private clinic, St. Mungo's; they said there's nothing that can be done. Normal or inventive."
Inventive, Wilson knew meant magical. The man in front of him was slowly dying and there was no cure. Magical or muggle. "There has to be something we can do," he said, running a hand through his hair, the other planted on his hip as he shifted his gaze to House who looks displeased.
"Don't worry about it," Harry shrugs. "I've long since gotten over it. I was given twenty to thirty years, the neuropathy completely dulls the pain and when it's gets worse I'll just medicate myself. It'll be fine."
House nods, resigned. "Okay, I'll write you a script for Vicodin."
"What, you're going to get him hooked on the same meds as you?" Wilson asks incredulously, shocked and dismayed by House's reaction. "Are you insane?"
Harry barks a short laugh, "not insane, but maybe a little unbalanced."
House grins at the green eyed man, "I knew I liked you for a reason."
"Because my ass is tight enough to bounce a nickel off?" Harry rejoined, wrapping an arm around his abdomen and tracing the long scar that ran from hip to arm-pit. It was a comforting motion, like a security blanket.
"Something like that," House agrees, smirking as he limps from the room.
"Unbelievable!" Wilson complains, throwing his arms up in the air. "Both of you, you're insane!"
Harry laughs, real and warmly, "not really, we just don't pretend. There's no need to."
"You're as bad as he is!" Wilson accuses.
"That's me," Harry agrees, widening his eyes and smiling tightly as he leaves. "Bad to the bone."
"Incredible," Wilson groans, his hands on his hips and his head tilted back. "Now there are two of them!"
Harry ducks into Ron's room, well aware of the time that had passed since the MRI and angiogram. Hermione lay with her head pillowed on Ron's arm, fast asleep, though gathering from the rapid eye movement beneath her eyelids, it wouldn't be for long. Harry reached over the bed, smoothing Hermione's hair and startling her enough for the nightmare to be dispelled but not to wake her. Hermione settles back down with a small smile, her arms tightening about Ron's. She lets out a sigh and Harry grabs the spare blanket on the end of Ron's bed and drapes to over her carefully, smiling at the sight of his two best friends together, once more.
Ron looks better, his cheeks flushed with red but dry and clear, leaving no signs of the fever that he's been experiencing for the past nine days. Harry pinches his friends skin on the back of his hand, watching the reaction time of the skin as it's raised up and sinks back down smoothly across his hand. It takes less than a second and Harry smiles at the sight. Ron's not dehydrated, which is to be expected because of the saline drip, but also indicates that the time spent in the hospital is actually better for him than time outside.
Harry looks up at the monitor, noting that his O2 stats are normal while his heartbeat is within normal range if a bit slow. Harry looks around the room, watching the nurses that bustle between the rooms in the corridors, their eyes never sliding into the ICU room, more interested in whatever they were doing outside. Harry drops his hand to grasp Ron's, lining their wrists up and gripping Ron's forearm. Harry let his magic build up, he knows that magically he's clean because otherwise this wouldn't work. Already the effects can be seen, the paralysis having slowed in its progression to the point where it had nearly stopped. Decided, Harry forces his magic through his arm, ignoring the burn of his veins as he does so, and into Ron's body.
Removing his wrist from Ron's, Harry observes the red marker, a bruise really, that had blossomed to twice the size on the underside of his wrist. It's diameter is the same as the width of his wrist and the edge nestles just beneath the palm of his hand and extends part way up his arm. Should House catch sight of this there will be hell to pay but already the effects can be seen on Ron's body. His breathing is easier, his colour better and his heart rate steadier. With every worsening of his own condition, Ron's improved and in Harry's mind, that's a fair trade.
Movement in the door way reveals Cameron and Foreman, the oddly matched duo are serious and determined, one carrying a bag of reddish fluid and the other a clear fluid filled bag. Harry reaches over and shakes Hermione carefully, waking his friend who's startling woke Ron. The redhead lets out a muffled groan and blinks heavily.
"Hi," Cameron greets them, smiling softly. "We're just here to administer some medication. We think Mr. Weasley has bacterial meningitis."
"Or Botulism," Foreman adds, looking apologetic. "We're giving him a broad spectrum antibacterial and an antitoxin."
Hermione stares at them blearily, her eyes watery and sad. "You think?" She asks softly, worriedly.
"We can't be sure." Foreman says, tilting his shoulders in a 'what can you do?' sort of way. "We've run tests that have inconclusive results."
"Run some conclusive tests then!" Hermione hisses, her eyes wide and dark with pained suspicion.
"If we don't give him these, he dies," Foreman states with finale.
"IF you wrong, he dies!" Hermione retorts. "There has to be a way to make sure!"
"Hermione," Harry breathes, grabbing her hand and squeezing tightly. "Let them do their jobs. They know what they're doing."
"Do it," Ron rasps, clearly having heard and understood enough to make a decision.
"Ron!" Hermione protests, turning to him and looking devastated by his decision. "You could die!"
"I could die anyway," Ron says tiredly, letting his head fall back onto his pillow heavily. He gazes at the doctors wearily. "Just do it."
"Okay," Foreman accepts with a short nod, moving over to the IV line and hooking the redhead up to both medications. "We'll know in a few hours if it has an effect."
"And if it's the wrong one?" Hermione asks brittlely.
"Then we take him straight off them both and find another diagnosis," Cameron promises, her eyes soft and gentle.
"Okay," Hermione nods in acceptance. "Okay."
Harry stands, watching the doctors leave. The next six hours are going to be agony, he just knows it.
He's right. Hermione is stressing and fretful, pacing around the bed and sniping at the raven haired man with enough vitriol that it drives him from the room, leaving her to shout after him about not caring. Ron drifts in and out of consciousness, his colour fading fast but Harry doesn't dare give him another magical boost, knowing that doing so could shut down his heart, kidneys or liver. Or something else equally vital. He finds himself in the hospital cafeteria, the itching beneath his skin driving him to pick up a sandwich filled with meat, carbs and little of anything else. He slathers the bread with ketchup and then proceeds to make a mess of the sandwich by shredding it into a goopy pile of flesh and sodden bread. He's never been very good at waiting.
Three hours in, Harry returns to the ICU room, frustration boiling in his veins. Hermione's dragged the two chairs together and is curled up beside Ron's bed, her cheeks tearstained and dirty. He grits his teeth and shrugs in annoyance, he desperately wants to yell and scream like he had in his fifth year but doesn't dare to do so. It will only get him kicked out of the hospital. An hour into the second half of the waiting period Ron begins to seize, his eyes flying open to reveal bloodshot whites and red rimmed corneas. Harry screams for help even as he launches himself at his friend, grabbing the other mans jaw to stop him biting his own tongue off.
Nurses fly in, doctors Cameron and Chase shortly behind. Harry quickly finds out that Chase's specialty is intensive care as the blonde doctor forces a tube down Ron's throat with ease while Foreman helps him restrain a crying Hermione who is staring at Ron's prone body in shock and fear. One hand is fluttering on her lower abdomen and Harry gets a godawful feeling that Hermione's intense feelings are most subjective and selfish than he'd previously thought. It's all he can do to not check, but he refrains from pulsing magic through the witches body, knowing that the woman would be able to feel it if he did so. All this does is affirm his decision to keep Ron alive for one more day. One more month. While the doctors work on a solution.
It's only when Ron stops seizing, Chase stands back, Hermione flings herself across Ron's unconscious body and Foreman and Cameron leave the room looking solemn and apologetic, that Harry realises that he'd screamed for help. That his tension should be relieved from that single, long howl. But he isn't. He feels worse. Frustration and anger being replaced by burning fear like ice in his veins. He wants to cry, but Chase is in his face, talking rapidly about more tests and is this okay? Are you going to give us your approval and please, sign here because he could die on the table.
Harry wants to hate him. To hate Ron. To hate Hermione. To hate this hospital, this place, this country. But he can't. So he signs on the dotted line, fingering his lordship ring and hopes to the many non-existent gods on this Earth that someone finally figures out what's wrong with him. With Ron. He runs a hand over his face and stares at the pale face of his best friend and Ron's too skinny girlfriend, there's no point denying it anymore. Its obvious that they are together. That they always had been. Harry wonders if it makes him a bad person that he hates them for it.
Feeling laughter that has nothing to do with humour bubbling in his chest, Harry leaves the room and makes his way to the nurses station and asks for a phone. The number he dials is an old one but one that he knows intimately. It's rare that he ever contacts this person, know that they are the only one able to contact the people who need to know about Ron's condition. It's time to tell the Weasley family that their youngest son/brother is dying in a tiny ICU room in a training hospital in the middle of a country that they hate.
The Lady on the other line picks up immediately, this is her private number and one that she never fails to answer. Only seven people have this number. He is number two, her husband being number one, her son three and her grandsons four and five respectively. Harry wonders if it says something about him that he rates above this woman's children and grandchildren. Probably not though, considering he'd been her favourite magical for far longer than she'd known him. Even if he was shirking his duties by running away.
"About time you called," her voice is strong and determined as she answers and he can almost see her rolls her eyes in exasperation. "What is it this time?"