A/N: Looks like I'm on a roll.. I wonder how long this will last. Probably not long. ): R&R?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Firm Believer is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 2
X
I'm spread so thin,
I need something to believe in.
I used to be a firm believer
of the greater good..
/ / Firm Believer by The Spill Canvas.
X
Shortly after Harry left the library, he felt sick; he felt weak in the knees, his stomach flipping with every step, and there were beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Pulling at his shirt collar, Harry steadied himself against the nearby wall, its stone cool to the touch. He let out a slow, shuddering breath and practically collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor, his back against the stone. His chest felt heavy, tight, and it was growing harder for him to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
What was wrong with him? The hallways were darkening, the torches doing very little to illuminate the stone—Harry couldn't see it through his closed eyes, but he could feel it. He could feel the darkness around him, wrapping itself around his body and tightening, squeezing—he inhaled sharply, unable to exhale. His heart was pounding, quick and frantic, and Harry's eyes opened with a start. He gasped for breath, blood rushing to his head, and after a long, torturous minute, his lungs filled. The air was cool in his chest but it wasn't enough, never enough, and Harry's sadness returned, intertwining with the darkness and closing around his chest. A few minutes later, Harry saw black, completely oblivious as his body hit the floor.
X
Everything was warm.
Too warm.
The sun was bright in the sky and there was a sweltering heat. He pulled at his shirt collar and continued, running up the hill as quickly as he could. He stopped at its peak, his breath catching in his throat; it was beautiful. There were hundreds—no, thousands—of sunflowers, bright gold stretching as far as his eye could see. In the distance, a slow fog rolled in and Harry panicked as it reached the sun. The sky darkened and there was a flash of lightning, red in color, and he fell back, surprised.
He could hear screams in the distance, yells for help, but his body was still, a tightly wound coil that refused to move.
Another flash of red—the lightning split the earth and the sunflowers wilted, their golden petals turning a rusty brown as they fell to the ground. Their stems moved, twisted, slithered against the ground, and a thousand snakes covered the valley, eyes bright red. Harry tried to struggle as they slithered underneath him, over his hands and around his wrists, and the screaming grew louder.
He awoke with a start, sweat pooling against his collarbone as he realized, in a rush, that the screaming was no one's but his own. Pomfrey was on him in an instant.
"Mr. Potter," she called, placing a cool hand against his shoulder. "Calm yourself. It's okay—you're okay."
Harry shook his head, clawing at his sheets. He could see their eyes, feel their slippery scales against his skin—he thrashed, Pomfrey's hand doing little to still him.
"No—no, I'm not—I—"
And then silence.
Harry practically deflated against the bed, his eyes lingering on Pomfrey's wand.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," she said quietly, tucking it back into her vest, "but you must get a hold of yourself."
Harry nodded mutely and his breathing steadied.
She let out a slow sigh and her hand moved to his forehead.
"You're burning up," she muttered, a slight frown marring her features. Her eyes met Harry's. "Another student found you in the hallway—a Hufflepuff, I believe. Tell me, Mr. Potter—how long have you felt ill?"
Harry adverted his eyes, shrugging. His thoughts were clearer, now, but he felt groggy, his eyelids heavy. The better question would be how long hadn't he felt ill. He wanted to tell her that, but he found himself unable to speak. Instead, he simply laid there, eyes staring ahead, and he could hear, rather than see, Pomfrey shake her head with a soft tsk. He tried remembering how he had gotten there, but it was a blur. He could only see darkness, solid and cold, and his eyes slipped shut. Vial in hand, Pomfrey moved closer to him, studying his face with worried eyes. She knew there had been a change in the boy—many of the professors were worried, but as the Headmistress said, Harry had done a great thing. A dangerous thing, and it had taken a lot out of him. His wounds, like everyone's, would heal in time. Over the course of the war, McGonagall had developed some of Dumbledore's wisdom, and Pomfrey tried desperately to believe her words.
"Mr. Potter," she said quietly, sensing that he was still awake. "I need you to take this."
Green eyes opened and, with a bit of subdued effort, Harry managed himself into a sitting position.
He reached for the vial without thought or word, and Pomfrey carefully passed it to him.
"It'll help you regain your strength," she said quietly, "and help your antibodies fight the virus. It appears you have the flu."
Harry nodded and she reached out to uncork the vial for him. He tossed it back in a single swallow, his nose scrunching up a bit at the taste—a bit similar to rotten pumpkin juice and raspberry tarts—and handed her the empty vial. The small, coherent part of Harry, was pleased to hear that it was simply the flu. Maybe, hopefully, the sadness would disappear with it. With Pomfrey's potions, he would no doubt be better within a few hours. Students rarely missed a full day of classes. Finally, he met Pomfrey's eyes, and gave her a small, barely-there smile.
"Thanks," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Pomfrey smiled down at him and reminded him very much of Ron's mum, Molly Weasley. Brown, lifeless eyes flashed in front of him and his heart ached. He looked away and Pomfrey's smile grew sad. Typically, she would send the student on their way with another vial for an hour from then and the very strict instructions to get plenty of bed rest—but she could see the strain behind Harry's eyes and she decided to keep him under careful watch, at least until he was better.
She cleared her throat. McGonagall might be wise, but she was the nurse.
"Yes, well, do get some rest, Mr. Potter. You'll be free to go in the morning—provided you're better, of course. I'll bring another vial to you within the hour."
Pomfrey lingered for but a moment longer before turning and retreating to her office, her heart aching for the boy in the bed.
Harry waited until he heard the soft click of her door before raising his eyes. He looked around the dimly lit hospital wing, its white sheets reflecting the torchlight, nearly glowing. He appeared to be the only one there—he sighed, half wishing that he had company. He didn't think he would actually manage a conversation with anyone, but they would provide a welcome distraction. People watching was much easier on his heart—and head—than being left to his own devices. As if on cue, he could feel he sadness setting in again and he struggled to breathe against it.
X
Word spread quickly. Apparently, as loyal as Hufflepuffs were, they had an absolutely horrible time keeping their mouths shut. The news reached Hermione and Ron within the hour—Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had been found unconscious in a hall way and was now in the hospital wing. Naturally, they dropped everything—even studying—and rushed to Harry's aide.
"Hurry, Ron," Hermione called, nearing the stairs first.
Ron made a face behind her back.
"It's not like he's going anywhere, 'Mione," he muttered, quiet enough for the other to miss. It wasn't that Ron wasn't concerned—he was, had been since things had ended—but Ron dealt with his concern in a considerably different way. Hermione was all worried eyes and concerned questions. Ron was awkward small talk and strained smiles.
They were in the hospital wing soon enough, Hermione practically shoving the door open, spotting Harry's unruly head of hair with unsurprising ease. It was a stark contrast against the white sheets and Harry looked dreadfully pale, his complexion sunken. She rushed forward, Ron in tow, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, wanting very much to reach out but resisting.
"Are you okay, Harry?" she asked, her voice a pitch higher than usual. Like Draco, Hermione, too, had seen the emptiness in his heart. She had witnessed his mood swings first hand, watched as he walked away from her, completely unaware, as she was in mid-sentence. She had heard Harry's screams late at night and paid careful attention to the darkening circles under his eyes. She had watched him pick at his food, unable to really eat, and bury himself in his studies in an attempt to placate her and Ron.
"Yeah, mate, what happened?" Ron asked, after catching Hermione's deliberate look in his direction.
Harry was relieved when his friends walked into the hospital wing. The sadness edged away and he had a distraction, something to take his mind off of death and darkness. He imagined he should feel something else, too—happiness, happiness that they were there, alive, and obviously cared about him—but the nothingness throbbed.
"Flu," he replied, his voice just as hoarse as before. Vaguely, he attributed it to his screaming.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said gently, her worry apparent. "I'm so glad someone found you—"
She paused, biting back a shuddering breath, and Ron was quick to cover for her.
"You'll be better in no time, yeah?"
She looked at him and offered a small smile, quickly getting a hold of herself. She had been so worried about Harry for so long—seeing him here, so frail and sick looking—she deliberately turned away from those thoughts. Crying wouldn't do her any good right then and would probably only serve to make both Harry and Ron extremely uncomfortable. Visibly straightening, she turned back to Harry. Withdrawing something from the pocket of her robes, she held out a small bundle and offered him a bright smile.
"We brought you something."
Harry eyed it carefully, unable to tell what it was.
Hermione's eyes flicked from his to the bundle and back.
"Oh, right," she mumbled, her face flushing a bit. Withdrawing her wand, she muttered the enlarging charm and, within a second, she was holding a pile of clothing.
"Pajamas," she explained, setting them on his bed. "Ron got them from your trunk—so don't blame me if they don't match."
He looked to Ron, who offered him a sheepish grin.
"It was too weird touching your stuff," he mumbled, shrugging. "Knickers and all—sorry, mate."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, something hard working its way up his chest and into his throat.
And then he did something that surprised even himself—he laughed.
Ron's face flushed a bit but his grin widened. Hermione's expression almost mirrored Ron's—it was nice to hear Harry laugh. It had been so long, too long, and Hermione half-wished it never stopped. She had watched, heart broken, as the light inside of Harry extinguished to a mere flicker. Occasionally, like right then, it would brighten—but it was only temporary, no matter how Hermione wanted to believe otherwise.
Sensing that he was in a better mood than he had been in days, if not weeks, Ron started talking about the upcoming Quidditch season. Harry listened intently at first, but it wasn't long into the conversation that he became bored, lifeless, and luckily for him, Pomfrey intervened. He was barely aware of her talking to Ron and Hermione—barely aware as his two friends left and Pomfrey handed him another potion. He took it without a word, his actions automatic, and excused himself to change into his clothes. Pomfrey tried explaining what the potion would do, but Harry walked away and into the loo. She frowned a bit at the door, shaking her head, and retired to her office—she would explain the effects tomorrow, when Harry was feeling better.
When Harry returned to his bed, he fluffed his pillow and practically collapsed, the darkness closing in on him in a matter of minutes.
He envisioned sunflowers and snakes.
X
Harry awoke to a soft rustling later that night. He squinted through the darkness—the torchlight was dimmer, now, and his curtains were drawn. They were swaying back and forth, gently at first, and then quicker. Harry watched them, confused, and tried thinking through his grogginess. His eyes adjusted in a matter of seconds and he could see a shadow pass in front of his bed, rattling the curtains as they moved. His entire body tensed. It was sort of ironic, really—Harry had faced Voldemort on more than one occasion—he had wrestled with a Baslik and faced off giant spiders—and yet, right then, the shadow before him seemed a bigger threat. With a slow, even breath, he reached up and pulled the cord to separate the curtains. They sprung back and Harry's eyes darkened when he spotted the perpetrator.
Draco Malfoy stood directly in front of him, arms folded easily over his abdomen, a smirk plastered on his pointed face. In one hand, he twirled his wand slowly, his eyes meeting Harry's. Harry squinted at him, able to make out that head of hair even in this dark, blurred room.
"Morning, Potter," he greeted, his eyebrows darting up for a split second.
Harry wanted very much to throw his pillow at him, tell him to bugger off, and pull the curtains closed again.
Instead, reached for his glasses and sighed, saying, "What the hell do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco's smirk widened and he edged closer.
"Now, now," he muttered, faking concern, "is that any way to talk to the person that found.. this?"
He held the wand still for a moment, letting his words sink in, and then continued to twirl it between his long fingers. Harry stared at him in disbelief, frowning. Did he really think he was that stupid? Harry never left his wand laying about. It was always firmly on his person. It had to be, what with Voldemort lurking around for so many years. He shook his head and gave Draco a bored look.
"Nice try, Malfoy," he muttered, reaching for his wand beneath his pillow. Much to Draco's amusement—and expectations—Harry came up empty handed. His forehead lined with confusion, Harry stared at the space under his pillow for a long moment. He could have sworn he had put his wand there earlier—he looked back to Draco, the piece of wood glinting in the light. Since his night terrors had started, Harry had been a very light sleeper. He was fairly certain that there was no way Draco could have weaseled it out from underneath his head. He frowned a bit, swallowing, and focused on Draco's face. Draco was almost smiling at him, but it wasn't a nice sort of smile. It was cool, calculating—twisted, really—and Harry sighed.
"That's what I thought," Draco said, his smile widening. Harry quickly decided he didn't like it when Draco smiled.
Through a clenched jaw, Harry spat out, "What do you want for it?"
Draco cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows raising.
"No," he corrected, clearly taunting. "The question is—what will you do for it?"
Harry nearly scowled. He knew Draco. He knew he had no intention of giving him his wand back. He was just baiting him with it, gloating, really, and Harry felt irritation bubbling in his chest. He was more irritated at himself than Draco. He was irritated that he had been so stupid, so bloody stupid, as to leave it somewhere the other could grab it. He expected more of himself—of Draco, he expected nothing less.
"Anything," he finally muttered, giving Draco the reply he knew he wanted.
Draco shook his head, pacing back and forth at the end of his bed. He tapped his jaw casually, pretending to be in thought. His eyes flashed as they met Harry's again.
"That's awfully vague, Potter," he replied, smirking again. Harry would have to do better than that if he wanted it back—and even then, Draco wouldn't return it. Even with Voldemort dead, Harry Potter's wand was a prized possession. He knew men that would kill for it—literally. The shadows traced Harry's face and Draco could see the muscles in his jaw working. He stepped closer, challenging Harry. He really hoped he remembered this moment forever—the moment that he had managed to get the upper-hand, the moment that he could make Harry feel some of what he felt—defeat. "You're going to have to do better than that."
Harry gave Draco a disgusted look, adverting his eyes. He was at a complete loss for what the other wanted—did he really expect him to beg? Harry let out an audible snort at the thought. Knowing Draco, probably. His irritation increased and then he felt it shift into something more—anger. Complete, irrational anger. His face fell and then his mind was blank.
Draco, too, was aware of the change in Harry. He could see the shift—Harry's shoulders straightened, tensed, and his entire body looked to be on alert. And his face—his face became expressionless, the nothingness taking place of his disgust and irritation. Draco's smirk shifted into a scowl. He was not getting out of this one so easily—Draco was going to rub it in his face, dammit. He was going to have his moment.
And then, everything changed.
Suddenly, and with surprising speed, Harry lunged forward, off of the bed. The blankets fell to the floor, unwinding from his body and freeing him as if by magic. Draco stepped back and to the side, automatically raising his wand and shouting a curse—there was a flash of red light, considerably dimmer than it should be, and with a flash, Draco remembered that he was holding Harry's wand, not his own. The stupefy! missed, shooting just past Harry's shoulder. Draco's eyes widened and he stumbled back, nearly knocking over a shelf, and Harry hesitated. Their eyes met and Harry did something rather unexpected. He smiled. It was dark and twisted, much like Draco's own, and then Harry turned, lunging toward the window. Several things rushed through Draco's mind. The first was, of course, a string of obscenities—the second? What the hell was Potter doing? At least those windows were enchanted—wait, why is he heading for the window? He watched, almost statuesque, as Harry slammed his fists against the glass, again and again, the noise echoing through the hospital wing. Draco furrowed his brow, eyes widening as the castle's magic visibly wavered. There was a soft flash of blue and a rush of wind, followed by a loud crash—the glass shattered, propelling itself forward, and Draco shielded himself, his eyes on Harry again. Harry stepped back and suddenly, Draco realized what he was going to do.
He was going to jump.
In retrospect, Draco would wonder what was going through his mind at that exact moment—but right then, he had no time for coherent thought, only instinct. He rushed forward, narrowly grabbing Harry's shirt and pulling him back. Harry stumbled and then Draco secured his arms around his waist as he tried making another lunge forward. He could see Harry's hands, now—the glass had embedded itself into his skin, and blood dripped to the floor. Draco grimaced, nearly letting go. He had never been particularly fond of the sight of blood—he enjoyed mental torture much more than physical. It was more challenging and therefore, more rewarding—and less messy. Usually.
Harry thrashed in his arms and, with a surprising amount of effort, Draco managed to wrestle Harry back.
"Potter—Potter, stop!" he growled, his face against the side of Harry's neck.
If anything, Harry's struggling increased. He pushed back against Draco, digging his fingers into his arms, and Draco could feel pieces of glass digging into his skin as Harry pushed and clawed. He put his weight into it and then they were both on the floor. Draco could feel bigger shards dig into his shoulder and back—he groaned, careful to keep his grip tight, and pushed past the pain as Harry continued to thrash. They pushed and shoved at each other and, at one point, Draco was fairly certain Harry had tried biting him—but then, it ended as quickly as it had begun.
Harry practically deflated in his arms, and Draco was too aware of his own breathing, loud and ragged.
There were hard sobs, then, choked and desperate, and Harry pushed himself closer, burying his face in Draco's shoulder. Draco's grip loosened and he simply held still, dumbfounded, his arms going limp against his sides.
Harry clung to him for dear life.