Passion Part 1
Disclaimer: Not mine, clear?
Enjoy!
Harry looked around the battlefield. It was still, deserted by all save the dead. Everyone who could had apparated away when he and Voldemort had come face to face for the last time. Now, he wanted to see what they had lost. See it before he had to go back and face the celebrations and the mourning.
He looked at the ground as he walked, seeing the blood and the corpses through jaded eyes. For Merlin's sake, it was Christmas. This should never have been allowed to happen. Then, one of the bodies moved a hand very slightly, just fingers clenching, and the rising sun glinted off of grey eyes watching him. The blonde sixteen-year old lay on his stomach, head turned so he could watch the battle. A dagger's hilt protruded from the exact centre of his back.
"Malfoy? You're alive?"
The Slytherin groaned. His Order robes were slashed to pieces, much like Harry's. "Unfortunately."
"Why don't you get up? You need medical attention."
"I can't, Potter. Now go away."
Perversely, the smaller boy knelt. He examined the dagger wound closely, careful not to exert unnecessary pressure as he peeled the shredded robes away. The dagger had gone directly between two vertebrae without damaging either, but it looked like the spine was severed. "Malfoy, how much of your body is still working?" he asked bluntly.
"None of your business! Go away! I don't want your pity."
"You don't have it, Malfoy. Answer the question."
"Nosy little prat. My legs don't work. And I'd rather die than live like that, so go be a goody-goody Gryffindor to someone else."
"Ready to give up so easily? How like you. You always were a little coward. You ran in first year, you ran to hide from your father with Dumbledore, and you're running now. If you die now, I'll never let you forget how cowardly you are. I'll taunt your grave. It'll be proof, final evidence, that I'm better than you. I'll win, Malfoy."
"You never won! Never!" the blonde snapped. He tried to shove himself off the ground, and groaned in pain.
"Hold still. You'll make it worse. Will you let me take you to St Mungo's to get medical treatment now?"
"The dagger's at least six inches into the ground. You'll have to get it out."
Harry considered and nodded finally. "All right. I have enough medical training to heal you up a bit, but I can't do anything for your paralysis." He pulled out his wand, and began what had the possibilities of being a long process. Voldemort's death had invigorated him, somehow the energy the dying soul had released giving him the equivalent of a full night's sleep, and regardless of his worries that he had absorbed more of the monster's powers, he was glad of it now. "Is the dagger barbed?" he asked absently while continuing to work on the other's less serious injuries.
"No. It should come right out."
"Right. This is going to hurt like hell. Try and hold still. On the count of five. One. Two." He pulled the dagger out.
Draco screamed and fainted briefly. The Gryffindor took advantage of the situation to examine the wound. The spine had been neatly severed. Other than that, there was very little damage. He healed what he could, then woke the other young man. "That was not a killing blow," he said curtly. "If they had you disabled enough to do that, they could easily have killed you."
"No. They wanted me to watch what I had done. Do you remember your parents' deaths, Potter? Mine were killed right in front of me. I am not a coward."
"You aren't. You chose to live. Pity. One less insult I can throw your way. Ah, well. I'll prove it yet." He knew the competition was one way to keep his rival aware. Over the course of the war, they had come to depend on it. It had, at times, been the only thing keeping either of them same. It would now, he hoped, force the other boy to choose life, if only to prove that he could. He spared a moment to wonder what would happen to the rivalry now. The war was over, the Dark Lord dead. Draco was probably damaged irreparably, and they still had a year and a half of school.
"Potter!"
"What?" he snapped.
"Kindly snap out of your dreamland and tell me how you planned to get me out of here." When the only answer he received was a confused look, he pushed himself up on his elbows. "I may have you to thank for healing me this much, but you really need to grow a brain. Typical Gryffindor idiot. Go find me a rock."
"Since when do I follow your orders, Malfoy?"
"Since now. Do it, and I'll consider us even for you healing me."
The Gryffindor obeyed. The rock, when he found it, was bloodstained, but a muttered charm took care of that. He placed it in front of the Slytherin.
"Oh, honestly, do I have to do everything? You're the animagus." The blonde pulled out his wand, balancing himself awkwardly, and transfigured the rock into a chair. He promptly added a charm to animate it and struggled to pull himself into it. He tensed in surprise when strong arms lifted him. "This," he muttered, "is going to take getting used to."
"Come on, Malfoy, you have friends. They'll help you."
"Name one. That's still alive and not in custody."
"Um. . ." He thought about it, and he couldn't come up with anyone. "We'd better go. We have to walk, since we can't apparate. I won't take a Portkey."
"You have to walk. I can ride in style." He smirked.
"You're feeling better. Let's go. The Finnigan's house is only a few miles away."
"Wasn't someone supposed to come back and fetch you? I know the plan was for everyone to leave when you faced Voldemort so he couldn't use hostages against you like last time, but how did they expect you to get back?"
"Hermione was supposed to come. She knows how to apparate." He gritted his teeth. "I don't know why she isn't here. She and Ron have been getting distant after the last few battles. They've only seen the aftermath; what right to do they have?" He closed his mouth firmly before he could say anything further.
"We weren't the only students who fought."
"No, we were just the only ones who fought for the Order. I killed Zabini myself."
"I took great delight in killing Parkinson," Draco agreed. "We were allowed to fight because I was already trained, and there was no way to keep you out of the war."
"You never did tell me why you joined our side."
Draco shrugged. "You. You're the only person I've ever been able to compete with. You and I are equals, though I'll never admit to saying it. If you tell anyone, I'll claim it was pain talking."
"You aren't in any pain. I took care of that. Even healed up your legs, which you couldn't have felt anyway."
"Utterly beside the point. I enjoyed competing with you. We're closely matched in everything we do. Besides, you're the only person I've ever met with the potential to be as—passionate about living as I am. I've seen you fly, and how you fight—you throw the whole of yourself into it, the same way I do. If we tried, I'm not sure who would be better."
They continued for a time in relative silence, broken only occasionally by the Slytherin cursing at his chair or recasting the charm on it. Finally, they reached the house. No one was home, probably out celebrating, so they had to break in to use the fireplace.
"How are you going to do this?" Harry asked.
"I'm going to go through in my chair, of course. What do you think? Typical bloody stupid Gryffindor. St Mungo's or Hogwarts?"
"You'll get good enough treatment at either. You choose."
"Hogwarts. Besides, St Mungo's has bad associations for me."
Harry decided it was better not to pry into that particular statement, considering who his companion's father was. "You first, then."
Draco shook his head. "One more thing, Potter. Come here." When the Gryffindor was close enough, he pulled the shorter boy down to him and kissed him hard and cruelly, leaving both their mouths and tongues bloody when they pulled away. He hadn't been surprised when the other had kissed him back, just as roughly. "I will prove I'm better; I will win, even if I am crippled," he hissed, a smirk twisting his face.
"Nothing's ever stopped you from trying before, even if trying is all you'll ever do," Harry retorted, his expression matching.
They came out in the hospital wing. Draco was immediately swarmed over by Madam Pomfrey. Most of the injuries, it turned out, had been taken to St Mungo's, so the medi-witch had enough time to help him. "Mr Potter, please tell me what you've already done for him."
"I found him with the dagger that cut his spine still in him. I healed up all his minor injuries, checked for broken bones and such. I asked him if the dagger was barbed, and when he said no, I pulled it out. I healed the injury, but there was nothing I could do for the damage it had done. As far as I can tell, he's physically fine—except for his broken back."
The woman nodded. "Put him in that bed there," she pointed, "so I can do some tests on him." She turned to the Slytherin. "Mr Potter is quite a competent healer, so I am reasonably sure his analysis is correct. I will run a few tests, and we can discuss the results. I would like Mr Potter here as both a member of the Order and the person who did the preliminary treatment. Is that acceptable, Mr Malfoy?"
"It's fine," Draco snapped. He suffered through what he considered to be blatant manhandling of his person, and waited to say anything until he was sitting, supported by pillows, in the hospital cot. "Well?" he demanded.
Harry and Madam Pomfrey took seats on either side of him. Finally, the nurse said, "Mr Potter's analysis of your condition is quite correct. You are paralysed essentially from the waist down. You may have some feeling in your genitals, but you have no control. Potions can be given to you to enhance the feeling so that you can still reproduce and such, but little else can be done for your condition. Yet, of course; there is some research being done on paralysis, but nothing has been found. For the time being, you will have to find an alternate means of getting around. I doubt you will settle for anything as crude as the chair you charmed to get here."
"Hardly."
"Your best option might be an adaptation of what Muggles use in similar situations. A chair with wheels. Yours would, of course, be charmed to handle steps and such. Unlike Muggle wheel-chairs, you wouldn't have to push it unless you wanted to. You could just tell it where to go. Another option is a broom with a harness to keep you on it, but that is neither practical nor comfortable. It also couldn't be easily charmed to take care of some necessities."
The Slytherin, renowned for his ability to control his facial expressions, blushed. The thought clearly hadn't occurred to him.
"Both the chair and the broom could be enchanted to raise and lower themselves so you can reach things. The chair would offer more support to help you sit up, among other things. Would you like to hear some more options?"
"No," the blonde said after a moment, his pale cheeks back to their natural colour—or lack thereof. "I think I would prefer the chair. Although if a broom could be arranged so that I can keep playing Quidditch, I'd appreciate it."
"You'll break your neck playing that game, both of you," the woman sniffed, but she didn't say anything further. Both were glad to be spared one of her tirades, having heard them numerous times with various Quidditch inujuries, as she continued, "I can have the chair here for you tomorrow, so you can start to get used to it, but the broom may take a bit longer. I want you to drink this," she handed him a potion, "and go to sleep. And you, Mr Potter. You can come with me. You need your wounds tended."
Disclaimer: Not mine, clear?
Enjoy!
Harry looked around the battlefield. It was still, deserted by all save the dead. Everyone who could had apparated away when he and Voldemort had come face to face for the last time. Now, he wanted to see what they had lost. See it before he had to go back and face the celebrations and the mourning.
He looked at the ground as he walked, seeing the blood and the corpses through jaded eyes. For Merlin's sake, it was Christmas. This should never have been allowed to happen. Then, one of the bodies moved a hand very slightly, just fingers clenching, and the rising sun glinted off of grey eyes watching him. The blonde sixteen-year old lay on his stomach, head turned so he could watch the battle. A dagger's hilt protruded from the exact centre of his back.
"Malfoy? You're alive?"
The Slytherin groaned. His Order robes were slashed to pieces, much like Harry's. "Unfortunately."
"Why don't you get up? You need medical attention."
"I can't, Potter. Now go away."
Perversely, the smaller boy knelt. He examined the dagger wound closely, careful not to exert unnecessary pressure as he peeled the shredded robes away. The dagger had gone directly between two vertebrae without damaging either, but it looked like the spine was severed. "Malfoy, how much of your body is still working?" he asked bluntly.
"None of your business! Go away! I don't want your pity."
"You don't have it, Malfoy. Answer the question."
"Nosy little prat. My legs don't work. And I'd rather die than live like that, so go be a goody-goody Gryffindor to someone else."
"Ready to give up so easily? How like you. You always were a little coward. You ran in first year, you ran to hide from your father with Dumbledore, and you're running now. If you die now, I'll never let you forget how cowardly you are. I'll taunt your grave. It'll be proof, final evidence, that I'm better than you. I'll win, Malfoy."
"You never won! Never!" the blonde snapped. He tried to shove himself off the ground, and groaned in pain.
"Hold still. You'll make it worse. Will you let me take you to St Mungo's to get medical treatment now?"
"The dagger's at least six inches into the ground. You'll have to get it out."
Harry considered and nodded finally. "All right. I have enough medical training to heal you up a bit, but I can't do anything for your paralysis." He pulled out his wand, and began what had the possibilities of being a long process. Voldemort's death had invigorated him, somehow the energy the dying soul had released giving him the equivalent of a full night's sleep, and regardless of his worries that he had absorbed more of the monster's powers, he was glad of it now. "Is the dagger barbed?" he asked absently while continuing to work on the other's less serious injuries.
"No. It should come right out."
"Right. This is going to hurt like hell. Try and hold still. On the count of five. One. Two." He pulled the dagger out.
Draco screamed and fainted briefly. The Gryffindor took advantage of the situation to examine the wound. The spine had been neatly severed. Other than that, there was very little damage. He healed what he could, then woke the other young man. "That was not a killing blow," he said curtly. "If they had you disabled enough to do that, they could easily have killed you."
"No. They wanted me to watch what I had done. Do you remember your parents' deaths, Potter? Mine were killed right in front of me. I am not a coward."
"You aren't. You chose to live. Pity. One less insult I can throw your way. Ah, well. I'll prove it yet." He knew the competition was one way to keep his rival aware. Over the course of the war, they had come to depend on it. It had, at times, been the only thing keeping either of them same. It would now, he hoped, force the other boy to choose life, if only to prove that he could. He spared a moment to wonder what would happen to the rivalry now. The war was over, the Dark Lord dead. Draco was probably damaged irreparably, and they still had a year and a half of school.
"Potter!"
"What?" he snapped.
"Kindly snap out of your dreamland and tell me how you planned to get me out of here." When the only answer he received was a confused look, he pushed himself up on his elbows. "I may have you to thank for healing me this much, but you really need to grow a brain. Typical Gryffindor idiot. Go find me a rock."
"Since when do I follow your orders, Malfoy?"
"Since now. Do it, and I'll consider us even for you healing me."
The Gryffindor obeyed. The rock, when he found it, was bloodstained, but a muttered charm took care of that. He placed it in front of the Slytherin.
"Oh, honestly, do I have to do everything? You're the animagus." The blonde pulled out his wand, balancing himself awkwardly, and transfigured the rock into a chair. He promptly added a charm to animate it and struggled to pull himself into it. He tensed in surprise when strong arms lifted him. "This," he muttered, "is going to take getting used to."
"Come on, Malfoy, you have friends. They'll help you."
"Name one. That's still alive and not in custody."
"Um. . ." He thought about it, and he couldn't come up with anyone. "We'd better go. We have to walk, since we can't apparate. I won't take a Portkey."
"You have to walk. I can ride in style." He smirked.
"You're feeling better. Let's go. The Finnigan's house is only a few miles away."
"Wasn't someone supposed to come back and fetch you? I know the plan was for everyone to leave when you faced Voldemort so he couldn't use hostages against you like last time, but how did they expect you to get back?"
"Hermione was supposed to come. She knows how to apparate." He gritted his teeth. "I don't know why she isn't here. She and Ron have been getting distant after the last few battles. They've only seen the aftermath; what right to do they have?" He closed his mouth firmly before he could say anything further.
"We weren't the only students who fought."
"No, we were just the only ones who fought for the Order. I killed Zabini myself."
"I took great delight in killing Parkinson," Draco agreed. "We were allowed to fight because I was already trained, and there was no way to keep you out of the war."
"You never did tell me why you joined our side."
Draco shrugged. "You. You're the only person I've ever been able to compete with. You and I are equals, though I'll never admit to saying it. If you tell anyone, I'll claim it was pain talking."
"You aren't in any pain. I took care of that. Even healed up your legs, which you couldn't have felt anyway."
"Utterly beside the point. I enjoyed competing with you. We're closely matched in everything we do. Besides, you're the only person I've ever met with the potential to be as—passionate about living as I am. I've seen you fly, and how you fight—you throw the whole of yourself into it, the same way I do. If we tried, I'm not sure who would be better."
They continued for a time in relative silence, broken only occasionally by the Slytherin cursing at his chair or recasting the charm on it. Finally, they reached the house. No one was home, probably out celebrating, so they had to break in to use the fireplace.
"How are you going to do this?" Harry asked.
"I'm going to go through in my chair, of course. What do you think? Typical bloody stupid Gryffindor. St Mungo's or Hogwarts?"
"You'll get good enough treatment at either. You choose."
"Hogwarts. Besides, St Mungo's has bad associations for me."
Harry decided it was better not to pry into that particular statement, considering who his companion's father was. "You first, then."
Draco shook his head. "One more thing, Potter. Come here." When the Gryffindor was close enough, he pulled the shorter boy down to him and kissed him hard and cruelly, leaving both their mouths and tongues bloody when they pulled away. He hadn't been surprised when the other had kissed him back, just as roughly. "I will prove I'm better; I will win, even if I am crippled," he hissed, a smirk twisting his face.
"Nothing's ever stopped you from trying before, even if trying is all you'll ever do," Harry retorted, his expression matching.
They came out in the hospital wing. Draco was immediately swarmed over by Madam Pomfrey. Most of the injuries, it turned out, had been taken to St Mungo's, so the medi-witch had enough time to help him. "Mr Potter, please tell me what you've already done for him."
"I found him with the dagger that cut his spine still in him. I healed up all his minor injuries, checked for broken bones and such. I asked him if the dagger was barbed, and when he said no, I pulled it out. I healed the injury, but there was nothing I could do for the damage it had done. As far as I can tell, he's physically fine—except for his broken back."
The woman nodded. "Put him in that bed there," she pointed, "so I can do some tests on him." She turned to the Slytherin. "Mr Potter is quite a competent healer, so I am reasonably sure his analysis is correct. I will run a few tests, and we can discuss the results. I would like Mr Potter here as both a member of the Order and the person who did the preliminary treatment. Is that acceptable, Mr Malfoy?"
"It's fine," Draco snapped. He suffered through what he considered to be blatant manhandling of his person, and waited to say anything until he was sitting, supported by pillows, in the hospital cot. "Well?" he demanded.
Harry and Madam Pomfrey took seats on either side of him. Finally, the nurse said, "Mr Potter's analysis of your condition is quite correct. You are paralysed essentially from the waist down. You may have some feeling in your genitals, but you have no control. Potions can be given to you to enhance the feeling so that you can still reproduce and such, but little else can be done for your condition. Yet, of course; there is some research being done on paralysis, but nothing has been found. For the time being, you will have to find an alternate means of getting around. I doubt you will settle for anything as crude as the chair you charmed to get here."
"Hardly."
"Your best option might be an adaptation of what Muggles use in similar situations. A chair with wheels. Yours would, of course, be charmed to handle steps and such. Unlike Muggle wheel-chairs, you wouldn't have to push it unless you wanted to. You could just tell it where to go. Another option is a broom with a harness to keep you on it, but that is neither practical nor comfortable. It also couldn't be easily charmed to take care of some necessities."
The Slytherin, renowned for his ability to control his facial expressions, blushed. The thought clearly hadn't occurred to him.
"Both the chair and the broom could be enchanted to raise and lower themselves so you can reach things. The chair would offer more support to help you sit up, among other things. Would you like to hear some more options?"
"No," the blonde said after a moment, his pale cheeks back to their natural colour—or lack thereof. "I think I would prefer the chair. Although if a broom could be arranged so that I can keep playing Quidditch, I'd appreciate it."
"You'll break your neck playing that game, both of you," the woman sniffed, but she didn't say anything further. Both were glad to be spared one of her tirades, having heard them numerous times with various Quidditch inujuries, as she continued, "I can have the chair here for you tomorrow, so you can start to get used to it, but the broom may take a bit longer. I want you to drink this," she handed him a potion, "and go to sleep. And you, Mr Potter. You can come with me. You need your wounds tended."