Chapter Text
Harry awoke with a start.
Memories rippling through him like curses. Blood stained was the lavatory floor, and all he heard was Myrtle screaming. Then the gurgled sound of Malfoy choking on his own blood. He hadn't known what the curse would do. How could he be blamed? Ron had assured him. Hermione, being the ever-so-rational one, had chastised him.
"You should make sure he is all right"
"Hermione, he cast an unforgivable," Ron snorted.
So? The ends don't justify the means; look what you did to him! she continued, but her gaze went soft.
"He's a git," Ron said to no one in particular, gaining a reproaching look from Hermione.
Even so, she insisted, no one deserves that. You saw him, the least you can do is make sure he isn't permanently injured.
Sighing, he relented. The dissonance weighed hard at his chest. He had been meaning to cast an unforgivable. But it's not like it would have stopped him from casting his own curse anyhow. He panicked, and the words resonated in his mind.
For enemies.
He hadn't in all his idiocy considered that it might be a dark spell or one aimed at mutilating people. To be frank, Harry had not taken the time to properly consider what it might have done. All he knew now was that he had cursed someone half to death.
And it felt bad.
Tossing in his bed, he gave up on getting any sleep that night. Rising, he rubbed his tired eyes. Drawing the Marauders Map out of his bedside drawer, he cast a Lumos and scanned it for any signs of the blonde.
Hospital wing, he thought.
And sure enough, it seemed the blonde would be spending another night there.
Alone, he thought, as he felt a pang of guilt coursing through him.
Mulling it over in his head for a few minutes, his conscience finally got the better of him. Slipping the invisibility cloak over himself, he steeled out of the dorm, into the corridor, into the halls of Hogwarts. The Fat Lady's snores resonated through the hall. He knew no one would notice. It was the middle of the night, and anyone sensible was deep in sleep.
As he manoeuvred the hall, his mind wandered back to the events naught two nights ago.
He had been obsessed. He knew Malfoy was up to something. And it was Harry's duty to find out just what that was. But something had struck him when he caught him in the bathroom. His face red and anxious, tears stealing down his cheeks. He looked more like a frightened boy than a dangerous Death Eater. Then as eyes met, panic ensued and curses flew.
In hindsight, he couldn't help feeling bad for Malfoy.
Seeing him all vulnerable, when previously all he had ever seen of him were smirks and cowardly displays.
Turning a corner, he saw to his dismay the familiar paws of Filch's cat. It hissed at him and he stumbled backwards onto an armoured display. Wincing as he stubbed his heel on a kink, he cursed and scrambled to right himself.
"What is it, my love?" he heard Filch screeching across the hall.
Over his shoulder, he spelled the suit to do the cha-cha as he took off down the hall.
Commotion ensued and echoed down the hall.
Too bad he couldn't enjoy it, he thought with a slight snicker.
Reaching the hospital ward, quite out of breath, all thoughts of Filch doing a two-step number with an enchanted suit of armour left his mind. Instead, he felt the same heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Guilt, shame, even trepidation.
Making sure he was covered fully by his cloak, he pushed the door open ever so slightly. Warm candlelight lit the room. He paused, but there was no sound. Tiptoeing into the room, he saw all but one bed was empty. The rise and fall of the inhabitant's chest signalling he was in deep sleep. An empty canister of dreamless sleep potion sat on the bedside table. Approaching the bed, he felt the lump rise to his throat making his very skin crawl. The torn, bloodied clothes he had been wearing lay on display next to his sleeping form. A faint red mark was just visible below his collar.
Fuck.
Guilt coursed through him. He was paler than usual, he noted, a feat he thought impossible. Dark rings tugged at his lower lids, betraying countless nights spent as he had; tossing and turning, awaiting the inevitable sunrise.
He spent some time at his bedside. Just watching. Watching as his chest rose and fell, as the minutes passed and he could at least be certain of one thing:
He was alive.
Finally, as the sky began showing whispers of light streak the horizon, he rubbed his tired face. Making his way back to the dormitory like a zombie, he trod the steps one at a time. As he collapsed into his bed, the light now dancing on his eyelids in merry contempt, he recalled the panicky face of his foe.
Wondering absently, as he delved into sleep, when he had himself become the maker of such petrified expressions.