Hospital Wing - Harry Potter
Harry felt like he was floating in darkness. Cold pressed against him from all sides, seeping into his bones the way it had during those nights locked in the cupboard under the stairs. But this cold was different. This one came from inside.
A voice echoed through the black. Laughter.
Dudley's laughter.
Harry's mind lurched sideways, dragging him somewhere else. Somewhere that didn't hurt quite as much.
He was seven years old again, standing in front of Mrs. Harrison's classroom at the primary school. The teacher had asked what everyone wanted to be when they grew up, and Dudley had said "a driller, like Dad," which made all his friends snicker because Uncle Vernon was about as coordinated with power tools as a hippo with a wand. Harry hadn't meant to say anything. He'd learned early that speaking up only got you noticed, and being noticed got you hurt.
But the words came out anyway: "I want to be anything that doesn't require me to drill holes for a living."
The classroom had gone quiet for half a second. Then someone laughed. Then someone else. Then everyone was laughing, even Mrs. Harrison, even Piers Polkiss, even Dudley himself. His cousin's face had turned red, his piggy eyes squeezed shut, and he'd actually slapped his desk while making these weird wheezing sounds.
That day, Dudley and his gang left Harry alone.
That was the day Harry learned that making people laugh was armor. If you made them laugh, they liked you. If they liked you, they didn't hurt you.
The darkness pulled at him again, but Harry fought it. He didn't want to go back there. Back to the cold.
He dragged himself toward consciousness like climbing out of a well, hand over hand, until-
Harry's eyes snapped open with a gasp that felt like swallowing broken glass.
White ceiling. The smell of clean linen and that particular potion smell that meant Madam Pomfrey had been busy. His mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on dragon scales.
He tried to move.
Pain exploded across his back like someone had laid a blanket of fire across his shoulders and set it alight. Harry's breath hissed through his teeth, and suddenly there were hands on him, voices talking over each other.
"Don't move-"
"Harry, oh thank Merlin-"
"Careful, you'll make it worse-"
"Give him space-"
Harry blinked until the faces came into focus. Sirius was closest, looking like he'd aged about fifteen years since this morning. His godfather's hair was more disheveled than usual, which was saying something, and his grey eyes were bloodshot. Tonks stood just behind him, her hair a violent shade of pink.
Further back, Andromeda and Ted Tonks hovered like guards.
"Don't move," Sirius said, and his voice cracked on the second word. He cleared his throat, tried again. "You're safe now. You're in the Hospital Wing. But you're not healed yet, and if you try to move like that again, I'm going to hex you unconscious myself."
"Eloquent," Harry croaked. His voice sounded like he'd been gargling gravel. "Really selling the concerned godfather image."
Sirius's laugh was more of a sob, but he covered it by pressing his hand against his eyes. "You complete bastard. You almost died, and you're making jokes."
"Learned from the best," Harry said, then winced as even speaking pulled at something in his back that really didn't want to be pulled.
"Here." Andromeda stepped forward with a vial of something that glowed faintly blue. "Pain relief. It won't heal you, but it'll take the edge off."
Harry drank it without argument. The liquid tasted like peppermint and iron, but within seconds, the fire across his back dulled to a manageable ache.
"Where are the others?" Harry asked, and slowly...very slowly...turned his head to look around properly.
The Hospital Wing had been rearranged. Instead of the usual rows of beds, four had been positioned with space between them, each surrounded by privacy curtains. Sirius moved to pull Harry's curtain back, giving him a better view.
Cedric's bed was closest, with yellow and black curtains half-drawn. Harry could see Amos Diggory sitting in a chair beside his son, talking in a low voice. Cedric's left arm was wrapped in what looked like enough bandages to mummify a small country, but he was sitting up, which was a good sign.
Further away, red curtains surrounded what had to be Krum's bed. No visitors that Harry could see, but the shadow visible through the fabric was sitting upright, and something egg-shaped sat in his lap. The golden egg, Harry assumed. Already trying to solve the next puzzle. Typical.
On the other side of the room, blue curtains hid the fourth bed. A man's voice drifted from behind them, speaking French too quickly for Harry to follow. But the tone was gentle. Worried.
Her father, Harry thought.
"How long was I out?" Harry asked.
"Six hours," Sirius said. He'd pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down like his legs couldn't hold him anymore. "Longest six hours of my life, I might add. Pomfrey said you'd wake up when your body was ready, but-" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Six hours is a long time to watch someone not wake up."
"Sorry," Harry said, because what else could you say to that?
"Don't apologize for almost dying," Tonks cut in. Her hair had shifted to a darker purple, which meant she was trying to calm down and failing. "Apologize for being a reckless idiot who flew into a cloud of superheated steam like it was a fun afternoon activity."
"In my defense," Harry said, "it seemed like a good idea at the time."
"It was a terrible idea."
"A terrible idea that worked."
"That doesn't make it better!"
"Kind of does, though."
Ted Tonks made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough. Andromeda shot him a look that promised violence if he encouraged this behavior.
"How bad is my back?" Harry asked, because he needed to know. He could feel it...the tight, pulled sensation of healing skin. But feeling it and knowing the extent of the damage were different things.
Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it. Looked at Andromeda.
"It's like roasted meat," Tonks said bluntly, which earned her sharp looks from both her parents.
"Nymphadora-" Andromeda started.
"What? He asked. He deserves honesty."
Andromeda sighed, moved closer to Harry's bedside. When she spoke, her voice had shifted into what Harry thought of as her Healer Voice.
"You'll be fine," she said. "I'm a Healer, Harry, and I've seen worse. Within a few days, your back will be functional again. The scars might remain for a while longer, but you will heal completely. No permanent damage."
"What about the others?" Harry asked.
"Mr. Diggory has a broken arm and some deep lacerations across his chest from the dragon's claws. Painful, but manageable. He'll be back on his feet within a day or two."
She paused, glanced toward the red curtains. "Mr. Krum has a crushed rib, several broken bones in his arm, and his jaw had to be relocated. Again, painful, but nothing we can't fix."
"And Fleur?"
"Miss Delacour has bruising and some scarring on her back where the dragon's tail struck her. Relatively minor, comparatively. She'll be healed within a few hours."
Harry frowned. "Why is mine taking longer?"
"Because your damage came from a magical attack," Andromeda explained. "Dragon fire is bad enough, but that steam attack? That was concentrated dragon magic, superheated and compressed. It doesn't just burn flesh, it burns through the magical protections your body naturally maintains. Cedric, Krum, and Miss Delacour were injured by physical force. Painful, yes, but their bodies know how to heal from that. Your injuries are... deeper. More complicated."
"So I'm the idiot who got hurt worst because I couldn't dodge the magical dragon steam," Harry said.
"That's one way to put it," Sirius muttered.
"Girls love scars," Tonks offered, which made her father cough again and her mother close her eyes like she was praying for patience.
Harry managed something close to a grin. "Lucky the steam missed my face. Rest of me's negotiable, but the face is doing a lot of heavy lifting."
"Oh, fuck off," Cedric's voice called from across the room. His curtains were pulled back fully now. He looked pale, hollowed out, bandaged thick across the arm, but he was grinning. "You are not that good-looking."
"I'm the best-looking person in this hospital wing right now."
"You're competing against me with three broken bones, and a man who never smiles, Fleur beats both of us. That's not the flex you think it is."
"Still counts." Harry turned his head, carefully, wincing at the pull across his shoulders. "How's the arm?"
"Broken in three places." Cedric said casually. "Pomfrey says full function back in two days. Means I'm sorted for the next round of the Duelling Race."
"You're mental."
"Says the bloke who flew into dragon steam on purpose." Cedric paused. "Twice."
"It worked, though."
"You're in a hospital bed, Harry."
"With the egg."
"You're both mental," Tonks said firmly.
Before either of them could respond, Dumbledore's voice echoed inside.
"I am pleased to see our champions are well enough to engage in spirited conversation."
Harry looked toward the entrance to find the judges filing in. Dumbledore led the way. Madame Maxime had to duck slightly to fit through the doorway, her expression grave. Karkaroff followed with his usual sour face, and behind them came Barty Crouch looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, and Ludo Bagman practically bouncing with excitement.
The curtains around all four beds were pulled back by some invisible force, wandless magic from Dumbledore, Harry assumed.
For the first time, Harry could see the other two.
Cedric waved with his good arm, which made Amos Diggory beam with pride.
Krum glanced up from his golden egg, gave a single nod of acknowledgment, then went back to studying the thing like it might attack him at any moment.
Fleur-
She was sitting up in bed, her silver-blonde hair pulled back in a simple braid that looked nothing like her usual perfect appearance. The man sitting beside her, her father, definitely her father, they had the same aristocratic features, had one hand on her shoulder. She looked tired. Hurt. But whole.
Their eyes met across the room.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked.
Fleur seemed pleased for a moment. "Better," she said, her accent slightly thicker than usual. Exhaustion, probably. "Thank you for-" She paused, and something flickered across her face. "Thank you for catching me. When I fell. You did not have to do that."
Harry felt heat creeping up his neck, hotter than dragon fire. "Couldn't exactly let you hit the ground, could I? Seemed rude."
Fleur smiled at him. "Very rude indeed."
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
Harry looked away from Fleur.
"First," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying easily to all four beds, "allow me to congratulate you all on completing the First Task. What you accomplished today required not only magical skill, but courage, quick thinking, and a will to survive against odds that would break many seasoned wizards. You have earned the respect of everyone who witnessed your trials."
He paused, his blue eyes moving from champion to champion.
"That said, I must also acknowledge the cost of such bravery. You have all been injured-some more severely than others. You have faced creatures that could have easily killed you. And you have done so with a grace and determination that speaks well of your character."
Bagman stepped forward, unable to contain himself any longer. "And now, the moment we've all been waiting for! The scores!"
He pulled out a piece of parchment that looked like it had been written on in three different colors of ink, which probably meant the judges had argued about the scores. A lot.
"Miss Fleur Delacour," Bagman announced, his voice booming. "For her systematic approach, her use of advanced elemental magic, and her successful retrieval of the golden egg despite significant injury."
He paused for dramatic effect. Harry resisted the urge to throw something at him.
"Professor Dumbledore awards eight points! Madame Maxime awards ten points! I award seven points! Mr. Crouch awards eight points!"
Bagman's face fell slightly. "And Professor Karkaroff awards... one point."
Harry's head snapped toward Karkaroff so fast something in his neck protested. "One point?"
Karkaroff's smile was thin and satisfied. "I score based on what I observe, Mr. Potter. Miss Delacour's performance, while adequate, did not meet the standards I expect from a champion."
Harry opened his mouth, but Fleur got there first.
"Adequate." Her voice promised violence. She hadn't moved from her bed, propped against pillows with burns dressed along her arms, but she might as well have been standing over him. "You watched me blind a dragon, drown its fire from the inside, and retrieve the egg with a fractured spine. And your professional assessment is adequate."
Karkaroff's smile didn't waver. "I judge what I see, Miss Delacour."
"Then perhaps you need glasses." Fleur tilted her head. "Or perhaps ze problem is not your eyes but your arithmetic. One point. Ze absolute minimum you could award without it appearing on ze official record zat you did not score at all." She paused delicately. "Which suggests you wanted to give zero but lacked ze courage."
"You will show respect to the judges of this Tournament," Karkaroff said, his voice dropping.
"I am showing you exactly ze respect your score suggests I deserve," Fleur replied. "One point's worth."
Harry grinned. He was liking this side of Fleur.
Bagman, looking increasingly uncomfortable, pressed forward. "Mr. Cedric Diggory."
The scores were read. Seven from Dumbledore, seven from Maxime, six from Bagman, nine from Crouch. And then.
"One point from Professor Karkaroff."
Cedric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Amos Diggory looked like he might rush over to strangle Karkaroff with his bare hands.
"Mr. Viktor Krum," Bagman continued, clearly trying to get through this before someone committed an international incident.
Five from Dumbledore. Six from Maxime. Nine from Bagman, because of course Bagman loved the dramatic brutality. Seven from Crouch.
And ten from Karkaroff.
"Thirty-seven points," Bagman said, trying very hard not to look at Karkaroff while saying it.
Krum said nothing. Didn't even look up from his egg.
"And finally, Mr. Harry Potter."
Nine from Dumbledore. Eight from Maxime. Ten from Bagman, who probably got off on watching Harry nearly die multiple times in increasingly creative ways. Seven from Crouch.
"And one point from Professor Karkaroff."
Harry looked at Karkaroff. Saw the petty satisfaction in the man's eyes, the smug curl of his lips.
"So just to make sure I'm following the maths," Harry said, his voice light, conversational, almost friendly. "Krum kills a baby dragon, blinds the mother, shatters her leg with a curse I'm fairly sure is illegal in at least a dozen countries. Ten points. Full marks. Meanwhile Cedric, Fleur, and I, none of whom permanently maimed anything, all get a single point each." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Is the scoring criteria written down somewhere, or do you just sort of feel it out in the moment?"
"I judge based on merit, Mr. Potter."
"Right, yeah, the merit system. Where three completely different strategies against three completely different dragons all produce the exact same score of one. That's not judging, Professor. That's just using a rubber stamp."
"Mr. Potter, that is quite enough," Dumbledore said, but his eyes were twinkling. The bastard was enjoying this.
Karkaroff's face had gone the color of raw steak. "You insolent little-"
"Professor Karkaroff." Fleur's voice cut across the room, and something in it made Karkaroff's mouth close against his will. "I want you to understand something."
She held his gaze the way someone might hold a dirty rag between two fingers.
"I do not care about your one point. I did not enter zis Tournament to impress you. I entered to prove what I am capable of, and I did zat today in front of everyone 'ere." Her accent thickened. "But you should care. Because every person in zis room, every judge, every student in zose stands, zey can do simple mathematics. Zey can see zat you gave your own champion a perfect score and everyone else ze minimum. And when zey see zat, zey will not think 'Karkaroff is a 'arsh judge.' Zey will think 'Karkaroff is a small man who uses what little power 'e 'as to punish children 'e is afraid of.'"
Karkaroff was turning red with anger, and he seemed ready to use his wand, but then Madam Maxime cleared her throat and gave him a hard look, reminding him that if he dared to use his wand on her student, there would be severe consequences.
"Igor," Dumbledore said, and this time there was steel beneath the pleasantness. "Perhaps we should move on to discussing the Second Task."
Karkaroff's mouth snapped shut, but his eyes promised murder. Harry met his gaze steadily. He'd faced a Hungarian Horntail today. An angry Durmstrang headmaster wasn't exactly terrifying by comparison.
Dumbledore waited until the tension had lowered from "about to duel" to merely "quietly homicidal" before continuing.
"The Second Task will take place in early February," he said. "Additionally, the Second Round of the Duelling Race will occur within the week, precise date to be announced. I trust you will all have recovered sufficiently by then."
He gestured to the golden eggs. "And as you have no doubt surmised, the golden egg contains a clue to the nature of the Second Task. I encourage you to examine it at your leisure."
"Any hints?" Cedric asked.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I think you'll find the egg quite... vocal about its contents."
Which meant exactly nothing, but Dumbledore seemed pleased with himself, so Harry let it go.
The judges filed out, Karkaroff shooting one last poisonous look at Harry and Fleur before leaving. Bagman bounced out like an overgrown puppy. Crouch left without saying a word. Madame Maxime paused beside Fleur's bed, speaking quietly in French before departing.
Dumbledore lingered at the doorway. "Rest well, champions. You have earned it."
Then they were alone again. Four champions, their various family members and supporters, and the quiet sounds of the Hospital Wing at night.
Harry then decided that when he found out who put his name on the Goblet of Fire, he would strangle that person to death.