A Meeting in the Infirmary
It was the Ukrainian Ironbelly that caught the attention of the Boy Who Lived. Granted, it was small, and asleep, but... what was a Ukrainian Ironbelly doing in the Infirmary of the bar at the end of the universe?
For that matter, what was he? Well, the Narrative leaves that to its readers' vivid imaginations. Possibly he had lost his... galoshes. Or something. At any rate, our hero's reasons for being here or anywhere else at any given time are irrelevant. He is Harry Potter. He probably has permanent all-access passes to everywhere in the world unless it becomes convenient to the plot for him not to.
But the Narrative digresses. Harry was in the Infirmary, noticing a small sleeping dragon on a nightstand beside a bed whose occupant was certainly no wizard he knew... although whoever he was, he was in a pitiable state indeed. The dark-haired man was sitting at one end of the bed, hugging his arms and rocking slightly. There was an IV tube in his arm, too. He'd managed not to tug it out. He was shivering, but the blankets were kicked off the bed.
Harry looked around for a doctor, saw that they were all conveniently at tea or something, and drew nearer.
"Excuse me?" he said unintrusively to the man in the bed.
Miniver's eyes darted to Harry and stared, wide and desperate. Harry paused and almost took a step back, but the stranger seemed in no state to move much, and Harry couldn't see a wand anywhere...
As a gesture of goodwill, he stooped to pick up the blanket on the floor. Miniver let out a high-pitched squeak when he touched it and ducked his head, cringing as if from the oncoming, inescapable force of some natural disaster... Which, granted, Harry could almost qualify as sometimes, but nevertheless...
"It's all right," the wizard said, slowly picking up the blanket. "It's fine, see?" He held it up to unwrinkle it and took one step nearer. When this caused no apparent change in the stranger's hostility, he stepped again. Step by step until he was close enough to carefully drape the blanket over the convalescent's shoulders. "There now. Do you more good there than on the floor."
Miniver took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, his eyes clearing a bit. "Thanks."
Pleased to have determined the state of his new charity case's coherency, Harry beamed him a winning smile. "I'm Harry," he said.
"Ah."
Harry's brows went up a few pixels. "Harry Potter," he clarified, thinking that perhaps if this person was ill enough, he might not realize which specific Harry was introducing himself.
"That's nice."
Harry tilted his head to display his ever-so-recognizable profile. "Where'd you get this?" he asked, indicating the dragon sleeping on the table.
Miniver glanced at it. "Dragon."
"Yes," replied Harry patiently, "I can see it's a dragon. A Ukrainian Ironbelly, I believe. Where did you get it?"
"The. Dragon," Miniver stammered, a drop or two of impatience in his tone. He said it once, was this repetition really necessary? "Made it, gave it, I dunno. Got here."
Harry sat slowly on the edge of the bed, his brain making odd cranking noises as he tried to puzzle out a meaning from the stranger's words.
"A wizard gave it to you?" he concluded at last.
Somewhere in the tormented nest of vipers eating his mind, there was a shadow of an expression translatable into one single word: Duh. "Yeah," Miniver chattered. "Dragon."
Harry's brows were nudged upwards another few pixels. "Draco?"
Miniver nodded.
"Draco Malfoy?"
Another nod.
"Why?" Harry scooted away from the enchanted dragon as if afraid it might try to devour him.
Miniver gave Harry an annoyed look. "Because he likes me. Look, not to be rude, but could you piss off? I'm busy suffering nobly to prove my devotion."
Harry ignored the latter parts of Miniver's response, now Deeply Concerned for the stranger's well-being if he was involved with Draco. "Look," he said, casting a conspiratory glance at the dozing serpent, "Draco doesn't like people. He uses people. Are you here because of something he did?"
Miniver hunched his shoulders under the blanket. "Something he asked me to do."
"And you did it willingly?"
Miniver nodded.
"Why?"
The clearly mad American tossed his hair out of his face, squeezed his eyes shut while the ensuing dizziness passed, then blinked at Harry. "Because I love him."
Harry couldn't believe his ears. "Are you completely mad??" he demanded.
Miniver pursed his lips and rasped through his chattering teeth, "You're sort of a douchebag, aren't you?"
Harry became selectively deaf, and missed Miniver's addition to the conversation. "You're talking about Draco Malfoy," he continued. "His father was a Death Eater, killed by Lord Voldemort! Don't you understand that means he's probably going to work for the dark side himself? He was raised in it!" There are some serious trust issues here.
"Does it ever bother you that your life is one big expositional plot device?" Miniver inquired.
Harry's selective deafness persisted. "He's very likely under the control of the the person who killed my parents!" The young wizard's face was a minglement of grief and determined rage. "And who killed hundreds, probably thousands of others besides. He'd kill you as soon as blink at you!"
Miniver leaned his head back as far as he could. "Look," he croaked roughly, "you've got these like, strands of light coming from your head and I find it very distressing. Furthermore, you're a douchebag. Go away. You're upsetting the moths."
Harry pursed his lips. "What moths?"
"The ones in the mattress." Harry looked down, noticing that he was sitting on the mattress. "If you can't feel them," Miniver continued, "it's because your ass has fallen asleep from perching on that damn high horse for so long." He stopped abruptly and shivered so violently he was unable to speak for several moments. Harry frowned a Something Must Be Done frown, and determined then and there to make certain Hermione figured out just what that Something was with all due haste.
He did stand up and back away. "Right, I'll just... leave you to it, then. Is there anything you need?" he asked in his most concerned and sacrificing tone.
"Piss off," Miniver suggested.
"...Right. I'll just... I'll be going, then. Oh, by the way. What's your name?"
Miniver, at this point, had had about enough of the monologuing. He reached deep within the floundering constructs of his unbalanced mind, and pulled out the first name that came to him.
"Arthur Pendragon. Now will you please go away?"
Harry's eyes were like saucers. He knew the name, of course. Who didn't? The King raised by Merlin... "Yes... yes of course..." He turned and high-tailed it out of the Infirmary, his mind racing.
Draco was meddling in the affairs of Merlin himself. If, through him, the Dark Lord could reach his influence and change time itself... the preemptive strike that would alter the entire wizarding world from its roots...
He had to find Ron and Hermione.
Miniver, meanwhile, shook his head and curled up under the blanket, muttering as he heard the door close behind Harry, "Douchebag."
For that matter, what was he? Well, the Narrative leaves that to its readers' vivid imaginations. Possibly he had lost his... galoshes. Or something. At any rate, our hero's reasons for being here or anywhere else at any given time are irrelevant. He is Harry Potter. He probably has permanent all-access passes to everywhere in the world unless it becomes convenient to the plot for him not to.
But the Narrative digresses. Harry was in the Infirmary, noticing a small sleeping dragon on a nightstand beside a bed whose occupant was certainly no wizard he knew... although whoever he was, he was in a pitiable state indeed. The dark-haired man was sitting at one end of the bed, hugging his arms and rocking slightly. There was an IV tube in his arm, too. He'd managed not to tug it out. He was shivering, but the blankets were kicked off the bed.
Harry looked around for a doctor, saw that they were all conveniently at tea or something, and drew nearer.
"Excuse me?" he said unintrusively to the man in the bed.
Miniver's eyes darted to Harry and stared, wide and desperate. Harry paused and almost took a step back, but the stranger seemed in no state to move much, and Harry couldn't see a wand anywhere...
As a gesture of goodwill, he stooped to pick up the blanket on the floor. Miniver let out a high-pitched squeak when he touched it and ducked his head, cringing as if from the oncoming, inescapable force of some natural disaster... Which, granted, Harry could almost qualify as sometimes, but nevertheless...
"It's all right," the wizard said, slowly picking up the blanket. "It's fine, see?" He held it up to unwrinkle it and took one step nearer. When this caused no apparent change in the stranger's hostility, he stepped again. Step by step until he was close enough to carefully drape the blanket over the convalescent's shoulders. "There now. Do you more good there than on the floor."
Miniver took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, his eyes clearing a bit. "Thanks."
Pleased to have determined the state of his new charity case's coherency, Harry beamed him a winning smile. "I'm Harry," he said.
"Ah."
Harry's brows went up a few pixels. "Harry Potter," he clarified, thinking that perhaps if this person was ill enough, he might not realize which specific Harry was introducing himself.
"That's nice."
Harry tilted his head to display his ever-so-recognizable profile. "Where'd you get this?" he asked, indicating the dragon sleeping on the table.
Miniver glanced at it. "Dragon."
"Yes," replied Harry patiently, "I can see it's a dragon. A Ukrainian Ironbelly, I believe. Where did you get it?"
"The. Dragon," Miniver stammered, a drop or two of impatience in his tone. He said it once, was this repetition really necessary? "Made it, gave it, I dunno. Got here."
Harry sat slowly on the edge of the bed, his brain making odd cranking noises as he tried to puzzle out a meaning from the stranger's words.
"A wizard gave it to you?" he concluded at last.
Somewhere in the tormented nest of vipers eating his mind, there was a shadow of an expression translatable into one single word: Duh. "Yeah," Miniver chattered. "Dragon."
Harry's brows were nudged upwards another few pixels. "Draco?"
Miniver nodded.
"Draco Malfoy?"
Another nod.
"Why?" Harry scooted away from the enchanted dragon as if afraid it might try to devour him.
Miniver gave Harry an annoyed look. "Because he likes me. Look, not to be rude, but could you piss off? I'm busy suffering nobly to prove my devotion."
Harry ignored the latter parts of Miniver's response, now Deeply Concerned for the stranger's well-being if he was involved with Draco. "Look," he said, casting a conspiratory glance at the dozing serpent, "Draco doesn't like people. He uses people. Are you here because of something he did?"
Miniver hunched his shoulders under the blanket. "Something he asked me to do."
"And you did it willingly?"
Miniver nodded.
"Why?"
The clearly mad American tossed his hair out of his face, squeezed his eyes shut while the ensuing dizziness passed, then blinked at Harry. "Because I love him."
Harry couldn't believe his ears. "Are you completely mad??" he demanded.
Miniver pursed his lips and rasped through his chattering teeth, "You're sort of a douchebag, aren't you?"
Harry became selectively deaf, and missed Miniver's addition to the conversation. "You're talking about Draco Malfoy," he continued. "His father was a Death Eater, killed by Lord Voldemort! Don't you understand that means he's probably going to work for the dark side himself? He was raised in it!" There are some serious trust issues here.
"Does it ever bother you that your life is one big expositional plot device?" Miniver inquired.
Harry's selective deafness persisted. "He's very likely under the control of the the person who killed my parents!" The young wizard's face was a minglement of grief and determined rage. "And who killed hundreds, probably thousands of others besides. He'd kill you as soon as blink at you!"
Miniver leaned his head back as far as he could. "Look," he croaked roughly, "you've got these like, strands of light coming from your head and I find it very distressing. Furthermore, you're a douchebag. Go away. You're upsetting the moths."
Harry pursed his lips. "What moths?"
"The ones in the mattress." Harry looked down, noticing that he was sitting on the mattress. "If you can't feel them," Miniver continued, "it's because your ass has fallen asleep from perching on that damn high horse for so long." He stopped abruptly and shivered so violently he was unable to speak for several moments. Harry frowned a Something Must Be Done frown, and determined then and there to make certain Hermione figured out just what that Something was with all due haste.
He did stand up and back away. "Right, I'll just... leave you to it, then. Is there anything you need?" he asked in his most concerned and sacrificing tone.
"Piss off," Miniver suggested.
"...Right. I'll just... I'll be going, then. Oh, by the way. What's your name?"
Miniver, at this point, had had about enough of the monologuing. He reached deep within the floundering constructs of his unbalanced mind, and pulled out the first name that came to him.
"Arthur Pendragon. Now will you please go away?"
Harry's eyes were like saucers. He knew the name, of course. Who didn't? The King raised by Merlin... "Yes... yes of course..." He turned and high-tailed it out of the Infirmary, his mind racing.
Draco was meddling in the affairs of Merlin himself. If, through him, the Dark Lord could reach his influence and change time itself... the preemptive strike that would alter the entire wizarding world from its roots...
He had to find Ron and Hermione.
Miniver, meanwhile, shook his head and curled up under the blanket, muttering as he heard the door close behind Harry, "Douchebag."