Eighth [Harmione]

9. Quidditch and Conspiracies

  PART II: The Interim  

Harry's face turned a brilliant shade of glowing red as the applause swelled and resounded in the Great Hall, washing over him in a ripple of sound. He exchanged a rueful glance with Ron and Hermione, who were flanking him on either side, and limped carefully into the large room, his hands clenched tightly around the crossbars of Muggle crutches. There were narrow silver bands above and below each knee, powering a portable restraint field, which kept his legs slightly bent and immobile much like braces would.

It hadn't been three weeks, but over five before he'd been allowed to leave the hospital, and even then, he was required to return once a week for a therapy session, something that had resulted in the Gryffindor Head common room being hooked up to the Floo network. McGonagall had figured that the three of them might as well stay there, and so they had settled into their private suite eagerly.

The applause continued, punctuated by cheers, shouts, and whistles, as Harry hobbled slowly up to their normal spots at the Gryffindor table. He handed Ron the crutches, as Hermione helped him sit. His face was radiant, as the clapping didn't stop, even after he sat down.

He looked around, trying to smile, but looking obviously and incredibly self-conscious. To his horror, there was a scraping of wood against stone, as his fellow students stood to their feet almost as one. The teachers at the staff table stood too; he saw Lupin, who, he had been informed by Hermione and Ron, had taken the D.A.D.A. post, which had remained unfilled up until the re-opening of Hogwarts. The applause seemed interminable.

"Dear God," he murmured through clenched teeth to Hermione and Ron, as they smiled innocently at him, and stood as well, applauding with their classmates.

Somewhere, a camera flashed, leaving Harry starry-eyed. Through the blue spots in his vision, he could see a wide grin and wildly waving arm. "Hi, Colin," he said, with a wry look.

At length, the noise dwindled away, and a loud murmur filled the Hall as the students tucked in to their dinner. Harry could still feel eyes on him, and he knew that the noisy and excited conversations probably had him as their chief subject.

Hermione and Ron were still grinning giddily at each other, at the success of their triumphal entry.

"Traitors," Harry muttered darkly at them, stabbing a piece of chicken and dumping it unceremoniously on his plate. He could feel Hermione's concerned eyes on him, as he filled his plate. The Amplitude potion had given him a rough time, not for a couple of days, but for over a week. She had been alarmed at the rate at which his weight had dropped. Even now, he was pale and thin, with virtually permanent shadows under his eyes. He looked less like a conquering hero than someone who was recovering from a protracted and serious illness.

"Come on, Harry!" Ron said, unintimidated. "Would you really have wanted us to sit here all sulky like Malfoy, instead of standing and cheering for you?" The Slytherin had neither stood nor applauded with the other students, along with a significant portion of his house.

Harry craned his neck, with interest, toward the Slytherin table. "So they've let him come back then?"

"He arrived yesterday," Hermione told him, following his gaze. Draco Malfoy looked more sullenly arrogant than ever, seated at one end of the table, putting food on his plate without meeting anyone's gaze. His housemates were seated around him, but he did not seem to be surrounding by groupies and lackeys, as was his wont.

"He owes it to you," Ron said, sounding gleeful. "And he knows it...and it totally pisses him off."

"He...he didn't really do anything..." Harry drew out slowly. "He couldn't go through with the plot to kill Dumbledore. He did aid our side at Hogsmeade, by taking me to Voldemort, instead of letting people continue to fight and die." He shrugged. "All I did was tell the truth."