InsaneJournal

Who: Harry and Vee^Heir
What: A hot bath (but not the fun kind)
When: Backdated to Thursday night, following this exchange
Where: Harry's room in Om!Block.
Why: Because Giles and Kit both fail at starting threads.
Warnings: Probably depressing? Also, naked Harry.



Harry was sick: feverish and congested, with the beginnings of a nasty cough. It wasn’t as bad as it could be, but frankly he’d be lucky to get away with a cold instead of full-blown pneumonia. Worse, it was his own fault, refusing to sleep in his new quarters in a mix of stubbornness, paranoia, masochism, and grief and camping out in the snow instead. He’d taken precautions, of course, he wasn’t an idiot (well, not a complete idiot), but there was only so much warming charms and drying charms and a crackling campfire could do against such persistent snowfall, even a light one. He hadn’t intended to make himself sick, at least not consciously, but now that he was he could no longer avoid the necessity of sleeping under the Compound’s roof. But he wouldn’t check himself into hospital, not unless his condition got significantly worse. So what if it was doing more harm to himself than to them, at this point non-participation was the only weapon he had against them. Maybe they’d get bored with him and send him home, where he could fulfill his purpose at least. Harry hadn’t been so totally in another person’s power since his early childhood, and he hated it. He was no good to anyone here.


Harry was sick, and furious with himself, and so very tired of the bloody Scientists and their games.

On coming inside he’d fixed a hot cup of tea, stripped off his damp clothes, and bundled up under some of the seemingly endless supply of blankets in the linen closet. He’d even thrown the heavy fur rug over his shoulders for good measure. Then he’d flipped through the journal, trying to catch up on the week’s worth of communications he’d ignored while trying to ignore the pictures projected onto his windows. Of course, then he’d stupidly let slip that he was feeling sick, and now Vee was insisting on drawing him a bath, of all things. Merlin, why did she have to be so bloody stubborn?

As if to mock him further, the Wall of People He’d Failed flashed to a picture of Vee with a young girl, two or three years old. Harry shut his eyes, trying to fight off the tears. He hadn’t the right to look at the child he’d left behind.

That was supposed to be for her mother, you bastards, for Vee.

Not five seconds ago he’d been annoyed with her stubbornness. Funny how they could fall into their old pattern so easily: but that was over a journal, this was in person. Maybe the hospital would have been better than seeing the pain in her eyes, the hurt he’d caused her . . .