Hidden

Chapter Three

Losing the Focal Point

"Eeww... Putrid. Disgusting. I mean, look at him! He's a toothpick troll! And look at that horrid scar."

Harry ignored Pansy Parkinson's rude commentary on him as he approached the steps out of Hogwarts. Time to practice for the Quidditch game next week. Surely this would relax his nerves; right?

"And plus, he can actually stand beside that pile of rags, Weasel, and the walking-talking-textbook, Mudblood bitch."

Harry swerved violently, his eyes suddenly burning with anger. His broom handle was clenched tightly in his fist, as he stomped over to where Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco stood, immobile. Harry's eyes, dark emeralds filled with fury, locked with Draco's. He resisted the urge to sink into that wondrous blue-grey gaze, focusing instead on his anger.

"Why you spoiled prat! How dare you insult Ron and Hermione like that! You called her a Mudblood, again, and even worse! I'll kill you for that, Malfoy, I'll get my revenge!"

Draco smirked at Harry, raising a single slender eyebrow. "Oh, and how do you presume to achieve the impossible, Potter? Mercifully shower the blessings of goody-two-shoes heaven on me, and paint goodness on my heart from your hidden collection of 'Golden Boy, Teacher's Pet' paint?"

"I think I'd rather attach a fake arm to your broom so that you have half a chance of getting the Snitch before I do on our next Quidditch match." Harry was unconscious of the fact that this statement highly resembled ones he'd said in past years; it was a good comeback. Proved.

Draco took a small, yet menacing step forward, his hands held up as if to strangle Harry. Hissing like a snake, he replied, "I could win that match blindfolded with one hand cut off, Potter! And you know it! So go fly around and crash into the Whomping Willow for all I care, you pompous fucked-up git!" Harry didn't cower, as Draco wanted. His eyes did widen in surprise, however, at Draco's language; usually the Slytherin was much more controlled than this. What was his problem today?

Smiling at Draco in the same taunting way he'd suffered through so many times at the hands of the Slytherin, Harry said, "Language, language, Malfoy. Should I write up a report on the wonderful eloquence of the words you used? I think McGonagall, or perhaps Dumbledore, would consider it a definite five-star reading."

And then Harry walked away, turning back once to give Draco a satisfied smirk. The silver haired boy simply stood there, snarling - for once he had no comeback. However, as soon as he was out of view Harry dropped his grin. Inside, he felt more like he'd just been fed poison. He attempted to wet his dry lips, as he mentally beat himself over the head. That conversation really hadn't made things better. Would he ever have a chance with Draco? The first step of that gradual process was being able to have a civil conversation with the other boy. What could be worse than the difficulty of having to attempt this?

-----*-----

Harry knew now that he should never have asked "What could be worse than this?" He should have been smarter than that! He'd watched enough muggle TV in his life to know that every time someone asked, "can things get any worse?" something much, much worse happened to them. It was a cliché, but apparently, it happened to wizards, too.

Slowly, he walked down one of the many Hogwarts corridors, not caring where he was going. Draco had gone home to "visit his father" as Snape had put it. They had had Potions today, and in mourning of his favourite student's absence, Snape had once again put down the Gryffindors while praising Draco. Harry hadn't cared about the unfair insults this time. He'd just sat there in unadulterated horrification; Draco had gone to visit, of all vile people Harry hated and wanted to save his beloved Slytherin from, his father! He shivered at the mere thought of it.

Dizzy with depressing thoughts, Harry stumbled, which sent him careening down the stairway to his right. At first, his undirected feet still managed to properly plod in the correct motions. But then Harry lost all control of his body, wasn't aware of the real world around him, as his foot slipped and he fell down the staircase. It was a horrid tumble, him slipping backwards and sideways, limbs flailig, bruises soon covering every inch of him. His chin knocked on a stairway rail, and blood flew. Dimly, he was aware as his knuckles slammed with an awful crunch onto the floor upon landing at the bottom of the staircase.

Harry lay there, still only vaguely aware of anything aside from his mental anguish and the shadow of depression that overwhelmed him. He blearily opened his eyes, and literally saw red. The red of blood. Sitting up in his blood, he attempted to wipe at his mouth in vain, broken bones in his right hand cracking. He leaned back against the stair, coughing blood, the remains of his glasses clutched so tightly in his hand that they punctured the skin. But Harry didn't feel this pain, wasn't aware of physicality, as he was once again lost in his sub-consciousness, this time his company with Draco weaved with hellish negativity into a disturbing nightmare.

He didn't hear anything, as, shrieking upon seeing him, Hannah Abott ran for help. He wasn't aware of hands gently holding him, of tears being shed for him, wasn't aware of the excruciating pain that rendered upon his body as he was heaved onto a stretcher and rushed to the hospital wing.

All he knew was that the pain of everything had become worse because of Draco Malfoy's disappearance. Bitterly, he thought, Draco would gradually cease to exist, and Harry would lose his focal point.