[Discontinued] When Shadows Collide, The Game Begins

Chapter Twenty Nine

When Draco had woken up to see Harry sleeping, finally, he had been beyond happy, but as the day grew old and the boy did not rouse, he began to grow worried, fearing that the worst would soon come to pass.
It seemed that Harry was worse than the doctors had thought, as the young boy did nothing but sleep and sit silently for over a week. He showed no signs of improvement, and wouldn't even acknowledge anyone, but if Hermione returned the boy refused to sleep or even relax, and his eyes remained trained on the bushy-haired girl, as if she could explode at any moment.
    Everyone said it was just the shock, likely seeing Hermione was a reminder of what Harry had been through, and that was something he couldn't handle at that time, so Hermione stopped visiting. Draco missed her. As much as he cared about Harry, it was dull, sitting there alone while Sherlock and John went on cases. They had tried to stay with Harry, but the boredom left Sherlock itching for his gun, and John decided it was probably better for everyone if they stayed busy.
    Draco wished he had something to keep him busy, but all his teachers had allowed him to miss out on homework and class work, at McGonagall's instruction, so he was left caring for a friend who couldn't even respond to anything, watching daytime tv, and occasionally trying to read one of the many books that the Holmes kept in their living room.
It was two weeks before Harry spoke, long days of doing nothing as everyone waited on edge for something to get better. Hermione stayed at school the whole time, focussed completely on her studies and for Harry's sake, though the twins visited occasionally. When Harry finally said something, it was well past midnight, he and Draco were watching some comedy that Draco didn't understand and Harry didn't find funny.
    "Not Hermione," said Harry, so softly Draco almost didn't hear.
    "What do you mean?" asked Draco, turning to face his friend. Harry shook his head and said the words again.
    "Not Hermione. Not Hermione. Not Hermione." He began rocking back and forth with the words he was saying, gradually getting louder and faster until he was almost yelling. Draco tried to calm him, terrified he'd hurt himself or wake up the whole street.
    "Okay. Not Hermione. Now shhh," said Draco calmly, panic surging through him as he fought to keep it down. "Please calm down, Harry," he said, putting his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Please." Harry stopped his chanting for just a moment, gazing into Draco's grey eyes, unblinking, boring into Draco's very soul.
    "Not Hermione," he whispered one last time, then he collapsed forward, toppling into Draco's arms.
    "Harry? Harry?" Draco rolled Harry onto the floor and shook his shoulders, trying to rouse him, but nothing happened. "Shit." He ran from the room and burst into John and Sherlock's room. Sherlock sat up immediately, pulling a gun from under his pillow and aiming it at the door. John sleepily pushed his arm down.
    "Sorry, Sherlock, but I think Harry's having a seizure or something. Please, come on." Both Sherlock and John jumped out of bed and sprinted to the living room where Harry still lay on the floor. John kneeled beside him, checking his pulse and trying without luck to wake his son.
    "What did he do before he passed out?" asked John,
    "Uh, he kept on repeating the words 'Not Hermione,' and he was rocking back and forth and it was really scary, and then he just passed out," said Draco, stumbling over his words. John nodded before gathering Harry in his arms and running out of the flat. Draco and Sherlock followed him, out onto the dark street.
    Sherlock hailed a cab, one of the very few out of this time, and the three headed right for the hospital.
    "What do you think is wrong with him?" asked Draco, worriedly looking at his friend and wishing he could do more to help.
    "I'm not sure. It might be a seizure as you said, but if it's something magical, I don't know what we'll do," replied John.
    "Saint Mungos'll look after him, if it is magical," said Draco. "They have witches and wizards at most hospitals, so if needed they'll sort him out no problem." He hoped he was right. He hadn't needed to go to that hospital since he was a boy. A nasty incident with his broomstick and a hand glider had left him in a ward for weeks. He shivered at the memory before returning to the present. The taxi was starting to slow down.
    John leapt out before it stopped completely and sprinted into the hospital, Draco and Sherlock right behind. By the time they reached John, Harry was already being wheeled away in a gurney. A doctor was asking John question after question concerning his son's health, and John was answering, though appeared quite overwhelmed. Sherlock took his hand in supposed and the two of them followed the doctor and the gurney down the hallway. Draco tried to follow, but a nurse stopped him.
    "Family only, young man," he said.
    "I'm his... uh... brother. Please!" said Draco, struggling in the man's grip.
    "No you're not. Take a seat and I'm sure you'll be able to visit him once he comes 'round." Draco huffed, but took a seat, fiddling with his wand and the sleeve of his robes.  A few people gave him odd looks as they passed, but he ignored them, wishing more than anything that he was by Harry's side. And what had he meant when he'd said 'not Hermione'? Surely Draco would've noticed if something about her had been wrong, then again, he'd been pretty preoccupied with Harry.
It didn't matter now, as there was nothing he could do, so instead he turned his thoughts toward his friend, lying in the hospital bed, hoping that he was okay, and just tired or something. How long had it been since Harry had actually eaten something? Aside from a few mouthfuls of a couple meals, Draco didn't think Harry had eaten since he'd returned. He'd probably just passed out from that, which wasn't magical at all.
That was his last thought before he drifted off, days of little sleep finally taking their toll. He leaned curled up in the chair, glad that his robes could act as a blanket, and fell into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.