“Ron. Goodness- your hands!”
It was whispered. Hermione grabbed Ron’s hands, turning them over to reveal splotches of blood, fresh and staining his palms. “Oh my goodness, what happened- Where…”
But there was no visible injury on his hands.
Ron slid onto the bench, next to Hermione. Harry followed suit, choosing to stay quiet.
“It’s…” Ron glanced at Harry, who grimaced, subconsciously flexing his bandaged hand. “It’s not my blood.”
“It’s been a week, Harry.”
“What?” Harry muttered distractedly, stuffing his textbooks into his bag haphazardly. It was rather hard to do one-handed.
They were pretty late for breakfast, Harry could suppose, seeing as the sun was glaring at them from the windows and the clock on the wall told them it was way past seven. But… it wasn't the everyday laziness excuse that had him draped in bedsheets the entire morning.
For one, when he’d woken up, feeling extraordinarily exhausted, his sheets had laid rather heavily on his right hand. Like they were drenched in something. He’d slept on his right, so he’d had to turn onto his back to raise his arm and check.
And… It had been quite an effort for him, without his glasses, and straining against the sleep still in his mind, to make sense of what was before him.
Goodness, he remembered wrapping bandages around the scars on his hand before going to bed - as in, melting into his mattress without even taking off his glasses, because he’d just returned from detention and was exhausted. He’d wrapped them… tight as he needed to. But, well, maybe he hadn't wrapped enough layers.
Also, someone had taken his glasses off. He supposed it had been Ron.
And to continue on, he’d tried his best to focus his muddled gaze on his hand, and found a rather alarming sight: red. Red everywhere. A faint, dark patch of it on his bandages spelled out the words he’d had to carve into his hand, and stained his bedsheets with a similar stamp.
I must not tell lies.
When he’d unrolled his bandages, his hand still bled, and as sleep left him, the searing pain in his hand made itself known.
Everyone had left for breakfast, not bothering to wake him. He supposed they weren't quite comfortable enough to do that, seeing the thousands of accusations the Prophet, and some… other witches and wizards had placed on him, telling the world of how unstable and very unapproachable, untrustworthy or whatever he was.
Well, everyone except Ron, who had lingered on, hoping he wouldn't have to disturb the pale wizard who lay slumped on his bed, looking rather lifeless. That was what Ron had told him he looked like.
Harry did not appreciate that, but decided not to comment any further.
Now, Ron was helping to re-bandage his hand with whatever was left of Harry’s measly medical supplies, which unfortunately meant there were blood stains on his redheaded friend’s hands.
“Stay still for a moment,” Ron sighed, carefully looping the white cloth around and around. “I can't see what I’m doing when you move around.”
Harry took a deep breath, and set his bag down, next to his bed. “...Sorry.”
There was silence, for perhaps two seconds, before Ron spoke again.
“Don’t you think the others will notice the bloodstain on your sheets?”
Ron wasn't looking at him. But Harry noticed his fingers whitening around the bandages.
“I…hope they won't,” Harry confessed. He hadn’t quite thought something like this through. He’d always been hiding the burning scar on his forehead from everyone; he’d supposed the scars on his hand wouldn't be any different. “I could always try a spell. Clean it off.”
“You’d sooner rip your bedsheets in half using this hand,” Ron said drily, tapping Harry’s right wrist. “I’d do it, but… I’d rather Hermione come help us.”
Oh, so this was what Ron wanted to talk about. It had been a week since Ron had found out about Umbridge’s notorious ways of conducting detentions, and Harry knew how much of a feat it was for him to not have told Hermione about them yet.
Harry didn't know why he didn't want to let Hermione in on this particular secret. He’d always trusted her with everything. And yet… he thought he knew, too. Hermione would not hold herself back like Ron.
She’d care more for Harry’s well-being than whatever Umbridge could do to her. She could be rather scary at times about his self-neglect.
And yet, every particle within him valiantly pushed him away from his thoughts. Hermione was his best friend, and Ron the other. He had to trust them with everything…or he couldn't trust anyone.
“Yeah, I know,” Harry finally said. Ron had finished wrapping the bandage, and Harry gingerly flexed his hand.
It hurt.
But he didn't say anything.
“You know, do you?” Ron said, sounding agitated. Harry finally was able to meet those blue eyes, and bit his tongue upon seeing hidden pain flickering back at him. Such pain… “Please, Harry, we have to tell…” He shook his head. “Someone. It doesn't even have to be our school nurse - Hermione knows more about healing stuff than I do-”
Harry placed a shaky hand on Ron’s shoulder. Specifically, his newly bandaged hand. “Ron… I…” He tried smiling. “I’m telling Hermione, okay? I… I don't know. I’ve been a bit of an idiot, I guess.”
“Damn right you have.”
“Yeah…”
Ron opened his mouth again, as though he wanted to say something more, but then he picked up his bag, and turned away from Harry. “Come on, let’s get to the Great Hall. I hope they haven't finished the eggs.”
“It’s… not your blood?” Hermione looked from Ron, to Harry, then back to Ron. Then back to Harry, and the bandaged hand he’d placed on the table, hidden beneath dishes but still visible to the three of them. She blinked.
She started to get up, something fizzing in her eyes and making Harry want to get out of the Hall before she absolutely walloped his butt, but Ron put a hand on her shoulder, and she slowly sank back down to the bench. “Harry.”
She didn't seem to care that Harry's blood was now on her shoulder.
“I know,” Harry groaned, wincing at Hermione’s expression. She looked terribly livid. “I’m sorry-”
“How’d you get injured?” Hermione hissed. “And why does it look like Ron helped to clean it up? Did you two even go to Madam Pomfrey before getting here?”
“...No,” Ron said slowly. Hermione turned her gaze on him, and he swallowed.
“What happened?” Hermione directed this at Harry, who was so not enjoying this back-and-forth.
Harry lowered his voice even more, and Hermione had to lean in, over Ron, who spluttered, having already started on his breakfast.
“...Detention. With Umbridge.”
There was absolute silence between the three of them in their corner of the Gryffindor tables.
Hermione started to rise up again, and Ron put his hand on her shoulder once more, this time having to force her down. How Hermione didn't blow up the Great Hall in the next few seconds with just her expressionless gaze at Harry’s hand and her clenched jaw, none of them knew.