Alternative Medicine
Ch 10: A Plot Appears, Then Pretends to Thicken
By canoncansodoff
Author Notes:
Disclaimer: Not my stories, no money being made, etc., etc.
By the time that Harry and the three witches packed up and crossed the street, the Maharajah and his one-man entourage had walked into the hospital and disappeared behind the closed doors of the business office. One of the Healer’s aides shooed the four teenagers towards Harry’s room, whispering that the monarch would soon be given a tour of the facility, and that all of the Hospital’s patients should be in their beds at that time.
“This might just be a ruse,” Hermione reasoned, as they carried Harry’s palki through his room’s doorway. “We are supposed to be keeping a low profile, after all.”
Padma nodded as she set the sedan onto the floor and picked up a pair of trousers and shirt that had been placed on top of Harry’s bed.
“Auntie must want him dressed and presentable,” she noted.
“I think that Harry is far more presentable undressed,” Parvati snarked, as she leaned over and placed a kiss on the top of his head.
“What’s that sister? Just a fluffy chaste kiss?” Padma teased. “Where’s that Gryffindor spirit?”
“Temporarily beaten down by Auntie’s sixth sense,” Parvati whined.
Hermione snorted. “Take the book from his lap, Parv,” she asked. “It’ll be easier to dress Harry while he’s still in the chair.”
The black-haired wizard in question sighed deeply as he looked down at his limp arms and legs.
“Not that I don’t appreciate all the help, but…this invalid business is getting old.”
Parvati smiled as she leaned over and lightly dragged her fingertips down the Boy-Who-Won’s bare chest.
“Does that mean that you won’t want our help dressing you…and feeding you…and relieving your…urges…once you’ve recovered?”
“So much for being ‘temporarily beaten down’,” Padma wise-cracked, as she kept one eye on her sister’s hands. “It’s your urges that are a more immediate concern.”
“Perhaps we should let Harry decide if my urges are a concern,” the Gryffindor cooed, as she put her lips to his ear and began to whisper.
A blush began to color the sitting wizard’s cheeks, and travel down his neck, but it was impossible for the other two to determine whether this was caused by what was being said into his ear, or what was being groped within the tight gap between lap and book.
“Parvati!”
The young woman hissed as she glanced back over her shoulder towards the closed door.
“You would think that Auntie’s attention would be focused more on the Maharajah than my hands,” she whined, as she pulled the bound copy of the Kama Sutra from Harry’s lap.
Harry snorted while Hermione pulled his torso away from the seat back so that Padma could slip the shirt around his shoulders. Noting the placement of the book on a bedside table, he then asked, “Merlin, Parvati…can’t you find someplace a little less…conspicuous?”
“What’s wrong with a little bedtime reading?” the grinning witch asked. “A little cultural exposure?”
“It’s what’s exposed in the illustrations that’s the problem,” Harry replied. “Might just as well have copies of Playwizard laying about.”
“But it’s classic text!”
“Yeah,” Padma snorted. “The same way that your vibrator is classic representation of Shiva.”
“We don’t have time for this banter,” Hermione stated briskly, as she straddled Harry’s thighs and began to button up his shirt. When she felt a twitch at the point of contact, she winked at Harry and said, “Don’t have time for that either.”
“Quit wiggling, Hermione,” Padma hissed. “It’ll be hard enough as it is to stuff him inside of these trousers.”
“But is it hard enough to stuff it inside of her?” Parvati snarked.
Hermione giggled in response as she flattened the front of Harry’s shirt with her hands and stood. She looked down at his lap and said, “Perhaps it would be best if he keeps the dhoti on…wouldn’t want our patient’s blood flow to be restricted.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Just prop me up in bed like this, please…we’ll save the…stuffing…for another time.”
“Promises, promises,” Parvati muttered.
The Boy-Who-Won ignored the comment, and accepted the magic-aided transfer from chair to bed with a bit less self-pity than on previous occasions, perhaps distracted by the purpose of the Maharajah’s visit.
“So what do you reckon he wants?”
Padma shrugged her shoulders as she covered his bared legs with a bed linen. “Well he did have a role in our travel arrangements,” she noted. “Perhaps he’s just checking to see that things are working out.”
“Could have squared those concerns away with a telephone call,” Harry noted. “He’s got to want something in return for his help…they always do.”
A knock on the door kept the Boy-Who-Won from elaborating. Hermione and the twins quickly stood by Harry’s bedside and faced the entrance as Auntie Patel entered the room with two men.
“And here, Your Highness, is an interesting case,” the Healer stated. “May I introduce you to Mister….Jones, along with three of my trainees…Miss Chawla…Miss Kapoor, and Miss…Poppins.”
Hermione’s shock at being introduced as a Disney character was quickly tempered by the realization that her role in Harry’s transport might require an alias. Padma and Parvati, whose fake names had been taken from the Muggle Bollywood cinema, were just as quick to catch on.
Harry’s reflexively cynical attitude towards political leaders (and magical governments in general) was immediately challenged when one of the two men stepped forward. The white-haired wizard, who was barely five-feet tall and eight stone in weight, placed his hands together in front of his chest and bowed his head.
“Namaskaram,” (I recognize the divinity within you).
Padma and Parvati were quick to reply with the same words and movements (the only difference being that their bows were a little deeper, and held a little longer). Hermione was close behind, once she saw the appropriate response.
“Erm…good afternoon…Your Highness,” Harry replied, after bowing his head in acknowledgement.
Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the cinematic references. Harry turned, gave his Muggleborn girlfriend a wink, then turned back and added, “Sorry that I can’t offer you my hand, or…”
The old man waved away the Boy-Who-Won’s concerns. “It is perfectly understandable, Mr. Jones…better that the intent is there, than to be faced with someone whose heart isn’t in tune with their gestures.”
“Erm…..yes, of course, Sir,” Harry replied (thinking that “one whose heart isn’t in tune with his gestures” was the perfect definition of a politician).
Healer Patil took a step forward and began to describe her patient’s symptoms and treatment regimen to both the monarch and the other man, who was introduced as the Maharajah’s medical attendant. The slightly younger (and much more heavyset) Healer looked rather skeptical as the case was presented. He stepped forward and rolled up Harry’s sleeves, then turned down the sheets for a look at his legs, all the while asking pointed questions about his care.
The twins’ Auntie didn’t shy away from providing plain-spoken, pointed responses, and this self-confidence was bolstered when the Maharajah’s Healer finally (if a bit reluctantly) declared that he concurred with both her diagnosis and treatment plan.
“Well, then…we have a few more patients to see,” Healer Patil announced, as she raised an arm towards the opened door.
“Good, good,” replied the Maharajah. “Ravi, why don’t you continue on the tour…I would like to chat with Mr. Jones for a few minutes about the state of Quidditch in Britain.”
The monarch’s Healer bowed his head in acknowledgement, and followed his colleague out into the hallway. The Maharajah then closed the door, and cast some wandless magic against the door, all four walls, and the window.
“Privacy charms,” Hermione whispered to Harry, although he had already assumed that the case.
Once the white-haired wizard had completed his circuit of the room he turned back towards the bed and asked, “So, how are you really feeling, Mr. Potter?”
Harry chuckled, and provided an honest response.
“I’m…I feel lucky to be alive, Your Majesty, and…I feel fortunate to be here receiving treatments by the Patils. And I want to thank you…and the Indian Ministry…for your help in bringing me here.”
The Maharajah replied with the enigmatic horizontal figure-eight head nod that usually means “yes,” or “I understand,” even if it looks like a head-shaking “no.”
“You are very welcome, young man,” he replied. “Although I must confess that my role and the central government’s role in bringing you here was very limited. It was the Patil family…and, I might add, your three lovely attendants…who were critical to the process.”
Harry stared at the ruler for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the concept of a monarch or governmental leader who would dress so simply, or be so quick to distribute praise and thanks. Wondering if it were all an act, he decided to probe his guest’s intentions.
“I also wanted to thank you for the invitation for tea,” offered Harry. “I hope that our response was both respectful…and explanatory?”
“Of course, of course,” the ruler replied, waving away any concerns with a hand wave. “I must apology for requesting that you visit me so early in your…treatment program…and for interrupting your afternoon with this unannounced visit.”
The black-haired wizard turned towards Hermione and the Patil twins and waggled his eyebrows just enough for them to notice.
“That’s okay, Sir…I was just resting on the beach with my…three lovely attendants.”
The Maharajah smiled at the blushing witches and replied, “Then I must apologize doubly, for time spent in their presence must surely be integral to your healing process?”
Harry chuckled, and nodded his head.
“Yes, Your Highness, I can’t imagine living without their healing touches.”
“Harry!” a blushing Hermione whispered, as she tried to discretely nudge his shoulder.
The-Boy-Who-Won grinned at his bushy-haired girlfriend, then returned his focus towards his guest.
“So, I don’t mean to be rude, Your Highness, but is there something that I can do for you?”
The elderly wizard smiled, and nodded his head to acknowledge Harry’s question.
“Mr. Potter, while you were under medical stasis, a number of decisions were made on your behalf…decisions that ultimately brought you to the here and now. Despite my near-certainty in your concurrence with those decisions, I must formally ask you some questions…questions whose answers will be used by our central government to respond to those who consider your lady friends to be criminal fugitives.”
The young wizard’s internal warning radar flashed brightly with this response, and his eyes narrowed. Hermione tried to calm his emotions with a hand placed on his shoulder.
“Harry, we told you that the British Ministry had taken a dim view of our bringing you here.”
“But what about the living will that I signed when I turned seventeen, Hermione…or the durable power of attorney?” he protested. “Those documents should have made it clear that you had the authority to make medical decisions for me if I was unable to make them myself!”
“They do, Harry…they do,” the bushy-haired witch gently replied. “And they were used to secure the visas, and the Indian government’s help in transporting you here.” She then looked up towards the Maharajah and asked, “Has there been a change in the government’s position, Your Highness?”
The older man shook his head. “No, my child, nor in mine. But as the British Ministry of Magic has identified the two Miss Patils and yourself as fugitives from the law, and petitioned the ICW to have extradition treaties enforced should you be discovered in a foreign country…Mr. Potter’s blessings on your decisions will firm up the resolve of my country to offer the four of you sanctuary.”
Harry snorted. “Well that’s easily done, Your Highness. I trust Hermione utterly and completely, and support any and every decision that she made on my behalf.”
The brown-haired witch couldn’t resist leaning down and pulling Harry into a brief hug. She then pulled back, smiled, and asked, “You really don’t need to know the details?”
“Of course not.”
“So…whatever I agreed upon, in order to get you out of Britain…you’re okay with that?”
Harry cocked his head slightly.
“Okay, Hermione…now you’ve got me curious.”
“Sssshh!” Padma hissed. “I thought we weren’t going to tell him yet about those signed marriage contracts!”
There was a moment of silence, during which time Harry’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and Hermione’s lips puckered as if she’d just sucked on a lemon.
But then the dam burst, and the three witches all broke out into giggles.
“Gotcha, Harry!” Padma said brightly.
Harry snorted, and shook his head in disbelief. He looked up towards their guest and was pleased to see a smile on the old wizard’s lips…Fudge’s or Scrimgeour’s reaction to the interruption of their pompous blatherings would have been far different.
“Allow me to clarify my blanket assurances, Your Highness,” he stated. “I agree with every decision Hermione made for me, unless that involves a marriage contract with anyone other than the three lovely ladies by my side…and anything less than a total of three separate contracts if it does involve one of them.”
The Maharajah chuckled as Harry turned the tables back upon the blushing witches.
“If that is a request, Mr. Potter, then I would be happy to arrange for the appropriate number of contracts to be filed with my office.”
Harry, now turning as red as the others, stalled for time. “Thank you for the offer, Your Majesty…but perhaps I should talk first with the three ladies and their two fathers?”
“A wise decision, Mr. Potter,” the older wizard replied brightly. “So, to be clear, you do not object to having been removed from the care of British Healers and the British Government, nor do you object to having been transported from Britain here to India, nor to receiving medical care from the Patils once you arrived here?”
“No, not at all…they’ve been brilliant, and I couldn’t imagine a better quality of care than what I’ve received here.”
“That is good to know, Mr. Potter…thank you for your cooperation,” the Maharajah replied. “Which leads to the next topic…the safety and visibility of both your caregivers and yourself while receiving treatment here in Kovalam.”
Harry frowned. “Is there a reason to fear for our safety, Your Highness?”
The old man replied with that enigmatic head wiggle.
“It is my understanding, Mr. Potter, that there are still terrorists loose in Britain that would welcome the opportunity to bring great harm to you…or to the ones that you love.”
“That I don’t doubt,” Harry replied crisply (totally ignoring the last part of the statement as he focused on the first part).
“And while these so-called Death Eaters were not active on the Subcontinent, and their views not widely shared by many here…it would be wise for you…and your caregivers…to keep a low profile. At least until you have recovered from your injuries.”
“Should we be worried our…profiles, Your Majesty?” Hermione asked.
“Nothing wrong with your profile from where I’m standing,” Parvati teasingly hissed.
“Hush,” Hermione shot back, wishing that her brown-skinned lover was within arm-swatting range.
The Maharajah snorted as he pulled a envelope from his shirt pocket.
“I’m afraid, Miss Granger, that a local photographer shares your friend’s assessment,” he stated, as he removed a magical picture from the envelope and held it out for their view.
Harry’s heart rate shot up and his bloodflow shot down towards his crotch as he watched a scene play out within the charmed photograph…a scene in which the three witches frolicked in the surf wearing very wet…and very revealing…saris.
“Wow…I don’t remember you joining them in the water, Hermione…although I wish I did.”
“It was…must have been…yesterday afternoon,” the embarrassed witch stammered. “We went back to the beach after your afternoon treatment…you were asleep at the time.”
Padma, who was almost as unnerved by the image as Hermione, had the presence of mind to ask, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but…where did this photograph come from?”
“It was taken by the local newspaper,” the old wizard explained. “Their subscription rates have been falling over recent months, so they have been looking for ways to boost their circulation. The beaches are a fertile hunting ground for this sort of thing”
“Well you have to admit, Hermione,” Parvati observed. “That picture would boost the circulation within a dead man’s veins.” She then turned towards the Maharajah and asked, “Doesn’t she have the most amazing belly-button?”
“Parvati!” Hermione hissed (and slugged, as she was now within arm’s reach of a shoulder).
While the older wizard agreed completely with the young woman’s observation, he had enough reserve (and strength of mind) to keep his response to himself.
“Has this photograph been published, then?” Harry asked, finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the photograph…and from the wet saris that revealed everything, even as they nominally covered everything.
The older wizard shook his head. “It was slotted to appear on the front page of this morning’s edition. But I have…well, let’s call them friends…who work for the newspaper, and provide my office with pre-print copies of each issue…so that my government may comment and request certain changes, as the situation demands.”
Hermione’s first reaction was to rail against what was obviously governmental interference with a free press. Her second reaction was to thank the Heavens that that kind of interference was at work in this instance.
“So…this picture won’t appear in the newspaper, Your Highness?”
“No it won’t, Miss Granger,” the Maharajah replied. “In fact, this is the original photograph, and all other copies have been destroyed.”
“Good,” Hermione said with a head nod. She then turned to Harry and apologized. “I’m sorry, Harry…last thing we need is for me to be spotted, and to be linked to you…”
“Hey, no worries,” her boyfriend replied. “I’ve been out in full view as well…they could have just as easily taken my photograph if their intentions were to shoot something other than three incredibly…photogenic…witches.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Harry,” Parvati snarked. “Your photograph on the cover of Teen Witch Weekly always guaranteed a sold-out print run back home…and if you were caught out wearing wet white boxers that clung tightly to your huge…”
“Yes, yes, your point is made,” Hermione interrupted, trying to keep Parvati from maintaining some sort of decorum within the presence of the Maharajah. She then turned back towards the monarch and asked, “So it would be best if we were to stay out of public areas…not just to keep Death Eaters from learning of our location, but to help your government maintain positive diplomatic relations with a country that considers the three of us criminals?”
The old man nodded. “A very cogent, plain-spoken analysis, Miss Granger.”
“So no more trips across the street to the beach, then,” Harry stated.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Potter,” the Maharajah replied. “And in fact…given the popularity of this resort area, and your room on the street level of this hospital…it might be best to have you all move to a more secure, and less public, location.”
“We could always move him upstairs into our bedroom,” Parvati offered with a smile.
Harry rolled his eyes, then asked, “Did you have a specific location in mind, Your Highness?”
The older wizard nodded. “I would like to extend an invitation for you to visit my home…all four of you, of course. The Palace and its grounds are quite secure, and my Healer and his staff maintain an Ayurvedic facility there that could provide continuity of your care.”
The Boy-Who-Hated-Politicians pursed his lips, as the apparent structure of the Maharajah’s scheming began to take form in front of him.
“Thank you very much for your concern, Your Highness, and for the invitation. It is a very generous offer, but…you’ve already helped so much, and I couldn’t impose on you and your Healer to do more.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be an imposition at all, Mr. Potter.”
Harry stared at the wiry old man for a few moments. He then let out a deep sigh, and while hearing Hermione’s objections in advance for his impropriety, asked, “What do you want from me, Sir?”
“Harry!” hissed his girlfriend.
“No…I’m sorry if it is a rude question, Your Highness…but all my life I have been manipulated by people in power who have claimed that they are acting in my own best interests when in fact they are much more concerned about their own.”
The Maharajah acknowledged Harry’s concerns by nodding his head and briefly closing his eyes. He then opened those eyes, and fixed them upon the patient’s defiant gaze.
“There is no need to apologize, Mr. Potter…I understand your position…perhaps far more than you might think.”
Harry kept eye contact with the Maharajah as he replied with a slight head nod.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the help that you’ve provided us,” he stated. “I would just like to know why that help was provided.”
The white-haired wizard gave Harry that enigmatic head wave, then pointed towards the front corner of the bed.
“May I have a seat?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Hermione quickly replied, as she placed a comforting hand upon Harry’s shoulder.
The Maharajah sat down on the bed corner, looked back over his shoulder towards the door, then tried to honor the Boy-Who-Won’s request.
“As you may or may not know, Mr. Potter, the government of Magical India is a rather diverse, loosely-knit coalition of local and regional governments. My responsibilities here in Magical Travancore also make me a member of a body which is similar to your Wizengamot, and it was necessary for me to obtain the consent of the majority of my colleagues there, in order to bring you here.”
Harry digested these comments as the older wizard stopped and asked Hermione to pour him a glass of water. The brown-haired witch quickly complied, all the while apologizing for not having immediately offered their guest something to drink. Once the Maharajah waved away Hermione’s concerns and quenched his thirst, he continued with his story.
The messy-haired wizard wasn’t at all surprised to learn that many British witches and wizards had, for hundreds of years, displayed a high level of paternalistic arrogance towards the rest of the world. The self-appointed heirs of Merlin always considered their homeland to be the center of the magical universe. And while there was no direct link between the Magical and Muggle Governments of Britain, this arrogance was on particular display when it came to interacting with the sovereign independent Magical governments of countries and regions that were formerly part of the Muggle British Empire.
In short, the British Ministry of Magic, and the bureaucrats that worked within the Department of International “Cooperation”, treated their Indian counterparts like crap, and the resentment that these attitudes generated made the Maharajah’s efforts to come to Harry’s aid an easy sell.
Harry was quick to appreciate these motives and sentiments, but wondered if there was something more to the story being told. When he expressed this wondering in a plain-spoken question, Hermione quietly gasped at the impertinence, but the Maharajah merely smiled, and explained, “I must confess, Mr. Potter, to having my own selfish reasons for helping you recover from your injuries, and to ensuring that you have a positive experience here in Southern India.”
The older wizard took another sip of water, then added, “Simply put, I wish to make you a job offer.”
Eyebrows rose towards Harry’s hairline as he considered this response.
“What sort of position did you have in mind, Your Highness?” he warily asked.
“One that would capitalize upon your unique talents.”
“You mean as the defeater of Dark Lords?”
The Maharajah smiled. “Oh, no…although your skills on the battlefield might come in handy. I was speaking instead of your ability to speak with serpents.”
Padma’s eyes flashed in recognition.
“The Naga?” she asked.
The older wizard smiled, and nodded his head. “Mr. Potter, within the magical forests and wild grasslands of Travancore are three separate colonies of snake-like sentient beings known as the Naga.”
“I’ve…heard of them,” Harry replied, recalling the story he had been told about the prince who defeated the Naga king with a penis-held wand.
“Yes, well…the Naga are rather an independent sort…similar in customs and sentiments to the centaur herds in your country?”
“Your Highness…what would I be doing, then…working as your ambassador, or something?” Harry asked.
The monarch’s eyes twinkled. “That is almost exactly right, Mr. Potter. The Naga settlements are located within lands held by my family…although they would never recognize that ownership…and there are times…there will always be times…when the ability to speak their language would greatly facilitate cordial, non-violent relationships.”
“And Parseltongue is similar enough to the Naga language for that level of communication?”
The older wizard waggled his head. “There are ancient texts that claim as much, although it has never been directly tested.”
“So this job placement would be conditional on my fluency in Naga?”
“Oh, no…whether or not your language skills come into play, I could use someone like you to act as my…what would be the right term…royal warden, perhaps? One who would manage my magical land holdings?”
Harry voiced a quiet “Hmmm” as he considered his guest’s words. He then looked down at his arms and legs and sighed.
“Can’t see how I could do that sort of job given my present condition, Sir.”
“Which is precisely why I am eager to ensure that you have every opportunity to complete your treatment program,” the Maharajah replied. “Also to see that you and your lovely friends have the most enjoyable stay here in Travancore.”
After a few moments of silent consideration, Harry decided that he had no reason to doubt either his guest’s motives, or his sincerity.
“Thank you for your candor, Your Highness,” he then replied. “It really means a lot to me.”
“It is not a problem, Mr. Potter.”
“Which brings us back to where we can safely stay while I receive that treatment,” Harry concluded.
“I can certainly appreciate your desire the continuation of your treatment program with Healer Patil and her…assistants,” the Maharajah stated. “As my own Healer has concluded that you are on the right path…perhaps it would be possible for Healer Patil to make house calls during your visit to the Palace. Although…”
The old wizard’s words trailed off as he caught sight of the magical wet sari picture that now rested on Harry’s lap. He then looked up at the three witches who stood by Harry’s side, and then turned to gaze out of the window, and towards the beach.
As a smile slowly formed on his face, he asked, “Mr. Potter, would you say that this hospital’s proximity to the sea is beneficial to your recovery?”
Harry looked down at the picture and snorted at the sight of Hermione’s wet sari clinging tightly to the cleft between her bum cheeks as she grabbed Padma’s waist and tried to dunk her into the water.
“Couldn’t think of a better location, Your Highness.”
“Well, then,” the Maharajah replied, “that would present a challenge for hosting you at my Palace, as it is located within the foothills. That said, I do have a very modest beach home that could easily be made available for your use, should its facilities and location be acceptable to both yourself and to your caregivers. It should only take a few days to sort out these extradition requests, and to clear your names.”
Harry raised an eyebrow as he considered certain possibilities. “That sounds like a very generous offer, Your Highness.”
"Not at all," the monarch replied. "As it is located on an island that my family owns, your stay could easily be passed off as a trial-run for the job I wish to offer you."
The black-haired wizard nodded, then turned to his companions and asked, “What do you girls think?”
The three witches looked at each other, and wondered whether they were sharing the same thoughts about certain…possibilities.
“Sounds brilliant,” Hermione decided.
“Excellent, then,” the Maharajah stated, as he slapped Harry’s leg and stood. “I shall immediately discuss the situation with our respective Healers.”
“Thank you, Sir,” replied Harry. As the monarch made towards the door, the black-haired wizard thought of one last question.
“Your Highness, would you mind if…if I kept this photograph, then?”
The older wizard’s eyes twinkled in delight.
“Of course, Mr. Potter, of course,” he replied. The monarch then nodded towards the bedside table and mischievously added, “I dare say that the image would be a most appropriate supplemental illustration for your training manual.”
A small gasp escaped from Hermione’s lips as she followed the wizard’s gaze towards the copy of the Kama Sutra that Parvati had left opened on the nightstand.
Still possessing a clear recollection of what it was like for him to be a teenager, the Maharajah then quickly turned, and left the room before the blushes on the faces of its occupants became too intensely pigmented to ignore.