Chapter Two
Remembrance

Saturday dawned bright and clear. Spring started to show itself, bringing with it baby birds begging their mothers for food, insects returning from whatever it was they did during the winter, and an insane amount of happy people. The sun seemed to go to their heads; everywhere Harry looked, people were smiling, talking, walking down the street with friends in tow. The cafés were filled with people buying take-out to bring to the park where they would sit for hours, continuing to smile, talk and enjoy life.

Spring was also the season of love, or at least that was what the magazines claimed. Perhaps that was why Harry felt completely alone as he walked by himself down the street with grocery bags in hand, watching as couples kissed and cuddled on the benches and pavements.

It had been close to a week and a half since Malfoy’s accident. It was a week since Harry had been at the hospital the last time, when Malfoy had screamed at him to ‘get out!’ yet again. He hadn’t gone back since. He told himself it was because it would do no good, especially not to Malfoy, who was in danger of making his injuries even worse if he didn’t keep still.

The taunting voice in his head told him another story. It told him he was weak, scared. Harry didn’t want to believe it, although deep down, he knew it to be true.

Since he’d been at the hospital, he had managed to block all the unwanted thoughts from his mind. Like when he first left that world, he firmly shut the door and refused to think about it at all. He went on with life as he had since that time; he spent the weekend by the computer, trying to write a few sentences for his new book – an attempt which failed miserably – and during the week he was in class. He buried himself in schoolwork and avoided his friends. Myra watched him from a distance, he knew, trying to figure out what was wrong. She was getting more and more curious – and annoyed, to a point – to what was going on, just as his other friend, Darius Alden.

“You know, you can’t just hide from us,” Darius had told him just the day before. “Friends exist for a reason. And that reason it not ‘to shy away from every time you get a problem’. Although you seem to have gotten the definition wrong, I’ll admit.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I just – it’s complicated and it would take too long to explain. Just leave it alone.” He kicked a stone on the ground.

Darius, a very good-looking – and wealthy – young man with wavy dark hair and a muscular build, regarded him with a raised eyebrow. The look reminded Harry very much of—

“Too complicated?” he said. “Then I’m guessing this has to do with that mysterious past of yours. Am I right?”

Harry shrugged, knowing that it would do him no good to deny this. He had never been a good liar.

Still with the raised eyebrow, Darius said, “And you still don’t think it would be a good idea to tell us?”

Frustrated, Harry said, “No! It’s not – I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“No. Not now. I – I have to figure it out for myself first,” Harry said, the last part said in a sigh. He looked up to meet Darius eye. “I’ll tell you when I understand it, okay?”

Darius sighed theatrically, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine,” he said. Then he fired off a brilliant smile. “Now, do you think Myra would be so kind as to lend me her notes? I really didn’t have time to write anything last night.”

“And what, pray tell, did you do instead?” Harry asked with a shake of his head, already knowing the answer. He hadn’t known Darius for three years for nothing. Then again, he was thankful for the change of topic. “Or rather, who?”

“A gorgeous little thing called Blossom. What a fitting name at that – she was a beautiful little flower, that one,” Darius grinned at the memory.

“How old was she? And where did you find her?” Harry asked. He wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know, but he still asked. Listening to Darius was sort of like reading about the celebrities’ lives; fun, but not exactly interesting and definitely not something Harry could relate to.

“Nineteen,” Darius said. “She’s from Cambridge and is planning on moving here.”

“When did she decide on that?” Harry asked dryly. “Yesterday?”

“No, actually,” Darius said, pretending to be affronted. “She’s here looking for an apartment.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you showed her the very finest parts of London, right? Especially the finest of London beds?”

“Now, now, don’t be like that,” Darius said, glaring playfully at Harry.

“But it’s true,” Harry said. “Is it not?”

Darius grinned widely. “She’s wonderful,” he said happily.

“I’m sure,” said Harry, with another roll of his eyes. Every single one of Darius’ conquests was ‘wonderful’. Harry knew that this girl would be history in a few weeks, at the latest, just as they all were. Darius was not one to go steady with anyone, least of all some pretty blonde (somehow, Harry just knew that the girl was blonde) named Blossom. “We have to go,” Harry said. “Class is starting.”

Darius rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’m coming,” he said. “You know, you never told me whether you think Myra will let me have her notes or not…”

Now it was Saturday and Harry unlocked his apartment and walked inside, arms full of groceries. His apartment was a mess: he hadn’t bothered to clean up in the last week. His mind had been elsewhere, far elsewhere. He stole a glance at the clock – a Muggle clock, of course – and before he had time to block it, the thought came unbidden to his mind:

Visiting hours are until five.

He shook his head to clear it, not wanting to think about it, about him. Malfoy spelled trouble in big, bold letters. Harry shouldn’t go visit him again, because somehow he knew that if he went one more time, he would not be able to turn his back on the other man again.

As if you could turn your back on him before, taunted the voice in his head and Harry swore under his breath. He had gone back to the hospital twice already. There had been absolutely no need for him to do so, especially not the first time, but he had. He was a ‘good guy’, the ‘hero’. Thus he needed to know that the person he’d saved was doing all right, even if said person was his – former? – enemy. Harry couldn’t very well say that the angry young man on the hospital bed was the same boy he had faced off with in school and that was said to have—

He stopped the train of thought abruptly. Things had happened; things through which no person could live and come out unscratched from.

Before he knew it, he was outside again, walking down the street towards the hospital.

The ward was slightly more alive this time when Harry entered it. In the big room with the couches sat a woman in a wheelchair, with a child on her lap and a man whom Harry assumed was her husband, beside her. Several of the rooms had the blinds open this time around and Harry saw smiling families and friends surrounding the patients on the beds. He knew his own visit to Malfoy wouldn’t be anywhere near that.

He knocked, this time without his hand shaking. He didn’t know what he was expecting from this visit, but he knew that it would be the ‘third time’s the charm’. If that was charmed only to be hexed to hell, or charmed to a slightly less cold Malfoy, he didn’t know, although he could probably guess.

He heard, “Come in,” said from the other side of the door and he opened it.

“Hello Malfoy,” he said.

The structure around Malfoy’s upper body didn’t allow him to turn at all, so he couldn’t see Harry when he entered, but Harry knew that Malfoy would recognize him even if he were blindfolded and had nothing to go on but his hearing.

“Potter,” he said, managing to make it sound like a cuss word. “You are back.”

“Your powers of observation astound me,” Harry said, moving into the room, into Malfoy’s view.

“As your powers of ignorance astound me,” Malfoy said, his glare now following Harry’s every movement. “Why are you here?”

Harry, who had been looking out the window in pretence to ignore Malfoy, turned to face the bed. “Why, I’m here to see you of course,” he said and he was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He studied the floor briefly before he looked up at Malfoy again. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Now there’s an eloquent answer if I ever heard one.” Malfoy’s voice was colder than ice. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“Oh, you mean the shouts of ‘get out, get out’?” Harry mimicked Malfoy’s words in a high-pitched girly voice. “No, I don’t want to hear that again. Ever.”

“Why – are – you – here?” Malfoy said slowly, as though talking to a four year-old.

Harry returned the glare Malfoy was giving him, suddenly serious. “I told you, Malfoy. I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that since your accident, I have been bombarded with memories – memories I thought I did a good job on locking away. I want – I don’t know – I want them to stop.”

“And how, would you say, does coming here, visiting me three times in less than two weeks, help you stop your stupid memories from assaulting you? And why, for heavens sakes would I care?” His tone was biting, cold as ice.

Frustrated, Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know!” he said again. “I just – I don’t—“

”If you say that you don’t know one more time, I am going to—”

“To do what?” Harry spat, irritated. “Hex me without a wand? Get up and punch me without working legs? Call on your imprisoned father to do the dirty work?”

As soon as the words left Harry’s mouth, he regretted them, but there was no way to take them back. Even with their history, what he had just said was far below the belt: all of it.

What little colour was left on Malfoy’s pale cheeks disappeared and he looked down on the covers pulled up over his waist. He mumbled something that Harry didn’t catch.

“I – I’m sorry,” Harry stammered. “I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry—“

Malfoy looked up again, chest heaving in aggravation and his eyes once again alive with fury. “Fuck you, Potter. Fuck – you.”

This time, Malfoy didn’t have to scream at Harry to leave; he did so of his own accord.

He couldn’t recall how he got there, but suddenly he was back at the café. He stood in line, his mind blank and when he reached the counter, he still had no idea what he was to get. The girl he had met the last time he was there was there again today though, and she gave him a latte and a scone with cheese and butter, just like last time. She gave him a small smile and took the money from his hand before he could start trying to count it, giving him back the correct amount of change and calling on the next person in line.

Harry knew she must have thought he was strange, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. Instead he sat down at the same table he’d sat at the last time and watched the people milling about outside. Smiling faces, happy people. Harry wondered if he’d ever been one of them. He didn’t think so.

Hours must have passed, because when Harry stirred out of his empty thoughts the next time, the café was nearly empty; only a few booths were still occupied and all but Harry seemed to be there in couples.

“Back again, huh?”

The voice made him jump in surprise. The girl from behind the counter stood just behind him.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said. “I’m here pretty often. You’re new?”

She nodded, a strand of dark hair falling in her face. She brushed it away. “Started about two weeks ago,” she said.

“Is it any fun?” Harry told himself that he should at least try to sound interested, as she was clearly interested in him.

“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “Pretty nice folks to work with and I get to meet a lot of people when I’m behind the counter. But the pay sucks.”

He attempted a smile. “I’ll bet.”

“You don’t know anything about that though, do you?” the girl asked looking at him. “Harry Evans, right? I’ve read your books.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could say. “Did you – did you like them?”

Her smile grew. “I loved them. The way you always build up tension more and more throughout the books – it’s brilliant! I can’t wait for your next one.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks,” he said, then stood up and looked at his watch, pretending to be shocked by the time. “You know, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I – I didn’t realise so much time had passed.”

The smile faltered slightly, but then she brightened. “That’s okay. I’ll see you next time you come here. I’m Mona, by the way.”

She stretched her hand out and he shook it, still unsure of the girl before him. “Nice to meet you, Mona,” he said nonetheless. He had manners, after all, and it seemed to make her happy to be recognized like that. “Bye.”

“Bye,” she said as he left the café.

On the horizon, the clouds were piling up on top of each other. Rain was coming.

Monday morning, Harry awoke at six thirty when his alarm went off. Shutting it off, he rolled over and fell promptly asleep again, only to wake up an hour and a half later and realise that his first class would start in approximately four minutes. Swearing to himself, he jumped out of the bed and tried to pull his socks on whilst getting some cereal out for breakfast. The only result was that he tipped the bowl and suddenly his socks were rained with cereal. Sighing, he sat heavily on the chair and just knew that this would be one of those days.

Instead of hurrying off to his class, he pulled the socks off, cleaned the floor from cereal and took some bread out to make toast. He would skip the first lesson; there was no use in coming an hour late anyway.

“So you have decided to grace our class with your presence, Mr Potter. How thoughtful of you.”

His head snapped up as he heard the voice, clear as though Snape was standing right next to him. He knew he was being silly – Snape couldn’t possibly be there and the logical part of Harry’s brain knew this. Still, he couldn’t help but look around the apartment for those long black robes and greasy hair. When he had finally convinced himself that it was just his imagination playing with him, he sat down heavily, his breathing ragged as though he had just run up the stairs.

When he finally did get to class, it was only to realise that he might as well have stayed home. He made a fool out of himself again and again when the professors directed their questions at him and when Myra and Harry met up in the library to study, Harry didn’t take any notes. Instead, his notepad was filled with strange patterns.

Myra snatched the notepad away from him as they left the library. She frowned when her suspicions as to how little attention Harry had paid were confirmed.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” she asked, guiding him outside to sit on one of the benches. “You haven’t paid any attention while we were in the library – I dread to think how you’ve managed in your classes.”

Harry closed his eyes and suddenly, he wasn’t at the university anymore. It was no longer Myra sitting next to him – it was Hermione.

“Harry, talk to us, please. We can help you.”

His eyes snapped open again and he was thankful to take in the university’s grounds once more. Myra looked at him worriedly, brown eyes filled with concern. She reminded him of Hermione in more ways than one.

“Myra, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” he heard himself reply. It sounded so far off, like he no longer inhabited his own body.

“Harry, you are walking around like a zombie,” said Myra exasperated. “Darius can’t get you to talk; I can’t get you to talk. You should be glad that Candy is in France at the moment, or she’d be here forcing tea down your throat to get you to tell her.”

He managed a small smile at this; Candy would not back off until she knew what was wrong, that much was for certain. She was as sweet as her name suggested, but when something was the matter with one of her friends, she was vicious in her hunt for the problem.

“How long is she going to be gone?” he asked.

“Oh no,” Myra said, eyes narrowing at him. “You are not changing the subject and getting out of this that easily.”

Harry muttered, “Damn,” under his breath and she sent him a reprimanding look.

“Now, talk,” she said.

Harry frowned, thought about it and then shook his head. “No.”

“Harry!” She was getting frustrated with him and perhaps that was what Harry’s subconscious wanted. If she was irritated, she would give up and leave him alone and he could go back into the wonderful land of Denial. “I’m not going to stop bugging you about this until you tell me.”

Harry stood from the bench and glared down at her. “Then I guess you are going to bug me for a very long time,” he said coldly.

He stalked away from her, refusing to look back and see the heartbroken expression he knew would be on her face. If he did look back, his step would falter; he would break and he would tell her. And if he told her, the hurt would only increase more and more until it threatened to overtake him completely—

“Harry, you can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Let us help. Come on, mate.”

He looked up around him, wondering where Ron was hiding. His voice lingered in the air, floating on the gentle spring breeze, reminding him of things he didn’t want reminders of.

“Let us help… Come on, mate…”

“Stop it!” he screamed, hands going over his ears, shoulders shaking with held-back sobs. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

Then he began running; at first it was jogging but it soon turned into a full-fledged run. His eyes were blind to his surroundings and it was amazing that he managed to avoid causing a horrible accident as he sped down the streets. He knew where he was going although he didn’t know why. It didn’t matter, though. He was going to the only place where the voices stopped, if only briefly. He was going to the source of this madness, the reason why he was remembering in the first place.

The hospital looked cold and indifferent when he stopped, hands on his knees to catch his breath. He refused to stay still for long, however; he was afraid the voices would start again if he had time to think about anything except trying to get a proper amount of air into his lungs. Thus, he pulled open the doors and walked inside.

He walked down the corridor, up the stairs, his feet growing heavier with every step as he realised that he had absolutely no right to come here anymore. The only thing he did was upset Malfoy and although that shouldn’t have mattered to him, it did.

The nurses glared at him but didn’t say anything as he walked down the corridor. He assumed that they had heard his rows with Malfoy the other times he’d been here. They didn’t stop him though, so he ignored them. The ward was calmer now that it was once again a workday and the blinds were, once more, pulled closed. Malfoy’s blinds had been closed every time he came, so that didn’t surprise him.

He knocked, waited for the invitation and then walked inside.

Malfoy turned his head the half centimetre that the structure would allow, but Harry knew that he wouldn’t have needed to do even so much; Malfoy knew that it was—

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

“Do you not understand that I do not want you here?” Malfoy asked. He looked tired, dark circles beneath his eyes and a fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead, but Harry didn’t dare to ask about his health. “I thought that after last time even you would have gotten the message.”

“Look, Malfoy, I didn’t come here to fight—“

“Then why the hell did you come here?” Malfoy interrupted. “I – don’t – want – you – here. Is that concept so hard for the Glorious Potter to grasp?”

Harry felt the anger rise within himself. Anger both at himself for coming here again and at Malfoy for being such a complete prat. He fought to keep himself from saying the things he shouldn’t.

“Well, well, Glorious Potter has finally understood the concept of shutting up,” Malfoy taunted. “Not a day too soon at that.”

“Just like you still haven’t,” Harry spat at him. “You know, how long are we—“

He was interrupted by the door opening. A short, plump nurse entered the room. “Good evening, sir,” she said to him.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, ignoring the looks of ice that Malfoy gave him.

“It is time for Mr Malfoy to get cleaned up, so if you could just step outside?” She motioned vaguely toward the door.

Harry’s eyes travelled from the nurse to Malfoy on the bed. Malfoy was glaring at him, but Harry thought he could detect a blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mention of someone else “cleaning him up”. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind, took pity on Malfoy and ended up saying only, “Yes, of course,” to the nurse.

He shot a last look at Malfoy on the bed. As he walked to the door, he could feel the cold silver eyes trying to follow his movements.

The door fell shut behind him and he walked down the length of the corridor slowly, his mind still full of thoughts and memories. Ron’s ghostly voice had left him, though, and for that he was thankful. Although Malfoy did nothing but infuriate him, it also seemed to stop the memories from assaulting him in such a harsh way as they did when he was at the university, or even worse, at home.

Walking back up again, he passed Malfoy’s room. The door was still closed and he figured it would take more than just a few minutes to clean a person with injuries that bad up. Thus he continued down towards the common area, where the TV was turned on and two patients were watching. The young woman looked about Harry’s age; she had tubes connected to her arms and her hair was very thin, making Harry wonder if she getting a treatment for cancer. She was in a wheelchair, just like the man next to her. He looked older, his right leg and right arm in casts, as well as a bandage around his head. They were watching the news.

Harry sat down by the window, away from the other two. The couch was comfortable and he looked around for something to pass the time with. He didn’t question himself as to why he was staying at the hospital at all when Malfoy so clearly didn’t want him to.

His fingers found folders, lying on the table next to the couch he was sitting on. Several were on cancer, on medicine over all, but there was one about being paralysed. Curious, he picked the pamphlet up.

‘What is the central nervous system and why can’t it repair itself after an injury?’ it said.

‘The central nervous system (CNS) controls most functions of the body and mind. It consists of two parts: the brain and the spinal cord.

‘The spinal cord is the highway for communication between the body and the brain. When the spinal cord is injured, the exchange of information between the brain and other parts of the body is disrupted.

‘Many organs and tissues in the body can recover after injury without intervention. Unfortunately, some cells of the central nervous system are so specialized that they cannot divide and create new cells. As a result, recovery from a brain or spinal cord injury is much more difficult.

‘The complexity of the central nervous system makes the formation of the right connections between brain and spinal cord cells very difficult.’

Harry hadn’t actually asked about anything to do with Malfoy’s injury at the time when it had happened. For the weeks that had passed since then, he had been too busy with his own mind and memories that he had forgotten that Malfoy had been severely injured in the accident that had brought them together. But the fact was that he had, and the injuries he had sustained had been so serious that they would render him in a wheelchair, maybe for the rest of his life.

Suddenly the reality of it all came crashing down on Harry.

Malfoy was handicapped.

He couldn’t move his legs.

He wouldn’t be able to lead the life he had always said he would – he would have to have people help him, do things for him, and although he’d had servants since he was born, Malfoy probably loved that because he could order them around, not because he needed them.

Standing up suddenly, he wasn’t even aware that the two patients had moved their attention from the TV to him instead. He was almost on his way to go back to Malfoy’s room when he remembered that the nurse was still there; no more than fifteen minutes had passed. Thus he sank back down into the couch and picked the folder off the floor, where it had fallen to when he’d stood up.

How petty and small those fights they’d had since they were eleven suddenly seemed. In fact, how petty and small a lot of things seemed when he imagined himself in Malfoy’s situation. To not be able to walk – he couldn’t even begin to grasp the idea.

He read on.

‘Perceptions about the human spinal cord have undergone a revolution in recent years. What was once considered immutable is now showing signs of promise. Because of this, you must no longer accept that you will be paralysed for the rest of your life.’

Well, that sounded positive at least. There was a chance that Malfoy would be able to get out of that wheelchair. He flicked through the folder and realised that if Malfoy was ever going to be able to walk again, it would take both luck, as far as how bad his injury had been, as well as a great deal of hard work.

“Sir?”

Harry was awakened from his thoughts by the plump nurse. She stood in front of him, slightly concerned but her face was mostly blank as she watched him.

“Yes?” Harry finally said.

“Mr Malfoy is all done, so you can go back in if you want to,” she said.

Harry cocked his head to the side. “Did he want me to come back?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t say anything. He is a very quiet patient. Except – well, except when you are here.” She looked disapproving at this and Harry had the grace to look sheepish.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. He was just about to head over to Malfoy’s room again, when he stopped and turned back to the nurse. “How bad was his injury?” he asked and now, unlike the first time he’d talked to that doctor, he was interested (and not in a state of shock). “Will he ever be able to walk again?”

“We don’t know. Mr Malfoy doesn’t seem very keen on working to get better at the moment, but that might change when he can start training for real,” she said. At his questioning look, she continued, “Mr Malfoy has to stay completely still for two whole months – six more weeks – so that the fracture on his spinal cord doesn’t worsen. After that, we can start him in a training program.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could say. “How long will he have to be in the hospital, then?”

“Six more weeks, of course, and then probably another two before he has learnt how to use the wheelchair and is strong enough to move around again.” She looked up at him. “Are you a relative of his?”

“Me? No,” Harry said. “I’m an— old friend from school.”

The nurse eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. “Do you know where his parents are? We can’t seem to get a hold of them, or even find them in our records.”

“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!”

Harry’s head whipped around at the sound of Mr Malfoy’s voice, so clear as though he’d been standing right there, next to him at the ward.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

Slowly, Harry was returned to reality by the concerned voice of the nurse. “I’m – I’m fine,“ he mumbled. “I just – thought I heard something.”

The suspiciousness was back in her eyes, but again, she didn’t say anything.

“I’m just going to—you know, go in—to Malfoy,” Harry said and he fled from the nurse before she could ask another question.

“You are back.”

Harry bit back the retort that came so easily to him, gripping the folder in his hand tighter. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Malfoy stared at him unbelievingly. “What the bloody hell are you sorry for, Potter?”

Harry frowned; this was not how it was supposed to go. Of course, nothing ever went according to plan when Malfoy was involved, did it?

Midnight duels, Potions classes, detention with Hagrid…

Like the others, these thoughts came unbidden into his mind.

“Potter, you’re standing in my room, blocking my sight of the television – the least you could do is answer me.” Again, Malfoy’s voice was cold and impersonal. He sounded like the Malfoy Harry had always known, making Harry wonder if some things ever changed at all.

“How do you know what a telly is anyway?” Harry asked, deciding to try to change the subject.

“Oh for Merlin’s sakes, I did take Muggle Studies, didn’t I?” he spat.

Harry was surprised to hear this. He had never bothered to find out what Malfoy was studying in school, except for the subjects that Harry had to have with him.

“Now you’re going to tell me why the hell you just keep coming back and coming back, again and again, like a bloody yoyo, Potter. You are going to tell me and then you are going to leave and then you’re not going to come back after that.”

“Why is it so bad to have me here?” Harry asked. “Do I remind you of something bad? Am I really that horrible to have here? Is it just that it’s me?”

“You may take any of those – you just gave three fine points as to why I wouldn’t want you here,” Malfoy said.

“What is it that I remind you of?”

“The same things that I remind you of,” Malfoy said, somehow managing to keep his voice void of feelings. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Harry. “The same things that you don’t want to talk about.”

Harry knew it was a way to get him to stop talking about it – and it was certainly a very effective way. As much as he wanted, he couldn’t force Malfoy any further without having to admit certain things himself – and those were things he wasn’t about to admit to anyone, least of all his nemesis from a school long forgotten.

Malfoy’s eyebrow rose in a face of victory. “See what I mean, Potter? You don’t want to talk about it. And since you don’t, you don’t have to come back here. Which, in turn would make me happy.”

Harry couldn’t hold back a snort. “You? Happy? That will be the day.”

Malfoy’s face fell for a second, but then he regained his composure and the mask of indifference – Harry suddenly realised that it was just that; a mask – was back up again. What he had said had touched a nerve, somewhere deep down inside, beyond the cold shell that was Draco Malfoy.

He gave a soft, small sigh. “I guess this is where you tell me to get out?”

Malfoy’s icy glare was enough to tell him that he should leave and his rational mind was telling him the same.

“All right,” Harry said. “I’ll go. But you know I’ll be back, because there is way too much behind all this – we can’t just leave it alone.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow rose again, this time as in a dare to say, ‘Oh, yeah?’

“Good night, Malfoy,” Harry said and he left the room, for the first time shutting the door quietly behind him instead of slamming it.

Walking back from the hospital, Harry passed by Espresso House and decided to get a coffee. The coffee shop was busy with people, most of them sitting paired off in the booths and by the windows. A group of loud, young girls sat on the long row of couches, with books before them. Harry guessed they were there to study, although it looked like they were doing nothing of the sort. An assortment of cookies lay on the table, half-eaten, and several mugs of what had probably been hot chocolate were still there.

Harry ordered his own cup – a large latte. He decided to try adding chocolate to it and ended up with a mocha. With it, he decided on a bagel with chicken and bacon, because he hadn’t eaten anything in hours and cookies would not do the trick for his growling stomach now.

He picked up a book from his bag – since he hadn’t been home since university, he was still carrying the books for his last class.

“And the Goblin Rebellion…”

This time, it was Professor Binns’ droning voice that entered Harry’s mind and made him sit up straight and glance around suspiciously for the ghost. Binns was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

Harry wasn’t as shocked, terrified, worried, whatever the word to use, to hear Professor Binns’ voice, however. It was not nearly as frightening as having to listen to Ron’s voice, whispering in the wind, as though he was still there and not long gone.

As though he wasn’t dead.

As though he hadn’t been dead for five years.

Harry gripped the cup before him hard as memories of his best friend assaulted his senses, despite how hard he tried to stop them. His eyes were squeezed shut, his body shaking, as he took deep, steadying breaths to get his body under control again.

“Mr Evans? Are you all right?”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he heard Mona’s voice. But although she wasn’t as much of a distraction as he needed, she was still a distraction from the memories.

“I’m fine, Mona,” he said, trying to sound like he normally did. “Just—a headache, you know.”

She smiled a friendly, sweet smile and nodded. “We have pills to help that, but we’re not allowed to give them out to customers,” she said. “Sorry,” she added, her smile turning sheepish, “some customer reported us to the police for giving pain relievers out, for some reason.”

“That’s all right,” Harry said. “I’m just going to go home and go to bed, I think. I’m sure sleep is all I need.”

“Oh, okay then,” she said, her smile faltering. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too,” Harry said, trying not to feel bad about leaving so soon. Now that he’d said it though, he only wanted to go home. “I’ll see you later.”

He left. She smiled.

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