Chapter Three
Silence
Another week passed. Harry managed to push the memories of the past back to where he pretended they belonged and alienated his friends even further at the same time. Myra was worried about him and nagged him every time she had the chance. Darius was not as obvious – Harry wondered if he’d realised that something was wrong by himself at all, or if it was Myra who had informed him. Considering how bad Darius tended to be with feelings, he thought that it was probably the latter.
Pushing the memories back included ignoring Malfoy and his ‘situation’. Harry didn’t want to think about any of that, especially not during the day when he had class. At night however, it was different. That was when Harry brought out the books that he had borrowed from the school library and read about paralysis – what it was, how it could be treated, what it was like to live with it; anything at all. He didn’t know why – although he could always blame it on his thirst for learning, which had become more apparent since he’d acted as a teacher during fifth year. Since then, he had realised that knowledge was power – which was what he had needed to defeat—
He shut the thought down before it reached its end, although he knew very well where it would end. These were his memories after all, his history: It was where the thoughts of Malfoy almost always ended – with the school, with their past, with death and destruction.
They all die.
“You saved his life.”
He did manage to read up on paralysis, though, on rehabilitation, on activities for people in wheelchairs and on programs to make the person better. Apparently, water was a great way for a paralysed person to train. His book said,
‘The effects of gravity are greatly reduced in water so that small body movements can be more easily detected and therapists can determine a person’s maximum ability to move without the full resistance of gravity. Also, when people are beginning to recover movement, water makes practice easier.’
He also read about the injury itself – how the spinal cord can be injured, why it doesn’t heal itself and what the difference between a complete and an incomplete injury is.
‘Persons with an incomplete injury have some spared sensory or motor function below the level of injury – the spinal cord was not totally damaged or disrupted. In a complete injury, nerve damage obstructs every signal coming from the brain to the body parts below the injury.’
He would have to remember to ask a nurse or doctor at the hospital what Malfoy’s injury was. For Malfoy’s sake, he hoped it to be an incomplete one.
Harry couldn’t give a proper answer to why he was reading all the pages of text, though. The ‘thirst for information’ only got him so far. There was some sort of interest in it, in Malfoy, beyond the pure understanding of his injury. As much as Harry hated to admit it, there was a worry about Malfoy. Harry knew Malfoy took great pride in his appearance and he was certain that a wheelchair did not fit into that picture. Only now it had to.
The nurse at the hospital had told him that Malfoy had shown little interest in the exercises to make him better, which made Harry wonder – why? Why wouldn’t Malfoy want to get better? Did he want to spend the rest of his life confined to a wheelchair if he might not have to?
The voice in the back of his head, which usually offered him stupid comments on various subjects, said, ‘Perhaps he has already given up.’
Harry refused to believe that, though. He couldn’t imagine Draco Malfoy giving up just like that. It wasn’t in his character to give up and leave his fate in other people’s hands. The Malfoy Harry had known in school was a stuck up brat who never gave up, no matter what he was doing. Harry allowed his thoughts to go a bit further into his history as he recalled the Headmaster calling out the Head Boy and Head Girl of seventh year – Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.
Hermione…
Harry wondered where she was now. They had all thought she’d end up becoming a Mistress in something – Transfiguration, Potions, or any other subject she wished to go into. After the war, however, she had ended up becoming an apprentice Healer at the Wizard hospital, St Mungo’s. It had surprised people because it hadn’t been something she’d been very interested in before the war. Then again, the war had changed everyone, one way or another.
Harry had lost touch with Hermione only a month after she’d started her apprenticeship, when he had left the Wizarding world for what he had believed to be forever. Apparently, the fates didn’t agree with him.
He let out a small sigh. Just then, there was a knock on the door and Harry got up. He wandered over to it and looked out through the small peephole. Darius stood on the other side.
“Hey,” Harry said, voice tired, as he opened the door.
“Harry, you look like hell,” said Darius with a frown.
“Thanks.”
Darius made his way into the apartment without an invitation. For a boy brought up by a high upper-class family, Darius had very little manners. Harry was used to it, though, after knowing him for several years.
Plopping down on the couch, Harry was glad that he’d kept the books on paralysis in his bedroom where Darius wouldn’t be able to find and question them. Instead, Darius just turned the telly on and flipped through the channels with the speed of an experienced TV-watcher. Darius liked keeping up with the different soaps – it made it easier to talk to girls, since they then had something to discuss. Who was the biggest loser in ‘Big Brother’? Who would win ‘Temptation Island’? And were those scandal rumours about drugs and alcohol on the set of ‘Survivor’ really true? The girls Darius slept with were the kind of girls who watched those shows so Darius did too.
“So, mate, what’s up?” Darius asked after flipping through the twenty channels Harry had access to and finding a soap playing. “Myra tells me there’s something wrong that she can’t get you to talk about. Same thing as before?”
Harry didn’t know how to answer, so Darius did it for him, continuing almost immediately. “It has to do with your mysterious past. And what with the way you’re acting, I’m going to assume that your past is quite different from mine.”
That was the understatement of the year.
“Something juicy, then,” Darius said, looking at Harry’s dubious face. “Since Candy's a lesbian, you're of course bi, and everybody knows about my little indiscretions with chemical drugs—it would have to be absolutely awful for you to not talk about it. So what is it? Murder? Mayhem?”
Harry was looking down at his hands. They shook as Darius ranted on, having no idea how close to the truth he was getting.
“I just— Leave it alone, won’t you? I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said, trying hard to keep the feelings inside of him from bubbling over. He was only seconds from spilling the whole story to Darius; he just knew it. He had to get the other man to leave, unless he wanted to break down for real in front of Darius. He really didn’t want to do that; not now, preferably not ever.
Darius watched Harry; he could see the struggle to keep his emotions at bay, all visible on Harry’s face. Just like Harry had never been good at lying, he had never been able to hide his feelings well.
Darius threw his hands up in the air. “Fine,” he said. There was no malice in his voice when he continued, only slight amusement and a lot more seriousness. “Just don’t be surprised when Myra starts bugging you about it first thing tomorrow morning. She’s going to do that until you tell.”
“I know,” Harry said, frustrated. “I really wish she wouldn’t.”
“It’s the way she is,” Darius sighed dramatically. “Do you have anything to eat?”
Harry rolled his eyes but was thankful for the change of subject. He stood and walked to the small kitchen, where he opened the fridge. Despite his bachelor-status, Harry’s fridge was well filled; there were potatoes, fruits and vegetables, cheese, butter, bottled water and Coke, milk and yogurt. The rest of his kitchen followed the un-bachelor-like theme – there were a dozen plates, glasses, forks, knives, spoons and also a variety of cooking items. Since his time with the Dursleys, he had always liked making food – although it was far more fun to make it for himself, or for people that enjoyed his culinary skills, rather than the ungrateful Dursleys.
“What would you like?” Harry asked Darius.
“Um, you have a sandwich or something?” Darius said from his spot on the couch.
“What do you want on it?”
“Cheese, ham, cucumber and tomatoes with a little bit of butter on the bottom of it all, please. If you have some pepper, that would be great too. No onions, though.”
Harry’s head appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “A thought just occurred to me,” he said to Darius. “You can just go ahead and make that sandwich for yourself, since you do know where everything is. That way you’ll get it just like you want it.”
Darius made a face at Harry, as if to say, ‘Me? Doing work? Are you kidding?’ In the end, he did make the sandwich for himself.
When they finally sat down on the couch again, Darius handing Harry a sandwich as well – with the line, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eating at all the last three weeks,” which wasn’t entirely true but very close to it – the news was showing on TV. Harry had listened at the beginning, but there was nothing of interest. He recalled his time at the Dursleys, before fifth year, when he lay in the flowerbed trying to hear the news. He was glad to be living on his own now.
Harry sat back and slowly ate the sandwich. When he was had eaten a third, he looked up to see Darius finishing his off.
“You eat like a pig,” Harry said, shaking his head.
“I do not. I just happen to like food,” Darius said, “unlike some here.”
Harry ignored him. After he’d finished a bit more of his sandwich, he asked, “Okay, so what do we do now?”
“You stop talking with your mouth full, young man,” Darius said in a perfect imitation of his mother.
Harry raised an eyebrow and said, “Now you decide to have some manners?”
“I always have manners,” Darius said, pretending to be affronted. “Are you suggesting that I don’t?”
Harry’s hands – one still grabbing the sandwich – went up in the air. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” he said and let a grin pass over his features. It felt good to smile; it seemed as if it had been a long time since the last time he did it. Now it was a real, honest smile.
“Now there’s the Harry Evans we know and love,” Darius grinned back.
Harry’s heart fell at Darius’ use of his taken last name. The seconds of blissful ignorance were gone and he was back in reality. He sighed softly, deciding not to let it show to Darius. He would only worry and tell Myra, who would worry even more.
Harry managed to get through the next day of classes with the new mask
of fake happiness. He paid attention in class, he spoke to his friends
– still pointedly ignoring every question Myra had about what had
been bugging him, saying that it had been nothing – and he forced
food down. His not eating had always been a sign that something was wrong.
When his last class got out at four, Harry had long since decided that he was going to the hospital. It was Tuesday afternoon and it was over a week since he’d been there last. He knew Malfoy would rather have him gone for the rest of eternity, but Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away. He had a feeling that Malfoy knew this as well, despite not showing it.
The ward was quiet as always when Harry arrived. No one was watching the telly in the bigger room, but through the blinds of a private room, Harry could see a girl in a wheelchair reading a magazine. The rest of the blinds were pulled shut.
Finally reaching Malfoy’s room, Harry was about to knock when he heard voices on the other side. It sounded like a nurse rather than a TV-show this time, so Harry sat down on the chair outside the room instead of knocking. After a minute had passed, Harry picked up a magazine that lay on the low wooden table on his right side. It was one of those magazines about royalties and famous people. On this one, they were writing – yet again – about the Beckhams. Those two, with their children, frequently graced the covers of a variety of magazines. Harry couldn’t understand what the big deal was.
Ten minutes later, the room to Malfoy’s room opened and the same plump nurse Harry had seen last time came out.
“Mr Evans,” she said, still holding the door open with one hand, the other hand grabbing wet towels. “You are here to see Mr Malfoy?”
“Obviously,” Harry said with a small smile.
She threw a look back inside the room and her features became concerned. “I am sorry to say that Mr Malfoy is not feeling very well at the moment.”
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked immediately before he could think.
“He came down with a fever over a week ago and it won’t go down. He just doesn’t respond to the medication we’re giving him; the fever keeps rising, little by little.”
Harry’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “May I still see him?”
She nodded. “But don’t be long; he needs his rest,” she said.
Harry gave a small nod and walked inside. He heard the door fall shut behind him as the nurse left him and Malfoy alone.
Malfoy lay on the bed, as pale as the first time Harry had seen him at the hospital, his skin glistering with a thin layer of sweat. A bowl sat on the table next to his bed, containing water and on the bowl’s left lay small towels.
“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice sounded raspy and unwell, as he obviously was.
Harry didn’t stop the concern that came to him as he walked forth to the bed where Malfoy could see him. He was not about to play games like the other times when he’d been there, not when Malfoy was sick.
A pearl of sweat made its way from Malfoy’s temple down his cheek. Malfoy’s hand automatically went to wipe it off, but it was stopped short only an inch above the bed by the structure standing around him.
Harry picked up a towel from the bedside table and dabbed it in the water. Slowly, as though he was dealing with a wild animal, he raised the towel to Malfoy’s face and ever so carefully wiped Malfoy’s forehead. Malfoy closed his eyes. Whether it was from humiliation or tiredness, Harry didn’t know, but at least he didn’t tell Harry to stop. Feeling brave, Harry wet the cloth in the cool water again and continued to dab Malfoy’s face and then neck.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Malfoy said, his voice trying to sound hard and cold and failing miserably since he was heavily drugged and not very coherent.
“I know, I know,” Harry said. “But I did say I would come back, didn’t I?”
“I hate you,” Malfoy said, eyes still closed. Harry had to wonder if he was falling asleep.
“I know that too,” Harry said, a tiny smile touching his lips despite the seriousness of the situation. “Why aren’t you getting better? You’re so heavily drugged you’re even being nice to me.”
Malfoy’s eyes opened slowly. “Probabl— ‘cause my body can’t handle—not used to Muggle medication,” he mumbled and now Harry didn’t have to wonder whether he was falling asleep or not.
Harry frowned. “What? You’re not used to— hey, Malfoy, wake up!” He just barely resisted shaking Malfoy – that would really not do any good.
“What?” Malfoy mumbled, eyes closed.
“Malfoy, what do you need to get well again?” Harry asked, voice urgent.
“A ‘ealer, ‘f course…”
The wet towel in Harry’s hand fell to the floor with a ‘thump’.
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