Chapter five
In sickness and in health

The next morning, Harry awoke to the sound of rain splattering against the windowsill. Slightly confused as to why he was sleeping on the couch rather than on his bed, and in the clothes he’d worn the day before at that, it took him a few moments to recall last night’s events. He groaned into his pillow as he realised that Malfoy – Draco Malfoy – was sleeping in his bed. A paralysed Malfoy who would probably be anything but a good guest in Harry’s home.

Harry reminded himself that he was only staying today.

But he wondered where Malfoy would go if he didn’t stay with Harry. He had said it himself – he didn’t have a home to go to.

Sighing, Harry got up and looked out the window, only to be greeted by dark grey skies above and people running around with umbrellas below. In short, typical London weather.

He walked into the kitchen and put on a pot of tea. He got bread, butter and cheese out and set it on the table, then he realised that Malfoy would probably also want breakfast. Once Harry was left for class, Malfoy wouldn’t be able to do anything at all. Harry forced the thought away; he didn’t want to dwell on just how helpless Malfoy was at the moment.

While the water for the tea warmed, Harry walked to the bedroom door and knocked. When no one answered, he opened the door slightly and went inside.

Malfoy was still asleep, his body as straight as it had been when Harry left him the night before. The room was dark but warm; the room was always warm in the morning when one closed the door during the night. The ventilation wasn’t all that great and the sun blared through the windows most of the afternoon when it was actually sunny outside.

Harry saw that Malfoy was sweating and at first he signed it off to the heat in the room, but then he realised that the blond was also shaking. Harry recalled Hermione’s words that Malfoy’s fever would be mostly gone but not completely. He swiftly walked out to the bathroom, where he wet a towel with cold water and picked a thermometer up. Walking back into the bedroom, he pulled the blinds open and then woke Malfoy as he started dabbing the pale forehead with the towel.

Malfoy let out a pained sigh, which confused Harry, since there didn’t seem to be anything that could hurt him.

“Good morning,” Harry said pleasantly, deciding to at least try to be nice.

Malfoy didn’t answer; he just closed his eyes again against the bright morning sun shining through the window. Harry put the thermometer into his mouth and when it beeped, he took a quick look at it and decided that Malfoy’s fever definitely wasn’t gone. Thirty-nine point seven.

“How are you feeling?”

“Since you’re dabbing my head with a wet cloth and just placed a thermometer into my mouth, you should know that I feel like crap,” Malfoy replied, his voice no more than a whisper.

“Hermione said you’d have a fever for a few more days, ‘cause she couldn’t take all of the illness out,” Harry said gently.

“Granger probably wouldn’t have cured me even if she could have,” Malfoy muttered.

“Hey!” Harry said. “You’re alive—“

“Barely.”

“ – so whatever she did worked just fine, this is just the after effects.”

Malfoy didn’t reply.

“I’m making breakfast,” Harry said. “You need to eat, so should I bring some in here?”

“I can’t very well get out there by myself, can I?” Malfoy said.

Harry ignored the comment. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I don’t feel like eating.” At Harry’s look, he gave another of those long-suffering sighs and said, “Fine, give me a piece of toast.”

When Harry got back to the bedroom with Malfoy’s breakfast, Malfoy had fallen asleep again. Harry pulled the blinds shut again and set the tray down on the bedside table. He picked a t-shirt, pants, underwear and a jumper from his drawers to wear for the day, dressed in the bathroom and then went back to the kitchen to eat his own breakfast.

Finishing his morning routine after brushing his teeth and attempting to brush his hair, Harry then made his way to his bedroom again. He filled a glass with water, knowing that it was important for Malfoy to drink since he had a fever. Malfoy woke up at the sound of water pouring.

“Drink,” Harry said simply, holding Malfoy up slightly so that the water didn’t spill all over as he placed the glass to Malfoy’s lips.

Malfoy did as he was told without a sound, perhaps because he wanted to draw as little attention as possible to the fact that he was being fed by his former school nemesis, or perhaps because he was too sick and tired. He ate the cooling piece of toast just as quietly, eyes focusing on a point beyond Harry.

Harry stood. “I need to get to the university,” he said, brushing a few breadcrumbs off his pants. “Will you be all right until I come home? I should be home at about three thirty.”

Before Malfoy had even uttered a word, a blush began creeping over his pale cheeks. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said, very quietly.

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what else to say; he had not given this part of Malfoy’s problem any thought at all. “Well, er, then— I can, you know, take you into the bathroom and…” He trailed off, his cheeks even redder than Malfoy’s.

Malfoy gave a short nod of approval – it wasn’t like he was going to allow Harry to do it the same humiliating way they did it at the hospital, where he’d had to pee lying down. He shuddered at the thought as Harry lifted him.

“Am I hurting you?” Harry asked, concern evident in both his voice and actions.

“No,” Malfoy said, and Harry continued to lift him.

Harry carried him into the bathroom like he’d said. Once there, Harry unbuttoned Malfoy’s pants – something that felt very odd indeed; he had never unbuttoned anyone’s pants before without the least bit of sexual innuendo behind it. When he was done, Malfoy mumbled, “I’ll do it sitting down.”

“Are you sure you’ll—“

“Potter, give me some privacy at least!” Malfoy snapped.

Harry sat him down on the toilet and threw his hands in the air. “Fine. Just— shout when you’re done, or something.”

He walked outside, shut the door and went over to get his shoes on. He was late for class already, but that would have to come second. It wasn’t like Malfoy was actually going to stay there anyway, so it would only be today.

Right. Only today, his mind taunted him. And then where would he go?

“Potter?” came Malfoy’s voice. He sounded mortified at having to call for Harry to come and get him. Harry understood, although he couldn’t imagine being in the same situation himself. He didn’t want to imagine.

“Should I— put you on the sofa instead?” Harry asked, standing in the hallway between his room and the living room and considering the entertainment possibilities in his bedroom. At least the living room had a TV.

“Whatever,” Malfoy muttered. His forehead was once again covered in a fine sheet of sweat and he was trembling in Harry’s arms. Harry settled him on the couch as comfortably as was possible with the spell still doing its magic. He poured a glass of water and helped Malfoy drink that as well. He placed the TV remote by Malfoy’s hand so that he could change channels without having to move. Other than the TV, the entertainment possibilities weren’t big. Malfoy couldn’t read a magazine or a book, because he couldn’t hold it and even if he managed to set it up somehow, he couldn’t change pages. He couldn’t write, or draw, because that also involved moving. He also wouldn’t be able to eat or drink if he got hungry, which was a bit worse than the entertainment issues.

“I’ll try to come home during lunch,” Harry said, frowning as he thought Malfoy’s day through.

“Afraid that I’ll trash the apartment?” Malfoy asked without humour, voice tired.

Harry’s frown deepened. “Not exactly…”

“I was kidding, Potter,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “Jeez, don’t take everything so seriously. I’m paralysed, not dying. Now move so that I can watch the telly.”

It was not the wit that Harry was used to from school, but at least it was returning, which was a good sign. Malfoy was still sick, so he shouldn’t be up to his usual ‘standards’.

“I’ll still be back at lunch. You’ll need to eat something then, so—”

“Bye, Potter,” Malfoy said, watching the TV and making it clear that Harry should leave.

“Yeah, right. Bye.” Harry left, feeling the same as he had the night before – confused.

Myra came up to Harry after his first class, smiling. Outside it was still raining, the sky not showing a single sign of stopping its crying session any time soon.

“You certainly seem happier today,” she said. Darius came up on Harry’s other side, nodding, although Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard what Myra had said. Darius tended to just agree with Myra on anything – it was more peaceful that way.

“I do?” Harry said, surprised. He’d have thought he seemed just as distracted as usual. That’s how he felt at least.

“You’re not walking around with a deep frown on your face, at least,” Myra said. “I’d say that’s a change for the better.”

“Bed someone?” Darius immediately shot in. He earned a glare from Myra and a stammering, “N-no,” from Harry.

“D, just because you have a new girlfriend every week doesn’t mean that Harry gets off from the same thing,” she said and she looked as though she wanted to slap Darius upside the head, but Harry was walking between them so she couldn’t.

Darius seemed to think about this while Myra turned to Harry again. “So, what happened yesterday? ‘Cause I do agree with D, something must have happened.”

“I – I just saw an old friend of mine,” Harry said truthfully.

“Only a friend?” Darius shot in.

“Yes,” Harry said firmly, “definitely only a friend.”

Darius rolled his eyes at Harry whilst Myra rolled her eyes at Darius. Harry was the only one not rolling his eyes – he was trying to come up with something to say that would not be the truth, but would satisfy his two curious friends.

“We just met at a café,” Harry lied. “He recognized me and said hi, and we started talking. When the café closed, we walked to my place and sat and talked ‘til really late, which was why I overslept this morning.”

There. That sounded plausible, didn’t it? And it was almost like the truth. Sort of.

Myra and Darius eyed him, Myra more carefully than Darius. Darius had always been one to trust easily.

“What’s his name?” Myra asked.

“D – Daniel,” Harry said, deciding that he shouldn’t tell the whole truth. “Daniel Stevens.”

For someone who wasn’t good at lying, Harry thought he was doing a pretty good job at it. Myra was still watching him with a slight crease between her brows, but he thought she would accept it as the truth – after all, why shouldn’t she? It was more believable than the real story.

“Look, we have to get to class,” Harry said, pointing at the clock on the wall further down. “Starts in two minutes.”

“Shit,” Myra swore. She proceeded to drag Darius unceremoniously with her, as their class was on the other side of the campus. Harry strolled towards his classroom, which was less than a minute away.

Harry had almost two hours of lunch, but he found that that wasn’t really that much time when he had to speed home and back to the university in that time. He fumbled with the keys as he was unlocking the door to his apartment, stressed and hungry.

“Malfoy?” Harry said as he walked into the apartment, taking off his wet shoes and jacket.

On the couch in the living room, Malfoy lay sleeping. The TV was playing some music video. Definitely not music to fall asleep to, but it looked like the blond had managed that feat anyway. Harry stretched out to pick the remote up, but Malfoy woke up with a gasp as soon as he came close.

“Malfoy, it’s just me,” Harry said, slightly exasperated at the reaction.

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled, his eyes hazy and unfocused as they opened. He definitely wasn’t well yet.

Harry went to the kitchen and filled a jug with water. He sat down on the couch next to Malfoy and poured him another glass. Without a word, he helped Malfoy sit up just a little, and the blond drank obediently. Harry couldn’t help but notice that Malfoy was still burning up and he seemed worse rather than better. He wondered if he should contact Hermione again, but he didn’t want to do it. Although it hadn’t been the memory assault he had expected, it still had felt strange to talk and interact with her once more.

“Should I take you back to the bedroom?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, I’m not really watching the telly anyway,” Malfoy mumbled.

Because of the spell, Harry didn’t have to be as careful as he otherwise would have had to be. Actually, if it hadn’t been for the spell, Harry wouldn't have been able to lift Malfoy at all – not without risking serious injury, at least. With the spell, however, Malfoy was ‘bendable’ to a certain degree, so that it was possible to carry him, just like it was possible for him to sit up in a wheelchair. Harry didn’t understand the spell Hermione had cast, but then again, he didn’t have to understand it. He just had to know it worked.

Settling Malfoy down on the bed in Harry’s bedroom, Harry pulled the covers over Malfoy and tried to make him as comfortable as possible.

“D’you mind,” Malfoy mumbled barely audible as Harry smoothed the covers, “if I stay here ‘nother day?”

Harry gave a small smile. “Not really,” he said. “You should stay here ‘til you get better.”

“Mm, ‘til I get better,” Malfoy agreed, falling asleep once more.

Harry hurried to cook some lunch before running back to the university.

The next two days were almost identical to the first one. Malfoy slept on Harry’s bed while Harry had the couch. Harry fed Malfoy, helped him to the bathroom and washed him off. He did this in the bed, since Harry’s apartment didn’t have a bathtub and Malfoy couldn’t stand in the shower. Malfoy didn’t seem to be getting the least bit better; instead, his fever became slightly higher again and he was only awake for a few, short moments.

“Do you want me to get Hermione again?” Harry asked on the third morning as he poured water into Malfoy’s mouth.

“No,” Malfoy said once he’d swallowed. “She ‘an’t do ‘nything.”

Harry said no more; after all, it was up to Malfoy if he wanted to get professional help or not and since he had said no, Harry would just have to sit back and watch.

On the morning of the fourth day, however, Harry stuck the thermometer into Malfoy’s mouth as usual, expecting his temperature to be somewhere around thirty-nine as before. When he pulled it out, though, it showed thirty-eight point one – a vast improvement from the night before. Taking a good look at Malfoy, he decided that the blond did look better. The shadows beneath his eyes were less pronounced than before and his eyes weren’t as hazy.

“I know I’m dashing, but you can stop staring at me now,” Malfoy said and Harry decided that Malfoy was definitely getting better.

Still, as Malfoy’s fever disappeared, both young men became aware of just how much Malfoy still needed assistance doing. The first time Harry had to feed Malfoy after he got well again was disastrous – when Malfoy had been sick, he had just accepted Harry’s feeding him. Now, he strongly objected to it.

“Like hell you’re going to feed me like some little baby,” he spat as Harry entered the room with a tray containing Malfoy’s dinner later on the fourth day: mashed potatoes, meatballs, slices of carrot and cucumber and one drop of Hermione’s potion for Malfoy’s back.

“Malfoy, you can’t raise your arms more than an inch above your lap – how in Merlin’s name are you going to feed yourself?” Harry sighed deeply. After three days with a sick and easy-to-handle Malfoy, this return of the old, cocky brat Harry had known before was highly unwelcome.

“You are not going to feed me and that’s that!” Malfoy said, proving himself to be the three-year-old in a grown-up’s body that Harry believed he was.

Malfoy glared and Harry stared squarely back. “Fine,” Harry finally said and set the tray next to the bed where Malfoy would have had no problem to reach it if he had been able to move around freely. “When you’re finished with the whole spoiled brat routine, you can call me and I might come.”

Malfoy’s glare followed him as he left the room.

Two hours later, Harry had since long since finished his own dinner and was watching a documentary on the TV and doing his homework at the same time. He hadn’t checked on Malfoy since he’d left, although he knew that the other would never call for him. To ask for help would be too strong a blow to Malfoy’s ego for him to take. So Harry sighed and stood from amidst his books. The reporter was talking about the old palace on Crete, Knossos, and about how the people who lived there four thousand years ago knew how to make ceramics that were as thin as an eggshell. Apparently, it wasn’t possible to make such fine ceramics today, but four millennia ago, they had been able to.

Malfoy was staring into the wall, his stormy grey eyes glaring furiously at the wall. Beside the bed stood the tray of food, still full.

“Not hungry, Malfoy?” Harry asked, unable to resist.

Malfoy didn’t answer. Harry saw a vein by his temple twitch slightly; a sign that told Harry that Malfoy was seething. Malfoy’s eyes also narrowed slightly and he looked like he wanted to cross his arms over his chest. Malfoy’s anger was understandable, Harry thought, but he couldn’t help but think that it was his own fault.

Since Malfoy refused to answer, Harry just picked the tray up from the bedside table and left. A minute and a half later, he returned, the food warm again after a bout in the microwave. Harry returned it to the low table by the bed and sat down next to Malfoy. Without another word, he picked the plate up in one hand and the fork up in the other, and proceeded to feed Malfoy as he had intended to do two hours ago. Malfoy didn’t say a word; he accepted the food without so much as a look at Harry. When the plate was empty, Harry held the water to Malfoy’s lips and so that he could drink, eyes still trained on the opposite wall as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. Finally the dinner was finished and Harry left the room, still without a word exchanged between the two of them.

And so it went.

After the dinner incident, Harry and Malfoy didn’t talk at all. To begin with, Harry signed Malfoy’s silence off to humiliation and anger. It seemed more than likely after the feeding-incident and besides, Harry had no reason to think it was anything more. They fell into a routine.

Harry woke Malfoy in the morning after eating his own breakfast. He fed Malfoy and then took him to the bathroom where he brushed Malfoy’s teeth and Malfoy did his business by himself, after Harry had helped him inside and with his pants. Harry didn’t blush anymore as he undid Malfoy’s pants and pushed his trousers down, nor did he look away the first time he helped Malfoy into the shower. They placed a chair in the shower; Harry carried Malfoy there and undressed him. He left Malfoy’s underwear on, for nothing else than because he felt that Malfoy should have some privacy left, even after Harry had helped him with it when he went to the bathroom.

“Okay, tell me if it’s too hot or too cold,” Harry said as though talking to a child, although he knew that Malfoy wouldn’t answer. It had been a week and a half since he’d come to live with Harry and he hadn’t uttered a single word, or even any sound at all since the fourth day.

Harry adjusted the water to what he hoped would be an all right temperature and let the water soak Malfoy’s hair and body. He had been getting regular showers now since the fifth day, after Harry realised that they could put a chair in the shower so that Malfoy didn’t have to stand.

Harry lathered Malfoy’s hair with shampoo and washed his body off. All the while, Malfoy only stared at the wall in front of him, eyes unseeing, as he had been doing since Harry returned to his bedroom to feed him almost a week ago.

Harry had begun wondering now, if the silence didn’t have some other reason. Malfoy’s eyes hadn’t been unseeing like this ever before, his demeanour never so submissive, so ignorant of the world. Harry wondered more and more and came up with a guess of his own – that it was self-defence, or perhaps self-preservation, rather than anger and humiliation.

At least he hoped that it was something more trivial like that, rather than some illness that should be treated. He wondered if he should take Malfoy to Hermione, but then told himself that there was nothing actually wrong with Malfoy, but for the fact that he was completely unresponsive. He wasn’t sick. Signing it off to self-defence was easy and had its points.

While at the hospital, Malfoy had only been faced with strangers; doctors and nurses without familiar faces and names, who treated him best they could but were never personal in any way. He was also fed Muggle medication, which Harry believed to have been poisoning Malfoy for more than just those last few days, which was why he’d been sick for several days after Hermione had healed him. It was like a person addicted to cigarettes – when he quit, the poison was still left in his system and it took a few days to get out, therefore he was sick for another four days.

During those four days in Harry’s home, he had been all but unconscious. He had been like a baby; in need of almost constant attention when his fever rose yet again and he needed help with everything he did, even basic things like washing his hands or drinking a glass of water.

When the fever disappeared, the need for constant attention disappeared, but Malfoy’s need for help had not. Although the spell was slowly releasing its hold on him – he could now raise his hands almost three inches off his lap and turn his head ever so slightly – Malfoy still needed to be taken care of. Still, the need of help was no bigger – in fact it was less – than at the hospital. So, the problem didn’t reside solely in the matter of needing help; it also resided in the fact that it was someone he knew that took care of him. And that someone was Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy had never been one to show his weaknesses, least of all to his enemies.

Harry sighed and dried Malfoy off.

Malfoy didn’t look like the Quidditch player Harry had known in school anymore. After a month and a half in a hospital bed, most of Malfoy’s muscles had disappeared, leaving him thin and breakable. His skin was as pale as ever, except, Harry noted, on Malfoy’s lower back, where the skin was red, hot and slightly swollen.

“Bed sore,” Harry mumbled to himself and made a mental note to smooth Malfoy’s covers out completely, so that the area wasn’t further annoyed. He had read about bedsores; they could become worse and kill the skin completely if it wasn’t treated. Malfoy didn’t react as Harry dabbed a cooling salve on the swollen area. Nor did he react as Harry dressed him in a pair of his own pyjamas, before lifting him up and carrying him back into the bedroom. He placed Malfoy back under the covers.

“So, Malfoy, how long are you going to keep quiet?” Harry asked. He continued, as though he expected Malfoy to answer at some point, “It is really nice, of course, to have you shut up for once, but, well… Besides, I thought you didn’t want to be here. We said only one night, right? It’s been almost two weeks.”

But Malfoy didn’t answer; he only lay on the bed, silently staring at the opposite wall. Harry wondered if he was seeing the wall at all, or if it was something else entirely. Harry sighed and stretched his hand out to pull a lock of damp hair out of Malfoy’s face.

He watched Malfoy’s closed off face for another few moments, sighed and then he left the room. Exhausted already, he sat down in the living room to attempt doing his homework.

It became increasingly difficult for Harry to keep Myra and Darius from the apartment. They tended to come and go as they wished, especially Darius, and since they both saw Harry well but tired at the university, they saw no reason why they couldn’t come home with him all of a sudden.

“You know,” Myra said with a suspicious look, “you never cared that much about your studies before.”

Harry had just told her that he had too much homework and thus she couldn’t come over.

“I know, but, you know, the end of term is coming up and I want to have studied well for once,” Harry said, although it sounded lame even to his own ears. It was still three months until the end of term. He shoved his hands into his pockets and continued walking down the corridor.

“What is it you’re hiding?” Myra asked. “’Cause there is something.”

Darius chuckled. “Perhaps it’s that old classmate.”

Harry’s knuckles tightened to the point where they turned white, but he managed not to show how close to home Darius was hitting.

“Oh don’t be stupid,” Myra said. “If Harry decided to get a roommate he would tell us. Right, Harry?”

“Um, yeah, right,” Harry said avoiding Myra’s eyes. This, of course, increased her suspiciousness.

“Right, Harry?”

“Yes, I said!” Harry said, agitation rising within. His friends were usually not this suspicious of him – of course, Harry usually didn’t hide a paralysed ex-arch nemesis in his apartment. Still, they shouldn’t be like this.

Harry was glad to finally reach his classroom and said good bye to his friends quite coolly, hoping that his two friends would understand his hint and stop asking questions. Myra exchanged a look with Darius, who shrugged, but they didn’t question him further. They continued towards their classroom.

On a late Thursday afternoon, Harry found himself back at his favourite café, Espresso House. Sitting down to drink a latte, he picked up a schoolbook from his bag to read. He wouldn’t stay for long. Malfoy was, of course, at home, and they would both need dinner. Still, Harry couldn’t deal with going home just yet. He had to get some studying done and lately, he never seemed to be able to get it done at home. Malfoy didn’t make a sound, but somehow, Harry felt his presence the whole time and it disturbed him. The silence was overwhelming and it made him unable to concentrate. Thus, after classes that day, he decided to catch a break at the café.

He had only just sat down when Mona came over to him.

“Hello, Mr Evans,” she said.

“Hi, Mona,” Harry replied politely, wishing she’d go away.

She was cleaning the tables, putting used cups and plates in a green container. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine and you?” Polite, non-committing conversation that had absolutely no point, Harry knew. He wanted her to disappear so that he could drown himself in coffee and his book.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Although when it’s good weather like this, there’s a lot more people than on the days when it’s raining. It’s a lot to do.”

“I see,” Harry said, not really sure what he was supposed to reply. He took a sip of his coffee.

“But it’s still a job,” Mona continued, never noticing that he wasn’t the least bit interested. “And I need the money. Good jobs with good money are quite rare today. Although I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mr Evans?”

She giggled slightly at this and Harry wondered if a blush would creep up on her cheeks too. It didn’t, but she smiled up at him in a way that she probably hoped to be cute. Harry saw a line of even but yellowish teeth, testament of smoking. Her breath reeked of it too; had done so since the first time he met her.

“Well,” Harry said, “I am quite happy that I don’t have to work like this. I’m lucky.”

She giggled again, as though he had just told a big joke. Harry, who was getting more and more uncomfortable by the minute, desperately wished she would go away.

“Yes, you are, but you deserve it,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“You deserve it, Harry. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you.”

Harry downed the rest of his coffee and coughed as he swallowed wrongly. He hadn’t thought about Ginny in several years.

“I need to go,” he said, putting the book back into his bag without having read so much as a word of what it said and dashing out from the café before Mona had time to react. He felt rude, but when he compared the eerie silence of Malfoy to the chatterbox that was Mona, he preferred Malfoy by far.

When Harry came home, Malfoy lay still on the couch. Putting his things down, Harry made his way to the kitchen where he cooked pasta and made chicken for dinner. As was his routine, he fed Malfoy where he was, in a half-sitting position on the couch. He’d become much more efficient in the last two weeks at feeding Malfoy – not that Malfoy was hard to feed, but it was still an experience to feed another grown-up man.

The phone rang when Harry was almost finished feeding Malfoy. He set the plate aside, stood up and walked to pick up the receiver that lay on the kitchen table.

“Hello?”

“Hello darling, it’s Pally.”

“Oh, hi,” Harry said, smiling at the sound of his agent’s voice, Ms Palesa Devan, or as she preferred to be called – Pally. Harry had known her for almost five years.

“Honey, I’m sorry to sound rude, but I am calling about business, you know,” she said.

Harry sighed. “Yes, I know, the new book.”

“How is it coming along?”

“Not so good, I’m sorry to say,” Harry admitted. “I’ve been— preoccupied.”

“You sound tired, Harry, is everything all right?” Pally always worried for him, ever since the day she’d first met him, sitting outside a Muggle clothes store.

“An old friend of mine got into a serious accident a few weeks ago,” Harry told Pally. “He’s paralysed from the waist down and— well, currently, he’s living with me.”

“Oh my,” said Pally and Harry could hear the frown on her face. “Will he be all right?”

“I don’t know. The doctors couldn’t tell and one of my friends who studies medicine couldn’t say either. Only time will tell.” Harry knew he sounded defeated and more tired than he really was, but he knew that Pally always wanted him to tell her when something was troubling him. He couldn’t talk to his friends right now; they could get too directly involved in it – they were too involved with his life. Pally on the other hand was his agent and an old friend, but she didn’t see him very often and she had no direct contact with anything in his life. It was hard to explain, but to spill things to Pally was easier than to tell his friends. It was safe.

“When did you say this happened?”

“Um— five weeks ago,” Harry said.

“Honey, you should have told me!” Pally said. “As it is, the company expects your next book within three months – and they want a rough draft in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Harry repeated dumbly even though he’d known that it was the set date.

When Pally continued, she sounded concerned. “Harry, what is wrong? You’ve never had any trouble with your writing. Then all of a sudden, you can’t write?”

“Writer’s block, I guess,” Harry muttered.

She tut-ed at him. “Don’t be like that, Harry, brooding won’t get you nowhere.”

“Now you sound like yourself again, rather than like a shrink,” Harry teased her. “Still having trouble with the English language.”

“I could beat you in any English language competition you could ever come up with,” she said, sounding as though she was looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Harry said, laughing a little.

“Now, get back to that book and write another awesome book that will leave me – and the rest of the world – begging for more after we’re finished.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, saluting although she couldn’t see him.

When he hung up the phone, he had a grin on his face again. It felt strange but good to smile. Feeling happier than he had in days, he returned to the living room where he continued to feed Malfoy the last of his dinner before sitting down to eat himself.

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Chapters

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