Written for the OTP Boot Camp Challenge and the Drarry Challenge. Prompts: silence is golden.
Silence is golden
i. whisper
He must have been sleeping, because all he could see was blackness.
That was mildly unusual, since when Harry slept, he usually had dreams. The nothingness was oddly comforting, though, so he didn't mind too much. He knew his body was there, because he could blink his eyes, and move his arms, but every time he attempted to look at his hands, his feet, he was swallowed by a void again. It was an uncanny feeling.
His back was being cushioned by something ethereal and soft. In his ear, he felt a light buzzing, before it disappeared altogether. A ringing or low beeping replaced it (he couldn't tell which) and after a few seconds it become so hazy and distorted, it sounded like what Harry would imagine an angel's song would. It whispered long and short notes, a juxtaposition into something eerie and otherworldly. He didn't realize he was breathing quickly, but the when it slowed, the change was noticeable. With a steady rhythm, his stomach moved up and down. Harry didn't know whether he was lying down or standing up, but it didn't seem to matter. Everything else was still and it was actually rather . . . serene. It wouldn't be awful to stay like this forever.
Suddenly, his tranquility was disrupted, for a sudden light hit the lids of his eyes, causing reddish spots to jump across the darkness (It looks a bit like a fireworks show, he mused). On impulse, a lazy hand shot to his face, as he blinked lethargically.
"Is it time to make breakfast already, Vernon . . .?" The emerald-eyed boy yawned, with slow movements as he stretched his arms beside him. Harry hardly noticed that the black had disappeared with the sight he met: Hermione, Ron, and . . . Draco Malfoy. Hermione was walking back and forth her head in her hands, mumbling something he couldn't hear, while Ron was following, apparently trying to calm her down. Draco was standing against a brick wall, looking slightly distressed. The whole vision was visibly blurred, and the corners were edged with crimson and rusted orange, as if his eyes were half-lidded (he was sure they were wide open . . .) and the colors seemed to bleed into each other. It all seemed so dreamlike, like a rejected piece of surrealist artwork.
Random witches and wizards dressed in lime green seemed to flit in and out of the room every few minutes. The various faces were undefined, and only a general estimation of their genders could be made out. The interior vaguely reminded of his visit to St. Mungo's in fifth year . . . wait. Why does this place look like St. Mungo's?
Then, the memory of all that happened yesterday (or maybe it was today? His internal clock was off . . .) flew at him at the speed of light. May second—the anniversary of Voldemort's defeat. Weren't they having a celebration or something? Why was he here?
"Hermione? Ron?" He looked up at the figures with dimly lit eyes." What's going on?"
"At least it's not cancer!" Ron (unsuccessfully) attempted to soothe the sobbing girl.
"Ronald! Would you rather have cancer, where you can die a nice, fairly painless death, or would you want to have all your limbs fall off?" She inquired angrily.
"Uh. . . I'll take the cancer, please."
The statement lead Hermione into another round of bawls, while Ron patted her back awkwardly.
On the other side of the room, Draco stood uncomfortably, eyeing the duo with wary. Frankly, the only reason Draco had accompanied the two was because of his slight . . . guilt. Had he taken what Pansy said to heart, he, most likely, could have avoided all this trouble. Despite popular belief, he had some respect for the wizard; after all, if it hadn't been for him, the Dark Lord would still be alive, and he would still be condemned to the hellish life of a Death Eater, required to commit atrocities. Believe or not, he really did not want to kill anyone, muggle or wizard. The months when the Dark Lord inhabited their manor were probably the worst of his life. He shuddered just thinking about it.
Just then, a female healer robed in the familiar lime green opened the door to the ward. An important-looking document in hand, she looked down at it and then up at the trio in the waiting area.
"Yes . . . it seems Mister Potter will be relatively all right. A little bruising and permanent scaring never hurt anyone." She announced roughly.
Somewhere along the way, Hermione had sat in an askew chair. The declaration promptly caused her to rise.
"'Relatively all right'? What do you mean, 'relatively all right'?" She demanded, frantic.
Seemingly sensing Hermione's anguish, Ron stood, as well. "Yeah! What do you mean? And who are you anyway?"
The healer sighed impassively. "I'm Healer Smith. By relatively all right, I mean he isn't spectacular, but he isn't in the worst condition he could be in from his injuries. Almost lost all his legs and arms, both his ears and-"
"Yes, I know!" Hermione winced at the memory of the gruesome sight. "Don't remind me. . ."
"So he's not going to die, then?" Ron concluded. Hermione sent him a glare that went unnoticed.
"Most likely not."
"Excuse me, Miss," Hermione said, distraught. "You have to understand that's not exactly reassuring. Our best friend—we saw him nearly die yet again as—as his limbs were slowly, and rather painfully sev—severed—" It was there that the girl broke off into sobs again as Ron rushed to her side. Draco's heart clenched slightly at the grief on his part, but said nothing.
Another sigh escaped the healer. "I realize this, Miss Granger. There's nothing I can do about what you saw. I am only a healer, and to heal the injured is my only job. However, as Mister Potter appears to be waking up, if you want to see him, follow me."
Briskly, Healer Smith swung around and made her way to the fourth floor, not stopping to see if they were following.
As the three followed the healer, Hermione couldn't help but feel suspicious at Draco's intentions. The boy hadn't even shown up until half way through the party, and even then, why did he come, anyway? After they graduated from Hogwarts, Draco hadn't made any attempt to befriend any of them. And . . . when she thought about it now, who had invited Draco? Surely not herself; she doubted it was Ron, he held some pretty angry and long grudges. . .so that left . . . Harry. Hmm. How strange.
Had he only come to mock Harry when he woke up? Malfoy didn't look concerned or anxious or . . . well he didn't really look anything, but he hardly ever did. For the longest of times, Hermione thought the only expressions he was capable of making were ones of smug satisfaction, cruel mockery, and impregnable superiority.
If she believed he was going to do that, why allow him to join them? So far Malfoy hadn't said anything, only apparated with them when as they were going to St. Mungo's . . . and that was what unnerved her. Draco Lucius Malfoy hadn't said anything. Not one insult, or taunt or remark. Nothing. Although his face told no tales, Hermione couldn't help but think there was something hidden more behind the slate grey eyes.
Finally, they reached the ward where Harry was to be occupying. With almost melodramatic slowness, the mediwitch pushed open the door, and Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she had, and Malfoy took one.
On a comfortable-looking hospital bed lie Harry's comatose body.
"He looks so peaceful . . ." Hermione heard Malfoy whisper, and she shot him a suspicious look. He just pinked and shook his head.
Draco was correct; a sense of composure emanated from his frame.
"It should only be a few minutes until his wake. You all should just wait here." Then she left.
Hermione bounced up and began scaling the area of the room mumbling unintelligible words with Ron flanking after her. "What if he has a case of temporary amnesia? What if he wakes up one day to find his limbs have permanently fallen of this time? What if—"
Unable to stand the somewhat valid worries that Hermione voiced and Draco thought, he quickly moved out of earshot, to the other side of the room. They were in identical positions as they were in the waiting area on the ground floor.
The room froze. They all had heard it. A long sigh that came from none of them, they all knew with one glance. Three heads turned to Harry's form, to find him blink his eyes sluggishly and blearily.
"Is it time to make breakfast already, Vernon . . .?"
It was there turn to blink, this time in confusion.
"What are you talking about Harry?" Hermione asked softly.
"Huh? Speak louder, Hermione, I can't hear a word you're saying."
"I said, what are you talking about, Harry?" Hermione repeated loudly, a desperate glare in her eyes.
Harry looked slightly annoyed. "This isn't funny, Hermione. Stop mouthing words."
"H—Harry, I haven't mouthed anything." Hermione said, teary.