Okay, so I know it's a long time, but I have had a very complicated school year, this time. And it isn't even over!
This a fic I wrote about 1 year ago. I had some time this week to rest and decided to put things on order. I found some fics written, others almost finished, some random scenes... the works.
It's a bit angsty, but I think it turned out alright...
(7.31.07)Edit: ups!! I just noticed the first 2 paragraphs were missing from this post… I have no idea how this happened --
The top floor of St. Mungus was reserved for special cases; specific patients with serious illnesses, those who could afford private accommodations. It was a fairly luxurious floor, considering this was a hospital. The patients needed a much higher level of comfort, for usually their stay was longer then that of normal patients.
There was a large corridor with doors on each side. Each patient had their own private room. At the end of the hallway, there was a big common room. It was large and very comfortable. It was where people spent most of their day. Large windows allowed a good view of the city, while the spells on them prevented suicides and the view outside-in.
Usually there would be famous or influential people getting treatments, since not many people suffered permanent injuries anymore. Not since the war stopped. They would stay for awhile, and then leave, cured.
This floor had certain rules, and specific restrictions to grant them privacy.
There were, however, two permanent cases. They had been grand, when healthy. Both were loved cherished.
But accidents happen. Now they were mere shells of their past lives.
At first they'd receive many visitors, but nowadays it was rare.
Time happens differently here. It moves slower, or faster – it all depends on your perspective. The minutes look the same, the hours. You loose track of days. Time turns into weeks, months, years.
A man sits by the fireplace. Around him, on the floor, a few kids look up at him.
They come from the children's ward. They like to hear him talk. His wonderful stories speak of fighting all sorts of creatures, and meeting famous people, and travelling to all sorts of places.
The older wizard tells them everything in detail. He knows these stories by heart. He's told them countless of times.
He doesn't quite remember when they happened, just that he remembers them. But if he remembers then he was there, right?
He's been here for so long, it's hard to tell these days.
His well formed words and speeches enchant the children. Of course they believe him. They know who he is, from before, from the books.
He hasn't changed much. His hair is perfectly arranged. The hospital gown was long ago replaced by a pair of slacks and a dressing shirt.
The nurses shake their heads at their antics. They have to climb up here practically everyday to fetch the kids for their potions and treatments. It is okay, though. They know that most days, this is the only thing that cheers them up.
They just think, if only the other man would join them too…
This one is the complete opposite of the other wizard.
He is younger. His hair is always mussed, like a kid that's been running in the wind.
He is always quiet, rarely says a word.
He sits too, but on the other side of the room. He is facing the windows, watching as the winter snow falls gently upon London and her habitants.
The wizard is holding a cup of tea, still fuming.
Mediwizards say routine is the road to recovery. This has become his.
Preparing the tea. Waiting for it to cool. It's like a ritual.
He always sits there too. The view of the city calms him.
Strangely, he doesn't miss the outside life. His past is cloudy. The faces blurry. Sometimes there's a flash of red; happiness, but also pain. A dog with soft blue eyes and a wolf – that one always confuses him.
He remembers flying, and a Castle, but it makes no sense – there are no castles in the sky...!
Sometimes, on the dark nights, he sees a black shadow. Thunder strikes (there is always lightning on those nights) and the shadow becomes a man. A white bony hand stretches towards him before being swallowed by the dark again. He couldn't be saved.
He can't hear the sounds from outside. The room is far high, and there is a spell to repel noise. It's supposed to be relaxing this way.
It's like watching a mute film.
Yes it's exactly like that. You see the pictures – the movement, the clouds, and the small people down there; but it's all so quiet. All you hear is the conversation behind you, of the other watchers.
Except the others are not watching, they're listening.
They listen to him.
The young wizard knows the other man.
He's been here for awhile. In fact, he was here before him.
He is always talking. To the children, the Mediwizards and witches. He always has some or other story to tell. Stories of his celebrity life.
The young man looks at them, warm around the fire, and he can't help but feel a bit lonely; and jealous too.
He always feels sad when the kids come for him.
No one comes to visit him these days. The young wizard remembers a few faceless people, kind words, but it was just so long ago…
It's not that he has stories to tell. His memories are all confused and he barely remembers his own name.
Harry. That's what the nurses call him. It's reassuring that, at least, that there is a part of him that someone knows. That someone remembers.
But even then, sometimes all he really wants to do is scream.
Say his name out loud. To call for Padfoot and Moony, maybe they would come. To tell them about the Castle in the clouds (but no one would believe him, he knows).
There is so much he could say, but… who would listen?
And so, the man never speaks. He spends his days watching stories unravel in the city, and waits.
Maybe someday, someone will come.