Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
Warning: Disturbing themes
A/N: An early Happy Birthday to Harry! Coincidentally, the last film has just been released, though I won't be able to watch it for some time. The rating for this story has gone up due to disturbing themes.
Carve Thy Name Upon My Nape
Chapter IV: A Coffin Named Loneliness
Sepulchral snow scattered with no end like ashes and petals, burying the metropolis and adorning the grave. Winter solstice descended upon the world uninvited; premature dusk swallowed what little remained of daylight. Amidst the deathly white, St Mungo's blossomed with activities, and Draco, losing not the briskness of his footstep on this mournful anniversary, entered one of the partitions in the Lethe Ward, the limbo before the end.
Behind the bleached curtain, a healer-in-training gave a start, her green eyes darting to the intruder's face before darting away as though the healer was Medusa in the guise of a man. Ignoring the typical reaction he had garnered from most of his colleagues, Draco strolled to the iron bed at the centre of the partition.
A witch around forty years of age lay on the white bedspread, her glassy eyes staring through the ceiling at something beyond Draco's reach. At a glance, her flushed skin was a deception of health, for her skin was stretched against sharp bones. Once upon a time, she might be a good looking woman, but what lay before Draco now was merely a shell.
Raising an eyebrow, Draco looked into those dilated pupils, within which swirled a cloud of iridescent dreams. A familiar scent seeped out from the patient's body and teased Draco's senses. "Did you find anything on her?"
The healer-in-training tightened the grip on her clipboard and waved her wand. A bottle fell out of the air and into Draco's outstretched hand. "She was holding this when she was brought in. It looks like the Draught of the Living Death."
Draco held the bottle against the golden lamplight overhead, noting the water-like residual within. After pulling out the rubber stopper, he held the bottle to his nose. In the midst of bitterness, he untangled several strands of herbs: valerian, asphodel, wormwood, and opium poppy.
His grey eyes downcast, Draco replaced the stopper and slipped the bottle into his pocket. "This is a variation of the Draught, most likely modified for its hallucinatory effect." The healer-in-training bit her lip in distress. Only one reason existed for someone to voluntarily take a narcotic potion - to escape.
Without a word, Draco took the patient's hand and traced the signature of the potion through her veins to her heart. Probing deeper, he sensed the corrupting substance simmering in her marrow, dyeing everything an opiate black. Experience told him neither magic nor potion of this world would heal the patient. Nevertheless, he was a healer; his only duty was keep the patient alive regardless of the patient's private wish.
Draco put down the patient's hand. "Send her to the third floor. I shall prepare an antidote." Once the healer-in-training acknowledged his command, Draco turned to leave.
"Mr Malfoy, can I ask you something?" The healer-in-training called out to him, unable to contain her curiosity about this cold-hearted man. "Was the rumour about you and one of your patients true?"
Tilting his head to regard the young woman, he gazed into a pair of clear green eyes that reminded him of Harry. The thorn in his chest pierced deeper into his heart. "I don't know what you have heard, but you should know a patient's record is confidential. Anything else?"
The healer-in-training winced at those words; she had brushed upon the unspoken taboo in the closed society of healers. Those inorganic grey eyes of Draco's were contemplating her, his gaze neither kind nor accusatory. Looking away in guilt, she mumbled, "No."
Taking his cue, Draco withdrew from the partition and strolled down the aisle. Like morning mist in the forest, white curtains on either side led him down the only path he could tread. At the far end, two other healers were conversing quietly among themselves, their lime-green robes clashing with the achromatic space. When one of the healers caught sight of him, the conversation died a premature death.
Draco spared the pair of healers a glance and a nod before striding past them to the double doors. Everything in this ward bled white as if its designer was fearful of contamination. The sharp pallor stung Draco's eyes and toyed with his perception, reawakening in his mind the montage of white gown and white roses and white tombstones. Gritting his teeth, Draco pushed the door open and returned to the world of the living.
In purposeful strides, Draco walked past healers and patients alike, his mind turning into a void. While the healer-in-training meant no harm, the reminder of that man on winter solstice did little to elevate Draco's mood. Beyond the windows, the snow he came to hate continued to fall; deep in his body, the memory of that man burnt like a fresh knife wound.
He wanted to see Harry.
The silent figure of Augustus Pye came into view around the corner. When those unfathomable azure eyes fell upon Draco, Pye gave the young man a salute and walked towards him. Draco welcomed the distraction, but he could see the questioning look on Pye's face.
A beat later, Pye reverted to his typical nonchalance and held out the book in his hand for Draco to take. The book was the size of a healer's tome, its indigo cover scratched and its seam threatening to break apart. "Here," Pye said. "I thought you might be interested."
"Thank you." Draco accepted the book and flipped through the frayed pages. However informative the book might be, it served no purpose if the person he wished to heal had vanished like a mirage, the greatest irony among ironies. "I shall return the book to you in two weeks."
"No need to hurry. I don't need it anyway." After a pause, Pye let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a weary sigh. "Don't take too much Dreamless Sleep Potion. Or too much Wakefulness Potion, for that matter. The worst thing you can do is become dependent on them."
Draco snapped the book shut; the dull thud hung in the air between the two men like a knell. "I appreciate your concern, even though it is unnecessary." The pride in Draco would not allow him to display his weakness before anyone; nevertheless, Pye knew him better than most people did. "I won't submit to the influence."
Beneath the glasses, those inscrutable eyes of Pye's squinted at the young healer. For a bemusing moment, Draco thought he saw Pye smile. "Fair enough. Owl me if there's something you don't understand."
After watching the senior healer slouch away into the entrails of the hospital, Draco recollected his thought and turned his mind to the immediate problem he must solve. Taken over by the instinct of a healer, he began to formulate the potion that would shatter his patient's narcotic dream into an irreparable shower of fine dust.
In the glass pavilion that was as much his laboratory as his sanctuary, Draco sat on the sofa with Pye's book in his hand. Stacks of books on the low table were pushed aside to accommodate a wooden tray, upon which were bottles and phials in various shapes and sizes. Beside the tray stood a beaker containing a freshly cut Queen of the Night; the fair, ethereal blossom breathed out a sweet fragrance into the night. Nearby, an oil lamp hovered like a forgotten guardian angel.
He did not want to fall asleep, tonight least of all. If he were to close his eyes, he feared he would see once more the images he had locked away inside the coffin: a frail hand on the bed, the signet ring rolling to a stop on the desk; blood gushing out from a slashed arm, a smile distorted by heartbreaking realisation.
At length, he placed the book on the table and reached for one of the phials. After dripping a drop of aquamarine onto the back of his hand, he licked away the potion and closed his eyes. A bitterness liken to almond spread across his tongue, momentarily numbing his senses. Several seconds passed by before his sensation returned. He put down the phial and repeated the procedure with all the potions on the tray - until he reached a bottle of rose red liquid.
Nausea assailed him with little mercy; imaginary flame burnt his abdomen from the inside out. Clutching his stomach, he stretched out on the sofa and pressed a hand over his forehead. He could feel cold sweat beneath his palm, but the coolness of his hand calmed him somewhat. With hazy eyes he stared at the glass dome above, a rose window of viscera.
When the discomfort subsided, he sat up and folded his hands together, his grey irises beholding a field of white beyond the glass. As his gaze swept across the chamber, he wondered if a cure, aside from human blood, indeed existed for this nocturnal patient of his. Some aspects of his patient's physiology had altered since his days at Hogwarts, yet Harry could not be rightly classified as another being either. Without his patient, the healer could do nothing more than read the literature and brew potions no one would drink.
A black shadow in the midst of white entered his line of sight. Startled, Draco took a sharp intake of breath and squinted at the greyish face pressing against the glass. The same playful smile flitted across the generous mouth; red hair of the same hue as cinnabar barely concealed a pair of heated brown eyes. It was-
The glass cracked, stirring Draco out of his reverie. When he looked again, he saw not the ghost from his past staring at him behind the fractured glass pane, but Harry's stunned visage. For a tantalising moment, the healer and the patient gazed at each other. At length, Harry mouthed, "May I come in?" His breath left not a hint of fog on the glass.
The tension in Draco ebbed away as though it never existed. Once he had recovered some semblance of composure, he nodded at Harry, who circled around the pavilion to the door. The healer took the opportunity to pull out his wand and repair the glass.
Cautious as a man handling a crown made of crystal, Harry opened the door and stepped inside. A blast of cold air accompanied his entrance and chased away the remnant of Draco's brooding. After taking a long, deep breath, Draco slid his gaze from the sprinkles of snow on Harry's black leather jacket to the black woollen scarf around the neck. At last, his eyes rested upon the haggard face adorned with a strange expression Draco could not decipher.
"Are you all right?" Harry shut the door behind him. "Have I startled you again? I didn't mean to do that."
Instead of replying, Draco walked towards his patient and held Harry's cheek in his hand. Icy skin with a touch of snow stung his palm, reminding him this is reality. Bright green eyes flickered for a moment before the feverish glow within became steady as a frozen firefly. After a beat, Harry leant into the touch and kissed his palm with those cool lips of his. The urge to question the patient tingled at the tip of his tongue, but Draco snuffed it out.
The healer lowered his hand, his gaze lingering on the scarf he had never seen Harry wear before. A second later, realisation swept away all but a single strand of thought from his mind. Pressing his lips to a thin line, he reached down and unwound the scarf around Harry's neck. His patient did not move an inch as the fabric fell away to reveal a pale neck devoid of fresh wound.
Harry could not have survived for a fortnight without ingesting blood; the lack of scratches on his neck could only mean that he had been feeding off someone else. Indignation simmered beneath the surface of the healer's consciousness. Without a word, Draco gave the scarf back to Harry, who accepted it with an apologetic smile on his face. Turning away, Draco took the tray of potions and returned it to the long table at the far corner of the glass house.
"Why are you standing there?" Draco asked while moving across the room to his desk. Books and pieces of parchment littered the desk in complete disarray. "Sit down."
After brushing away the snow on his shoulders, Harry threw the scarf over the back of the sofa and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You are not angry with me?" His voice came out softer than he intended.
"I am angry." Without ceremony the healer rolled up all the parchment and threw them into the drawer. Once he had finished cleaning up his desk, he carried a stack of books in his arms and dumped the load onto the low table. The dull thump resonated in the chamber and refused to part.
"You are angry, but you are not scared?" A distorted, sardonic smile crept onto Harry's lips. The glittering snow in his hair had melted away into glittering water drops. "I'm not the soft-hearted lad I used to be. The Boy Who Lived doesn't exist anymore."
"I know that already. So?" Draco ran his fingers over the title of the topmost book. The golden gothic script on the turquoise cover had faded into washed-out platinum.
"Other people's blood makes me sick, but yours doesn't." The unsettling calm in Harry's voice contrasted markedly with the abrupt shift of his footing. "It's enough to make me become addicted."
"Is that the reason you left?" Raising his head, Draco trained his shrewd grey eyes upon Harry, scrutinising, pondering, reflecting. In truth, he did not dislike the idea of his patient becoming dependent on him. "If so, why are you here?"
"I want to see you." Absinthe eyes burnt into Draco's cool mercury, longing to set everything ablaze. His gaze was as much a curse as his words. "I'm contradicting myself, aren't I? I know one day I'll end up killing you, and yet I couldn't stop wanting to see you."
Silence rippled across the pavilion; a long white petal not unlike a feather fell onto the table. Narrowing his eyes, Draco stalked towards his patient and pulled Harry's right hand out of his pocket. A butterfly knife inlaid with golden vines was resting on Harry's palm. The healer took the knife and, with a practised flick of his wrist, flipped the blade open.
"You paid me to be your healer." Draco examined the blade against the lamplight. Untainted and untarnished, the tip of the blade gleamed like fangs of a beast. "It is a patient's job to listen to his healer's order."
Without hesitation, Draco brought the blade to his neck and slashed it open. A flash of silver accompanied crimson pain; blood dripped down and stained his collar black. Beholding the shock on his patient's face, Draco held the tip of the blade lightly against Harry's throat.
In Draco's hand, the butterfly knife could well be a surgeon's scalpel. The sharp point of the blade pressed steadily against his skin, yet Harry showed no fear. Green eyes stared in stupor at the bleeding neck; the non-audible breathing from before grew heavy and erratic. "I won't be able to stop."
"Then I'll stab you in the back." With that Draco withdrew the blade, grabbed Harry's nape with his free hand, and pushed the brunette's head to his neck. He thought Harry might have chuckled, but he could not be sure.
Imitating the move, Harry cradled the back of Draco's head and licked away the liquid that was sliding down the swan-like neck. The first sample of the healer's blood left him mesmerised and intoxicated. Unable to suppress his urge, he hungrily suckled on the wound and crushed Draco's body against his. The gentleness from before melted into pure instinct of a feral creature ravenous for warmth and company he no longer possessed.
As he felt teeth tearing at his wound, Draco flipped the knife close and slipped it into Harry's pocket. Every spasm of pain made him wince, yet the only thing he did was run his hand over Harry's hair as if stroking a cat. Outside, snow that could have been mistaken for spring blossoms danced to a stately saraband; inside, hypothermia numbed all his sensation but one.
With little warning, a spell of dizziness struck Draco; his patient was taking more from him than usual. After catching his breath, Draco clutched Harry tightly and said, "Do you want to hear a story? Once upon a time, there were two brothers living in the forest. They were close, particularly inseparable. One day, one of the brothers was mauled to death by a bear. The surviving brother killed the bear, but now he was left completely alone in the forest."
Ever so slowly, Harry raised his head. Those glowing eyes of his were blank as a mirror, his expression dazed as a man soaking in opium smoke, his lips tainted with a shade of wine red that did not suit his complexion. This was the hidden facet of Harry Potter his patient did not wish to face, and Draco forced him time and time again to accept the truth.
Narrowing his eyes, Draco grabbed Harry's chin and caught those stained lips with his. The taste of rust and copper on Harry's lips reminded him of the scent permeating the entire floor of the Spell Damage department at St Mungo's; it was the taste of razor-sharp reality. The kiss lasted for several seconds before he released his patient.
Those frozen eyes of Harry's blinked; senses gradually returned within those dilated pupils. His lips parted in delayed realisation, Harry loosened his grip on the healer and dropped his arms. Something akin to pain passed across his countenance, and Draco could tell what was on his patient's mind.
"This is the price for making me angry," Draco proclaimed as he held Harry in his gaze.
Taken aback, Harry stared at him before a small smile found its way onto his lips. "I'll get something to treat your wound."
Harry crossed the chamber to the far corner, where a large cabinet made of rowan wood stood guard. Runes were carved onto the double doors; the snake-and-rod symbol of Aesculapius was impressed onto the bronze handles. When he opened the doors, bottle after bottle of substance gleamed at him like stained glass: absinthe, cantarella, nepenthe, laudanum.
Sweeping his gaze across the colourful bottles, he unconsciously licked away the remnant of blood on his lips, lips that tingled with the memory of Draco's warmth. He had forgotten how dangerously seductive intimacy could be on a night when no soul, sane or otherwise, wished to wallow in solitude.
At the other end of the glass house, Draco sat down on the sofa and let out a breath. Vertigo and fatigue ate into his spirit; he felt hollow as a shell. In truth, he could have healed the cut himself, yet he knew Harry wanted to do something for him as compensation. The healer was not being sensitive to his patient's feelings, however; he was merely clinging to the only piece of driftwood within his reach.
Harry came back with a bottle of blood-replenishing potion in his hand and a wooden box of healing supply in his arm. The bleeding on Draco's neck had stopped; a blot of crimson stood out in all its vividness against alabaster skin. Biting his lip, Harry set down his burden on the table and tended to Draco's wound as best as he could. For some time, neither men spoke.
"What does my blood taste like?" Draco asked while cold fingers smeared a thin layer of white salve over his wound. The ephemeral fragrance of Queen of the Night deepened in the air for a fleeting life upon this earth.
Haunted eyes cast a furtive glance at the healer before turning away. "It's warm," Harry replied as he put the dressing over the wound and taped it in place.
Draco conjured a wet cloth out of thin air and offered it to Harry, who accepted it with grace. "I thought my blood is cold," the healer remarked wryly.
When he saw the frown on his patient's forehead, he took the bottle from the table and gulped down every last drop of the potion. He always found it ironic that blood-replenishing potion tasted the same as the fluid it tried to reproduce.
After wiping his hand clean, Harry threw the cloth onto the table and returned extra dressings to the box. "You made up that story you just told me, didn't you?"
Draco leant back on the sofa and touched the dressing secured on his neck. As expected of a former Auror, Harry had done a good job dressing his wound. "Every story has a basis, wouldn't you agree?" There was a pause. "Why don't you tell me a story?"
That bony hand of Harry's closed the lid on the wooden box; those absinthe eyes of his flickered to the flower whose life would end when this longest night of the year died away. "I don't have a story to tell," Harry said. "Besides, you have to work tomorrow, don't you?"
As soon as those words took shape in the space between the healer and the patient, Draco dropped his head on Harry's shoulder without a word. Surprised, Harry stared at the head of blond for a beat before easing his tense shoulders. Those fair locks of Draco's caressed his neck and cheek; warmth seeped into his skin through two layers of fabric.
"Let me rest here for a moment," Draco said before closing his eyes. On such a night, he would put aside his healer's facade in front of Harry; after all, it was winter solstice. The smell of leather tingled his nostrils like cigarette smoke, yet he found the scent oddly comforting. "Just for a moment."
The image of two new tombstones erected in the Malfoy family graveyard flitted across Harry's mind. One of the graves was dedicated to Narcissa Malfoy, who passed away two years ago on this day, and the other to Lucius Malfoy, who departed in the following year. Draco had never spoken to him about his parents, but had he wanted to find out more, Harry had a feeling Draco would not stop him.
There was very little Harry could do for the healer. If he could at least offer some comfort to this man who had done far more for him than duties dictated, then he would do everything he could. Tentatively he reached out, gripped Draco's arm, and whispered, "As long as this is what you want."
On the very next day, as though guided by a witch's intuition, Hermione came to see Draco. The continuous movement in the lavishly decorated lobby could rival the swamp of crowd in the Ministry of Magic on any given day. Even as Christmas lurked around the corner, a hospital such as St Mungo's knew no rest. On the contrary, it was the time of year when St Mungo's was at its most chaotic.
Standing in a quiet corner with Hermione by his side, Draco schooled his expression into one of measured indifference. The high collar of his shirt concealed the wound on his neck from prying eyes. "Is there anything more you want from me? I've already said all I could say the other day."
Curvy tresses fell upon her hazel brown overcoat in graceful curls, yet Hermione seemed distracted. "No, that's not why I'm here." She handed a royal green gift bag to him, but he did not take it. "I forgot to thank you the other day, therefore I would like to give you a token of gratitude instead."
Sharp grey eyes bored into intelligent amber, finding nothing the healer did not already know. "I don't recall doing anything to deserve a gift from you," Draco drawled.
"You have given us hope that Harry might be back in England." Hermione absently tucked a loose strand behind her ear. Her wedding band glinted gold for a heartbeat. "That's all."
Draco detected words that were left unsaid, the vague outline of a hypothesis left unproven. "It is surprising that you simply take my word for it without dissecting every syllable coming out of my mouth."
Those lucid irises of hers pondered his face for a tantalising moment, observing, measuring, theorising. "You have no reason to lie, is that not so?" There was a pause. "That is, unless you have something to hide."
"No more than you do, Granger," Draco remarked coolly, deflecting the subtle probe to his thought. "Are you going to look for him?"
Silence dominated the space between the healer and his old classmate. Beyond the corner of stillness, witches and wizards went about their business as though not a day had passed since peace was delivered to them by the hands of countless corpses.
At length, Hermione looked away and cradled her arms as though stricken with cold, her voice so low that she could have been whispering to herself. "If he doesn't want to be found, no one in this world would be able to find him, not even Ron and I."
Draco cast his mind back to a certain rainy night by the front gate of the manor. Rather than going to his friends, Harry had come to his bitter rival instead. On hindsight, his patient might have thought the apathy of a former arch-nemesis was easier to swallow than the highly-strung concern from his friends. "How's your daughter?" Draco asked.
Hermione gave Draco a distant smile. "She's fine. Thanks for asking." With a note of finality, she thrust the bag into Draco's arm. "I hope you like it. If you have any news, please let me know." After nodding once at him, she strode across the lobby and merged into the moving crowd.
Once his old classmate had disappeared from his sight, Draco reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of mead, around the neck of which was tied a magenta ribbon. The gift was merely a prop Hermione had employed in order to speak to him again. The healer could tell the witch suspected something, but at the moment she was lost in the little lie Draco had told. Even a witch as clever as Hermione Granger could not possibly fathom out the truth, least of all the healer's resolve to never surrender his patient to anyone, dead or otherwise.
In the next few days, Draco and Harry saw very little of each other; the healer had to cover work both day and night for his absent colleagues. When Draco returned to the manor, he only came back for a change of clothes and a quick examination of the patient dwelling in his house.
Withered flowers in the foyer were replaced by a bouquet of fresh white lilies; gold coins Draco had left scattered on the table were gathered and returned to his study. On the lowest step of the grand staircase sat Harry, who was holding a well-worn book in his hand. As Draco moved closer, he realised his lodger had gone through his collection of old books in the garret.
With a warm smile on his face as always, Harry greeted him. "Welcome home. Have you eaten yet?"
"No, I haven't. I need to go back to the hospital soon." Kneeling before his patient, Draco measured his patient's pulse, a tantalisingly slow rhythm suggestive of hibernation or a severe case of hypothermia. Nonetheless, such was the relative norm for this patient of his. "I see you have kept yourself entertained."
"What better way to spend the night in a large house all by yourself than read Henry James?" Harry said mildly while covering Draco's hand with his. At once, a knot found its way onto his brow. "Your hand is colder than usual."
"I've been outside." The dismissive remark did little to ease the frown on Harry's face, a reaction Draco found at once vexing and consoling. A moment later, the healer withdrew his hand and straightened up. "I'll be staying in the hospital for the next two days. You don't need to wait for me."
Harry stood up as well. For once he had to lower his head to regard Draco, who met his gaze evenly. The balance they had been attempting to maintain had tilted to the side since the night of winter solstice. Whether the change stemmed from the patient's confession or the healer's admission, Draco and Harry had yet a chance to find out.
In the end, it was Harry who broke the pregnant silence. "I'll stay here until you throw me out."
A burning ache fluttered across the healer's abdomen, for Draco knew what Harry was trying to do. Sly that the last surviving Malfoy was, he had no desire to stop the current from flowing or overflowing. "Do as you wish then." Avoiding his patient's gaze, Draco climbed the stairs and returned to his bedroom.
After a quick shower, Draco grabbed his bag of clothes and headed downstairs. Harry was waiting for him with a nylon bag in his hand. "I made some food from whatever I can find in the kitchen." He offered the bag to Draco. "Mind you, I can't guarantee what it tastes like."
Draco recalled Harry did not eat; his patient sustained solely on blood. "Thank you." The healer accepted the treat. "When I have a day off, we can go somewhere together."
A trickle of cheer brightened Harry's voice and softened the knot across his brow. "I'll look forward to it. Maybe we can go to the pub for a belated Christmas celebration. We'd spent years hating each other's guts that we never had a chance to drink together."
The remark reminded Draco of a certain bottle of mead sitting on the shelf in the parlour. There were things he wanted to ask Harry, but his inquiry would have to wait for now. "Yes, let's do that."
When Draco left for the hospital, Harry picked up his book and went up to the garret, a treasure trove he had discovered during one of his nocturnal wanderings. Draco once asked him, in a fit of morbid curiosity, how he could stand being inside the manor after what had transpired within these walls. Harry had no answer to give but a dismissive smile. Ghosts, invisible or otherwise, had haunted his steps for too long that they were almost like friends.
Harry opened the door to the garret. Decades ago, the garret would have been a servant's room. The deepening night invaded the room through the dormer window and dyed the interior indigo blue. Cobwebs crawled over all corners of the garret; a veil of dust shrouded bookshelves, boxes, and trunks filled with fragments of Draco's childhood. The static air in the room smelled of old books and spilled ink.
Unmindful of the dust, Harry sat down on the floor and examined the books on the shelves. These books, like everything else in the garret, had seen better days before they were banished to the attic like forgotten relics. Nevertheless, he could tell their owner once treasured them. These yellowing pages and their young reader had exchanged conversation Harry never knew of, at a moment in time Harry did not know exist.
He wanted to learn more.
Running his finger across the spines, he came across an empty space between an Arithmancy textbook and an advanced Transfiguration textbook. Harry chewed on his lip in despondence, for he could surmise which book had once occupied the space: Advanced Potion-making. Draco must have kept the book in his study as reference.
Once upon a time, a certain foolhardy Gryffindor picked up a certain book ought not to be read and opened the forbidden chest. What sprang out from those pages was not a companion, but a piece of darkness festering inside him that he had been trying to exorcise. It was the first time he realised how much blood a human being could spill. Fleetingly he mused if Draco still bore the scar from that mind-numbing day.
His throat prickling with thirst, Harry clutched his neck and opened a nearby trunk. An odour of mouldiness pounced at the first sign of provocation. Inside the trunk were sets of Draco's school uniforms. When Harry pulled out one of the black robes, the green-and-silver emblem of the Slytherin House glowered at him. A long time ago, he held a certain dislike for the emblem, yet even the detestation had passed away with those innocent days of harmless pranks and house rivalry.
He folded the robe and put it aside. It was then that he saw a slim package wrapped in a bruised purple cloth lying atop a dark jumper. Out of curiosity, he picked up the package and unwrapped it. Nestled in the purple cloth was a knife devoid of a sheath; the smell of Draco's blood lingered on the naked blade.
Compelled by instinct both human and non-human, he took the knife, brought it to his lips, and licked the blade. The sharpness of steel and the remnant of his healer's blood sent a shiver down his spine. Faintly he detected the presence of another individual, a certain someone he had known well. For a long time, those reflective green eyes of his stared at the knife. At length, he rewrapped the package, returned it to the trunk, placed the robe over the bundle, and slammed the lid shut.
By the time Draco was able to take a well deserved break, it was already more than a day later, a shade shy of half past three in the morning. Once he had put away the new batch of Pepperup potion he had just finished brewing, he went to the bathroom to wash his face. The polished mirror reflected his pale, weary visage; shadow smudged his eyes. The thought of giving Harry a fire-call crossed his mind before he dismissed the idea.
When he returned to the office, he checked the board to see if the condition of the patients had changed. The light beside the name Adele Featherstone shone violet like an amethyst. His fatigue forgotten, he grabbed a bottle of antidote from the cupboard and hastened down the deserted corridor to the Elm Ward.
In design, the Elm Ward resembled the Lethe Ward. Pale curtains sliced the ward into quarters of temporary haven. A passageway in the middle led to the far end of the ward, where a pair of windows framed the silent metropolis. Unlike the spotless, artificial white in the Lethe Ward, however, the Elm Ward retained the organic stone structure of the hospital.
Draco stepped into one of the partitions and closed the curtain behind him. The lamp by the nightstand lit up of its own accord, shedding light upon an assortment of objects: a box of paper napkins, a water jar and a glass. None of the items belonged to the patient. Despite the winter festivity, no one had visited her or sent her a Christmas present.
Maintaining a neutral expression, Draco placed the bottle on the nightstand and studied the patient. Those hazy eyes of hers squinted at the sudden glare for some time before fixating upon Draco's face, searching for what the healer could only imagine.
"This is not a dream, Adele Featherstone." The healer checked the patient's status by placing his hand on her forehead. "You are in St Mungo's. You lost consciousness after ingesting a variation of the Draught of the Living Death. It's been four days since you were brought here."
The witch stared blankly at him for several heartbeats. When comprehension crept onto her face, her eyes flickered to the side, away from the healer's face. As per the patient's wish, Draco kept his silence and probed the poison in her veins. Like a slumbering beast the poison did not respond; nevertheless, its density did not lessen despite the antidote the healer had administered.
Once he had learnt all he could, Draco lowered his hand. "I am not here to deliver a sermon. To be honest, I'm not interested in your circumstances." The healer's voice remained mellow yet firm. "There is no need for you to tell me anything."
The witch would not meet his gaze, therefore Draco continued. "Your condition is grave. If you fall asleep, it is likely you will not wake again." He detected a shudder passing through the witch's feeble frame, a final quiver of an autumn leaf before the fall. "I can prolong your life, but that is all."
Only then did the witch turn to him. With some difficulty she swallowed, moved her lips for some time like a mime, and squeezed out two guttural sound from her vocal cord. "How long?"
"That depends on you." Draco poured several mouthfuls of potion into the glass. Leaning forward, he helped the witch sit up and fed her the antidote.
A single teardrop slid down her hollow cheek, a proof that she could still feel sorrow and fear, that she was still human, too human. With delicacy the healer wiped away the glistening wetness, and the patient made a sound in gratitude. Like him, she lived in the glass coffin named Loneliness; unlike him, she chose to dwell in dreams.
After helping the witch drink some water, he left the half-filled glass on the nightstand within her reach. With that he lowered the witch onto the bed, drew his wand, and carved out a small bouquet of bright, scentless flowers in the empty space on the nightstand. Those thin lips of his patient's curved into the faintest of a smile.
"Merry Christmas, Adele Featherstone." He took the bottle with him, left the lamp alight, and cast one more look at the witch, who had forsaken the world and was in turn forsaken by the world. "I shall see you later."
The rest of the day flew by like a storm; Draco barely had time to catch a breath. As night descended upon the hospital, he longed only to curl up in bed and sleep until reality intruded. After he finished updating the records, he went to see Adele Featherstone, but she had fallen into the clutches of the poison once more.
He gathered his things and headed down to the lobby. Christmas had passed away for another year; New Year's Eve crawled ever closer in silence. As the festivity crept towards its end, the decorations in the lobby had lost much of their magic. The tall evergreen tree at the centre of the lobby languished in fatigue; sparkles and splendour dwindled to mere shadows.
In the midst of lethargy, a bundle of crimson lycoris radiata prostrated like a corpse upon the information desk. Inhaling sharply, Draco found his legs carrying him towards the inevitable and his hand picking up the bouquet. Tied together by a black ribbon, those red spider lilies quivered at his movement. A small white card was dangling from the ribbon, and upon the card was written words in a scrawly handwriting he had once beheld.
Behind the desk, the witch, a petite brunette with smoky eyes, volunteered the information he did not need. "A man brought these for you. A tall redhead. Something's funny about his ears though. One of them is missing."
As grim realisation seized Draco by the throat, not a sound departed from his mouth. The reminder of that man's existence burnt inside his body as though that man had never left. After mumbling his thanks to the witch, he passed through the visitor's entrance with but a single thought in mind.
The street of Muggle London at night seemed duller than he remembered. Old-fashioned lampposts lined up sparsely along the snow-covered pavement; above, the sky continued to bleed. With watchful eyes Draco looked around him; a moment later, he caught a glimpse of movement across the street.
A man emerged from an alleyway; shadow trailed after him like a robe. Separated by distance and relative darkness and hundreds of torturous nights, Draco could nonetheless recognise the man, an apparition that had risen from the grave to take him away. Shrouded in semi-darkness, the man's hair could have been dyed with mercuric sulphide. The casual demeanour remained teasingly familiar, yet the man no longer wore a smile on his face.
When a strong gust whipped past the two men, Draco let the bouquet fall to the ground, scattering red needles and the rest of his thought. At the same time, a flash of red ripped through the street. Pain exploded from Draco's shoulder down to his stomach. As he fell backward into the snow, poppies blossomed before his eyes and withered in barely a heartbeat.
A chill not unlike Harry's seeped into his bones and drove away what little warmth he had left. Sharp pain dulled into an everlasting, never-ending ache he had known far too well. Struggling to breathe, he felt rust rising to his throat and coughed. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and dripped down his cheek.
As his vision grew dim, he saw the man standing over him. Street light illuminated the ghostly face of one George Weasley, who reached into his pocket and produced a single black rose. The man threw the rose onto Draco's torso as if paying tribute to the dead and spitting curses at the living. After casting a long, hard look at the healer, he stepped over the bleeding man and walked away into the night.
To be continued...
A/N: Thank you very much for reading. With this, the key players are more or less assembled. From the very beginning, George is part of the story, and the next chapter will delve into what happened. At this point in the tale, the role of the healer and that of the patient begin to interchange fluidly between Draco and Harry.
Backtracking to the previous chapter, the chapter title contains the word Nepenthe. In a sense, Draco's warmth is Harry's nepenthe while Harry's presence is Draco's nepenthe.
