Chapter Nineteen

It was unsettling at first. He would just lie in the hospital bed alone for hours staring at the tubes and wires and things sticking out of his body as though it wasn't his own. His throat ached, except the doctors kept injecting something into him that made even that not so bad. It seemed as though time was blurring, and he couldn't tell if it was stopping or going. He couldn't speak as long as that thing was down his throat--somehow he recalled from watching Muggle television that it was called a endotracheal tube--so he couldn't ask why he was here. It sort of vaguely occurred to him that if Potter had succeeded, magic must have ended, so St. Mungo's would be useless, but he still couldn't understand why he was here in the first place.

Not only that, but he'd tried on several occasions--though doing it just once or twice made him feel so exhausted he'd pass out immediately afterwards--to move either hand, but all either would do was flinch slightly and remain still. His arms were essentially immobile, held straight by IVs running every which way. He'd tried his feet, and his toes had moved, so he figured that must mean he could move his legs, but he couldn't get his hands to work. Not once. It made him want to cry in desperation, but if he got excited, the nurses would come in and do things to him that would make him fall asleep.

They wouldn't tell him what was wrong with him or why he had to stay there or how his body had become this damaged. While he was staring at those tubes and listening to those beeps and feeling the respirator force air in and out of his chest, he realised that he would most likely die if he wasn't hooked up to all this mess. And he was afraid... afraid that he would be living like this forever. If that was the case, whoever had saved him really should have just let him die.

He tried to entertain himself with thoughts about Quidditch matches past and Hogsmeade weekends and theories behind spells, but they all depressed him, because he'd hear a car outside, and he'd be reminded that he would never live in that world again.

He admittedly slept a lot that week. He'd even missed two or three of Daphne's visits. He didn't understand why it took so long for the Muggle medicine to fix him. Daphne had nearly died before his eyes, and she was up and running around in a week--possibly that was last week, but he couldn't keep track of time to tell anymore. What was this useless world he was stuck in? The worst part was that he was useless in this pointless reality. He couldn't even breathe on his own, and he couldn't talk to anyone or hold Daphne's hand when she came in, nor wave at Anthony or Terry when they made their brief, sporadic rounds.

He wasn't sure how long it took. Maybe a week, maybe a month, but finally one morning when he was staring out the window at the sunshine over the London rooftops, the nurses came in to remove the tube from his throat.

They knocked him out again, which was actually a good thing, because when he came to, he was in quite a bit of pain. But that thing on his face was gone, and he could move his mouth again, which he did so rather painfully. His chest also hurt a bit, but that was because he was breathing more on his own now. There were still tubes up his nose, which he barely even noticed anymore.

That's when he noticed that Daphne was there, curled up in the chair in the corner of the room wearing his coat. She was asleep.

He tried to say something to get her attention, but started coughing instead. That did the trick in a roundabout way, because she opened her eyes and blinked over at him. As soon as she was more awake, she stood, stepping up to the side of the bed and taking his hand. He could feel it, but he couldn't move his fingers to hold onto hers.

"Don't say anything quite yet. You might hurt yourself."

Easy for her to say, Michael thought, narrowing his eyes a bit. He noticed in the light through the window that her face was still slightly lined with pink scars. Would they ever heal now? It wasn't fair. She was so pretty.

She smiled at him, and he returned it as best he could. She looked relieved. "I can recognize you now. That's better. Barely knew it was you before."

He closed his eyes and swallowed a bit. It still hurt, but his throat wasn't so dry anymore. "Been here long?" he asked in a whisper.

"Oh, a while," she said. "Clare's here. Pansy's being released today. They may come by and say hello in a bit."

Raising his neck a bit, he looked down at his hand which she was holding. "I can't move my fingers," he said. Oddly enough, Daphne looked relieved at that, which was annoying.

"I thought maybe you... Just... I thought I'd done something." She arched her eyebrows, looking into his eyes. "...Kinda selfish, now that I say it."

He didn't mean to ignore her, really, but he had to know. "Why won't my hands work?" he asked. Suddenly she didn't look so relieved anymore as that sunk in.

"I don't know," she responded.

He had to stay calm, or the nurses would come back and do whatever it was they were doing that forced him to pass out, and then he'd never have any answers. He closed his eyes, willing himself to just not think about it.

"Daph," he said, eyes still shut, and his voice sounded too young even to himself, or maybe it was sounding so rough and new because of the long period of disuse; not that it mattered much either way... "Can you... Just curl them for me, okay?"

He knew that she must have been staring at him for a moment--shocked, perhaps horrified or disgusted by the tremble in his voice--but after a moment he felt a painful stretching as she curled his hand around her own. He could feel her hand, which was a start, but he couldn't move his fingers or thumb, and it seemed even his wrist had limited flexibility. It didn't make sense... Why was he like this? Why was he even here?

Perhaps she thought he had fallen asleep, because she took her hand off his own--the one that was keeping his fingers flexed around her (which of course caused them to limply move back to their natural position) and began to brush the hair from his face. He opened his eyes again, and he hadn't realised it before, but with that gesture he definitely did: he was having a hard time staying awake. Probably the effect of whatever the doctors had given him before.

When she noticed him studying her, she withdrew her hand quickly, hiding it in her sleeve in her lap. He wished she would curl his fingers around hers again, because even if it did hurt, it was comforting. He could feel his throat beginning to ache, and he knew he probably wasn't going to be able to talk much during this visit, so he decided to finally ask the question that had been plaguing him for the last... however much time had passed.

"Daph," he whispered, his voice breaking even with just that one syllable. "Why 'm I here? What hap'n'd...?" he forced out, his lungs feeling exhausted with the effort--they, too, now lacked the stamina required to speak and pump oxygen through his body after being assisted for so long. It was only aggravating his exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face, waiting impatiently for her answer.

She looked confused at that, but she answered anyway, rolling her eyes back in thought. "You remember that wall?" she asked.

He nodded. How could he not? Sometimes he still saw the red glow when he closed his eyes.

"You don't remember what happened at all?"

He did remember the searing pain of what must have been an unforgivable curse, but he shook his head anyway simply because he didn't want to speak.

"Someone cast the Cruciatus Curse on you. Then you fell through that wall. There was a bright flash, and when I could see again, you were halfway through it. Then... Well, that's when Potter activated the weapon."

It still didn't explain why he was here though. And he was about to say something about it, but Daphne went on.

"You weren't breathing. Your heart stopped." She looked at Michael then as if she were looking through him. "Your eyes were open. Cho and I... Well, you were dead, Michael. We didn't think there was anything we could do."

He felt cold. Was it cold in the room?

She continued. "I didn't know what to do. I just started beating on your chest. It... did something. And then Cho knew this thing where she breathed for you. She did that. Then you were breathing again. The ambl- Those things with the lights. They were there, and the doctors took you away." As if she was realizing something, she looked up into his eyes, her jaw slightly slack.

"There's... People died, Michael."

Instantly, he imagined Anthony or Terry. "Who, Daphne. Who died?"

He immediately regretted that exclamation, because he started coughing, lungs angrily biting back at his attempt to thwart their work. It took him a minute or two to stop coughing, and then he was breathing rapidly, nearly hiccupping as he tried to force the air back in.

"I'm going to call the nurse," Daphne said, already on her feet and reaching for the button on the other side of the bed. If only he could put a hand out to stop her, except he couldn't. Instead he begged. It was all he could do in this state.

"Please, don't," he wheezed. He felt his eyes start to roll back, unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm him, but he had to stay awake a little longer. He could process all these things--the lack of magic, his paralyzed hands, the red wall, his own apparent death, and the real deaths of others--later. He just needed the information now.

She looked torn, leaning over him, but it seemed that even if he was gasping softly, he had managed to control his breathing again, so she reluctantly drew back, though she didn't sit, instead leaning on her forearms just slightly to place her cheek against his chest.

"I never really tried it on another person," she murmured, closing her eyes as her cheek rose and fell unsteadily with his ribcage. He closed his eyes, trying to save the remnants of his strength.

"Besides the people we knew were dead at Hogwarts... At least three of the adults who were with us. I... didn't know their names," she paused, but he was too weary to open his eyes at the moment. "Anthony, Terry, Cho, and Finnigan... They're all fine. So is everyone who went with Potter except that one woman. No one in our group died, but... in the second group..." He forced them open at that, staring down at her, half-lidded, as he tried to anticipate who might have been killed out of that group. "Ernie and..." Tears started to streak down her cheek, and it was one of the few times in his life he'd seen her cry. What he wouldn't do to be able to wipe those tears away.

"And... Max," she sobbed.

Hearing that Max had died was almost worse than hearing that Terry or Anthony had. At least he was in some way prepared to hear that, even if he still would have been sad. Even if the tears - which were now stinging his eyes - still would have fallen, nothing could have prepared him for hearing that Mackenzie died. Daphne must have known that he needed that hug, because she wrapped her arms around him, somehow managing to avoid knocking the wires and tubes out of place.

"She died saving Clare," Daphne went on. "So it was a good... It was... She... Draco said she would have been a good witch," she finished, drawing away. She realized that Michael couldn't dry his own tears, so she did it for him, taking a couple tissues from the box beside his bed. "Ernie died shielding people as well. If there's a place where people go when they die, they're being treated like royalty."

Michael finally spoke after a moment of shared silence between them. "It doesn't seem really fair, does it?" he asked almost inaudibly, looking up at the ceiling. Daphne dabbed at his eyes again... He felt so useless, but at the same time, he was glad Daphne was there. He didn't know where he'd be if he was alone.

"It's not. Not at all." She rubbed at her own eyes with the sleeve of the jacket she was still wearing and took Michael's hand. He couldn't imagine a world without Max. She was just so... There wasn't a word for it. She was so herself. She was so kind. He did wince a bit when Daphne curled his fingers around hers again, but he didn't mind it so much. "There's going to be a service for everyone back at Hogwarts," she went on, "Though I don't know when quite yet."

He nodded. It was a bit embarrassing to have his girlfriend blotting his tears and doing all these things for him... Well, embarrassing wasn't the right word. It was frustrating. It just reminded him of how useless he really was, except at least there was Daphne. A month ago, he would have never thought she would be hugging him and drying his tears and curling his damnable useless hand around her own. She would have scoffed at the thought. It was... nice to see, but he wanted to be her equal.

"I hope they'll wait a bit," he said, trying to force a smile. "I wouldn't want to miss it." He had been in her for awhile. He was going to be in here for awhile, because the Muggles were useless at healing, at least in comparison. Still, that only served to agitate him, and Daphne was softly running her thumb over his own, so he really should just be thankful he was alive.

Just as he was sinking into further morbid thoughts, starting to drift out into unconsciousness again, there was a soft rap at the door, and Cho appeared. She looked a little flustered. The scene didn't look intimate, but it probably felt that way, and Michael had no doubt that it did bother his former girlfriend on some level; however, she seemed content to push it aside, just as she was her hair, flinging it softly over her shoulder as she walked to the end of the bed.

She picked up his chart and started idly flipping through it for a moment before she spoke. "I'm sorry... I heard some of your conversation," she said, looking pointedly at some page in the center of it all. "Michael, I know why your hands aren't functioning properly."

"Is it on that chart?"

She shook her head and put the chart back. "No, but... well, I was with you on the ambulance and in the Ministry. Sometimes," she lowered her eyes for a moment, as though trying to gather strength from somewhere down by her feet, "Sometimes, if someone dies, you can bring them back, but the longer you wait... Well, Michael, it was so crowded in the Ministry that we couldn't get to you quickly. Then, in the ambulance, you... again, except they had the defibrillators, so they revived you immediately. You see, CPR doesn't really..." She trailed off and shook her head, her hair falling back over her shoulders. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that your brain did not have oxygen for several minutes, which has resulted in some minor brain damage."

Daphne was on her feet at that. "What? What do you mean 'brain damage'?" she all but shouted.

"His motor skills have been temporarily impaired," Cho replied evenly. "All it takes is physical therapy, and you'll be completely functional again."

"Is that really good news?" Daphne muttered just audibly. Michael was inclined to agree with her... He didn't like the sound of 'brain damage.'

"It is. It means that unlike some people," Cho replied, eyeing Daphne as though reminding her that she did know who some people were, though Michael couldn't even begin to guess what was transpiring between the two, "Michael should make a complete recovery. It will just take time. Oh, and I do have a spot of good news for you both. Dumbledore is digging up the families that went into hiding, including both of yours. They've both been apprised of your whereabouts, so no need to worry. You should be seeing them soon." Cho straightened then, reaching out to squeeze his foot gently from atop of the covers. "Maybe someday I'll tell you the rest, but for now... I'm glad you didn't die." And with that, she swept out of the room.

At the same time, a couple people were entering. Clare walked toward Michael's bed, looking backward as she did so. Tagging along behind was Pansy, who was leaning on a pair of crutches. She looked like she couldn't be unhappier, though she was trying.

Daphne smiled at them. Michael tried, but he was still mulling over that 'brain damage' thing.

"Thought we'd come say hello," Clare said, eying Michael. "We were here anyway."

"You haven't been?" Michael asked quietly.

"She has," Pansy nodded to Daphne. "The others have been staying in a hotel. That's where I'm going as soon as we leave."

Clare sat down in a chair across the bed from Daphne. "She tell you what happened yet?" Clare asked, not quite looking at Michael.

"Parts of it," he responded, his voice breaking in the middle. Maybe, he wondered, he shouldn't use it as much. On top of everything, he didn't want to lose the ability to speak, too. He wasn't even completely sure if he'd get back full use of his hands. He sure hoped so. Meanwhile, he didn't know whether to be angry at Clare or otherwise. Max had technically died because of her, and she and Michael had never gotten along. In fact, at Hogwarts, they'd fought almost constantly. Still...

He looked at her. "Can you take my hand?"

She looked a bit startled, but not disgusted as he thought she would be. "Er... Why?"

"Just do it." When she had it, he added, "Now, shake it."

Very gently, she moved it up and down, then let go. Pansy was staring at them like they were both a little dense, but she didn't say anything. Michael nodded as much as he could. "Mackenzie saw something in you. There's no way I'm going to fault her for that. You think we can stop fighting now?"

Clare smirked, and it was the first time Daphne saw her looking like that in months. "Corner, you can't honestly expect me to drop all that so easily, can you?" The smirk slid into something more genuine. "I'd die of boredom." That said, a rather catty grin threatening to split her face, she gave him a wave, and she sauntered out of the room. Pansy just rolled her eyes.

"Glad you're better," she said, sounding rehearsed. "Now Daphne might actually leave this bloody place." Pansy smiled at Daphne in a way that seemed rather challenging, but Daphne returned it with a sort of good nature equivalency, and then Pansy, too, hobbled out of the room.

Which was good, because his voice was gone after that last question, and it hurt pretty badly. Not only that, but his vision was starting to swim. He closed his eyes and felt Daphne place his limp hand back beside him and pull up the sheets. As her hands rested on the sheets at his chest, she paused, and then very quickly leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He blinked lazily at her.

"What was that for?" he mouthed. His voice was definitely gone.

She shook her head, and he could see her cheeks were getting a little pink... It reminded him of something. She might ignore what he was about to ask. It would be just like her to pretend she couldn't understand, after all. But he figured as long as he was asking all his questions, he might as well put that one out there, too. It might have been just a dream or a figment of his imagination, but if it was, she'd probably ignore it anyways, so no harm down.

"Daph," he managed just barely, and it sounded more like an exhalation than a word. She blinked down at him, pausing in her movements to gather herself and leave the room. The nurses would return any minute. "Are you my fiancee now?" he asked silently, giving her an incredulous grin. Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she busied herself suddenly tucking the sheets under him.

"Couldn't parse that, sorry," she replied hastily. "Ask me tomorrow."

He watched her hurry out of the room, presumably to catch up with Clare and Pansy, and the right side of his mouth twitched uncontrollably upwards. He would definitely be asking her again tomorrow.