"Good morning, baby."
He says, laying flower down on the small table beside the woman staring at the ceiling. I can tell she doesn't see him, but he's learned to ignore it, over the years, I think.
"I brought you some flowers, I don't know if you can see them but they're Calla-lilies, you're favorite. Do you remember you had them at the wedding? I was looking at the pictures yesterday with Mirabelle."
He's not a bad looking man, with blonde hair and those slate eyes, I'm surprised he hasn't found anyone else yet, but there's never been a hint of it. A few others come visit her, though only about once a week, not every day like him. One of them, the redhead who married Harry Potter who always brings loads of kids with her, told me that he hadn't looked at a woman in years; he was so devoted to his wife. And he is, in a way, he's here every day, always talks to her, plays her music, and does useless things like that. The daughter comes about once a week, she looks like a fairy princess, with spun-gold hair and eyes like the ocean, and I was there when she was born, actually. I don't think I ever saw him happier than at that moment.
"She said you looked like a queen, but don't take her too seriously, she's obsessed with royalty at the moment. She's quite convinced she's Princess Anastasia and I've kidnapped her, she even told Potter, who's promised to investigate. I wish you could talk to her; you'd get along famously, the two of you. But I've said that before, I guess."
He has, I think, after a few years; you'd run out of things to say to your dead wife. He hasn't, totally, and it's been nearly six. He mostly talks about their daughter; sometimes he'll mention old friends or his job, or things that happened here. Mostly these days, he holds her hand while he talks, but for the first few years, he paced around the room, like he was waiting for her to wake up or something. I guess he was, actually, he's never given up. Not in all the years we've been telling him she's dead on the inside, that she's only breathing, her heart's only beating. He says there's already been a miracle, there might as well be more soon. He seems to be a man of great faith, though the same chatty woman who told me there'd been no one else said he was living in the past, that he knew she wasn't coming back, but he couldn't let go.
"I've been having nightmares again, you know. I think it' s the time of year; you did leave me in winter, after all. Not to cast accusations, we did that too much then, didn't we? But you did, in any case. We hadn't been fighting that day, though, baby, do you remember? No, I guess you wouldn't, they say you might have forgotten everything that happened for about three months before you were hit, which mightn't be so bad for you. We fought a lot before then, but we'd always make up- always, sometimes more than once. That morning was so beautiful, nothing compared to you, but it was, in it's own right. You wore white to bed that night, remember? And I teased that you were playing at being a virgin and then..."
He trails off there, like he always does when he starts telling this story, I don't know if it's out of respect for us, because he knows someone's always listening, she has terrors sometimes, or for her. From everything I've heard, she was a reserved woman, nothing like him. He exudes sex from every pore... being married to him would have been heaven. So, I have a crush. Sue me.
"Anyway, in the nightmares, you never leave the damned bed in the first place. I make you stop, somehow. But then you change- suddenly, not like you changed into this."
Her illness had been progressive, over six months or so. She'd been hit with a curse by some lunatic who wanted to get to Harry Potter and knew she was the best way. It was debilitating, and she was pregnant, too. I know she left letters for her daughter, when she grows up, and I've seen him pull out a piece of paper in a handwriting that isn't his and reading it, when it's worse, when she has the terrors near him. She always calls out his name then, but she can't see him if he's there, can't feel him holding her. It's the only time I've ever seen him cry, not even when he came to see her and she was catatonic, not when his daughter was born, not when his mother died. But when she's afraid and he can't help her, it's obvious that it kills him on the inside.
"It's stupid, baby, but I miss you, even now. The real you, you know? Yesterday, I wanted to fight with you, and I couldn't because, well, honestly, this isn't you. I hope that doesn't hurt you, when I say it, but it's not. I never did want to hurt you, but then I guess you knew that, I told you enough. But only at the end, I should have told you from the start. I tell Mirabelle everything I feel for her, because she could go too. I hate that you can't be afraid of that, with me. I hate that you can't know our baby now. It isn't right she should have her mother. Not that Ginny isn't good enough, she is, but she's not Mira's mother."
It amazes me, the circles these two travel in, he is a Malfoy, I suppose. They were the height of society before the war, and even a little after, thanks to him. People knew something happened, there were rumors he had betrayed his parents in favor of Harry Potter, but that's probably all those were. She was a dear friend of at least the wife's, Ginny Weasley, who comes sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. People say she and Harry were close as well, but if he comes, it's in secret. The night shift nurses don't mention him, but I sometimes see notes saying that someone is coming to see her after normal visiting hours are over. I've heard him say more than once that the little girl was at Potter House, built only three years ago, and supposedly the most beautiful home in Wizarding England.
"I left her with Ginny, actually, they have the two boys just Mira's age, James and Sirius. I think she's brought them to see you a few times, and there's a picture of them on the nightstand, just there. I know you can't see it, but it makes Potter feel better, for some mysterious reason. I can't say I like them much, baby, the boys, but Mira does. Ginny said not to tell you, in case, spontaneously, you could actually hear us, or understand, but they're expecting another."
Isn't that interesting. He talks about them so familiarly, it's funny. I know they've never been good friends, or at least not in public. He and Harry appear together often; both being involved in the Ministry and charity for the war orphans and survivors, but it's never seemed to me like they're close. The wife seems to know him well, and there were even rumors years ago now that they were having an affair. Anyway, it's hardly news any more that Ginny Potter's popping out yet another baby. This must be their fifth or sixth, the twins, the eldest, are the most famous, followed by the two daughters, Faith or some other name like that, and a little one named after either his mother or hers.
"I miss you," he murmurs, then presses a kiss to her forehead and another to her hand, before leaving. As he goes past the door, he turns to me. "I'm bringing my daughter to see her tomorrow, so if you could brush her hair, and maybe see that she's asleep. Last time I brought Mirabelle here, Hermione had a nightmare, and it was quite terrifying for her, she's only five."