Disclaimer: To those of you who thinks I need a disclaimer, please go to chapter one.
"These are Mr. Weasley's records. File them in, it will come in handy."I instructed as I handed them over. "Mr. Malfoy would have to wait. I still need to get something done with my patient over here."
"For how long?"
"Just a moment," I said. "Tell him to knock beforehand; I'd like to know when he's in."
I spent most of the afternoon with some other patients, whom I have no urgent concern for. The usual procedures were carried out with less enthusiasm than usual, and I find myself rather distracted to answer their questions.
"Is it possible for you to…"
"No. I'm really sorry, Mrs. Sims, but I'm afraid that this kind of healing is illegal in the system—and you know it." I flicked through my papers in my hands, picking up various names and symptoms that are waiting to be dealt with. The lady who sat opposite me stared at me blankly; and only started when I told her that it is time for my next appointment. I gave her some words of encouragement on her way out, but my voice was somewhere too distant for even my own ears to hear. Mrs. Sims nodded in understanding before she left with a "thank you for everything…Mr. Potter."
I was stunned by her gratefulness for a long time. It did not occur to me that I was someone worth praising in this particular case, when all I could do is watch her child suffer the painful symptom of a certain mental issue, due to the fact that the quickest solution to all this experience is of illegal means. I knew the incantation right from the back of my head, where it would dwell for another decade if the Department of Incantations'-Development denied the case. The argument has been going on for ages; whether the spell from an ancient tome found in the grave of a certain perished Chinese priest could be used as an official healing spell. Some argued the case as politically unsuitable as China have not yet permitted its ancient magic to spread west-ward before they have uncovered the functions of the spell themselves. I've already tried writing a letter to persuade them, stating my full personal analysis of the incantation. If one had already uncovered what there's left to be investigated, then I see no point in concealing the fact and waiting for someone else to point out the fact: that this could be done without unreasonable concerns. I've done some experimenting and figured that it could be of major use for a lot of the unsolved cases in my field--including the one just now.
But there wasn't a thing that I could do about it. This system is seriously twisted sometimes. Maybe I should be a politician and figure out a way to this someday.
The evening went by with my mind fully tuned on the guest who is expected to arrive at seven. It was during my break, but it's the only time that I'm free as well. We were waiting in Ron's chamber, when a knocking sounded. It was hard and resolved, and was reaching an alarmingly high frequency before I managed to heave myself up from the stool, stride to the door, and open it with a nasty force.
I was just about to say to our guest about something concerning manners, when suddenly the door was shoved forwards by an inhuman force, and a tall and blonde creature strode in.
"Pray tell, Weasley--the whole encounter of your stupidity against Voldemort's insanity," Our guest's cloak swept over the floor as he neared Ron's bed, the gale of his apparent temper rising to meet us at a threatening level, the acidity of his words spreading out like icy winds roaming through the Antarctic lands.
I closed the door with a grunt of disapproval and charged annoyingly back to my stool. Ron was looking up and murmuring something. I looked up from my place just beside them two and eyed the intruder. Now that his appearance is made clear by the ring of light above, Malfoy's whole complexion seemed to make much more sense. It was just one glimpse that I took earlier by the entrance, and I needed a much closer look to get an idea of what this insufferable git has turned into. I was disappointed.
He was at least half a head taller than me and his features have developed into those of a matured vampire. His eyes flickered under the dim light while he waited for the answer to his question, as though constantly plotting on a conspiracy. I did not find it appealing to stare at people when they're fuming--but this glance took a little longer than I expected.
His complexion was as pale as before, and his glare still bear their family traits obviously--haughty, in charge, daring others to speak up. I narrowed my eyes, the image of his arrogant face imprinted somewhere at the back of my head. He had changed little during the years, but there's something altogether different about him. The most disturbing new aspect, in fact, was the way his accusing look shot towards Ron. It held something equivalent to the Vitaserum spell in its glare.
Too bad it didn't work.
"It was one of those times when stupidity outwits insanity, I'm afraid," Ron answered easily. It was a strange thing, to watch the conversation unfold in such a way that could never be back then, when we were in our second year. Everything seems so different. Back then, Draco Malfoy was never the one in charge of my best friend. Also, back then, Ron wouldn't have answered in such a cool and collected tone.
I checked to see if there were any other expressions hidden under the pale visage of the wicked vampire which I remembered Malfoy as. There were none. Still, I couldn't figure how Ron could answer with such ease under a menacing glower as such.
Malfoy, unsatisfied at that answer, was about to throw back something at Ron when he realized my presence—my unnecessary presence, amidst the private conversation between an Auror and its commander, who were discussing a life and death matter, or so it seems—for the first time since entering this room. He stared at me with a foreign look, as if he knew me but couldn't be bothered to admit it for some reason or another. He recognized me—that's for sure; it's unmistakable for even the thickest, not to mention the lightning-shaped scar upon my forehead.
"It's rather foolish of you to eavesdrop right in front of us, don't you agree?" Malfoy's gaze landed on my face, and my matching glare met his just in time to catch the last blazing trail of fury, replaced by non other than disdain—a look that I've known only too well. His eyes flickered once more.
"I am, of course, in charge of your man." I swallowed, "And therefore own the right to participate in any activity that my patient wishes me to, considering that he needs full-time guard from whatever after effects of the injury that he may be prone to."
"My man told you to participate in this conversation?" Malfoy eyed my patient for quite a while, probably implying some sort of mutual understanding of how to deal with Ron after I leave, which only made me more wary of his presence.
"Look, if you have anything against me, too bad; whether Ron asked me to stay or not is not the issue at all--I just wanted to make sure my patient gets the peace he needs while he is recovering." I stood up and pointed towards the door, "And if you cannot deal with it, tough, I will need to ask you to leave, commander or not."
Shifting an eyebrow, Malfoy's expression hardened immediately. "This is a serious topic that we—me and Ronald—are having a little discussion on," he hissed. "And if you have any further questions, please feel free to check out RIA about laws concerning privacy in between the commander and his Auror members."
The silence that followed was exasperating. If a modest and kind-hearted person were to commit murder, this may just be it. I nearly took out my wand, only to remember that these had been curse-proofed by the safety departments before my receiving them. Damn those safety departments! Who the hell does this bastard think he is? I made a quick eye-contact with Ron, to see what he makes of this.
Ron reacted swiftly.
"Honestly, Commander, is it really important that you come all the way from the institution to here, after the battle, with your scars and wounds still smeared with fresh blood—just to comment on my stupidity?"
Malfoy glared at Ron, "Of course, that was the major issue" he replied with a sarcastic, we-share-a-mutual-understanding tone.
"Well, there—you're done with it, so why all the fuss about Ha—James?" Ron paused for a bit, trying to get used to calling me by the new name.
"James?" Malfoy echoed.
I waited for the question—"so, why's it you changed your name?"
But it didn't come. Instead of firing the obvious question right at me, Malfoy simply let the ring of his last word hang there, the echo of his voice droning out all the other buzzes that used to disturb me.
After a disconcerting minute, Ron started to murmur something, and it seemed only to be for Malfoy's ears. They started talking about something concerning the RIA.
I kept my stance the same for five minutes; watching them converse like old friends. Although Ron defended for my staying here, I really see no point. They were now talking quietly as if I didn't even exist, though I know that's not the case. Malfoy is simply ignoring me, and Ron only gave me a few eye-contacts to hint about the seriousness of their talk, that he'll be catching up with me just a while later. They went on and on about some things that I haven't heard of, and I caught some names and foreign words. They did not refer to me anymore, so I decided to go out, seeing no point in staying here anyway. Malfoy didn't seem to have the intention of disturbing my patient; they were just having proper discussion concerning their work.
So why do I get so…? Damn! I can't phrase it right now. Things seem to be turned the other way round after Malfoy's arrival. I needed to have a good talk with Ron badly, only to find out that Malfoy had taken over in becoming his best pal after we went out separate ways. Time really can change a lot of things sometimes—those who went against it were either blind to the truth or simply naïve.
I went back to my office and took a little nap, trying to make it up for the lost hours of leisure time from my busy work. It was not long before I fell into a heavy doze. In the quiet of my small, plain office, I felt my eyelids droop with a tiredness I have never known.
"You are the most useless thing I have ever relied on. Unforgivable piece of filth…" someone hissed in the dark. A hooded figure with a purple robe stood by a quarry-like location, the winds billowing hard, threatening to blow the hood off the back of his head.
"My…my lord…I had to kill him before we go…I…" the figure stuttered. He seems to be talking to the cold evening air around him, though it was obvious to me that this is not the case. Voldemort…?who is he relying on right now?
The voice rang again; this time with a harsher and more reprimanding tone. "And did you? Hmm? You did not, Fiddle, you out of all…"
"Someone…someone else was in the way…" the figure is now kneeling, hands over his skull as if trying to cease a painful headache.
"Excuses, excuses, Fiddle--not a bright move," Voldemort's hissing now became unbearable. It echoed over and over, each time amplified like a nearing drumbeat, hammering its way into my ears.
"No…no! My lord, he's…he's one of your men, my lord, my…" his wincing sounded like nails scratching upon metal, sharp and disgusting amidst the otherwise serene night. The sun had already set, leaving a jagged patch of the evening sky an eerie crimson in a far corner just beside a jutted hill, as it tumbled its way through its arched track and was swallowed into the earth. The figure is shuddered gasped in great gulps of shallow breaths.
"One of my man?" The Dark Lord asked in a mocking voice, "How's that? I will never have anyone against me…and you know it, Fiddle, you should know that; out of all the dark servants, you should know that rule long before now. It seems to be a little too late to be shoving the responsibility onto others' shoulders by now…isn't it?"
What more of the sad cries of Fiddle could not be described, the mere pain conveyed by his howling is enough to make me sick…I fell on my knees whilst my stomach churned in disgust…
I woke up with a start, realizing that my old fear had stolen its way back into my dreams somehow. It was a long time ago that I last dreamt about the Dark Lord. My scar had been a burden from since I was born, but, just as I thought that I'll get rid of it by becoming a humble healer, the dream that I just had had proved me wrong.
I lay stretched across my desk for a long time, gathering what minor details that was left of my dream. Voldemort is definitely hiding behind someone--who's the hooded figure? The more I thought about it, the heavier my head seems to get. Suddenly, the all but too familiar throbbing started like an erupting volcano, and all I could do is lie on the desk and wince.
The pain ceased slightly after what seems like eternity, with me silently calling out to no one in particular. As the throbbing began to relinquish, I found myself stunned by my stupidity. I'm a healer, for Merlin's sake! Why couldn't I just put a pain-ceasing spell on myself just now? I shut my eyes and feel the pulse of the ebbing throb; it came too quick, this devastating pain. It was too long ago that I last had it, and I wandered what had made it come back…I should've reacted faster.
I turned around with great effort, just to check what time it was. The clock was just like those with the muggles--nothing special like the one in Weasley's. Thinking about the Weasleys made me think of Ron—which inevitably led to Malfoy.
The hands on the clock read half past ten—way into the night. I blinked a few times and yawned, trying to break away from the effect of a nightmare. A knock sounded at my door, just as I was about to get out of my chair. I sighed and got up, despite the urge to ignore it.
"Who's there?" I called from inside.
There was silence for at least ten seconds before a reply came.--"It's Draco Malfoy," I stopped dead on hearing the voice, wandering what in the world would he want in the middle of the night. Couldn't he just leave whenever he wanted? It's not like I'm the hotel concierge and everyone who's leaving needs to sign out—I sighed much louder this time, deliberately, to make my opinion audible. Slowly putting on my glasses, I pulled open the door with a greater force then intended.
"What is it?" I snapped. The figure in front of me gasped suddenly and seized back his half-outstretched hand. It seems that I've pulled open the door a little too hard. I didn't apologize, though I felt a little sympathy for the bastard who disturbed what little peace I had. I'm starting to wonder what's getting into me; I seem to be more disturbed by little things than I used to be.
To my astonishment, Malfoy didn't seem to mind my snapping. He only indicated about his parting in a few terse words and turned to go.
"Malfoy," I snapped again, and regretted somewhat. He had more tolerance than I'd thought, but testing his limits isn't exactly a bright thing to do. It's really a pain to feel both annoyance and sympathy for someone simultaneously.
He spun 'round in mid-track, eyeing me questioningly. He looked a bit weary—probably because he's done too much discussing with Ron.
"You didn't have to tell me about that; you could've just left, I'm not the concierge you know," I pointed out. This is the closest to an acceptable tone that I could manage with someone who had pissed me off thrice in a row, per day.
He stayed silent for at least ten seconds before he replied. "Ronald told me to-- he mentioned something about offering you a job at the RIA." He paused. "Seeing that you aren't in a calm mood to accept just about anything, I decided to take that back."
"You could've said so in the first place," I snapped, a little less-snappish compared to my previous remarks.
"No I couldn't, you brainless git," he furrowed his eyebrows and snorted impatiently, "Now it's clear that you don't want the job, then so be it;" he snapped, "it's not like I'm desperate."
I could think of nothing to say at the moment, and am rather feeling as if I've just been slapped across the face.
He turned and left without a word.