When Draco floated back to consciousness, Dr. Flanagan was still there, fussing around him. Draco blinked a few times, then cleared his throat. The doctor looked at him, then said, "Ah, Mr. Malfoy. You seem to have fainted."
Draco grimaced. "Shock. It just sank in suddenly."
"I can see how that could easily happen," the doctor said sympathetically. "Now Mr. Malfoy, before I go do you have any questions?"
Draco though for a bit, then asked, "What am I going to do when I get out? I can't do wandless magic, and I can't move my hands to wield a wand..." As he spoke, a slight note of hysteria crept into his voice. "Am I going to get out of here? Ever?"
"Yes, of course you will, Mr. Malfoy," Dr. Flanagan replied placatingly. "You will have an aide, who will help you get around or teach your wife to help you-"
"I don't have a wife, Doctor." Draco stated coldly.
"Well, your aide will provide company, cook your meals, and, as I have said, take care of you." Dr. Flanagan smiled as he finished, smiled that little smug 'I've solved all your problems, now let's go have tea' smile.
Draco hated it. That bastard Dumbledore had used that smile when he had called Draco up to his office all those times in sixth year, when he had tried to pry the truth out of him, tried to 'help' him- even after they both knew that Draco had received orders from the Dark Lord to kill the bumbling old fool.
Draco hated that smile, but there was nothing he could do about it. He smiled- grimaced, more like- through gritted teeth, and asked tightly, "Do you have any recommendations for who my aide should be, Doctor Flanagan?"
Harry Potter woke up late. He'd forgotten his alarm, and at seven thirty, he jerked awake, looked at his clock, and cursed. His shift at St. Mungo's would start at eight o'clock, and he would barely have time to shower and shave, much less eat breakfast. He dragged himself out of bed, groaning, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
The shower was perfect- hot, relaxing, and slowly waking him up all the way. As he absently lathered shampoo in his hair, Harry contemplated his job. He was working his way up to being a full Healer at St. Mungo's, but right now he was only a Junior Healer, halfway out of training. He usually had a healer in the room with him while he examined people and healed them still, but soon they would trust him to heal people by himself.
The first few days, whenever he had gone in to see a patient, they would barely talk to him about their symptoms. They only stared wide-eyed, and looked a bit like a fish with their mouths gaping open. Harry couldn't get any work done.
After three weeks of this, Harry and the Senior Healers finally came up with a plan. They put about that Harry had quit as a Healer because of publicity, and that he had maybe gone to France to continue his training- or was it Switzerland? Or Germany? Or America? They spread the rumors in many variations, talking to any patients they were working on.
Soon, everyone was in a tizzy, trying to track down the Savior-turned-Healer at any and all big medical institutions. Finally, the hospitals all banned reporters from their facilities.
Three weeks later, after the media fervor died down a bit, a new trainee came to St. Mungo's. He had been working at a hospital in America, but he was English and he'd come home to work here again. He was not very tall, with a wiry build, light brown hair, and warm brown eyes. His name, the Senior Healers said, was Harrison Bergeron.
Harry was happy. Every morning, he could go to work with his glamour as "Harrison Bergeron", and nobody would bother him about being the 'Savior' or whatever shit they were spouting about him these days. He could help people, in little ways or in big ways, and nobody expected him to save the whole world, or always be big and mature and profound and omnipotent.
Well, the Senior Healers expected him to do everything right, but that was just because they had seen how well he could do, not because he was 'the Savior' to them. It was a really interesting job sometimes, since he could be faced with anything from a person dying of a snake bite, to a man whose shoes were trying to eat his feet.
As he got out of the shower, Harry thought contentedly that he did really like his job.
He quickly made himself scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, burning everything just a bit, but that was okay. He'd had to cook for the Dursleys when he lived with them, and now he relished being able to make things not quite perfect- a burnt omelet, a bit much spices whenever he felt like it, cutting bread at odd angles so the slices were never straight- without being yelled at, hit, or locked in a cupboard. His creations even tasted all right, most of the time.
Harry finished his breakfast and then rushed to the fireplace to Floo to work. He stumbled out of the green flames at St. Mungo's, and, recovering, strode toward his cubicle. When he got there, he had barely gotten settled at his desk when a winged envelope swooped in. It was from the paralysis floor, he saw from the spinal cord insignia on the front. He opened it and scanned the letter.
Healer Trainee Bergeron,
We have a patient who has lost use of his body aside from his head and neck. He will require an aide, possibly for the rest of his life.
All of the formally trained aides are in use at the moment, and we believe that you would be a good fit for the job, either permanently or in interim until we find someone else. Come to the paralysis floor immediately. The patient is in room 331.
-Healer Smythe
Harry looked at the letter in disbelief. He had been training a bit as a caregiver of that sort as part of his training, but he didn't think he would possibly be the best for the job. And if his glamour slipped? What then? His secret would be out again, and he might have to move altogether. Harry sighed. Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, he thought resignedly. He got up from his desk, straightened his Healer's robes, and began to make his way to the elevators which would take him to the Paralysis floor.
When Harry got into the elevator and the bars closed, he noticed another person in the small space with him. Emmie McPherson was a small brunette, a trainee along with Harry. When he first tried to work here, she had been mildly obsessed with him. When he came back glamoured, it was decided that she wouldn't be told who he really was.
Now, she look up at him, and giddily said, "Harrison, guess what happened?"
Harry sighed. "What happened, Emmie?"
The small woman looked up at him excitedly, and said in a conspiratorial tone of voice, "Draco Malfoy is in the Paralysis Wing with Quidditch injuries. They say it might be really bad! This is almost as exciting as when Harry Potter worked here for two weeks and three days!"
Harry stared at the shorter woman, his thoughts racing. Could it be coincidence? Surely there were other patients who had serious paralysis being treated right now that Harry could be going to aide...long term...without killing them or himself...Oh no, what if it was Malfoy in the Paralysis Wing?
When the elevator stopped, Harry was still frozen in shock. The grill rattled across, opening onto a view of rushing orderlies and a few people being transported by wheelchair, and Harry didn't move, staring out of the small elevator at the scene before him.
"Hey. Harrison? Are you getting out here? Earth to Mr. Bergeron, the elevator has stopped." Emmie was poking him, urging him out of the elevator. As he finally came to his senses and walked out, he heard Emmie fire a parting shot behind him: "Some of us have places to go today, Mr. Bergeron."
Harry sighed, straightened his shoulders, and walked efficiently toward the section of private patient's rooms, where Dr. Smythe awaited him, along with Draco Malfoy and Harry's probable doom.
When Harry got to Room 331, the door looked deceptively normal: a white, wooden object with a placard reading '331' and a bronze handle. Taking one more deep breath and wishing really hard that the patient within wasn't Draco, Harry knocked. Dr. Flanagan answered, looking slightly harried. He turned back into the room, saying, "Mr. Malfoy, I'll be back in a minute with your aide. Just calm down, all right?"
Ignoring the sounds of outrage coming from the hospital bed in the middle of the room, the doctor smoothly closed the door and stepped into the hall with Harry.
"Alright, Bergeron. So this is what's going on: this bloke, Malfoy, you know him. He's recently been in a Quidditch accident, and is now a quadriplegic."
"How bad? I saw him laying down all the way...C4?"
The doctor nodded. "It's pretty bad, and he needs help, first to get through the shock and anger of coping with this change, and then just to live his life. He's terrorized two nurses already, and he's only been here three days, so we need someone who isn't easily shaken. We think he can go home in a couple of days. Will you do it?" Dr. Flanagan looked at Harry hopefully.
Harry sighed and acquiesced. Th doctor smiled, relieved, and went to open the door to Draco's room. Before his hand could complete the journey, Harry grabbed his wrist.
"Should I take down my glamour? I know him- what if I accidentally tell him who I am? What if he notices I have a glamour on and gets suspicious?"
They stood in the empty hallway, contemplating possibilities. Finally, the doctor asked, "Will Mr. Malfoy be one of the ones who is so starstruck you can't get any work done?"
Harry laughed bitterly. "No, just the opposite. He might hate me so much that we can't get anywhere. We... didn't like each other very much in school."
"Well, I guess the only way to know is to test it. Take down the glamor." Dr. Flanagan said cheerfully, swinging the door wide.
Harry started, then flicked his wand around his face and body until he was fully recognizable. Once he was entirely himself, he cautiously stepped through the door, his expression maybe a little bit reminiscent of that of a prisoner on death row.
Malfoy was lying flat in his bed, his head turned to the wall. He looked paler than normal with all the white surrounding him.
When Harry walked into the room, Draco turned his head toward the sound of the door opening. Upon seeing Harry, Draco's eyes showed recognition, and then anger.
"Why is Potter here? Come to gloat at me? Hit me when I can't move to hit back?" the boy on the bed said bitterly.
Harry looked at him. "Malfoy, I-"
"Mr. Potter is going to be your caretaker. He is a trained Healer, Mr. Malfoy, and he will help you learn to cope with your- disability," Dr. Flanagan broke in.
Harry sighed. This obviously wouldn't be easy.
"Look, Malfoy, here's the situation. We both know we hate each other, but you need help-that's not an insult, it's a fact- and I need to do my job. So how about we try to tolerate each other?"
Malfoy scowled and turned his face towards the wall. "Oh, great, I'll have the Golden Boy as a live-in annoyance. Bloody wonderful. That's all I ever wanted in life."
Harry sighed quietly. Well, there goes the sarcasm meter up way past daily allowance.
Dr. Flanagan clapped his hands together. "So, you two know each other. I'm sure you'll get along wonderfully. Mr. Malfoy, we're prepared to suggest that, now that you have an aide, you can go home in about two days."
"What?! I can't-"
"How- Wait-!"
"Calm down. If Mr. Potter turns out to be a bad choice for your aid, we will find a replacement. This will be just a trial period, say... a month."
"Three weeks." Draco said stonily.
"Yeah, three weeks!" Harry agreed.
"Alright, fine, three weeks. We'll decide if this arrangement is going to work after you've tried it for three weeks, gentlemen." Dr. Flanagan sighed, dismissed Harry, and walked out of the room to check on some patients who wouldn't give him so many headaches.
A/N: i have finally updated! it has legit been a whole year since the first chapter. hopefully next one will be up soon. anyway, please tell me what u think :)