A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

Professor Krohn was shaking when he walked into the hospital wing during those first hours of morning. He had avoided the place since his colleague, Cyrus Knowles, had been brought in ... since he had brought him into the wing almost three days earlier. Reynard wiped his hands on his robes, remembering the blood -- there had been so much of it -- before he opened the doors to the hospital wing and slipped silently inside.

He didn’t mind that it was dark. Why keep a light on for a blind man, he thought bitterly to himself. The darkness was only logical. Cyrus would never need a lamp or lantern or a book of those muggle matches he liked again. He could sit in the dark and it wouldn’t matter one whit to him. Reynard squeezed his eyes closed for a moment and ground his teeth together. Maybe he did mind the darkness just a bit.

The thought that he could turn and flee back to the dungeons flitted through his mind. Then he heard a soft voice in the lightlessness that surrounded him. Or rather surrounded both him and his oblivious colleague.

“Who goes there?” asked the voice of Professor Knowles. There was neither fear nor alarm of any sort in those tones. He sounded as bland and as bored as ever.

Krohn considered not answering him. He could still leave. No one would be able to say for certain that he had been there. But he had spent the better part of the night screwing up his courage to make this visit. He did not want that effort, those long and sleepless hours spent before his hearth, staring into the flames and weighing arguments, to go to waste, to be all for naught.

He stepped forward in the darkness and said, “It’s Reynard.”

Krohn silently cursed the tremor in his voice.

“I was wondering when you would come,” said Knowles with a soft chuckle that wasn’t friendly nor particularly pleasant. Bitter perhaps? Matter-of-fact?

Krohn followed the sound of his voice, just able to make out the shapes of the hospital beds after standing in the dark for so long. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves as he approached a shadowy figure seated on a bed near the farthest end of the ward.

“I’ve ...” Reynard began, trying to come up with a plausible reason for not coming to see him sooner.

“I know,” said Knowles, reaching out a hand to him. Reynard thought he saw a flash of a smile when he grasped that hand. “You’re shaking,” he observed in a neutral tone.

“I’m sorry,” said Krohn, trying to still the trembling that had scarcely left him since the night of the vampire attack.

Cyrus tugged Reynard toward him until the other man had no choice, but to sit down next to him on the bed.

“It’s all right,” Knowles assured him.

Reynard raised his eyebrows in surprise. Normally his colleague would have chided him for demonstrating such weakness. There was nothing in his voice that even resembled an admonition.

“Are you getting on all right?” Reynard asked him.

“They’ve told you I’m blind, haven’t they?”

“Professor Dippet informed me of that fact,” said the professor of potions with a soft sigh, “and of his intention to keep you on if ...”

“You’ve been informed then,” interrupted Knowles in a clipped tone.

Reynard knew that tone. He had trespassed. His inquiry had taken him where he was not permitted to go. Having done this before, Krohn knew that he had broached a subject upon which his colleague and friend would not converse. And Reynard also knew better than to tickle a sleeping dragon.

“I have,” said Reynard perhaps a bit stiffly or formally, trying make up for his mistake.

They sat there together in the dark for a long while. Reynard did not know what else he could say to Cyrus that would be appropriate. His throat began to prickle as Knowles slowly rubbed his thumb across the top of the hand that he continued to hold, almost absently tracing small circles there.

“I’m not going to stay here,” Knowles told him.

“Where will you go then?” asked Reynard tentatively.

“I have a small country home near Wales. My parents stayed there during the holidays when they were still alive. I think I’ll go there for a while,” he answered slowly and thoughtfully.

“You have house elves?” asked Krohn, wondering how his colleague would manage to take care of himself.

“No,” he replied.

“Cyrus ...” he began in a concerned tone before he could think better of doing so.

“Reynard,” interrupted Knowles in a tone that would brook no nonsense from the marginally younger professor, “it would be better if you refrained from doing that. Despite the laudable infrequency of such an occurrence, you know I don’t like it when you turn into a puddle of German goo.”

“I know,” Reynard whispered, dabbing at his eyes with his free hand and the corresponding sleeve. He hoped that Cyrus couldn’t tell, but imagined that he could. “Just ... how will you manage?” he asked, almost hating himself for needing to ask the question so badly.

He waited for an answer, but none came, not even an angry retort from his peculiar and adept colleague, who had reduced far better men than he to near apoplexy. Then Reynard realized something. Cyrus didn’t plan to manage the situation; he planned to return home to die.

“No!” Krohn cried out, jerking his hand from Cyrus with some force as he leapt to his feet and stared down at Knowles with horror marring his heavy features.

“Quietly, Reynard, or you’ll awaken Madam Pomfrey,” said Knowles with the barest hint of irritation in his voice.

Krohn grasped his friend’s face in his hands and tilted his head so that he could see his face better in the very dim light. Knowles permitted it. Reynard found a soft expression there that was one of sorrow, defeat, and bitterest resignation.

“You can’t, Cyrus, you just can’t!” he said in a quiet, but desperate voice.

Knowles placed his own hands on top of Reynard’s still trembling hands and slowly slid them up Reynard’s arms to his chest and fumbled for his face. The tall professor leaned down to accommodate him.

“Cyrus, you just cannot do that,” he whispered, not caring that Knowles could feel the moisture on his cheeks and know that he had been crying.

“What else can I do?” asked Knowles, drying his friend’s cheeks with his fingertips. He reached behind Reynard’s head and unfastened the metal clasp that kept his hair out of his eyes. It fell to the floor with a clatter. A sorrowful smile played upon Knowles’ lips. “Tell me that. What can I do now, Reynard?” he asked again.

“I don’t know, but perhaps we can think of something. Perhaps we can think of a way that will allow you to continue to teach ...” suggested Krohn desperately.

Knowles laughed softly and said, “Don’t be foolish, Reynard. My teaching days are over. You are letting your emotions cloud your reason.”

“And you aren’t?” he asked.

“Touché,” said Knowles with a muted sigh. “I cannot deny that, Reynard, but I can ... see no alternatives. At least this way ... I may preserve what remains of my dignity,” he said, placing his hands on Krohn’s shoulders.

“But your life, Cyrus! We must find an alternative to this ...” Reynard began to plead.

Knowles shushed him quietly and rose to his feet. The gray light that had begun to fill the windows of the hospital wing fell upon his face, and for a brief moment Reynard thought he could see unshed tears in his friend’s unfocused eyes. Then they were gone as Cyrus expertly blinked them away.

“You have always been a good friend to me ...” said Knowles.

“... and you to me, Cyrus.”

“But I do not think you can help me now as you have in the past. I don’t think anyone can,” he said, giving Reynard’s shoulders a firm squeeze before releasing them.

“You’ve always been a greater help to me,” said Krohn, rubbing his eyes before looking at Cyrus again, “but at this moment, I think you are being an irrational and selfish bastard, and I would be remiss in my duties as your friend if I did not say so.”

Knowles’ lips twitched into something of a smile as he said, “I knew you were angry with me.”

“I’m not angry, Cyrus. I’m disappointed ... and I’m frightened, but I’m not angry with you,” said Krohn solemnly.

This was less than the perfect truth, but he didn’t think telling Cyrus that he believed him to be a reckless fool and shouting at him for those vices was the best course of action, even if Cyrus had got himself into this predicament. A small part of Reynard, however, wanted to do this very thing. But for once in his life, his temper did not get the better of him.

“Then I am sorry to have disappointed you,” said Knowles in a tone of voice that conveyed no emotion.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” asked Reynard, looking at his friend and searching his face for some clue, for something that would tell him what to say that would change his mind or his assessment of the situation. He saw nothing.

“No,” Knowles admitted, fumbling for his friend’s shoulder again. He squeezed Krohn’s shaking shoulder and said, “I think you had best be going, Reynard, though I would appreciate another visit before I leave.”

“Of course,” said Krohn softly. Something in his chest twisted as he looked into Cyrus’ unseeing eyes. “But I would rather you stayed,” he added, dashing the tears from his own eyes because he Cyrus would want him to do so, would want him to be stoic and brave.

“We don’t always get what we want,” said Cyrus with a ghost of a smile.

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