Leaving Green Sleeves

Chapter seven

Visitors in the night

What would happen if a person died before he was born, before he was even conceived? If he died now, would he cease to exist for both past and future? Would there be no memory of him whatsoever? How could there be a memory of a man who never lived?

"Please don't make this more unpleasant than necessary, Mr. Fletcher. You're not dying! I've said it four times now." Borgin was beginning to lose his patience. "The mediwitch told me there was no immediate danger once we managed to stop the blood. A couple of days and you'll be fine."

"You can't blame me for asking, can you?" Dung retorted with a weak sneer that probably looked more ridiculous than threatening. "The issue's of some importance to me right now, believe it or not." He was lying in bed while Borgin packed away the bandages the mediwitch had used. The elderly witch had left five minutes ago with some well-meant advice to Borgin concerning the further care of Dung's wounds.

"You're not even ill enough to go to St. Mungo's," Borgin replied dryly, and washed his hands before turning to the door. "Get some sleep now and we can talk later."

The door closed, and a second too late Dung remembered. "'Could you... Oh, bugger." Borgin was gone, and the morning light seeped inside the heavy curtain, bathing Dung's bed in bright light. Swearing, Dung tried to get up to close the curtains, but was rewarded with a fierce stinging pain in his chest and sank back in bed with a groan.

An hour earlier, he'd woken up in his bed with Borgin and a grey-haired witch fussing over him with serious faces. And blood; blood everywhere. For a minute he hadn't understood where it came from, and when he did it had scared the life out of him. From that point it had been Borgin's responsibility to keep him calm enough for the mediwitch to do her job. Now he felt slightly embarrassed about his reaction. But who could blame him, he thought; it wasn't every day you survived an attempted murder.

He didn't remember much from the incident, just the deep voice talking to him and a swift hand going through his pockets. "What a way to go..." he muttered to himself as he drifted into a potion-induced haze. What was it the mediwitch had given him? Whatever it was, he should ask for more later; this was good stuff.

He woke up later, when Borgin entered the room and helped him with an urgent and rather private call of nature. Borgin's house was one of the few in the Alley with running water, but there were no toilets on first floor, and a long journey down the stairs was out of the question at the moment. It was a difficult task, as each motion sent daggers into his chest, and loudly he expressed his misery to Borgin beside him. Borgin's face had now turned a nasty shade of purple.

"It's your own bloody fault," he hissed at Dung after pushing him back in the bed again, more roughly than was strictly necessary. "You claim to be from the future; you should know not to interfere with destiny, then. Whatever happens has already happened, and is over! You are not supposed to play the hero around here. Besides, you're doing a bad job of it."

Borgin threatened to bring him some lunch but Dung managed to talk him out of it, and soon he was alone again. He preferred it that way: the calm privacy of this room he had started to think of as his own, his bed, his chair, and his bloody curtains to shut. Once more he found that he had forgot to ask Borgin to close them. Snogging his pillow, he turned his head away from the feeble light and drifted back to sleep, half expecting to wake up from this nightmare he'd unknowingly placed himself in.

When he woke again the light had faded and he could sense a presence in the room; the flow of energy from another human being, calm breathing and the soft rustling of fabric. So quiet, it was, that he couldn't be sure if it was actually a sound or just his overworked mind playing tricks on him. His mechanisms of defence hit in, and without opening his eyes his hand clasped the wand he had beside him in bed. Slowly, he started to open an eyelid and saw Borgin standing there with his arms crossed, staring down at him with a thoughtful face.

"Bloody hell, Stu! You scared the shit out of me!"

The wizard jerked out of his thoughts and sent him an annoyed glare. "Calm down, for Merlin's sake," he replied. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. The mediwitch said you needed proper food," he added when he saw Dung's grimace. "Which means healthy food, not just sausages and bacon and grease."

Dung scowled at him. "Rabbit-food. I'm bloody thrilled. How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," Borgin answered vaguely, and reached out his hand. Dung grabbed it and with a groan of pain he was pulled into a sitting position, and nearly broke his wand when he accidentally managed to sit on it. The wand shot half a dozen angry, red sparks as a warning.

"Not very smart, keeping it in bed," Borgin muttered.

"Maybe not, but it gives a lot of opportunities for wordplay," Dung snickered, and Borgin blushed decoratively.

Since he was so weak, Apparating was out of the question. Instead he had to walk. It took him ten minutes of wailing and lamenting to move from his bed to the end of the corridor, and in the end Borgin gave him a bad excuse and left, gritting his teeth. "Take it like a man!" he hissed when he got back a few moments later.

"I am!"

Never before had anyone encountered such exquisite and excruciating pain as Dung walking down the steep stairs of Borgin's house, and when he sat down by the dining table he was exhausted from the effort. When he laid eyes on the food placed before him, he cursed himself for leaving the room in the first place; with horror he pictured the mountain of wood he'd have to climb to get back. If the descent had been painful, the journey back would be purgatory itself. No vegetable in the world was worth this.

"You know," Borgin said and pointed at him with his fork, seemingly forgetting his usual quest in the name of good manners. "I have some clothes that might suit you. I was a bit...rounder a few years back, and I've kept my clothes. Would you be interested?"

Dung shrugged, and winced from the pain, while sceptically cutting a piece of pineapple into tiny bits with his fork. "Free? All right."

Borgin made a movement as if to stand up, but Dung interrupted him. "How did you find me last night? You heard the racket as well?"

"I didn't hear anything," Borgin replied. "I woke up when someone tried to break my bedroom window. When I got up and looked out no one was there besides you, face down in the street. A real mess, you were."

Dung chewed on this information, and the pineapple, for a while. Someone had clearly tried to notify Borgin of his condition. It couldn't have been the man in the black boots, he was certain of that, and neither had he seen nor heard anyone else in the Alley that night. It'd been the woman, then.

Meanwhile Borgin had gone out into the next room, and brought a few clothes back with him. He held a pair of black velvet robes in front of Dung, and closed his left eye. "This one should fit," he muttered, and took out the wooden coat hanger before hanging the robes over Dung's shoulders. "Ah! Very nice, very nice indeed!"

Dung touched the thick fabric, feeling awkward from wearing such expensive clothing. "I'll look like an undertaker in this," he muttered. "Or a Death Eater."

"What did you say?" Borgin eyed him curiously as he pulled out a pair of dark green robes.

Dung opened his mouth to reply, but soon shut it. "Nothing. What's that, Slytherin green? Were you a Slytherin, Stu? Didn't know that. I can't wear Slytherin green..."

"Of course I was," the other man answered proudly, taking the black robes off Dung and pulling them back on their coat hanger. All the time he sent Dung little glances, registering every emotion shown in his face, every little detail that slipped from his mouth - Borgin had always collected information, the way that others collected stamps. It made Dung feel vaguely paranoid.

Dung had to laugh, and was rewarded with the sharp sting that now was starting to feel familiar. "Never pictured you as a fashion consultant," he said and made a face from the pain.

"It hurts that much?" Borgin asked, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Only when I laugh. Or when I walk, or breathe, or try to turn 'round, or lift my arms. The only time it doesn't is when I lie still, pretending to be dead." His voice turned whiny, but he was too tired to care.

The clock in the corner of the room struck ten, and Borgin watched it with a frown. "Perhaps we should get you back upstairs."

"Yeah, let's," Dung sighed, dreading the long walk in front of him.

After reaching the hall, staring up the steep steps that seemed to go on forever, Dung closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. "It's no use, Stu, I don't even want to try. You got a sofa I could sleep on or something?"

Borgin scratched his head. "I've got a sofa, of course, but it's not for sleeping; you'd break your neck if you tried. I could conjure something, but I don't like having people in my rooms. I could levitate you, I suppose, but the mediwitch said it was important that you moved around."

"I know," Dung mumbled, barely audible, while shooting a glum look at the stair. "I hate that." With a heavy sigh he put his right foot on the lowest step and slowly started the ascent, each movement feeling like red-hot irons being poked into his chest.

When he finally made it to the top, Borgin had to support him from behind to prevent him from falling back down. He was so tired he could have cried, and every breath was a struggle in itself. When he entered the room he collapsed on the bed, and Borgin poured him a spoonful of the potion before helping him off with his clothes. Dung was in a happier state then, and the worst of the pain had subsided into a dull ache. Slowly, he drifted into sleep once more, and the last he saw was Borgin meticulously folding his clothes and hanging them in the cherry wood wardrobe.

*

The room was pitch black when he awoke, once more from the feeling of not being alone. He found himself irritated with his old acquaintance; he was getting just a little bit too personal, not letting him sleep, not even turning the lights on as he entered the room. "'S all right, Stu, I'm fine, really. See you tomorrow."

No one replied. For a second he thought he'd imagined it all, but the feeling lingered, that unpleasant knowledge of being watched, a soft sound of someone breathing deeply. There was no threat in the little sounds, but nevertheless they were unwelcome and he grabbed for his wand. "Lumos. Now, listen, I don't want to seem ungrateful, but..."

Borgin was nowhere to be seen. Instead a young woman was sitting in his chair, her feet pulled up under her and a Muggle leather jacket over her as a blanket. With sleepy eyes she blinked at him and raised her arm to keep the sharp light from the wand out of her face. "You're awake," she muttered before rubbing her eyes. A wisp of golden hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed it back behind her ear.

"Damned right I am," he exclaimed with a frown. "Who're you, and what the fuck are you doing in my room?"

"You wake up to find a pretty young girl in your bedroom," she barked back at him. "Most men would be pleased!"

He simply stared back, dumbfounded by her reply. Defiantly, she stared back, but soon her expression softened and she sat up straight in the chair, leaning towards him while resting her elbows on her knees. "Look, Mister, I came to say thanks, all right? But then you were sleeping, and I was tired so I just sat down for a little rest, that's all."

"That was you, out there...?" He made a vague gesture toward the window.

She nodded solemnly before smiling, looking a bit embarrassed. "Yeah. Nice of you to come to my rescue, though it wasn't really necessary."

"Sounded necessary to me," he muttered, suddenly feeling like an idiot. He discovered that the blanket had fallen down to his stomach, and with a sullen expression he pulled it up to his chest, covering the bandages.

Her face looked concerned as she got up from the chair and walked over to him; carefully she sat down near the footboard of his bed, once more pulling her feet up, away from the draft on the floor. "That's where he hit you? Looks big... Does it hurt much?"

"Yeah." He pulled back from her hand when she reached it out to touch him, but the wound gave another of its sharp stings and he lay back on the bed again. She remained on the bed, looking at the wound quizzically. Suddenly he felt shy; an emotion that hadn't plagued him for many years, and he pulled the blanket even further up. "If you're tired, maybe...you know, you should get back home and get some sleep," he mumbled incoherently.

"Can't." She shrugged, not looking too worried about it.

"You can't? Why not, is he beating you or something?"

"Who? Oh, him! No, no! It's just that my landlord is sort of... Well, I owe him a few Galleons, to put it like that." She was still snickering from his question. "I'm not living with anybody, not nowadays, anyway."

"So, you can't go home, because then your landlord comes and gets you. Where do you sleep, then?"

She shrugged again. "With friends and such. You know - I'm sorry about what happened out there, I really am. When I saw you were hurt I knocked on the grumpy git's window and waited in the dark until he came and picked you up. There wasn't much else I could do, you see." She gave him a sorrowful and pleading look that would've melted the heart of even the harshest schoolmaster.

"I guess I owe you one," he admitted. "My own fault, though. I got to stop putting my nose in other people's business; stupid of me."

She gave him a big smile. "Well, it was sort of sweet, I think." She reached out her hand and touched the tip of his nose, as if she was underlining her words. "Could I sleep here?"

"What?"

"Could I sleep here? I don't have anywhere else to go, my friend Maude is out of town with her family, and she forgot to give me the keys. I'm a squib, you see, so I can't charm the door open. I feel pretty safe here, considering you're one of the white cloaks - and you're in no condition to go all Grindelwald on me, anyway."

He snorted. "No, I'd probably die if I tried something like that."

"Then you'd die a happy man," she muttered with a wry grin and stood up. After slipping her shoes off she started to unbutton her green shirt, but stopped halfway and met his gaze. "You're not going to watch me, are you?" She rested her hands against her hips and frowned at him.

"Why not?" he answered. "As you said, I woke up to find a pretty young girl in my bedroom..."

"Yeah, right! I can sleep in the chair, no problem."

"I'm just joking. Look at me - I'm on the edge of death here! I'm as dangerous as a wet blanket. Now shut up and get in bed, dammit."

Sending him yet another lingering glance, she took off her shirt and threw it at his face, covering his eyes - it smelled nice. Feeling slightly insulted, he pulled it up and threw it over at the chair, careful not to let her see that he sneaked a peek. His chest started hurting again, and sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to relax.

With a contented sigh she crawled into the large bed and nuzzled the pillow next to him, and gave him a very tired and contented smile. "Good night," she muttered softly.

"G'night," he said nonchalantly, trying to give the impression that this was something that happened to him every day. He let the light from the wand fade to nothing, and put it on the bedside table. Soon her breathing deepened and he turned his head towards her in the darkness, trying to take a closer look at her now that his eyes once more had grown accustomed to the night. It was no use though; the night seemed deeper than ever, but the small sound of her breath was calming, almost hypnotising. He found that, without even thinking about it, he had let his own breathing fall into the same rhythm, and drowsiness came over him again.

He turned over in the bed, tired of lying on his back all the time. With a grimace and a sharp intake of breath, he somehow managed to find a position on his side that was endurable. Sighing, he closed his eyes. Just as he was on the verge of sleep, she let out a little moan and slowly turned her back to him, and a wisp of her hair tickled his nose. Gently he pushed it out of his face, and found to his great relief that the wound in his chest hadn't influenced other bodily functions. He drew in the scent from her hair, but after a minute of lazy contemplation he decided rest was the wisest choice. He didn't want to risk any scenes, not now when he was actually quite content being where he was.

"Go to sleep, you old dog," he muttered to himself, and soon he followed her to the land of dreaming.