Animus

Animus (Part 6)

Waking up today is a bit like trying to swim through molasses - that is it say, everything about coming to consciousness is impossibly heavy and slow and requires a great deal of effort.

I finally manage to open one eye, then the other; only to close them both with a surprised groan. Today of all days, the sun shines brightly into my room, and it sends a bolt of white-hot pain shooting through my skull.

I groan again and desperately try to find my way back to the painless sleep that I was enjoying only moments ago, but it is already too late - I’m awake.

Maybe if I just move a little, find a more comfortable position, maybe I can...

But all the slight movement does is cause a raging nausea to well up in my stomach. I take deep breaths to quell it, but again - it’s too late. I can already feel the bile rising in my throat, burning it as it makes its way up.

 

Momentarily forgetting about the pain in my head, I jump off the bed and stumble into the bathroom as quickly as I can manage it. I throw myself down on the floor in front of the toilet and lean over just in time to vomit into it violently.

I continue to throw up for what feels like hours (but is probably less than a minute) then I lean back and wipe my mouth hastily.

My throat and the inside of my nose feel like they’ve been burned with acid and my head is pounding ten times worse than before. It literally feels like my brain is trying to break its way out of my skull. The pain in my head exacerbates the nausea and I throw up again. And now I find myself caught in a seemingly never-ending circle. Throwing up again causes the pain to intensify which causes another round of vomiting.

 

Finally, after endless minutes have ticked by, I am finally done; there is nothing left in my stomach to get rid of. Even the dry heaves are over. I slowly shift away from the toilet and drop my head into my hands.

Jesus, what did I do last night? How much did I drink to end up like this? The last thing I remember is being at the pub. How did I get home? Did I drive?

I have so many questions and no answers for any of them. It’s frustrating and more than a little frightening; I’ve never experienced anything like this before - this loss of time.

Feeling rattled I flush the toilet and then force myself to stand up. Leaning against the counter with one hand I reach for the hangover potion with the other.

Please let there still be some.

Eyes bleary and watery, I have to fumble around for a few seconds before I finally find it. Once I have it in my hand, I uncap it and drink it down greedily.

For a frightening moment, I think I’m actually going to throw this up also, but I breath deeply through the pangs of nausea and my stomach gradually accepts it.

I bow my head and wait for the potion to kick in. 

Mercifully, it doesn’t take long. The pain and residual nausea ebb away until there is nothing left but the memory of them.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief I straighten up, step over to the sink and turn the cold water on. I scoop it up in my hands and splash it on my face in an effort to revive myself even further. The water is cool and brisk against my flushed skin. It feels like heaven. I am finally starting to feel normal. Now all I need is a hot cup of coffee in me, and I’ll be...

My thoughts cut off as, for the first time, I feel a strange ache in my hands. Funny how I didn’t notice it before - the headache must have obscured it. Curious, I look down at them, and what I see literally takes my breath away. The knuckles of both my hands are swollen and bruised. I flex my hands carefully, noting that there is dried blood on them. Not much, but it is there.

I lift my head and look into the mirror for the first time since entering the bathroom. Again my breath is stolen because of what I see before me. My left cheek is bruised, and so is the bottom corner of my lip. I bring one of my aching hands up to touch it, but it shakes so much that I can’t. I let it drop and stare at my reflection in the glass.

What the hell happened to me?

I look down at my body and take a quick inventory. I don’t see any further damage but I do note that I am wearing the same clothes from yesterday and that they are wrinkled and torn in some places.

I take a couple of steps backwards and that’s when I realize that my entire body is sore...as if I’d put it through some sort of physical exertion.

I take another steps backwards, my eyes still glued to the mirror.

What happened to me?

What did I do last night?  

Again, too many questions and not enough answers. I rack my brain trying to recall something...anything, but I come up blank.

And then I remember Malfoy - the other person in this twisted drama.

Could it possibly be his blood on my hands? But if it is - then what the hell did I do?

Energized by fear and a sinking feeling of dread, I run out of the room and into the hall, shouting his name as I go.

I practically fly down the stairs to the living room. What I see only serves to increase the emotions churning inside me. The coffee table has been overturned, and the vase that sat at its center is now nothing more than shattered glass on the floor.

I am growing more and more certain that I have done something very, very bad.

I desperately shout for Malfoy again, but still there is no answer. I leave the living room and run into the rooms that he frequents - the library, the kitchen, but there is absolutely no sign of him.

None.

Near frantic now, I run back up the stairs and throw open the door that he’s been staying in. I step inside the room and look around.

My heart leaps up into my throat when I realize that someone is in the bed.

It appears that I’ve found Malfoy; now the question is, what condition is he in?

I take a deep breath and say his name. There is absolutely no movement from the figure buried under the covers. That shouldn’t be surprising though, my voice was little more than a whisper.

I say his name again as I begin to move forward, my body trembling just slightly. My voice is a little louder this time, yet he still gives no sign that he hears me or is even aware of my presence.

I reach the side of the bed and extend my hand until I grab hold of the sheets. I pull them back at an agonizingly slow place, yet I can’t seem to make myself move any faster. I want to see but yet I’m so afraid to.

I take a deep breath and pull it down just far enough to reveal Malfoy’s face.

Oh Merlin, it’s just as I thought. I have done something very, very bad.

Malfoy’s pale face is marred by bruises, cuts and patches of dried blood, swollen in places almost beyond recognition. Now fully trembling, I pull the sheets down further and notice that he’s also in the same clothes from yesterday except that his are in much worse shape than mine.

I glance down at his chest. It rises and falls rhythmically, albeit slowly and with effort. He’s asleep, but it’s far from a peaceful sleep; his pain-lined face tells me that much.

 

And I did this.

That sickening thought causes the world to swim before me and the nausea to return. I dig my nails hard into my palms to make it go away. I can’t afford to pass out or be sick right now; not now.

I wait until the dizziness is gone, then I carefully sit on the edge of the bed and place one hand on his shoulder.

“Draco.”

He moans and turns his head ever so slightly.

“Draco, please wake up. Please...” The hand that was on his shoulder is now smoothing back his hair.

His eyelids flutter and he moans again, this time louder.

My hand comes across something sticky towards the back of his hair. I look - it’s dark and red. It has stained the pillow.

I grab his hand and give an encouraging squeeze. “Open your eyes, Draco. Come on.”

And surprisingly he does. The one eye that isn’t swollen shut opens, then he blinks heavily. It takes him a moment to focus on me.

“Harry?” he croaks out.

 

“Yes, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound comforting.

His stare, though bleary, manages to turn hard and cold. “Come to...finish what you...started?”

I takes me a second to decipher what he just said, the broken nose and swollen lips are distorting his words.

I reach out towards him with my free hand. “No...I...”

He pulls his hand out of mine and shrinks away from me. “Don’t you fucking touch me!” he yells, only to grimace in what appears to be agony the second the words leave his lips.

I freeze, then drop my hands into my lap. “Did I...did I do this?”

Why am I asking? I know damn well that I did.

He looks sideways at me and a bitter, choked laugh escapes him. “Oh that’s rich...that’s so damn rich. You don’t...remember, do you?”

He’s having a difficult time talking. I can tell by the way he breathes out his words; the way he has to pause every so often. It’s not just the broken nose. Damage to his ribs maybe? Internal bleeding? No, if it were that he’d be coughing up blood by now.

I blink and remember that I was asked a question. “No,” I whisper.

“Well Harry...you did. You - like so many of my fucking clients - got a little...overzealous.”

His words cut deep and I turn my face away, shame making it impossible to look at him.

When I finally force myself to turn back I see that both his eyes are closed again. I stare at him, seeing the purpled skin and the blood congealing in his hair and the chest struggling to rise with every breath, and I know I can’t afford to sit here any longer.

“I have to get you to a hospital,” I say as I begin to stand.

His hand on my arm surprises me and stops me. He’s looking at me again. “No hospital.”

“What? Why not?”

“Think, Harry. You’ll go to jail.” He pauses and looks away. “And you can’t pay me from jail.”

So we’re back to the money; the ever important money. But he’s right about the hospital. Taking him to one in his condition would mean police and that could get very messy. But I can’t just leave him here to suffer, hoping that he’ll get better, and I don’t know enough healing magic to really help him.

He brings a hand up to his forehead and rubs it slightly, his face contorting in agony as he does so. “Just go away,” he breathes out.

I’m about to reply that ‘no I can’t go away’ when an idea hits me - Hermione is training to be a medi-witch. She could help Malfoy. She’s brilliant, and even though she’s only in her first year of training, she’s already better than most healers twice her age.

And Hermione understands discretion.  

Yes, that’s what I’ll do; I’ll get Hermione to help.

Now that I’ve decided on a course of action, I turn my attention back to Malfoy. “I’m going to get someone to help you, all right? Not a Muggle hospital, but you need someone.”

He doesn’t respond, just turns his head and shivers slightly. I pull the sheets back up so that they cover his entire body, somehow resisting the ridiculous urge to tuck him in.

All right then, no more wasting time; who knows how long he’s lain there suffering.

I run back downstairs to the fireplace and grab some floo powder from the small bowl that sits on top of the mantle. At the same time I pull my wand from my back pocket and aim it at the hearth. I start a small fire, then toss the powder onto it. Then I kneel in front of the fireplace and stick my head into it.

I find myself looking at the inside of a house that I instantly recognize although I haven’t been here nearly as often as I should. “Hermione? Ron?” I call out.

Within seconds both Ron and Hermione are running towards me from opposite sides of the house, surprise and concern on their faces.

“Harry?” Ron asks at the same time that Hermione asks, “Harry, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

I look at Hermione, ignoring Ron for now. “I need you to come quick, Hermione, please. I need you...”

She shakes her head in confusion. “But what...”

“I’ll explain when you get to my house, just please...”

“Well...of course...”

“And...bring your medical bag.”

She looks confused as anything, but she nods her assent and that’s all I need to see right now. I pull my head back out of the fireplace and stand back up, ignoring the ache in my knees.

Then I wait.

Not two minutes later both Hermione and Ron apparate into the room.

Hermione runs up to me, medical bag in hand. “All right, Harry. What’s going on? Are you ill?”

“No, not me, it’s someone else.”

“Who?”

“He’s upstairs.”

“Upstairs? But who is it? What’s going on? Is it a Muggle?”

“Hermione, I’ll explain it all later. I just need you to help him.”

I grab her hand and pull her up the stairs with me. Ron, who is acting the part of the silent observer, trails behind us.

I walk into the room and step aside so that they can enter. They take one look at the figure on the bed and turn towards me, both shouting questions at once. They’re speaking so fast I can’t even tell who is asking what.

“Malfoy?”

“What is he doing here?”

“What happened to him?”

“Harry, what’s going on?”

Malfoy, for his part, looks at Ron and Hermione and rolls his good eye. “This just keeps getting better and better, ” he says.

Ron steps forward. “Harry. Explanation. Now.”

Once again I ignore him and talk to Hermione. “‘Mione...please?”

She looks at me for a long moment as if trying to determine whether or not I’m still sane. Then she sighs and turns toward the bed. “Please leave, both of you. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“I’m not leaving you in here with that bastard!” Ron yells.

Hermione fixes him with a stare that we both know all too well. It’s the ‘don’t fuck with me’ stare. “Ron. Go now. Please. I’ll be fine. Won’t I, Harry?”

I nod. “He won’t hurt you.”

As if he could hurt anyone in the condition he’s in...

The condition that I put him in...

“We’ll be downstairs,” I say as I grab Ron’s arm and begin to drag him out of the room.

For a second I think he’s going to fight me and demand to stay, but apparently he trusts me enough to let himself be led.

We go downstairs and sit down on the sofa that faces the tipped over table.

Ron crosses his arms and looks at me. “Talk to me,” he says.

Faced with this demand I go mute. I can’t even begin to think how to explain all of this.

Ron persists. “Why is he in your bedroom? And why does he look like he’s had the crap beat out of him?”

“I...It’s a long story, Ron,” I finally say.

He leans back against the couch in a parody of ease. “I’ve got time. Seeing as Hermione is upstairs healing one of our worst enemies...I’ve got plenty of time.”

The thing is - Ron has his own ‘don’t fuck with me’ look. His isn’t is scary as Hermione’s, but it still works. I know that I have to tell him what’s going on.

So...I do.

I tell him about coming across Malfoy on that fateful night. I briefly tell him about our “arrangement”, then I go into the fight and my taking off for the pub. I finish by telling him what I found upon waking up this morning. It’s no surprise that I leave a lot of the details out. There are things that even my best friend doesn’t need to know about.

And all the while, Hermione is upstairs fixing Draco Malfoy. It’s funny how things never turn out the way we think they will. We always expected Hermione to become some high ranking Ministry official or something - never in a million years would we have dreamed she’d want to be a medi-witch. But then came the day that she saw Ron’s leg severed in a particularly brutal battle.

She held his hand as he bled out on the field and then later as the medi-wizard used magic to painstakingly grow the leg back. That wizard saved Ron’s life. And right then and there, she knew what her career path would be. That was also the moment she realized she was in love with one of her best friends.

And although she’s still in school and isn’t technically a medi-witch yet; she is an amazing healer. And right now she’s upstairs healing Draco - the prostitute. The irony of it all is almost overwhelming.

 

Ron speaks again and puts a stop to my wandering thoughts. “What possessed you to think this was a good idea, Harry?”

“I never said I thought it was a good idea,” I say defensively.

He leans forward. “Then what the hell?”

I’m starting to lose my patience. How can he expect me to explain something to him that I don’t understand myself? “I don’t know, Ron! I don’t know!”

He shakes his head and I can tell that he’s dropping it. “So, Malfoy turned out to be a prostitute. I have to admit it’s very poetic justice...although knowing him he probably enjoys it.”

I think back to that first night and the sound of retching from across the hall. “He doesn’t enjoy it,” I say quietly.

Ron takes a deep breath and looks at the ground. “Look, Harry, you’re a big boy now. If you want to bugger Malfoy...well...that’s your business. But just promise me you’ll be careful.” He looks up at me and I see that eyes are earnest, almost pleading. “He may not have the use of magic, but he’s still a Malfoy and he’s still got a Slytherin heart. Use him all you want, just make sure he doesn’t use you.”

I nod mutely to show that I agree. I would answer but I can’t seem to get any words past the lump in my throat. 

Ron says, “All right, then” and leans back against the sofa once more.

We lapse into an uneasy silence as we wait for news on the “patient.”

About twenty minutes later, Hermione comes down the stairs. She sits down on the chair opposite us, giving the overturned table and glass shards only a cursory glance.

“How is he?” I ask.

She shakes her head and runs a hand tiredly through her hair. “He’ll live. The worst of it were the broken ribs and the concussion. I still can’t believe he slept - he’s damn lucky that he was able to wake back up. Anyway, he’ll need plenty of bed rest for the next two or three days so that his body can completely heal; after that he should be fine. I’ve given him something so he can sleep without worry.”

I breath out a small sigh of relief. “Thank you, Hermione. I owe you one.”

“What you owe me is an explanation,” she says.

“He didn’t tell you what happened?”

“He said it wasn’t his place. That it was your story to tell.”

I clasp my hands together and try to avoid her gaze. “I don’t think this is the right time to go into it...”

“Harry! I just healed Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy! You had better tell me what’s going on!”

Why was it easier to tell Ron than it is to tell Hermione? “Hermione, I....”

But she’s not listening to me any longer. She’s staring down at my bruised hands. She slowly pulls her gaze away from them and comes back to my face. I believe it’s only then that she notices the bruising. “Your hands...your face...Harry? Did you do that to him?”

I look down. “Yeah, I did.”

“Harry...why?”

I look over at Ron and plead with him with my eyes. The thing is, I can’t do this. I can’t tell the sordid story all over again. Especially not to Hermione.

Ron stands up and walks towards her, placing his arm lovingly on her shoulder. “Come on, hon. I’ll tell you everything at home.”

“But why can’t you tell me now?”

“Harry has had a bad morning. He’s exhausted and he needs to rest. He’s already told me what happened and I’ll tell you. I promise.”

She looks at him, furrowing her brow intently. The she turns to me. “At least let me heal your hands.”

“No,” I say. I need this pain. I need it to remind me of what I’ve done. What I am capable of. What I am always capable of.

“Harry...”

“NO!”

“Fine!” she yells back. She looks angry; angry enough to want to argue or tell me off. But then her gaze softens. She walks over to me and gently cradles my face with her hands. “Whatever’s going on Harry, just remember that we’re here and we love you.”

“I know,” I whisper.

She stand up on tiptoes to give me a chaste kiss on my forehead, then she walks away. She picks up her medical bag and goes to stand beside her husband.

“Remember what I said, mate. And don’t be such a stranger,” Ron says.

I nod. “I will. And I won’t.” I allow a ghost of a smile to cross my face. “Thank you both.”

They both smile uneasily...and then they’re gone.

And now I’m alone.

Well, not quite alone. I glance upwards to where Malfoy is resting and all I can see is his face... the blood...all I can hear are the words he had to struggle to speak.

I drop to my knees heavily and hold my head in my hands.

They hurt again.

Good. They should hurt. I don’t deserve anything less. Someone like me doesn’t deserve anything less.

I close my eyes as a wave of sadness and desperation crashes down upon me. I begin to rock back and forth, wishing that I could cry. Just once, if I could just cry... Don’t people feel better when they cry?

But no tears come. They never do.