Harry Woke Up

Harry woke up.

A solid wall of questions greeted him instead of the bright morning sun or a hazy vision of late afternoon light streaming through open windows. Rather, he couldn't remember where he was, what time it was, why he was there or what was happening to him.

Because something was happening to him, not actively, but perhaps passively. He turned in his place, knowing without a real act of realisation that he was lying in a bed. The sheets rustled, and he untwisted his legs, hands gripping a firm mattress and fingers brushing the edge of nothingness, which marked where the bed ended.

Something was wrong. Harry knew he was awake. He knew he was thinking, which also meant that he knew he was. He existed. But in what capacity? He heard his creaking bed; he heard faint indecipherable noises. He knew he was listening. He could feel the bed and sheets around him. On careful concentration, he could even feel a cloth shirt on his upper body and pyjama trousers on his lower body.

But there was still something wrong. For all standard purposes, Harry was awake and aware of his world, but in his own self, he felt lost and asleep, adrift in some dream or nightmare that was gripping him, refusing to let him loose.

Harry couldn't see.

He struggled for moments on end, trying to force his eyes open, but the haunting truth was that they were open. His fingers flew to his eyes to examine the organs, fear flooding him in a gripping moment. He felt his eyelids, his eyelashes, and even touched the squishy part of his eyeballs, only feeling it in his fingertips.

He was whole. He wasn't disfigured or missing part of his face or eyes. He felt a patch of some kind of plaster on the side of his face, but otherwise only mere scratches lingered on his skin. His mind raced to fill in the missing gaps.

Scratches. Plaster. Wounds. The fight against Lucius Malfoy and the Death Eaters. Yes, he had fought them. Hazy visions flooded across his mind's eye but he had trouble putting them together.

He had killed Voldemort six years ago. That was a solid memory in his mind, something he could never forget. Six years of other memories filled him. Celebrations, awards, ceremonies, weddings, and funerals. Rumours, attacks, Auror training, missions, rescues, hunting for Death Eaters on the run. Quidditch matches, avoided interviews, births and first birthdays, a small house of his own, visits to Godric's Hollow and number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Six years full of memories, and the final ones stood cloudy.

Flashes of Death Eaters' masks, a vision of Lucius Malfoy standing with his wand outstretched, spells flying, friends hiding, Harry's own wand extended, and then blackness. Nothing but blackness.

Harry groaned and wondered just exactly where he was and, if he really couldn't see, why he was left alone somewhere to figure it out on his own. Where were his friends? Ron and Hermione? The Weasleys? Lupin? The chief Auror leading his class? His Auror partners, Damien or Adam? Had something happened to all of them, or was he in some hospital, kept safe yet watched, sometimes left unattended?

Harry sighed and pushed the sheets away from his body. There was nothing for it. As it was, he was blind, for now, and alone, but he wasn't going to lie around like a helpless invalid. If he were in a hospital, perhaps St Mungo's, someone would realise that he was moving around or out of bed. If he was somewhere else, then the sooner he learned where, the better. And the sooner he found someone to ask about everything, and the sooner they could repair his vision, that was all the better.

Harry sat up and stretched, scratching at his itchy scalp and suddenly wondering if he had been lying around injured or unconscious for a long time. A shower sounded quite refreshing.

Purposing to investigate his surroundings as a sightless wizard, Harry reached his hands out and started feeling around. The bed. A small bedside table. His fingers brushed something small and metallic and he easily labelled the object as his glasses. He smirked, debating whether he wanted to put them on. He felt naked without them, so as a matter of habit, he slipped them on and continued his searched.

Regretfully, he realised that his wand was nowhere around - not under his pillow, not on the table, not tucked into his waistband. Wandless. Talk about feeling naked.

Moving on from that disappointment, Harry stood, feeling certain he was in no real danger of fumbling up that motion. It was the next part that worried him. He kept hoping someone would see him and come running over to intercept his troubles, but instead the room, wherever he was, remained quiet.

Hands outstretched, Harry took a step away from the bed. Neither his hands nor his foot hit anything at all. Another step. Both of his calves were now out of contact with the bed, and he felt as though he were standing in an empty vacuum of barren space.

Blackness, emptiness, nothingness.

Summoning his courage - after all, Gryffindors were supposed to have a lot of it, and so a little matter such as not having one's vision should hardly be trouble for one who had vanquished the Dark Lord and hopefully all of his followers - Harry took another step. The space remained empty around him.

"Hello?" he called out, feeling rather foolish. Someone could be watching him fumble around and giving themselves quite a laugh. That person, no doubt, would be a cruel one.

"Anyone there?" His voice sounded strange in his own ears, a bit rough from lack of use. However, without an answer, Harry had to assume he was alone. He concentrated with his ears, hoping to make out the size of the room or some motion or sound in the distance. His Auror training had heightened his senses, but this was asking a bit much of him. He could make many guesses about the room he was in, but without the confirmation of being able to open his eyes and look around, his guesses remained only guesses.

Harry took a deep breath and continued moving. It was the only thing to do. Eventually he had to walk or bump into something because, logically, he couldn't really be in a void of empty space even if that's what it honestly felt like.

Sure enough, his foot hit something, but it was something to be stood upon. It felt like a change in the surface he was walking on. Harry, feeling like a lost little child, crouched down and ran his hands along the floor. He was standing on a hard surface, wood probably, but under the toes of his left foot was something soft. It was some material, woven together. The edge was rounded and the length of it was flush against the hard floor underneath it. He gripped the edge and pulled up slightly. The material rose with his motion.

A rug.

Well, his void of blackness now had a round edged, material, but colourless rug. He wasn't alone anymore. A bed, a bedside table, sheets, clothing, glasses, and a rug.

Harry kept moving, hoping for something more substantial he could bump into. He was resigned to the idea of bumbling around, at least until someone fixed his cursed vision.

Cursed...

Was he cursed? Was it a spell? Was it permanent? He swore in his mind and then quickly switched mental tracks. No point worrying when he would still be clueless.

More steps. Harry chided himself when he realised he should have been counting steps. It was very possible he might never find his way back to that bed that existed somewhere in the void behind him. He moved backwards until he found the rug with his feet again, and determined to count his steps from then on.

He was on his thirteenth step when all his concentration crashed down around him and his void of nothingness, all at once filled with entirely too much something-ness.

His stomach came into sharp contact with a solid object that his hands had missed, having held them a bit too high, which he realised a little too late. The tall object jolted with the sudden burst of contact. Harry very distinctly heard a strangled "Augh!" and then felt his own body jump backwards at the surprise of a voice, the collision and the sound of feet hitting the floor - feet that weren't his.

The voice was huffing and muttering, and it was definitely a male. Harry stood, unaware of his awkward and prepared stance, with his feet planted firmly apart, one more forward, and his arms out, braced against an invisible force. He looked ready to fight, though he was unarmed and had his head turned so that he wasn't exactly facing the culprit. Harry was breathing with effort and remaining absolutely still.

He was standing in his black void again, shocked and slightly afraid, though he would never admit that even to himself, but he wasn't alone as he had thought. He felt alone, save for the breathing and shifting not too far from him.

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, but which had merely been a few moments, the voice spoke.

"Potter?"

Harry's eyes raced in useless fashion, darting around as though trying to match the voice up to some recording or image in his mind. He wasn't seeing anything, obviously, but his eyes moved out of habit. He knew the voice, at least he thought he did. Something sounded off.

"I didn't hear you." The voice was really loud, louder than it ought to be, and after speaking, the voice broke and the speaker coughed. Harry heard more shifting.

"Who are you?" Harry asked tentatively. He waited but no answer came.

"I can't hear you," the voice finally replied.

"I said, who are you?" Harry repeated the question loudly and heard the tinge of frustration that was present in his own voice.

"Why won't you look at me?" The other man's voice still sounded strange yet familiar. He also sounded confused.

"I can't. I can't see," Harry answered. "Please just tell me who you are!" It was true; Harry was frustrated. Who played these guessing games with a blind man? And this idiot had been in the room the whole time watching Harry move around unseeingly. Cruel, yes, it was someone cruel.

"I can't hear you!" It was a firm and irritated response, accompanied by a huff. "I can't hear anything." That sounded more resigned.

"You... you can't hear?" Harry repeated. It didn't occur to him what a ridiculous gesture it was. The other boy swore in response.

"It does me no good for you to keep flapping your mouth like that because I don't understand a single word!" He was clearly unhappy and frustrated.

Harry thought fast. He couldn't see who this man was, and he wasn't entirely sure that his blindness was apparent yet. Harry couldn't talk to the man because he couldn't hear him. How could Harry find out who the mystery guest was? Or for that matter, why he was there, where they were, and what exactly was going on?

A million questions raced through Harry's mind, but none of them could be asked because none of them would be heard.

His ears were deceiving him and failed to match up the voice, though it still sounded familiar. His next best sense had to be touch. Harry reached his arms out and was careful to feel the solid object in front of him this time. It was something with rough material on it. It had curves and straight edges. Harry scrunched up his face in thought.

A large chair? Maybe.

He brushed his hip against the chair, which, if it was indeed a chair, had to be a large, oversized, high-backed sitting room type one. He pulled his hip away from the object, leaving the reference point and moving towards the last place he'd heard the voice.

"You... you're... You can't see?" The voice sounded pained and incredulous. Harry halted and straightened. His pride kicked in, and he felt indignant that someone would take pity or mock him in disbelief. Catching himself before he answered audibly, Harry hardened his facial features and gave a firm head shake 'no'. The other man sighed.

Harry continued moving towards the voice, hands still outstretched, wishing it would speak again to keep him oriented. It was unneeded, however, when his fingertips brushed something soft and material-like, pressing in to feel something firmer underneath.

What was he feeling? What was it? Think, Harry, think!

A person. A body. A torso. A shirt.

"It's me," the voice said. It was a hard and emotionless statement telling Harry that it was, in fact, he that Harry was feeling. There was no tenderness or friendly familiarity present, nothing to welcome Harry's approach. The voice was very close now, and Harry knew he was standing immediately in front of the mystery man, perhaps even closer than normal blokes would stand together, but seeing as how he couldn't see, it didn't much bother him nor even register.

Both of Harry's hands were against the shirt-covered torso, and he raised them together, trailing along the form to keep his point of reference. Chest, shoulders. Nothing too large nor too scrawny. Collar of a smart shirt with small buttons. Neck, jaw, hair. His fingers brushed the hair, which was apparently long, but also soft. It was unfamiliar, but it felt nice.

Suddenly, Harry was stunned when the man pulled away, completely escaping physical contact.

"What are you doing?" Surprise, frustration, anger, disgust. Disgust?

"I don't know who you are!" Harry raised his voice. This was thoroughly unfair. This man knew he was Harry Potter, he could see him, he could even talk to Harry. Meanwhile, Harry was in the dark, sightless, and, as he just remembered, unable to communicate.

"I don't know what you're saying!" the voice responded loudly in irritation. He was a few paces away from Harry. Apparently trying to feel the man to get a better idea had been a bad idea. Think, think Harry! Normal size man. Longish, soft hair. Slightly familiar voice. Disgust in the voice? Potter.

Harry's mind stood still for a minute, and he felt his body waver uncontrollably. It couldn't be...

"Malfoy?" Harry wanted to smack himself. Saying it out loud would get him nowhere.

"Did you just say my name?" the voice asked in surprise.

"Malfoy?" Harry tried again.

"Malfoy?" the voice repeated. "You said Malfoy, didn't you? I read your lips. Malfoy." Harry was nodding his head vigorously, hoping the message would come across without voicing it.

"You wanted to know who I was? You can't see, you're... you're really blind? But... This is a nightmare!" Malfoy, if it was really him, sounded incredulous and exasperated. Harry stomped his foot, frustrated that he wasn't being answered or told anything. He pointed in the voice's general direction and stomped his foot again.

"All right! I'm, yes... it's Draco Malfoy. And you're Harry Potter. It's established now." Harry felt his body sag. He was in a room, in his black void, with Draco Malfoy, of all people. While he wasn't a hated archenemy any more, his covert work in the war and the hunt for the Death Eaters had only done a little to redeem him. He was still a nasty git when he wanted to be and cruelly sarcastic even on his best behaviour. He had an opinion about everything, especially anything remotely good, upstanding or Gryffindor. Harry had avoided him, and they had kept their distance in their years since Hogwarts. Neither was interested in a friendship, and each worked merely to tolerate the other while doing missions together or passing on information.

It was acceptable. But this was not.

"It's not that bad, Potter," Malfoy spat. A hundred retorts sprang to mind and all died on Harry's tongue. Useless. Pointless. Inefficient.

"Don't you have a witty comeback?" Malfoy sneered. His voice was still too loud to be appropriate. It dawned on Harry that since Malfoy apparently couldn't hear anything, he must not have a clue how loud or soft his speech was.

A deaf man and a blind man stuck in a room together, now that was something.

But Malfoy's comment wasn't lost on Harry. It rather infuriated him, and Harry's hands fisted at his side, then raised to grip his own hair painfully, frustrated beyond the pointless words that wouldn't get his message across. Harry huffed and turned around. Now that he knew Draco Malfoy was there in his black void with him, he no longer wanted to be around him.

Harry marched blindly across the room towards where he thought his bed was, ignoring Malfoy's calls of "Potter! Come on!" Instead, his feet found the rug, and he continued on across the hard floor, resentment clouding his concentration until his leg ran smack into a vertical post and forced him to cry out from shock and minor pain.

"Are you okay?" The voice was still on the other side of the room, unmoving. Remembering that although Malfoy couldn't hear, he could see, Harry turned, scowled in his general direction and then waved his hand in a firm attempt to wave off the other man and his pseudo concern.

Harry lay on his bed, unnerved by the possible watching gaze across the room, unsettled by the vast number of questions still lurking in his mind, and aching from the long stretch of injury on his leg. If the pain was any indication, he would certainly be sporting ugly bruises later on, probably much in the outline of a bedpost.