Harry Woke Up

Being blind was turning out to be a lot of trouble. Or maybe it was the fact that he was living with a deaf man, and they had a terribly difficult time trying to communicate. It would be so much easier if someone could help lead Harry around, point things out to him, describe things... But Harry didn't know how to ask Malfoy for such help, nor did he like the idea of asking his former enemy to help him. They weren't exactly friends, and just the idea of living with him was unsettling enough, never mind asking him for help.

No, Harry had done many things without asking for help. He often received unexpected help, and his friends often helped no matter how many times Harry tried to stop them or protect them. But this time, he really was alone, and it really was something he had to do by himself.

So, if it was so much trouble trying to communicate with Malfoy, Harry would simply act as though he had been left alone in this flat. He would have to do everything by himself, and it was high time he did just that. Besides, dependency was not something Harry was very fond of.

It had been some time since lunch, which had been a humiliating catastrophe in Harry's mind. He knew Malfoy had been sitting near him, probably watching him the entire time. Or who knew, maybe Malfoy had ignored him completely. But feeling around his food, as though he was a child playing in his dinner, Harry had felt utterly ridiculous. Surely, blind people didn't stick their hands in their food every time they ate? Perhaps next time he should just use his fork blindly and try not to be surprised when he ended up with a carrot in his mouth when he had been expecting a piece of meat.

Harry sat for a while, contemplating on the couch and unaware as to whatever Malfoy was doing. Then he wandered across the room back to his bed, double checking the number of steps he had memorised.

It was time to acquaint himself with his surroundings.

He stood near his bed, always using it as his starting point. He knew that the sitting area was vaguely in front of him and slightly to the left and that the loo was over on the right along the wall. He decided a tour of the perimeter of the room would be a good starting point for learning the flat.

Speaking of which, he was reminded of all the many questions looming overheard. How long was he going to be here? Why was he here? And why was Malfoy here? It was so infinitely frustrating that he couldn't even ask Malfoy. He felt like a hostage...

Pushing the questions aside, Harry knew he might as well continue with his plan to investigate the room. He didn't have anything else to do with his time.

He moved along his bed and found the bedside table again. A little further on, and his fingers made contact with the wall. He positioned himself alongside the wall and kept his right hand in contact with its surface as he began taking careful but not extremely slow steps. He was counting his movements, taking mental notes as his fingers found decorations on the wall, or his outstretched left hand found a desk surface, and he had to step around it.

A few more paces, and he found a doorway. Harry turned the knob and felt around the room, immediately recognising the loo. He closed the door and continued his progress, finding a near mirror image this side of the loo, except that rather than a desk, there was a bookshelf with books.

He found another small table similar to the one by his bed, and then sure enough, he felt blankets and a bed. He hunched over slightly so he could run his hands along the bed, finally coming to the end. Along another wall, he was met with a wardrobe and nothing else very interesting. Eventually, another connecting wall - his third wall. Harry was surprised by the lack of walls in this space. It was unlike most homes or flats he had seen before.

Another large painting hung on the wall. Several more paces, and Harry's hands felt some tall, rectangular object. It had handles and he pulled on them, met with cool bursts of air. He fumbled around inside the upper chamber, feeling very cold. Large, cold objects were inside. He closed that and opened the lower chamber, which was much larger. He felt horizontal shelves and on them, bottles, cans, and containers. This chamber was less cold than the upper one.

A Muggle refrigerator? Or maybe it was magical, an idea stolen from the Muggles. Either way, he recognised it well enough after having lived Muggle so long as a child.

Harry felt along the other side of the refrigerator and found a counter top with a sink, cabinets overhead, cabinets below, and a few small appliances. He guessed at a toaster and some other kind of small toaster oven.

He wondered if they would be expected to cook at some time. The plates of food for lunch - surely Malfoy hadn't cooked that food! Harry would have heard him. Instead, there had been a faint Pop in this direction, and a few minutes later Malfoy announcing lunch.

Harry felt the counter top end and soon found another door. He attempted to open it but it was an impossible task. It wouldn't budge. Magically sealed, he guessed.

Must be the exit.

The wall was relatively uninteresting on the other side of the door, merely decorated with more framed images. Harry found a corner and was finally at the fourth wall of the room. He expected this was the wall his bed was against. Moving along it, he found a wardrobe and examined its insides, feelings all sorts of clothes there. He wondered if they were his, or if they were provided for him. More steps, and finally Harry found his bed again. He tried to construct a mental image of the room. It was a vague rectangle with a couple of doors, a couple of beds and wardrobes, a kitchen area, and a sitting area in the middle.

Strange.

Harry's next task was to count steps from the sitting area to the loo, then to Malfoy's bed, then to Harry's wardrobe, then to the kitchen. He travelled the path that was slowly becoming familiar from his bed to the tall sitting chair. He had made a couple of ventures back and forth from the sitting room to various locations when he started to wonder where Malfoy was. He hadn't bumped into him in all his examinations.

Stilling himself as he stood by the familiar sitting chair, Harry listened for any sign of his companion. Breathing. Not too far away. Probably sitting either in a chair or on the sofa.

"Finished with your grand tour yet?" Malfoy said, the familiar sound of a smirk lacing his words. His voice was so loud and strong every time he spoke it grated on Harry's nerves. Harry shook his head.

"Why are we here?" Harry blurted out.

"Potter, how many times do I have to tell you?!" Malfoy sounded angry. It was Harry's gut reaction to try and speak in response; he couldn't help it really. Then he had an idea. Hoping Malfoy was still watching him, Harry started miming as though writing something on a piece of parchment in his hand.

"You want to write?" Malfoy asked with an edge on his voice. Harry nodded, gesturing between the two of them and writing on the imaginary parchment again.

"All right, I get it. Just a second." Harry listened as Malfoy moved and walked around, presumably looking for something Harry could use to write with.

In a moment, Harry felt a piece of parchment slide onto his open palm, and then Malfoy's fingers brushed against his own as a quill, apparently a self-inking one, was fitted into his right hand. Harry couldn't tell if Malfoy was still standing in front of him, but he figured sitting and using the table to write on would be better. He took a couple of steps and ran smack into Malfoy, who had apparently been standing there waiting for him to write. Malfoy let a pained grunt out and moved out of Harry's way.

The brunet sat on the sofa and started using the low table's surface to write on. He felt the cushion depress next to him, and the warmth of Malfoy's form indicated he was waiting expectantly for some kind of actual words from Harry.

Harry wrote quickly and pushed the paper over for Malfoy to read.

"Why orwe hare?" Malfoy asked sceptically. Surely Harry's writing couldn't be that bad, but he couldn't see what he was writing now. Harry reached his hands out across the table, found the parchment again and tried for a second time, taking his time and thinking about the letters.

"Why... are..." Harry was nodding as Malfoy voiced the words. "Oh! Why are we here?" Harry nodded, a small smile of triumph playing at his features.

"Er, I forgot. We got a letter at lunch. I can read it to you. It's all I know." Suddenly the warmth and presence from the sofa was gone, and Harry waited until it returned. He listened quietly as Malfoy read him the entire contents of the letter that had come at lunch. Harry sat back against the sofa, contemplating the new information.

A recovery program, at least two weeks, stuck with Malfoy...

"Do you remember volunteering for this?" Malfoy asked. Harry shook his head 'no' and then sat up and reached for the parchment on the table. He'd started writing again when Malfoy interrupted him.

"Uh, you're writing where you already wrote." Malfoy's hand gripped Harry's writing hand, and he directed it a little lower on the parchment. Harry sighed and wrote out his next question, wondering what kind of recovery this was.

"What kiud otre conery is... Potter, I can't read your writing." Harry closed his eyes in his frustration. At least Malfoy hadn't sneered at him; he had sounded a bit disappointed. Maybe this writing thing wasn't such a good idea.

The two boys sat for a while longer, trying to work out Harry's writing, but in the end, Malfoy could only ever read a few words and make guesses at what Harry was getting at. It was depressing now that his best idea had failed. Harry shoved the parchment and quill aside and stood abruptly to continue his circuits around the flat. Malfoy sighed behind him, but Harry ignored it. He couldn't very well communicate with him anyway, and if they were going to be there for a while, Harry knew he should learn the room well.

Before going to bed that night at who knew what hour - certainly, Harry didn't - he had memorised all the steps around the flat, making several trips around the walls and to various sides of the room, always changing his starting and ending positions. At least he'd had some kind of success.

His last stop was his wardrobe. He felt around all the clothes and drawers, but for the life of him, he couldn't locate any pyjamas. He rummaged around again but gave up, deciding he didn't really care what he slept in. His T-shirt came off over his head, and he carefully hung it over the door of his wardrobe so he could find it later. Then he pulled his trousers off and hung those too.

Harry found his bed and slid his boxer-clad body between the sheets, finally resting and allowing his mind to turn off and stop processing so much sensory information. He felt exhausted, more mentally than physically, and he had no idea what tomorrow would bring.