445Chapter 4: Penny For Your Thoughts
The Boy Who Loved
By
Belle. A. Lestrange
Chapter Four: Penny For Your Thoughts
The starched hospital bed sheets irritated Harry's sensitive skin as the nurse who had snapped at Petunia the other evening, who told him that her name was Grace, shifted him up into a sitting position against the flat, rough pillows. She had short dyed-black-and-purple hair cut into a sharp bob around her cheeks, a straight fringe resting a centimetre or so above her sleek brown eyebrows. Her eyes were a bright clear blue and they calmed Harry's nerves every time he got a little shaky. He loathed hospitals. Ever since he was young and Dudley had broken his arm during a Design Technology lesson at school, he had hated going into a hospital as the doctor whom had dealt with him was rough, and unsympathetic, murmuring to himself about how so many young boys' craved and thrived on attention. Grace was nice though, and when she was off-duty during the day she would take the lunch duty to Harry's room herself and sat with him, laughing and joking and trying to pry information from him about his home-life. He didn't let anything slip and Grace had finally given up and settled for chattering about her own life, which Harry found quite amusing.
"Are you comfortable enough, Harry? There's a fleece jumper in lost property. It was washed this morning so it's clean and doesn't reek, if you're cold?"
Harry shifted, the bandages wrapped around broken wrist and fractured left collarbone were irritating him and he ached to scratch at them. He was grateful that he was right-handed otherwise he would not be able to work at all over the next few weeks, especially with his arm in a sling. He twitched his lip, "no it's alright. It's quite warm in here today"
Grace nodded, her short choppy hair waving from side-to-side. "I'll need to re-dress your bandages this evening after your bath, those ones look like they're pissing you off"
Harry chuckled, "yeah I think they are. Have the new set of contacts arrived yet?"
Grace frowned in thought, pursing her lips before nodding, "I think they're due to arrive after lunch-time. Do they irritate you at all? Some people prefer glasses for a reason"
Harry shrugged, "compared to the rest of my face I think some minor discomfort with lenses in the least of my worries" He watched concern flitter over Grace's features as he tried to laugh it all off. He knew how horrible his face looked. He had seen it the other night when he had been hosed down in the bathroom to get rid of the blood from the incident, and warm his body up. He had large bags beneath his eyes, he knew they were still there because he had slept fitfully, his fear of hospitals nagging at him, he had been left with horrible scattered scars around his eyes, luckily nothing went into his actual corneas to blind him. One particularly long shard had somehow managed to reopen and extend the ghastly scar on his forehead, which he had gotten when his parents had died –he didn't like to think about it.
He shook his head clear.
He tenderly touched the deeper, longer, scar now on this forehead. The stitches felt stiff against his soft skin. Grace batted his hand away with a small smile, "leave them alone, otherwise you will be in trouble"
Harry sighed, letting his hand drop heavily onto the blankets pulled up all around his chest. He blinked tightly and frowned at the contact lenses in his eyes. Grace frowned down at him before glancing down at her watch, "I have to go to sleep for my night shift tonight" Harry gave her a tight smile and could only nod a little dejectedly as she stood up and dusted her jeans and dress-shirt down before leaning over and ruffling his hair with her long fingers. He smiled a little wider and watched her as she left. The door shut behind her with a soft 'click' that seemed to ring out endlessly in his ears. He drew his right hand up to his face and gingerly touched the non-scarred areas, flinching slightly at the contact. He swallowed shakily and licked his lips, tears drawling into his eyes, though he tried to convince himself that it was because of the new contacts. He glanced around at the sunbathed walls and frowned, not knowing if he could go to sleep or not with the daylight puncturing through the wide-open blinds pulled over the window-frames. He groaned and uselessly kicked his legs under the tangled sheets.
"I hate my life," he groaned mournfully.
~0~
Draco stumbled awkwardly up to the small copse of houses, the cracked pavement beneath his feet baking in the sunlight and the burning grass smell hung heavily in the air and occasionally wafted up his nose. He could not help but tighten his grip around the scrap of paper Anita had scrawled for him in the café the other day. He still remembered how wonderful the food tasted on his tongue, and how it settled nicely in his stomach that evening. It had made him sleep in until late the next day, the children's laughter had woken him up as did having an annoying little brat slide down the strange plastic tunnel that had been his bed, and landed on his shoulders, jerking him out of his sleep. He had been in a horrid mood all day and had gone around sneering at anyone who dared to look at him. It had been hotter today, so he had tied his hoodie around his waist, like he had seen some muggles do, and felt sufficiently better with the breeze causing his t-shirt to float around his thin frame. He really wanted to know what Anita's house looked like. He had been curious the last few days but he had wanted to wait it out, so that he did not seem too desperate for things to do, even though he had never truly noticed how long summer days had been when there was absolutely nothing to do except for glaring at snotty-nosed brats in the play area.
He pulled the sheet of thin paper from his back pocket, unfolding the crinkled sheet with his forefingers and thumbs, and squinted at the sun-bleached paper with Anita's neat writing on.
376 Spinner's End
Surrey, England
Draco grimaced as he sidestepped into the cul-de-sac styled arrangement of houses. The streets were cobbled and the houses were small, tightly packed and looked dreary even in the summer brightness. He grimaced at how lonely and desolate it may look in the brutal months of winter. He felt suddenly nervous, untying the hoodie from around his waist and draped it over his shoulders in a vain attempt to remove the goosebumps that had appeared on his arms. Unfreezing himself from the spot he had rooted himself to, Draco cautiously started to make his way down one side of the cul-de-sac, his eyes darting from side-to-side, door-to-door, trying to see which one belonged to Anita.
At the junction at the end of the road there was a street that stretched a little way from either side, also labelled 'Spinner's End' and looked just as neglected and dreary as the rest of the road he had just walked down. He shifted from foot-to-foot awkwardly. Looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness, Draco could not help but feel that he did not belong there. That he was not welcome. He looked from left to right, checking the numbers on the splintering doors, and opted to go left. It was the right way as the numbers on the doors had even numbers on the doors instead of odd numbers. Feeling a trifle more confident, he strode right down to the end. He suddenly felt ice-cold drip through his veins. He shivered as he looked at the desolate house that stood grimly at the very end of the street. It looked like a slightly improved version of the Shrieking Shack. Its dull windows looked like blind eyes staring down at him, looking without really seeing anything. Like they could see right through him.
He swallowed thickly.
"376 … 376 … 376 …" he continuously muttered under his breath as he glanced up at the doors slowly moving from one to the other, squinting past the sunlight that bounced off of the grimy windows that were on top of the doors. That's when his eyes landed on it. "376!" he muttered triumphantly, his heart leaping against his ribs as he did. The steep concrete steps up to the front door did not look safe for a little old lady like Anita to toddle up and down every time she decided to go out for a walk around the local town. He frowned as he climbed up them unsteadily. He exhaled deeply as he planted himself firmly on the doorstep.
He raised a hand and knocked.
The brittle splintering paintwork chipped off onto his knuckles. He grimaced and waited for an answer. He shifted awkwardly, tensing as he was sure he felt several pairs of eyes watching him, however when he whirled around to see, he could not find anyone's head poking out of a doorway, nor a net curtain drifting back in to place, nor a pair of glinting eyes through the neglected window panes. He coughed lightly. He barely even noticed the chains being pulled back from the other side of the door until it swung open and a familiar white-haired lady smiled up at him.
"Oh, Draco dear, hello. I was not expecting you"
Draco cringed, "yeah I know it took be a little while to find out where you lived –I hope I am not disturbing anything," he added as an afterthought, thinking that perhaps she had more of a life than he did at the moment.
"Of course not" she smiled and opened the door a little wider, "come on in and I'll make you some tea"
As she trotted off down the narrow hallway down to the dimly lit kitchen, Draco stepped in through the front door, closing it behind him. He suddenly felt as though he had doubled in height. Everything was so tightly packed-in that he felt as though he were taller than he actually was. He looked around at the soft cream wallpaper, with pink leaves dotted around the walls, faded with age, and sunlight bathing in from the back window, which sat above the kitchen sink. He followed Anita through, sidestepping the sharp, white banister, and entered the kitchen. Anita was in front of a large weathered white beast that had a small door in the front and strange hissing grates at the top. Upon on of these little grills sat a strange goblet that looked rusted over, and was perched over a small spitting flame. He had so many questions but did not know if he could ask them, he did not want Anita thinking how suspicious he knew he would seem.
"A-Anita?" he asked timidly, standing awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen as she bustled around grabbing two mugs from the draining board, "w-what are –those?" he asked pointing a shaky finger to the large white object and the goblet-ornament.
She chuckled at him, much to his surprise, "oh I know, they're ancient aren't they? I never did get around to renewing my furniture, but this is an O'Keefe & Merritt oven from the 1950's just after the Second World War. And that" she flicked the handled of the rustic goblet, "is just a old-fashioned kettle. Most people have electric ones these days so it's easier for them but I am set in my ways"
Draco could only nod though he did not understand what she meant by 'electric kettles', so he just nodded and watched with interest as the 'kettle' hissed and emitted a shrill whistling noise. He cringed, but was thankful that it stopped when Anita removed it from on top of the 'oven'. Within a few minutes a steaming cup of tea was placed before him and even though he would normally have said it tasted a little sweeter than he was used to, at that moment in his life, he decided that he could not care less.
~0~
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Harry looked up from the book Grace had found for him, momentarily distracted by the rapping of knuckles on the door and was about to open his mouth and snap at whoever it was to leave him alone, when the door opened without invitation. He sighed inwardly, placing an old plaster in between the pages he had been reading from as a bookmark, before sitting up a little straighter to see who it was. He frowned when he saw who it was. "Aunt Petunia what are you doing here?" he asked, his voice sounding tight and restrained in his own ears as she cautiously stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her.
She frowned at his tone before inching a little closer to the bed, her bony hands clasped tightly in front of her. "I just stopped by to tell you that Vernon is away for a few weeks. On a business trip, so he tells me. You'll be able to come home without anymore trouble"
Harry watched with narrowed eyes at his Aunt's appearance. She looked as though she had suffered some abuse from her husband, judging by the tense way she held herself, as if bracing her body for contact. Harry knew how she felt though he was not going to relent to her whimpering just yet. "There shouldn't be any trouble at all" he replied tartly. He knew this attitude did not suit him, he felt ugly and bitter whilst doing it but sometimes he could not stop himself. He watched her flinch at the implication of his words.
"I-I know that Harry. W-we'll sort it out. I promise. But for now you need to focus on getting better. No chores for you, Dudley can do them," Harry snorted disbelievingly. The only chore Dudley had ever managed to accomplish was cleaning a huge serving platter of the double-layer cake Petunia had made him one year for his birthday. Petunia sighed wearily and pinched her long nose. "I've spoken with your nurse and she says that you'll be able to leave this evening but it is entirely up to you"
Harry nodded. "I'll think about it. I'll ask one of the nurses to call you if I wish to come home tonight or another day"
Petunia made a small noise in the back of her throat before moving back towards the door, "I'll see you soon, Harry" He made no response as she left, the door clicking shut behind her and allowing him to embrace the sudden silence of his own little bubble. He swallowed and looked down at his book, not really in the mood to pick it back up to read all over a sudden. He went over what Petunia had said over and over in his head and pursed his lips in thought. Going back to Privet Drive with Vernon gone would have been his idea of Heaven -if Dudley had gone with him. Harry felt his blood run cold. He hated Dudley and Vernon almost as much as –no, there was no one he could compare either of them to, they were just that awful to him. He shuddered and drew the blankets tighter around his body, suddenly wishing that Grace had brought up the fleece from Lost Property. He could escape Dudley easily enough so he suppose with Vernon gone he could relax for a little while. He smiled wanly.
"I'll shower and then ask a nurse to call Petunia," he murmured to himself.
Getting to the bathroom was a feat for Harry. His leg muscles were still weakened from the unforeseen attack in the bathroom and with one arm in a sling and shooting pains searing through almost every muscles of his body was agonizing. There was even a horrendous burning sensation behind his eyes that did not have anything to do with crying or his irritating contact lenses. He shuffled through into the cool tiles bathroom; the easy-grip flooring was strange underneath his feet. It felt like he was stepping on hardened bubble-wrap. He glanced over at the shower, not sure if he trusted himself with having a full-length body wash just yet. Not after what had happened. He hummed to himself absent-mindedly as he walked over to the shower, no walls, nothing but a small foldout plastic seat for severely injured or handicapped people, with an adjustable showerhead. He tugged it down the shimmering silver pole so that the head rested at shoulder-height. He adjusted the temperature for the water before pressing the on-off button and allowing the warm water to trickle over his good hand. Slowly he rotated his body under the spray, not daring to wash the stinging cuts all over his features just yet. He could wash those at the sink with a flannel.
He gently lathered his skin with soap and hissed as the wounds were washed and the rough bandages were soaked through. Grace would be frustrated with him but he did not mind. He had saved her time, so now all she would have to do is redress his arm in the sling and clean any over the cuts he had missed. He did not like Grace doing his bandages because that required being touched, but he knew he was unable to do it himself, especially with only one arm working properly, so he had had to resign himself, though he had been tense throughout the procedure each time it was carried out. He ran a wet hand through his hair after turning the warm water off. He would wash his hair when he eventually went home. With a shaky hand he shifted his wet boxers down his legs and gingerly stepped out of them, not wanting to trip in the bathroom. He was starting to shake, and he knew that he would have to dry off as quickly as possible before he started feeling claustrophobic and suffer a panic attack. According to Grace it had happened the night he had be brought in, and had involuntarily kicked a doctor in the shin after collapsing from a panic attack when they had tried to get him from the bed and into the shower. Grace said she didn't blame him. But he blamed himself. He was a trouble child, according to Vernon, always was, and always would be.
He could feel his heartbeat increasing and his breathing was irregular in his ears. He swallowed continuously trying to keep calm and failing miserably each time. He glanced up at the mirror every other five seconds, he counted in his head, and grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist. He was panicking. He could feel it. He needed to get out. The walls seemed to blur and convulse, as though breathing, in and out and in and out. He was trembling. Somehow he missed the gaping puddle near the sink and slipped in it.
His dodgy right leg caved beneath him ...
His left arm collided brutally with the toilet seat causing him to howl out in pain ...
And the hard, bubble-tiled flooring punched him several times as he fell to the floor ...
He did nothing but lay there, watching the cobwebs of blood from his mouth run down the drain with the remains of water from the shower. His body was shaking and trembling at the temperature around him plummeted. He sniffled and winced as soapy water shot up his nose. His fingers twitched as well as a few other muscles but he could not pull himself up from the floor. He stared out across the bathroom wishing that someone –anyone –was with him. He listened to the drumming of his heart. It almost sounded like someone was walking across the bathroom towards him, growing louder and louder.
"Mummy …" he breathed before caving into the darkness.
~0~
Draco was daydreaming. He had been doing it a lot lately since he had been exiled from the wonderful world of magic. He sighed bitterly and rubbed at his eyes. "Penny for them" chirped a voice from across the table.
Draco jerked out of his stupor and shook his head. "I'm sorry –what?"
Anita smiled, "you seem to have a lot on your mind –what is it that is bothering you?"
Draco avoided her eyes and stared down into his empty teacup, "nothing I am just thinking about my family and everything that has happened over the last few days" Anita nodded seemingly knowing to not ask any further questions. Draco glanced at the rather antique looking muggles clock hanging up in the kitchen. He sighed and rubbed his temples. "I think I should be getting back now"
Anita nodded "oh, of course I've kept you locked up all day on a lovely day like this!" she exclaimed in horror. Little did she know she had saved him from dying of the suppressed urge to kill several annoying children who had glared at him in the play area that morning, "go, go and have fun!" she shooed him away with a small, wrinkling smile. He gave her a gracious smile and thanked her for the lovely afternoon. As he was about to see himself out she called him back, "Draco! Where is it you said you lived?
He turned to look at her and shrugged as casually as he could, "Just around" She paused before giving a fleeting smile and a small wave, which he returned before turning to leave.
The sun was low in the sky, dusk was slowly approaching and Draco was feeling more relaxed now that he knew where Anita lived. She was the small slice of sanity he had at present. He somehow managed to make it down the steep front steps without breakings his neck and landing safely on the pavement. He walked out of the front garden, small and unkempt as it was, and turned at the front gate, closing it behind him. It creaked eerily and then a breeze picked up over the gently sloshing over the river on the other side of the huge wall that ran behind the row of houses opposite.
He froze.
He scanned the unseeing eyes of every house as they glared down at him, unable to shift the feeling of someone watching him. He shook his head with a mirthless laugh. "You're paranoid" he scowled at himself. "Not everyone is out to get you" He directed his attention to the road that would lead onto the adjacent road that would direct him back to town. The feeling eventually shift as he thought of other things, however he did somehow miss the shifting of a netted curtain in the front parlor of the grim house at the discontinued road of 'Spinner's End'.