The Rescuee, Part 2
Warning for: aftermath of torture
Black Lodge, 31st October 2003
“How’s he, Justin?”
“More or less stable, Potter. You did good, making him more comfortable.”
“Nice! Did you do something for the shakes? Potions, maybe?”
“Couldn’t. He’s human enough, but… not quite.”
“Like a Veela? Or a werewolf?”
“More like a werewolf. – Don’t look at me like that. I got to examine a willing subject for my healing mastery. You are not the only one who liked Professor Lupin, you know. I want to find a cure someday. – Anyway, his blood is… odd. He looks human enough, except for that snake in a pouch… and you’ll pay for that, Potter. You could’ve told me beforehand. But anyway, he looks human, but his bloodwork isn’t quite human, and overall he seems sturdier than an ordinary human, even a magical one.”
I wave an impatient hand before myself, while peeking an eye into the bedroom… and seeing our rescuee still lying close-eyed and trembling slightly in the bed, mostly covered by a thick blanket.
Justin glares at me, but I go on anyway, “So no potions? What about healing spells?”
He huffs and cross his arms in front of his chest. “No need to ask that,” he grumbles. “He got a little better because of the spells.”
I grin weakly at him. “But you said it’s because of my good job.”
I slip into the room before his fist manages to land on my shoulder.
I take a seat on a conjured stool near the foot of the bed and lay my upper half on the bed above the blanket. Supporting my head up with elbows on the bed and chin in my hands, I scrutinise our poor rescuee, thoughts running helter-skelter in my mind.
Who is he? Why’s the baby snake in his belly? Before I came here to talk to Justin and see this man, Hermione told me that the Unspeakables had found him while he and his men had been trying to raid a small magical village deep in Scottish highlands, and he’d been captured while apparently trying to sabotage his own mission, so why did he do that? Where are his friends? Were they attempting to get him back? Are they going to come here?
There’s no evidence of vehicles, Portkeys and the like, and no magic either, Hermione said, so maybe no tracking him here, but the Unspeakables found strange weapons instead – weapons unknown to the mundane and magical alike… so is this man and his friends aliens? If magic and wizards are true, why not aliens? But why were aliens trying to raid humans? For medical experiments? For some slave labour? It can’t be for expertise in something, can it?
I fiddle with a patch of bunched-up blanket as my thoughts run round and round and round.
And then I notice that a nearby patch is also moving, independent of my own movements.
I blink, and blink again.
Now I notice that the man’s eyes are open, though not fully, and rather blearily.
“Oh,” I murmur, bemused. “Hello. You’re awake, now? Want me to prop you up?”
Something shifts again under the blanket nearby. Judging from the contour visible on the blanket, it’s a hand. So, thinking that he wants some human contact, I grasp it.
He grasps it back, strongly but spasmodically, hampered only by the thick layer of the blanket that separates our hands from each other.
“Hello,” I begin again, smiling, as I transfer my bum to the edge of the bed and dismiss my conjured stool. “Feeling better, now? Want me to give you some water?”
He remains silent, but his grasp on my hand remains strong, if trembling, too. Maybe he can’t speak, or he doesn’t understand me, or his mind is too preoccupied with the pain. I can only hope that he’s not too broken from the horrible, horrible ordeal he went through.
And all, after he tried to save some witches and wizards from becoming alien toys. Ungrateful sods.
Well, I’m not one to talk much, usually, but if he draws comfort from human voices that don’t precede pain for him….
I talk, and talk, and talk, softly, about everything that I can think of that is not also a closely guarded secret, with inflections that invite him to participate but don’t push.
I wish I had such a company, myself, when I got bedridden, especially when I was small.