Can't Break the Silence

Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

The sleep had been so good and so deep. Harry moaned when he felt someone shake his shoulder. Why couldn't he just sleep away his life? Ah yes, because he was immortal. It didn't work that way unless someone could kill him in his sleep.

His eyes blinked open to angry crimson. Yes. He should have just kept sleeping.

"You're a fool," Tom accused sharply. Relatively swiftly, he reached down and took Harry's head harshly by the hair in order to pull him into a sitting position. Harry gave a muffled gurgle in pain at the action.

"Please, My Lord, I beg of you to be gentle of his head—," a man desperately pleaded with a worried tone. Despite the rough handling of the Dark Lord, Harry could dimly pinpoint the voice as the man— the Healer, Cormac. Cormac had been the man who tended to his hand the other day.

"If the boy hadn't been an idiot, we wouldn't even be in this situation." Tom spat back, his fingers running through Harry's messy hair. The massage felt good, but Harry was sure the Dark Lord wasn't just merely massaging his head he was—,

"Ow!" Harry shouted as Tom's fingers encountered the exceptionally sore spot on his head. "That bloody hurt, you bastard."

The man had the greatest ability to control himself when it came to Harry's smart mouth. Either that, or he had selective hearing. "Here it is," Tom murmured to the Healer. "I had blood on my hands earlier this night from the wound and its still bleeding, after hours of being fresh."

Harry felt miserable. He had already vomited up all the contents in his stomach, but as Tom passed his head to the Healer, Harry gagged as the fingers pressed on the wound. He leaned over the bed and dry heaved. He groaned as hands pulled him up by the shoulders.

"Nausea," the Healer commented as if it hadn't been obvious. "Let's see your eyes, boy."

Harry reluctantly looked up and flinched away at the small light at the end of the Healer's wand. His chin was then grasped by cold hands, hands he knew belonged to Riddle. The Dark Lord turned his face back to the Healer and Harry had to suffer as the man looked at his eyes with that damned pen-like light.

"Ah yes, unequal sized pupils." Harry pulled away from Tom, growling. He just wanted to go to bed. He had the worst damn headache. "The boy has a concussion, as suspected." Harry tried to keep his attention away from the brooding Dark Lord in the corner.

"A concussion?" Harry blanched at that, remembering the heavy branch that hit him in the back of his head last night. "Can it be cured?"

"Concussions are not curable," Tom spoke for the Healer. "I should withhold the Headache draught from you and make you sit outside in the sun all day for your insolence." Harry gave a deep sigh, slumping against his pillows. A Headache reliever would be nice. "But considering I'm a merciful Lord, I might just have to let you slide, again."

Rather deliriously, Harry flashed the man a goofy grin. "Merciful..." he gave a chuckle.

Tom frowned, turning toward the Healer. "I'm assuming rest is involved with Mr. Potter's recovery?"

Cormac took out two vials of potion and approached Tom. "Yes, My Lord, a week of rest will assist the boy in terms of recovery. The first two days, the child should be bedridden, after which, he may slowly start to push himself in terms of walking. The Malfoy manor has plenty of stairs and corridors for the boy to get enough exercise. No magic should be cast for a good week. He needs to take it easy and take in enough nutrients."

"A week?" Harry thought he heard the man wrong.

Neither of the two men glanced at him. "This potion will aid Mr. Potter with his headache and this," he handed the two vials to the Dark Lord. "This should be taken every four hours. When a wizard has a concussion you should keep on a solid schedule of waking him up every four hours. At least for the first night. A mouthful of the potion should do it. It helps the internal bleedings and the bruising inside the brain."