As Draco awoke from a deep and groggy sleep, he kept his eyes closed. Where was he? Breathing in the familiar scent of sterile, clean bed sheets and foul medicinal potions, he listened to a woman humming close by, though the tune sounded far from cheerful. The sound of ragged breathing of another individual reached his ears, most likely a victim of the battle. Finally opening his eyes in the darkness, he realised he was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, a simple, grey curtain enveloping his bed, far across enemy lines. I guess everyone’s my enemy now. Draco sank further into his depression at the thought.
He sat up slowly, debating whether or not to make a run for it. Did he make a big mistake, turning to those he had just betrayed? Not having had a moment to think at the time, his professors seemed more likely to accept him than the ones that had been holding his mother captive, that had just tried to kill him.
“Where is the boy, Poppy?” Draco lay silently back down on his cheap cotton pillows as he heard McGonagall’s curt whisper cut through the silence.
“I’ve cleaned him up and put him in that corner behind the curtain,” Madam Pomfrey replied, no doubt gesturing in his direction. “Hagrid brought him in several hours ago. He’s been muttering and shaking uncontrollably, so I gave him a sleeping draught to calm him. I can’t imagine what would compel him to come back here of all places, given the company he’s apparently been keeping.” She finished the last sentence with a tone full of unsubtle bitterness.
“I’m rather curious of that as well. If I am correct, he and Severus reported to You-Know-Who after…” McGonagall’s voice faltered as Madam Pomfrey let out a large sniff and blew her nose. “It looks as if he just escaped, but we will find out soon enough. Please keep his presence to yourself for the time being. I can hardly bear to think what would happen if Harry were to find out.”
Madam Pomfrey must have nodded, because their voices were silent for a few moments.
“How is Bill? Is he – will he suffer long-term side-effects?” McGonagall’s voice came from the bedside of the source of the ragged breathing several beds down from Draco’s.
“Remus doesn’t seem to think he will suffer the full effects of the illness.” The nurse’s voice also came from that bed; Draco pictured the two of them gazing down at the occupant. “Whatever the case, he will always be – scarred.”
“I was happy to hear that Miss Delacour still intends to proceed with the wedding plans.” McGonagall said. “Get some rest, Poppy. The Heads of Houses have decided to allow the students to stay until the funeral. We will begin arrangements in the morning.”
“What shall I do if he wakes up?”
There was a pause. “Alert me immediately. He’ll have a lot of explaining to do. We will also need to decide what to do with him soon, for his own safety,” McGonagall answered. Draco listened as she left the hospital wing, her heels clicking on the stone floor all the way down the corridor.
Turning on his side to face the window next to his bed, he gazed into the tranquil night and digested what he had just heard. Should he really worry about his safety? He couldn’t decide which he cared for less: himself, or what those idiots thought of him. Most of them would be angry about the death of that Muggle-loving old fool. There was a lot of damage to the school, not to mention the werewolf being let in. He shuddered at the thought of the thing, beast-like even without the full moon, putrid breath with a constant hunger in its yellow eyes. Draco would never have let it in himself; even the Mudbloods didn’t deserve that fate.
You had no choice, your mother’s life was at stake; they would have killed her and you if you hadn’t found a way to get them in and tried to kill Dumbledore. The Dark Lord is merciless and only cares about his own success.
You could have accepted help when it was offered, a voice argued back. Dumbledore could have protected you; he was your way out. You didn’t even have the guts to go through with it, and he could tell.
Letting his thoughts wander further into his miserable mind, Draco remembered how quickly he had just become an orphan. Feeling most of his pain for his mother, Draco had little remorse left for his father. The man had always treated him more as an officer in training rather than a son. He signed his letters “Lucius Malfoy” instead of “Father”, and he always demanded more obedience, more respect.
Ever since Draco was allowed to own a wand, Lucius had trained him to duel, inflicting painful curses on his son over and over until he was able to deflect them. The entire school year, he had been sending letter after letter from his cell in Azkaban, reminding the sixteen-year-old of his obligation, that it was his responsibility to regain favour for their family in the eyes of the Dark Lord. He would continuously ramble on and on about the name of Malfoy, about how it held the utmost honour in all respectable circles for centuries; that their blood was so clean, the filth running through the Mudbloods’ veins could never match their power. He had drilled into Draco’s head that which the Dark Lord advocated: “There is no good and evil, only power and those too weak to seek it.”
Draco had always assumed that Lucius was right. He had never known any other way of life, had never considered that what they stood for may be evil. He had assumed that these were the measures that must be taken to restore power to Purebloods, over both the Wizarding world and that of the Muggles. It made sense that dirty blood wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibility– why would they? Mudbloods had been born and raised in the Muggle world; it was where their loyalties would always truly lie. And Muggles, they were just too stupid and powerless for their own good – a lower class of human compared to wizards.
He was torn from his thoughts by the slow creaking of hinges; someone had entered the hospital wing, and judging by the lightness of their footsteps, they were trying their hardest not to be heard. Curious of who would be sneaking in here in the middle of the night, he sat up as silently as he could and peeked through an opening of his curtain. There was Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the family of blood traitors, tip-toeing towards the werewolf’s victim.
As Draco actually took a look at him, he felt a twinge. Was it regret, or just disgust? He wasn’t sure. The man’s face was covered in wounds that could never be healed by magic. His bare arms and chest were missing chunks and bore deep scrapes. Out of his head sprouted flaming red hair that stood out plainly against the sterile, white sheets.
Draco knew that it was the fool’s own fault for meddling. He could picture the cold, apathetic expression that his father would have borne while he lectured Draco on blood traitors and how their weakness for Muggles and Mudbloods should be stamped out of the Wizarding world. Reason as he might, that twinge in his gut remained.
Ginny reached Bill’s bedside facing Draco, took his hand in hers, and whispered, “Bill? Are you awake?” He didn’t stir.
Her eyes filled with tears as she lifted his hand to rest his palm against the side of her face, her long, fiery red hair hanging loosely on both sides. She closed her eyes, forcing the tears to roll down her cheeks. When she opened them again and gazed down at her mutilated brother, Draco saw such a sadness residing in her small features. He could see her very heart, aching for more than just her brother, but for the world that she knew was changing around her, most likely for the worst. Feeling that twinge again, he began to appreciate for the first time how much damage he had caused to someone other than himself.
Possibly because he had never bothered to look at her before, Draco couldn’t look away from her soft face. He found himself running his eyes over the light freckles that dotted her small nose, the tears that clung to her long eyelashes framing her soulful brown eyes.
He caught himself unconsciously leaning forward to get a better look. Never having seen love in this way, seeing someone care so much for someone else was utterly foreign to him. The only thing he had experienced close to love was when his mother would dote upon him as a child, but only when his father wasn’t around. He shook his head abruptly, shaking the thought from his mind. Love made you weak; having seen many killed for it, he had realised that there was no real gain. Unable to grasp the concept, he shook his head one more time as she began to speak.
“You have to be okay, Bill. Mum’s out of her mind with worry. You should have seen her and Fleur fighting over who was better suited to take care of you. Mum assumed she wouldn’t want to marry you anymore since…” Ginny paused before continuing, her expression pained as she glanced at his injuries. “She really loves you, and she makes you happy, so I guess I can learn to deal too. Please get better; our family can’t handle losing you with everything else that’s happened. I’m so scared of people I love suffering and dying. I’m scared for you and what’s going to happen to you, and I feel like I can’t talk to anyone about it, like no one wants to think about the future.”
She broke off to let out a shaky sigh. Draco was leaning in an uncomfortable position on his bed so that he could see her through the curtain. He reached to pull the cloth a bit farther apart, but lost his balance and fell off the bed, grabbing wildly on his way down. The curtain tore from its rod and wrapped completely around him as he landed with a deafening crash in the silent hospital wing.
Ginny stared in the direction of the stranger tangled in the mess of grey fabric and called out angrily, “Who’s there?” She felt violated, pouring her heart out to her unconscious brother without knowing someone was listening the entire time. Draco lay perfectly still in humiliated silence on the ground under his curtain, hoping against hope she would leave, that she wouldn’t try and seek out his identity.
He heard clicking heels and Madam Pomfrey cry out, “Miss Weasley! What are you doing here out of bed in the middle of the night? It’s much too dangerous for you to be wandering around alone. Back to bed at once! Your brother needs his rest!”
“Someone should stay with him – he needs me. And who the bloody hell is that spying on me?” Ginny retorted.
“That is none of your business. Now off to your bed immediately before I send for Professor McGonagall!” Madam Pomfrey sounded scandalised at this insubordination. “I will send my Patronus with you to ensure you make it to Gryffindor tower safely – without any detours.” Draco listened to her conjure the Patronus, and then shoo a protesting Ginny out of the infirmary.
Draco stood up and tore the curtain off with a flourish, glowering at Madam Pomfrey for catching him in this embarrassing situation. She turned at the swishing of the curtain, her wand still out. She kept it ready, not sure if she would need it.
“M-Mr. Malfoy,” she stammered, obviously very flustered. “You stay here, I-I’ll be right back.” She rushed back to her office, clearly relieved that she had an excuse to leave.
He slumped back down on the bed, trying to avoid looking at Bill as he waited. Would everyone act this way towards him? He was not a murderer; that had been made crystal clear earlier that night. He supposed he was dangerous, a thought that made the edges of his mouth curve upward slightly.
How much was he willing to commit, now that he had decided to turn his back on everything he had ever known? He would do anything to avenge his mother, even if it meant asking for help from those whose blood was not worthy of his, those he had been brought up to hate. He had already revealed where the headquarters were, which earned him an instant death sentence should he ever try to return. If he was going to be successful in helping the other side defeat Voldemort, he had to tell them everything. They had to see he had nothing to hide, and nothing to gain from ever again aiding the Death Eaters.
As he looked around the familiar hospital wing, his thoughts wandered subconsciously to the scene upon which he had just intruded, with one small change in detail. In his mind, it was he who was lying in the hospital bed unconscious, the red-head grazing his hand against her cheek as she gazed longingly into his face. Her eyes were filled with so much grief, yet so much love, willing him to wake up and kiss her one more time. As quick as it had come, the thought was chased violently from his mind. Get a grip. It was ridiculous to be having these thoughts about a girl from a family so disloyal to their kind. His parents had raised him better than that.
When he heard the hospital wing door open again, he looked up to see McGonagall looking him determinedly in the eye. Her usual tight bun was dishevelled, and she must still have been wearing the robes she wore during the battle; they were torn and burned in places. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, but her voice cut through the silence like a knife, clearly unfazed and full of resolve.
“Come with me, Mr. Malfoy,” she said sternly. She swept out the way she had come, her tattered robes billowing behind her. Draco stood reluctantly and followed, determined to make her understand.
Author notes:
Wow, thank so much for the support! I've really enjoyed writing this fic, so I hope that those reading continue to enjoy it!
Next chapter: Confessions of a Traitor.
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