Scars That Never Felt A Wound

Okay - so I wasn't going to post this multi-chaptered fic until I finished it but I realized that if I didn't post it, I would never finish it. Make sense? That said, I have 5 chapters written so far and my bunnies and muse are at full force. I expect to post once a week (around weekend). Chapters will come and this story is completed, in my head. Please be patient as I write, as many of you know, I never abandon fics.

Now some background - this was inspired and influenced greatly by one of my favorite Dramione stories of all time: Out of a Silent Planet (read it if you haven't). I thank ianthe_waiting for writing such a gorgeous piece of literature from which to draw inspiration and courage.

Thank you to my wonderful betas: S for pushing me to new boundaries and t_stevenson for her honest feedback, friendship and skills. I owe much to both of you.

Gorgeous banner by draconis: http://i601.photobucket.com/albums/tt99/margaritaabate/ScarsFINALmargaritama.jpg

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Blue. Red. Purple. White. Green.

Spells were whizzing all around him. Wand at the ready, Draco Malfoy moved fast, trying not to give too much thought to the spells and hexes he was rapidly firing from his own lips.

‘Serpensortia. Protego. Expelliarmus. Impedimenta. Furnunculus. Sectusempra. Incarcerus. Stupefy.’

The sky was dark with figures on brooms blotting out any light, blending day and night into a frightening cloud of clogging smoke that mixed with the metallic stench of freshly spilled blood along with dust, dirt and grime. The foulness seemed to permeate his body like thin putrid tendrils, the violence and lives lost on the battlefield were invisible chains clamping onto his very soul. All around him, there were bright flashes and explosions of spells, curses and hexes as witches and wizards went head to head with each other in battle. Screams and cries filled the air everywhere he turned.

He was so hot and tired; his legs leaden. He was finding it more and more difficult to make his way through the battleground. He could barely see from the black smoke and bodies, as he flicked the hair falling over his eyes away.

Draco could feel rivulets of sweat and blood drip down his neck, back, arms and face; his robes clung to him thick and cloying, restricting his movements even further. Fear and adrenaline kept his heart pumping and his limbs from locking. The need for clean air caused his lungs to wheeze, while he continued to ignore the exhaustion beginning to seep into his aching joints.

Breathing heavily, but still clutching his wand, he continued to make his way past the fighting throng. Stepping over the fallen, he wondered and hoped if his mother was safe.

He yelled out a dark curse at a black-robed and masked figure that suddenly stood his path. Power surged through him and he began fighting off Death Eaters to his left and right, trying very hard not to get killed. Simultaneously, he was also fighting the urge to run from the smell of death and bloodshed, smoke of bitter hatred, and universe of chaotic existence. He wasn’t quite sure what kept his feet moving forward and his wand waving in defiance other than the thought of no longer wanting to be here, in this wizard-made hell where people he knew were hurt and dying.

Glancing around the melee, he searched in desperation for his father.

After the incident at the Department of Mysteries, Lucius Malfoy had felt the winds of change and realized they were no longer in Voldemort’s favor. So, being a Malfoy and caring for his own family’s self-interests, his father switched sides becoming a spy for the Order.

Draco could remember the relief he felt when he learned about his father’s decision. He could never quite understand why, as Pure-bloods, there were following a parasitic, insecure Half-blood with delusions of grandeur. Honestly, a baby had been able to withstand his death curse, which should have been the first clue to his eventual downfall. Wanting to help in any way he could, Draco had done his best to help win over other young Slytherins from his house, including Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott, to bring about the Dark Lord’s defeat.

Voldemort was insane; so quick to abuse and torture his family that Draco couldn’t recall a time he wasn’t living in constant fear. And Draco’s life had become a living hell since Sixth Year. He still relived the nightmare of his old Headmaster on the Astronomy Tower, fear of Voldemort killing his mother and father at any moment if he didn’t carry out his assigned task, his horror watching Snape Avada Dumbledore and, later, his mad dash through the forest.

Yes, his father turning traitor was the best thing he’d ever done for their family. Draco didn’t contemplate the realization that the decision also put certain individuals within his grasp and reach. Particularly, one young girl he was told to hate but hadn’t been able to since Third Year, and longed to make his since Fourth Year.

A compelling female voice from behind him pulled him from his dismal thoughts and commanded his attention. Turning, he saw HER.

She was out in an open field, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of swirling robes and blinding lights of wands. Gods, she was beautiful in all her defiant glory. She was power incarnate. Like the goddess Kali, she cut a swath of destruction wherever she pointed her wand. Currently, it was aimed at a Death Eater about to fling a curse at Neville Longbottom.

“NEVILLE! DUCK!” she shouted, her voice clear and strong. Then, “TERRENUS OBSCURUM!”

The Death Eater screamed, dropping his wand and clutching his eyes. Draco watched as the mass of curly brown locks, surrounding the grimy and dirty Hermione Granger, swept from her face as she whirled in the dance of battle. She was marvelous, running and firing off spells one after the other without taking a breath. With a wry smile, she clasped Neville’s arm, helping him up before resuming her grim task.

It was barely a split second later when he sensed, rather than saw, Antonin Dolohov raise his wand at the unsuspecting petite witch. Dolohov had shed his mask and Draco could feel the surge of dark magic emanating from the Death Eater as he aimed to strike the young witch in the back. Always the coward, Dolohov was known for fighting dirty – bloody perverted tosser!

No. Not her!

Draco’s heart caught in his throat. Without thinking he began to run, his body picking up speed; he seemed to be flying across the field, leaping over and around warring and dead bodies.

“Turn around, Granger! Turn around, you fucking bint!” he roared hoarsely.

Not thinking, Draco ran straight towards the back of the tiny girl. Hurling himself mid-air, he turned and yelled, “PROTEGO!” before tumbling onto the ground as flashes of swirling colors of red and teal collided around them.

“AAARRRGGHH!” A flash of pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced crashed into his body.

The feeling of a sharp, heavy axe-like object dropping onto his right leg shattered sinew and bone. A searing hot pain shot up the right side of his body and Draco collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony. Gasping for breath, tears flooded his eyes. A millions sharp needles punished him mercilessly sinking into his flesh as another wave of agony sliced across his body. Trying to pull away, he was hit with the onslaught again, sharp nails raked down his torso; as if tearing him open from sternum to groin, leaving an open wound where his organs were ripe and ready for the taking.

Merlin, it fucking hurt!

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. Someone had shoved a dirty rag down his throat constricting his air flow. He was gasping like a fish out of water.

Why was it so cold?

Was he dying? He couldn’t die. He was too young. He had so much to do. So much to say. To HER, especially.

NOOOOO. The pain! It ripped through him again, claws tearing and rending his skin. Down his arms, his thighs, his face, his chest. Someone, make it fucking stop!

His body was one volcanic eruption in torture.

Gods, his heartbeat was so loud.

He opened his eyes but couldn’t see clearly. The world was a blur of out of focus shadows. His entire body finally felt numb. He was sure he was moving his hand but where was it? The ground was moist beneath him, one hand extended to clamp onto grass or dirt but he couldn’t seem to find purchase.

The world was shaking. Or was this his body convulsing? Or was he falling?

Just as he went over the abyss, he saw the beautiful, heart-shaped face of an angel appear above him. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t hear what she was saying above the roaring rapids of torment in his ears. He stared at her lips through glazed eyes . . . what?

“. . . aco . .” “D . . .” “. . . raco . . .”

Why was she calling his name?

It had started to rain. Salty rain?

No, it wasn’t rain. She was crying. Why was she crying? Had Dolohov hurt her? He felt the wetness of her tears fall onto his skin, cooling drops of sanity in his world of pain and anguish.

As his world began to tilt on its axis, he noticed that her eyes weren’t muddy brown at all, as he’d always thought. There were tiny flecks of green and gold mixed into dark chocolate. Lovely. A man could drown in those eyes.

His last thoughts, before succumbing to blessed oblivion, were of a curly-haired witch with tear-filled eyes.

Stupid Granger! Stupid Gryffindor courage! Stupid, beautiful Hermione Granger!

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Terrenus Obscurum: “temporary darkness” – a blinding spell

Song: Stripped, Shiny New Toys

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