Hard Time

Chapter Eleven: A Fate Worse Than Death


When Draco woke up, there was a white cat staring into his face.

Draco blinked at the cat, ready to shoo it off of him, when instead it turned around and jumped off the bed, rubbing its furry side against Draco's face as it did so. Draco grimaced and wiped at his nose. He belatedly remembered that his nose should be broken. And he should be dead.

The cat went over to a door with a tiny window and sat down facing it, expectantly. Draco glanced around him, trying to take in everything. White room, hospital bed. Bandages on his wrists--one of which was handcuffed to the bedrail. That confirmed a few things. His attempt had failed. And he must be in St. Mungo's, though he had to wonder which floor. The floor for general injuries? Or the mental ward.

One thing was certain. They would patch him up, and send him back. Draco felt a fresh wave of despair as the cat meowed and the door opened. Instantly he went into survival mode. Glassy stare, no interest in the goings on around him. He lied limply, and waited as the healer checked him, noting that yes, he was awake. "Draco Malfoy? How are you feeling today?"

Draco did not answer. He endured the poking and prodding as the healer moved him around to a sitting position with pillows supporting him, and uncuffed his wrist. The healer looked into his eyes. Draco didn't allow them to come into focus. The healer checked his nose. Draco only flinched, though he wondered at how it looked; he remembered the blood and the pain. It had surely been broken. "Can you speak, Draco?"

Yes, but I'm not speaking to you, Draco thought, staring off into space. The healer stared at him in silence a moment before sighing. "So that's how it's going to be, is it? Well, your injuries are for the most part healed. He said you wouldn't be speaking to us; apparently he was right."

A tiny crease appeared between Draco's brows before he smoothed his features again. He, who? He wondered. He made a quick catalogue of himself. His rib no longer hurt, nor certain inside areas that had been undoubtedly damaged during his stay at Azkaban. But he felt weak and tired still, as if he'd been sick. Well, nearly dying probably qualified for that. He was hungry, and he needed to piss. He'd be damned if he'd ask for either at the moment.

The healer turned as a nurse entered with a bowl of what looked like porridge. She set the plate before Draco but again, he just stared at it. What was the use of food if it meant he would get better and have to go back to being tortured? What was the use of anything at this point?

"He's not going to eat, is he," the nurse said with a frown, watching him.

The healer shook his head. "Apparently not. Make him eat it. I'll set about transferring him to the Fourth Floor. They're better equipped to deal with this."

The healer departed, and the nurse brought out her wand. "Last chance to go ahead and eat something by yourself, Malfoy," she said in a low voice. Draco only granted her a blink.

"Right, then." With a swish of her wand, she brought a spoonful to his mouth, and using magic to bind him, she spoon fed him one bite at a time, forcing him to swallow. It was both humiliating, and tasteless; he preferred his porridge with raisins, thank you very much. Fortunately once he'd had a bit to eat, she took the bowl away, leaving only the cat to watch over him. He made use of the privacy to use the toilet and glance at his face in the mirror. At least they'd set the nose right, he thought. There was still a touch of bruising around the eyes, however.

Just that little bit of activity had worn him out, so Draco then returned to lying down on the bed, and trying not to think about what to do next. He wasn't in pain at the moment, and Pucey was far away. He would worry about the next day when it came.

He slept for a little then, or at least he thought he did, for when the nurse came again she had soup this time, a lukewarm sort of broth with a bit of barley. He fought her less this time, accepting being handfed without the wand. She watched his every movement, expecting perhaps that he'd try and overpower her to gag himself with the spoon or something; he wasn't sure.

She allowed him to go and relieve himself again, accepting perhaps that he'd at least take care of that particular bodily need by himself without assistance, but when he stepped out of the loo, there was a wheelchair waiting for him. He was led to sit in it, and the nurse began pushing him, out of the room and down a few hallways, to an old lift that sputtered and groaned. Draco tried to push away the wave of fear that flowed through him. What if they were already taking him back?

His fears settled somewhat when the lift took them up, not down. Fourth floor it was, then, as the healer had mentioned earlier. Draco knew all too well what sort he would find there; jokes about the Fourth Floor at St. Mungo's were legendary. Mental Magical Maladies. Or in his case, just a possible mental issue, he reckoned; one which those who treated the body only would not want to deal with. As the doors of the lift opened and he was wheeled into the ward, he could not help but notice there were a fair number of wizards and witches who looked too much like himself, wearing white hospital gowns and staring listlessly into space, slumped in their chairs at various points in the room. He held a mental debate with himself over whether this was better with multiple daily beatings and rapings. Marginally, he decided.

The nurse brought him to the floor's head Healer, a woman with a tired expression and short grey hair in a bob, a rather modern look for such an aged-looking woman, Draco thought. She looked Draco over, reading his chart. "Ah, the Malfoy lad. This is the one they're trying to rehabilitate?" She sounded sceptical. Draco wondered what they meant by 'rehabilitate'. If they thought they were going to cure him of his desire to end things, they were sadly mistaken. Although given the right opportunity, he'd be happy to settle on breaking out and escaping instead.

Once the nurse handed over the papers, she quietly took her leave, leaving Draco staring at the healer's shoes, not wanting to glance up at her face and show that somebody was actually home. She surprised him by grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up at her. "My name is Healer Strout, Malfoy. And if you think I'm falling for your catatonic act, you're quite sadly mistaken. I have something to show you."

She stood and stepped behind Draco to push the wheelchair, past different wards until they reached Room 49, into which she wheeled him, towards a couple of wizards in hospital robes sitting by the window, surrounded by little scraps of ripped up paper. It was a man and a woman, he saw, and something about them seemed familiar somehow. The man didn't seem to even be aware of what was happening around him; he stared out the window, drooling, fingers twitching every now and then as if someone were pulling the strings of a marionette. The woman, white-haired and almost ghostly-looking, was more active. She rocked back and forth in her chair incessantly, biting her lip in concentration and taking the bits of paper, trying to force them together by crumpling them into tiny balls, and then ripping them up again, in seeming frustration. She looked up as Strout approached them, eyes rolling, never able to quite come into focus and made a noise like a wounded animal. Draco felt a shudder go through him. Merlin grant that he never be quite that pitiful.

"Oh you've made a bit of a mess, haven't you, dear Alice? That's all right. We'll have someone pick them up in a few," Healer Strout said in a much softer, more motherly voice, taking the tiny crumpled paper from the woman. The woman began whimpering, eyes gone panicky, reaching for the paper again, and the healer sighed and gave it back to her. Then the healer turned to Draco. "Do you know who they are? I believe you were in classes with their son, Neville Longbottom. Your aunt Bellatrix made them this way, through the Cruciatus Curse. Think on that while you're busy feeling sorry for yourself, young man." She walked away.

The man began muttering to himself, gibberish that Draco couldn't quite catch. She's left me with two insane enemies of Voldemort Draco thought with a cold icy feeling. It wasn't that he was afraid that they would try to hurt him. It was just that looking at them, he had a unique viewpoint to comprehend their suffering. He'd been punished by the Cruciatus Curse after he'd failed to kill Dumbledore, even though Snape had succeeded. He'd thought at that moment, writhing under Voldemort's wand, that he would go mad. Now he saw just how very much of a possibility that could have been.

He sat there for several minutes, feeling worse as each minute passed and wondering if insanity was catching and if he'd be stark raving mad by the time the Healer returned to fetch him. Then he heard voices behind him--one voice in particular, which he recognized. It couldn't be. He dared not turn around to check. But it certainly sounded like him. Harry Potter.

Harry was arguing with the lady, it sounded like. "Yes, and he told me that if I could convince you, I could take over things today. One month. That's all I'm asking for. If I'm not successful, you can have him back and try your methods. But I'm telling you right now, my way will work better. He's stubborn."

He's talking about me? Draco thought, almost smiling. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But his curiosity was piqued. Methods. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. What did Potter want with him?

Draco was forced to turn his attention for a moment to the woman--Neville's mother--who was trying to thrust the ball of paper scraps into his hands with an urgent nod. He tried to give it back to her, but she shook her head firmly, and folded his hands over it. He gave a nervous shake of his head and finally held onto it, and she smiled. It was like a baby's smile. He wondered what thoughts if any ran through her head.

Behind him, Draco heard the conversation continuing. "We are well-equipped to deal with such outbursts or refusals to act as well. I understand why just this morning he refused to eat. And he's refusing to speak."

"Let me speak with him." Harry sounded determined.

The Healer sounded exasperated. "Fine. He's over there by the Longbottoms."

Alice was tapping Draco's hand again. He looked at her, wishing he could pull away, snap at her, anything. She reminded him of Dobby. I've got your bloody piece of rubbish already! He opened his hand to show her. She nodded and took it from him.

A hand on his wheelchair turned him around. Draco had to refrain from looking up, knowing who it must be, staring instead at a pair of Muggle jeans and a plaid shirt. He wasn't giving Harry any more satisfaction than the rest of them. He wasn't surprised when Harry knelt down to look at him. What did surprise him was the worry in Harry's face.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't get you out sooner."

Harry apologising to him? That was . . . that was ludicrous. When had Harry ever aplogised to him? Draco did a slow blink, trying not to react.

"I know you want to get out of Azkaban. Playing crazy isn't going to work; you and I both know that. Your father and your aunt were responsible for putting quite a few people here, and they aren't going to be very supportive; they'll send you back as quickly as they can. But I can offer you something different. Something better than death." Draco felt himself pulled towards Harry's gaze; whether it was the passion in his voice or the fire in his gaze, he couldn’t say. But once he locked eyes with Harry's, he found he could not look away.

Harry nodded as if satisfied. "I don't know what news you received in Azkaban. But the Ministry took all your family's possessions--well, except for some things of your mother's. But they auctioned off Malfoy Manor. And I bought it."

Draco knew he couldn't hide the astonishment this time. He remembered Pucey telling him about the loss of everything, all his family riches, his house . . . but Potter?! What ever would he want with it?

Harry had a small twisted smile, a painful one, on his face. "Yeah. You're probably thinking why me?" The smile faded, and for a moment, he looked old and weary. It was a look Draco had never seen on his face before. "I don't even know, really. I just knew that I didn't like the thought of someone else buying it--like Rita Skeeter. Or--well you get the idea."

Thinking about it, Draco had to concede that Harry had a point. Not that he was certain that having Harry inside his home was much of an improvement. He looked away, but Harry only moved to catch his attention again.

"I've been petitioning the Minister, the hospital, and the court to get permission to try and rehabilitate you by myself, at the Manor. Do you understand what that means, Draco? It means you leave this life of being a Death Eater, or a former Death Eater anyway, and you try to make a new start. Pledge that you'll leave behind Unforgivable Curses and dark magic. Work for the right side. It means a chance that you won't have to go back to Azkaban." Harry certainly seemed in earnest about this idea, had obviously been thinking it over at length. Draco wondered if Harry had visited him here before, when he'd been unconscious. If this was a sign of caring, or just another hero's mission to make him even more famous. The thought made him sneer.

"Draco," Harry said, glaring at him, apparently having caught the sneer. "Think this through. You'd get to live in your own house. Not St. Mungo's. Not Azkaban. A chance at regaining some power. I know that has to appeal to the Slytherin in you."

Harry was making sense, much as Draco hated to admit it. He'd been more than ready to say adieu to this earth, but the thought of returning home . . . a rest from the pain and the humiliation . . . it sounded good. Almost too good to be true. He blinked as sudden moisture filled his eyes. Harry nodded.

"I need you to work with me on this, however, Draco. I can't do it by myself. I need you to promise me two things. One, that you won't try and kill yourself again. And second, that you won't try to escape. I will make you take an Unbreakable Oath on this--but not the usual one, since that would pretty much defeat the purpose. I've modified it a bit. You try to do either of those things, and you'll be stunned into unconsciousness. Do you understand? Talk to me here, Draco. Let me know I'm not just wasting my time with you." Harry stood up and took a step back, looking down at Draco, hair falling into his eyes and a bead of sweat on his lip. Apparently he'd been doing quite a lot of running around in the time Draco had been out. It was somewhat gratifying.

Draco nodded, and when Harry continued to stare at him, finally he spoke. "All right." His voice sounded strange, hoarse from disuse. He flushed, not sure what emotion was flowing through him as Harry smiled.

"All right. Let me take you over to Healer Strout." Harry went behind Draco, pushing the wheelchair away, but not before Alice Longbottom darted over to put the ball of paper bits in Draco's lap again. He sighed, but said nothing.

Healer Strout looked at Harry expectantly. The green Healer robes were not particularly becoming on her, Draco decided. "And?"

"He says he's willing to take the oath. I told you," Harry said, and there was a note of challenge in his voice.

Healer Strout looked down at Draco. "Is that correct?"

Harry nudged for Draco to speak. Apparently he was a performing monkey today. "Yes." Suddenly Draco understood why Snape had always tended to speak in monosyllables. He disliked the Healer more with every passing second.

She stared at him a moment longer, then looked at Harry, and sighed. "Well, you did get him to speak."

"I'll do more than that." Harry nodded to the Healer. "You'll need your wand. And remember--an attempt to break the vow, and he only gets stunned. Not killed." He gave her a piercing stare. She nodded, and flicked her wand as Harry reached out to take Draco's right hand. Harry gave Draco an encouraging smile, and Draco wondered just what he was getting himself into. "Draco, will you promise not to try and escape from the Manor while you are staying there, until such time as the Wizengamot declares you a free man?"

Draco considered the words carefully, and found them sufficiently specific--it said nothing about trying to escape from either Azkaban or St. Mungo's. "I will."

Harry let out a breath, showing that he'd been nervous of Draco's participation in this. "And will you promise not to attempt to kill yourself in any way while staying at the Manor? Or be stunned into unconsciousness?"

No mention of the Wizengamot this time, Draco noted, and he had to ponder it a little longer before he nodded. If they let him go, he most likely would not be returning to the Manor. "I will."

Ghostly tendrils of light entwined around their hands, binding the vow. Harry looked at Healer Strout expectantly. "I hope that satisfies you."

She nodded, looking thoughtful, as she wrapped up the spell. "This should be interesting." She studied Draco intently, as if he were a particularly interesting species of Flobberworm. "Bring him back here in a month. We'll see if there's been a change or not."

A month's reprieve, at least, Draco thought. From either Azkaban or St. Mungo's. A fate hopefully not worse than death. He found himself looking over towards Harry, and found Harry studying him as well. The full impact was only starting to hit him. A full month. With Harry.

This would be very interesting indeed.

***

TBC