Scars That Never Felt A Wound

Thank you for the great reviews and for reading. Thank to my betas. Without further ado, the story continues....

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He’d been a patient at St. Mungo’s for nearly a year, now. He’d had multiple treatments, potions and spells to help lessen the damage of the curses he’d be struck with.

Apparently, Dolohov, who’d been killed by his father after seeing Draco go down, had shot some rather nasty dark magic his way. Or rather Granger’s way, since she was the intended target. It was the obscure Discerpo Somes Universus. The curse actually tore the victim in half and had it not been for his quick Protego, Draco wouldn’t be alive at all. It had sliced through his right foot and, as he fell, Dolohov had thrown a few well-placed Sectusempra at him. Those struck him all over his body and one across his eye.

While the injuries weren’t life threatening, the scars were permanent. Due to the nature of Discerpo Somes Universus, Draco’s lower leg was not able to be salvaged through any spell or potion.

And everyone kept asking him he was doing and feeling?

Would someone get him his wand so he could Avada the next bastard who asked him that one more bloody time? Let’s tick off his good fortune, shall we?

He had a scar cutting across his left eye. Gods, it was horrible. Looking at himself in the mirror that first morning, he’d nearly screamed again, not recognizing his own image. The scar started three inches above the outer edge of his eyebrow, bypassed his eye – thank Merlin – then continued its jagged edge and misshapen line down to the middle of his cheek. It still had stitches and his face was swollen and disfigured from the various healing spells. What woman could bear to look at, let alone love, a face like his, now?

His body was riddled with cuts and deep lacerations that would leave lasting reminders carved into his skin for the rest of his life.

He was in chronic pain. The pressure in his skull from the headaches was sometimes blinding. He felt like one giant bruise from his shoulders down his legs. Every time he moved, he could feel his muscles twitch, pull and tighten in tense discomfort. His chest felt like it was constantly on fire from all the treatments to lessen the scarring. They said the pain would eventually go away but for now he had to deal with it. No position he tried was comfortable, sometimes it was easier to just lie perfectly still.

Oh and yes, he had lost his right foot.

Thinking of his foot brought about an urge to cry tears of fury. The spell had cut straight through the bone, several inches below his knee. He recalled the wave of nausea and disgust welling up in his stomach when he’d seen the red, ugly stump that was once his leg. It was now a mass of flesh, sawed off bone and scar tissue. And it hurt, constantly. It wasn’t a topical type of pain, no. This was a deep, gnawing throb buried and immersed in his knee, thigh and hip. There was no relief – except for his potions.

Malfoy’s were known for their perfect looks. Their marble-like skin, grey eyes, chiseled features – the embodiment of physical beauty, whether man or woman. If Draco couldn’t bear to look at himself, how could anyone else? He would sometimes contemplate if this meant he was no longer a Malfoy. In truth, what woman would want a man that looked like him? No, his galleons, name and long ancestral line would be his most attractive attributes, now. Once he’d been a silly, vain boy but now he was a broken, disfigured man.

How the bloody fuck did everyone think he felt? Lucky to be alive, indeed. What the fuck did any of them know? There were days that he wished for death. When the pain became so great, he would curse Dolohov for his incompetence in failing to kill him!

He desperately looked forward to the oblivion his pain potions offered. If only to block out all the fucking good-willed nonsensical bullshite everyone offered him.

Well, not everyone. She didn’t offer him anything. She never said a word, in fact.

She always stared at him with those large, brown, soulful eyes of hers. So sodding full of sympathy, understanding, compassion and pity. He didn’t want her fucking pity! Not hers, never hers. He wanted to hurt her, make her hate him, lash out at him with her verbal barbs, hit him like she had in Third Year – anything, as long as he didn’t need to see her sad, little Gryffindor eyes. That she was silent and bore his wrath only made it worse.

He recalled the day they had told him. He was so angry and full of rage.

Angry at his parents for following some narcissistic, self-important, half-blooded psychopath, in the first place. They ruined his life.

Angry at the Healers for their condescending attitude. He was a Malfoy, he didn’t need their sympathy.

Angry at himself for jumping in front of the curse in the first place. Since when was he so blindly brave?

But most of all, he was angry at her, for looking at him with those eyes that haunted his dreams. How dare she look down on him! She should be on her knees thanking him for saving his life, not staring at him like he was some sort of freak of the Wizard world. Fucking Hermione Granger, who instilled this sense of bravery in him in the first place. He was Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. Slytherin’s didn’t do idiotic things such as fling themselves in the air as curses and hexes are flying about to save a stupid Mudblood.

He had yelled that day it was her fault. Her fault that he was now half the wizard he should be. Her fault he was in pain. Her fault he was crippled. Yet, he knew it wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop him from blaming her.

She had stumbled out of the room in tears and sobbing apologies that he, quite frankly, didn’t want to hear. His mother had run after her while his father had tried to calm him down.

Stupid fucking Hermione Granger.

Gods, he wanted to roar, howl and gnash his teeth!

She was like the bloody pain in his body that wouldn’t go away, dulled only by pain potions. She was here everyday, helping his mother. She was here everyday, speaking in hushed tones with his father. She was here before every pain treatment and/or Curse Repairing Spell. She was here when he awoke from every pain treatment and/or Curse Repairing Spell.

Of course, he would always accept whatever comfort she offered simply because he had too. It was like a soothing balm on his being. He knew she was just being kind because she would never want him. Especially, not now and not the way he wanted her, he thought bitterly. Not with a slashed face, deformed body and a missing limb. It made him sick to his stomach.

Why did she remain, taking his abuse? Didn’t she know he didn’t want her here? That he didn’t want her to see him this way? Yet, he also knew he couldn’t stand it if she left. With or without her, it was unbearable. He was in hell.

Her wide, doe-eyes the color of rich earth were always brimming with concern. Her muddy eyes. Mudblood.

Stupid fucking Mudblood Hermione Granger.

Then there were the days he’d be so depressed he wouldn’t speak at all and she would read to him. He loved the sound of her voice. He would cry silently on his bed, listening to her weave magic with words. She would crawl next to him and hold him, never once halting her story. And he would seek her warmth, despising himself for showing any measure of weakness. She was always there, though. Her voice working its way through his defenses him.

He could swear he even heard her sweet voice when he was sedated during his treatment and spells. The delicate and feminine tones susurrating into his subconscious.

“Draco. You’ll be fine.”

“Draco. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Draco. I’m sorry.”

“Draco. Please forgive me.”

“Draco. I won’t leave you.”

He imagines her lovely features hovering over him as her hands tenderly stroke his face. Her lips pressing onto his forehead.

Then he wakes up. She’s there but sitting quietly in a corner, ready to call a medi-witch to administer his potion dosage, seek the Healer or his parents, or offer a cool drink.

He always sneers at her. Providing insults and slurs instead of ‘thank yous’.

“Mudblood.”

“It’s your fault I’m here.”

“Bitch.”

“Happy? Feel you’ve gotten back at me for the last six years at Hogwarts?”

“Stupid, ugly bint.”

She never says a word. When she’s done, she smoothes out his sheets and, quietly, exits his room.

Maybe, she slumps down on the nearest wall crying her little Gryffindor eyes out. Perhaps, the sobs choke her as she trips over her feet while she hastily makes her way down the corridors. Possibly, she holds it all in only to howl in guilty wails once she Apparates home.

Draco could care less. Or so he tells himself. She deserves it. Or so he tells himself.

Draco sighs and slumps back onto his pillows. Gods, he hates his life, hates what he’s become.

But most of all, he hates that he doesn’t hate her.

Stupid sobbing, beautiful, Mudblood Hermione Granger.

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Discerpo Somes Universus: “dismember/severe the entire body”

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