Scars That Never Felt A Wound

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Draco was at his wits end with the treatments and spells. His pain potions were his only relief.

There were days he contemplated just imbibing an entire bottle of pain potion to completely put him out of his misery. But then he would tell himself that suicide was the coward’s way out. And Malfoy’s were no cowards.

Of course, the truth was he was afraid. Fear had become his best mate, taking residence just under his skin. It was, in fact, eating away at his soul.

Glancing around his room for the ten thousand, three-hundred and ninety-second time, he rolled and stretched his neck, seeking to ease away some stress. It was a luxurious room, by St. Mungo’s standards. Large windows covered by thin sheer white drapes lined one wall, opposite his bed. His white iron bed, with its white cotton sheets, sat in the middle of the room. The white walls had been bare until his mother had brought in some of his favorite moving landscape paintings from the Manor. White tile ran the expanse of the room from one corner to the other, a Slytherin green, plush area rug the only splash of color.

To his left was a white bookcase lined with books on every subject. Next to it sat two oversized, white stuffed chairs and a white chaise large enough for one person, a small white table rested in between with a vase filled with the infamous white Malfoy roses and calla lilies. His bed was flanked by two white bedside tables littered with books, vials, water, crumpled Chocolate Frog wrappers, a quill, a half-full bottle of ink and loose pieces of parchment. Outdated and recent copies of The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly and Quidditch Monthly were strewn on the floor. His wand was carefully tucked under his pillow for easy access.

White. White. White. White.

He sometimes stared at the white ceiling, not blinking for long periods of time to see if he could go blind from staring at all the white that surrounded him. It was enough to make him go a bit mad.

He had few visitors, at his request. He didn’t want to see Blaise, Theo and Pansy. The pity in their eyes made him want to stop the air to their lungs then flay them slowly while they still had some life in them. His parents, however, came everyday.

And, naturally, so did she.

She came every afternoon at three o’clock and remained until nine o’clock. Always helpful, always taking whatever abuse he subjected her too, always silent. Why she came and stayed was a mystery to him? Why he let her was something he didn’t dwell on. It would make him face a reality he didn’t want to deal with – namely her pity kept her coming back. That thought only brought on a fresh wave of rage, which made his blood boil, which made his muscles tense, which made the unbearable pain even more unbearable.

Nonetheless, the little bookworm would bring stacks of her precious books to study and read. His mother had mentioned she had taken her NEWTs, passed with the highest marks in recorded history, and was studying to be not just a Healer but Potions Master under Severus Snape, himself.

Overachieving bitch! Thought she was so bloody smart.

Bully for her.

Stupid bookworm.

Thank Merlin for The Daily Prophet and the weekly book that someone, no doubt his mother though she denied doing so, thoughtfully left by his bedside, else he’d go barking. They’d won the war and Hogwarts had been re-built and was set to open its hallowed halls again the upcoming fall. The paper kept him informed of the outside world. The books kept his interest and imagination keen and honed.

How he longed for his freedom. A desire to travel, see the world, experience new things had arisen in Draco to the point of obsession. He couldn’t wait to get out of St. Mungo’s, and if his parents thought he was going to return to the Malfoy Manor and allow his life to pass him by, they were sorely mistaken. He might not be the same Draco Malfoy before the war but he was still Draco Malfoy!

No. Draco Malfoy was going to do as he pleased. Fuck his name. Fuck his so-called duty. Fuck the Wizarding world. Fuck everyone. He was so bloody sick of the unsolicited sympathy. As if anyone had even any inkling about his feelings and pain. No one understood what he felt, that he was incomplete. The disgust that rose in his throat, burning like acid, whenever he looked at himself was too much to swallow. Gods, he was pathetic, weak and loathsome.

Then there was her. Oh, fuck her, most of all!

How he longed for the day when he would no longer be subjected to those long, untameable tresses of curls, those dark Firewhiskey-colored eyes, the creamy and soft skin that blushed at the simplest provocation, those pink lips that she would habitually bit and tug in his presence. She loved to throw her robes off in the evenings and parade about in her Muggle clothes, tempting him with her curvy, petite body with its tiny waist, womanly hips and pert arse.

Not that he’d noticed.

Stupid tempting Hermione Granger.

She was there the day they brought in his prosthesis. It was a magical one, naturally, that mimicked a real limb. His mother held onto the curly-haired brunette for dear life as they explained how it worked.

Created from a cast and actual pieces of his lost leg, the limb consisted of an endoskeleton made from a mix of various metals – Titanium, Iridium, Inconel 625 and traces of Tungsten – that acted as the support “bones”. The Mollis Chalybs spell was cast to make it pliable, flexible and movable. The outer skin layer consisted of a Wizard-made synthetic material similar to latex and silicone, but the key difference were the charms and spells interwoven with small specks of Draco’s own flesh to give it the feel and look of an actual appendage.

The spell to have it merge with his stump was simple, Suggero Artus; it would bind Draco’s skin with the artificial limb in a painless, smooth transition. Once attached, the Voluntas Iunctio Charm designed it so it would connect with the rest of his body and give the illusion of feeling whenever he touched it. The Healer made it clear that while the limb gave the impression of being real, it was not. Draco still had to remove it every night to let his body rest and recuperate from the stress and pressure of walking on the faux leg.

Complex, expensive and unbreakable, the limb was made specifically for Draco. It could withstand the most extreme elements and temperatures, never dislodging from Draco until he uttered the incantation, Abiungo Artus. It would fit and respond only to him, lasting until the end of his days.

When they placed it on his stump he could feel the tingles of magic prickle his skin before the limb merged itself with his lower leg. He watched as the magical limb sealed itself, seamlessly. Lifting his leg, he bent it at the knee for closer inspection. It looked real. He touched it. It felt real enough under the pads of his fingers and he could feel very faint sensations of touching actual skin throughout his leg.

“Let’s test it out.” He threw back the covers and groaned at the stiffness in his joints.

“Mr. Malfoy, easy. You’ll need some physical therapy.” Healer Pembroke stilled Draco.

“I want to try it, now.” Pushing himself off the bed he placed his foot on the cold floor – he could feel it. Maybe this was real. Maybe he was whole. Maybe he wasn’t broken or cripple. Maybe he would walk.

Magic was wondrous.

He looked at the little group in the room, a ghost of his old smirk playing about his lips. Wide, chocolate eyes stared at him shining with hope. He would show her. He would show her what he was made of. He would walk. Right now, in front of her and she would see that he’s complete.

He crashed to the floor when he attempted to rise. “FUCK! It hurts.” Humiliation and anger were quick to surface.

“Mr. Malfoy. I tried to explain. You’ll feel pain in your stump. The nerve endings are still very tender and any pressure from the artificial limb will cause you initial pain. Daily therapy will teach you deal with this and we’ll also change your potions to help you cope.”

He swatted his father’s hands away as they tried to assist him in standing up. “More potions. More pain.” He looked over at her. “It’s your fault, you Mudblood bitch!” He was yelling and he knew it really wasn’t her fault but he needed to lash out at someone. She would do.

“DRACO!” His mother admonished. “Do not speak to Hermione that way. She has been nothing short of a godsend to me, your father and you.”

“Godsend?” He laughed bitterly before barking out, “She’s a bint who doesn’t have any right to be here.” He hauled himself up to his bed. He can feel the sweat pouring down his back. Struggling, he sits back on the mattress. “She feels guilty and if she’s waiting for me to absolve her, she’ll be waiting a long time.”

He hurt all over. Merlin, it was like jagged pieces of sharp glass were shooting up his right leg into his groin and settling into his lower back. His arms were sore from trying to support his body weight. He could feel the muscles in his body screaming from the strain of disuse.

And he was so weak. He’d barely been able to pull his body up. Looking at his arms, he was shocked at how thin they had gotten, his entire body was, in fact, too weak and slender. Another thing he needed to change. Malfoy’s were not weak in body or spirit.

Unable to cope further, he turned his burning gaze straight onto Hermione. “You . . . get out!”

Lucius – his Mudblood hating, ex-Death Eater father – spoke up in her defense. “Draco. Calm down. Ms. Granger is not at fault, here.”

Never allowing his gaze to waver from hers, he answered in a deadly dangerous whisper through gritted teeth, “Shut the fuck up, Father. Get. Out. Granger.” He watched those warm brown eyes go wide with fear and . . . hurt? He wouldn’t be swayed. Lunging towards her, he growled out, “I SAID GET OUT! GET OUT. GET OUT.”

The shock in her face registered at the same time the tears began to well up. He watched as she clutched her heart, stumbled back sobbing against a wall before her trembling hands wrenched open the door.

He felt several strong pairs of arms restraining him while he continued to rant and rave at the girl that had disappeared from the room. Draco didn’t stop until his voice was raw and hoarse, until the only sound left he could make was a strangled, choking howl.

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Six more months went by while he learned how to function with his new leg and manage the pain.

Healer Pembroke scheduled him for physical therapy every day. Draco would be forced to awake early, his mother would help him wash and dress. He would put on his limb and make his way to see his therapist. At first, he’d had to be levitated to the room but then he slowly progressed to walking with crutches – which he despised.

His therapist was a damn Muggle-born, of all things. Draco recalled his confusion when he’d walked into a spacious room consisting of strange devices strewn about the room. They looked like torture vehicles. His therapist said they were “jam” equipment, or something like that. He went on to explain they were Muggle tools to help build his strength because he was reluctant to use potions as Draco had enough of that in his system. Balking at the thought of using Muggle techniques, Draco had been very difficult at first but he was eventually won over at the first signs of reward from his hard labor.

There were days he wanted to quit and just never get up but he’d remind himself that Malfoys never quit. With strength he didn’t believe he possessed, he’d push himself from the bed, put his leg on and dragged himself to therapy. Though at night, when he was alone, he would sometimes wonder why him, and why he was being punished this way.

And everyday single fucking day the little, over-achieving, Gryffindor witch would be back, waiting for him after his sessions. She would be sitting in his room at three o’clock sharp, potions in hand along with a glass of water. Of course, she never uttered a single word to him, just handed him his medications and then would sit in the corner with her books.

Draco had tired of insulting her, eventually. Somewhere, deep down, he realized that she wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what he said or did. So, he accepted her presence, begrudgingly. Or so he told himself.

The potions made him sleepy so he would spend the afternoons in his dream world, being comforted by his gentle faery. Her touch, voice and sweet breath making him sigh and moan.

“Draco. You’re doing so wonderfully.”

“Draco. I’m so proud of you.”

“Draco. You’re walking. I knew you could do it.”

“Draco. Keep going. Don’t ever give up.”

“Draco. I believe in you.”

He would awaken to a slightly darken room. A small Lumos from a wand in the corner where she would be reading would be the only source light. As soon as he was up, she would stop what she was doing and call his parents, offer him water that he thirstily accepted and, once his parents were with him, go and get his evening meal. She had also passed her medi-witch level exams so she was also allowed to help him with his potions and medications. At eight forty-five sharp, she would gather her books, quills and parchments, then depart at nine o’clock.

On a random day, a thought struck him. She had never missed a day. Even during the holidays. Never. Not a single day.

The implications of those actions bothered him. He didn’t want to think of what it meant. Surely, someone who only felt pity would have abandoned him by now? Maybe she wasn’t there because she pitied him. Perhaps, she there was another reason.

No! He couldn’t ponder this. He wouldn’t ponder this.

Sighing deeply, he decided it was better to not dwell on matters best left alone.

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“Mr. Malfoy, how are you feeling?” Healer Pembroke was smiling at Draco.

Draco nodded and gave him a weak smile. After two years, he was finally free. Today, he was being released from St. Mungo’s. His mother was home making final preparations for his arrival and would be back shortly to escort him home; his father was speaking with all his Healers and securing his potions. He would continue his physical therapy at home, under private care.

In the back of his mind, he wondered where SHE was. He tampered down that thought.

“I’m feeling well. My leg doesn’t hurt too badly, today.” Draco reached down to massage the area where his faux leg merged with his skin. “I’ll be fine. I plan on walking out of St. Mungo’s, even if it is with a cane.” He motioned to the sturdy polished wood, dragon’s head cane resting on the side of the bed.

Clapping his back, Healer Pembroke gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “You’re one of our best and most determined patients, my boy. If you’ll excuse me, I need a word with your father.”

Draco stood gingerly with the help of the cane; making sure he had his balance, he limped his way over to the window. He was proud that he’d managed to go through a normal morning routine including washing and dressing himself. He knew he’d progressed much farther than the Healers had anticipated.

Today, life was good.

He heard the door open and turned. “Fath . . .” The words died on his lips. It was her.

His heart suddenly seemed to beat faster.

His palms were clammy.

His breath was caught in his throat.

His stomach muscles clenched.

She looked . . . lovely. Standing with her head down, worrying her lower lip, skin flushed a pale pink, fingers twisting together; he knew he should say something but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Her navy blue robes were open, revealing a pale, blue Muggle sundress that hugged her body and seemed to flare slightly at the hips. The dress stopped a few inches above her knees giving him a view of lovely, creamy legs. On her feet were simple black ballet flats. Her hair was one large curly mess, loose around her shoulders; her face had hints of subtle makeup but not enough to detract from her fresh, natural beauty.

She had no books or bag today. Perhaps, she’d left them outside? He knew, courtesy of his mother, she’d passed her first level Healer exams. According to Mother, she was their most prodigious student, completing two years worth of study in one. She had one year left before she was granted full Healer status. His godfather had also recently awarded her Potions Master title; she was the second youngest, after Severus, to achieve that honor.

None of that matter at this moment.

Her chin lifted and she looked at him. Her cheeks flushed, eyes a swirling mass of kindness, compassion, pride and something else he didn’t want to examine too closely. Why was she here? What did she want?

Her perfect bow-shaped lips opened.

A tiny tip of pink tongue darted out to wet them.

Graceful shoulders rose with the inhalation of a deep breath and then a soft whisper of “Draco. Good luck.”

Suddenly, she smiled brightly. At him. And he was rendered immobile. That smile was so open, honest and full of hope. For him.

With an elegant twirl, she walked out; the door shutting behind her. Draco blinked, shocked. Had he just imagined her presence?

It wasn’t until later, at home, in the darkness of his room that he realized that she sounded just like his gentle dream faery. That night he dreamt of thick, caramel curls, shining mocha-colored eyes and ethereal caresses.

Stupid, lovely, faery Hermione Granger.

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I’m doing my best with my rudimentary and basic Catholic Church education Latin. If anyone is fluent, let me know.

Mollis Chalybs: “pliant metal”
Voluntas Iunctio: “sensory connection”
Suggero Artus: “attach limb”
Abiungo Artus: “unharness, separate, detach limb”

We arrive at the end of Draco's journey (part I), which was so important to both their character development - the plot jumps into full gear after this....hold on! Wait, rate and/or review - please!