Chapter 1
The second the quaffle left his hands; it was a sure goal. Straight through the middle hoop. The stands erupted into cheers, the stomping of feet and smacking of hands music to Draco’s ears. A lullaby if you will. He flew round the back of the goals to see Ginny Weasley even nodding and laughing, and if he was honest he was proud of that one. Red had hard feelings towards him the past eight months, although he could understand why.
The Quidditch World Cup qualifiers had come around so much faster than Draco anticipated. They were playing incredibly shit, down by forty points to Sweden. Sweden! And to top it all off, the beaters on Sweden’s team were playing dirty. Of course, the purpose of a beater was to aim the bludgers but aiming them for heads usually wasn’t in the manual for quidditch. He had narrowly dodged two in the space of ten minutes, inwardly cursing the beaters of his own. As captain, they were his responsibility. If they couldn’t play their position, he was the one on the receiving end of their coach’s foghorn voice. He could defend his own though, logically for the way Sweden was playing, they would need eyes on the back of their head.
With England hosting the World Cup, Draco didn’t think he could face the embarrassment of not playing in it.
“Gibson! What the fuck are you doing?!” Draco yelled, a feeble attempt because no one ever heard anyone on a quidditch pitch.
The players kept creating space, passing the quaffle as best they could between them. Four more shots were made, and they were finally, finally even. Draco flew through the skies as quick as he could, guarding their own goals.
He praised himself on being able to catch the other team’s strategies fairly quickly, and he knew Sweden’s. They came out at one hundred percent, playing at full capacity for the entirety of their game. Well, that’s what they would have you think. Quidditch was tiring. Nearly all of your muscles were in play for you to stay on your broom effectively enough for you to play, your core especially engaged. No one can play at one hundred percent forever and the time was coming for England to step up. Sweden’s players were becoming tired.
Draco grasped possession of the quaffle, flying alongside Ginny and preparing to make their legendary move. The opposition always expected Draco to just go through with the play, and they made it seem that way until the very last second. He passed the quaffle to Ginny and watched her score the ten points to put England back in the lead. The final hurdle. They just had to keep possession.
“And the English have caught the snitch! England is through to the World Cup!”
Draco could barely hear his own thoughts over the screaming home crowd. They had done it. They were through. He had a shot to win the World—
“Fuck!” Draco roared. Blinding pain took over the right side of his lower body, something had definitely snapped in his leg. He tightened the little grip on the handle, trying to stay in control of the broom without falling to his death. His vision started to blur and before he knew it, everything went black.
The English team started their celebratory laps of the playing field as Draco hit the ground with an almighty thud. Healers rushed from the side of the field, levitating Draco onto the stretcher and bringing him back. His eyes popped open as he tried to move off the stretcher. A strong hand held him in place, Coach Deakins.
“Coach, I didn’t see—” Draco attempted to speak, but the force in which he had hit the ground knocked the breath clean out of him.
“Don’t worry about it. They’re dirty fucking players, aimed it at you when the commentary came over. I’ll meet you in the hospital, son,” Coach Deakins said, grabbing his shoulder affectionately. Taken aback, Draco nodded, wincing as the stretcher bobbed through the tunnel.
“Make Red- Ginny captain in place of me. She-she’s the next best we have, sir,” Draco groaned out. Fuck me this is painful!
Edward Deakins was a tall, lanky man who rarely smiled and swore far too much. It was incredible actually the way he could fit a curse word into almost any sentence that most definitely did not require it. A hand on the shoulder was the most affection he had ever showed to anyone. “I will, son. Good call.”
St. Mungo’s never was a cheery looking place. Intending to promote getting better? The shade on the walls should be a criminal offence. At least, Draco thought so. He was less of a judgemental prat nowadays; however, he paid good money into the place. Maybe he should mention it to the board.
“Draco! Oh Draco, thank Merlin. They wouldn’t let me in until they had examined you and then that useless witch at the front desk couldn’t tell me whether or not you had been admitted! I mean who hires the people here?”
Narcissa Malfoy always looked the picture of grace and eloquence. Never did she step a toe out of line, no. She was the picture-perfect lady, at least according to the society they came from. However, when Draco was involved and in the hospital (as he usually was at least a couple times a year with quidditch injuries) she lost all elegance. It evaporated.
“I’m fine Mum. A bludger to the leg is just like any other day,” Draco smiled weakly.
“I knew you becoming some big athletic boy was a mistake,” Narcissa said sharply. But it wasn’t meaning to offend, she was simply just worried over her boy. “It wasn’t just a bludger to the head, you knocked yourself out cold!”
Truth be told, if Lucius hadn’t of popped his clogs in Azkaban the year after his sentence began, Draco probably wouldn’t have been a sports star. Definitely wouldn’t be in the World Cup. Yes, if Lucius had of survived for longer, there would without a doubt still be a stain on his name. One he had worked so hard to remove.
“Alright, Mr Malfoy,” the Healer waltzed in the room, reading his chart.
“How bad is it?” Draco asked, wincing as he sat upright.
“Not horrible for a normal wizard. For an athletic one, it could be the worst thing or a minor setback. You’ve broken your femur in two places, the process when you arrived in the emergency room was to reset the bone. Skele-Gro will help the bones reattach. You’ve also potentially concussed yourself when you fell.”
“So, that’s good then? It’s just a minor setback.”
“I’m afraid in your case it’s probably a little bigger than a minor one. Bone shards have pierced the muscles, and your muscles will already be affected by the Skele-Gro. You’ll need to build them up as the bone gets stronger.” He paused. “I’m recommending a course of physical therapy.”
Draco’s balls crawled back up inside his body and he spoke one simple word. “No.”
“If you want to be back to playing quidditch, no actually, if you want to be back in time for the World Cup, you’ll do the physical therapy.” The Healer was very final in his manner of speaking. He passed him a vial, presumably pain potion. Draco knocked it back in one. “This is necessary for a full recovery. Therapy will not be a choice unless you wish to change your career, Mr Malfoy. Your bones should be fully grown within twelve hours, and you should be able to walk in twenty-four. I’ll recommend that your first session begins tomorrow.”
Great. Physical therapy with his ex-wife.
Draco made his way to St. Mungo’s for the second time, unwillingly. He knew where the office was off the back of his hand, he’d been there enough. Never for physical therapy though. No, this was a first. The therapist’s office was smaller than he remembered, maybe the fact there was more plants? He didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care. He would be in, out. Done.
He sat on the bed, a little too hard for his liking. Would it kill her to provide a few cushions?
There was commotion outside the door, catching his attention. Two voices, the latter of which sounded irritated. This should be good. “—Why won’t you let me look in the bloody file, Sandra?”
“Just open the door. It’s in your filing cabinet, you’ll know his name.”
“I’ll see you for lunch.” The door handle clicked and opened slowly, revealing his ex-wife standing in all her glory. “Hello, I’m—” His eyes locked with hers.
“Hermione Malfoy. As I live and breathe.”
Hermione said nothing but violently huffed, just slightly slamming the door and making her way over to her desk. Clearly, not overly thrilled by this situation. She pulled some filing cabinets open, more like flung actually, obviously in search of something.
“What are you looking—”
“It’s Granger. Hermione Granger. And it would be that legally if you signed the papers.”
“Herm—”
“Please. Just get this over with,” Hermione sighed sadly. She sat behind her oak desk, reading over what was presumably Draco’s medical file. “You were knocked in the leg with a bludger going at roughly 45 miles per hour which essentially shattered your femur. When admitted in the emergency department, the Healers reset the bone and administered the required dose of Skele-Gro. Everything from your post growth examination shows that the bone grew back correctly as expected, bone shards no longer remained in the muscle and the tears were repairing slowly. Now just to get your strength up. Does that sound correct?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Stand for me, please.”
Draco done as she commanded, standing slowly and consciously putting more weight on his left leg, the good one. “It’s a bit tight if I stand on that one to begin with.”
“I see. Walk forward to the window and back, as you would normally,” Hermione asked, observing him closely. So, he did.
“I can walk fine, Granger.” He had never been so obvious of his gait before. Did he have a slight tilt?
“That’s for me to decide.” She gave him a stern look. He was glad she was just as uncomfortable as he was. “Lie on the bed.”
“No please?” Draco asked, painting on his signature smirk.
“Draco,” her voice wavered a little, but never broke. “This is incredibly difficult for me. Can you understand that? Can you even comprehend what I’m feeling right now?” She stood from her chair, walking to the foot of the uncomfortable bed. “Just, do what I tell you to do and don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” She busied herself shifting potions around on the trolley next to the cot.
Draco sat, statue like. He wanted to scream in her face, ‘Yes I understand because it’s so fucking painful for me too.’ But he wouldn’t. Because no matter what he did, or said, it never mattered. She had made up her mind, and there was no changing the concrete slab she had placed over their relationship. Instead, he just nodded. “Tell me what to do.”
Hermione had him lie on his back, his uninjured leg bent and the right one straight. She rhymed off a plethora of instructions for him. She could have said it a whole lot simpler. He tightened the leg muscles and slowly lifted the straight leg. Simple. And it was bloody sore.
“Try do ten for me, keeping tension here,” Hermione guided. “No, here.” Her hand met his thigh and he jumped. The mumble of a sorry came from her lips.
It wasn’t that her touch wasn’t welcome, it was just a shock. If he was honest, her touch would always be welcome but having gone eight months without it he was finding himself used to it. It’s not like anyone else would have been touching him.
When the ten reps were over, which couldn’t have come any quicker for the record, she had him move onto a number of different other stretches and stupid looking stances. It had to be the most embarrassing thing he had ever done. Completely outweighing being turned into a ferret.
“Granger, I’m not a bloody dancer. Surely this is unnecessary,” Draco whined.
“It’s very much necessary if you want full strength to be back in this leg. And even more necessary if you wish to play quidditch again. Ever.”
He had a slight window of opportunity, and it would be silly not to take it. Of course there was the chance she would go off on one, but he was curious. So, he continued. “I never seen you at the game, aren’t you meant to be cheering for Red?”
Hermione huffed. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t exactly jump at the chance for watching my ex-husband play quidditch with my present best friend. And I had to work. And I had things to sort with a research project, so I had to work some more. Weekends are my weekly shop time. I’m not always available at every game.”
He fought the urge to smile. The one thing he learned early on in their relationship was that when Hermione was flustered she rambled. “You used to be more enthusiastic,” Draco said. Yes, let’s poke the bear some more.
“That was when I liked the captain of the team. Then he went and cheated on me, so I have some unkind feelings about him now.”
Every time those words were spoken it felt like a stake through his heart. His own rage bubbled inside him and threatened to erupt. He sat up on the bed, straightening his back out and sitting up as straight as he could. He sucked a breath in sharply, almost wincing as the force stung his lungs. “I’ve never cheated on you,” his voice was deadly quiet. Emotionless.
“Draco the proof was right there! When I came across that article, you didn’t even apologise. Your first thought was deny, deny, deny. It was right there in front of my face, and if I was worthy of an apology it was only because you were sorry you were caught.”
“I didn’t attempt to make an apology because I can’t apologise for something that I didn’t do! Granger, come on. The man you fell in love with would have never done that to you, and I think you know that but you’re just too proud to admit it.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like vomit. He didn’t have control over them and almost as soon as they were spoken he regretted it.
Hermione turned away from him, her small sniffles filling the quiet space.
“Herm—”
“I’ll pass your file onto one of my colleagues, they’ll be able to deal with your case. Possibly Sandra, she specialises in upper body, but she is more than capable of taking care of your rehabilitation.” Hermione walked towards the door, opening it slowly and never taking her eyes from the floor.
Draco furrowed his brows. “What? No! I don’t trust anyone else but you to get me ready for the World Cup.”
Hermione looked up slowly. “That’s a shame,” her voice was even. Quiet. “I don’t trust you.”