Draco
Pain - what an underestimation. He supposed that with his extensive vocabulary, he’d have fewer problems identifying his feelings. Scrutinizing, perhaps, would do the job. Although, that, too, sounds mild. He has a flare for dramatics, his casual antics, he’s a Malfoy after all, yet without indulging in that he’s confident to say that it feels like his body is a disjointed collection of limbs - he can’t even place where it’s coming from, as if the pain engulfed him wholly, leaving his soul to experience the aftermath. A seemingly fair analogically comprehensive way to describe it would be to compare himself to a plant stomped over but never pulled out of the soil, left to lay deformed but alive. Merlin, have mercy on me, Draco thought as he attempted to shift in the bed he was lying on. Perhaps Mother moved him to his room, he guessed, only to look around and fall into silence, because this isn’t the manor at all. This is the infirmary. This is Hogwarts.
The doors slowly creep open, and Pomfray walks in, sliding the doors shut quietly - not to wake any of the other patients, he would have said, if it weren’t for the fact that he was the only one in the massive room. It was white, and smelled sterile, making him uncomfortable with how much he blended in with the amount of gauze under his white robes.
“Oh, dear!” She exclaimed happily, “You’re awake!”
“What an astute observation,” he said under his breath, his voice hoarse. He reached his hand to touch his throat, eyes widening a bit as he assumed that he’d be completely healed by now, but also from the fact that he was merely surprised by the sound of it. Although seeing the amount of white coverage on his body, that was a rather insulting assumption.
As if reading his mind, Pomfray smiled at him and explained, “We needed all your magic to attain to more prominently...” she thought for a second on the correct phrasing, “...urgent wounds, so some wounds were left to be healed naturally with time or shall be addressed later as your magic regains its level.” She informed him she would call his mother over in a minute, and left with her heel up.
Mother. She was safe? That’s all that mattered, so he didn’t even question how she intended to summon his mother from the manor, not seeing her granted permission to leave the grounds, even for him. For a second there, he realized that he never left to Hogwarts. There was a pitch dropped in his stomach with dread on how he could have possibly ended up here, but nothing solid and realistic came to mind. Nothing good comes to his mind, either. The further he mulled, the more he remembered. Oh-
However that chain of thought was interrupted, and to his surprise, and relief, his mother entered the room within a minute. More like flew in. She looked different, more youthful even, but he was too tired to search for any magical traces on her, so he made no mention of that. Not only did she look youthful, but she also looked generally healthier, her face more fuller with lushness and nutrition, and on top of that, she seemed more… happier . Draco tries to remember the last time he’d seen her like this, and he is sure it had to be before his first year at Hogwarts when she was truly Lady Malfoy and not just the wife of a Death Eater.
The way that his mother held her hair, Draco had not seen in years. She used to wear it naturally, at some point, and for Draco, it had looked as though she held a blonde ocean’s waves, at times wilder than usual, however, he also could always hear his grandmother’s talk of that. She used to pester his father with the notion of Malfoy standards day and night when Narcissa moved into the Malfoy Manor, he heard, however, at some point, she had given up the talking. Or so he thought.
His grandmother was not a bad woman, not always. She was pleasant and loving. As pleasant and loving as a pureblood could show, at least. Yet, she maintained her strict vices on anyone who dared to enter her premises, so when his mother took the Malfoy name, she did not only vow to love his father but to comply with her in-law’s demises, too. Narcissa was required to look like a Malfoy, and the known Black curls did no favour in that regard. When he was six, his mother obtained her signature look. The night before that, both women had gotten into a rather hostile dispute, which ended when his grandmother had gotten her wand and set his mother’s hair ablaze. Her long blonde locks began to shrivel up and Draco stood frozen as he peeked from behind the wall. By the time the flames were extinguished, her hair lay just below her shoulders, yet seconds ago it passed her lower back. The next day, she entered the dining room with her hair straightened yet marred with dark layers on top of blonde, light hair peeking out from below it. She sat at the table and smiled as his grandmother stood and flung her utensils onto the floor in devastation, her wine glass falling from the edge, spilling the liquid and shattering across the floor. As one woman stormed off, the other ate with a smug and blissfully ignored all others.
He learned a spell to straighten his hair, too. Both he and his mother never changed their hair since. Now, when he brushed his hand through his hair minutes earlier, the silkiness was replaced with tiny knots, and unlike his mother, he was not ready to welcome the change. His hands itched for the wand.
As he looked at his mother, he admired how her hair was kept up in a nice eccentric way, allowing her naturally wavy hair to look graceful and voluminous instead of unruly like Aunt Bella’s. At the thought of Bellatrix, Draco could feel his bile coming up. The last of her that he remembers is her hot breath moaning his name into his ear, her breath moist and deathly, clogging his hearing with her manic words as she tore his flesh apart, pretty, pretty Draco ...
“Draco,” called his mother softly, her eyes glossy with tears, but they didn’t drop. They only blurred her vision as she slowly reached to cup his face and he almost mewled with the comfort and safety of her smell. Even with his body in agony from mere whispers, he would gladly fall into her embrace if it meant having his mother by his side.
The world stopped when he was fully embraced in her arms, and finally, he allowed himself to feel, and he broke .
His crying echoed in the empty room, his shaking form coerced by his mother who didn’t tell him to calm down, she only stroked his hair as he buried his face in her neck. She was gentle, she was his mom. He loved his mom. He didn’t precisely know why he was crying now, was it the pain, the relief, the regret, perhaps an amalgamation of every spectrum of emotions, but his fifteen-year-old body could not contain it any longer and so he was clinging onto the only source of comfort he’s had in the past months.
Unbeknown to him, Severus entered the room too. He approached the two, letting his precedence known with a mild cough.
As Draco shifted his view from his mother to his godfather, he noted an unprecedented object in his arms.
A cane..?
It donned on him that he still didn’t attempt to stand, to walk. A thousand thoughts and images flushed within a second in his mind, each worse than the other, because why would Severus bring it here unless it was required to be brought? Seeing as he’s the only one who isn’t standing with a healthy balance of grace and sturdiness on his feet, the cane most certainly is attributed to him. A Malfoy heir with an actual cane. What an absolute travesty of a joke. He thought back on what Pomfray said minutes ago. Was his magic that weak? He doesn’t believe so, because from what he can remember, he can conclude that he shouldn’t even be breathing if his magic was as weak as it sounds unless it was drained to heal something else.
“Draco, how nice…” began Severus, before quickly being interrupted by the young heir.
“How long will I need it for?”
His mother and Severus exchange a knowing look, and Draco just knows they aren’t planning on telling him the truth entirely, and he’s having none of that.
“Draco…”
“Must I repeat myself? I asked, for how long is this abhorrent thing be required in use at my side,” he interrupted again, this time, however, his mother, who could only turn her head and look back at Severus and nod at him ever so gently that it was more of a brisk tilt rather than a nod at all. He knew he was being unreasonable, that he was being unfair, but he couldn’t take it any more, he couldn’t take any more lies, or secrets, or even omissions, because, for all he knew, that is the exact reason they all are now facing this situation.
For Draco, all his life seems meaningless now, and not in the ‘what am I supposed to do now’ way, but more in a ‘what am I supposed to believe,’ because the cause that he was raised for, and almost slaughtered for like some sacrifice, the cause that he spread blindly, the same cause that he suffered for in silence, gave his body away for, the same cause was just… nullified in mere seconds. All it took was one genuine conversation with his mother. One conversation and he lost all confidence and belief. One conversation and he isn't the Slytherin Prince, he’s just Draco the Bully. Because as much as people thought he was unaware of his actions, he was, indeed, very aware, because all his moves were; deliberate, precise, and calculated. Of course, he thought himself better than everyone around, but that is a matter of fact, as it can’tbe denied that he is flawlessly handsome, he is the second highest ranked student at Hogwarts, with no detentions (except that only one in his first year and only because of saint Potter being involved), no warnings, no strikes, his exceptional fortune, and he’s even a member of the Inquisitorial Squad and a Prefect. Who wouldn’t be gloating in his place? Potter, most probably… speaking of Potter, Draco now wonders if he had anything to do with this, chances are slim but seeing as Potter gets involved in practically everything, he wouldn’t be too shocked to find his involvement here, too. In these seconds, he’s thinking about any and all ways this situation could have come to be. The lead is non-existent. One moment his family are prisoners at their own house while he is dying in the dining room, and the next he wakes up at his school with his mother and godfather at his side. Maybe an auror raid? Ancient magic? Perhaps even Severus got Dumbledore involved. He’s so tired.
Narcissa straightened her back and looked at her son, wishing to ask so many questions.
“Not for long, I vow to that, my dragon,” she said while cupping his face and dearly beaming at him. Severus came from behind, gently squeezing Narcissa’s shoulder, continuing her thought.
“It's a temporary solution to a temporary issue, unless, of course, you’d like to remain bedded for the unforeseen time. In this situation, you’d need no aid. However, if you decide to join your classmates and participate in,” Severus smiles,“your teenage escapades with your friends,” Narcissa giggled at that while Draco just rolled his eyes and tried to force his smile away, “I suggest you accept any help that is presented to you while your magic and body regenerate their reserves.”
The more Narcissa stared at her son, the more emotional she got, and she simply couldn’t contain the dam within her, “Je suis si heureux que tu sois en vie,” she cried as she leapt onto her son, completely oblivious to his pain and discomfort.
“Maman…” Draco called while hugging his mother back, taking note of her quick shift in demeanour. It’s been occurring all too commonly, and Draco did not like the sound of it, particularly with so many changes he observed in her already.
“When can I resume my education?”
To his surprise, from behind him, Pomfray spoke before anyone else, her arms on her sides, “Not any time soon, gentleman, unless you get an adequate amount of rest, and this,” she pointed between his mother and Severus, “is certainly not helping the patient.”
“We were just about to make our leave,” said Severus as he placed the cane next to Draco. He looked at him with a sheepish smile and placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder, “You’ve been missed dearly, so don’t make your friends wait for too long, and all those projects won’t brew themselves either,” and with that, he left.
His mother, however, was allowed five more minutes with him, and he’s thoroughly grateful for the fact that she allowed him to bask in her love, to simply enjoy the silence and quiet while in her comforting embrace. He focused on her smell, her statement fragrance ever-present. Her touch is as gentle as ever, and her eyes are as full as always. No matter the changes, she’s still his same old mom, his heart, his soul, his everything. At times, he felt rather embarrassed, being called ‘mama’s boy’ by all his friends, but was it all so bad to rely on only stable solace you’ve ever had? What else are parents for? He reflected on how he loved his father, and he loved him truly, with a sense of adoration, respect, and consideration, but all of that he could apply to his mother, too. Perhaps it's the result of the numerous disappointments he faced regarding his father. How he always left him and his mother to fend for themselves in front of other Malfoys, or how he led his mother to delirium a couple times, how he suggested Draco maintain his straight hair when he first saw it, how he threw him knowing glances when he caught him exit certain Death Eater’s bedrooms, how he saw Bellatrix’s grasp on his upper thighs during dinner and swiftly changed the subjects; there were many times when his father had the opportunity to change their fate. But his father was a Malfoy, hence, a coward. Cunning, but a coward. Very possibly what distinguished his love for his parents were their families, as seemingly his mother’s approach, or rather the Black one, appears to serve his preference more. Draco didn’t like that. He’s a Malfoy. Malfoy. As he thought about his family, he pondered on how one family raised such different daughters. The house of Black had three daughters, yet one soothes the pain that came from the other while the third one is long gone. Maybe it's a good thing he never had siblings, despite his father's efforts. However, speaking of his father-
“Mother,” he called for her attention, “is Father at St Mungo’s? Is he suited for visitation?”
That was the wrong thing to say.