Blue-Eyed Angel
Chapter Eleven
"I'm not sick, Butler Paul!" Draco raised his voice in annoyance. His summer home from Hogwarts was not going as well as it typically did. First his father was thrown into Azkaban and his family publicly shamed and humiliated. Harry Potter then got the better of him yet again at the end of the school year, just rubbing salt in his open wounds all the while Potter had insulted his father! His birthday was ruined by Ministry Wizards tearing apart his home and chasing his mother off. And then, after all that, he was attacked in the middle of the night by some vicious animal. That had all happened barely a week into his summer and though some time had passed, and it was now near the end of July, it seemed like things couldn't get much worse, but Butler Paul was apparently trying.
"Draco, please, look at the state of yourself, you can barely walk," Butler Paul pleaded, holding his hands out to Draco so that the boy would actually do what he was asked. Not something he excelled at.
"I'm sore and manky from being mauled by a dog, Butler Paul. I wouldn't expect much less," Draco snapped, the whole room spinning around him every time he turned his head. He was going to make himself collapse if he didn't slow down, even though his pace already was sluggish and drawn out. Butler Paul wanted him in bed, but that was not about to happen.
"Yes, but after nearly a month? Draco, you are still as roughed up as you were the morning after the attack. Only now you look so ill…your skin is tinged green, like you have an infection…"
"I'm just stressed."
"Draco, please, you have to listen to me. You are seriously ill."
"I'm through discussing this," Draco said, holding up his hand and turning away with as much dignity as he could muster while trying not to pass out from the movement.
"You were attacked on the full moon, Draco," Butler Paul blurted out causing Draco to freeze. "Please, you need to go to Saint Mungo's, it's almost the next full moon and…"
"I do not like what you are insinuating, Butler Paul," Draco fumed at the silver haired older man, already having warned Butler Paul days ago not to suggest such things.
"You must go to Saint Mungo's, Draco."
"And have my mother find out that I got hurt and worry herself sick? I will do no such thing. I am fine. We have a Healer right here who can-"
"…not help you!" Butler Paul said firmly, daring to cut Draco off. "You are bandaged up something similar to that of a mummy! Look at yourself! Tell me, why can't the Healer take care of those wounds with a simple charm or even a potion? Why have you been getting sicker as the days go by?"
"Because our Healer is inept. We will get a new healer, a better healer, but I am not going to that hospital," Draco said firmly.
"Why? Are you afraid they will tell you what you don't want to hear?"
"Don't," Draco warned for a second time in that day's squabble, pointing at Butler Paul with a firm pale finger. Butler Paul was tall, slender, and elderly, but in a very fit way that would have you misjudge his age if you did not know better. He was normally well-kempt and collected, shoulder length silver-grey hair combed back away from his face, clean shaven and poised. But now his hair was a little disheveled, as was his clothing, and he had a hint of shadow on his face, like he hadn't even shaved that morning. Just that little scruff, compounded with his intense concern, seemed to age the man greatly. The lines of worry were deep in his face and his eyes looked tired.
"That you were attacked by a werewolf and are now sick," he continued on despite Draco's interruption.
"I said don't!" Draco said, shoving Butler Paul backwards after rushing him in anger. All that movement, however, caused Draco's knees to give out under him in his dizziness and he collapsed to the floor to just sit there, sobbing, frustrated with his body's failure but too weak to do anything else.
"Draco, let me help you," Butler Paul begged, taking a step forward after the shove Draco had given him, not taking it to heart.
"You said it was just a dog," Draco sobbed.
"I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to upset you right in the middle of it all."
"I'm not sick," Draco said, almost sounding like he was pleading with someone, a higher power maybe, saying "please don't let me be sick."
"I will take you to the hospital."
"No," Draco said firmly.
"Draco…"
"No! It wasn't a werewolf, I am not sick; I'm just weak still from the trauma. Damn blueblood and all that. I will not do anything to worry my mother. The house is back together finally and she sent an owl saying she would be home at the end of next week, before the end of the month," he said, his mother having gone off for the three weeks to "deal with things" on her own. He could not really blame her for wanting to get away after her husband was sent to Azkaban, her friends shunning her, the Ministry hounding her…he just wished she had taken him with her. They needed each other.
"Draco, you will not be well by the end of next week," he said, crouching beside Draco so he could talk to the boy and look him right in the face.
"I will be well enough."
"Draco,"
"Leave me alone!" he snapped, pulling his arm out of Butler Paul's grasp and pushed himself up off the floor to stand wobbly. "And don't you dare send any sort of word to my mother about this, Butler Paul, I forbid it," he said, like he did almost every day since the attack, doing all in his power to not let his mother in on what had happened to him while she was away. She was stressed and upset enough as it was. He did not want to add to that, or make her feel guilty for not having been home or taking him with her.
"Yes, sir," Butler Paul said, bowing once curtly after he himself stood. He could not force his young master to accept what was happening, no matter how much he wanted to. Draco's wounds couldn't be healed by magic; it was a classic sign of wounds from a werewolf. He was getting sicker and sicker, losing weight and looking paler, that too with his increased temper, were signs of having contracted lycanthropy.
His boy was smart, he knew Draco understood all that was happening, he was just refusing to accept it. Denial, it was something Draco was really good at, and it was understandable for anyone to want to deny something like this, but now, with the full moon only days away, he could not humor his boy anymore. Draco needed help, and he was either going to agree to it, or it was going to be forced upon him. Draco had refused to try Wolfsbane in the weeks since the attack, so his symptoms were not eased, nor was his pain, and he would be very dangerous on the moon.
Butler Paul could not allow Draco to hurt anyone.
The guilt on both their parts would be immeasurable.
Draco braced against the wall with his hands as he walked.
He was not sick. He wasn't.
He was weak, and tired, and sore, but he was not sick, certainly not with what Butler Paul was claiming.
He would go to his father's office and write a notice of termination for the Healer…later. Right now all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep.
Sleep sounded really good right then.
If his Healer weren't such a lummox he would be well by now. Butler Paul had said he wouldn't be well by the time his mother got home. Draco agreed, though it was probably the first time in his life he wished he was wrong. His mother didn't need to deal with this. He didn't want to deal with it either, so he was going to go and lay down.
"Can Mickey get you anything, young Master?" the House-elf begged, bowing repeatedly as it walked backwards in front of Draco.
"Water," Draco muttered, collapsing onto his bed, careful to place all his weight, as minor as that had become, on his right side, his side that wasn't as hurt. Holding out his left arm awkwardly Draco looked at the bloodied bandages.
Why wasn't he healing?
Even if his Healer was dead from the neck up and couldn't cast a spell to cure him, surely just over a month's time he would have managed to heal on his own. He should have had scabs, and scars, and closing cuts, but instead he had gaping wounds that still bled freely. He had to take a dose of Blood-Replenishing Potion every three hours to keep himself from passing out.
"Shit," Draco hissed while unwrapping his left arm and tossing aside the used bandages. His arm looked terrible and felt worse. The bruising had left patches of his skin purple at first, but now they were gone, leaving only faint greenish marks and the wounds so raw and red beside them. He gripped one end of his fresh bandage in his teeth and then wound the other end around his arm with enough pressure to hurt just a little yet helped slow the slight but steady bleeding.
"Mickey has your water, young Master," the house-elf announced appearing in the room with a tall glass of water in its small hands.
Draco just held out his right hand for the glass, not thanking the creature for its services. Mickey assured him he would be around to do anything his young Master asked of him and Draco just shooed him off with a wave of his hand.
Drinking his potion, then his water to rid himself of the taste, Draco fell backwards into his bedding, laying awkwardly on his right side mostly, nearly every inch of him sore. His chest and ribs on the left side were shredded, his left arm had been nearly torn apart, and his back had a series of deep punctures over his shoulder blades. Bones and deep muscle damage had been healed, but the rest…they lingered. There were very few options for him when it came to lying down because just about every position put pressure on one of his many wounds.
He still needed to change his other bandages, but he was so sleepy, he couldn't keep his eyes open. It was so difficult to wrap his chest, shoulder, and side with only one arm, every movement agonizing, but he refused help. It would take him over an hour to wrap himself up on his own, and he was just too tired at the moment. Surely the worst that would happen if he didn't change them would be that he would bleed through onto his bedding. At that moment, while his eyes burned for sleep, he did not care. He could afford new bedding.
Draco's eyes closed for but an instant, so it seemed, and he woke to the sound of urgent hooting. He took a deep sleepy breath but then regretted it. His chest and back screamed in pain as his ribs stretched and put tension on his wounds.
Swallowing hard, Draco felt feverish. He thought he was damp from sweating, which he was to an extent, but he realized the wetness he felt was not sweat when he raised his arm and saw that it was covered in blood. Panic gripping him, he sat up, but that caused his vision to blackout and pain to rip through his body resulting in him tipping over onto his right side, legs curled under him. His bedding felt so cool against his hot skin for a moment before it started to warm from his radiating heat.
Draco gasped a breath and pushed up off the mattress slowly that time, looking down at himself.
There was blood everywhere!
He had not just bled onto his bedding a little, he had soaked it through!
It looked like someone had been murdered in his bed.
The owl that had woken him hooted again urgently from atop his tall chest of drawers. Draco swallowed hard, reaching for his potion. He downed several hearty gulps, not caring about the taste as he shook in panic, his heart racing.
Was he going to die?
The tawny owl, tired of being ignored, fluttered down and landed on Draco's bed, avoiding the pool of blood Draco was in the middle of.
"Awright, awright, don't be so damn pushy," Draco mumbled, removing the note attached to the owl's leg with trembling hands. The owl nipped at him and Draco cursed, shooing the bird away with his angry right hand.
"Goddamn pest," he grumbled, his finger now hurting like the rest of him.
He looked at the note and saw that it was unmarked on the outside. It didn't even have his name on it, just smeared blood from him handling it.
Who had sent him an unmarked, unaddressed letter?
Opening it to find the answer, Draco pulled out an acid green piece of thick parchment and unfolded it. Inside he found sharp and harsh lettering written. He did not read it yet, he scanned it to see whom it could possibly be from and felt his heart freeze for a moment, going from pounding to near dead stop in an instant.
It was from Lord Voldemort.
Draco quickly read over the letter and felt his stomach clench over and over again.
The Dark Lord wanted to meet him. Him!
Why was the Dark Lord requesting an audience with him?
Something about a task the letter read.
Was the Dark Lord asking him to do something for him?
Draco felt sick, now for all new and completely different reasons than before.
He couldn't deny that he was more than a little afraid of the Dark Lord. He wished nothing more to serve him, to honor his family, to please his mother, to defend his father, but he was scared. He was very scared.
The letter said he should be in the Dark Lord's presence at nine o'clock sharp.
It was quarter till.
"Oh holy God," Draco gasped, flinging himself out of bed and stumbling.
Keeping the Dark Lord waiting, even for a minute, was unwise. He knew this, and he had never even met the man before. It was just an obvious assumption.
"Draco? Draco, what on earth do you think you are doing? Is that blood? Draco?" Butler Paul called after Draco as Draco limped down the hall, dressed as freshly as he could in the five minutes he had taken to clean himself up. Draco had thrown himself in the shower to try and wash away some of the blood and had not replaced his bandages after having removed them. He just put clean clothes on, black to try and hide the bleeding, and a long cloak to keep himself covered because despite the warm summer air, he was shivering.
"Open the Floo Channel," Draco said, not stopping, not turning, not explaining himself.
"Draco, are you crazy? Where do you think you are gong?"
"I have to go now or I will be late. Open the Floo Channel," he repeated.
Butler Paul just looked at Draco's ghostly white face and set his jaw.
"The only place you are going is St. Mungo's."
Draco spun on him -eyesight dimming but holding himself surprisingly steady- and pointed his wand at the man he loved like a second father.
"I will not ask you again. Open the Floo Channel so we are connected to the Network so that I may leave. If I am late I am dead. Do you understand that?" he said, voice quivering, his hand surprisingly steady.
"Draco, you look close to death already. You're killing yourself."
"Better than dying at the hands of the Dark Lord," he said, eyes darting back and forth as though unsure of what to look at as he continued to point his wand at his friend and mentor.
"Is he who you are going to meet?" Butler Paul asked, knowing Draco wanted nothing more than to be a Death Eater like his father. Draco said nothing, not having to. "Draco,"
"He requested me. I cannot refuse him. Please, help me; I do not know how to open the channels myself," he said, the magic sealing them off from the Network complex, one reason being security, the second being that Draco used to sneak out against his parent's wishes.
Butler Paul sighed and looked at Draco for a moment. Draco looked like he was ready to collapse and die any moment, yet he would positively die if he did not honor the Dark Lord's request.
"I should come with you," he said, Draco lowering his wand.
"The note instructed I come alone, by Floo," he said, looking apologetic like he would like nothing more in the world than to not have to go meet the Dark Lord for the first time, alone.
"I will be standing right here, waiting for you to return," he said firmly, striding over to the hearth and opening the silver grate that covered it. He pulled out his wand and muttered some spells to open the home to the Floo Network.
"Thank you," Draco said, standing beside Butler Paul, his cloak closed tight and looking like a floor length cape, covering all but his head that looked so deathly pale with a shadow of green.
"You be careful," he said, wanting to give his boy a hug but knowing what pain that would cause Draco.
Draco nodded faintly and moved into the fireplace. Throwing a handful of Floo Powder at his feet he shouted "Deathly Hallows" as an eruption of emerald flames at his feet whisked him away.
The sensation of spinning and high velocity was enough to make Draco think he was about to die. He kept his eyes closed tight and did not open them, not even after he spilled out onto a very hard cold floor. He screamed out in pain as he landed flat on his chest, his entire left side searing in agony from the impact.
"Cutting it a tad close, child," a woman said, standing before him so that he was at her feet.
"Aunt Bella?" he gasped, recognizing his aunt's voice when he could not even see her, his eyesight not clearing and leaving him disoriented.
"Come, he is waiting for you and it's only moments before the clock chimes," she said urgently, picking Draco up off the floor and practically dragging him out of the room, his feet barely lifting from the floor as she pulled him along quickly.
"Aunt Bella, what's going on? Why does he want to meet me?" he asked, vision darkening and lightening rapidly enough to create a swelling headache.
"I do not know. He does not explain himself to us. He wants to meet you and you should be honored by this. You are sixteen, not many sixteen-year-olds can say that have had a private audience with Lord Voldemort at his personal request," she said, Draco flinching at the name.
"But I still don't understand, I thought he was angry with the whole family because of Father…and I'm just sixteen, what would he want with me?"
"I can't tell you what I don't know, but mind yourself, speak only when given permission, and do not look at him unless he grants you the honor," she hissed in his ear before pushing him into the room and closing the door behind him without another word, locking herself out.
Draco's vision was swimming in and out, and it had been the whole walk, but he got the impression he was in some sort of castle, but older and draftier than Hogwarts was. He stumbled into the room to the sound of a chiming clock. It chimed nine times and then a heavy silence filled the room, Draco's breathing seeming impossibly loud then.
"Littlest of the Malfoys," came a sharp and hissing voice from across the room. Draco fell to his knees because he could not stand any longer, but bowed his head to disguise it simply as him being respectful and groveling.
"My Lord," he breathed, eyes closed tight as he nearly leaned his forehead on the stone floor, bent completely in half so that his kneeling legs were pressing against his sore chest, knees at his throat.
"You know, you surprise me…in a good way," Voldemort said and Draco's eyes opened but he otherwise did not move. "I had honestly not expected you to live, but then…well, there is that stubborn Malfoy determination in you."
Draco just closed his eyes again.
"When I heard you were still alive from your Aunt Bellatrix I was shocked, then pleased. She has been keeping an eye on you while that mother of yours is away?"
"Yes, sir…my Lord," he said, his aunt having come by almost everyday to see him, never once having the same conversation he and Butler Paul seemed to have every other day. She seemed to agree too that it was best that his mother not know about what had happened.
"But she has not told you what is happening to you," he said.
"Sir?" Draco inquired, not sure what the Dark Lord meant by that. His aunt had been wonderfully supportive, while giving him Occlumency lesions. Something he was excelling at apparently. What would she not tell him?
"She is quite angry with your father," he said, saying something Draco already knew. "She is angry, you see, that you were hurt because he needed to be punished for his indiscretions, but dares not speak a word against me or my decisions."
"My Lord, I do not understand," Draco said, not looking up still. He had yet to ever lay eyes on the Dark Lord, and he could not lie to himself, he would like it to stay that way. He was far too sick. He would have liked to meet his Dark Lord under different circumstances. Not now, not like this.
"Your father's poor performance at the Ministry two months ago, being bested by a bunch of school children, captured by Ministry Wizards, and thrown into Azkaban while taking so many of my loyal followers with him because of his poor leadership skills, truly disappointed me. I was outraged, I was sickened," he said and Draco listened, hanging on to every word he said, knowing the Dark Lord never spoke of things that were not significant.
"He needed to be punished, but he is locked up, ironically safe from harm at the moment in that prison. I must admit, my decision was rash and harsh, but you must understand, boy, my hurt," he said, his voice hinting at some sort of emotion that was close to distress if it weren't so much more mocking. "He shamed me, and the rest of us. He needed to be taught a lesson," he said. "Look at me, Draco," he said after a moment, speaking so calmly.
Draco took a deep breath and raised his head while his eyes remained closed. Finally opening them he saw the Dark Lord before him. Voldemort was even more terrifying than he had imagined. Harry Potter had faced this creature…several times…and lived? Draco was glad he had agreed to Occlumency lessons. What would the Dark Lord have done if he had just seen those thoughts of his?
Voldemort's skin looked moist and soft, all the veins showing through like blue spider webs. His eyes were shinning and red, his nose gone leaving two snake-like slits in its place. His mouth was lipless, like a gash across his face. Bald, tall, and slender, he not only looked intimidating, but oozed a feeling of dread. Almost like a Dementor did.
Draco shivered.
"I'm sorry, boy, that you had to be so viciously harmed to teach your father a lesson, but it had to be done," he said, looking down at Draco with what should have been sympathy and sounded like it, but was so false it was almost insulting. "When I sent Greyback to your house, I told him he could have any Malfoy he desired. He wanted so much to run into your mother. Oh how he has fancied her for years. But she had left earlier that afternoon, leaving only you," he said wistfully. "I thought he would simply rape your mother, or kill you. I had no idea he would infect anyone," he said and Draco stared up at him, his pale eyes wide as he panted, unable to catch a proper breath.
Infected?
Greyback?
No!
"My Lord," Draco managed after a moment, hiding his inner horror from the Dark Lord.
"What better punishment though, really, is there for poor old Lucius? His precious heir, his only son, his pureblooded spoiled prince, a child he had once fought so hard to keep…now a werewolf. It is almost too delectably suited for words," he bubbled and Draco felt dizzy. If he weren't already practically lying on the floor he would have tipped over.
Werewolf?
He felt like he was going to be sick.
"Of course, you have your uses still, so I am not angry with Greyback for having let you live," he said, holding out his hand to indicate something to his right. Draco looked over and saw Greyback leaning against the wall, looking ragged and dirty, arms crossed over his chest. Draco's heart stopped and he wondered for a moment if it was going to start again. Greyback made a kissing motion at Draco before smirking to show sharp canine teeth and Draco's heart was suddenly hammering in his chest.
"You are scared of him," Voldemort commented, smiling. "I can taste your fear, and so can he," he said, Draco looking back at the Dark Lord, shaking. "You will be feeling substantially better after this first moon. Still sick of course, but not quite in this," he paused as though thinking of a word he wanted, "dying sort of way. Wolfsbane would have helped you," he said with a mean smile, commenting on Draco's deathly appearance. "You have only three nights until the full moon, boy, I suggest you make arrangements," he said, turning in a sweeping motion to sit on a stone throne that stood in the center back of the large empty room, iron chandeliers hanging from the dark ceiling to burn dim candles and iron wall brackets with more candles being all that decorated the vastly empty room. There were chains that jiggled and moved in the corner, like something inviable was tethered there. The throne itself resembled some sort of great serpent, but Draco could not make it out in the dim light, or was it his vision that was so dim?
Draco was panting then, unable to get enough air.
Greyback…werewolf…infected…make arrangements…punishment, these things kept cycling through his mind over and over, none sinking in yet. It was a dog, it was a dog…that was all his brain kept saying. Butler Paul said it had been a dog…
"You alive, however, has its uses. I have need of you, and I believe you were saying to your aunt just how much you desired the chance to prove yourself loyal?" the Dark Lord continued, smiling wickedly down at Draco as Draco tried to make sense of everything he had just been told.
He wasn't even listening to the Dark Lord anymore. The purpose behind why he had even called before him -something about a task and proving himself- driven completely from his mind.
What was he going to do?
He was sick…he was a werewolf…
Oh God…
What would he tell his mother?
It didn't take the Dark Lord long to tell Draco what he wanted, and Draco was unable to fully comprehend all that he was told. The Dark Lord gave him his directions in writing, so there wouldn't be any confusion, the acid green paper blank to anyone who should try and read it but Draco.
Bellatrix helped Draco from the room, Draco incapable of standing on his own and that was not for a lack of trying on his part. Greyback seemed infinitely amused by the sight and Voldemort looked bored and a little annoyed with the weakness that Draco was displaying.
Draco was walked out of the chamber, practically carried by his aunt, but her allowing him to maintain the illusion that he was walking while in the presence of the Dark Lord. Once the door was closed behind them he sagged and Bellatrix let him sit on the floor.
"What did he say?" she asked, sounding excited, pleased, greedy, blood on her hands from helping Draco.
"I cannot say," Draco whispered, little breath in his lungs.
"What do you mean you can't say?" she demanded.
"He said I could not tell anyone," he said while managing to pull himself standing, using some chains that hung from the stone wall.
"Draco," she scolded, putting her hands on her hips, having expected her only nephew to turn to her, to trust her.
Draco stood, weakly, and attempted a step. He did not fall. He was pleased. He started walking towards the long hallway he had been dragged down before, intent on finding his way back to the fireplace he had come in through. He wanted to go home.
"Draco, speak to me," Bellatrix demanded. Draco just shook his head. She grabbed his arm and looked intently at him and he refused to look at her, knowing she wanted to look into his mind. He could keep her out, so long as she did not look him in the eyes.
Bellatrix Disapparated from that spot, taking Draco home. They appeared on the Apparition point of Draco's home and Draco pulled away. Butler Paul was standing across the room, by the fireplace still. He looked over and dropped his folded arms upon seeing Draco and Bellatrix.
"Draco," he called, Draco stepping down off the slightly raised platform, stumbling slightly.
"Draco, what were you told?" Bellatrix asked again.
"Draco, what's going on? What did he want?" Butler Paul asked, less forcefully than Draco's aunt.
Draco turned to them, tears running down his cheeks.
"He said that…he said that he sent Greyback here…he said that I'm sick as punishment for my father failing him," he cried, hiccupping slightly, not being told he could not speak of that part at least. He hadn't been able to properly break down while in front of the Dark Lord, and his mind had been foggy, reeling, and numb up until just then. Now his mind was spinning and the helplessness, no, hopelessness that he felt was overwhelming.
"Draco, I'm sorry," Butler Paul said softly, wanting to hug the boy but knowing Draco would hurt as a result. He looked the boy over and his heart nearly stopped. There was blood splatter on the floor in a trail where Draco had already stepped. "Draco," he whispered, looking down at the blood.
"You need my help, Draco," Bellatrix pressed, not taking in Draco's appearance like Butler Paul had, even with Draco's blood on her hands and arm. "I can help you…whatever it is the Dark Lord has asked of you, I can help," she assured.
"I have to do this alone," Draco said, turning away. He was sick, he was scared, but he was still determined to do exactly what he had confessed to his aunt, his desire to prove to the Dark Lord that he was a faithful, loyal, powerful Death Eater. It had been a dream of his growing up to meet the Dark Lord. Like most kids that dreamed of meeting past Presidents, or Musicians -all long dead- Draco never thought his dream would come true and he had simply idolized the Dark Lord . Now that Voldemort was back from the dead, now that he had met him, he was going to prove to him that he was superior, and it would be the Dark Lord and him, just like he had always thought it should be.
"Draco, come with me, we need to get you to St. Mungo's," Butler Paul urged and Draco turned and shouted at the same time Bellatrix did.
"No!" they both said.
"But, you're sick, you're dying,"
"I have to go, I…I have a lot to think through, and I don't have a lot of time…and I…" Draco muttered, rambling on as he turned away.
"You can't expect him to stay here, he needs proper Healers," Butler Paul yelled at Bellatrix.
"There is no way we can take him to that Ministry run hospital. You want the whole WORLD finding out about this?"
"I can't help but feel you are more concerned with appearances that your nephew's health, or his life," Butler Paul accused, pointing at the woman.
"He doesn't want his mother knowing and I agree that Narcissa finding out about this will be a disaster. We can help him here while hiding this. Really, what needs to be done is for him to tell me what the Dark Lord wanted so that I can help him!"
"You can't be serious! You care more about pleasing that damn Dark Lord than you do about seeing Draco healthy!"
Draco was walking away, shakily when Bellatrix grabbed his right wrist.
"Draco, we are both worried about you, Paul and I, and we can help you, but we can't unless you let us," she said darkly.
"Leave me alone!" Draco shouted, pulling his arm away. He was feeling a little betrayed that his aunt had known what was going on with him but hadn't said anything. He wouldn't have listened or believed her, but why hadn't she tried to help him? Butler Paul had and Draco felt guilty for fighting the man on it so greatly (his pride being what kept him from accepting his help now) but his aunt had just let him get sicker and sicker, while hating his father…Draco was hurt.
"Draco," Bellatrix attempted.
"No," he tried to shout again but could only manage a firm tone. He turned away and swooned a little.
"Draco," Butler Paul managed to gasp just as Draco collapsed onto the floor.
Draco woke up in an instant, but it wasn't an instant, he knew this because he was wrapped up in tight, clean bandages and lying in bed. He could hear angry voices out in the hall.
"He could have died," Butler Paul hissed.
"It is not MY fault he took too much Blood-Replenishing Potion and nearly bled himself to death as a result," Bellatrix snapped back at him. They were standing outside the room; Draco believed to still be asleep apparently.
"He needs to go see some Healers. We have two days now until the full moon and his mother will be back in a week-"
"She cannot be told of this! Draco doesn't want it and I know it to be unwise…It would break Narcissa's heart," she said. Draco, back in the room, felt a tear slide down his cheek.
Being a werewolf would break his mother's heart.
He would break his mother's heart if he told her…told her what he was…he was a werewolf…a werewolf. He couldn't bear to do that; to hurt her… so he couldn't tell her, he wouldn't tell her.
Oh God, what was he going to do now?
Draco rolled over and groaned. He felt trapped and then realized that wasn't part of the dream, he really was, physically, trapped. Looking down he found each arm hugged by one of his children, their heads on his chest, sleeping soundly. Draco looked at each of them then let his head fall back into his pillow.
Getting up was going to be difficult if he didn't wake them.
"Hey, ankle-biters, Daddy needs to get up," he said softly, wigging his shoulders to rouse them slightly. "Come on," he urged, Michelangelo falling away first but Clarissa still clinging tight. Michelangelo just rolled over while wrapping himself up in his blanket so he could sleep on in a cocoon, but Clarissa whined and moaned as Draco tried to get her off his arm.
"Come on, sweet pea," he encouraged, gently pulling at her little hands so he could sit up the rest of the way. Clarissa started whining with her eyes still closed, cheeks starting to flush pink in the telltale signs that she was about to start crying.
"Daddy is just going to work," he assured, kissing her forehead but unable to stop her onset of tears. She was a daddy's girl to say the least, and not a morning person on top of that. She and Michelangelo were both terribly possessive and clingy towards him since he had gotten out of prison and they were able to hug and hold and touch each other for the first time, (not through cold bars) but Michelangelo was possessive more and Clarissa was clingy more. She didn't want to let go of him sometimes.
Draco sighed, knowing she wasn't going to stop crying once she started. He stood and scooped his daughter up in his arms with a groan and carried her out of the room with her clinging to his shoulder and side. She was eleven years old, and though still physically small, she was much too old to be carried around like a baby while crying. But he gave in to her, always. He couldn't deny it, he sometimes wanted to hug his babies and never let them go either.
He couldn't let her cry, so he carried her out of his room while she tucked her face into his neck and sobbed.
There was a reason why he left in the mornings without waking the children.
Draco set her down at the kitchen table where she sobbed a little, hiccupping mostly, and he comforted her for a moment while offering her a glass of water, assuring her over and over that he was not leaving her and only going to work, and that he loved her, and pleaded with her to stop crying. He got her to calm down considerably before walking into the living room, down the hall, to the bathroom where he washed up.
He could hear her pathetic sobs carry through the door in the quiet house and sighed.
All she had to do was cry and she could get him to do anything she wanted. Michelangelo was just as manipulative but cried a whole lot less. Unfortunately, he couldn't stay home from work, even if he wanted to. The full moon was the following night, and he would miss work then. They couldn't afford him to not go in three days in a single week. Missing the two, the day of and the day after the full moon, would be bad enough.
Freshened up, Draco walked out into the living room and saw through the doorway that Clarissa had slumped over at the little kitchen table and had fallen back asleep, eyes still puffy pink and nose red. He picked her back up and with a smile and laid her down on the couch, throwing the blanket she had dragged from the bedroom with them over her and tucked her in warmly. He kissed her cheek and went back to his bedroom to dress. Within ten minutes he was locking up the house behind him and heading to catch the bus. His mother, who lived just a few buildings over, would be by before the children even woke to make them breakfast and to watch them until he got home.
"Malfoy, you are later than usual," Coderdale said as Draco rushed into the room, limping with his cane.
"Had a slow morning and the bus was held up," he replied.
"That Rossiter chap was by already looking for you. He couldn't linger, however, from what I gathered, he left almost as soon as he got here."
"Reamann was here? Dear God, it's not even five-thirty in the morning now. What time did he come in?" Draco said, freezing to stare at Coderdale.
"About five, just as I was coming in," Coderdale said, having taken to coming in early. The man functioned off of four hours of sleep, honestly. He had no family and Draco had the suspicion that he was his only "friend." It was a lonely job, Draco the only one that worked down there on the early shift, Coderdale alone on the late…and Draco assumed Coderdale came in more for himself, so he would have someone to see and talk to each day, than he did for Draco. The man came in early, letting Draco do most of the work while he lingered mostly, and then worked the late shift after Draco went home. It was no wonder the man's paleness rivaled his own. The man lived underground.
"What did he need? Was it an emergency? He has my address," Draco said, taking his faded cloak off and laying it across the back of his chair to then lean heavily on his cane. Carrying Clarissa had done him in for the day. She was small, but he was a day away from the moon.
"Apparently there was another attack and he wanted you to come along. When he realized you weren't in yet he just left, rushing off to the scene I guess."
"There was another attack?" Draco repeated, shocked.
"He couldn't tell me anything, he had not been to the scene yet, but he had been called out of bed and everything. He looked stressed and was dressed haphazardly."
"But that, that doesn't fit," Draco said, looking at Coderdale to see into the old man's mind and see what he had seen that morning in regards to Reamann. "There was an attack yesterday. The pattern clearly indicates that we shouldn't expect another attack for at least six days," he said feeling frazzled, seeing into Coderdale's mind and understanding what he had meant when he had said Reamann had looked disheveled and tired like he had just rolled out of bed.
"I'm sorry that I can't tell you more, Draco," Coderdale said sadly, seeing how stressed Draco suddenly looked. "So that was how your hair got on the scene yesterday," he said and Draco looked at him, "you went there with Reamann?"
"Yeah, Sebastian is not going to like that."
"He would prefer that you were the one behind it."
"Yeah, so he can bust my balls." Draco sighed. "Well shit," he said, running his hand through his hair and then pulling a fist full of the ends down by his hips. "There goes any hope of having a halfway decent day," he said, collapsing into his chair.
----------------------
Reamann had been on the scene since five-thirty that morning and he wanted nothing more than to leave, but this case seemed to require so much more of him and his services.
The victim was carted away babbling incoherently, eyes rolling around in his head wildly, head bobbing around as he rocked back and forth, or attempted to with the straps holding him down.
Reamann supposed that the only thing that made up for there being two attacks in as many days was that the second victim had not died, though honestly, in the state the man was left in, it might have been merciful to have killed him. Was that why the one responsible had left him alive? To be cruel?
"Shit," Reamann said, rubbing his face. Their only pattern to work with was ruined. Now they honestly had no clue, not even when to expect to find the next victim. He was not even humoring the idea of preempting the next attack. They were definitely several steps behind the aggressor and quickly falling behind.
Reamann could not even dwell.
There were Muggles and wizards on the scene that needed someone in the middle to defuse the situation. This was the first scene with so many witches and wizards present, and they seemed bothered enough by the Muggles to want to confound all of them and send them away. Reamann was there to remind them that they could not do that. It sort of turned him into the "bad guy" in the situation, neither side too happy to have to deal with him, let alone listen to him.
The only upside to having so many witches and wizards on the scene was that he would likely not have to write a report, so many being there to not have to summarize it to the department, which made not being able to get a hold of Malfoy that morning okay…but he still wished he could have brought him again. He had a feeling however Draco would have turned him down, not wanting to risk connecting himself to another crime scene.
"Rossiter," a woman called over to him. Reamann hurried over to the witch.
"Yes?"
"Can you please do something about all these Muggles? They are asking impossible questions and I can't honestly deal with them much longer," she said, looking ready to pull handfuls of her own silky black hair out.
"I can't and you know that. I will have a word with the Constable, see if I can't get his people to back down a little, but I can't tell them to stop doing their jobs anymore than I can you," he sighed.
"Just keep the damn Muggles away from me and there won't be any need to call in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad out here,"
"It would be an accident, you jinxing the little Muggles?" he said, almost able to smile.
"Of course it would," she said with an innocent yet fierce bat of her eyelashes.
Reamann shook his head and sighed. It had been a long morning and it looked like it would be a long afternoon.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
Page 488 of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, a man who was bitten by a werewolf that was sharing a St. Mungo's room with Author Weasley, was described as " looking green and sickly," and that there were still "two weeks till full moon." It is my assumption then that in the JKR world you are sick from the time you are bitten until your first shift. I took some liberties then, by reading between the lines. I took a stance that the wounds caused by a werewolf cannot be healed because Author was in that room because his wounds from Nagini could not be healed by magic and thusly why they had to use Muggle stitches to try and hold the wound close while supplying him with Blood-Replenishing Potion as he continuously blead. The Woman that shared the room with him was bitten by "something" but wouldn't tell the Healers what, and thus why they were struggling to heal her, and then there was the werewolf who had "no cure".
I simply assumed they all shared the room because they all had un-healable injuries. Like everyone in a Burn Ward has some kind of burn.
I believe that the man in the hospital was a little healthier than Draco (though clearly depressed) after only two weeks, where as Draco was a little more than three weeks from his attack, because I assumed that the hospital would be supplying him with Wolfsbane as part of his "treatment," something Draco stubbornly refused to try while denying he was sick or that it was a werewolf that had attacked him. Draco is very sick in the flashback because he was refusing treatment, and rest, and he was bleeding freely a LOT, and thus his body was just broke-down and exhausted. I believe that was all canon, but I did rely on outside werewolf lore too.
-->