Fallen Angel
Chapter 13
Draco sat outside Clarissa's bedroom, on the floor with his knees pulled up, hands up in his hair and gripping the roots as tight as he could despite the pain with his bum hand that had returned with the metabolism of Harry's donated potion. Clarissa could be heard crying from within and Draco was on the outside, unable to comfort her, unsure of what he could have done to comfort her even if he were granted admittance. He was at a loss here; he didn't know what to do. This was terrible, just terrible. Why was this happening? This wasn't fair. Why was life so cruel?
"Is she in there?" Ginny asked upon coming back upstairs. She had left to go down to the kitchen while Draco had decided to check on the children. Now he needed her because she was the only one he could turn to, his mother was curiously not home.
"Yeah, she is…" Draco said, unmoving in his hair-ripping position.
"Don't worry, Draco, this isn't the end of the world," Ginny attempted to comfort but Draco wouldn't have it. He got up very quickly and left, brushing by Ginny to go down the stairs and escape from view, escape from the situation. She now understood why Clarissa was so upset given how badly Draco was handling this, though she couldn't really blame him. He was a guy, and he was her father. She supposed that excused him in this matter.
"Claire? Sweetie?" she asked as she knocked on the door, not about to barge in. "Hey there Claire-bear, can I come in?" she asked, just hearing Clarissa's soft sobs and taking that as the girls need for her. She flicked her wand, opened the door, and entered quietly. She closed and locked the door behind her, as though that would comfort Clarissa, but she seemed rather inconsolable at the moment.
Clarissa was standing in the corner beyond her bed, feet shoulder width apart, just crying into her hands. Ginny frowned her brow at her and pressed her lips together. She didn't like how upset Clarissa was over this, but then again, she doubted her Nana had ever given her any warning, and what did Draco know of such things?
"Hey there," Ginny said as she approached, Clarissa turning away a little but it being a weak attempt at best of keeping Ginny distant. "Come here, it's alright. You're alright," she calmed, hugging the little girl and stroking her hair. She supposed she couldn't think of Clarissa as a little girl anymore.
"Daddy is so upset with me," she sobbed.
"Of course not, why would you even think that?"
"He doesn't want me to be a woman," Clarissa hiccupped, putting her arms around Ginny.
"You can't control your body Claire, and your father is not angry, or upset, just unsure of what to do. He's a guy, it's what their best at," Ginny teased, Clarissa seemingly taking little comfort from that. "Look at me," Ginny said, kneeling down before Clarissa so they were more level, Ginny looking up at her some as she held Clarissa's shoulders. "I came from a house of brothers. I know what it's like for them to not understand why I sometimes couldn't swim, or ride a broom, or what have you. My mum helped me, just like I am here to help you."
"Why did this have to happen?" Clarissa moped, no longer crying but unable to look Ginny in the eyes, tear tracks stained down her freckled cheeks.
"It's part of growing up," she said, Clarissa not looking elated with that. "It happens to everyone, even if they don't want to. We all grow up, but not in spirit, if we don't wish. I get the impression, however, that you are already quite grown up, you just don't show it to very many people," she said and Clarissa managed a meek glance up at Ginny.
"I don't want this."
"What girl does? But you are lucky it happened now, rather when you got to Hogwarts. That's when it happened for me, and I had to rely on my dorm-mates to help me, and that was so much harder because we barely knew each other at that point."
"I can't imagine this being easy regardless."
"It isn't a terrible thing, not a big deal. Come on. We can go to the bathroom, you can clean up," she offered and Clarissa just turned away, not looking like she wanted to leave her room, face the world, see her father. Ginny knew this. "He isn't upset."
"He won't look at me the same anymore," she moped.
"He has a young woman for a daughter now, but nothing has changed, nothing is wrong." Clarissa looked reluctant. "Come on," Ginny said, standing with a groan and much support from her knees. "You need to get cleaned up one way or another."
Clarissa finally did leave her room, to be escorted to the bathroom to clean up. While she managed that on her own, there was an issue of needing to clean her room, but the issue being that of blood. Ginny knew it safest to have Draco handle any of that, but then, she didn't think Draco could handle any of this. She decided to beeline to the stairs and find Draco. She would speak to him first.
"You got her more upset than waking up with bloody sheets did," Ginny practically scolded as Draco sat hunched shouldered at the kitchen table, strong black coffee before him but untouched.
"I don't know what you would have me do, Batterie in joy?" he said, making a ballet jump reference to be even more absurd.
"No, but being a parent here would be nice."
"I don't know how to handle this, I have never had to deal with anything like this before, it's not like I know what she is going through."
"All those books you read and none of them explained to you the basic metaphysics of a woman's body?"
"First of all, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about my daughter's body, womanly or child-like alike," Draco fumed. "And secondly, of course I know what is happening, but no basic diagrams or medical explanations give me any insight as to how to deal with it when it happens to my own baby girl."
"That is your problem right there, she isn't your baby girl, Draco."
Draco just looked down.
"I know you want her to be, but she isn't. She hasn't been for years and years," she said more softly, moving closer to sit across from Draco.
"I didn't have her years and years ago. I have only had her for three years now, and she was already a young-lady the first time I got to hold her, hug her," he moped, Ginny's heart crushing because she already knew Draco had been denied physical contact with his children for almost nine years. Clarissa had been nine years old when he got to hug her for the very first time, and she didn't have to wonder why Draco was so clingy when it came to `his babies' but still, it wasn't good for the children or him to act as though they were exactly how he had left them, as infants. Michelangelo's acting out, and Clarissa's total unawares of these things and poor response to them evidence to this.
"Draco," Ginny sighed, grabbing his hands but knowing she needed to get back to Clarissa real soon. "Everything will be alright. I'll handle this, you take care of Michael today, and don't act as though something has changed about Claire. She is most upset about that. She wants to be your little girl, you know she plays up to that. Let her know she is still, and always will be, your little girl."
Draco nodded slowly, looking down before looking up at Ginny.
"Thank you for being here. If who I had to turn to with this had been my mother, you could only imagine how much worse this would have been. Clarissa would have been given the lecture of womanhood, which was something I had been putting off for a while now. She would have sat down with Clarissa months ago on this topic, but I kept delaying it because my mother is rather…"
"Inexpressive?"
"Brutal," Draco corrected with a sigh.
"I will deal with Clarissa, not that there is much to be dealt with," Ginny pressed, "But I will cheer her up. You take Michael to his hearing today, and I will spend the day with Clarissa, have a woman's day out," she said, rubbing Draco's good arm as they sat across from each other. Draco nodded, and Ginny stood, knowing Draco would deal with this, he was good at that. Or he would go into denial. He was really good at that.
"Ginny," he called after her just as she was about to head back upstairs. She paused and looked back.
"I love you," he said, feeling like he was utterly worthless in this situation and leaving Ginny to have to step up to the broom again, which didn't seem fair.
"I love you, babe. Take care of your son," she said, giving Draco a sense of purpose.
Ginny came back upstairs to find Clarissa not in the bathroom she shared with her brother, but back in her bedroom. She had her sheets off her bed and in a pile on the floor, and she was still in her frilly pink nightgown. She looked so sorrowful standing there, gazing at her frilling pink sheets and Ginny had to just smile as she approached, opening her arms to offer a hug.
"Took care of that for me did you? Well, I suppose there is only one thing left to do," she said, voice upbeat and invigorating.
"What?"
"Get dressed up to go out."
"I don't really want to go out," Clarissa moped.
"Oh sure you do. You have wanted forever to get your ears pierced, right?" Ginny prompted and Clarissa just looked at her is surprise.
"Daddy told me it was not allowed. If God wanted holes in my ears he would have put them there," she said.
"This coming from a man with a tattoo," Ginny snickered but in a good-natured tone.
"But I'm not allowed to get my ear pierced anywhere, because my blood…" she trailed off, almost blushing at that as she looked down. Ginny sighed.
"I know a place where we can go, no worries there. Besides, we need to take you out to get you all the things women need."
Clarissa looked questioningly.
"You will see once we are out. You used what I gave you, right?" she asked and Clarissa nodded.
"Good, then you can get dressed while I do so myself, and we will leave."
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Draco went to check on his other child, who might have slept through all of that morning's happenings. He somehow doubted that given how lightly Michelangelo slept, and how stressed he was, but Draco was hoping. He knocked on the door but entered immediately to find Michelangelo standing there, only in a pair of dark denims, no shirt. It was obvious he was in the middle of getting dressed, and he was struggling with what he should wear.
"Is Claire alright?" he asked as soon as Draco had closed the door.
"She's fine."
"Did this blindside her that much?"
"I think she is more upset with how I would handle it," Draco sighed.
"And how are you handling it?"
"As best as I can, and why are we even talking about it? Get dressed." Draco snapped, though not in a harsh way, just in an annoyed and a little disturbed way.
Michelangelo managed a soft laugh as he turned, looking at his spent clothing laid out before him on his bed.
"You're nervous," Draco said, coming up alongside his son.
"How could you tell?" Michelangelo sighed, tossing another shirt aside to join the heap he was creating on his mattress.
"Well, I am a mind reader," Draco said, picking up a shirt and tossing it aside as though that were enough to clear a space for him on the bed as he sat down. He looked up at his shirtless son and managed a small smile, a supportive expression in place.
"I don't know what to wear."
"I can see that," Draco said, looking over his shoulder to the laundry littered mattress.
"Is this formal? Would they think I'm trying too hard to show my remorse by wearing a shirt and tie and come across looking fake? Would a t-shirt and jeans give the impression that I do not care or resent their authority?" he fussed, looking down at himself and knowing his current state was totally unacceptable and still wondering if there was anything that could be done about his hair.
"Don't worry so much," Draco chuckled, picking up a black t-shirt as he stood and offering it to his son, who put it on without question.
"I can't help it."
"It's an odd thing to claim as a negative trait, but you think too much. Don't try and calculate your every move, you will only come across as rehearsed," he coached and Michelangelo appreciated it. He was so indescribably happy that his father was being so understanding, so supportive, after everything that had happened. Michelangelo still had burns, slowly healing, on his left arm, a constant and forever reminder of his stupidity.
Draco knew what his son was thinking, and sat back down.
"You know what you did was stupid, Michael, and that is the most any of us could hope for and thus why I am not still riding your arse. The courts will see that. You are young, you have no record prior to this, and you are really good at looking meek, so play that up, be gracious and polite because I know you have that in you somewhere, and own up to what you did like a man," Draco said, both serious and mocking at the same time.
"What's the worst that can happen?" Michelangelo asked and Draco's face sobered up some as he looked at his hopeful son.
"I'm not sure, Michael," he admitted, these being Muggle courts and Muggle laws after all, and he not exactly well versed in their ways.
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"Michelangelo Lucius Malfoy," the judge announced, Michelangelo standing up at being addressed. The hearing was already drawing to a close. He had shown up at the courthouse with his father, had been patted down and run through security measures, was signed in by his father, and left to wait, and wait. Finally taken to a courtroom, he was left to sit by himself, almost as though on display for all in the room to see, as his crimes were read off. It had been a terrible thing to sit through with his father beyond the barrier, watching on and listening in. The judge with his silly white wig and ominous black chamber robes loomed over him, looking so disapproving and coarse.
Run through all the paces, it was time to be told what the outcome of his hearing would be. So far he had suffered through so much without much of anything to say to refute their claims and only brief opportunities to even try. He had declined to say anything so far.
"You are here on some serious charges, but as I see from the papers the police house has provided that you did comply with their wishes and turned in the names of the other boys you were with," he said and Michelangelo fought to not turn and look at his father, knowing he had done no such thing, but his father certainly had, on his behalf. "Troublemakers the lot of them, they have been in the court before and you certainly fell into bad company with them. I do not doubt that they were the instigators in this, but that does not excuse your actions either," he said, so firm, so cantankerous. It was obvious this man dealt with a lot of "troubled youth" on a daily basis and had long ago become desensitized and cold.
"In accordance to the agreed upon terms, I am releasing you, into your father's care," he said and Michelangelo dared to look excited for a moment before the judge cracked down. "Under the condition that you undergo psychiatric evaluation and see a counselor, as well as paying a percentage of the damages and time serving the community," the judge said, Michelangelo's expression falling but not in a way that made it seem like he felt he was being treated unfairly. He nodded as he looked down and the gavel slammed on the knocker once to finalize the decision, causing both Michelangelo and Draco to flinch.
"The boy is to be released to his father, this court is adjourned," the Judge announced as he stood, all in there standing out of respect with him. Some camera's were flashing and Michelangelo did his best to keep is chin down so he wouldn't glare, because he recognized the purple puffs of smoke. Wizarding Paparazzi, there in the Muggle court, to make a story out of this. Draco lifted his good arm to welcome his son to fit below it and be held to his side. Michelangelo was not very clingy, not in public anyways, but he needed a hug right now and wouldn't turn his father away, even if there were pictures being taken. Maybe what Clarissa said was true, it would be harder for them to spin a terrible story about him if all they had to work with were photographs of him hugging his daddy. Michelangelo really liked this way of saying "fuck you!" to the paps. So subtle, yet so effectual.
"How about some ice cream?" Draco offered, leaving the courtroom with his son turned under his good arm for safekeeping.
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"Ever have a manicure before?" Ginny asked as she sat there, getting her nails done, Clarissa sitting beside her, getting the same treatment but looking stunned as she stared down at the process. Her ears were freshly pierced and a little red, but the glittering rhinestones drawing your attention to them rather demandingly. Clarissa looked over at Ginny and silently shook her head and Ginny laughed. She knew Clarissa, like any werewolf, was barred from most establishments such as salons, because the trimming of nails and hair was considered a "health-hazard" even though there was no way of infecting or even tainting anyone with their human nails or hair. Still, people were scared, and cautious, and thus prejudiced.
Ginny took Clarissa to a Muggle salon and allowed the girl to enjoy their pampering. So long as no one trimmed a cuticle too short so as to cause bleeding, there wasn't any risk. As it was, Ginny knew that Clarissa, while menstruating, was supposed to be on strict quarantine. She thought that cruel, unjust, and ignorant, but she could see how there would be concerns with a werewolf continuously bleeding for a week. She knew this was a major hurtle Draco had to get over for Clarissa to attend Hogwarts. He was still in negotiations with McGonagall, negotiations that had so far lasted far longer than they had with Michelangelo, a boy, and Ginny was about ready to go to the woman herself and give her a piece of her mind. There was no wonder why Clarissa was so upset, when everyone around her made it seem like she was now a disease spreading menace.
"What color would you like, miss?" the woman caring for Clarissa's nails finally asked, Clarissa's nails long now, but rounded off, womanly looking and healthy but still tasteful, not cheep or gaudy.
Clarissa looked over at Ginny, who was getting hers done in a simple nude with a French tip, and pressed her lips together.
"Get whatever it is you really want," Ginny said, knowing Clarissa was obviously torn between what she wanted, and what she saw Ginny getting, Ginny being a woman and all, Clarissa feeling pressured to be womanly too.
"Pink," Clarissa said sheepishly and the woman smiled.
"We have a lot of pinks. Why don't you hop over there, careful with your nails, and pick what shade you like the best," the woman said so understandably as Clarissa looked bright-eyed at her. She practically skipped over to the wall of polishes and looked side to side, scanning for the perfect shade. She knew the color, it was a princess pink, very particular, and she would recognize it the moment she saw it.
"Your daughter is precious," Ginny's nail practitioner praised. Ginny, having looked over her shoulder to watch Clarissa, now looked back at the woman. She didn't refute that, didn't tell the woman that Clarissa wasn't her biological daughter. Clarissa was her daughter, as far as the two of them were concerned, and that was good enough for any Muggle stranger. Besides, with the freckles, it wasn't hard to draw some similarity between the two of them.
"She is, like her daddy," she agreed, looking back over at Clarissa who had found her shade and stood up on her tippy-toes to reach it. She was dressed down considerably, in a pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt. She still had her own style, however, with a long pink ribbon tied into a large bow acting as a headband to keep her hair back, and pink converse sneakers with lace shoelaces that were absurdly wide and made big bows.
"Excellent choice," the woman working with Clarissa praised upon receiving the small bottle. "Not much left, this is a popular one."
"Is there enough?" Clarissa fretted.
"Just about. Looks like you are the last lucky woman to get this color, meaning you can take the bottle with you, see if you can't get one or two touch-ups out of it," she said and Clarissa looked elated.
"That is lovely, thank you," Ginny said, knowing the women were absolutely smitten with Clarissa, as was anyone who met the girl. Even when not in the highest of spirits when entering the establishment, the women had flocked to her, drawn to the fair girl with the long pale locks of curling hair, those big silver-blue eyes, that thin but long body. She looked like a little angel fallen from heaven and the women there who dealt with hair and appearances all day long, appreciated Clarissa.
A wash and a style was what Clarissa got, a small trim to remove damaged ends but no one wanting to touch the length, all agreeing her hair was far too beautiful to cut. Clarissa really seemed to appreciate the fawning, and now with her curls more tamed and uniformed than ever before in her life as they shone and bounced, she couldn't help but smile, even though she was feeling tired, and she was experiencing cramps now and then for the first time in her life.
"Thank you, Ginny," she said once they were walking down the street, hand in hand, pretty nails between them.
"You're welcome. You know I have wanted to do this for a while. Michael's hearing today offering the best opportunity," she said, kind'a lying, in all honesty rather exhausted herself and would have enjoyed the day in, but trying to make it seem like this wasn't all because of Clarissa's rough morning.
"Do you think everything is going well with Michael?"
"Your father is there with him, so I can't see how anything terrible could happen," she comforted, giving her hand a squeeze. "Now, I promised some shopping, right?"
"You said for womanly things," Clarissa said, making a face.
"Well, yes, but those womanly things not all being dreadful. A woman needs all sorts of things. From what I understand, your nana never took you out for, say, bras?" she asked and Clarissa blushed while looking around, as though someone was lurking nearby to shout out to all who had missed it that Clarissa was going to go bra shopping. "Oh, don't blush like that, all little girls look forward to getting their bras."
"I have some," Clarissa mumbled, Ginny looking down. Clarissa pulled the collar of her shirt aside some to reveal a thick strap in the dip of her narrow shoulder. Ginny could recognize it as a sort of cottony sports bra, not exactly what she had in mind but probably all Clarissa had been able to get for a long time with her family being so poor for so long.
"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of something pink, with a bow on it," Ginny said, knowing the word "bow" would perk Clarissa right up. It did.
One stop in a department store and Ginny was able to sit again while Clarissa used the fitting rooms. Ginny couldn't help but think of Draco and Michelangelo when not actively interacting with Clarissa, and she hoped everything went alright. She also mentally grumbled at Narcissa, for not having prepared her granddaughter better for these things. She got the impression the woman didn't want little Clarissa to grow up any more than Draco did.
"I don't want to come out," Clarissa muttered from within, Ginny right outside.
"You have your shirt on over it, right? Lets see, nothing to be embarrassed about, there isn't even anyone out here," she said, looking around and finding the area deserted. It was a Saturday afternoon, but a nice summer day. Seemed there weren't many in the Misses section.
"I don't like this one."
"Well, come out and I can help you. Is it the fit? Or are the straps too long? I can help you adjust everything, or find a better one."
Clarissa came out with chin down and Ginny stopped talking.
Since when did Clarissa have boobs?
Had the bulky sports bras really concealed this fact that much?
"This one has the padding," Clarissa tried to explain but it was obvious that while the padding added shape, most of what Ginny was seeing was still her.
"We can look at the ones that are quite so…lifting. There are ones over there that are softer," Ginny said, not understanding why such a small size meant for young ladies would need an underwire, or be called a "push-up". Clarissa was wearing a 32A but being so tiny around certainly helped make it noticeable that she had been secretly developing right under their noses.
Clarissa retreated back into the fitting rooms with different styles, and seemed a little more comfortable as she came out in one of the non-supportive varieties. Still not wearing a sports bra made it obvious that she was really a little woman now, but it was a little more subdued this time, and Clarissa seemed to approve.
"Thank you, Ginny," she mumbled as she stood with her, at the check out, feeling a little guilty for costing her so much when this was all so unnecessary.
"You're welcome," Ginny said, paying the woman and taking the overly fancy shopping bags stuffed with tissue paper to conceal their purchases. "I think new underwear calls for some new dresses," she said, turning into the first boutique they past once out on the street and Clarissa stopping.
"What?"
"Come-on, I threw in that push-up bra when you weren't looking because it has removable straps. You need a princess dress now to go with it," she said and Clarissa looked horrorstruck and embarrassed all at once. "Don't look at me like that, god you are as bad as your father with all that blushing. What did that Nana of yours do to you all?" she laughed as she gabbed Clarissa by the arm to lead her in. She was going to have a word with Narcissa, all joking aside, later.
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Draco was climbing the front steps to the library achingly, the potion Harry had given him out of his system now some twenty-four hours after first taking it, and him feeling those broken ribs now, his right hip inflamed again, his left arm aching. Michelangelo was following after him, hands tucked deep into his pockets, rather broody looking.
"Can't I hang out at Quality Quidditch Supplies or something?"
"No," Draco said quite simply as he reached the door.
"Why not?" Michelangelo whined.
"Because you're still in trouble," Draco whined back in mocking, pointing for his son to enter, which he did obediently, but still brooding. Draco followed after, about to start a shift and Michelangelo with him still.
"Just find a book and read," Draco said as he walked past his son to head towards the back where his robes housed and his timecard would be found. He returned now in purple to find Michelangelo sitting at one of the tables, flipping through a book while under a lamp.
"That's a good boy," Draco praised as he sat at his desk and noted the heaping pile of paperwork to be found. Paperwork, always paperwork, always stacked higher than he was tall. Was this his curse? His lot in life? It seemed so unfair. Draco placed his glasses on, pulled out a fresh quill, and grabbed the top paper, prepared to just dive in and have at it because the papers were not about to approve and sort themselves.
Malfoys loathed paperwork.
Michelangelo sat there, with his cheek propped up on his fist, flipping through the boring book for a while, but the silence was getting to him, his father scratching away at the parchment and the paper so irritating, the slow ticking of the overhanging clock a reminder of how slow time was passing. Michelangelo looked around from his seat, noticing no one in there and taking in the scenery. The large portrait of Dumbledore looked down at him with inquisitive blue eyes over his half-moon spectacles, like he recognized Michelangelo and Michelangelo had to look away, feeling those eyes boring into the back of him. He had seen Albus Dumbledore countless times in the Headmistress' office at Hogwarts, the sleepy painting occasionally chatting him up and Michelangelo adamantly ignoring him. He didn't want to have anything to do with the creepy old man his father had once tried to kill.
Oh-yes, Michelangelo knew about that.
He hadn't really been aware of his father's doings until he had gotten into Hogwarts, his Nana certainly never saying anything on the matter as to why he was in Azkaban, and his father didn't talk about the war…ever. Entering Hogwarts, not as a Malfoy, had made it possible for Michelangelo to hear others talk about his father without them keeping their voices down or opinions to themselves, not knowing that who they were gossiping to was the son of the man they were talking about. Michelangelo had heard so many terrible things, and had gone to the library there to read up on what he could, to see why it was his father was hated so, and what he had found had startled him.
Michelangelo looked over at his father as he worked.
He looked so unthreatening, so quiet and meek. He found it hard to picture his father as a servant of the Dark Lord, burning down homes and posting the Dark Mark above, torturing people, terrorizing Muggles, killing. The idea that his father had murdered before did make Michelangelo's insides squirm a little, so he looked away, so his father would not pick up on that. He had never talked to him about it, never included that aspect of his school year in any of his letters of visits, but he knew that his father knew, that he knew of his past, being a mind reader and all. He had asked if there was anything he wanted to know, something he wanted to talk about or have explained, and he had said no. He knew he could at any time ask his father, and he would answer him, but he really just didn't want to know.
Or did he?
Michelangelo looked around a little bit, then down at his boring text, then sighed.
Draco responded to that.
"Don't start fretting about now, we haven't been here for twenty minutes yet and there are still seven hours and forty-three minutes to go," he said quite blandly, not looking up from his work.
"How can you stand this tedium?"
"The sacrifices I make for my family," Draco said quite simply as he grabbed another paper and started reading it. Michelangelo sighed, beat his back against his chair a few times, and abruptly stood up. Draco's eyes were all that moved as he looked over at his son.
"Don't you go wondering off," he warned.
"I'm just going to look for a book," Michelangelo drawled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and strolling off to graze the books as he walked past, heading towards the stairs so as to investigate the other levels.
People came and went quietly, but nothing noteworthy happened for a long while.
"Hey Malfoy," Oliver said as he came in with a stack of books from the far back of the library.
"Afternoon," Draco responded quite blandly as he worked diligently at his papers, hoping to make a noticeable dent in his inbox before he took his lunch.
"Is there a shadow of you floating around here today or is it bring you child to work day and I was unaware?" he asked, Michelangelo on the floor of the second level, sitting right up against the railing so his legs were hanging off the balcony, his arms draped over the bars, looking bored out of his mind.
"More like bring you spoiled-rotten-punk to work day," Draco said, looking up and past Oliver and Oliver turning to follow his gaze. Michelangelo saluted him unenthusiastically and Oliver gave a small wave, only then realizing Michelangelo was there with them.
"If Mr. Crudelis sees him here you know he is going to pitch a fit," Oliver warned and Draco just removed his glasses as he leaned back, clearly stretching his back but his face revealing how much pain that caused him. His ribs were back to hurting, a lot. Breathing hurt. Breathing shouldn't hurt.
"My son is just here to read, like anyone else. Right son?" Draco said, barely raising his voice but Michelangelo knowing he was being spoken to.
"Yeah-yeah," he sighed, getting up with much grumbling to go back to looking at the books so as to not reek of loitering. This was such a waste of a perfectly good Saturday.
"Why did you bring him? I know you requested the later shift for his trial-"
"Hearing,"
"But did it go that bad?"
"It went fine. I have to pay for the damages and he needs to do community service and see a counselor, but it's fine. He is here now because my mother is not home, and with Nymphadora is at work, there is no one to watch him," Draco explained.
"I don't need a baby-sitter," Michelangelo called from somewhere within the library.
"Yes you do, or I wouldn't be paying a ridiculous amount of money in fines," Draco called back quite blandly, quieting Michelangelo up quite effectively.
"Ginny isn't home on her day off?"
"She is spending the day with my daughter," Draco said, not wanting to think about that mess, though knowing he owed his little-girl a big hug when he saw her next. What he owed Ginny was more than just a hug. A full body rubdown, starting with her feet, was likely in order. Sadly, with Draco's bum left hand, he doubted that would be a service he could offer. Maybe a snuggle? "I can't tell you where my mother is," Draco said as though to distract himself from the subject of his daughter or just changing the topic. "I get the feeling she is up to something, but I can't be sure. She knows Occlumency, so she can effectively keep me out if she desires, and she clearly does."
Michelangelo was wondering deeper into the library, to let his father talk with Wood in private, taking his father's orders quite civilly and finding a book to read. He had an idea of what he wanted to look for, Clarissa's mention bringing this fresh into his mind. He browsed the volumes, looking for the number on the binding that matched the serial he had jotted down on the back of his hand. The card catalogues were quite efficient. He indicated a name, or topic he wanted a text on, and it pulled up all sorts of instances where the desired is referenced or subject. He had picked out the most promising, having all day to search should this fail to meet his expectations, so he strolled slowly, well into the Qs at this point, looking frequently at his hand.
Seeing the call-number QN-638 Michelangelo stopped. He looked at the relatively lengthy text and debated on the best means of tackling its de-shelving. He was tall, but not that tall yet. He reached up, the book above his head and seeming heavier by the inch as he pulled it. Ducking, the book fell, missing him, however, to slam on the marble floor behind him with a resonating slap and thud. Michelangelo looked around real quick, and when no one called or appeared, he squatted down to fetch it. It was ridiculously heavy. He flopped down onto his bum to just pull the book onto his crossed knees and let it cradle there in his lap as he opened it and flipped to the index.
Back in the main hall, Draco eventually noted his son's absence, brushed it off for a while, but then grew concerned. It was a very real possibility that he had just found a book and was curled up somewhere within the library, reading it, but Draco would rather have liked Michelangelo to remain within his sight. He didn't think his son would get into trouble, but he certainly believed his son couldn't help himself when he was bored.
Draco had several patrons with him at the moment, therefore he couldn't leave, so he just looked up frequently, hoping that each movement that caught his eye would be his son reemerging.
"Heads up, Crabapple alert," Connor whispered to Draco in passing as he hurried by his desk, arms laden with books.
"Shit," Draco hissed, straightening his desk and looking across the floor to be sure that it was tidy. Looking up, however, Draco saw Michelangelo up by the painting of Dumbledore, turned away so he couldn't see his face but able to tell Michelangelo was bothered.
"McGucken, how many times do I have to ask for something before it actually gets done?" Mr. Crudelis called in his typical irate tones, marching into the main hall as though he was already certain there wasn't a person in there who would be bothered by his loud entry.
Michelangelo turned upon hearing the name, still trained to a certain extent to respond to it, it being his mother's name and the name he had used in the first half of his first year at Hogwarts.
"Sorry, sir," Connor replied, arms so full of books it was a wonder how Mr. Crudelis could accuse him of not working.
"Malfoy, have you owled out those notices yet?" he then barked, turning to Draco.
"Most of them, sir."
"I expected them to be done by now," he nearly bellowed as Michelangelo leaned over the railing of the balcony above to stare down at them.
"There were over five-hundred notices due, sir. Two hours spent on them would mean I did four notices a minute. I think that is rather impressive, if I may say so myself given the reading, checking, and writing involved with each," he defended coolly, Mr. Crudelis seemingly not impressed with Draco's fortitude. Maybe if Draco mentioned he was writing right handed, instead of left which was his dominant writing hand, he would be more appreciative.
"I don't need your egotistical back-sass, Malfoy. Wrap up those notices and get on organizing the catalogs and clean up this floor," he barked, thought the floor tidy as could be desired, him simply flustered and looking for something to complain about.
"And McGucken, get those put where they belong and get me those texts I asked for. How many times must I ask you?"
"At least once more, sir," Conner said in a hurry, hustling off with his arms looking ready to rip out of their sockets from the weight of the hefty stack of texts he was hauling.
Draco, able with hold in his cringe until his boss was gone, looked up at his son who was peering down at him from above, who had gone unnoticed by Mr. Crudelis. Draco looked up at him, able to read his son's face quite plainly if not his raging emotions quite easily, and knew his son had caught Conner's last name. Draco knew Michelangelo had already drawn some amusement out of the seemingly "coincidental" physical similarities he shared with the man, but he now sense something more from his son, something like betrayal.
Why was his son feeling like he had deceived him?
"Michael," Draco called up to him as Michelangelo simply turned and fled. He vanished under the Dumbledore painting to hide in some part deeper in the library and Draco wasn't about to let this go. There had to be something seriously wrong for his son to not even confront him on it. He was a very straightforward boy.
Draco abandoned his desk for the moment, grabbed his cane, and followed after his son. The stairs slowed him considerably now that his limp was back in full force, but Draco hobbled quickly, it was something he was practiced at, and he followed in the wake of emotions his son had left trailing behind, giving Draco the means of tracking him down. Like a bloodhound on a scent, Draco marked Michelangelo all the way to the back of the library, where he found him pacing by some shelves so dusty it was obvious the books there had never been taken out.
"Michael, what's wrong?" Draco asked, not prying completely but confused by the emotions he had picked up on his way there. There was so much confusion, hurt, and anger radiating form his son, he knew that couldn't all be from simply learning Conner's last name. McGucken was a distinctive name, but by no means unique. There was no reason to automatically assume Connor was related, or how, given that alone.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Michelangelo demanded snappishly and Draco was taken aback.
"Why didn't I tell you what?"
"You're not stupid, so don't act like it."
"No, I really do not follow. Remember our little agreement that I wouldn't force my Legilimency on you or your sister? That it was intrusive?" Draco snapped back, his son's tone with him unacceptable.
Michelangelo looked furious, but under that, not even deeply, was hurt. He looked away, knowing his father would be able to sense that much with direct eye contact, but it was too late. Just the act alone of looking down drew Draco's eyes to something far more telling. Draco followed his son's eyes down, and then to a book that lay open, Draco having initially missed it when coming up on his son. Michelangelo took a deep breath and Draco tilted his head to read the page, recognize the photograph. Draco knew his wife instantly despite the fact that he hadn't seen her in years. He closed his eyes and held his breath, piecing it all together then what was wrong, what had happened, what Michelangelo meant.
"Michael," he sighed, suddenly not angry with his son despite the tones used. He knew his boy was like him, stuck between lashing out in anger, and succumbing to sadness, and unsure which would make him seem weaker.
Michelangelo looked away, crossing his arms.
"Michael, I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Sorry? You never tell me who my mother is, you hide me away from the world for years and deny my existence, you tell me that I can't trust what outside people tell me, all while lying to me?" he demanded.
"I never lied to you," Draco disputed, though sadly.
"Why did you never tell me who she was?"
"I told you her name; I told you how I met her."
"A name and some circumstances? That's all you felt I deserved?"
"It was all I thought you could handle at first, when you were so young."
"So what, you felt it would be better that I find out who she was through other people, or in a fucking library while alone? You never told me how old she was, or why she was in Azkaban herself."
Draco just looked down.
"Why did you never tell me?"
Draco sighed and moved over to the bookcase. He turned to lean against it but then just slid down, down until he was sitting on the floor, the book open to reveal his wife staring up at him. Her picture was sassing him with her eyes, but not like she knew him. She just started towards the dark ceiling with those hooded mischievous eyes. Michelangelo looked taken aback by his father's silent response.
"I didn't want you to find out like this, honestly, I didn't want you to find out about it at all," he admitted.
"Why?"
"It is hard to talk about, and I couldn't see how you knowing would make anything better," he explained, gesturing at his son who was so distraught.
"I had the right to know."
"I know. I realized you were getting old enough to be explained everything, and to learn who she was, but it didn't change how hard it is to talk about. I just couldn't do it."
"So, you are saying all that is true then?" Michelangelo asked, indicating the book and what it contained.
Draco shook his head.
"No?"
"I don't know, Michael, I just don't…know. Some days I feel like I knew her in a way no one else knew her, that she showed me something she hadn't with anyone else before. Other days…insecure days…I feel like she played me on, like she did so many others. Sometimes I feel like she would have stuck around if she had lived, sometimes I think she left us long before her death," Draco explained in a detached voice as he looked at something beyond his son's knees.
Michelangelo didn't know what to say to that. Given what he had read about his mother he could see how she was quite possibly a bad person, but he had always believed that despite everything, that she had at least loved them, that she had cared. It seemed his own father was not even sure of that, and that was not comforting. If her love hadn't been that obvious, he seriously doubted her sincerity.
Draco looked up at his son, knowing what he was thinking.
"Don't believe, because of what you read, that she never loved you, Michael. Regardless of her feelings or lack thereof for me, you were…are her son, and she cared about you, and your sister."
"But, the things she did to werewolves, how can you say she cared-?"
"Because you were her children. It's amazing the things you will do or say to protect them."
"But you think she left us?"
"Maybe," Draco said, shuffling a little uncomfortably, part of him still refusing to believe that, part of him angry that he was still protecting her. He spun his ring around his finger.
Michelangelo finally uncrossed his arms in a heavy sigh that meant so many things and he eventually knelt before his father, able to see without reading his mind or emotions how bothered he was. He looked at him, then down at the book, and had to use all in his power to try and block from him what he was feeling. This wasn't the first time he was feeling pity towards his father.
There was nothing said for a while, a long while, but surprisingly little time was passing. It just seemed like forever they sat there together, in that hidden place where Michelangelo had sat and read about his mother, learning of her for the first time. Draco didn't really know what to say to his son, and Michelangelo didn't know how to confront him about his mother despite what he so earnestly wanted to know. The book had left him with more questions in the end than answers, or just many many new questions while answering so few.
Michelangelo just leaned in, and Draco raised an arm to let him fall under it, so he could hug him, Michelangelo knowing how much comfort his father found in hugs, and honestly needing some comfort himself at the moment. Draco kissed the top of Michelangelo's head and rubbed him arm as his chin rested where he had just kissed, waiting, waiting for something, he wasn't sure what.
"Was hearing Conner's name what set this off, and this was just a treat meant to be saved for later?" Draco asked, Michelangelo stiffening slightly. "You weren't going to tell me what you were reading about while here, just silently brood about it and keep it all to yourself until it drove you mad and you snapped at me or Ginny. You wanted to hold this in until Ginny got on your nerves, but Conner set you off," Draco said, it not a question.
Michelangelo looked down.
"You can't keep treating Ginny this way. Don't put me in the position to have to choose you, or her, Michelangelo, because you know I can't, and you know it is not fair," he said, only a little harsher, mostly keeping that wounded tone close to the surface so as to drive the point home.
"Who is Conner? He shares a last name, but that's not all. I noticed his appearance from the moment I saw him that night when he showed up at our house, him being one of the only other guys I had ever seen with hair like my own and thinking how odd that was that he was also a redhead, like I knew my mother to be. I brushed it all off as an interesting coincidence, but now with the name, I can't help but feel-"
"That he is related?" Draco finished. Michelangelo nodded. "He isn't an uncle, or cousin, or anything like that," Draco started to say, but realized Michelangelo was letting out a breath of relief, as though he was saying they were not related at all. That left what Draco said next to impact with the most shock value available. "He's your brother," he said, watching as Michelangelo expectedly reacted with stunned eyes, pulling back so he could look up at his father. Draco imagined that's what his own face looked like that night Connor had shown up and given him the news.
"Brother?" he repeated, looking back as though Connor would come into view at that very moment and assure him it all wasn't true, or was. Michelangelo's expectancy, however, was just a means of looking away from his father, to try and wrap his mind around all this.
"Half-brother. He is your mother's son. I only just met him a handful of days ago, though he has known of us for a while. He kept his distance, feeling we were happier without him, better off or something, but finally came forward when it would just-so-happen that he and I would be working together. I swear to you I never knew of him," Draco said, as though this one thing he didn't keep from his son would win him back some ground with him.
"He is older than me," Michelangelo said, trailing off, trying to create a mental timeline in his mind. It was clear Connor was not the result of their mother running off to have a different family, so did that mean she ran out on a family prior to meeting his dad?
"Connor is actually older than I am," Draco explained, able to find some kind of twisted joy out of seeing Michelangelo's reaction to that news.
"Older?"
"Your mother was 16 years older than me, Michael, you know that, I assume you read it," he said, Michelangelo nodding but frowning his brow at his father. "Connor was born to your mother about the same time I was born to my own. Connor was not raised by her, he was raised by his grandparents, your grandparents, because she was so young."
"She, she didn't stick around to raise him?"
"It's one of the reasons why on insecure days I feel like she left us, Michael. I just don't know what is real, and what was a lie, what is the truth, and what is something my own mind created," Draco said, sounding insecure again. His son didn't know of the Schizophrenia he was battling with, supposedly battling with, and Draco didn't want to have to explain to his son his confusion was do to the adverse effects of such a condition. It left Draco feeling unsure of himself, and inept. He hugged his son a little tighter, despite the pain curling up like that caused him.
Michelangelo wasn't as ignorant of his father's struggles as Draco would have liked to believe, but said nothing. He knew it would only hurt him to know his perceived weaknesses were not as well concealed as he would have liked. Michelangelo hugged him then, feeling this situation with his mother was just one more thing that seemed so unfair that his father had suffered through.
Draco felt terrible that Michelangelo found out this way, Michelangelo felt terrible that the simple memory of his mother hurt his father so much.
They sat there together, just feeling terrible all around, hugging because there was nothing that could be said between them. Pain shared was pain halved.
"Tell me," Draco said softly, sitting in his cell, hugging his knees and holding his toes.
"Tell you what?" Christina laughed, pacing her own cell like a caged tiger, like always.
"Do you…" Draco said, losing his nerve and looking down for a moment.
"Do I?" she prompted, encouraging him to continue. It was March, Draco had been there for only three months, but he was feeling odd, feeling strange. He wasn't sure what it was, but he thought he had an idea. It was ridiculous, preposterous, and absurd. It was silly, delusional, and excessive, but that seemed to be the way of his life.
"Do you, love me?" he dared to ask, looking up at her knowing she would have to look him in the eyes if she looked over at him at all. She predictably did given the abruptness of his question. Her hooded green eyes met his silver ones instantly and she was trapped. He was working on his Legilimency, but he was struggling without guidance. He could capture her eyes, but she was so strong willed naturally, it was always a challenge to hold them.
"Why would you ask me that?" she asked, frozen in place in the middle of her mid-morning pacing. They would be going out to the pit in a matter of hours, and Draco had had this on his mind for days now, but he had chosen now to confront her on it given their history of experiences in the pit. The first time they had gone to the pit they had kissed passionately, the next time she had taken his virginity. Given that pattern of escalation, he found reason to address the matter before being in her vicinity again. She still seemed surprised by his boldness.
The last time he was in the vicinity of her he had kissed her, held her, put his hands on her in ways he never had another woman. It had been so brief, so abrupt, he was left confused at first, then to wonder. He felt something odd, shame at first, or so he though, embarrassment for being so inexperienced, disappointed because they hadn't had a chance to do it properly in a bed, or be gentle and loving. Now he felt something blossom from that, something he was confused over. He loved Ginny, every part of his soul knew that, but she was not a part of his life anymore, nor would she ever again, yet still he loved her, probably always would…but something was growing in him that seemed to conflict with that, compete, something similar though had nothing to do with her, something that had him asking Christina this question now.
"I, I was just wondering, given what we did…" he said, trailing off, not wanting to say what it was that they had done, that modesty his mother had instilled in him so overpowering.
Christina looked over at him, like she was saddened by this, but Draco missed it because he was looking down at his toes.
"I don't want to put myself out on a limb here or anything, but I have just been feeling…odd lately, and I was wondering if you felt it too, or not at all, or if I'm thinking what I feel is one thing when it's really something else and you can enlighten me as to what, because I know I'm certainly confused," he mumbled, chewing on his bottom lip and closing his eyes.
"Draco,"
"I know I must sound stupid, and I know everyone says I'm just a boy, but I'm not, I'm a man, and what I feel is something more than just a sickness in my stomach like everything else…and I know you probably were just taking advantage of a choice situation, and I know I am younger than you by a considerable amount and am probably making you uncomfortable right now, and I know you are leaving in five months and want nothing more than to put a substantial and permanent distance between yourself and this place so it would be stupid to ask you to think of me when you are so close to finally being free, but I need to know…do you, even just a little bit, love me?" he asked, finally looking back up at her with those last words.
Christina was standing in her cell, tall and utterly still. Her hair was ruffling slighting in the cold breeze that swept in through the high windows as her chest slowly swelled and fell with each careful breath. Draco looked at her and sensed her reluctance to answer, saw her frowning eyebrows, and pursed his lips together in an sad smile, looking down before his face finished crumbling, closing his eyes and feeling stupid for having asked at all.
Of course she didn't. He felt so stupid and he had probably ruined the last few months he had with her. Draco felt his bottom lip quivering, and fought the childish sob that wanted so much to escape him has he hugged his knees and held his toes.
"Love is a really strong word, kiddo," she said, her voice almost distant in his ears. Opening his eyes his sight was blurry from the tears that were welled up in the barely open slits. "I care about you," she finally said, Draco closing his eyes and that causing the tears to slide down his cheeks, his hair hopefully hiding them, for now.
She cared, in a `lets be friends' sort of way, he knew it, and he felt like a fool. Just because she had sex with him didn't mean she loved him. He wanted the act to always be a physical expression of one's love for another, but that was hardly the case for most people nowadays it seemed. His mother would be ashamed of him, but it wasn't like she would ever know, he wasn't sure if she was even alive, where she was. Surely she wanted more for him than this, but he had fallen short of her expectations years ago really, why he still clung to his pathetic propriety was beyond him. Just accepting that he was just a filthy, unwanted, undesirable werewolf would probably be best, save him from being disappointed further, because nothing but hurt, pain, and disappointment could come of his life, particularly now that his life was housed in Azkaban.
"But…I guess I can say that I do," she finally finished after that pause.
Draco was ready to sob before he was able to register what she had said. He swallowed hard and dared to open his eyes. They darted side to side rapidly as he replayed her words, realizing what the answer to his question was. He then looked right up at her sharply, forgetting that he had two tear tracks on his face, and saw Christina sitting on her bed, up against her bars, still looking sadly at him, but smiling now.
"My fair-haired boy," she said, holding a hand out he would never be able to reach, Draco comforted by the act alone. When it struck him that she had admitted to loving him, that feeling in his stomach worsened rather than got better, but he felt less empty, and sniffed back his tears to grace her with a small smile. Christina always loved it when he smiled.
The darkness then took him and it was absolute. The screaming Draco could hear was barely more than echoes in his ears as there was no visual to go along with anything that was happening. Then the pain hit and Draco was unable to even pay attention to the shouting and screaming.
Draco couldn't explain this pain at first. He had experienced much in his life, from many different sources, but never in the base of his stomach like this, way down low in his core, almost like someone had taken a fist full of his intestine and twisted it.
He rolled over and coughed, and something came up. He was sure if he vomited at first, but he realized quickly that he hadn't because he knew the taste of blood well. On his side now he curled his knees up to his chest while hugging his stomach in his arms and he moaned a sob, not sure what had happened, what was hurt, or who was screaming. Opening his eyes he could see white now, rather than black. It was the sunlight; he was out in the pit. Draco couldn't remember going out to the pit. He remembered talking to Christina, he remembered her words, but now she was screaming, why was she screaming?
The ground was cold, the wetness was soaked up by his shirt, but something was wrong, his trousers were missing. Trying to orient himself by moving his legs, he felt them tangled around his knees.
"Back up, now, don't touch him!" a man was shouting, Draco opening his eyes and seeing a dark silhouette standing over him in all that whiteness. He could make out arms waving like he was trying to clear the area and Draco couldn't understand at first why no one was helping him when it was so obvious that he was hurt. Couldn't they see the blood?
The blood.
He knew then why no one was helping him: he was bleeding. Why was he bleeding? Why did he hurt so deep down? Why were his trousers missing. Had be been with Christina? Did someone come upon them and hurt him? He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? Why did his head hurt so badly?
"Draco, Draco, you're alright," he heard Christina shouting at him as he groaned and rolled over some, the front of his overly large shirt covering him at least, modest to the last he was grateful for that. Laying on his back, however, it felt like the bones of his head were sliding backwards, like they were not solid.
"What, what happened?" he tried to ask, but it was going dark again.
"He won't ever touch you again, Draco, I promise," she said, grabbing his wrist.
The screaming was louder now, and Draco grabbed the hand that was holding his wrist, telling Christina to calm down, that he was alright.
"Draco, Draco! Oh god, you're awake? Can you hear me?" she seemed to scream at him, or shout. She was shouting, the screaming was not of people, they were sirens. When did Azkaban install sirens? They never had.
"What? What happened?" Draco asked, wanting an answer this time.
"Please back up ma'am," a man said, looming over Draco then like a shadow as before and placing something in his ears and something cold and metal against Draco's chest. Draco could barely see. The flashing lights helped him realize he wasn't in Azkaban, however, and the pain shooting down his side as the man pressed down on his abdomen ripped him to consciousness faster than anything.
"Draco, you're alright," Ginny said, Draco looking up at her with only his eyes because his neck was stabilized and immobile. He had some kind of brace on. When had he ever worn a neck brace?
Draco was beyond confused.
"Ginny?" he asked, having thought it was Christina with him but clearly wrong. His brain couldn't wrap itself around that. He had been in his cell just that morning, talking to Christina, then he blacked out and was on the ground, half naked and hurt in the pit…now he found himself still hurting but in a totally different location all together, with Ginny Weasley of all people. What was gong on?
"I'm here, Draco, I was called right away after the accident, don't worry, everything is fine, Michael is fine," she assured, panting as she ran along side him. He was laying flat on his back, looking up, and he was moving, like someone had him on a trolley. Draco's mind was trying to catch up, but just couldn't. There was such a darkness, and it was pressing in on his vision.
"Michael?" he said, remembering the name, knowing it was important, but all he could remember was Azkaban.
"Your son, Draco…don't you remember?" she asked but didn't get to pursue her answer because Draco was shoved into the ambulance then, the legs of the gurney collapsing and folding up with a clank, Ginny pushed back by a man who was clearly caring for Draco.
"You need to ride with the boy," he said before climbing in. The doors were closed and the ambulance took off within the moment. Ginny stood there, with her hands over her mouth for a moment before turning and rushing to the second ambulance that was parked some feet away, in not so much of a hurry.
"There you are," the man said, Michelangelo hissing as he recoiled, the man just smiling. "You will likely have a scar, but hey, they build character. Look what it did for Harry Potter," he said, as though hoping to make Michelangelo smile, but it didn't work. Michelangelo was sitting on the back end of the open ambulance, several cuts and nicks down the left side of his face from broken glass, and a particularly nasty gash on the left side of his forehead, mirroring much that of Harry's, even in the slightly lightning-like shape, though it was a little more jagged and accidental for Michelangelo, where as Harry's was almost exquisitely formed.
"He alright?" Ginny asked the mediwizard on call, dressed as a Muggle and tending to the young werewolf. Ginny's eyeliner had blotted to become raccoon-ish under her eyes due to her tears, and her nose was red. Michelangelo too looked worse for wear, around his eyes red, lip swollen, scuffs, cuts, but otherwise seemingly fine.
"A few bumps and cuts, and a bruised liver that will cause him some pain for a while, but nothing serious. Bones as strong steel this kid has, eyes contracting evenly with light, no neck or spine injury. Was wearing his seatbelt, smart kid," he said, smiling over at Michelangelo and handing him an unwrapped red lollypop.
"What happened?" she asked, looking to Michelangelo for the answer. He had the candy in his mouth and he was looking down for a moment before he used his bandaged hand to pull it away and sigh.
"He had a memory," he said, Ginny placing her hand over her mouth again. "He spaces out, you know that. He was driving, god we were almost home. He had been silent for most of the trip which I knew wasn't good. I knew that if I kept him taking and interacting he wouldn't daze off, but I felt bad, felt like he needed his space. I didn't think…the light was red and he went ridged," Michelangelo said, finally sounding angry by the end. Ginny looked to the mediwizard who was busying himself with his supplies, bagging up everything that might have even the smallest trace of blood on it, flicking his wand as though oblivious to the conversation but aware of Ginny's eyes on him.
"Is Draco okay?" she asked him, and he sighed. He had been the first on the scene, been the one called in when it was confirmed that this needed magical care. He had pulled Michelangelo out but not dared move Draco due to him being unconscious.
"He responded to the pinch tests, he could feel pain everywhere they tried it so they don't think he is paralyzed, but like the boy said, he had gone ridged before the crash, potentially making his injuries more severe given how unforgiving his body would be in absorbing the impact and in response to the airbags. The fact that he was injured extensively prior to this worries us. A cracked rib thrown into a car-accident can puncture a lung. We immobilized his spine and neck to reduce the risk of aggravating any injury he might have, just as a precaution, and he is being taken to St. Mungo's to be examined. From what I saw it looked like a simple head wound, but there could be internal damage."
"Oh god," Ginny sobbed, Michelangelo looking down, unsure of how to make her relax and worried, the fact that she was carrying his baby brother or sister more than enough to cause concern for him when he saw her in such a state. Clarissa was back home with their nana, Ginny ripped from preparing dinner to come out here just a few blocks away and feel as helpless as she honestly was in this situation.
Michelangelo felt terrible, like his curiosity had hurt his father so much that it had lead to his distraction and resulting car accident. He stuck his blood-flavored lollypop back in his mouth and looked down, feeling like he was always the one who made everything so much worse.
I DIDN'T KILL DRACO! He is fine, I promise you. Anyone who has been in a car accident knows that on the scene they take every precaution, so it SEEMS worse than it is.
Why a car accident, Raine, why are you doing this to us?
It's a means to an end, I assure you.
I would write my typical chapter summery and post it on my LJ for all who care to enjoy, but my life is a bit hectic at the moment, and I just can't spend the time. I didn't even read this over before posting, which I normally do. This is how my final edit left it, hope nothing terrible was overlooked.
Angst? Who me? Never in this fic.
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