Ok, here I should be working on getting the next chapter of 'Weak' up, and instead I wrote this. Well, at least it's something.
Disclaimer for the whole story: I don't own anything except for this particular story plot, and even that has probably been done a hundred times before - oh well.
Aconite
1
It was no ordinary wound. She knew it as soon as she removed the blood-soaked towel with which he had clumsily covered it and she could smell it, the foul stench of evil magic that came from it, that was running through his veins already. It took her some effort to keep her face straight.
His eyes weren't entirely closed. Instead, his eyelids fluttered rapidly like the wings of a bird struggling for freedom, and his ashen face was contorted with barely restrained pain. He had bitten his lips so viciously they had started bleeding.
A disturbing sight. If only he'd just whimper and whine and cry that he was going to die – then at least she'd know he wasn't. But this time he wasn't acting.
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Of course she had recognized him, even after years and with the way he looked now, more colourless than ever, save for the ragged, crimson mess that was his arm. But strangely, the first thing that had struck her was that he was alone. There were no Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him and even the shadow of his father, that had always seemed to loom over him perpetually, had vanished. He looked small.
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Trying to swallow away the bad taste in her mouth, she said hoarsely, 'Take him to the Llewellyn Ward.'
At the sound of her voice, he opened his eyes. She watched as recognition dawned on his face, watched as he grabbed the towel, wrapped it hastily around his arm again. She knew exactly what the gesture meant, but she didn't mind. He would need something to hold on to – a belief that would stand when his world crumbled around him, a mantra to repeat to himself every day until he would be strong enough to let it go. Maybe he would never be strong enough.
'Hello, Malfoy,' she said.
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He did not respond at first. Something inside him was protesting in rage at this twisted turn of fate, that she of all people would be here to watch him wake into a new life – how she would treat him with meticulous care as she treated everything with meticulous care, while her eyes would tell him he got what he deserved. Another part of him was hesitatingly stepping back from the abyss of utter loneliness in which it had almost thrown itself, though he didn't really know why.
She stood beside him again, carrying a tray full of colourful vials. 'Give me your arm,' she commanded.
He was feeling numb by now, and black dots had started to obscure his vision. There was an iron-like taste of blood in his mouth and he tried to lick his lips for more – why? – but his tongue felt like leather, and his arm began to sting again, and it seemed that all he saw was the lime green of Granger's tunic and how it hurt his eyes.
Eventually, when she was about to walk out of the room, the abyss opened itself again right in front of him, and he realized he was going to plunge into it head first. In a last effort, he struggled to open his eyes and look at her. 'I don't need your help, Mudblood,' he managed through clenched teeth – but the word tasted bitter on his tongue, like the flesh of some animal slaughtered for a ritual that had lost its meaning. She stood still, turned around to face him and just smiled, quietly. 'Yes, you do. This time you do.'
Then she left, and things went black.