This is stupid. I was acting insomniac and didn't have anything better to do. Draco was supposed to be waiter and unharmed (physically), esacping the wizarding world. and the last line was supposed to be:
"I envy you, Johnny." Angela said, looking up from her problematic papers to look at him. "You such have such an uncomplicated life."
But what can I say? My imagination run away from me.
Disclaimer: HP doesn't belong to me. not even in my wildest dreams.
Just Another Face
"You're late," Angela, his co-worker and almost pseudo-mother, said bluntly as he sailed into the ward. His hair was still a bit wet from the rain outside and dripping on his white uniform.
"I'm" He looked around then sighed. "…sorry. I didn't expect it to rain."
"Alright," Angela smiled warmly.
He had apologized, a sign that her efforts were actually paying off. Goodness knows that when he first arrived, he couldn't even say 'please' or 'thank you' to save his life, let alone a 'sorry'.
The mother-like woman followed him as he made his rounds, doing check ups and talking with the patients. He made quick progress and was soon finished without a problem.
"Looks like everyone's improving," Angela commented when she was done double-checking the more or less couple dozen patients in ward 2A. "It's amazing how patients always get better under your care, John. Even the directors are starting to notice! I really can't understand why you'd prefer to simply be a medical aide when it's obvious you're so gifted. I should've sent you to college."
John didn't respond. He was staring off somewhere and frowning…again.
Oh dear, Angela thought. I thought we finally managed to work that out a year ago.
As Head Nurse, she only too easily recognized the basic symptoms of fatigue in her helper. John was overworking himself again, probably not getting any sleep over something or the other. She wished he didn't punish himself like that.
John had been with her ever since he'd arrived eight years ago.
Paramedics found him unconscious on the shore of a nearby beach and immediately took him to the hospital. There was no ID, card or anything that could've helped. Nobody from those parts ever saw him before.
Angela's heart went out to him at first sight. He had the most angelic face she'd ever seen, even when it was all scratched and bruised. Flaxen silk hair and porcelain skin. He was wearing ragged clothes and felt as clammy as though he had been lying in the open air all night. Nobody had expected him to live through the night.
But, miraculously, at around 10pm, he sprang from the bed and cried out with the worst sort of agony "Mother!". And then he collapsed into a fit of helpless weeping. It took an hour to calm him down enough to administer sedatives.
Two days later, when he was conscious, Angela and two more had been tasked to try and find out who he is. They were apprehensive at first, scared he might lash out at them as he did to the invisible demons that tormented him when he was sleeping.
"I – I am – I used to be…" He croaked out, looking at them without really seeing. He was talking more to himself. "…John Smith."
So he came to be known as that.
Angela visited him everyday. At first, it was because her visits would mean plus points on her employment record. But, eventually, she began to enjoy them. She enjoyed his sarcasm (not when it was initially directed at her; He should have known better) and rather ignorant behavior. They would talk about anything: the weather, her two children who were around his age, the doctors. She explained to him the various equipment around the place, from the lightbulbs to the MRI scanner.
They talked about everything except him.
But he talked British, that was one clue.
And he didn't respond immediately to 'John'. That was another.
John stayed in the hospital for two weeks, being treated for some internal bleeding and concussion. He had nowhere to go after he was discharged. He'd been frantic and refused to talk to the police. And so, he'd begged (reluctantly) Angela to take him in, promising to earn his keep.
She had to put her foot down. "First off, I know next to nothing about you. Second, you're only seventeen. Your parents are probably panicking their heads off about you."
And she watched as his entire face shut down.
"They're not," he answered finally in a hollow voice. He had turned to the door. "I – I'm sorry for the trouble. I'll just l-leave now; maybe I can find work somewhere…"
Instinct told Angela to stop him and she was one to trust her 'feelings'. John lived in her house for three years, doing chores and getting day-jobs, studied a bit, and then moved out. He applied to work in the hospital which once saved his life and stayed there. He worked himself to the bone. And oftentimes, she'd catch him working with a feverish rage, muttering things about forgiveness and redemption.
But his past still remained a mystery. Angela had tried several times to get him to open up when she'd always forget or something.
John was an enigma.
It was hard to believe that this John was the teenage boy they had fished out several years ago. People still wondered what happened to him, but nobody asked. There were things one was better off not knowing.
He was pleasant enough; he handled social situations well. He grew more respectful, and less wary, of people as time passed.
But he didn't have any friends. Several nurses had vied for his attention but he ignored all of them. He seemed immune to any deep emotion.
He had haunted eyes. Which was too bad since they were strong and beautiful, intense like a stormy sky. He often looked over his shoulder when they were in an open space, with fear and horror etched on his face. His hell still wasn't over.
"John?" Angela tentatively tapped his shoulder. He jerked awake.
"What time is it? Am I late?"
"No," Angela frowned. John's eyes were red, like he'd been crying. "You look so tired. Are you alright? You remember what I told you?"
"Yes, you told me to 'stop punishing myself'; you told me that half a dozen times." He chuckled weakly.
"Because you don't listen!" Angela said, indignant. "Now, I'm telling Michael to relieve you. You go home and sleep for the rest of the day."
"No," John stood up and stretched like a feline. "I'll just get a cup of coffee or something."
Angela tried to protest but was interrupted by a door slamming. Maybe her anti-rudeness talks weren't working so well after all.
John pressed his fingers against his eyelids as he made his way down the familiar hallway.
It was him. I'm sure it was him.
Earlier that morning he had woken up to another one of his nightmares. He hadn't had one in months. This time, Moaning Myrtle had been telling him to never forget Dumbledore loved raspberry jam and why won't he put the poison in there instead? He said that he couldn't get his hands on any and Snape wasn't helping because he was off dueling Bellatrix. Myrtle told him Potter had some and was waiting for him at the door with the jam. He opened it and found that instead of jam, Potter had brought some bloody socks and accused him of dumping it all over his head. Then he said Dumbledore was all bloody and he needed more blood for the Headmaster and cast sectumsempra and…
"Aaaahh!" He woke up shouting and grabbing his chest where the wounds had been. There was nothing there now, not even scars. Then the memories came, for he could do nothing to stop them.
Voldemort was telling him about his role. "Do not disappoint me, young Malfoy, as your father had. Pity Lucius won't have very long to live, being in Azkaban. He doesn't like dementors, does he? They affect him quite badly. And your mother…it's about time she finds out she can't protect you all the time. It's your turn to protect her, Draco. Rest assured, I will kill her if you fail."
He did all he can. He gave up everything else and began devoting himself entirely to protect his family. He stole books from the library. He shelled out tons of galleons from his trust account for anything that might remotely help him. He'd gone and learned the unforgiveables. Horribly, he'd discovered exactly why they where unforgiveable. They violated humanity at its very core.
He distanced himself from everyone. He was alone in his anguish. No one could help him. No one. He was going to die and his family was going to die and it was all his fault. His family would be killed because he was too weak. Too weak. He was going to die. He was going to die unloved and unmarked. He was going to be just another one of the nameless and faceless victims of Lord Voldemort.
He didn't even tell Potter –Harry – of what he was doing. Yes, it was better that Harry be kept in the the dark. Not knowing that Draco was going to betray him. Betray them all to Voldemort. Not knowing that his Draco was a lying, scheming murderer. Not knowing that the Light was going to fall because Draco was afraid. Afraid to die. Afraid to let his parents die. Draco did not want to die.
Keeping it from Harry had been the worst mistake of all. Draco had been so happy when the Vanishing Cabinet finally worked. It was only a matter of convincing Harry that someone else killed Dumbledore, Snape most likely…he'd free his mother and father…he'll convince them to turn to the Light…he'll help Harry defeat Voldemort…he'd be forgiven…he'd be alive…he'd be with Harry…
He didn't count on Harry being there when Dumbledore was killed.
The look of utter betrayal on Harry's face when he tried to make contact days later said it all. It was enough to send Draco careening away. His eyes said it all. Draco I hate you I hate you I'll never forgive you traitor traitor traitor I thought we had something something special Draco why why why I hate you I wish you'd DIE!
And, for one perverse moment, Draco indeed wanted to die.
John wiped away the tears of bitterness than trailed down his face. Those events would forever follow him, his never-ending nightmare.
He'd fled from home, disowned himself, not taking anything, without even knowing how to apparate properly, and not caring where he ended up.
He felt the wards around the Manor tear into him as his 'essence' streaked past. It was killing him. His own home was killing him.
He ended up on a muggle shore, almost dead. He still felt and the want for survival and began rebuilding his life. He doubted anyone was looking for him, seeing as he faked his death quite effectively, but he still looked around warily at times, maybe he was still being hunted down. Someone could still want revenge.
His last contact with the magical world had been three years ago, and quite accidental. He'd just walked into the cafeteria and a wizard was there, going completely unnoticed despite his odd clothes. He was holding what looked to be their version of the Daily Prophet and smack on the front page was Harry Potter, always the Golden Boy, looking war-worn. The headline was clear enough: POTTER ADVANCING NORTH!
The man looked oddly at him a few minutes before he realized he was staring.
That night, John got drunk and kept asking himself if he chose to do the right thing. Or the easy thing. Bloody merlin, it sho're didn't fell easy so it musta been righ' He'd thought drunkenly.
Then, on the way to the hospital, in the midst of a large crowd, he saw a familiar face. No, more than familiar.
It was his face. A face he knew better than anyone else's. A face he had seen and memorized and burned into his mind until his head hurt. A face he had seen joyous and despairing, and victorious and defeated, and pleasant and angry, and grim and serious and sleepy and mischievous and…betrayed.
It was a face so much more noble than his own. Harry's face.
It was him. I know it was him. He's here. He's hunting me. He can't hide. He's not just another face, no. I'd know if he's here and I'll escape again. I can't face him. He hates me.
He stopped at the door leading to the cafeteria, and took a deep breath.
He turned around and schooled his features into a familiar indifferent mask. He raised an eyebrow.
"Nice to see you again, Potter. How long have you been there?"