Author's Note: This is rated M for various reasons, including (but not limited to): violence, language, themes, and substance (alcohol) abuse. I must implore you to not read any further if you are under the legal age. For those of you reading my other stories, do not be alarmed. This is sort of like a 'pilot episode'; I will only continue if I feel there is enough interest, and regardless, I will not do so until I have completed at least one of my other stories.
"You fucking Death Eater scum."
Draco grit his teeth as his skull smashed against the pavement, eyes clenching shut as two of the men grabbed each wrist and two more held down his legs so he was eagle spread on the ground. The fifth, the one who had spoken, sneered over him, holding a blade menacingly.
"I had a little sister, you know," the man growled, spitting in disgust as he looked down at the prone blonde. "But one night some of your buddies stopped by for a visit and took her back to your Manor house... They never even found her remains." He spat again, this time on Draco's face. Wrists grinding against the rough concrete, he was unable to wipe it from his cheek. But Draco hardly noticed; imprinted on his inside oh his eyelids he saw, vividly, a girl with curly brown hair, just like his tormentor's, being dragged by Fenrir Greyback into the back gardens, he could hear her screams, see the splatters of blood on the glass back doors-
No. His eyes flew open; he would face these men here and now rather than go back there. He could never go back there.
The man holding his left arm ripped his sleeve along the seam, and hissed in revulsion. "Yeah, Jack, he's got the Mark. You can still see it."
"It's faded though, hasn't it?" The man with the knife, Jack, replied. "Let's give him another one; give'im one in case he ever forgets." He knelt down and seized Draco's collar, tearing it open. Draco heard buttons ricocheting off the brick walls of the alleyway, and the cold night air on his bare chest.
"I hope you feel guilty every day," Jack snarled.
I do. Draco groaned as he felt the first bite of the blade in his skin, but reminded himself that he'd felt worse. Reflexively, he strained against his captors, and for a second-
His Aunt Bella's maniacal laughed reverberated through the library. Draco could have sworn it shook the panes of the arching windows, or maybe that was his own screams- he didn't care. He just wanted it to stop. "No... please, stop, I swear I'll... Oh, Merlin, please, I can't..."
"Coward! Weak little child. Crucio!"
When Draco came back to the present, he was screaming, and his torso was slick with blood.
"Fascist swine," Jack snarled. "Let's go. Leave him; maybe he'll bleed out."
Draco drew in quick, gasping breaths, lifting shaking, bruised fingers to the wounds across his chest. The cuts weren't deep, nothing life threatening. A low moan escaped his throat, and he struggled to sit up. His head throbbed insistently; he probably would have a concussion. He couldn't call out for help, and even if he could, he doubted there would be many willing to aid him once they realized who he was. He collapsed back onto the ground, waiting for strength to return.
Astoria Greengrass applied another coat of lipstick, and turned to glance over her shoulder. "Hey, Daph? Did you hear something?"
"Honey, it's a club. I hear music, I hear toilets flushing, I hear a couple screwing in that stall..." she banged on the door and bellowed, "Get some class, fuckwits!"
Astoria rolled her eyes at her sister's behavior. "I thought I heard a man screaming."
"Tori, you're crazy. C'mon, let's go back out there; those cute Irish boys aren't going to wait forever. Remember, I've got dibs on the ginger!" Daphne turned to exit the restroom, but her younger sister was hesitant.
"Daphne, there's an alley exit right there," she pointed as she pushed open the door. "Let's just go make sure. For me?"
"Go, if you must, but I came here to dance, not poke about in dark alleys. Hurry back."
As Daphne vanished, Astoria cautiously approached the heavy door. Her heels, far too high and pointed to be sensible, clicked against the tile. She glanced about furtively, jumping slightly at what turned out to be only a mop and bucket, made sinister by the dim lighting. Placing her fingers on the door tentatively, she took a deep breath and thrust her head into the chilly March air.
At first glance, she thought the space to be devoid of anything other than rubbish and dumpsters. However, a low groan, a pitiful sound, drew her attention. A figure was moving weakly, dragging itself across the gritty pavement. A man, shirt in shreds, dragging himself blindly towards the wall. His hand extended, finding purchase in a crack and using it to gain a few more inches. His other arm was wrapped around himself protectively, and he gasped with every movement.
Astoria flew forward with a small cry of dismay, noticing the trail of blood he'd left as she darted to his side, stumbling over her silly shoes. "Are you alright?" she asked, rather stupidly. Of course he wasn't.
"Wassaf..."
"What?"
"What's a fascist?" he managed, lifting his head to stare up at her with anguished grey eyes. She stepped back, startled to recognize the blood smeared face.
"A... what are you talking about? What happened?" She knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. Draco flinched away.
"Never mind." He didn't recognize her, but then, why would he? A handsome, popular upperclassman wouldn't have known a girl two years his juniors with skinny knees and pointy elbows.
"D'you need me to floo someone?"
"No," he rasped.
"Or help you apparate somewhere?"
He shook his head; the movement seemed to take a great deal of effort. His arm began to shake violently and gave out from beneath him suddenly, and he collapsed once more. Astoria pushed him gently onto his back, and this time, he didn't protest to her touch.
"What happened to you?" she asked again, dabbing hesitantly at his chest with a bit of the remnants of his shirt. However, as she cleaned away some of the blood, she realized the cuts were not random. Whoever had attacked him had known Draco's past well; the words 'Death Eater' were carved clearly into his flesh. The macabre script caused her to recoil, and she sat down hard beside him, undoubtedly snagging and ruining her short, sparkly dress.
"St. Mungo's is just down the street," she whispered. "They can take care of this so it won't scar."
"Would it matter?" he asked roughly, half-heartedly lifting his left arm and letting it drop instantly. "As though everyone doesn't already know. As if I could change my name. My face."
Astoria didn't reply. She knew just what sort of connotation the name Malfoy held, even now, four years after the battle that destroyed He-Who-Still-Must-Not-Be-Named. Everyone still remembered the terror of the time, the involvement of the family. He would live with the stigma forever.
"Let me help you," she offered again. Astoria recalled that battle; she had been amongst the Slytherins herded to safety, the ones later scorned for cowardice, for being traitors.
"I'm past help," he told her with a short, bitter laugh, but accepted her hand nonetheless.
With some effort Draco managed to stagger to his feet, although it quickly became apparent the he'd been beaten before they had cut them. He leaned heavily on her and she balked under his weight, but put an arm around his waist and attempted to lead him along anyway. They received more than one curiously glance, but Astoria trudged on, grateful that St. Mungo's was only a block or two off.
"C'mon, Draco," she encouraged under her breath. "Walk."
Their entrance into the hospital was less than subtle, but Astoria was feeling too strained to care, and Draco seemed to be worsening. A nurse immediately rushed over and helped ease him into a chair.
"What happened?" the nurse demanded, immediately summoning a wet cloth. "Is he-"
She broke off abruptly, reading the words etched into his skin. For a moment, her expression was unfathomable, but it quickly hardened to hatred as she recognized his elegant features.
"I don't see anything wrong with him," she said coolly, letting the cloth fall to the floor. "We're here to help people, and this man looks just as he ought to. Get him out."
Astoria's jaw dropped, and before she could stop herself, her hand flew out to strike the other woman. "He is suffering. Help him!"
"I won't," the nurse replied icily. "I won't help a slimy murderer who managed to sweet talk his way out of Azkaban. He's a criminal and should be locked up and I'll be doing the wizarding world a favor if I let that scar."
"Is there a problem over here?" A middle aged Healer approached, looking concerned. "Ah." He stopped short, seeing what had upset his nurse.
"Marion," he said softly. "We took an oath to give help to all who need it."
"Healer Massey, do you know who this is?"
"I do. My wife knew his aunt well." His tone was strained, but he set his jaw. "Get him settled into a bed."
Marion shot Astoria a resentful look, but summoned a stretcher and levitated him on to it with a deliberate lack of gentleness. Draco, on the cusp of unconsciousness, did not seem to notice. Astoria trod along after them, suddenly uncertain. It seemed only right, having brought him here and being covered in his blood, that she should go with him, but perhaps not? She didn't know the protocol in this sort of situation. Perhaps Daphne would.
Daphne! She remembered her sister with a gasp, realizing that she'd probably gone looking for her after a few minutes.
"Excuse me," she murmured, halting. "I need to go." However, as soon as the words left her mouth, Draco's hand shot out and curled around her wrist. She started in alarm; his eyes were closed, and she had not realized he could hear her. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, placing her free hand gently upon his. "But I really must leave."
His grip slackened and she eased nervously out of arms reach. "I hope you're... er... feeling better soon, Draco," she called softly, before turning and hurrying back towards the club.