A Common Bond

Disclaimer: not mine. Really. All I own is the Chamber of Secrets soundtrack on CD. And the LOTR soundtracks. And the PotC one. And assorted other things. So really, don't sue.

A/N: this is a Draco/Neville friendship, set just before sixth year. And Blaise Zabini is a girl here. And yes, Vector is female. Someone in PoA (I think Ron, but don't quote me on that) refers to Vector as "that Arithmancy witch.

A/N 2: "the Tube" is another name for the London Underground, for those of you who aren't familiar with it. I know JKR usually calls it the Underground, but I live just outside London and am on the Underground network, and we usually call it the Tube.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter 1: Shock

It had all started to go wrong, sixteen-year-old Draco Malfoy reflected bitterly as he trudged through Diagon Alley, partway through the last school year, when his aunt Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped from Azkaban. That the woman was mentally unstable – completely insane, even – was unquestionable. If she hadn't escaped from Azkaban, Draco wouldn't be making this journey.

"Do be careful where you're going!"

Draco, lost in his thoughts, hadn't seen the figure approaching (not that they'd been looking where they were going, either) until the exclamation. He snapped his head up. "Oh. Sorry. Didn't see you."

"That is rather obvious, Mr. Malfoy." The witch – who also happened to be his Arithmancy teacher, Professor Vector – glared at him momentarily, before allowing her face to soften. "Have you got your OWL results yet? They changed the issuing date three years after I left school."

Draco nodded. "I got an O for Arithmancy, so I'll be taking it for one of my NEWT subjects," he informed her.

"Good good. No less than I expected." Vector gave him one of her rare smiles. "You and Hermione Granger are my two best students."

"Thanks," Draco muttered. "Sorry for bumping into you. I – I have to be somewhere. Excuse me." He hurried off to The Leaky Cauldron before she could say anything else or inquire further as to the reason for his hasty departure.

He didn't stop in the pub, though, instead passing through it and out into Muggle London (somewhere that, as a rule, he avoided unless absolutely necessary). He paused to consult a roughly-drawn map before returning it to his pocket and hurrying along the street, ignoring the rest of the people that crowded the pavement – just like they ignored everyone else around them – until he arrived at his destination. He checked the instructions again, suddenly anxious; he was not used to Muggle public transport and was, quite frankly, apprehensive at the prospect of travelling by Underground.

He knew how to use it – his other aunt, Andromeda, had taken him on it several times when he had been younger, "just in case". His father remained blissfully ignorant as to that fact, and, as far as Draco was concerned, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Changing his money hadn't been a problem; he'd done that at Gringott's.

The Tube platform, when he arrived on it, was quite busy and Draco, ever observant, eyed the other people there with interest. The couple that caught his attention most of all were kissing passionately – too passionately for public standards, in Draco's opinion. The man's hair was almost elbow-length, pulled back into a straggly ponytail and bright pink with purple streaks in it. He wore black from head to metal-toe-capped boots. The girl had chin-length, bright blue hair with pink streaks in, and was extremely scantily-clad. Draco, in blue jeans, trainers and a green T-shirt, felt extremely ordinary and Mugglish (if such a word existed – and if it hadn't, he'd just invented it and could claim fame for doing so). For once, though, he was glad to go unnoticed.

The journey, when the train came, didn't take long and Draco was glad to leave the still-kissing couple behind him when he got off. It was only a short walk to his final destination – a 'large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge and Dowse Ltd' (OotP, p426-7). He stood in front of the dummy modelling a green nylon pinafore dress. "I'm here to see Narcissa Malfoy," he muttered.

The dummy nodded and beckoned to him with its finger, and Draco stepped through the glass into the main reception of St. Mungo's Hospital. Barely able to keep from shaking, Draco walked up to the welcomewitch's desk.

"Yes?" she said briskly.

Draco took a deep breath. "I – I'm here to see Narcissa Malfoy."

"And you are?"

"Her – her son. Can you tell me what's wrong –?"

"Fourth floor. Spell Damage." She paused and something – sympathy? pity? – flickered in her eyes. "Closed Ward."

Draco stared at her in stunned disbelief. "W-which ward?"

"Closed Ward. I'm sorry. Move along now; there are others waiting. Stephan, are those shoes still giving you trouble?"

Numbly, Draco stumbled to one side and sank down into an empty seat, head in his hands and entire body trembling violently. He knew what the words Closed Ward meant.

Someone in lime-green robes entered his (currently rather limited) line of vision and crouched down in front of him. "Can I help you at all?"

Draco looked up at her. "I – I don't know. Who are you?"

"Heather Abbott. You might know my daughter Hannah – you look about her age."

Draco blinked slowly as his overloaded brain processed this information. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. My year. Hufflepuff. Good at Potions."

Heather smiled proudly and nodded. "Now, are you here for treatment or to see someone?"

"My – my mother. Narcissa Malfoy," Draco whispered, his voice shaking as much as his hands as he searched her face with his eyes. Draco was skilled at reading other people for the slightest scrap of information that they might unwittingly be giving him.

"Oh. I see." Heather's face clouded over. "I can help you there. What do you know?"

Draco hesitated, composing himself as best he could. "The welcomewitch – she said where…"

Heather nodded understandingly. "Come with me; I work there. Do you know what happened to your mother?"

Draco shook his head. He allowed Heather to help him to his feet and he followed her as she walked off, feeling as though he were in a dream where nothing seemed quite real.

"Your mother was held under the Cruciatus Curse for a long time," Heather told him gently as they made their way up the stairs. "She was unconscious when they found her, which was yesterday afternoon."

"I was still at Blaise's then," said Draco, more to himself than to Heather. Blaise Zabini, the prettiest girl in Slytherin, was Draco's best friend. The relationship between the two was strictly platonic; Blaise was interested in Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, and made her suspicions that Draco liked Hannah Abbott, perfectly clear.

"She regained consciousness soon after they brought her in – 'they' being the Aurors. However –" here Heather paused, "– we believe the damage done to be permanent." They reached the fourth floor and Heather led Draco to the door of the Closed Ward. She stopped and faced him sombrely. "I must warn you, Draco. She cannot speak properly or coherently; nor, we think, can she make sense of anything. The effects are irreversible; she will never improve. It is extremely unlikely that she will recognise you."

Draco stared at her in horror.

"I'm sorry, Draco; truly I am. We've done all we can, but to no avail. Do you want a bit of time to yourself before you see her, to take everything in?"

He shook his head firmly. "No. I want to see her. Please."

Okay." Heather led him in and took him to a bed at the end of the ward. The curtains were drawn around the two opposite beds, but Draco paid no attention to that fact. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy was almost unrecognisable now. Clad in a pale pink standard-issue St. Mungo's gown, she lay mumbling incoherently to herself, head on one side and hands moving pointlessly in her lap. Her face was devoid of any colour and showed evidence of great torment, and her previously well-kept, beautiful blonde hair was roughly tied up into two plaits. Draco was unable to speak, so shocked and horror-struck was he at the sight of his mother.

Heather gently guided him to a chair beside his mother's bed and helped him sit down. He accepted her assistance gratefully, feeling sure that he was unable to do it himself at this moment in time. "Do – do they know who – who did this?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Heather bowed her head. "It was her sister. Bellatrix Lestrange. She got away. I'm very sorry, Draco."

"Not your fault," Draco mumbled. He shakily reached out and tried to take one of his mother's hands in his. However, she jerked away from him and the muttering swiftly rose to an agony-laden, torment-filled wail that immediately brought three Healers to her side. Draco could only sit and stare in horror, disbelief and anguish. His mother, tortured to insanity by her own sister, was unable to recognise, and could not bear the touch of, her own son.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~TBC~

A/N: I'm an incurable Draco/Hannah shipper. Hence the mention of Draco's possible interest; I write Blaise Zabini as both male and female, depending on which goes better with the individual fic, as JKR's never specified.