AN: I don't own HP or any of the characters

HEALING MAGIC

The past ten years had not been easy for me. The Malfoy name was in shambles and the enormous war reparations that the New Ministry had forced us to pay left my mother and me with only our manor and the furniture inside. My father was no longer with us, having been sentenced to Azkaban for the remainder of his life. Although my mother and I may have gotten off for preventing the death of the boy-who-lived, my father was still considered the same deatheater scum he had always been; there was no chance of leniency in his case.

So my mother and I began life without our father; however, I don't know if you could truly call it living. In return for not convicting us to Azkaban, the Wizengot restricted all magic done by any member of the Malfoy family. Neither my mother, myself, nor any living relative with the Malfoy last name could cast any spell more serious than a strong scorgify. I was left with almost no way to protect, transport, or even support myself

If I sound bitter, it's only because I am. How could I not be? My mother and I were left to auction off our precious belongings in order to eat while Potter, Weasel and Granger's photographs made the front cover of every teen wizarding magazine in existence. And you wouldn't believe the frenzy when Potter married the girl Weasel almost eight years ago. Rita Skeeter is still reporting on "Potter-Weasley's wonderful and winsome wedding." In fact, in her article today, detailing the birth of their second child, Severus Albus Potter, she uses that exact phrase three times. Three times too many, in my opinion.

I'm sure at this point, you're wondering how in Merlin's name I know what Rita Skeeter writes let alone her exact phrasing. Well, as the Daily Prophet's assistant head fact checker, reading her articles is my job. A job, my coworkers remind me daily, that I am damn lucky to have. I learned quickly enough that a deatheater's last name does not get one far in life. As it happens, all one receives with it (and the signature platinum hair) is the occasional trip to St. Mungo's emergency medical ward. Some people really can't let sleeping dogs lie.

So here I am, early evening, and I'm sitting in a chair waiting for a healer to mend the broken arm and 2 bruised ribs I had received from a few very drunken (and very angry) pub dwellers when in walks the Weasel. I'm not surprised, he is the head healer of this district of St. Mungo's, but what does surprise me is when he starts walking in my direction. I've been to the emergency ward 11 times before and never have I even looked at by, let alone encountered Weasel in all of my many hours here.

"Mr. Malfoy." I raise my eyes to meet his gaze and his lips turn up in an impersonal smile. Weasel's filled out since Hogwarts, and although he looks slightly charming, I'm positive he uses that smile on all of his patients, or, at least, the patients he doesn't want to see. His eyes rake over me, and for some reason I want to squirm a bit in my seat. My hair is mussed, my lip split, and my eye black, none of which are a good look for me. Of course I don't squirm, as that would let Weasel know how uncomfortable I feel, but I do take this moment to grunt harshly and break the silence,

"Looking for something Weasley?" Weasel raises a ginger eyebrow and huffs in amusement. What I had tried to make sound threatening and imposing came out weak and defeated thanks to the cracks in my voice.

"Tell me Malfoy, how does a bloke like you end up in the emergency ward twelve times in the past nine years?" I just stare at him, not willing to risk another embarrassing voice crack. Unfortunately for me, Weasel seems to have grown a back bone in the past decade and stares right back. I lose the silent battle and break the quiet.

"Why do you care Weasel?" My voice is a bit stronger this time and Weasley huffs again, but this time he's not amused.

"Listen Malfoy, I know you don't like me. Hell, I don't like you either. But I take my job very seriously, and when someone comes in bloody and bruised more than once a year for nine years straight, I have to find out why. So tell me. Why?"

"I fell."

"You bloody well did not." I'm not going to argue with Weasel. I didn't fall and we both know it, but admitting that inebriated men who can't let the past go like to beat me up at every given opportunity is not something said easily. To be honest, I think I would rather suffer an infection from my wounds than tell him. Weasel raises an eyebrow and stands up straight, looking like he's not going to stop questioning me until he gets what he came here for.

"I can't treat you until you tell me what happened, Malfoy." I continue to stare at him. "Malfoy, I'm not going to beg, and until I know, I'm not going to fix your arm either. Let go of your stupid family pride and tell me."

That was the final straw. Standing up quickly, I pushed Weasel lightly out of the way with my good shoulder and made for the exit, walking as quickly as I could, whilst being careful to not bump into anyone else; I didn't want any more vendettas on my hands than I already had. When I finally made it to the street, ignoring Weasel's shouts behind me, I turned down the nearest alley way and collapsed. I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or shout. Family pride. The phrase sounded ridiculous to me now. If there was one thing I didn't have, it was family pride. There was nothing to be proud of. My father was rotting away in a stone cell, my mother living in a sparse guest room at the manor, the furniture of my childhood decorating someone else's gaudy home. My situation wasn't much better than my parent's either. Sitting in a cramped closet office all day, barely making enough money to cover rent, bills, and food, all of which were extremely hard to come by; most stores didn't even let me past the front door.

Letting my head fall back to rest against the alley wall, I supposed that maybe Weasel was right, my pride did get in the way. If I didn't have so much broken pride, I would have been able to tell Weasel what had happened. Had I not had pride, I would have walked right back into St. Mungo's and demanded he treat me, begged even. But I did have too much pride. It wasn't inspired by my family, no, but by my wish to not be any more humiliated than I had this past decade. Already, that weight was too much to bear.

"To [Rochester] I suppose." I muttered to myself, wincing as I jostled my arm while trying to stand. William Rochester's of London was the closest muggle hospital, and one I visited frequently enough. For obvious reasons, I didn't like to go to St. Mungo's every time someone took offense to me, so, as ironic as it was, I went to a hospital facilitated by muggles. Fortunately, there was a nurse on the right wing's 4th floor who was also a witch. Though she didn't have any formal wizarding education, she knew enough spellwork to heal broken bones and cuts. It it weren't for her, I don't know what I would do. But before I even got the chance to take a step, let alone leave the alley, a dark figure stepped in front of the entrance.

"What the fuck're you doing 'ere?" A gruff voice spat. The man's face was hard to see in the semi-darkness but his body was large and stout, about 2 inches taller than my 5 foot, ten inch frame. His wand was drawn, and although I couldn't see his expression, the angry tone of his voice told me that he wasn't smiling.

"I apologize, sir." I tried to make my voice sound remorseful. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just wanted to sit down and catch my breath for a minute. I'll be going now."

"Oh no you a'int. Don't think I wouldn't recognize that hair o' yours." All the blood rushed out of my face as he said those words. Shit. I knew what was coming, and I didn't think I could handle it. Normally the men who approached me were drunk. They were mean spirited and angry, and although they always got in a few good kicks and punches, I was never left with more than a broken bone or mild hex. But this man sounded enraged, probably because of something that my father or another deatheater had done to him. Though it must have been horrible if he was still so livid over an event that had happened a decade ago, it wasn't because of me and it certainly wasn't my fault. But here I was anyway, slowly being backed into the corner of a dead-end ally with no means to protect myself. It wasn't fair.

"Corpus!" Before I could even so much as dodge out of the way, my body was bound by thick ropes, leaving gravity to do its part and crash me to the ground. The man stepped closer and I wanted to shout, beg, cry even, but each time that I so much as twitched a muscle, the ropes gripped me tighter. The break in my arm was shooting sharp pains towards my chest and I could barely breathe, partly because of the constrictions, but also because of my ribs. The bulky silhouette grew larger until it was standing right over me, his heavy breathing causing his stomach to shrink and expand.

"Thought you'd get away with it, didn't you Malfoy? Maybe you charmed all the Wizengot with your snake smile, but I here didn't forget what your family did. I saw you coming into this alley all smug and shit, and I'm going to make sure that you leave this alley half'er man you came in as." My sweat ran cold, and it only took me a moment to realize how helpless I was. Two seconds later, his heavy boot connected with my stomach. I gagged and bile rose up my esophagus, but in these ropes I couldn't swallow it or dispel it. I began choking, unable to breathe or get rid of the vomit in my throat, while the overweight whale of a man continued to beat, punch, and throw hexes at me all at once. It felt like a lifetime, maybe even two, as each heavy stroke hit my already fragile body. My only salvation was my vision slowly dissipating into complete darkness. Not nearly soon enough, I passed out.

~R/D~

It felt like as soon as my eyes shut, they were once again forced to open and look into the face of the man. Quickly enough, though, I realized that this wasn't the same man from before. I still couldn't see very well, the alley was too dark and my head pulsated angrily with each heartbeat, but the ropes that had held me in place were gone and replaced by gently probing hands that seemed to be searching for my injuries. I let out a hiss; no matter how careful this person's fingers were, my body was so battered that each light touch was painful. I heard some words mumbled under the man's breath, and no sooner than he finished, I felt the alarming need to vomit. Oh Merlin, how humiliating.

I was gently rolled onto my side, and I curled my legs into myself, clutching my stomach as my previous meals forcibly pushed their way up. Whilst I vomited, soft hands ran through my hair and a soothing voice talked to me in low tones. I may have been too tired and injured to be able to understand this person, but his soft rolling lilt was relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that I hardly noticed when he picked me up and began carrying me.

'It must have been a spell' were the last thoughts to flit through my head before I fell asleep.

Hi all! After about 4 years of reading and creeping on FF I decided to make a change! This is my first story that I have ever published to FFnet (or really even written!) and writing it so far has been really hard. I would LOVE your advice for improvement. Hopefully my grammar and spelling is up to par; I don't have a beta so it's all spellcheck and googled grammar rules. So please drop me a line and tell me what I'm doing wrong, what I'm doing right, what you're having for lunch, etc.

I should warn you though that I'm entering a really busy time in my life, and while writing chapters periodically may be very therapeutic for me, waiting for ages to know what happens next probably isn't your number one choice of therapy! So be warned! Chapters will come when (and if) they come. Please don't throw things at me! (unless they be cookies, argh!)