A/N: My original plan was to post a couple additional scenes to this story but after a very helpful suggestion from Ameiko, I have decided to re-work this story and really try to flesh it out more. If you read the first version, this will follow the same basic story line but there's going to be enough new content that I think it would be worthwhile to re-read.
{November 23rd, 2001}
Draco Malfoy was rarely anxious. Intimidated? Occasionally. Frightened? Every so often. But anxious? Hardly ever. It was only in the past several months that the emotion had begun to surface at all.
Malfoys don't get nervous. It's not that they mask it, as they do with nearly every other emotion. It just never makes an appearance, so it's not something they needed to hide. It's not that Malfoys didn't get scared. They did. Bravery was not a trait associated with the family name. The reason had more to do with the fact that many of them were puffed too full of false confidence. Power has a way of over-inflating egos, of erasing any need for anxiety. Power means you are in control. There's no reason to be nervous if you believe you know the outcome.
But as Draco sat scratching his arm, anxiety was the only emotion coursing through him. Had he been more introspective, he might have noticed the traces of desperate hope and dread that lingered as well. Draco had spent enough time examining his life and his choices; there was no time for that today.
"You have to stop. You're going to draw blood again like last time." The words were spoken softly but they carried enough weight to make Draco listen. He scowled but knew she was right. Of course she was right. He even knew that she was just as anxious as he was, although a fraction more hopeful. He knew her better than anyone. Yet, now was not the time to dwell on this fact either.
That time would likely come in an hour or two, when he inevitably returned home, once again alone and dejected. She knew better than to try to talk to him under those circumstances. Of course she knew what he would be feeling. She knew him better than anyone.
Draco's nervous energy was now finding its way out through his feet. The accelerated tapping of his shoe filled the small and otherwise silent room. Silent, that is, for everyone other than Draco.
He was all too aware of the scraping of teeth against fingernails, of the shallow breathing beside him, of the very buzz of magic in the air. The tapping seemed to be a better idea than the scratching; one loud noise to focus on was better than the various quieter sounds that were constantly drawing his attention.
It hadn't always been this way. A year and a half ago, Draco wouldn't have noticed a thing. A year and a half ago, the noises competing for attention were the shouts of wizards and witches and spells whizzing across open fields and cramped corridors. A year and a half ago, he could still see.
Nobody had noticed the spell being cast. Nobody heard the words that changed Draco Malfoy's life. And nobody else saw the beam of purple light that had been headed straight for Hermione Granger.
It was a twisted stroke of fate that had caused Draco to turn and pay attention at that very moment. Afterwards, he was constantly harassed by the same question: Why?
It came from the other aurors, from Hermione, from his mother, from the few friends he had managed to keep. It even came from himself.
Why did he feel compelled to throw Hermione out of the way? Why did he act like a bloody Gryffindor? Why did he act on this new instinct instead of sticking to the self-preservation that had been drilled into him since birth? It was a constant fixation for months which turned into a late night obsession which eventually ceased to matter. The reason was no longer important to him.
The fact was that he had saved her.
It was done.
Finished.
Despite the hell of those first few months, he knows he wouldn't have changed his actions if given a second chance. Maybe he would have tried to block the spell with something other than his face. Maybe an arm or a leg or even the back of his head would have been better options. Maybe they would have been far worse.
Honestly, it was a bit surprising he remained unscathed for as long as he did. There were countless others who hadn't been so lucky. The Battle at Hogwarts had rendered the most casualties , but the two following years were not without stain.
Although Voldemort had been defeated, there was still the matter of rounding up the remaining Death Eaters. The ones who hadn't been killed or defeated during the final battle had immediately gone into hiding. With virtually no knowledge or clues as to their whereabouts, the Ministry was at a loss.
That's where Draco came in.
His father now in Azkaban, Draco had taken over as the head of the Malfoy household. Narcissa had been cleared for assisting Harry and since Draco had still been an underage wizard when he took the mark, he was also cleared. Unlike his mother though, he was let off with a warning. He had one year to "benefit wizarding society," whatever that meant, or face the possibility of an Azkaban sentence.
He made donation after donation at his mother's insistence, trying to both fulfill his obligation as well as bring the family name back to the elevated and respected level it once held. Nothing worked.
Eventually he heard of the failed attempts to capture the remaining Death Eaters. Although it took a bitter, bitter blow to his pride and resulted in more than a few nights of self-loathing, he applied for a position as an auror. He was accepted and transferred to a new department created specifically to deal with the Death Eater problem.
His co-workers, including know-it-all Hermione Granger, were cold and distant. His supervisors were distrustful and threw him most of the grunt work. The few pureblood families that had remained amiable immediately following the war quickly disappeared.
And yet, Draco was… pleased. Oddly enough, he found that he liked the strategic planning and the rigorous training. He felt accomplished and rewarded for the first time in his life. Not that he admitted that to anyone.
He worked hard for nearly two years and he was proud. Because he knew of several secret Death Eater safe houses, he even orchestrated a few raids. Including his last.
It was supposed to be the department's final raid. Dolohov, who had narrowly survived a duel with Flitwick at Hogwarts, was the last Death Eater at large. The planning had gone without a hitch. The execution, however, had not.
It was an ambush.
Dolohov had apparently made some new friends in Germany and the aurors were completely outnumbered. It was pure chaos. Spells were flying everywhere and in the one, solitary moment of clarity that Draco had, he saw a spell being cast at Hermione Granger. And that's when everything went black.
Draco shook his head. He'd spent too much time mulling over what ifs and he was frantically trying to avoid them now. They were there, though, lurking at the edges of his mind. What if this treatment didn't work? What if he'd put himself through all this just to be disappointed again? It's not as if these were crazy questions. They were, unfortunately, all too legitimate.
The truth of the matter was that this was Draco's seventh treatment attempt in a year and a half. All of them were spearheaded by none other than Hermione herself. It started out, Draco was convinced, as a way to repay her debt, as a way to make up for not being able to answer why. After all, if Hermione didn't have the answer, who would?
As soon as Draco's diagnosis was confirmed, she was off to the library. She threw herself into researching anything and everything she could find on the subject. She interviewed his healers and reviewed any information they had. She also avoided Draco as much as possible. What do you say to someone who could have lost his life saving yours? In many ways, Draco had felt that was already the case. After all, who had heard of a blind wizard? It was a joke. Everything he knew had been stripped away.
Continuing as an auror was obviously out. Instead of a leader, he'd be nothing more than a casualty if he went on a raid now. He'd be completely unable to protect himself, let alone actually fight anyone. Gods, that was a pathetic image: Draco shooting spells with no ability to aim at or even discern a target.
And then there was the matter of his entire lifestyle. Nearly all magic required sight. He couldn't transfigure an item if he couldn't point his wand at it. He couldn't levitate anything without the ability to see where the object was located. Hell, he couldn't even play quidditch any longer! What good is a seeker that has no way of locating the snitch?
He'd felt useless, completely and utterly useless. He'd had every ounce of independence stripped away from him. He wouldn't be able to get anywhere unaccompanied. He'd probably never be able to live on his own. He would always be chained to someone else, needing a guide or some other form of assistance.
He had no idea how to get dressed in the dark. He'd have to have his clothing picked out for him, like a sodding two year old. He was going to have to relearn how to shower and get ready for the day, all without the benefit of knowing the end product.
As if he hadn't sunk low enough in the wizarding community. Any advancement that Draco had made by becoming an auror was yanked from him grasp. Nobody would take him seriously anymore. They'd be too overwhelmed by either pity or satisfaction at his condition. He'd already seen – correction: heard – it from the few people that had bothered to visit. He was nothing more than a cripple to them now. He'd be a burden to some and the rest would simply be glad not to deal with him anymore.
With the exception of his mother's frequent visits and Blaise's occasional ones, Hermione Granger was the only constant in his life. And it was not exactly a welcome constant. She was either an inquisitive little bugger or a delusional optimist: he never knew which one he was going to get.
Even before the incident, Draco & Hermione's relationship had been somewhat civil on the best of days. While there were no screaming matches, there were heated looks and cold shoulders. A strong resentment seemed to linger from their school days. They had never gotten along and they had accepted that they never would.
Truth be told, Draco found the whole situation rather amusing. He'd bait her and she would do her best to appear unaffected. Draco's life may not have been according to plan, but this was normal. Perhaps it wasn't mature, but it was normal.
It was an odd little routine they had established but there was a sort of familiarity in it. Ever since Draco's injury, however, that routine had been shattered.
She was suddenly in much closer proximity than usual and she tended to hang around longer. Now, if he hadn't been suffering through what he might later label as depression, he would have seized this opportunity to try out all sorts of new jabs. As it was though, he was feeling rather lackluster.
The few times that he had tried to insult or taunt her, she had zero reaction. The only indication that she had even heard his pathetic attempts was the increase in the speed of her quill across the parchment. Once, he'd even heard her muttering about "thinning patience" and "necessary lashing out."
The only topics they bothered to discuss were about Draco's condition. She'd ask lengthy, academic questions and he would answer in as few words as possible. That was the extent of their interactions until Hermione had decided to breach the gap.
Her first thank you attempt had failed. Draco had pretended to be asleep. He felt she kind of deserved it for just bursting in and spitting it out, without any warning or precursor. He heard the whole thing and before the injury, he probably would have responded. But what do you say to someone who escaped without a scratch while your entire world came crashing down?
He spent days trying to come up with the answer and was prepared to give it when she thanked him the second time, but he never got the chance.
{July 3rd, 2000}
The door to Draco's right burst open. Although it was pointless, he turned his head in the direction of the noise, his eyes remaining tightly shut. Hermione's determined footsteps stomped across the room, stopping only when she reached his bed.
The next thing he knew, his blankets were ripped off and his pillow was yanked from beneath his head.
"What in the hell do you think –" he started.
"Get out of bed," came the command.
Draco scoffed at her feeble attempt. It would take a lot more than that to get Draco Malfoy to obey Hermione Granger. Honestly, she was supposed to be the smart one?
"I'm not joking, Malfoy. You are going to get out of that bed and you are going to quit skulking around. You have been here three weeks and I haven't seen you move from that same position. It's pathetic."
"Pathetic?" growled Draco. "What exactly would you prefer that I do? Take a lap around the room so that I can fall flat on my face? I'm sure you'd love to see that. I hate to disappoint you Granger but I refuse."
"I don't care what you do as long as it's something! This is ridiculous. You're not the only person to ever suffer spell damage. There's no reason why you can't live –"
"A full and happy life. Get some new material, will you? I've heard all this bullshit before. But while we're on the subject, have you ever heard of a blind wizard? How many of them are gallivanting around with full and happy lives?" Draco would never admit it but this felt good. It was familiar territory, arguing with Granger. He felt more alive than he had in weeks.
She stayed silent for a minute, no doubt trying to come up with some lame anecdote. "There are plenty of blind people who are independent. They leave their houses, they contribute to society, they –"
"Muggles! They are muggles! Look I may not be the same bigoted arse that I was at Hogwarts but do not dare place me in the same category with them. Besides, you just admitted defeat. By comparing my situation to a muggle you concede that being a blind wizard is an oxymoron. It's not possible."
She let a noise that was something between a grunt and a squeal. He hadn't heard her foot stomp but he could very well imagine her doing so in his head. She was so predictable.
"Listen here, Malfoy. I've had enough of your self-pitying nonsense. You could choose to adapt to your new life, to learn a different method of doing things. But instead, you lie in this bed and you brood about the injustice of your situation. I've seen people in far worse situations than yours. People get hurt every day and I could very well be helping them. Yet here I am, standing by your bedside, holding a potential cure that you don't even deserve."
"What did you say?" he whispered. He must have heard her wrong. Nobody had been able to figure out what curse he'd been struck with, let alone attempted to find a reversal. It simply wasn't possible.
"You heard me. I think I may have found a cure. But I absolutely refuse to help someone who doesn't even attempt to help himself. I've known you to be many things but I never thought you were a quitter. You can moan all you like but your life is not over. You're not even twenty, for Merlin's sake! There's a lot of work left to be done and there's a lot more of this world for you to experience. Now, what are you going to do about it?"
Thus began a cycle which had since been repeated six times. If Hermione's research was stage one, putting the plan into action was stage two. It involved contacting experts and conducting experiments of her own. The truth was that she was in the dark almost as much as he was. While his was literal and all encompassing, hers was theoretical but just as oppressive. She had no idea what curse had been cast, no clue as to what could change Draco's fate. Hermione, however, had never backed down from a challenge and she certainly wasn't about to start.
Each treatment attempt had ended in failure and Draco was nervous that today's appointment would yield the same results.
It wasn't that Draco needed a favorable outcome, per say. Truth be told, he was rather proud of what he'd come to accomplish in the past year and a half. During the ten months that he was stuck in St. Mungo's, he'd gone through a rehabilitation program of sorts. Hermione's words had eventually clicked. He couldn't just lie around forever, feeling sorry for himself. If he was essentially going to re-learn how to live his life, he had a lot of work to do.
The main issue was that there was zero precedent for this in the wizarding world. Magic was so often able to heal any sort of ailment that there had never been a real need for this sort of program to be established. Hermione had offered to conduct more research to assist him but Draco had strongly refused. There was no way he was going to have a member of the beloved "Golden Trio" watch as he fumbled along.
He'd insisted that he be taught by a professional, someone trained. And preferably someone who wouldn't take pleasure in seeing Draco Malfoy knocked down a few notches. After presenting a compelling case to the Ministry, and using a bit of her influence from her role in the war, Hermione was able to bring someone in. It wasn't until months later that Draco found out that Mr. Belter used to work at a muggle rehabilitation center for the blind. That meant Hermione had managed to convince the Ministry to breach the Statute of Secrecy for this; she was far more persuasive than Draco had given her credit for.
He'd worked with Mr. Belter nearly every day and he managed to regain most of his independence. Later, after he had been released from St. Mungo's, Hermione had worked with him on ways for him to use his magic. He'd worked hard and the dedication had certainly paid off. So Draco wasn't lying when he said he didn't "need" the results to be positive. But did he long for them to be?
Absolutely.
Maybe it sounded like taking the easy way out but what was so wrong about wanting his old life back? Could anyone really blame him for wanting to stare once more at a sunset or a starry night sky or the face of the woman he loved? These were the images that filled his dreams each night; he yearned to see them again with his own two eyes.
Before he could dwell on his convoluted thoughts for a second longer, the door creaked open.
"Mr. Malfoy, this way please," said the doctor. Draco drew a shaky breath and reached down to grab his cane. He felt Hermione's soothing hand on his back as he made his way towards the sound of the doctor's voice. Draco suddenly found himself wishing for more time. There would be no way to un-hear the verdict, no way to stop the small ounce of hope from being extinguished. Anxious as he was, Hermione had been right all those months ago: he was not a quitter.
Making his way into what felt like a modest office, he sat down on a bench with Hermione close to his side. He grabbed for her hand, ashamed of the way his was trembling. She made no mention of it; instead bringing her other hand over to rub reassuring circles on the back of his shaky hand.
There was no way to summarize the drastic turn their relationship had taken. Most days, he still didn't believe this was real, that their journey from childhood enemies to co-workers to acquaintances to companions to lovers had actually happened. But at this moment, those doubts didn't matter. What mattered was the obstacle directly in front of them. Whatever the news was, they would face it side by side. Together.
A/N: Feedback would really be appreciated! I'd love to know what you guys think, whether you read the old version or are checking this story out for the first time.
Also, a big thank you to Ameiko for taking the time to give me advice and encouragement! And if you're not already reading Stories Of Us, then get on it! Even if you're not into The Hunger Games, that story is definitely well worth the read.