AN: hahaha. I really have nothing to say for myself. I'm pretty sure this has been written since last year. WELL BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. Looking to update my other stories too... east of the sun and probably masking dawn. ALRIGHT LETS GO
Once Draco was home again, the situation didn't seem nearly so serious as it had at St. Mungo's. So his arms were numb, so what? What's a little numbness between friends? He needn't leap to any conclusions, nor leap into treatment with any ex-school rivals turned sickeningly heroic and famous and (probably) filthy rich.
No, he could take time to research all alternatives extensively. His wand didn't care if his motions were floppy and awkward, and that's all that mattered. Well, mostly. Not being floppy and awkward would be nice too, he thought with a sigh, and set to work.
He had the list of recommended cursebreakers from Healer Nelson, and he started there. He looked them up in libraries, checked their rankings in the wizarding classifieds, sent owls to trustworthy and knowledgeable witches and wizards he was acquaintances with. And to his disgust, every avenue he explored led him to the same result: Harry Potter. He was the best cursebreaker in modern history. It was sickening, but Draco had never settled for less than the best.
"Of course, there's a first time for everything, right?" He asked Pansy the next weekend. The Zabinis had been kind enough to invite him to dinner, despite the way his fork seemed to constantly miss his mouth ("It's harder than it looks," Draco had said testily).
"No, dear, there's only a first time for things worth trying," said Pansy in an all-suffering tone of voice. "It's great that you're trying to be less narrow-minded, branching out to second best and all, but I really don't think that now is the opportune time. This is your health, not a restaurant."
Draco wrinkled his nose, clearly more disconcerted by the thought of dining at a second-rate establishment than the thought of receiving second-rate treatment.
"Don't be an idiot, mate," said Blaise from the other side of the table, "He's the best and you're a Malfoy. There's really no other option here."
"Fine, I'll keep that in mind," Draco said, "But it's only affected my arms and it's been a week, so I think I have time to look into out-of-country treatment."
This last comment was met with a low groan from Pansy and the sound of Blaise's forehead meeting his palm. Draco, with an unwavering assurance that he was doing the right thing, doggedly plowed through the rest of his dinner. And he only missed his mouth twice.
He woke up the next morning with a renewed fervor, determined to search the whole of Europe. There was an excellent cursebreaker in France, he was sure he had heard, and the Malfoys did have their summer home in Chateauroux. It would be a wonderful vacation, even if only half of his limbs would be able to adequately enjoy it.
Frighteningly optimistic, Draco threw back his covers and got out of bed.
In a perfect world, he would have gracefully alighted on his feet and swept out the bedroom door, down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen where there was assuredly a breakfast feast waiting for him.
But then again, in a perfect world, Draco would have always beat Potter at Quidditch, his father would not be in Azkaban, and Draco would have been able to feel his feet.
A perfect world would have been nice, but as it was, Draco had stumbled on what felt like nothing and was now being suffocated by the plush carpet on his bedroom floor.
He awkwardly hoisted himself into a sitting position, his legs straight in front of him and his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. No, nononono this could not be happening. Why now? It had been fine for a week. He hadn't gotten any worse and he'd been sure the numbness had stopped spreading. Why would it suddenly return, and why today? Just when he'd gotten his hopes back up.
He proceeded to try out an awkward feeling test. His fingers brushed the soles of his feet, and he felt nothing. It was like he was watching someone else do it, for all the good he felt. He poked his toes, and felt nothing. He touched the tops of his feet, and he felt that, but he had the feeling that it wasn't going to last long.
He hoisted himself upwards, using the bed to hold on to. His arms and legs worked fine. His fingers curled into fists when he wanted them to and his feet could evidently carry his weight… the problem was not that they didn't work, it was that suddenly they didn't work the way that had for his whole life. Suddenly it was very different. He felt like a newborn trying to learn how to walk and grab and hold. And when he didn't focus, he slipped up.
For instance, as soon as he stopped staring at his feet to assure himself that they were in fact on the ground and holding him up, his body lurched forward as if trying to compensate for something and he toppled over again.
It was like some strange sort of vertigo. And it made the trek to the breakfast table seem much, much longer and entirely not worth it. The stairs alone seemed like an impossible task.
Draco could feel his lungs slowly closing in around large wooshes of air as his heart rate went into double time. If he could feel his palms, they'd probably be sweaty. He was certainly feeling dizzy, and just a little bit freaked out of his mind.
"Calm down, calm down," he muttered to himself, "This isn't the worst thing that's happened to you." He clenched his eyes shut against the memories of the things that had been worse. Those were things that were to be forgotten, now that the war had ended.
But it was good to remember that he'd lived through them. And if he could live through that- torture, fear, malice- then he could live through anything. He was a wizard, after all, there had to be some sort of way to fix this.
But the only thing that came to mind was Harry Potter.
"It bloody well would be."
By the time Draco made it to the dining room, he was sure that more than half of his body was bruised, and he'd also decided that perhaps people living in small houses weren't insane- they just planned ahead.
If anyone ever planned on spontaneously losing feeling, that is.
He had been right in guessing the numbness would continue to spread- it was now to his ankles. It was like quicksand, only worse, because there was no crawling out of it.
He wasn't very hungry, but he stabbed at his breakfast anyway. He thought about stabbing himself in he arm too, just to see, but didn't want to risk the scarring.
Draco groaned. He was going crazy.
And he realized that there was nothing to be done but to see Potter, and the fact that he accepted that only made him feel more crazy. He'd had values, once. He'd had standards.
He'd had fully operational limbs, then, too. Things really do change, he thought bitterly, as he summoned a house elf to take down a letter. He didn't have the energy to attempt to write it himself.
The house-elf Lolly, scrawny even for an elf, appeared promptly with a quill already in hand. Draco had to stifle an odd burst of emotion in his chest- his elves knew him so well.
"Good morning, Master Malfoy. I can be writing a letter for you, yes?" she asked, procuring a smooth piece of parchment from seemingly nowhere.
"Yes, thank you, Lolly. Address it to Harry Potter."
Lolly nearly dropped the quill before regaining her composure. But her eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates. Fortunately house elves don't ask questions.
"Potter," Malfoy dictated, "I have learned… no. Scratch that, Lolly. Potter, it has come to my attention that…"
Draco trailed off, smoothing his hair in frustration. How exactly did one go about asking their old nemesis for help? Pride alone wouldn't let Draco sound too desperate, but courtesy dictated that Draco at least try to ingratiate himself with the man.
"Oh bollocks, it's not like it's going to matter once he sees who it's from anyway," Draco growled. "Alright Lolly, let's start over."
Harry leaned back in his desk, closing his eyes. It had been a long day, and it was still far from over. While in between clients, he liked to just relax and clear his mind.
He loved his work. Everyone had expected him to be an auror, surely, or a quidditch player, but the war had exhausted Harry's desire for active combat and he wanted no part of the fame that playing quidditch would add. Cursebreaking was perfect.
He was still helping people, but for once none of his successes could be attributed to sheer dumb luck. He could actually feel proud of what he accomplished.
But even though he loved what he did, it was a difficult profession full of headaches and dead ends and he had more clients then he knew what to do with. Peaceful moments were rare, which is why Harry was less than pleased when he heard the telltale clacking of an owl at the window.
He opened his eyes with a sigh and went to let the bird in. The owl was massive, with sleek and softly shining feathers. An elegant creature, and proud in a way that reminded him of Hedwig.
Definitely from a well to do household. Slightly curious, Harry untied the letter. He broke open the seal, which was a peacock and which he didn't recognize, to reveal precise script on thick parchment:
Dear Potter,
I find myself in need of your services.
I would like to meet with you as soon as possible. I assure you I can make it worth your while.
Regards,
Draco Malfoy
AN: There used to be a warning on my page about how bad I can be at updates. I should probably put it back up.
