Chapter 2

Two months later

Draco huffed, irritated with himself. His former fluid gait had been reduced to an unsteady shuffle. He held on to the walker as he made his way to the kitchen. The metal device was a strange muggle contraption, but it did help him keep his balance. Still, he chafed at the necessity of having to use it, although he much preferred it to the wheelchair he'd had at the hospital.

I look like a drunken giant, he groused to himself. If I were any slower, I'd be a snail.

Healer Robbins said he would have to be patient. He assured Draco he had made great progress since he was admitted to St. Mungo's mostly dead. But it was hard. Tasks that had taken no time to perform before were now arduous and difficult. Despite what his mother said, not everything could be done with magic. Still, he managed. Some days were better than others. But Granger told him living in time meant all seasons had their end. Even those of trial. Right now, he was holding on to that.

Once in the kitchen, he went about preparing a cup of tea. He'd gone for a while without using sugar in it, even though he liked his drink hot and sweet. But he'd had too many accidents spilling it, and cleaning up the mess afterward was a pain. His hands often trembled; Healer Robbins said it was in response to the fevers. Whenever his temperature spiked, Draco's couldn't hold on to anything. Even the smallest spoon would be dropped with a crash, sugar scattering everywhere.

But then Granger stepped in.

Of course she did, the nosy little crusader, Draco thought fondly.

When she noticed he'd been going without, she'd asked him about it. As he explained his situation, her lips pursed in a tight frown. The next day, she'd brought him a bear-shaped container filled with honey. Said it was a squeeze bottle and showed him how to use it. She spelled it to respond to even the weakest press. Then the interfering little swot taught him how to make a perfect cup of tea by adding honey and a lemon slice. He liked it so well, he no longer missed the milk and sugar he used to demand.

Draco sighed and took another sip.

Granger. His pesky new friend.

Looking around the kitchen of his new home, he could see her influence everywhere. In the purple flower arrangement on his table; in the strange muggle appliances she insisted on purchasing to help him live more independently….he snorted, remembering her chirpy, bright voice the day she brought them to his house.

"Muggle magic here to save the day!"

At least she believed in him. She believed he could have a normal life.

Not everyone did.

He'd moved to the family's lakeside cottage soon after being dismissed from St. Mungo's. The Manor, complete with long hallways, massive staircases and overbearing parents, was no place for someone physically disabled to live.

Lucius, under the sentence of a lengthy house arrest and magical suppression, had assigned the elves to help in his son's care. But Draco didn't want to be coddled, not that his father listened to his protests. Wanting to escape from the guilt of being the cause of his son's condition, Lucius went too far in the other direction. He became suffocating. Narcissa was little better. Always teary-eyed, always apologetic, neither she nor her husband understood that what their son wanted was normalcy. What Draco needed was for them to act naturally, even if natural for them was less than ideal. But they ignored his pleas.

After several days of being babied and being made to feel utterly useless, he told his parents he was moving out to live at the cottage on the other side of the grove, near the lake where he used to fish as a lad.

He wasn't surprised when his mother kicked up a fuss.

"Don't be ridiculous," she'd scoffed. "That's an impossibility. Why, you're not…" her words trailed off when she realized what she'd almost said. Putting her fingers to her mouth, she looked at him guiltily.

Draco's face turned stony and cold.

"I'm not what, Mother?" he asked. "Strong enough? Able enough? Good enough?

Removing her hand from her face, she gave him a withering look. "There's no need to mock my concern, Draco."

"Concern? Is that what you're calling it?"

"Draco! I will not tolerate…"

He butted in. "You forget. I know you, Mother. I can tell what you're thinking…..you and Father both. I can see it every time you look at me. I hear it in the tone of your voice. I'm the family's new, dirty little secret."

"Now, you know that's not tru…."

"Isn't it?" he interrupted. "Then tell me, Mother…..why are squib children not included in Pureblood family portraits?"

"Draco, that's not…."

"Why are disabled children passed by in receiving an inheritance?"

"Well….."

"I guess I should be glad I'm an only child or I'd be a pauper now."

"Draco, please!""

Ignoring her pleas, he pushed further. "Mother, have you been busy arranging a match for me?"

Narcissa didn't answer.

Lifting his brows, Draco mocked, "No? Why not?"

Nothing.

"Could it be because you're ashamed of me? Because you know none of the other families will accept me now, no matter how many galleons Father promises them?"

Narcissa matched his stare for a few beats of the heart; then her eyes shifted, unable to keep his honest gaze.

When Draco saw it, his last faint hope shriveled and died. He knew pureblood ideology. He'd been raised on it. Anything less than perfect was beneath them. Whether it was muggleborns or squibs…..or…

disabled sons who were no longer a source of pride. His face began to crumple, but hastily stomping down his emotions, he clenched his jaw and affected indifference.

"That's what your real concern is. That my condition has further sullied our already tarnished name; that we'll eventually lose our place in society."

"Darling…I know you don't mean all this. You're tired and overwrought. You need to rest."

"Oh, please. You can't keep me in bed forever. A pity, I know. I would be easier to hide away if I was bedridden.

"Draco…...dove, listen….."

With that one word, Draco felt his heart crack into a million pieces. How many times had his mother called him her dove? When he'd taken his first steps; ridden his first broom; when he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter; made the Slytherin quidditch team; when he'd been made prefect. Always when he'd shown promise or received an honor. That she'd said it now was horribly, painfully ironic.

"Why did you call me that?" he asked, his voice low and ominous, though Narcissa didn't pick up on it.

She paused; then sighed. "Because you'll always be my son," she began, combing back his hair with her fingers, "even if you're no longer…."

That small negative word was a flame to Draco's combustible cauldron. He exploded.

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I NO LONGER AM!"

Narcissa gasped, shocked at his outburst.

"I know, okay?" he raged. "I'm lame….I'm a cripple…..my body no longer works...but I'M STILL ME!" he shouted, startling his mother into silence. "In here, Mum!" he thumped his chest angrily, "I'm no different. Yet, you and Father treat me as if I am. Do you know what that feels like? Do you know what that does to me?"

Draco paused to breathe, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Two pairs of grey eyes stared at the other. Both filled with pain. And tears.

"Mum….please," he begged. "I know better than to ask it of Father, but can't you understand?"

"I'm …...I'm trying to, Son."

Trying to? Draco mentally sputtered, incredulous. What kind of answer was that? It wasn't one, that's what. Especially from one's mother. Draco decided he'd had enough. This was too painful to continue.

"Forget it. I'll leave as soon as I can. Don't try to stop me. It will be better this way….for all of us."

He watched as his mother burst into tears. "I'm ….I'm sorry…..so sorry this ever happened….."

Draco sighed. Bowing his head in defeat, he whispered, "So am I."

Narcissa tried one last time. "Maybe we could…"

But Draco cut her off. "Just let me go."

So they did. The next morning, his father had the elves move his things to the quaint stone cottage near the border of their property. They stayed to clean the inside; when they were done, Cookie, the oldest elf, started a fire to scare away the chill. Even though it was summer, the stone walls made the air inside the house feel cool and damp. Afterward, the old elf approached Draco, reclining on the sofa.

"Master Draco….The young Miss you have spoken of…...she who visited Master at the hospital…..she is the same as was brought to the manor? The one with the nasty word on her arm?"

Draco swallowed hard. He didn't know why Cookie was bringing that up. He tried everyday to forget it. "Yes, Cookie. She's one and the same."

Cookie released a big sigh and smiled up at Draco. "Cookie is very happy to hear it, Sir. Very happy indeed."

"Why?" Draco asked before he could stop himself.

The elf's eyes grew large and knowing. "Because, Sir…..young Miss knows suffering. She was stronger than it. She will be helping young Master to do the same."

Once he got use to being there, Draco had to admit his new home had a charm that had been entirely lacking at the Manor. The cottage, free of the dark, toxic energy that filled his childhood home, was calm...peaceful. Situated on the banks of the large lake, it allowed Draco to hear the soft, soothing sound of the water. It was that sound, nature's own lullaby, that put Draco to sleep at night.

The quaint dwelling had a thatched roof, neatly trimmed, and was graced on the sides by lush green ivy on the south wall and climbing roses on its north side. The irritating squawks of his father's peacocks were heard no more; they'd been replaced by the sweet song of the woodlarks nesting at the foot of the rowan tree that stood between the cottage and the lake. Draco loved that tree; he fondly remembered climbing it with Theo Nott when they'd been young boys. Draco's grandmother had planted it as an additional source of protection from malevolent spirits as the wards were weakest near the water. More than once Draco wondered if that was why it was so peaceful there; if the tree his grandmother planted was what kept Voldemort's dark magic from infiltrating that area.

The first time Granger visited him there, she remarked how much she adored his new home. She thought it far superior to the Manor.

Of course she would think that.

His childhood home could never be anything for her except a reminder of the torture she endured within its walls. Add to that, the death eater who tried to attack her still lived there.

But she never mentioned his father to him. Never mentioned that returning to Malfoy grounds made her uneasy. What she did mention was that she'd gotten him a surprise; a house-warming gift for his new home. But that was who she was, he'd discovered.

Thoughtful. Always giving.

It had started at the hospital. Hermione began to regularly check up on him after he'd been cleared to have unlimited visits at St. Mungo's. When she would come, she would always bring something with her; a game of wizarding chess or exploding snap, or a bag of goodies from Honeydukes. Several times, she brought a muggle toy called Rock 'em, Sock 'em Robots. Apparently, the point of the game was to direct the boxing of one's robot against its opponent until one person scored a knockout punch. Draco told her it was the silliest and most useless thing he'd ever seen, but in secret he enjoyed the cathartic feeling the toy provided. Which, knowing Granger, was probably the reason she brought it.

Hermione discovered Draco loved muggle music. Specifically, modern piano compositions. When she told him she'd taken piano lessons for years, he asked her if she knew any pieces by Béla Bartók. She gave him a teasing smile and said he'd have to find out. Then she commandeered a wheelchair and wheeled him to the lobby of the hospital where a baby grand stood near the admissions desk. She asked the wizard there, one employed by St. Mungo's to provide music to visitors, if she could play a song for a patient. He took one look at Draco and nodded. Telling her to take her time, he said he would take an early lunch. As soon as he left, she positioned Draco so he would be able to see her play. Then her nimble fingers took off. She played the entire Suite for Piano to her audience of one. Draco didn't interrupt; he watched her play the deceptively difficult piece with a lightness and ease that made his heart clench strangely. When she finished, she turned to look at him, expecting a smirk and teasing comment or critique. She was shocked to find tears on his face. Draco didn't bother wiping them away; he merely nodded and mouthed, "Thank you."

On her visits to the hospital, she usually came alone, but a few times Potter came with her. Weasley never did. Conversations were short and stilted when Harry was present, even though the Boy Wonder was uncommonly kind to Draco, but when Hermione was by herself, there was no end to the topics they would discuss, one after another until the hours sped by and shadows would lengthen against the charmed windows. Draco began to anticipate her coming; he found himself counting the hours before he would see her again. He could better ignore his pain when Granger was around; her stimulating conversation was the perfect distraction. She was well-versed on nearly every topic except quidditch, and her banter was always witty.

Recalling those awful early days, he had to admit it was her steady voice reading his favorite books that had been all that kept him from giving up.

Back then, he'd been too drugged and out of it to question why she was his most faithful visitor; he was just glad she came. Later, when he was better, he attributed her attentiveness to survivor's guilt.

It took a careless remark Draco overheard to put two and two together as to the real reason behind Hermione's faithful concern.

It happened one evening about a week before he was discharged.

The witch going off duty remarked to the nurse replacing her, "It's such a shame about patient Malfoy, isn't it? Such a handsome young man. Now I suppose there's no chance for him to marry. And I heard he's an only son, too. It's like the Fates put a judgement on that family."

The other medi-witch tried to hush the first one. "Constance, shh. His door's not closed. He might hear you."

"No, he won't. I just gave him his potions. They work fast."

"Are you sure?"

The other witch laughed. "I'm sure. I could put a dancing veela in there, and he wouldn't notice."

Draco heard both nurses chuckling. Stupid witch, he thought. He wasn't that medicated.

"Well, I heard something the other day about your young patient."

"If you're going to mention his dark mark, don't bother. I've seen it."

"Not that." The medi-witch paused. In a lower voice, she asked, "Did you know he was hurt by saving Hermione Granger?"

"Are we talking about the Hermione Granger? Best friend of Harry Potter?"

"Right. The very one. He took a curse meant for her."

The other witch gasped. "Merlin. I didn't know. If that's so…."

Both medi-witches fell silent. Draco tried desperately to fight against the effects of the potions to hear what else they would say. Finally, he heard a voice again.

"You know how that works. She owes him her life in return."

"Do….do you think they know?"

"Doesn't matter, does it? The magic of his action has already been cast. It can't be called back. It is one of the most binding of powers."

Draco sucked in a breath. Funny how he'd never considered it before, but now it was staring him in the face. He wondered if Granger knew or if she was unconsciously being influenced by the deep magic.

An eye for an eye. One life in exchange for another. The cosmic scales demanded balance. Intentional or not, he'd risked everything to save Hermione.

She now owed him a life debt.

AN: Did anyone catch my nod to The Princess Bride with the "mostly dead" reference? If you did, Miracle Max is proud of you! LOL

No direct interaction between Draco and Hermione in this chapter. Just Draco's memories. But the next chapter will make up for it in a big way. *hint-hint*

The Catholic hospital where I live has a baby grand piano in the lobby. Such a nice feature, I think.