2
Slowly, hour by hour, day by day, things started coming back to him. Granger visited his ward a lot, to check on his wound and force him to drink foul-smelling potions from ugly pewter goblets bearing the equally ugly St. Mungo's weapon, in fact everything and everyone around him was ugly but he was too tired to complain.
There were moments he studied Granger when she wasn't looking. She was ugly too, in her shapeless Healer's tunic and practical flat shoes. Her hair was short now, probably for practical reasons too. He would look at her and words would form in his head, Mudblood, inferior, worthless, my father says, pride, Malfoy. Then, once, he pushed her pewter goblet away so the contents spilled all over her but she cleaned up the mess without a word. Only a look that said she was superior to him, which wasn't true, but he hated her for giving him the feeling it actually was. If only for a second.
'We let your mother know you're here,' she said on the morning of the second day.
'You talked to my mother,' he replied with all the contempt he could muster.
She was not impressed. 'We've sent her an owl, actually.'
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We sent her an owl, but she refuses to see you, says you're not her son anymore, and it serves you right for being perfectly beastly to Harry for years, and Ron, I'm not even talking about Ron, you disgusting little… ferret –
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'We've sent her an owl, and she'll be here as soon as possible.'
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His mother came, all paleness and tears and stylish robes, and she threw herself on his bed with a cry polished by years of sophisticated suffering. 'Oh Draco! How could this happen? Who was it? Did he –'
'She. She tracked me down.' Her presence weighed heavily on him, she was too close, he couldn't look anywhere or the tearstained blue eyes and the caressing hands of his mother were present. He felt his arm starting to hurt again. He wished she'd just be silent, he wished she wouldn't keep forcing him to state the obvious when it cost him so much energy to speak.
'She?'
'Yes. Remember Fenrir Greyback?'
Slowly, he saw his mother's eyes widen in the beginning of understanding. He managed a wry smile. 'She was his lover. I guess she got her revenge.'
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She watched them together, mother and son: how Narcissa cried and stroked her son's hand and adjusted his pillow and covers for the umpteenth time. Useless gestures. She almost pitied Narcissa, the way she looked so powerless and helpless, the way the only person she'd ever loved besides herself tried to shake off her hand in growing annoyance…
They payed no attention to her returning to the room, maybe they weren't even aware of it. She was about to cough modestly to signal her presence when she heard Narcissa say in a low voice, 'But that Healer, Draco? Isn't she that Mudblood girl from your class? How are you ever supposed to get better with her taking care of you? I –'
Her hands clenched to fists and she stepped forward. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Malfoy, but visiting hours are over. I have to change Draco's bandages now.'
She ignored the venomous look that Narcissa shot her when she left and started unwinding the bandage from Draco's arm. Her jaw was tight and her movements were rapid and resolute.
'You're hurting me,' he said.
'Sorry.'
A short silence.
'So, you were the one who killed Greyback,' she said after a while.
He looked at her. 'Surprised?'
'A bit.'
'Never expected me to do something even remotely heroic, did you?'
'Do you want me to be honest?'
He didn't answer her question, but continued maliciously: 'Looks like I've been more useful in the war than your friend Weasley.'
She reacted as if a wasp had stung her: she jumped up instantly, her eyes shooting fire. 'Don't you ever – ever – insult Ron in my presence,' she hissed. 'He has always been ten times the man you are and you know it. Change your own bandages.'
She threw the roll of gauze bandage down on his bed and stomped out of the room. Two minutes later, another Healer entered and silently finished the job.
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Strange, how she had always been able to forgive him everything he had said and done to her, while even the smallest insult to Harry or Ron had been enough for her to hate him for weeks. She still remembered them, all those times Malfoy had laughed at Ron's family and Ron had stood there, trembling with the sheer force of his anger, his face red, spluttering incoherently, and hours later he'd still be talking about it and come up with a thousand things he should have said – and every time she'd felt the urge to kill Malfoy, to Crucio him until he'd know the meaning of suffering.
And even now, when Ron couldn't even attempt to defend himself anymore, he wouldn't stop. She knew it was irrational to blame Malfoy for what happened to Ron simply because he was still alive while Ron wasn't. But then, even she could allow herself to be irrational sometimes.
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She didn't talk to him for two days. The only sounds he heard now were her footsteps, rubber soles on the stone floor, the scribbling of her quill on her clipboard, the metallic sound of empty pewter cups being placed back on her tray, and the ticking of the clock.
He thought it'd drive him crazy.
Then, on the morning of the sixth day, she spoke to him again. 'You cried in your sleep last night,' she said with the smallest of triumphant smiles.
His eyes darkened, and he turned his head to the wall and didn't respond.
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Being irrational didn't give her half the satisfaction she hoped for, and eventually she found herself disgusted that she had even felt satisfaction at all, and all she was left with was pity at the young man in the hospital bed who was unable to face his future because he had never learned to be strong.
That evening she allowed herself to smile at him, and though he didn't return it, his wolfish grey eyes locked with hers for the tiniest of seconds before he looked away from her.
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She brought him some books to read, a scratch collection of both Wizarding an Muggle novels and some volumes on healing magic.
'Thanks,' he said reluctantly, turning over the pages of one of the novels.
'You're welcome. You won't need them for long, though. I think you'll be able to go home in one or two days.'
He swallowed. Home. To be on his own again, not yet knowing who he had become and not knowing how to face the world around him through his new eyes. Not to be safe anymore, here in the ugly but comforting Llewellyn Ward, where a light would always be on somewhere and someone would rush to his bed when he called. Even if that someone was Hermione Granger, who had just given him a book titled Forbidden Passion at Gringotts.
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Suddenly, he broke the silence. 'I wonder… what it will be like?'
She lowered the clipboard she was scribbling on. 'Lycanthropia,' she said. Her voice had some of the eagerness he recognized from all the times she'd known the right answer in class. 'Before the invention of Wolfsbane, it was a far more dangerous condiction. However, if you take the potion in time before your transformation, you'll be able to retain your self-control. You will probably notice some wolfish traits that will grow stronger as the full moon approaches. Heightened senses, a stronger physical reaction to emotion and insomnia are well-documented side-effects…'
He interrupted her, a sharp edge to his voice. 'You don't know anything about it. You have no idea what it will be like.'
There was a short, heavy silence, in which she studied her clipboard intently and he suddenly realized how much he hated that horrible practical haircut of hers. Then she looked up again, her brown eyes thoughtful and a little sad. 'You're right,' she said. 'I have no idea.'
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Not much later, when she was replenishing the stock in the ward's potions cabinet, she heard him call her name.
'What is it, Malfoy?' she asked, turning around.
He refused to meet her eyes. 'I was, er, wondering…' he began hesitatingly, as if it cost him great effort to say what he had to say, 'whether you could ask Remus Lupin to come over.'
I've slightly altered this chapter to make the hints about what happened to Draco somewhat more obvious. Review if you have anything useful to say about the story; constructive criticism & comments on my English are more than welcome. Flames too, but anonymous flamers are cowards.