He woke to voices. For a heart-clenching moment he thought he was back there and had to force himself to open his eyes. Blue rug. Draco let his breath out with a sigh loud enough to alert the speakers to his wakefulness. They approached the bed, stepping into his field of vision. Marcus Flint with his sleeves rolled up baring muscular forearms innocent of the Dark Mark. And Cathal Rosier, who wasn't innocent of anything.
"You have to get up, Malfoy." The witch informed him as though she was remarking on the weather. "Marcus will help you to the lavatory. You need a soak for the bruises and then he'll give you a rub down. It's the best we can do until you can accept magic again."
"You washed me?" Draco demanded hoarsely. He was clean. He had assumed whoever had used a Scourgify. The idea someone had soaped him up revolted him.
"I nearly took your skin off with a cleansing charm meant for babies." Hermione explained, telling herself she shouldn't be surprised he was still an entitled arse. It meant his mind was intact at least. "The ritual the Ministry uses to bind magic leaves the victim sensitised. The effect wears off in a week or so but in the meantime, we need to start your therapy."
"Go away." Draco said feebly, hunkering down into his blankets. He didn't want to leave the warm cocoon of the bed. Flint looked at Rosier, who nodded. The wizard marched forward and dragged the covers off, scooping up the blond without effort. Malfoy protested but neither his voice nor his arms had strength enough to fight.
Flint carried him into the hall, first to a water closet for an interlude that was both impersonal and mortifying. Rosier gave him privacy, asking with her back turned if there was any blood. The answer from the brawny wizard was 'a bit but not enough to worry'. Draco screwed his eyes shut as Flint cleaned him. He would not cry.
Thence to the bathroom, a porcelain shrine to hygiene with a boat-sized tub the altar. Rosier fiddled with the taps, adding salts and essences until the water was milky. Draco sniffed. With his head resting against Flint's chest mostly what he could smell was Flint, male, leather, and liniment, but the scent of arnica penetrated.
"How's that?" Rosier asked. Flint brought him over to the tub so he could stick his hand in to test the temperature. Bearably hot. Draco nodded. The witch again turned her back as Flint set him on his feet and removed his nightshirt. She faced him again once he was modestly under the water. "We've done this before so we have a system going. Daily baths and massages, with a potions regimen. Once you can handle an Episkey without it feeling like ants under your skin, we'll start the regenerative charms."
"Who else?" Draco sagged against the edge of the tub. Flint propped a curved pillow around his neck so he could rest his head without strain.
"Of the Death Eaters? Not many." There was something in her voice he didn't understand. It sounded like satisfaction. Had she been a blood traitor all along? "There was an amnesty, of sorts, for anyone Marked after Tom Riddle remade himself. It was presumed they would not have been sufficiently indoctrinated by the Old Guard before the war ended. The Ministry took steps for 'the security of the realm' however."
"What?" He looked to his former team Captain, hoping for an explanation not a lecture.
"It's cheaper for the Ministry to bind the suspect and toss them out with the Muggles." Flint said tersely. He weathered a look from Rosier. A little more context was necessary. "Unless they were really Dark, most had their sentences commuted to ostracism. They can't enter magical places, can't do magic, can't tell the Muggles about magic and so forth."
"It's a nasty bit of reciprocity for the Muggle-borns begging in the street under the Registry." Rosier's tone made him perk up. She was angry. Truly, crusading angry. But not at him.
"My mother?" Draco asked urgently.
"Under house arrest. I've let her know we found you." Her reassuring words made his chest ache. "The Ministry is almost certainly reading her post so I'll have to cipher your letters if you want to write anything lengthy. Short messages we can send as classifieds in the Prophet or adverts on the wireless. Jordan has his own show. He slips things in for us on the quiet."
"Lee Jordan is helping?" Perhaps he had run mad. He could understand her words but their meaning eluded him. Had he lost his wits and was even now dribbling and dreaming in a fetid corner of his cell?
"Lee is an ethical person. Excitable, but with a very well developed sense of right and wrong." Rosier looked at him with eyes like agate. All he could do was nod in acceptance. Jordan was sans peur et sans reproche. "I'll leave you to Marcus. We think you're the only one being released but they've done a double drop before and we've missed people."
When she'd left with a click of the door, Flint made himself comfortable on the floor. The bathroom was big enough he could have stretched out full length for a kip. Draco steeped and stared at the wall. He felt made of glass. One firm tap would shatter him. He sat there soaking and by inches his body became his again. Sore and poorly made but his.