In a millisecond, Draco was back in his own flat surrounded by the piles of books and Magical Medical Journals he kept lying around. Currently left open on the couch was a relatively old MMJ describing a very serious case of splinching that occurred almost 50 years ago. Half of the man's body was spewed across the length of the journey, and the patient was almost lost if not for the Healer who managed to keep the remaining (and later found) limbs preserved while working on an exceptionally difficult charm on the man's body; a spell that was much more advanced than the time, and three times as complicated.

That was the particular spell Draco had been studying just a few nights ago, and he had wanted to master it before heading into work that morning. Yet the coffee he had consumed at the manner did not work as well as Draco had hoped, and he was far too tired to continue the reading that morning.

His owl screeched from his post just a few yards away, and Draco rubbed his eyes attempting to keep them open for just another ten minutes while he found his way to the bedroom.

I really must clean this mess, he thought while stepping over various piles of books. Or buy a bookshelf to hold all of these.

His face scrunched up as he tried to not knock down the pile that was sitting just off to the side of his bedroom door. It was constantly in his way, yet he did absolutely nothing to move it.

His bedroom was in the same state as the rest of the flat, and it was a miracle that he was able to find a clean spot to crash onto and fall asleep. Although when he woke, he did not feel particularly rested.

At best, his nightmares only came every once in a while, and only ever once in a night. But that early morning, one dream melted into the next listening to Hermione screams echo throughout his head. She screamed in the presence of his Aunt Bellatrix as she tortured her. She screamed being killed at the Second Wizarding War. She screamed as Draco was forced to torture her. On and on the screaming carried and there was no way for him to turn it off.

When his internal alarm went off, he jumped from his bed sweating and knocking over several books in the process. He watched as they fell sprawled over his floor, but couldn't make himself move to pick them up or even walk to the bathroom to splash his face with water. He stood shaking and sweating over the sounds that only a few times haunted him. And it was all coming back.

After a few minutes of deep breathing, he went to shower to further calm himself and prepared for a day at St. Mungo's; although he wasn't sure that he was in a particularly well enough state of mind to help anyone at the current time.

Despite the warmth of the water, Draco could not clear his head. He scrubbed his head trying to scratch away the thoughts, but only came away with more anger and frothy hands, which he banged against the tile, effectively causing his knuckles to bleed.

Goddammit, Draco! Why did you let her do that to you? Why did you let her get inside your head with her trivial games?

He got out of the shower and heeled his knuckles, cursing under his breath at his stupidity.

You never had this sort of trouble with anyone else. Why her. Why the mudblood. Why now. He continued to bang his hands into his head and grasped the edge of his sink with his eyes shut. Control. Regain control, Draco. You can't let Granger get to you.

It wasn't long before he was able to regain his composure and dress in his green robes before apparating to St. Mungo's where he was expected to make his rounds. He apparated into the lobby of the magical hospital right into the center of the hustle and bustle, but no one even batten an eyelash that he had arrived.

Carrying his paperwork under his arm, Draco took the lift to the fourth floor where his office resided and where he would have to go around later that day and check on his patients.

Working at the hospital wasn't particularly extraneous work most of the time, as his patients remained more or less in the same state he had left them in the previous day. The nurses kept him on call just in case something happened, but in his particular section of the department of Spell Damage, not much changed from day to day.

He worked mainly with those who were hexed with Dark Magic, as, given his history, that was what he excelled at. Yet he was permitted to assist and direct when working with cases of other spell damages, such as in the case of his former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart. It was with this particular patient that Draco began his rounds.

"Good day, Gilderoy. How are you feeling today?" Draco enjoyed calling the ex-professor by his first name. It gave him a sense of power over the man who made one of his favorite classes a living hell. However from time to time Draco had to remind himself that while he was technically above Lockhart, he could not abuse the power as he could be fired. So he merely mocked the man in his head while jotting down notes on his clipboard.

Lockhart had been on the ward since Draco's second year—almost ten years now—and he was no closer to leaving than he was to remember anything about his past life. It was something like teaching a small child that their goldfish had died without actually telling them the fish was dead. Gilderoy just did not want to accept that he was once a wizard hell bent on fame and fortune and didn't care who he hurt to get it.

"Good day, Doctor Malfoy. I just finished one of those awful books you told me I should read and quite frankly I didn't like it at all."

Great. The author hates his own work. Just what we need. Another failure with this moron.

But instead of voicing his opinion, he talked civilly to Lockhart until a nurse came to work with him more on regaining his memory. Draco just rubbed his temple and kept moving through his patients, until the last two names came up on his document.

Alice and Frank Longbottom were a part of his rounds, although it was not a part of his day he actively enjoyed. Looking at him was just another reminder of his deranged family, and he usually spent a considerable amount of time talking more to the nurse about their current state than them. On the days their son, Neville, visits, Draco tends to skip right over their room until after his old school mate and his grandmother leave so as not to make an awkward encounter.

Because the Longbottoms didn't know who Draco was or who he was related to, they were generally pleased to see him, which only made him feel guiltier.

Why do I suddenly care about everything. Why did my conscious have to all of a sudden turn on. Why does every little thing get to me.

Draco concluded that he wasn't getting enough sleep and that was why he was acting up, so before his day was over, he packed up his paperwork and apparated straight into his flat where he couldn't shake the though of Alice and Frank.

It was similar with Hermione; whenever he looked at her he was reminded about how much damage his family (especially his Aunt) had caused, and it only reminded him further of what he never wanted to become again.

As he crawled into his bed for the second time in twelve hours, Draco hoped that the nightmares would stay at bay, and he would wake up finally feeling refreshed and prepared for the next day without any emotional interruptions.


Author's Note:

Okay, so I'm definitely going to try and update way more now that things are beginning to slow down (ish. Graduation is still coming up) so I hope you guys enjoy and don't forget to review review review they help so much to hear what you guys are thinking while reading. :)

Beadlebug3