It had been three arduous days since Draco had last been confined to his cell in Azkaban. The slippery sands of time had trickled through his fingers in a haze of bland broths and scalding baths. The dank scent of Azkaban had permeated the air around him, a miasma that oozed from his pores, it was embedded in the caverns of his untrimmed nails. And it was on this third day into the farce of his so-called freedom that he collapsed into an unconscious heap on the library floor.

His return to consciousness was marked by a dull ache in his head and numbness in his right hand. What should have been his view of the vaulted ceiling was obstructed by Minni; her large ears were flattened against her skull as she wrung her hands.

"Mister Draco!" she cried, the rough treatment of her hands momentarily forgotten. He winced at the exclamation.

"Mister Draco," much softer this time, though no less worried, "We thought that you had passed on." Her lips twisted in a grimace, a tremor wracking her small frame as she clutched the edges of her pillowcase.

"But Dinky said Mister Draco's chest was moving." She paused, uncertainty swimming in her large eyes before she ploughed on, "So, Minni fetched a healer from Mungo's. She is waiting in the drawing room."

Understanding finally clicked into place as Minni's large eyes darted away and her thin shoulders hunched forward. "I'm not upset Minni, thank you. That was—" Dizziness stole the remainder of his consolation and forced him to close his eyes as the room swam.

One shaky breath. And then another. His heart a panicked hummingbird trapped in the confines of his ribs. He forced the words out through gritted teeth, "Get the healer Minni." Draco's head lolled to the side, the effort to keep it upright too great a burden. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him once again was a pair of white trainers bracketed by the lime green of healer's robes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The faint beep of sustained diagnostic charms was not unusual to him. It was a bittersweet sound that meant he'd been afforded a reprieve from Prichard's attention. It also meant that Prichard had bloodied him to the brink of collapse.

Draco peeled open his heavy eyes to find an unobstructed view of the library ceiling. The chill of the unforgiving floor no longer bit at his back. Someone had moved him onto a much more pliable surface. Perhaps one of the leather couches.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, you're awake."

Draco tried to turn his head in the direction the voice had come from but found he couldn't do so, a spell of some sort immobilizing him. His eyes darted left and right, there must be something he could use. Some manner of escape. Relief was quick to smother the panic that had begun to bubble in his chest as his hands moved freely.

"Please refrain from moving Mr Malfoy, I've stabilized your more serious injuries and wouldn't like to risk further damage before I've completed the diagnostics."

Pinpricks of suspicion needled his thoughts. Draco sincerely doubted that he'd sustained such drastic damage from his fall. He took tremendous care to avoid drawing the healer's attention as he slowly reached into the pocket of his robes and grasped the wand. While Draco knew that he'd be easily outstripped by the healer—his magic still weak from years of disuse—he would at least put up a fight.

Several minutes passed with the beeping of the diagnostic charms and the furious scratching of a quill against parchment as the only sounds in the cavernous room.

Draco startled when the healer finally spoke again, he'd begun to doze off in the quiet. "Alright Mr Malfoy, I believe I've gathered a comprehensive picture of the extent of your injuries."

Draco tightened his grip on the wand when a square face with a sharp jaw unexpectedly came into view from his right side. Her black hair was cropped low, a pair of spectacles perched on an aquiline nose. She bore an odd resemblance to Potter when he squinted,

"I'm healer Jacobson, I'll be walking you through the diagnostics I've performed, my recommendations for treatment and your timeline for recovery," she said in what he had finally realised was an American accent.

"You're an American?" He'd asked the question before he had the good sense to think it through. Maybe she'd slipped him something while he was unconscious.

Jacobson flashed him a quick smile, her thin lips quirking upward to reveal rows of boxy straight white teeth, "Guilty. Is that going to be a problem Mr Malfoy?"

Draco considered the question before coming to the obvious answer, "No." He had no torrid history with this American healer. And it was highly unlikely that she'd been in Britain for the war. An American healer would suit him fine.

She gave him a quick nod. "I'll be using my wand to create visual diagrams of your diagnosis. I find it helps patients to see what I'm discussing. Feel free to stop and ask me any questions you may have."

An image of him, with a hint of colour and about a third of his size, burst forth from her wand and hovered in the space before him, not entirely unlike a Patronus. A shard of embarrassment stabbed his mind as he confronted the reality of his condition. It was hard to avoid the gauntness of his frame in the apparition, hard not to see the sunken-eyed creature for what it was. A shell of a man.

Healer Jacobson cleared her throat, "I won't lie to you Mr Malfoy, there are numerous concerning aspects of your condition, without immediate medical attention it could be a matter of months before the damage becomes fatal."

Jacobson's wand tapped twice at his apparition's abdomen, rendering the skin there invisible. An additional two taps enlarged the section she was focusing on.

"Your internal organs are starting to show signs of acute damage." She tapped a dark wedge nestled to the right side of his ribs, causing it to glow faintly. "Your liver is, unfortunately, the worst of the lot." Her mouth formed a grim line as she paused. She turned from the projection to look him in the eyes. "You're likely experiencing symptoms like nausea, vomiting and disorientation to name a few. Without treatment, it will become much worse."

She turned back to the projection and tapped the next organ, "Your heart is also showing signs of distress. The charms have detected both an abnormal size and rhythm." The memory of his heart's rapid beat as he lay sprawled on the floor came to his mind unbidden. A feeling of unease seeped fermented in his gut.

"According to the diagnostics, this is as a direct result of malnutrition." Her eyes met his over the rim of her glasses. "How long were you starved in prison Mr Malfoy?"

Embarrassment and shame lodged themselves in his throat blocking the damning admission before it could escape. How low the Malfoy name had fallen. How low he'd been brought. Little more than a neglected blight held prisoner with the rest of society's detritus.

"I understand that this may be a difficult topic for you, but I need to get an accurate gauge of the extent of your condition," Jacobson said gently, "There's only so much spells can do."

Death appeared preferable to suffering the indignity of such an admission but he forced the words out before the thought could truly take root. "It was for a few months," he admitted quietly, his gaze fixed firmly on the beating of his heart. "After they grew tired of my resilience."

He released his death grip on the wand, his hands having grown clammy under the healer's questioning. Prichard's frustration had been palpable at Draco's refusal to break. It had led him to change tracks after well over two years of his brutal fists had done little more than left him bloodied. The oaf couldn't be accused of being intelligent.

She hummed to herself as she made a diagonal swipe through the projection which brought the view back to the initial image before she tapped the skull. "It also appears that you are suffering from depression."

"This," she said tapping various regions in the brain "Is a scan of your brain right now. Notice the minimal amounts of yellow. That is an indicator of brain activity." A flick of her wand produced a second brain scan besides the first, replete with large swaths of yellow. His stomach sank before she confirmed his fears. "While this second scan is of a brain without depression."

A low throbbing had started at his temples after the last revelation. He wasn't blind to the condition of his body. Avoiding any and all glimpses he may have caught of himself in reflective surfaces did nothing to hide the protrusion of his hips and ribs as he'd worked a lather into his skin. To have a mental ailment compound his already emaciated body was almost too much.

Jacobson sighed before she continued, "Unfortunately depression, along with brain fog and confusion are also effects of your severe malnutrition. What is most puzzling in that regard, is how you managed to survive as you have to this point."

He felt dissected by the look she levelled at him as if he were the projection and a swipe or tap of her wand would reveal the secrets hidden within him.

"I suspect," she said adjusting her glasses, "That someone has been slipping you a nutrition potion. Have you been in the care of a healer during your stay in the prison?"

Images of a perpetually nervous mediwitch flashed before his eyes. He supposed it was possible but he was extremely sceptical of the likelihood. The mediwitch had never shown him any sympathy, had barely performed enough healing magic to render him fit for return to his cell. Prichard's leering face floated into view. Prichard had never left Draco unattended, the guard's hungry gaze following the mousy woman. Maybe she had helped unbeknownst to either him or Prichards.

"There was a mediwitch in the infirmary," he said after some time. The urge to scream gnawed just beneath the surface of his skin, gnashing its teeth upon the meagre flesh, begging for release. Instead, he traced small circles over his index finger with his thumb. "She would tend to me after the guards had worked out their frustrations."

Another thoughtful hum from Jacobson was followed by the shuffling of parchment. "Which brings me to yet another concern." The projection once again showed him in totality, the second brain scan was removed with a practised flick of her wand. A muttered spell beneath her breath caused bright red spots to appear on the image. The most violent of which was concentrated just below his neck.

"These are your current injuries in various stages of healing," she said, rotating the projection to show his back. "The most concerning one being the damage sustained on your back and shoulders."

It would explain the immobilization that had sent him into a panic.

"The injuries range from contusions to fractures and soft tissue damage." She took a deep breath before continuing, she sounded as tired as he felt. "How much pain are you in, Mr Malfoy, on a scale from one to ten with ten being the most severe."

"Eleven."

She nodded, a clear confirmation of her suspicions and quickly dissipated the projection of him. "Treatment will have to be extensive and aggressive if we are to hope for sufficient recovery. While we as magical folk have the advantage of potions and spells we are still limited by the human body. We can begin with healing the injuries resulting from physical trauma. I will be prescribing you a pain potion as well as various other potions to aid in the recovery of the muscles, ligaments and bones that have been damaged. Somewhat fortunately, it appears that you have not suffered any lasting spell damage so I expect that with proper care you'll be able to make a full recovery in that regard within a week."

She paused here, the sound of shuffling parchment filling the space left by her obvious discomfort. "As it pertains to your malnutrition, you will be placed on a battery of potions to normalize your nutrient levels and slowly increase your appetite. The damage to your internal organs may be reversible but there is the chance that a full recovery cannot be made. It will take time, perhaps a few weeks, to determine the efficacy of the treatment. In the event that a full recovery is unachievable, there are options available to you for treating the symptoms although eventually, the organs may need to be replaced."

She continued to outline the timeline for his care as well as the specific potions that would be prescribed and the relevant apothecaries where they were available for pickup and delivery. The words flowed over him, his mind unable to focus too closely on the content of her monologue. He wondered if it was worth it to pursue this treatment. There wasn't much reason to continue on, dragging his failing body through the motions. Except, of course, spite. Of which he found he had a boundless supply.

He tuned back into what sounded like the end of her speech. "Is there anyone to assist you in maintaining your treatment plan?"

Thoughts of his mother fretting over him in his third year after being attacked by the hippogriff swarmed his mind. "No."

She eyed him, "In that case, it might be best if you were admitted to St Mungo's. I—"

"No." His tone brooked no argument. He wouldn't be safe at St Mungo's. The hospital could be accessed by any number of people wishing to rid the world of one more Death Eater. It would be the height of counterproductivity.

She blinked owlishly at him before trying a different approach, "I suppose at-home care could be arranged."

"I have elves, I'm certain they are capable of administering potions at the correct time." He struggled to keep the waspishness from his tone. She was, after all, providing him with a service with little more than his frantic elf's request for aid.

"While elves are certainly an option, their magic and understanding of wizard folk are limited. Your carer would need to not only ensure that your potions are administered correctly but be able to note any adverse side effects as well as any changes in mood or behaviours. A task simply beyond the capability of house elves."

She certainly had a point, though he was reluctant to admit as much. The creatures would interpret most things as evidence of him dying. He cleared his throat. "An in-home healer will suffice."

"Excellent," she said, "I have a list of healers I can recommend."

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Confusion knitted her thick brows together.

He couldn't afford to end up being treated by someone less competent or worse yet, someone who knew him.

"I would like to request that you continue my care, Healer Jacobson."

Surprise splashed across her features, her thick eyebrows attempting to seek refuge in her hairline.

"Mr Malfoy, while I'm certainly honoured at the request I don't generally provide outpatient care. I only came today because your poor elf managed to find herself on the brink of a breakdown in the lobby and no one else seemed inclined to help."

He ignored the emotions welling up as his suspicions were confirmed. House elves typically only belonged to members of the sacred twenty-eight. Which was as good as proclaiming that you had been a Death Eater. At least where wizarding Britain had been concerned

"Name your price healer Jacobson," he was grateful that his voice remained steady as he locked eyes with the serious woman. When she looked like she was about to protest again he cut her off. "I can double your salary for the time required to see to my care."

Lucius had been many things, but above all, he had been right when he'd told Draco that money was able to solve most problems. And other inconveniences, his father had spat, can be solved with either flattery or force.

She seemed to be mulling over the proposition, her eyes shifting between his. "I just want the best possible care," he said, his tone infused with a hint of faux deprecation, "And I'm afraid your colleagues may be disinclined to provide such care upon learning of my identity." Draco paused, letting the words settle in the space between them before he finished "Many find that their compassion does not extend to those, like myself, who have found themselves on the wrong side of history."

Her eyes hardened behind her spectacles, "I am well acquainted with your war and the role you played in it, Mr Malfoy. I have seen the results of Death Eater raids and heard of the trauma inflicted upon those who are outside of your faction. However, as a healer, I took an oath to aid those who needed it. So while you are no shrinking violet, I find myself duty-bound to provide the best care that I can."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Healer Jacobson's words still rang in his ears long after she had made her departure. The pain potion she had given him had so thoroughly alleviated his pain that he felt untethered as if a strong suggestion might send him floating to the ceiling. Jacobson would be back the following day to begin his care regimen. In the meantime, Draco had been plied with enough potions to shore up a small army and left under the watchful care of Minni. It seemed elves could be trusted to ensure his treatment was well received at least for one evening.

He ran a steady hand through his hair. His fingers stuttered over the uneven length. He'd taken his wand to it with perhaps too much vigour on that second day. The day Draco had mistaken himself for Lucius, as he'd been in those final years, freshly escaped from Azkaban with a haunted look in his eye and a pronounced stoop to his shoulders.

He moved from his bookshelves to the balcony that overlooked the expansive grounds. The darkness of night blanketed the earth obscuring the view of the forest that ran along the length of the estate. The fireplace at his back roared to life and catapulted his heart into a gallop. No one had access to this floo. No one but…

"So it's true then, you've been released."

Draco didn't turn to face her. He couldn't. He clutched the excess of his trousers in white-knuckled fists.

"So you've left your manners in Azkaban as well then?"

He could hear the sneer that twisted her lips. She was spoiling for a fight while he longed for nothing more than to put as much distance between them as possible.

"Pansy—"

"You look at me when you speak to me Draco!" she shouted, an indicator that further avoidance would likely escalate to books being tossed at his head.

Draco turned slowly, spine ramrod straight and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looked her dead in the eyes, shackling the fear and adrenaline that would set him in motion and away from her.

Surprise flashed across Pansy's face before she could school them emotion into submission. Despite her best efforts the traitorous emotion still glimmered in her eyes. She took a step closer, her fingers twitched towards his face.

"What have they done to you?" she asked, her voice was as hollow as he felt. A fragile shell. It wouldn't take much for it to shatter.

Draco flinched violently when gentle fingers grazed his cheek. That was the question, wasn't it?

A/N: Thank you all for reading! I know this is a Dramione fic and so far no one has seen hide nor hair of Hermione but I promise she will be here soon.