Chapter 2: Waking

Lucius wasted no time in ascending the many flights of stairs to the topmost floor of Malfoy Manor, depositing his levitated cargo on a four-poster bed in an ill-used room. He sneered distastefully as Potter blood soaked into the clean sheets, before dismissing it and calling a house-elf. The creature stood on bended knee before its master, head bowed and entire body quaking with fear. The familiar cruel smirk returned to Lucius' features.

"Get me powder for the fire, then return and stay in the corner," he ordered. The house-elf whimpered, nodding, but did not move. Lucius' smirk grew wider, and his foot shot out viciously. The house-elf squealed as it bounced into the wall, an old tradition it knew well. In a flash it had vanished. Lucius began to silently count, frowning when the wretched thing returned after only a few seconds. He walloped it on the head for good measure anyway, before turning to the hearth. A fire started with the barest of muttered words, and he tossed in a pinch of the powder. The flames turned green, and he peered into their depths. "Doctor George Owen," he said clearly. A small click signified the open channel, and Lucius took another step forward. An older man's balding head appeared in the fire, expression morphing quickly from professional patience to utter terror in seconds. Lucius smiled thinly.

"W-What can I d-do for you, Mr Malfoy?" the doctor stuttered. His eyes darted from side to side fearfully.

"Come here. Now. I have a patient that requires your attention. And no excuses. Remember our agreement," he replied silkily. Doctor Owen visibly flinched at the mention of the agreement he had, but he nodded jerkily anyway.

"I'll be right over," he muttered, and disappeared from the flames. Lucius pulled back, and turned to the house-elf still cowering in the corner. "You," he called, pointing a finger in its direction, "Get a bowl of hot water and some towels." It nodded and hurried off to complete the task.

Lucius leisurely made his way downstairs to greet the good doctor, who stumbled in from the gardens looking flushed and panicked. He jumped a foot in the air when he spotted the master of the house with his easy smirk.

"Good morning, Doctor. Follow me," he instructed. The trek back up the stairs was silent and, for the doctor at least, filled with an uneasy tension. Lucius opened the door for him, half-bowing mockingly as Doctor Owen slid past. The room he entered was dark, and even though it was kept clean it still gave off an uninhabited air. Swallowing thickly, he headed to the small lump on the bed he had spied upon entry. Lucius strong hand suddenly gripped his elbow tightly. Trembling slightly, he turned a little towards the master of the house, who had pinned him with the most focused and calculating of stares. "Listen to me very carefully. I want you to heal him. Then get out. If you ever breathe a word of your doings here, I promise you will be more than sorry. Your family shall pay for any slip of the tongue. Are we clear?" he whispered softly, voice like a velvet noose. Doctor Owen, happy husband and father of four, nodded jerkily, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. Shaking with a newfound dread, he approached the bed once more, flinching when the door slammed shut. Looking down, the child he found lying there appeared barely old enough to be four years of age, and it sickened the doctor to see such an innocent youth surrounded in a sea of his own blood. The boy reminded him of his youngest, with the black hair and pale skin, and he tenderly brushed the bangs from the boy's forehead.

The lightning-bolt scar stared back at him, a true testament against evil on the face of the tiniest child Doctor Owen had seen. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, seemed at that moment to be too weak to defeat a fly, never mind You-Know-Who. Owen's breath caught in his throat as he traced the mark almost reverently. The skin beneath his fingers was clammy to the touch, spurring him into action. His wand in hand, his leather bag open for easy access to his healing potions, he began the tiresome work of mending the saviour of the wizarding world.

As he toiled on the boy, fusing bones and healing weeping wounds, vague and flustered thoughts flittered through his mind. It was ironic that the symbol of light for all of wizarding-kind had been nearly killed by Muggle means, or so the assistant house-elf told him. He found it even more ironic that the symbol of light for all of wizarding-kind was now in the care of the Malfoy family. He nearly chuckled at the thought, but was far too preoccupied trying to save said symbol of light. He did not notice the time fly past, until finally Harry's condition stabilised and the doctor collapsed, exhausted, on a chair in the corner. The house-elf scurried off to inform the master.

Lucius entered the stuffy room, disdainfully sneering at the many blood-stained towels, the filthy sheets, the bowls of ruddy water. Doctor Owen, perspiration still shining on his forehead, looked over his patient with an odd expression. Lucius scowled.

"Well?" he pushed. The doctor stood, stretching his aching back that had seized up from being bent over for much of the day.

"He'll live, though that leg will scar and he may have a slight limp as he grows older. He lost a lot of blood, and broke a few ribs. There was a hairline fracture in his skull, too, but all has been taken care of," he reported. Lucius opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor continued, "I've given him a sleeping potion to take him through another forty-eight hours. Mr Malfoy, I've healed him physically to the best of my ability but how he copes mentally is another matter entirely." He fixed his host with a severe look, acting braver than he felt. Being so tired had taken the edge off his fear of the man in front of him. Lucius sneered, glaring at the boy still lying in the bed.

"He'll get over it or he'll feel my wrath. Are we still clear?" he asked suddenly. The doctor slightly paled.

"Y-yes sir. Not a word," he replied. He felt a great surge of pity for the poor boy who would grow up in such awful company, and if it was himself that was under threat and not his family he would have written to Headmaster Dumbledore or the Minister for Magic. As it was, there was nothing he could do. With a heavy sigh, he allowed Lucius to guide him to the lower levels of the house.

The sight of the setting sun rather surprised him as he traipsed into the first garden. It lit the sky a gorgeous gold that shone upon the deep green of the leaves and lawns. Looking back one last time, at the upper level of the house where he had laboured for eight hours straight, he decided to keep his promise to Lucius for the sake of his family. Doctor Owen Disapparated back home, and tried to forget the events of that day.

It was not in Harry's nature to wake gradually. Early every morning, his eyes would go from closed to open, and for him the day had begun. There was no transitional moment, where his body would slowly emerge from the cocoon of sleep. He was often up before Aunt Petunia would come rapping on his door, ordering his assistance in the kitchen. So it was rather a shock for Harry when he had to fight out of his dreamy daze. It was a struggle to open his eyes, a side-effect of the sleeping draught that he, of course, didn't know about.

Very slowly, Harry blinked himself back into the waking world. Only what he saw – blurrily, because he wasn't wearing his glasses – almost convinced him that he was dreaming still. The details being all fuzzy, the only thing Harry could make out in the dark was that the room he rested in was huge. It was easily as big as the Dursleys' living room. The bed that cushioned him felt so wonderfully soft and springy, the covers warm and inviting.

Harry swallowed a lump of fear.

Painfully, as each little movement sent tremors along his nerves, he climbed down onto the floor. A fluffy rug caressed his bare toes and tickled the soles of his feet. He ignored it, stepping nervously towards what looked like the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused. What if he was supposed to stay where he was? What if Uncle Vernon had placed him there? And if he hadn't, would he be angry? Harry hated it when his uncle was angry; he would shout and stomp and appear ten times bigger than he already was, and then he would lock Harry away for a day or two to teach him a lesson. But Harry couldn't just sit in the stuffy room by himself. He had to find out what was going on, why he had been brought there, why his ribs and his leg tingled and throbbed. Steadying his nerves with a deep breath, Harry turned the doorknob.

The corridor he stepped into did not hold the ghastly figure of Uncle Vernon in a fit of rage. In fact, it held nothing but the grey light of dawn shining dimly in from the large window. Padding on his toes like a cat, yet having to limp for the ache in his leg, he peered out of the window. Gardens spread over the land below, each perfectly cultured and picturesque. Harry, who himself was forced to do a fair bit of gardening for Aunt Petunia, much preferred a wilderness to cultivated borders of flowers, but he had to admit the grounds looked splendid. When squinting did not improve the distorted view for him, he sighed softly and turned around. The walls were bare, and to him the entire corridor seemed deserted.

At the end a set of stairs greeted him, and he descended cautiously. He had learnt the hard way that to rush half-blind down a flight of steps was not conductive to good health. Plus, whoever owned the house would probably not be pleased to find a six-year-old boy running about his long corridors.

The next level down was lit by candles at regular intervals along the walls, and hung up were various paintings of people in repose. Had Harry had clear sight, he would have seen that the persons in the pictures were snoozing lightly, their chests rising and falling with small puffs of breath. All he could hear, however, were many light snores. He guessed that the bedrooms on this landing were all full, and consequently tried to be extra quiet. Like nothing more than a breath of wind he felt his way along the wall. Every now and then a door would appear, or a gap leading off on another tangent. He prayed he wouldn't get lost, in case nobody ever found him, and was horrified to see that, at the end of the corridor, was another large window. The light streaming in was a little brighter than before, but it did nothing to cheer him up. His heart sank with the thought that he was lost. Feeling unimaginably tired and achy, he decided a few minutes rest would not be a crime and settled himself on the window seat, leaning his forehead against the chilled windowpane. Perhaps, he thought wearily, someone would find him.

Unlike Harry, Lucius had not slept that night. It was not out of any feeble worry for the boy's health, most definitely not. But his activities had concerned the weak child hidden in the recesses of his mansion. Lucius was a well-known and influential man whose acquaintances stretched far and deep in the wizarding world. He had been pulling on the many strings connected to him well into early morning, and finally things were coming together.

Lucius was rather proud of himself. He had commenced with his business in such a fashion that it was highly unlikely anyone would even notice until the paperwork had been processed at the Ministry, and even then the news probably wouldn't reach common hearing for some years yet. A smile spread over his pale face as he thought of this. They wouldn't know what hit them! All he had to do was wait for the most opportune moment.

Having ascended the stairs, he stopped quite suddenly in his walk along the corridor when he spotted the ill-clad figure perched precariously on the window-seat found at the end of every main landing in the house. The black-haired head leant forward ever so slightly, resting on the cool glass. He was oddly surprised that, as he approached, he could hear the boy humming softly to himself. Lucius could not discern any recognisable tune from the jumbled notes, but it covered any sound he made as he stalked over to him, and grabbed his arm roughly.

Harry let out a muffled whimper of surprise, then stilled any motion on his part. His face screwed up into a grimace of pain at having to support his weight on his injured leg. Very cautiously he peered up at the face above him, squinting vainly in an attempt to focus the blurred picture. After a pause Lucius let him go, and Potter scrambled to his feet.

"What are you doing up, boy?" he asked at length. When stood opposite him, Lucius could clearly see how small the brat was. Draco was a good four inches taller and not nearly as fragile.

"I…I woke up in a strange room, and I wanted to find out where I was," he replied with childish innocence. Lucius' eyes narrowed into a shrewd stare. Curiosity was a trait he admired at times, but there were situations and circumstances when it was highly inappropriate, this being one of them. He would have to teach the brat that small fact of life.

"Are we feeling better now?" he asked, voice morphing liquidly into something approaching parental concern. Harry recognised the harder undertones and felt his throat constrict. Jerkily he nodded.

"W-what happened?" he whispered, gently rubbing his right leg. Lucius manoeuvred him to sit on the bench, and joined him there.

"Your family were killed in a car crash," he reported coldly. Lucius expected a reaction of some sort. Tears perhaps, or angry denial. Harry sat quite still for a heartbeat before looking up at him with clear green eyes. They were as emotionless as Lucius' voice had been.

"Where will I stay now?" he murmured. Lucius smirked.

"Enough talk. First we should eat. It is time for breakfast. Follow me."

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