Chapter II
"How are you feeling today, my boy?"
"Very well, thank you Professor."
"A letter from Sirius came this morning. Want me to read it to you?"
"Please."
The small, dark room was warmed by the blazing fire, and Madam Pomfrey gathered her things before leaving.
"I'll be going now, Professor. Just send me an owl next time I'm needed."
She took her leave of both men, and was gone.
"Now then, the letter."
The boy listened intently as the letter from his godfather was read by the older wizard whose half-moon glasses slipped down to the point of his nose.
The Hogwarts crew is managing with their grief, except for one young Slytherin who is still rather despondent. You need to heal faster, Harry…or else I fear the consequences of your 'death' could become quite serious. Padfoot and Buckbeak are frequent travelers in this part of the country, and we're managing to slowly emerge I think.
I look forward to seeing you again soon, when we all can come together once more and be mostly care-free.
Buckbeak sends his love, as do I.
Sirius
"I need to go, Professor!"
"No, Harry." Dumbledore said, rolling the parchment again."
"You're still not well enough, and the shock would still be too great for them to handle."
"They're in pain, Albus. And it's because of me. And Draco…you know him. He is practically an orphan, he has no friends; he's nothing to live for, in his mind."
"He will be cared for, Harry. No harm will come to young Malfoy as long as certain adults still live."
Harry lay back against his pillows and closed his eyes. Looking down at his body, he wished that he would heal faster. His practically charred flesh was slowly mending, and his right arm was beginning to take on a normal shape again. He still dared not to look at his own face, for fear of what he would see. The only thing he knew was that the scar on his forehead pained him every day, and he knew that fire had burned from it as Voldemort was destroyed. Harry's own skin had become more pale, and his green eyes were still tinged with an evil red glare. As skilled as he was, Dumbledore was only able to do so much to rid the boy's body of the fragments of such a shattered evil soul.
Harry worried about Draco every day, and every day he was helpless to do anything. Dumbledore promised four more months, but in two months Harry feared that Draco would be dead. He longed to at least write to his friends, but that was impossible. Only choice people knew of the Headmaster's and his flight. Mr. Weasley knew, Snape knew. Sirius obviously knew, as did Professor McGonagall. It was just as well the Dursleys thought him dead, but he was touched when he saw his aunt shed a few tears at her nephew's funeral. Even Dudley had seemed rather forlorn, but the reason could have been that he had been forced to slim down to a measly 200 pounds in the past few years. Military camp had done wonders for the whale who was now a tall, stocky, and strong young man of seventeen. He supposed that Dumbledore would let them know the truth after a while, but he would never have to live with them again. Things would get better once they could come out of hiding, and life would get back to normal.
The days passed much the same as they had for months, and Harry's body continued to mend as the lives of others continued.
Malfoy was walking alone on the battlements near the owlery when a voice made him shiver.
"Draco…how thin you are."
The soft yet gruff voice crooned close to his ear, and the harsh face of Marcus Flint greeted his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" Draco whispered, allowing the older man to push him against the wall.
"I heard you were lamenting, and thought I'd come to comfort you."
The man pressed his strangely smooth lips against Draco's neck, but the boy was unaffected.
"Why are you really here?"
"They needed a Quidditch coach, and I was first pick."
Draco's stomach flipped nauseously. That meant that the man would be here for a long time. He was numb as Marcus slipped his rough hands into the blonde's pants and fondled him. Flint didn't care that his ministrations were not being returned; he was addicted to the boy's smooth, pale skin that was cool to the touch, and even the sunken face satisfied the need for Draco's flesh. The hard stone was cold against Draco's stomach, and he lay still while Marcus enjoyed himself immensely. When the man was through, Draco stood and straightened his robes while Flint walked calmly away from him, unseeing of the hate-filled look that Draco gave him. He rubbed at his arm where the man's nails had cut him, the red blood against his white skin was beautiful and disgusting at the same time. Suddenly his stomach convulsed, and he threw himself to the wall as the contents of his empty stomach fell the three hundred feet to the base of the cliffs and he collapsed on the ground. The wind had picked up, and he pulled his robes around his thin body, pulling himself up and walking down the spiral staircase to the outskirts of the grounds. He walked for an hour, until his numb legs could no longer carry him and he collapsed at the base of a large tree. He lay still, sensing that he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and toes, and it was spreading to his arms. His sweat had dampened his hair, which was now frozen in the wind and snow began to collect around him. Opening his eyes, Draco looked up into the night of blackest blacks, and found that the stars shone brightly through the breaks in the clouds. He let his cloak fall open, his hands going limp into the snow. He could no longer see his fingers, but he knew that they were probably blue; he didn't care. He hoped he would fall asleep soon so he could die instead of having to wake up, half-frozen and frostbitten. Through his watery eyes, he saw the figure of an animal trotting towards him, and he blinked.
"Buckbeak?"
The hippogriff from his 3rd year was walking to him, the large beak pressing into his stomach with a nuzzle.
"Go 'way…" the boy moaned, half-lifting an arm and trying to brush the huge animal away. The creature gave a low squawk and lifted Draco with its powerful head, the boy sliding back behind the large wings. He curled his fingers into the soft, warm feathers and hugged the strong neck, holding on tightly as Buckbeak prepared to take off. Eyes tightly shut, Draco hoped the animal would drop him into the lake, but soon he was numb from the cold, and he was no longer able to form complete thought.