Hello readers! I'm back with yet another chapter. But first, thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter! Your feedback means a lot! :D
Disclaimer: The Wizarding World belongs to J.K Rowling. This fanfic is mine.
WILFULLY: CHAPTER 20
Draco Malfoy was faced with a conundrum: He could either be a good son or a good boyfriend.
He wanted to be both, but was it possible?
Perhaps not.
xx
He was six-years-old. His mother had been invited for tea at some silly lady's home, his father had retreated into his study to and Draco was so utterly bored. He had tried to get a hold of his friends through the Floo, but Pansy was off vacationing with her family, Nott was off visiting some relatives, Crabbe had been confined to his rooms after breaking a valuable vase and Goyle was failing yet another arithmetic lesson.
And so, laden with a feeling of terrible loneliness, Draco had soared around the gardens on his tiny children's broomstick, accidentally destroyed the freshly planted dahlias, roamed around the Malfoy Manor barefoot, conversed with an ancestor or two in one of the many portraits lined on the walls, jumped on his bed as high as he could, picked on Dobby the house elf, skimmed through the latest issue of Which Broomstick? – and he was still bored!
It was only natural he threw a tantrum at this point.
He barged into his father's study, complaining at the top of his lungs. It was tempting to throw a few things off the shelves, but he knew better than to do that in front of him.
Lucius was sitting behind a large desk, quill in hand, writing something on a sheet of parchment as he consulted various folders that lay open before him. "Draco, I am busy," he said impatiently, not even looking up from his work. "I must finish this today or the company will face a rather pointless setback. Go annoy your mother."
"But she's not back from tea!"
"Then go kick a house elf."
"But I already did, papa. It's not very fun."
Lucius rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Go to your room, Draco."
"Not fair!" Draco stomped his feet angrily. "If you and mother are going to be so busy all the time then you should get be a brother or a sister to play with!"
An emotion flashed momentarily on his father's face, and he finally looked up at him. "Are you sure you want that?" he asked. "I mean, right now your mother and I love you whole, but if you have a sibling, then our love will have to be divided between the two of you equally."
Draco frowned. He had not thought about it like that. He was the most important person in the Manor, practically a prince, as his parents often told him, but if he had a brother or a sister, he would no longer be that. Oh no. He couldn't not be the most important! But Pansy had an older brother and her parents got her all the dresses and toys that she asked for, so it can't all be bad. Her brother, Henry, took her to eat ice cream as well. Of course, Draco would be the big brother in this case, but he wouldn't mind having someone to go eat ice cream with.
"And you'd have to share all your toys and books with your sibling," Lucius went on.
"Even my broomstick?" Draco asked with wide eyes.
"Even your broomstick."
"But– but what if they break it?"
His father shrugged. "Then you'll have to be a good brother and not get angry about it."
Draco did not want to forgive anyone who would break his broomstick. Merlin, was it really this difficult to be a big brother? Now that he thought about it, whenever Pansy and Henry had a fight, their parents always sided with her and told Henry that he would have to be responsible and compromising. Draco did not want to be responsible and compromising!
Some of his inner conflict must have reflected on his face, for his father said in an amused voice, "Are you changing your mind, or should your mother and I arrange for you to get a sibling?"
"No, father," Draco mumbled. It was too much trouble to get a sibling, he had decided, and there was no way he was giving up all the privileges of being an only child. Besides, how exactly were his parents going to get him a sibling? Was there a shop that sold babies? He did not recall seeing one at Diagon Alley, but perhaps he had not been paying attention. Maybe he should keep a better lookout the next time he went shopping with his mother...
"I thought not." Lucius nodded slowly. "Malfoys always think hard before making a decision, but once that decision is made, we follow it to the end. You have decided that you do not wish to have a sibling, and I agree. Therefore, we shall never discuss this matter again."
"Yes, father." He shuffled his feet sheepishly, then looked up to stare at eyes that were so similar to his own. "I just– it is boring to play alone all the time."
"Yes, I suppose it is," his father watched him for a few moments, then set down his quill resolutely. "Come on, then."
And so, Draco found himself sitting across from his father on the soft Moroccan rug in the parlour, engaged in a rather competitive tournament of Exploding Snap that lasted hours, their laughter and jests ringing in the otherwise empty Manor.
It was funny how certain memories you did not even know you had sprung up in the unlikeliest of times, Draco mused.
He had been sitting in this rather uncomfortable chair in the fourth-floor hallway of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for over three hours now. Healers and mediwitches hustled about, trays containing various potions and herbs levitating after them. Three Aurors had been stationed outside two doors, one of which led to the private room where Lucius Malfoy was currently being treated, the other where two of the more severely wounded Aurors were being looked after.
With a sigh, Draco buried his pounding head in his hands, his mind wandering back to the memory once again.
He had learned two things in the later years of his life. One: his father had very tactfully put him off the idea of siblings because it was not possible for him to have any. There had been some complication when Draco was born, and as a result his mother could no longer conceive. Whether his parents had wanted any more children he did not know, but his father had ensured that he would never hurt his mother's feelings by demanding one.
And two: abandoning official reports almost always resulted in setbacks for the company, as he knew all too well now that he was running it himself. Not that such setbacks would ever cause actual harm to the Malfoys; they had enough fortune to last generations, but it was in their genes to constantly work hard to better their position. His father had decided not to do so that day, just so Draco would not feel alone.
"Malfoy."
Draco glanced up to see Harry Potter standing above him. The cut on his cheek was still open, trails of blood oozing down his face and dripping onto his clothes.
"That is my name," he said coolly as he rose to his feet.
"I need you to come to the Ministry with me."
"No."
Potter glanced at the door where Lucius was being treated, then back at him. "Look, I get that you want to be here because of your dad, but we can't put this off any longer. I need to ask you some questions."
"All the same. I am not leaving," Draco stated flatly. "Did you catch the man who attacked my father?"
"No. He got away."
Son of a bitch! Before Draco knew it, he had grabbed the great hero and shoved him against the wall angrily. The Aurors started in alarm, and Potter somehow managed to pull out his wand even in a span of these few seconds. "Let me go," he said.
"You incompetent twat!" Draco growled. For someone who had defeated Lord Voldemort, Potter sure was utterly useless at catching Dark Wizards. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd let me–"
"Torture him using illegal curses?" Potter shot back coolly. The tip of his wand pressed into Draco's chest. "Let me go. I won't ask a third time."
"What are you going to do, Potty?"
"You sure you want to know, ferret?"
The door to the room across from them swung open and Blaise Zabini stepped out, demanding to know what was going on. He swore when he saw the source of the commotion and hurried over to break the two men apart. "Wand away, Potter. And for Merlin's sake, Drake, let him go!"
Draco obliged and took a step back, but only because his best friend's appearance had forced his attention onto a more pressing matter. "How's my father?"
"I'd know if I was still inside treating him and not breaking up your petty fights," Blaise snarled. "And you need to get that cut checked, Potter." He glanced down the hallway, as if looking for someone to escort him to the appropriate rooms to get the medical attention he required.
Potter shook his head as he stuffed his wand in his pocket. "What I need is a place to talk to Draco. Privately."
"And by 'talk', you mean–"
"Talk."
Blaise eyed them for a few moments. "Very well. You may use my office. Draco knows the way," he said finally. "And Potter, I don't give a damn that you are the Golden Boy of our society. This is a hospital and if I find that you've threatened someone with violence here again, I will personally throw you off the premises. You too, Drake." And with that, he stormed back into the room and slammed the door shut. He never really liked it when anyone came in between him and his patients.
Draco glared at his old nemesis. The self-righteous prick had no remorse on his face. He contemplated refusing to speak with him stubbornly, but that would only lead to further quarrels. He did not want to give the Aurors a chance to arrest him and take him to the Ministry. He had to stay here, where he would be close to his father.
"Follow me, Potter," he muttered and started down the hallway.
Over the years, Blaise had become an expert in healing any injuries induced by Dark Magic. He had received employment offers from wizarding offers in Italy and America, which he had refused, though he did go abroad for consultations sometimes. But with him being so much in demand, St. Mungo's had offered him quite an impressive salary and allowed him a lavish office space. The wallpapered walls were covered in bookshelves, laden with various medical journals and patient records; the latter were magically warded, as Draco had found out one afternoon when he, in a bored state, had decided to see what sort of cases his mate was working on and ended up with boils on his hand. The mahogany desk was organised, the chairs very comfortable. A large couch lay to one side, on which there was a large fluffy blanket for when he had to work overnight.
Draco made his way over to the couch, while Potter dragged a chair to sit across from him after warding the room against eavesdroppers.
"What happened today, Draco?"
He frowned, wondering if this was a trick question. "You were there."
"No, the attack had already started when I reached Azkaban. I was spurred into action without understanding anything."
"I was just visiting my father."
"Yes, but you were the only visitor there. Tell me everything that you saw, in as much detail as you can recall."
For the life of him, Draco could not see how that would help. He only had access to the visitor room that had incidentally been blown apart, but other than that, there was not much he could tell. Still, he decided to humour the heroic ponce. Leaving out the contents of his conversation with his father, he recapped everything that had happened, ending with: "I don't quite know what you expect me to say that will further your investigation."
"I am trying to form a picture of what happened," Potter replied in a way that for whatever odd reason reminded him of Dumbledore. "Your account is one piece of the puzzle. It has helped." But instead of explaining how, he shook his head sadly. "I lost three Aurors today. I just had to deliver the grim tidings to two spouses and a mother."
"I am sorry," Draco said. He had heard some of the Aurors talking earlier about how a total of fifteen prisoners had been broken out during the attack, and they had managed to recapture only six. Nine escaped Death Eaters was almost as bad as the breakout during the War. The Daily Prophet will be giving the Ministry hell, and deservedly so. Unless they had somehow managed to capture Dolohov, in which case this entire fiasco would be over. "You failed to capture the Death Eater who attacked my father. Were you and the rest of your useless minions just as unsuccessful with the rest?"
Potter shot him a glare. "One Death Eater is dead. He must be a new recruit because I don't recognise him. He also doesn't have the Dark Mark. And we have two more in custody: Rowle and the man you cursed." He tilted his head to the side. "What did you do to his hands, by the way? I've been told he's lost function in three fingers and a thumb permanently."
"Serves him right," Draco muttered. He was thinking about something else though: Thorfinn Rowle was not only a close friend of Dolohov's, but also one of the Death Eaters who had been on the run ever since the War. Which meant that all the escaped Death Eaters have banded together to form this Cause. Perhaps Dolohov had not lied about having strong supporters.
"You know, for someone who cast an Unforgiveable Curse today, you seem quite unrepentant," Potter stated slowly.
Draco felt his heart sinking. He knew this conversation was going to come, but he had hoped against hope that Potter would forget about it. Of course, he hadn't. "I thought my father was dead," Draco said. And nothing had mattered except hurting the person who had killed him, even if it was through the Cruciatus Curse. In hindsight, he knew his actions had been wrong but he also knew that he would do it again if he could. The punishment of casting the curse, of course, was a life sentence in Azkaban. Merlin. He hadn't thought about that. "Are you going to arrest me?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"I want your word that you will not try to run," Potter said instead of answering his question.
"Why would I run? I've done nothing wrong."
"Well, there is that Unforgiveable that we just talked about." A pause. "I might ask one of the Aurors to tail you, if you leave the hospital."
"If it helps you sleep at night," Draco sneered. "You were incapable of catching the real perpetrators, but by all means, make yourself feel better by wasting your resources on me." This is exactly why he had not gone to the Ministry when Dolohov had approached him. They would not appreciate his help, but somehow twist his motives and make his life difficult because of their pointless suspicions.
The doorknob turned, interrupting their conversation, and Potter waved his wand to remove the wards he had placed on the room. A disgruntled Blaise stepped in. "I'd ask you not to lock me out of my own office, Potter!" he barked. Without waiting for a response, he turned to Draco and his expression turned too solemn.
"How bad is it?" Draco asked quietly.
"The curse caused severe internal damage. To put it simply, Mr. Malfoy's heart has sort of given out. We are doing everything we can, but I-I think Mrs. Malfoy needs to be here." Blaise had never been one to comfort the blow. He always said how it was imperative to never give the patients or their families false hope. In this moment, Draco could not decide if he truly appreciated the approach; perhaps a childish part of him would have liked to be assured that everything would be alright in the end. "Shall I get in touch with her, then?"
"Yes." Draco was glad that Blaise had offered to speak to his mother. He did not think he had it in him to deliver the news. "Can I see him?"
"He's unconscious, but you may."
He stood up slowly and raised his chin defiantly. "If that's all?" he asked Potter, who made no move to stop him. He was looking at him with something akin to pity, or perhaps it was sympathy.
Draco needed neither, not from this git anyway. Composing his face into an emotionless mask, he sauntered out of the office and headed off to see his father.
xx
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
Why did hospital rooms have to be so bland? The light grey walls, the plain furniture, the clock on the wall, none of it had any character or colour. It was as if someone had died. Or was going to… Draco took one glance at his father and banished the thought from his mind. Lucius Malfoy was a fighter, had been his entire life. He would not let one stupid curse defeat him.
Draco reached out and placed a hand over his father's limp one. There was no sign of injury on his body; one would have thought he was merely asleep, if not for the blue tint to his lips and the icy cold touch of his skin.
"Wake up."
"Wake up!"
Aunt Bellatrix grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Draco tried to roll away with a groan, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, but she would not have it.
"Come on. Time for your Occlumency lesson."
Salazar, not another lesson!
She always delved deep into his mind, she enjoyed playing with his memories and he was always left with horrible headaches afterwards. He did not want to learn anymore. And yet, he had to. The Dark Lord had given him a task. The Dark Lord had branded him as one of his own. He would be in danger if anyone were to venture into his head – the Order, the Death Eaters or even the Dark Lord himself. That was why his mother had asked Bellatrix to teach him Occlumency in the first place, so he would have a safe haven inside his head where he would be free to plan, to feel, to fear.
"Wake up, Draco!"
He could not disappoint the Dark Lord. He just could not. If he failed, they would all be dead, but if he succeeded, the Dark Lord would bring his father back home. He had to do this. He had to. For his father.
With a sigh, Draco stood up and started pacing in the hospital room. The healers had done more or less everything they could; after administering a bunch of potions, they had told him that the only thing to do now was to wait. Wait, for Lucius Malfoy to wake up or to simply die.
Waiting, Draco had realised not so long after, was a torture worse than even the Cruciatus Curse.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
"Did you see him catch the Snitch, father!" Nine-year-old Draco bounced up and down excitedly. He was garbed from head to toe in Puddlemere United merchandise.
"I did, Draco." Lucius drawled as he placed his hand on his son's shoulder, so as not to lose him in the crowd. They were descending the stairs of the Yorkshire Moors Quidditch Stadium, where Puddlemere United had defeated the Falmouth Falcons 520-410. "I was sitting right next to you, in case you've forgotten."
"And when Fawley scored that goal! She's brilliant, isn't she?" Draco sighed blissfully as he clutched his Omniculars close to his chest. "I think I love her."
"Aren't you a bit too young to be falling in love?"
"Just because you're senile, father." The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. He glanced up at his father with wide eyes, wondering how he would be punished for his impertinence.
But to his utter surprise, his father laughed. "I see I will have to up my game. My son has a sharp tongue."
It was a compliment, and Draco could not help but grin. In his merriment, he missed a step and nearly fell down the steep stairs. His father's walking cane shot out and smacked painfully into his belly, keeping him from tumbling some five levels below.
Lucius shot him a sharp look, as if to tell him to pay close attention to where he stepped. It was a talent of him that he did not have to use a lot of words to reprimand his son. All he used was a particular tone to utter his name, and the warning was delivered clear as day: "Draco."
"Draco."
He turned around to see his mother standing before him. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to let his feelings explode in front of her, to tell her how scared he had been, but he couldn't. Narcissa was staring at the limp form of her husband, worry swirling in her eyes and her lower lip trembling. No. He could not break down in front of her, not when it was her turn to be vulnerable. He was the man of the family, he was going to have to be strong for her.
"Mother," Draco said, and she looked at him. "It's alright."
The words seemed to be her undoing, for she let out a cry of despair. He rushed forward and pulled her in his arms as she sobbed. He let her unburden her fears for what felt like a long while, then pulled away, keeping his gaze averted so as to let her compose herself. He knew how much his mother hated appearing weak.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly after a few moments, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "Blaise told me you suffered injuries as well."
"I'm fine," he assured her.
"How could this have happen?" Frustration seeped into her voice as she walked over to the bed and sat in the chair next to it. "Blaise said it was the Death Eaters."
Draco opened his mouth to tell her about Dolohov, but once again he couldn't. She looked so troubled already. It would be cruel to pile more worrisome news on her. She needed to know, of course, and he would tell her. Just not yet. Besides, with his father in such state, they both had bigger problems to worry about. "It's none of our business, mother."
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
Draco opened his eyes with a whimper and found that everything was horribly blurred. His body was on fire. It felt as if someone was skinning him alive, pulling out his organs and grinding them in a mortar while they were still somehow attached to him. He was dying, only he wished that death would hurry up. Anything, anything at all to escape this pain.
Slowly, so very slowly, his vision came into focus. He saw the white ceiling and the bland walls of what was undoubtedly a hospital room. There were needles sticking in his arm, attached to odd bags filled with what appeared to be transparent potions. What was going on?
He did not remember coming here. In fact, he did not remember anything except…
Salazar.
His body twitched at the mere memory of it. Of the Dark Lord's livid eyes and sharp questions. Of a fear so strong that it made it difficult to breath. Of running away as a bright light emitted from the tip of the Dark Lord's wand. Of the red of the pain.
Someone touched his hand and he wanted to yelp, to tell them to not touch him for it hurt, but he did not have the strength. Did he even have a throat and a tongue that would allow him to speak? He could not tell. All he knew was the agony.
But then his father's face was hovering above him, dark circles underneath his eyes as if he had not slept in days. "Draco?" His voice trembled, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. "Draco, can you hear me?"
His mother was there too now. She told one look at him and buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. "Oh, thank heavens!" she exclaimed.
His father, in a rare display of affection, kissed Draco on the brow. "We thought we'd lost you."
His vision was beginning to darken, and Draco knew that he was going to lose consciousness, which would hopefully bring him some relief from the agony he was in. But he couldn't just leave his parents like that, so he opened his mouth and tried to tell them that he loved them. All he managed was a croaked, gurgling whimper. He was falling, falling deep into an excruciating slumber. The last thing he remembered before darkness took him was his parents' relieved faces.
Draco remembered telling Ginevra that there was no way to tell how much time had passed in Azkaban, but he realised that the same could be said for hospitals as well.
Even though the sky around Azkaban was always dark as the darkest night, he had visited his father in the afternoon. It felt like years had passed since their argument over the Chamber of Secrets. His watch had broken in the blast and he had no strength to turn his head to read the clock, much less pull up the blinds and look out the window to see if it was day or night.
Not that it mattered what time it was. He had nowhere else to be. His office could wait; he'd allow a thousand setbacks just so he could sit here with his father, hoping against hope that he would wake up. Just, please Merlin, let him wake up.
His mother did not speak, nor did she sleep. She simply held his father's hand and watched his face. She was, after all, quite used to sitting in hospital rooms for extended period of times because of his Curse, he realised with a pang of guilt.
It was not so easy for Draco. He tried to pass the time by counting the seconds that ticked away, but he lost count somewhere after five thousand, one hundred and seventeen. Which was just as well because it seemed that the throbbing in his head had decided to follow the rhythm of his count. He closed his eyes in hopes that sleep would take him, but he found himself unlucky there too. Unable to think of anything else to do, he resorted to studying his father's breathing, watching the nearly imperceptible but steady rise and fall of his chest.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
"I came as soon as I heard," Daphne Greengrass-Zabini said as she gave Draco a quick hug. Her sudden presence had broken the horrible silence that had been lingering in the room for hours. "Everyone at the Ministry was talking about what happened." That would explain the very official looking robes she was wearing. She'd come straight from the office. Merlin. Was it the next day already? "Is there anything I can do?"
"I doubt it. But thank you," Draco told her gratefully. The fact that she had come to visit was more than enough.
"I saw Potter shouting at a bunch of officials in the Atrium. He's beyond pissed."
"A lot of good that will do."
"I don't know. He looked like he won't rest until he's caught the Death Eaters responsible." She cast a concerned glance at Narcissa, who had not spoken the entire time, then looked at Draco inquisitively.
He shrugged, unsure what to say. Luckily, he did not have to say anything.
The door opened and Blaise Zabini walked in. "Sorry, my morning rounds took longer than I'd imagined. Anyways, I am–" He froze when he saw his wife. A few moments passed in an awkward silence, then he cleared his throat and walked over to the bed and plucked the clipboard on which a purple quill records the vitals of the patients. He read it then pulled cast a quick, silent spell over Lucius.
Narcissa looked up at him. "Is there any improvement?"
"No," Blaise replied, and upon noticing the worry on her face, continued with a kind smile. "But there has been no deterioration as well. Mr. Malfoy is stable for now."
Narcissa nodded slowly, then looked back at her husband. "The Blacks and the Malfoys had always been friends, but I never really knew Lucius until Hogwarts. He approached me one day in the Common Room and asked if I was interested in spending an upcoming Hogsmeade trip with him. I said yes, and the rest is history." She reached out and caressed her husband's cheek. "My sister Bella sometimes teased me, said I should look at other plimpies in the pond too, but I never wanted to. There could be no one else for me but him."
"I know the feeling," Blaise murmured as his eyes slowly snapped to his wife, who was staring at him. A wordless conversation seemed to take place between them, and then he cleared his throat. "We will… give you some privacy." And then he started towards the door, with Daphne following him silently.
Narcissa did not seem to notice. And though Draco had noticed, he chose not to object. If this is what it took for Blaise and Daphne to at least talk to each other, then so be it. Theirs was a trouble that was not going to go away if they ignored it; in fact, it was going to grow, literally, inside of her. They needed to reach a decision of what they were going to do, and it was a decision that no one else could help them reach.
Once the door had shut after them, Draco walked over to his mother and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"I visited him only a week ago," Narcissa murmured.
"I know," That must have been when she complained about Draco and Ginevra's relationship, but it was pointless to be angry at her for that now. After all, she had told him that she was going to involve his father in the matter.
"We had quite a long, lovely conversation about various subjects. He held my hand throughout, and when I was about to leave, he said he loved me. I wished to reply but that impertinent Auror was barking that our time was over. I left without saying it back." A single tear ran down her pale cheek, like a molten diamond.
It pained Draco to see his parents, the two most important people in his life, in such a state. "He knows you love him," he assured her. But the conversation had triggered a whole different worry inside of him. He recalled the argument he had had with his father, the last venomous words he had shouted before the explosion. If something were to happen to his father, if he were to die, would he die thinking that Draco hated him?
It was as if someone had doused him with an icy bucket of guilt and shame.
Merlin, no.
He could not think about what he had said, and he could not bear to look at his father anymore. He needed to leave, to breathe freely for a little while before he inevitably returned.
"I– I am going to get something for you to eat," he said to his mother and slipped out of the room.
The Aurors were still standing guard outside the rooms. He ignored them and made his way upstairs to the hospital tearoom. It was a long, spacey room with pastel green walls, cluttered with white tables. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted in the air and there was a short queue at the counter of visitors and healers alike getting their morning fix of caffeine. As Draco made his way to the back, he noticed Blaise and Daphne sitting at a table in the far corner. They were talking in hushed whispers, but Blaise had placed his hand atop Daphne's. It was a start.
He got a sandwich and a bottle of pumpkin juice for his mother and made his way back. He was outside his father's room when he noticed Ginevra down the hallway.
The sight of her filled with him an odd feeling – one that he always felt when he was with her, one that he had trouble naming. But as he watched her hurrying towards him, her flaming red hair flying, her eyes burning with emotion, he realised what it was: Solitude. Over the last few years, he had felt dark thoughts evade his senses quite easily, the horrors committed by his hand and the ones forced upon his body always replayed in his head. Her presence in his life did not change that, but he found that it was easier to banish them away when he was around her. It took four months of dating for Ginevra Weasley to become his solitude.
"I only found out through the Daily Prophet," she said as she wrapped her arms around him. Her hair smelled of vanilla from her shampoo. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," Draco said as he gently pulled away. He took a brief detour to hand his mother the food, before returning to the hallway where Ginevra was waiting patiently for him. Also in the hallway were those wretched Aurors. "Shall we talk elsewhere?"
Ginevra nodded and they slowly made their way to the staircase. "The article said that you were among the injured," she told him, and he wondered how the newspaper had managed to find out the little details. She must have guessed what he was thinking, for she explained, "Harry addressed the press earlier. He had to."
That made sense. Of course, it did not matter what Potter had to do, the attention-seeking prat would never miss an opportunity to pose for the cameras. "My skull was fractured in two places," he told her. "It's fine now."
"And your father?"
Draco eyed her. It was obvious that she did not much care about Lucius Malfoy but was only asking out of politeness. While he appreciated the sentiment behind the gesture, he rather wished she had not done so. "He's frail."
Ginevra stopped on the landing, causing him to do the same. Reaching out to grab his hand, she spoke up in a low voice, "You know, I told myself I won't come to you this time, that you should be the one who should take a step towards reconciliation. But I suppose we can call all this a special circumstance."
He frowned. "Reconciliation?"
She looked up to meet his bewildered gaze. "You left me that night."
Salazar, did she really think that? "Ginevra," Draco grabbed her face and pulled her close until they were inches apart. "I left because I needed to process what I had found out through your moronic brother. I was always going to come back, in time."
It was her turn to frown. "So, you're not angry with me?"
"Of course, I am!" His earlier frustration towards her reignited and he let go of her. "You should have told me. But this anger would eventually dissipate, hopefully without causing any permanent harm to our relationship."
"Good." She looked relieved. "Because if you try to break up with me again, I will set up an exclusive interview with Rita Skeeter and tell her that you cry during sex."
She was joking in an attempt to lighten the mood, and so accustomed he was to their playful banter that his mind had already prepared two appropriately nasty comebacks: one to do with her lineage and the other to do with Skeeter. But he could not bring himself to speak either of them out loud. Instead, he closed his eyes and ran his palm over his face.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice was laced with concern.
"Yeah, my head hurts," he mumbled. It was partly true; his injuries had been healed, but the healers told him that the ache in the back of his skull would last a few days.
"Have you eaten anything?" She asked, and Draco shook his head in response. "Alright, come on." She grabbed his arm but instead of heading towards the tearoom, she led him out of the hospital and onto the busy London street.
It was drizzling outside, and dark grey clouds blocked most of the light. But it must be peak morning hours, for the street was bustling with muggles heading to work. They walked to a rather overcrowded Pret A Manger; Ginevra braved her way inside when he refused to step foot inside the place, choosing to wait on the sidewalk instead.
A jingling sound caused Draco to turn his head, and he saw a rather feeble woman curled up on the pavement. Her jacket had no hood, so her greying hair was starting to drip due to the rain. In her shivering hands was a paper cup with a few coins inside. She was holding it out in a silent plea, hoping that some of the passerbys would help her. The sight of her filled him with pity. Could the muggle government not do anything to help the homeless?
He had already shoved his hand in his pocket to reach for some coins when he realised that the woman was muggle and would have no use for wizarding currency; he already had the punishment of an Unforgiveable Curse looming over him, adding a breach of the Statute of Secrecy to his charges felt like a foolish move. As he pulled his empty hand out of his pocket, he noticed with some dismay that Auror Nigel Wolpert was standing at a distance, eyeing him not so subtly. It would seem that Potter had indeed delivered on his promise of having someone tail him if he left the hospital premises. Git.
"Here you go."
Ginevra had returned with a steaming cup of coffee and a sandwich. She handed the latter to him first, along with a stern expression that made it clear that they were not going anywhere until she saw him eat. He shot her an exasperated look to let her know her mothering was not appreciated. She merely planted her feet firmly on the ground and raised a challenging eyebrow to show him that she did not give a damn what he thought, and that she was going to have her way.
Somewhat amused that they had reached the point in their relationship where they no longer needed words to communicate, Draco ripped open the brown paper and took a bite. Egg and cheddar brioche. Fresh and delicious. And yet even as he swallowed the first bite, the urge to throw up rose inside of him. He was able to resist this urge but knew that he would not be able to stomach any more food. He was already full – of worries.
He slipped the brioche back into the paper and snatched the untouched cup of coffee from her hands. Turning on his heels, he walked over to the homeless woman. "Here."
"F-For me?" The woman's wide eyes moved from the food to him, and she grabbed it with such gratitude that he felt uncomfortable. "Thank you, kind sir. Bless you."
Draco nodded curtly, then returned to Ginevra, who was looking at him oddly, as if his gesture had touched her. These noble Gryffindors were so easy to impress. "I'll go and get something else for you," she murmured softly.
"No," he said quickly.
"You need to eat."
"Can't." He saw that she was about to protest, so he quickly said, "Ginevra, please."
"What is it?"
"I had a row with him," he said, and upon noticing her bewildered expression, elaborated, "My father. I confronted him about what he did to you. It was a rather ugly conversation. I told him that he's a failure as a father and that I'm ashamed of him. And then the room blew up."
His last words to his father had been so venomous that the shame of uttering them was eating him from the inside. It went against his upbringing, against every shred of manner and propriety that he had been taught, but more than that, it was a betrayal of the familial bonds that had once been their strength and purpose during the war. This is exactly why Draco tried his best to suppress his anger, for bad things happened when he lashed out. He had said horrible things to Pansy too on the day they had broken up; he found out years later that the poor girl had contemplated killing herself because of it, and that Daphne had talked some sense into her.
And now – now he had been so terribly vile towards his father, towards the man who had raised him and loved him his entire life.
"I didn't mean what I said to him. Not entirely." He was most certainly ashamed of many things that his father had done, but not of him. Besides, Draco was in no position to judge anyone. His own slate was anything but clean. And yet he had stormed into Azkaban and shouted at his father. "I-I fought for you, Ginevra."
"Draco," she breathed and reached out to caress his cheek. "I never asked you to." Despite her words, he could tell that she was pleased. Her eyes were warm, reminding him of dense forests and molten chocolate.
"You didn't have to." It was his turn to cup her cheek in the palm of his hand. "I chose to do it because you matter to me, Ginevra. This horrid affair of ours, as my mother likes to call it, is the best thing that has happened to me in years." Draco had not really meant to say that last part out loud, and he quickly pulled away, feeling his cheeks getting warm due to embarrassment. Salazar, when did he become that sentimental food who wore his heart on his sleeve?
A slow smile spread on Ginevra's lips. "I thought they healed your head injury."
"Clearly, they've done a poor job of it," he muttered dryly, causing her to laugh.
By unspoken agreement, they started walking back to the hospital. As they reached the red-bricked department store that acted as a magical gateway to St. Mungo's, Draco pulled Ginevra to him and kissed her with a ferocious hunger. She made a sound in the back of her throat, a cry of surprise mingled with a moan, and then her hands were in his hair. For once, he could not bring himself to care that she was going to ruin his impeccable hairdo. He was far too occupied with the way her lips moulded so perfectly with his and how their tongues danced wildly in a battle of dominance.
They only parted when the need for air outgrew their passion. Draco noted gleefully how breathless she was and how her lips were slightly swollen. They had made quite the spectacle of themselves, though, for an idiot muggle in a spiked leather jacket shot him a thumbs-up as he passed by. Another hooted. A few feet away, Wolpert was starting at them with his mouth hanging open. Perverted, good-for-nothing imbecile.
The kiss had made it feel like everything in the world had snapped into its correct place, but the sight of the Auror had reminded Draco that it was not so. There was something that he could not put off any longer. "Ginevra," he began slowly. "I appreciate you coming here. But now you need to go."
"What?"
"I want you to leave."
She frowned. "Why?"
The answer to that was complicated, and he did not know if he would be able to explain something that he was not certain about himself. He only hoped that his earlier admission about how important she was to him would encourage her to keep an open mind. "I-I love my father very much, in spite of everything that he has done. And I don't want him to die," he told her. "You do."
She looked like she had been slapped. Hurt and betrayal flashed in her eyes and she took a step back from him.
He grabbed her by the elbows, holding her in place as he tried to explain. "You have every right to abhor him." Which was why it felt cruel to let their relationship put her into a position where she would feel obligated to stay by the sickbed of a man whose actions had traumatised her so terribly. "But I can only allow the people who wish him well to be here." Such people barely existed; but no one was better than someone whose heart was filled with hatred. Draco did not consider himself to be religious nor spiritual; though he had never outrightly spurned the concept of god or the powers of Karma, he had dismissed such topics as something that did not concern him. And yet, with Lucius Malfoy's life hanging on the balance, he felt that he was not willing to take a risk. "I want my father to survive."
Ginevra watched him silently for a while, and her usually expressive face gave away no trace of her current thoughts. Then – "I have to go to practice," she said as she shrugged his hands off her arms. "So, I'm going to go."
"Please, don't misunderstand me," he pleaded. He did not like that he was losing control over his emotions. It was a weakness to be so vulnerable. "I-I don't want to lose him, Ginevra. Just like I don't wish to lose you."
For a moment it looked like she was going to storm away. But she surprised him by holding his hand and squeezing it lightly. "Okay," she whispered, though she seemed conflicted about the situation as well. "I'll… talk to you later." And then she walked away.
Draco watched her go, filled with an odd urge to run after her and – and what? He had asked her to leave, so how could he feel upset about the fact that she had, for once, did exactly what he wanted? He watched her slip into a narrow side alley, where he knew she would disapparate.
Running a hand over his face tiredly, he glanced back at the window that would lead him to the hospital reception. He was not ready to go back just yet. No, if he could avoid seeing his father in his feeble state, he would. Besides, he had not been able to stomach food. Alcohol, he most certainly would.
And so, Draco went to a posh wizarding restaurant that was located just across the street, where he often lunched with Blaise; Blaise preferred it because it was close to the hospital and he could quickly rush back if he was needed and Draco liked it because their food was exceptionally well-made. Ginevra had joined them one time, where she had amused them with her incredibly uncanny impersonation of Umbridge's annoying cough.
The maitre d' hotel greeted him politely and asked him to wait; it was a bit too early and the kitchens were not yet open. Draco shook his head lightly and made his way towards the empty bar, which he knew would be operational, if not at all busy. He hopped on a stool before the grand mahogany counter where a rather attractive bartender took his order. Within a minute, he was left alone with his gin and tonic.
Well, not entirely alone.
Wolpert had followed him to the bar, though he had decided to sit silently at a small table. Draco ignored him.
His thoughts were a bit of a tangle at this point. His headache seemed adamant on staying and he decided to ask the healers for a pain-relieving potion when he returned to the hospital. He was still concerned about his father, and his mind kept on conjuring various scenarios of how life would be if he died. Once again, guilt stabbed at his insides. Not only had he been utterly ruthless in confronting his already imprisoned and weak father, but here he was, imagining the aftermath of his death when he was still alive (barely, but alive nonetheless). He must be the worst son in the whole world.
And then there was Ginevra… Merlin, had his fondness for her caused him to behave in such manner with his father? Was he truly a son who would disregard his parents – the parents who had made mistakes, yes, but also gone out of the way to protect him – just for a girl? He wanted to say no, but that would be a lie. He had actually meant what he had said to Ginevra: she was the best thing that had happened to her in years. Telling her about the Dark Lord's Curse had been a leap of faith, and he had been pleasantly surprised to see that she wanted to stay by him despite it all.
Halfway through his second gin and tonic, Draco noticed Wolpert getting up and leaving. Huh. Perhaps the useless Auror had realised that there were more efficient tasks he could be doing instead of following him around. Or perhaps it was time for a shift change.
It turned out to be neither.
Harry Potter slipped onto the stool next to him. "Isn't it a bit too early to be drinking, Draco?" he asked casually.
"Bite me, Potter," Draco said shortly. He had had enough conversations with Potter in the last twenty-four hours to last him a lifetime, thank you very much.
The bartender sauntered over to them and asked Potter what he would like to have. The way she practically purred 'Mister Potter' and batted her eyelashes at him, it was clear that she would very gladly serve herself on a platter, naked and covered in whipped cream, if the great hero asked for it.
This ridiculous preferential treatment was exactly why Potter's existence irked him. He broke a thousand school rules, put his friends continuously in mortal danger, break into Ministry of Magic when he was just fifteen and nobody batted an eye. Hell, he had nearly killed Draco in the bathroom using a curse he had no idea about and still he got away with just a detention! Had anyone else done that, they would most certainly have been expelled, but no – everyone had to bow at the feet of Saint Potter.
"Oh, what the hell," Potter muttered as he eyed the menu, clearly oblivious to the bartender's beauty. "Firewhiskey. On the rocks. Thanks."
Draco noticed that the top button of the bartender's shirt had mysteriously popped open by the time she handed Potter his drink, revealing tanned skin and a lacy bra underneath. Merlin. People really did lose all sense when it came to the Chosen One. In the case of this young lady, for instance, she had lost her self-esteem (especially after she said 'Let me know if you need anything else, Mister Potter' in a slow, sultry voice). Did she care that Azkaban had been broken into right under Potter's obnoxious nose, and that nine prisoners had escaped, four people had died and three were severely injured as a result? No, all she cared about making lewd overtures to Scarface here.
It was pathetic.
"Might I inquire as to why I have been blessed to be in your company?" Draco asked with mock courtesy.
Potter shot him a look. "I spoke to Goldstein about you using the Cruciatus Curse on that Death Eater, and we agreed that the circumstances were extenuating," he told him. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will be letting you go with a formal warning, maybe a fine."
There will most certainly be a fine. This beggar Ministry would never pass up a chance of depriving Draco of his coin, not that a petty fine could come even close to blowing a hole in his wealth. Still, the news did bring him relief; he was not looking forward to getting arrested and imprisoned, and now he needn't worry about that anymore. There was no way he was going to thank Potter, though, so he settled for grunting derisively.
"By the way, Neville told me that you two spoke about Jeremy Chaucer," Potter said. He was obviously curious as to why Draco and Longbottom had met in the first place, but he did not voice it. "He suggested that I should investigate the Chaucer murders for the sake of the boy."
Of course, Longbottom suggested that. Draco had been the one to plant that very idea in the idiot's head. But he could not admit that, so he settled for a nonchalant shrug. "Longbottom seemed to think your participation in the investigation would keep the boy from doing something reckless. I told him it was absurd."
"Is Jeremy really verging on the edge?"
"He is a sixteen-year-old boy mad with grief and hungry for revenge."
"That's a bad combination, as we know all too well."
Draco stiffened at the jibe; the spectacled git was trying to rile him up, and he would not give him the satisfaction. Instead of responding to that, he said, "Chaucer seems to hero-worship you, though, much like everyone else. Deluded fool."
Potter seemed to be deep in thought. "I'll look into it," he said at last. "I mean, of course the Death Eaters are my first priority, but I'll speak to a friend in the French Auror Office as to how I can help."
Good. This meant that Draco had delivered on his promise to Jeremy Chaucer. What happened now was none of his business. Why Potter was telling him this, though, he did not quite understand.
There was a brief lull in the conversation as the bartender came to refill Potter's glass, then left with another suggestive comment, which went unanswered and most likely unnoticed.
"Look, you've worked with Dolohov before. And now…" Potter began. "If you have any sort of information–"
Ah, so this is why he had been so civil towards him, hoping that polite conversation and alcohol would help loosen his tongue. Bastard. "I don't know anything," Draco said shortly.
"Really?" Potter eyed him dubiously. "Because the way you fought at Azkaban felt very personal."
"They nearly killed my father, for Merlin's sake!"
"Is that all?"
"You're wasting your time, Potter. I'm not going to help you." Draco twirled the glass in his hands, wondering if it was possible to drown in the contents and be free of this wretched conversation. "Death Eaters, Aurors– I don't want to be a part of any of this."
He did not have to look at Potter to know that his words had angered him. "You know, I always thought you a spoiled little shit, but never in a million years would I have taken you to be so wilfully naïve!"
"Naïve?"
"Yes. How many times do you think I wanted to be a part of this?" Potter demanded. "I was just a kid who wanted to go to school, drink Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and not find one of my teammates nearly dead because she had accidentally touched a cursed necklace while under the influence of the Imperius Curse. Fuck you very much for that, by the way."
"I assume you have a point," Draco sniffed in disdain. The reminder of what he had done back during his Sixth Year at Hogwarts was a low blow.
"We don't always get the choice, Draco," Potter said slowly, almost wisely. "Sometimes, we just have to fight for what's right."
"Maybe you do. You are, after all, the great hero of our time."
There was a pregnant pause, during which Potter must have realised that he would be getting no help here. He slid a few gold coins on the counter, then stood up. "I hope Mr. Malfoy recovers," he said quietly. "A life without a father, I wouldn't wish that upon anyone."
Draco looked up at him, surprised. "Even me?"
"Even you," Potter said simply. There was nothing in his voice or expression that would make it seem like he was being ingenuine. "Besides, Ginny won't be happy to see you grieving. She is quite invested in this relationship with you, temporary as it is."
"You think so?"
"It can't last. Surely, you know that."
"And let me guess: you plan on 'being there' for Ginevra when I break her heart."
"I'm always there for Ginny, as a friend if nothing else."
"Potter, you do make me want to throw up," Draco snorted. It amused him that Potter had been acting like such a noble hero throughout, but the moment the conversation turned to Ginevra, his jealousy flashed out so explicitly. "You're wrong, of course. What Ginevra and I have is real. It will last."
"I doubt it."
"I know it."
"We'll see," Potter muttered challengingly then stormed away.
xx
Draco Malfoy was faced with a conundrum: He could either be a good son or a good boyfriend.
But it should not have to be an 'if/or' choice. He should not have to choose between his parents' happiness and his own. He was a loving son, he always had been, and he would find a way to make his parents understand. He liked Ginevra so very, very much. In a short span of time, she had become the center of his world - and he could not give that up so easily, could he? No. He would not.
He was going to go and tell her that. Later, though.
For now, he returned to St. Mungo's with a heavy heart, resigned to see his father in a frail condition again. But he was greeted with a surprising news upon entering the hospital room: Lucius Malfoy had woken up.
There! I had planned this chapter to go a different way, but somehow these characters would not listen to me! It feels like a little bit of a filler, but trust me, this chapter lays the foundation of a lot of what is coming. Oh, and I promise a lot more Draco/Ginny interactions in the next chapter, but whether they'll be happy or angsty, you'll have to find out!
But what did you think of this chapter? Liked it? Hated it? What do you think happens next? Please review and let me know!
Until next time x