The dragon was hurtling towards him, so large that all he could see was an eye, then a fang, as the gaping maw began to open, spilling flames hotter than the very fires of hell. It was hotter than anything he had ever known, ever felt, reaching for him with hungry tongues that seared so hot he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t even think, and poured inside of him as he opened his mouth to scream…
“He’s coming to again.”
A crisp voice sounded from somewhere far away. Groggily, Draco willed his eyes to slowly open the barest of cracks, flooding his vision with harsh white light. A dark shape shifted, and a blurred face swam in front of his hazy vision.
“Well, Mister Malfoy,” a rather matronly voice emanated from the looming face, “have you decided to come back to us at last?”
Draco tried to answer, to say anything, but his throat felt raw and closed, and only a whispered, strangled noise escaped his lips.
Behind the first figure, a second shape blurred through Draco’s vision, although not nearly as large as the first. A reproving tenor replied, “It looks as though he’s still in shock, Marjorie, and no surprise after all he’s been through. He’s probably still delirious.”
Eyes almost fully opened now, Draco blinked as various sights and sounds continued to swim in and out of his consciousness. Slowly, the room formed around him, the dingy white of the walls blending into the rougher white of the ceiling and the crisp white of the sheets where he lay. The stinging scent of antiseptic and cleaners filled his nose with every breath, and muted voices, beeps, and whirrs hovered just beyond the edges of his vision. It was too much. He snapped his eyes shut again and tried to take stock of his situation.
The last thing he remembered was… the last thing was… Draco frowned. He couldn’t remember. Was he dead, then? Because if this miserable excuse was the afterlife, someone had an awful lot of explaining to do.
Taking a shallow breath, Draco forced his eyes open again. In a rather detached way, Draco realized that he felt fine, as though he was floating along as lightly as a cloud, yet something was off. Something hovered on the edge of his consciousness, a persistent and niggling voice which he couldn’t hear since his head felt like cotton stuffing, and the mere effort of listening to it made his head ache.
He tried to reach up and massage his temples, only his arm wouldn’t listen. It felt as heavy and unresponsive as if it had been strapped to the bed. Slowly, his eyes traced it down from his shoulder, past the pale blue sleeve of his gown, down the reddened crook of his elbow to the heavy white bandages that ensconced the tapered stump of his wrist.
Suddenly the world was roaring in his ears, waves of pain thundering through his veins, the white walls spinning out of focus. It all came rushing back to him as the dancing searing flames filled his vision to the distant cries of someone’s wrenching screams.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
It took all of Hermione’s will power not to run through the crowded halls at St. Mungo’s. Gritting her teeth she resisted the impulse to kick the shins of the slow moving witches and wizards who stumbled unwittingly into her path. All she could think of was that he was hurt- how badly she could only guess and fear.
“Hermione! You came!”
The slender, colorful form of Elaine barreled into her, catching Hermione in a worried yet grateful embrace. “He’s down here,” Elaine said as she released her, drawing them both down a quieter side corridor.
A small group of Draco’s coworkers kept a vigil outside his door. Moray took refuge in pacing the hall while Donaghue, an older wizard with spectacles, and a dejected and bandaged boy shifted uneasily on their rigid plastic chairs. As they approached, Donaghue stood, offering his chair to Hermione. She accepted it gratefully; her knees felt unusually weak and her hands were trembling as she folded them in her lap. Elaine sank down into the empty chair beside her.
“How is he?” The words escaped Hermione’s throat in a whisper, words that she at once wanted so desperately to hear yet was so afraid of what they might contain.
“We don’t know.” It was the older gentleman, John, Hermione remembered at last. “He is no longer in critical condition. He’ll live. But he is still in shock. No visitors allowed. They haven’t told us anything else.”
Hermione nodded absently in thanks, clinging to the faint words, “he’ll live” through her fog of panic. “What happened?”
With an anguished sob, the boy sitting on the other side of John buried his head in his hands. Moray looked away from him, but Donaghue reached out and rested a large hand on his shoulder. “It was an accident,” his deep voice rumbled gently. “The dragon’s head got loose and Draco was caught in the flame as he tried to get Elaine to safety.”
“I wish he’d left me to roast,” Elaine muttered guiltily.
Hermione opened her mouth to ask more when a young, nervous looking healer stepped out of Draco’s room. In an instant Hermione was at his side. “How is he?” she demanded.
“Mostly unconscious, he’s still in shock. No visitors,” the healer said officially in a trembling baritone.
“No,” Hermione said, her eyes flashing dangerously and grasping his arm as he tried to edge away. “I don’t want the official bullshit. How is he?”
The young man’s eyes darted nervously around the room as he tried to pull the sleeve of his white robe out of her grip. “I can’t say if you’re not family,” he insisted in a strangled voice. “Hospital policy.”
“I’m family,” an imperious voice rang out from behind them. Narcissa Malfoy dropped her traveling cloak and gloves on Hermione’s abandoned chair. Raising her golden head high, she commanded, “Tell me about my son.”
The healer began one more feeble protest about identification policy, but quailed under Narcissa’s steely gaze. “There was a tertiary level of damage to pressing through the lower layers of the epidermis with a high concentration…”
Narcissa raised one eyebrow and the healer quickly simplified his statements. “He’s been fairly badly burned,” he gave in at last. “He’s quite lucky to be alive. From what we have been able to put together, he fell and was only caught in the outer layers of fire. The central flame would have killed him instantly. Not much would have been left.”
Narcissa paled at that, and Hermione reached out to steady the older woman. With a deep breath she pulled herself together, and the healer continued, looking concerned.
“Draco and,” he quickly checked the notes on his clipboard, “Elaine both cast shielding charms which helped to protect him from the flame to a degree. However, because of that action his wand arm remained up as he fell.” The healer paused again as though uncertain of how best to go on. “His right arm, and particularly his hand, was caught in a much hotter, inner flame than the rest of his body.”
“But he’s all right,” Narcissa insisted. “He’ll be all right?”
The healer winced at her words. “The flame cauterized the wound,” he said carefully, “but we need to be careful to keep infection out.” Gently, he added, “but I’m afraid he has permanently lost…”
At that moment screams began to issue form Draco’s room and all heads snapped to the door. Frantic voices within were shouting to be heard over the noise.
“He’s snapping out of it!”
“Delirious again!”
“Someone get a calming draught!”
“Help hold him down!”
Hermione started for the door, but the young healer grabbed her by the shoulder, frantically yelling, “you can’t go in there,” over Draco’s screams.
Furious at this small man who was blocking her way, Hermione snarled, “watch me,” and stomped on his foot with all her might. He immediately let her go and she pushed past him, Narcissa on her heels.
Draco lay in the bed in the middle of the room, flailing against some imaginary foe as the healers tried to hold him down and pour a calming draught down his throat.
“Get out!” one of the healers bellowed at them as Draco knocked away the potion again.
Hermione ignored him. “Draco,” she snapped, using her most irritated voice, as though he was a child throwing a tantrum.
Slowly, wondrously, he dropped his waving limbs and raised his head. “Hermione?” his hoarse voice whispered incredulously, as though he could not believe she was standing at the foot of his bed.
The slightest of smiles touched he worried, frowning face. “Stop being an ass and drink the potion,” she commanded, and obediently Draco opened his mouth and swallowed the draught the healers poured in.
As the potion began to take effect his eyelids fluttered heavily and his breathing slowed. Gently, Hermione bent down and planted a light kiss upon his brow. As she pulled away, Draco drowsily raised his right arm to brush his fingertips across her cheek.
Behind them, Narcissa gasped as the bandaged stump moved through the air. Hermione kept her tear-filled eyes locked on Draco’s, stubbornly refusing to be bothered by the empty space where his long, elegant hand had once been.
“I love you,” she whispered as the potion was bearing him off to sleep. “No matter what, I love you.”