FIC: Feed Me With Your Kiss [Draco/Barty - PG-13]
Author: Anonymous
Title: Feed Me With Your Kiss
Characters/Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Barty Crouch Junior
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild violence.
Word Count: 7245 words
Prompt: Barty Crouch Jr./Draco. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (by a_shadow_there)
Notes: a_shadow_there, thank you for the prompt! I pretty much fell in love with the idea as soon as I saw it. Whether or not this is epilogue compliant is up for interpretation. The title is gleefully borrowed from a My Bloody Valentine song of the same name. Thanks C for the beta work, W for the read through and support when I got stuck, and F for holding my hand the whole way, you're all lovely! Apologies in advance for bad science!
“Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.” ― Jeanette Winterson
***
“Father?” Draco asked, small voice trembling. His father was reading. Draco knew better than to interrupt that particular activity, but his curiosity had the better of him.
Pansy Parkinson’s mother had visited in the morning to speak with his mother. Draco, obviously having woken up in the mood for breaking rules had eavesdropped.
He didn’t like it when Pansy’s mother came around. She always made mad suggestions about Draco’s fitness as a future husband, comments that his mother blessedly ignored.
At six years old, the idea of having a girlfriend was somewhat distasteful. The idea of having a wife made Draco feel ill.
Pansy smelled funny anyway.
Her mother, upon greeting his mother that morning, had taken to the tea room, and proceeded to talk about things called The Dementors. Draco, trying his best to follow the conversation, thought it all sounded terribly exciting.
So, having thought about it all day, he simply had to put it to his father, whether he was reading or not.
Lucius lowered the book he was reading, and without looking at his son at all, said, “Yes, Draco? You know not to disturb me when I’m reading.”
Draco was tempted to forget all about it, but Vincent had called him a coward last week and he wasn’t about to prove him right. He steeled himself, puffing his chest out to look big and brave.
“Who are The Dementors?”
Lucius did turn around, at that. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth a hard line.
“I beg your pardon, Draco?” he breathed. Draco didn’t feel so big anymore.
“I uh- it was in the Prophet,” Draco lied, “I wondered what they were. Are they a rock band?”
Lucius looked at his son again, then, face relaxing, he stood up from the chair and kneeled down next to Draco.
Alarmed, Draco took a small step backwards. His father never knelt. Malfoys didn’t kneel.
“Dementors are Dark creatures, Draco,” he said, almost gently.
“Oh.” Draco’s face lit up. This was much more exciting. “What do they look like?”
Lucius stood up again and walked to the nearest bookshelf, running a finger along the dusty titles. He pulled a book down after a moment, sat back down in the chair and leafed through the pages.
Draco waited eagerly for his answer.
Lucius held the book facing outwards so Draco could see. The Dementor was more frightening than he expected. Its body was hard to distinguish, mostly looking like a tattered grey cloak, caught by the wind. The illusion was disrupted by the gnarly, scabbed hands reaching out into the air, the illustration turning slightly, revealing the gaping chasm inside the hood. Draco shivered.
“The Dementors act as prison guards at Azkaban, the prison, Draco. They feast on memories,” Lucius explained, his voice impossibly calm.
“What about this one?” Draco asked, pointing at the next illustration.
This one was much scarier than the last, Draco thought. It showed a man cowering beneath a Dementor, those scabby hands clutched either side of the man’s face, a pair of disgusting lips almost brushing his face.
It said, ‘The Kiss’ in neat little letters and nothing more. Draco thought kissing was supposed to be a nice thing.
“Dementors can eat more than memories Draco,” Lucius paused to look at the illustration again himself. “The Kiss is how they may eat a man’s soul.”
Draco stared blankly at the spine of the book. Surely a soul couldn’t be eaten. He then said so.
“Well. It is possible. Only Dementors can do so. There is a relatively simple charm to defend yourself with.”
He looked as though he might continue, but Draco’s mother swept into the room then, eyes suspiciously darting between Draco and Lucius.
“Narcissa.” Lucius inclined his head. He placed the book on the small wooden table next to the chair he’d been sitting in and crossed the room to meet her. He gave Draco a small nod, then walked with her to another room.
Draco snatched the book up with small but determined hands, and took it with him to bed.
Lucius never saw the book again.
***
The press conference, Granger's idea, was to be held in one of the larger rooms in the lower levels of the Ministry. Draco was running late. His shoes, freshly polished, clicked artfully against the shiny black tiles as he walked briskly to his destination. He hoped Granger’s speech was to be as long winded as expected.
The ministry had changed a lot since the war. Departments had been moved, reshuffled, renamed, statues torn down and replaced. Since Voldemort had essentially decimated the old Ministry, Draco supposed the change was to be expected.
The Wizarding world was facing a whole slew of changes. Draco wanted to ensure he ended up on the right side of the change this time. Straightening his tie, he sped up a little, nodding at a stranger he passed; she seemed a little troubled by his power walk through the Atrium.
The conference was really more of a 'public series of speeches'. Most of the attendees were members of the Ministry and Hospital Advisory Board, as well as past patients and friends and relative of current in-patients, rather than the press itself. As he walked past the public entrance to the room, he stopped for a moment and grudgingly admired Granger’s public speaking skills.
“… and as I’m sure you’re all aware, what’s good for St. Mungo’s is good for all of us,” she intoned, looking out across the crowd. Her eyes may have narrowed a bit when she spied Draco through the gap in the door. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, but he didn’t want to displease her right now, so he quickened his pace once more, and walked around the corner to the speakers’ entrance.
The standard issue Ministry security personnel seemed surprised that it was him, infamous, cowardly, Death Eater Draco Malfoy that they were opening the door for, but one glare and Draco was straightening his suit and joining Granger at the front of the stage, right as she introduced him.
Impeccable timing, as always, Malfoy, he thought to himself.
“Healer Malfoy has studied extensively overseas and has demonstrated a wealth of knowledge and ideas he looks forward to contributing to the hospital from this point forward. It is our greatest pleasure to have him on our staff.” Hermione finished, smiling and graciously stepping away from the lectern.
There it was again, that almost undetectable narrowing of the eyes. Draco stepped up to meet a hundred eyes at once, ignoring Granger's silent reprimands.
“Thank you, Healer. As I’m sure you all know, St. Mungo’s is dedicated to providing indiscriminate medical attention to all that seek it. I am pleased to announce the opening of a new ward, dealing with the care of those witches and wizards whose demand for care has not been met in the past. The ward will be led by myself, and staffed by some of the finest young Healers and nurses we have, working tirelessly to cure the incurable.”
Draco had wanted to keep his speech vague. He was sure that, despite his immaculate tertiary medical academic record, the majority of the people in this room were distinctly uncomfortable with Granger’s decision to hire him.
If they knew exactly what he’d been hired to do, he was sure they’d see to kicking him out of the hospital themselves.
“St. Mungo's is a modern hospital. I'm sure Healer Granger has outlined the exciting changes to the past system in extensive detail.” He cast a quick glance at Granger, pleased to see her almost looking offended. He was no longer a Death Eater, but payback was still sweet. If there was one thing he knew about Granger, it was that she hated it if someone so much as implied she had been unnecessarily long-winded.
“We must emphasise the importance of stepping out of the past. Updating outdated doctor-patient protocols and utilising Muggle technology, adapted to meet Wizarding needs, are both crucial strategies for the survival of the hospital and our population in the future.”
More than a few faces looked startled to hear Draco Malfoy praising Muggle science.
Draco wasn't sure whether to smirk and continue, or pause and cuttingly remark upon how he had, shockingly, learned a few things in the last seven years. He held his annoyance at a distance, as if to examine it later. He didn't need Granger breathing down his neck for having some kind of outburst at their conference.
That sounded like something Potter or Weasley might do. Draco sneered inwardly. He was surely better at containing his emotions than Weasley. He took a steadying breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, his chest puffing out slightly as if to be very brave, and continued.
“The hospital will release a formal statement to The Daily Prophet, and a select number of other small publications on the 20th of this month.” Pencils scratched down the date.
“On behalf of the staff and board of St. Mungo's, we sincerely welcome you to enjoy the new face of the hospital, and join us in our endeavour to find a brighter, healthier future,” he finished, cringing a little at the final address Granger had 'suggested' he tack on to the end of his speech.
“Thank you.” He stepped away from the lectern, glad that was taken care of. Preparing a speech had taken a toll on his research and he was keen to dive back into it.
The crowd slowly shuffled out of the room, a few muttering intently at the irony of Draco Malfoy seeming to be the new 'face of the hospital', a few looking curiously at the speakers, wondering if there was more information they could have. A few looking excited. Defeated.
“A word, Draco?” He groaned. Why Granger insisted on using his first name, he had no clue, but it felt like a file scraping along his bones, every single time.
It was something about the staff being on a first name basis to promote unity and trust in the hospital, without a doubt.
He turned around and prepared himself for the wrath of Hermione Granger.
***
St Mungo's was oddly quiet. The Kissed Ward was always quiet, he supposed. It wasn't like any of his patients were about to get up and walk around. Draco had set up a desk in the corner of the room where he could see the nurses milling around and do his research.
Today he was watching Barty Crouch Junior with interest. It was odd to think that this vegetable of a man had once turned him into a ferret and bounced him around the corridors.
Draco threw the thought into the back of his mind. It was best not to think of his patients in terms of actions they had no memory of, nor the capacity to commit again.
Crouch was the only Death Eater on the ward, besides himself. Harry Potter and his sympathisers had ensured that no one received such an inhumane punishment ever again, after the war. Draco supposed that was good, in the long run.
His job, however, a job Potter likely didn't even know existed, was trying to reach those who had the misfortune of being Kissed before Harry Potter had waltzed into the Ministry, reform trailing in his wake, and try to fix the damage.
Merlin, he felt a little dirty admitting it to himself, but he wanted to help them. That, and burning curiosity, drove his research.
He'd stayed awake late the night before, reading an old German text about soul damage. A lot of the information in the book was too old to be relevant, but there had been a paragraph that suggested a new direction for his research.
The loss of a soul should cause the body to wither and die. His experiments overseas had proven just that, working with complicated Dark magic and Muggle centrifuges.
These people were not withered.
Crouch looked just as he had the day they carried his unresponsive body back to Azkaban. Draco had stood on the Astronomy tower that day, wanting to be as far away from Cedric Diggory's wake as possible.
Snape had called him a coward, later. On the run from the Ministry and the Order both, after Dumbledore had fallen from the very same tower, Severus had turned to Draco one day and said, “You need to be able to look Death in the eye in His service, Draco. It is the only way you will survive.”
Draco had never taken that advice, again and again choosing cowardice over tainting his soul with murder and Death.
He rather thought, sadly, that Severus had drawn the short straw in that respect.
Crouch had been placed on the back of a horse, wrapped in a cloak and shrouded by Dementors. One dirty hand dragged by his side, looking for nothing in particular; inhuman.
He looked much the same now, a little cleaner perhaps. He looked happier too, but that might have been the setting. Draco didn't want to become the sort of person to only see what he wished to see.
He'd hated this man, when he and Granger fought for his removal from Azkaban. The only reason he'd taken him as one of his patients was because he was a promising case. Only recently Kissed, and younger than the others.
However, all that grime and viciousness gone, he was just a man, just as Draco was. Pardoned, atoning for his sins by virtue of the fact that supposedly not a scrap of the man he had been was left inside him.
Draco wasn't so sure, but he couldn't hate someone who was just a man. The people in the Kissed Ward were like newborns. Newborn criminals, serial killers, Death Eaters. There was some peace in that, surely.
Draco hadn't a clue what he would do, should it turn out they reverted back to their previous personalities thanks to his research, under his watch.
Crouch was even, when Draco dared to admit it, and certainly not when the nurses were around, somehow attractive, even with his blank eyes and open mouth. The nurses kept his hair short, in turn showing off his eyes, which Draco imagined to be particularly piercing, should he ever regain the ability to focus.
Draco grimaced. He was willing to admit to his attraction to men, but attraction to a patient was out of the question. He dreaded to think what Crouch would be like should Draco unwittingly restore his old personality, victory still intact from raising the Dark Lord from the dead.
With a shudder, Draco turned around and tried to finish his book, casting Crouch from his mind once more and leaving him to the nurses' mercy.
The loss of a soul should cause the body to wither and die. Crouch was neither dramatically aged nor dead, therefore there had to be something of his soul left.
Draco both cared and didn't care to find out which part. Confused, he began the next chapter.
***
Draco had applied for the St Mungo's training program two years consecutively before he gave up, rejected. The two years had at least been enlightening.
He and his parents had fled the life he'd led during the Dark Lord's rein, his identity still shifting and growing, as a young man's soul should. He'd found a passion for learning still lingering, not crushed by his last year at Hogwarts.
The two years he spent pinning his hopes on St Mungo's had been, although disappointing, oddly illuminating. Two years cabined in his father's library had, by the end, sharpened his interests to a fine point.
The second rejection from St Mungo's had heralded an exhausting move to France and a research internship with a respected French scientist, a witch; Adeline Dubois.
He hardly slept the first year, instead finding a kindred spirit in Dubois, strictly professionally, of course, and a world of information and philosophy opening it's doors.
He and Dubois had studied souls; blending magic, philosophy and Muggle science.
Their results were inconclusive. Souls were complicated. Bodies didn't exist on a separate plane, and the two were so intertwined with each other, not even Muggle magnification devices could show where one ended and the other began.
Draco believed the separation of the two was not a finite or neat process, even with magic involved. If there was one thing he'd learnt from the Death Eaters, it was that life was never neat.
With help from Dubois, he managed to replicate the Dementors' Kiss in the lab using centrifugal force, using magic to subvert the laws of physics. The centrifuge, another Muggle invention, rotated at such speed that particles would separate according to density.
He'd found that, at the highest speed his magic would allow, an impressive five hundred thousand rotations per minute, the substances; the soul and the body in various forms, were not only separate, but changed.
The blood, the fat, the very genetic material had discoloured, had atrophied, shrinking to a vastly smaller amount of substance than what he had placed in the tube to begin with.
The Soul-Matter, as he and Dubois had fondly named it, sat on top; a shimmering mist.
Dubois had written him a letter of recommendation to a Wizarding hospital in Paris after the year was over, where he'd studied medicine and worked for the next four years.
The job offer from Granger, received during his fourth year at the Bordelon Hospital, was too good to resist. She had apparently followed Dubois' findings carefully and seen an opportunity for the hospital to adopt a new research facility.
As Draco had returned to Britain, he rather thought Granger was a born administrator, and prepared his ideas for the ward. His ward. He could have mooned the old administrators who had rejected his applications.
That wasn't proper though, so he didn't. That was something Weasley might do, and Merlin forbid he ever act like a Weasley.
***
Draco rolled his eyes at the nurse, not believing he couldn't do a simple vaccination.
“Let me go find some more gloves,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Surely this idiot had not used up all the gloves and still not managed to inject the patient.
The nurse, a young man Draco had hired a few weeks ago because of his experience working with criminal patients in the past, stood uselessly next to the bed, hair hanging over his face. Draco couldn't remember his name. He hadn't exactly impressed Draco enough to warrant his learning it yet, either.
Mentally he ran down the list of patient files, trying to remember which one this was. Holly Cloudson. Murdered her husband. Probably in self defence. The Ministry really was full of idiots.
He turned swiftly and walked to the door at a steady pace, shaking his head.
No sooner had the doors to the ward swung emphatically shut behind him did he hear the nurse call for him, voice alarmed.
“Healer! Come, quick!” Draco ran back into the room, secretly a little excited.
The nurse stood in the middle of the ward, staring at one of the beds and wringing his hands together. The patients all sat in their beds. Everything was in its place.
“What happened.” Draco didn't bother to make a question of it.
“It was Crouch. He spoke.” The nurse looked decidedly unhappy.
Draco strode over to Crouch's bed, sweeping past the nurse.
He stared at Crouch, and the man stared back and didn't stare back. A shiver, electric, ran down his spine.
“Go home. I will watch him for the night. If he's talking, I can't promise the ward is safe.”
The nurse couldn't have left the ward faster if he was on fire.
Draco stared at Crouch, kicking himself for going to get the gloves. Vaccinations would have to wait.
Crouch stared back.
Draco pulled up a chair, positioning it so it faced the foot of Crouch's bed. “Why didn't you talk for me?” The question hung in the air between them, caught in the space between life and Death.
***
“I'm busy Draco. Can you show me the case files later instead?” Granger sounded irritated. Draco didn't care. This was important.
“One of my patients is showing signs of cognition. He stares at the other patients, and yesterday he mumbled something.” Draco stepped further into the office, smoothing down his robes.
“I can assign one of the nurses to keep a closer watch, but I honestly can't spare a minute today. Look at my desk!” Granger gestured at the huge pile of parchment in front of her without looking up.
“This is a sensitive topic, as you know. The nurses may not be-” Draco searched for the word, “equipped to handle, you understand.”
“Someone from the ethics committee then. You realise this can all be done via the paperwork, don't you Draco? We do have memos, for goodness sake.” Granger was still writing.
“Yes, because you clearly need more paperwork on your desk.”
Draco sneered and cast a glance around the room. Granger's office was stacked wall to wall with high bookshelves, and the entire office was covered in parchment and inter-ward memos, shaped like little birds, perched around on the shelves.
“Someone from the ethics committee is, perhaps, an improvement on one of the nurses, but still can't be expected to deal with a situation this delicate,” he explained, deliberately vague. The idiots on the ethics committee would surely throw Crouch in Azkaban, and that would put a definite halt on Draco's research.
“Malfoy, I assure you I'd hire you your own personal ethics committee, but we really can't spare the money. Now, look. I'll give you Roberts, Sanchez or Kowak,” she said, voice clipped.
“Roberts is an idiot and Sanchez is home with his wife. They had a baby last week. Kowak has been dead for three months.” Draco said, voice deadpan.
“Kowak is dead?” Hermione looked up, alarmed. A stray strand of hair had worked it's way across her face and rested in the ink smudge on her cheek.
“For Merlin's sake, Granger. Pull yourself together,” he said, taking another step closer to the desk, narrowly avoiding slipping on yet another stack of papers on the floor. “Hire an assistant. You can't even keep track of which staff are still alive under all these case files.”
Granger scowled at him. They'd had this discussion before. She looked frazzled, messy hair constrained in a bun atop her head, shirt unbuttoned, a black ink stain across her cheek, looking like an escaped bird. Draco feared a little for the 'future of the hospital' he'd been preaching about just the other week.
“We've had this discussion before.” True. “And I specifically remember asking you to either call me Hermione, like the rest of the sane staff, or Healer Granger. This is a hospital, not high school. And, I do not need an assistant! I am coping.” Draco would have to remind her about Kowak again.
Draco almost enjoyed arguing with her. She got spectacularly riled up but could hold her own; something that Potter, the other person he'd found himself disagreeing with a lot in the past, had never managed.
“Fine, Hermione,” he stretched her name out, pushed it across his teeth so the 'i' and 'e' sounded ridiculous, not yet willing to befriend the woman, “but I really do think you should come and see this.”
A final step towards her desk and his hands leaned against the smooth wood, his eyes dangerous.
“It's Barty Crouch Junior.”
Hermione dropped her quill and looked up at him, paying real attention this time.
“I'm coming.”
She stood up, smoothed her hair back down, catching the strand on her face and placing it back into the bun. She looked at her hand, blackened from the contact with her cheek and performed a quick cleaning charm. The parchments littering her office inoffensively placed themselves in three piles on the coffee table.
“Let's go,” Draco advised, Granger taking the lead out of her office, doing up her top buttons again.
***
“How long has he been like this?” Granger asked, flapping a hand at Crouch.
“A few days. I am yet to determine the cause.”
Crouch looked as peaceful as the other patients, blank eyes staring hard enough into the wall to leave marks. He wore the plain blue St Mungo's robes, a little stained from nurses trying to push food into his mouth.
Feeding the Kiss victims was hard, sometimes. They lacked awareness to the point that violating their personal space was never an issue, but with zero communication skills, the difficulty lay in getting them to first open their mouth, and second swallow.
Draco insisted that they be fed by hand, rather than by tube, trying to create as much normalcy around them as possible, in hope of triggering some kind of awareness.
The nurses sometimes rolled their eyes at him, but he only had four staffing the ward and the place was shrouded in secrecy, so they never complained.
“He looks fine,” Granger added.
“He does. If word gets out about this he'll be back in Azkaban, and I can't afford that. He's my best hope.” Draco felt an odd sort of duty towards the man.
“I can assign you a security guard and perform the Fidelius charm. I assume you consent to being Secret Keeper?” Granger looked at him intently, eyes worried.
Draco nodded.
“I'll inform the nurses.”
“See that you do. I'll go make the arrangements, and, Draco-”
“Yes, Hermione?” The name still felt off in his mouth, but the woman was doing him a huge favour. Most hospitals would have thrown him out onto the street by now.
“Be careful.”
Draco turned back to Crouch, not feeling reassured in the slightest.
There was only one person he knew he could trust not to say anything, Fidelius charm or no.
He realised, later, that he'd forgotten to remind Granger to send her condolences to Kowak's family. Of course, a more pressing concern developed, and he forgot about the man entirely.
***
Draco stayed at the hospital overnight. He was loathe to do so, because it meant no changing clothes and no shower, unless he used the staff showers; an option that was out of the question.
He wouldn't have had his shower in any case; he was too intent on monitoring Crouch. Any slight change in demeanour could be vital to predicting his actions. Draco didn't quite trust his team of nurses enough to leave a situation delicate as this in their hands.
The nurse showed up at seven in the morning, bustling in with a tray of food, uniform half on, hair a mess.
“Good morning,” Draco said, not getting up from his seat opposite Crouch's bed.
He could have sworn the nurse almost had a heart attack. She did not, however, drop the tray. Obviously a keeper, Draco thought. She continued her swift walk across the room, eyes alarmed but her stride steady. Draco approved wholeheartedly.
Draco turned back to Crouch and continued his wait.
When the nurse moved around the room and got to Crouch's bed with the breakfast, Draco intervened, standing up this time.
“I think it would be wise for me to do this one,” he said, taking the tray from her hands. She looked up at him, confused, hands still clutching the tray to make sure it didn't drop.
“We're not sure if he's cognitive or not,” Draco explained.
She gasped and relinquished the food, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Is he-” She looked at Crouch, moving slightly backwards. Draco moved to be of comfort, but decided against it.
“He's safe. Leave it to me. The others are due for vaccinations. Prepare the equipment, and come back at four o'clock so the other nurse can help you.” He set the tray down on the chair he had occupied the night before. He wasn't entirely sure if Crouch was safe or not and, terrifying as that was, the ward had to continue running smoothly. A jittery nurse would not help matters. The one yesterday had been absolutely useless, after all.
She nodded, moving to the cabinet where the gloves were kept. “There are no gloves, sir.”
Draco, too nervous to be pleased that she'd addressed him as 'Sir', sighed. “You'll have to go downstairs and get some from Supplies. Bring them back with you at four. I will set up.”
She nodded and left, the door swinging open and shut in her wake.
Draco idly picked up the tray again. There was a selection of fruit pieces, some porridge and some nuts. Granger really was doing well, giving the hospital a new look. Even the food looked healthy.
He put a strawberry in his mouth and moaned, the sourness stinging his mouth.
Crouch stared at him.
Draco dragged the chair over to the side of Crouch's bed, cringing at the sound of the wooden legs scraping along the floor. He delicately lifted a spoonful of porridge to the other man's lips and massaged the man's throat, coaxing him to swallow.
They continued in this fashion for a few minutes, Draco feeding the man and stealing the occasional piece of fruit for himself.
When the bowl of porridge was done with, Draco wiped the stray chunks of mixture off Crouch's shirt with his handkerchief and took Crouch's hand, running his fingers along the man's knuckles.
“It's a real shame you were Kissed before I joined,” he said quietly. He didn't often voice his thoughts of the war at the hospital, since moments without at least one nurse around were rare, and he hardly wanted to scare them off. Being surrounded by Death Eaters and criminals did tend to bring about rather painful memories.
“I would have beat the shit out of you for turning me into a ferret,” he joked.
Crouch stared back.
Draco was at a loss. He knew Crouch wasn't as empty as he looked, but he had no idea how to prove it. The silence of the ward, the relaxed look on the patients' faces was almost enough to convince him that everything was okay, was in its place.
He held Crouch's hand, tightening his grip slightly, torn between the urge to be right, to finish his research and the desire for things to stay the way they were, lest he loose dangerous criminals back into the world.
His hand, clutching tightly at Crouch's, began to hurt. Sharp pains ran the length of his arm, right along the bone. Draco made to let go, alarmed that he hadn't noticed he was in pain, but found he couldn't.
Swinging his head around, silent alarms ringing, his eyes met Crouch's. He was staring.
He was staring at Draco and clutching his hand, tightly.
They sat like that for some time, Crouch's eyes blank and Draco's wide and frightened, his hand slowly going numb, tingling slightly from the pressure.
“Please,” Crouch whispered, quietly, still looking for all the world frozen and unexpressive.
Draco leaned forward, letting loose the breath he had been holding since he realised Crouch was hurting him, his head spinning and heart beating too fast.
“Do you know where you are? Do you know your name?” Draco rattled off the questions, voice low and harsh. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the clock, relieved and frightened that the nurses would not return for another two hours, at least.
Crouch shuddered. Draco had not expected to get this far, especially not so soon, and didn't know how to proceed. Crouch still held his hand and didn't answer.
“Hurts,” he said, closing his eyes, face twisting ever so slightly.
“Where?” Draco asked, moving his other hand to his pager, not wanting to be alone with Crouch any longer, silently thanking Granger for insisting he use one.
Whether Crouch knew what Draco was doing or not was never clear. No sooner had he reached into his pocket for the little Muggle device did Crouch pull hard on the arm he had in the vice-like grip, first pulling Draco onto the bed, then pushing him fast onto the floor. Draco hardly had time to be impressed by his obvious strength.
Eyes wild now, he looked as though he were about to get up, but unsure of how to do so.
“Expecto Patronum,” Draco shouted, not pausing to think about the irony of casting that particular spell in a ward full of Kissed patients. Sprawled on the cold floor of the ward, he willed the shimmering crow towards Granger's office, not trusting the hospital security to keep this quiet.
“Incarcerous,” he then whispered, pointing his wand at Crouch's bed with a shaking arm.
He put his head in his hands, wand clattering to the floor. His hand was an ugly mess of bruising, his back sore from hitting the ground and his pride in tatters. He only hoped Granger would recognise his Patronus as the alarm for what it was.
He didn't bother standing up until she arrived.
***
Draco had almost sent an owl at the last minute, telling Pansy he was ill, not to bother coming, his sincere apologies.
Instead, he sat on a cold metal seat at his favourite café, a small wizarding venue tucked into an alleyway near the hospital. Muggles passing by saw only the brick wall and wet cobblestones, and further down, a yellow sign with ‘Danger: Biohazard’ printed across it in offensively dire capitals.
Draco had stopped paying attention to the slightly seedy location months beforehand. He had changed out of his work robes and into a sharp suit. High collared and crisp black, it made his skin look positively luminescent. Pansy always did appreciate the effort, after all.
He hoped that, when she arrived, she’d be too impressed with his wardrobe and wouldn't notice the tremor in his speech, the ugly marks across his hand, the shaken look stained on his face.
The bruise on his hand, from where Crouch had grabbed him yesterday, looked even more violent. What had been an angry red mark directly afterwards was now blooming into an ugly blue and yellow mess, striking against his pale skin.
Still worried, Draco politely shook his head when a waiter asked if he would like anything, with a quiet, “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
The waiter left with a small huff and Draco continued to press at his hand.
A few minutes later, and another offer of coffee from the waiter, the telltale sound of Apparition pushed Draco from his thoughts. With a start, he ceased his absent fidgeting and poking at his sore hand, and looked up to see Pansy, as composed as ever.
It wouldn’t do to have her think he was agitated.
Pansy looked positively radiant. She was wearing a short grey wool skirt and matching jacket, and her cheeks were tinged pink by the cold weather. She smiled when she saw Draco, red lips pulling back to show perfect white teeth.
“Pansy,” he said, a little relief settling into him as she leaned in for a brief hug.
She stepped back and looked him up and down, eyes lingering on the bruise on his hand from the day before, now turning yellow at the edges but still bluish in the centre. Her eyes narrowed briefly, but she obviously didn’t seem interested in asking about it just yet, instead opting to pull the chair opposite out from the table and sit down carefully.
A waiter approached them and took their orders for two coffees; one black, one white.
“Draco, honey. How are you?” Pansy asked, pouring herself a glass of water, her eyes raking over the bruise on his hand once more. He put it under the table.
“I’m well, thank you. How are you? Blaise?” Draco responded, electing the driest tone of voice he could muster.
“I’m good, of course. Blaise is having some trouble at work, but aren’t we all?” Pansy smirked and set her glass down.
“Things are fine at St. Mungo’s.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on Draco, you only ever owl me when things are going wrong.”
“I do not!” Draco said, indignant. He was certain he had owled her just last month, to tell her about that hilariously stupid encounter he’d had with Weasley, and before that-
Pansy may have had a point, he conceded. He frowned at her and teased his finger around the rim of his cup.
“It’s the- well, my patients,” he explained delicately, grey eyes looking up, searching for permission to continue. Pansy nodded.
“One of them, yesterday- my hand…” Draco trailed off, not wanting to say too much.
As expected, Pansy held out her hand, a perfect counter to his own, pale and unmarred, nails painted a dangerous red. She gasped softly as she turned his hand over and saw the full extent of the bruising.
“How?” She asked, eyes wide, too large for her face.
“We were holding hands,” Draco said, voice quiet.
“You have to resign, Draco. It’s not safe. Your research can- it’s not worth this.”
Draco shook his head. His research was about to take a turn for the better. Crouch’s outburst, while alarming and painful, had opened doors Draco hadn’t expected to see in ten years, at least.
Pansy dropped his hand and sat back in her chair, back straight.
“Which one.” It wasn't a question. Draco winced.
“Barty Crouch Junior.” He didn't want to look at her.
“Of course it was.” She didn't look impressed.
“Pansy!” Draco bit out, leaning forward.
He'd told her about his growing attraction to a patient the last time they'd spoke. This was before Crouch had started speaking, before he'd all but thrown Draco across the room.
“Draco, honey. You know I'm not going to lecture you about the ethics of- this thing,” she waved a manicured hand around, as if to explain what she meant by 'thing', “Date all the patients you want, for all I care. Barty Crouch Junior, however, is not just any old patient, though, you know that.”
“I know,” Draco dropped his head slightly. “I just- the situation is bigger than me, Pansy.”
Pansy reached across the table and clutched the hand Crouch hadn't. Pansy was rude and snobbish most of the time, but she could be sensitive around Draco, and clever.
“Resign, Draco. At the very least assign Crouch to somewhere else. Think about it, please.”
Draco nodded. He would think about it. He had thought about it.
He would never do it, but Pansy didn't need to know that.
They spent the remainder of their coffees discussing Blaise, Millicent, the changes to the hospital's system, what a pain in the neck Granger could be and Pansy's plans for Christmas.
Barty Crouch Junior wasn't mentioned again. Draco felt both glad and anxious about the fact.
***
“Draco. Come in,” Granger flicked her wand at the door, opening it fully. “Please, sit down.”
Draco sat, the heavy envelope he had brought with him resting on his lap. Another flick of her wand and the door closed itself again. Draco shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in front of Granger, especially since she'd seen him at such a vulnerable moment.
“We can't wait any longer to perform the Fidelius Charm, Draco. The whole ward is going to have to be placed under a new set of wards too, making it virtually impossible for anyone other than the nurses, you and myself to see it,” she said evenly, hands clasped in front of her on her desk.
“And Crouch?” Draco asked, trying to mirror her tone.
Granger looked down, brow furrowed. “He'll have to be sedated for now, at least until you can decide on what exactly set him off like that.”
Draco swallowed. He knew sedating Crouch was the best option, but the effect of sedating spells on an already dampened mind concerned him. He nodded to Granger, confirming the treatment.
“I'll have to Obliviate a lot of people, Draco,” she said, voice serious. Draco winced. The ward was already largely secret, but the nurses no doubt had friends and lovers they had told of its existence, the staff in Administration had surely seen the expenses from the mysterious new ward on the top floor. Merlin, he'd told a whole press conference of a new ward.
“We'll have to start tomorrow,” she said, knocking Draco from his thoughts. “Harry can help us put together a small team of Obliviators. Of course, we'll have to Obliviate the team too, afterward-” Granger brought her hands up to rub at her temples. “Merlin, Draco. This is going to be bloody complicated.”
“I know.” He almost felt like apologising.
Granger looked up at him again and smiled faintly. “You're making progress. We just need the protocols for these kinds of advancements to run at the same speed. We'll start at eight o'clock sharp, tomorrow morning. Can you commit to that?”
Draco nodded.
“Good. I'll make the arrangements with Harry.” She shuffled around the papers on her desk, which Draco distantly noticed were in much smaller piles than the last time he'd been in the office. She handed him a small jar with a faded label.
“For your hand,” she said, indicating the bruise, a constellation of purple and yellow on the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking the jar. “I'll be back tomorrow then.”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Granger swept a hand through her hair absently, looking at him intently. “Draco, be careful.”
He nodded and stood up, thick envelope and the jar in his hands. Just before he reached the door, he turned around and said, “Granger-” He cleared his throat. She looked up at him.
“Hermione,” he choked out, trying to show his gratitude. “Thank you.”
He swept out the door, ignoring the flash of emotion that crossed her face, and closed it behind him, taking a moment to rest his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
His childhood obsession with the Kiss had taken him to a dark place, dragging Granger down with him. He couldn't be more grateful, or more sorry.
Pushing the guilt aside, he took one last shuddering breath and slid the envelope containing the papers to file his resignation into Granger's inbox.
His thoughts flew to Severus, the man who had never understood his cowardice, to Potter, the man who would slowly be drawn into this mess as Draco ran away again, and to Barty Crouch Junior, wherever his soul may have been.
The hospital exit had never felt so far away.
***
Title: Feed Me With Your Kiss
Characters/Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Barty Crouch Junior
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild violence.
Word Count: 7245 words
Prompt: Barty Crouch Jr./Draco. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (by a_shadow_there)
Notes: a_shadow_there, thank you for the prompt! I pretty much fell in love with the idea as soon as I saw it. Whether or not this is epilogue compliant is up for interpretation. The title is gleefully borrowed from a My Bloody Valentine song of the same name. Thanks C for the beta work, W for the read through and support when I got stuck, and F for holding my hand the whole way, you're all lovely! Apologies in advance for bad science!
“Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.” ― Jeanette Winterson
***
“Father?” Draco asked, small voice trembling. His father was reading. Draco knew better than to interrupt that particular activity, but his curiosity had the better of him.
Pansy Parkinson’s mother had visited in the morning to speak with his mother. Draco, obviously having woken up in the mood for breaking rules had eavesdropped.
He didn’t like it when Pansy’s mother came around. She always made mad suggestions about Draco’s fitness as a future husband, comments that his mother blessedly ignored.
At six years old, the idea of having a girlfriend was somewhat distasteful. The idea of having a wife made Draco feel ill.
Pansy smelled funny anyway.
Her mother, upon greeting his mother that morning, had taken to the tea room, and proceeded to talk about things called The Dementors. Draco, trying his best to follow the conversation, thought it all sounded terribly exciting.
So, having thought about it all day, he simply had to put it to his father, whether he was reading or not.
Lucius lowered the book he was reading, and without looking at his son at all, said, “Yes, Draco? You know not to disturb me when I’m reading.”
Draco was tempted to forget all about it, but Vincent had called him a coward last week and he wasn’t about to prove him right. He steeled himself, puffing his chest out to look big and brave.
“Who are The Dementors?”
Lucius did turn around, at that. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth a hard line.
“I beg your pardon, Draco?” he breathed. Draco didn’t feel so big anymore.
“I uh- it was in the Prophet,” Draco lied, “I wondered what they were. Are they a rock band?”
Lucius looked at his son again, then, face relaxing, he stood up from the chair and kneeled down next to Draco.
Alarmed, Draco took a small step backwards. His father never knelt. Malfoys didn’t kneel.
“Dementors are Dark creatures, Draco,” he said, almost gently.
“Oh.” Draco’s face lit up. This was much more exciting. “What do they look like?”
Lucius stood up again and walked to the nearest bookshelf, running a finger along the dusty titles. He pulled a book down after a moment, sat back down in the chair and leafed through the pages.
Draco waited eagerly for his answer.
Lucius held the book facing outwards so Draco could see. The Dementor was more frightening than he expected. Its body was hard to distinguish, mostly looking like a tattered grey cloak, caught by the wind. The illusion was disrupted by the gnarly, scabbed hands reaching out into the air, the illustration turning slightly, revealing the gaping chasm inside the hood. Draco shivered.
“The Dementors act as prison guards at Azkaban, the prison, Draco. They feast on memories,” Lucius explained, his voice impossibly calm.
“What about this one?” Draco asked, pointing at the next illustration.
This one was much scarier than the last, Draco thought. It showed a man cowering beneath a Dementor, those scabby hands clutched either side of the man’s face, a pair of disgusting lips almost brushing his face.
It said, ‘The Kiss’ in neat little letters and nothing more. Draco thought kissing was supposed to be a nice thing.
“Dementors can eat more than memories Draco,” Lucius paused to look at the illustration again himself. “The Kiss is how they may eat a man’s soul.”
Draco stared blankly at the spine of the book. Surely a soul couldn’t be eaten. He then said so.
“Well. It is possible. Only Dementors can do so. There is a relatively simple charm to defend yourself with.”
He looked as though he might continue, but Draco’s mother swept into the room then, eyes suspiciously darting between Draco and Lucius.
“Narcissa.” Lucius inclined his head. He placed the book on the small wooden table next to the chair he’d been sitting in and crossed the room to meet her. He gave Draco a small nod, then walked with her to another room.
Draco snatched the book up with small but determined hands, and took it with him to bed.
Lucius never saw the book again.
***
The press conference, Granger's idea, was to be held in one of the larger rooms in the lower levels of the Ministry. Draco was running late. His shoes, freshly polished, clicked artfully against the shiny black tiles as he walked briskly to his destination. He hoped Granger’s speech was to be as long winded as expected.
The ministry had changed a lot since the war. Departments had been moved, reshuffled, renamed, statues torn down and replaced. Since Voldemort had essentially decimated the old Ministry, Draco supposed the change was to be expected.
The Wizarding world was facing a whole slew of changes. Draco wanted to ensure he ended up on the right side of the change this time. Straightening his tie, he sped up a little, nodding at a stranger he passed; she seemed a little troubled by his power walk through the Atrium.
The conference was really more of a 'public series of speeches'. Most of the attendees were members of the Ministry and Hospital Advisory Board, as well as past patients and friends and relative of current in-patients, rather than the press itself. As he walked past the public entrance to the room, he stopped for a moment and grudgingly admired Granger’s public speaking skills.
“… and as I’m sure you’re all aware, what’s good for St. Mungo’s is good for all of us,” she intoned, looking out across the crowd. Her eyes may have narrowed a bit when she spied Draco through the gap in the door. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, but he didn’t want to displease her right now, so he quickened his pace once more, and walked around the corner to the speakers’ entrance.
The standard issue Ministry security personnel seemed surprised that it was him, infamous, cowardly, Death Eater Draco Malfoy that they were opening the door for, but one glare and Draco was straightening his suit and joining Granger at the front of the stage, right as she introduced him.
Impeccable timing, as always, Malfoy, he thought to himself.
“Healer Malfoy has studied extensively overseas and has demonstrated a wealth of knowledge and ideas he looks forward to contributing to the hospital from this point forward. It is our greatest pleasure to have him on our staff.” Hermione finished, smiling and graciously stepping away from the lectern.
There it was again, that almost undetectable narrowing of the eyes. Draco stepped up to meet a hundred eyes at once, ignoring Granger's silent reprimands.
“Thank you, Healer. As I’m sure you all know, St. Mungo’s is dedicated to providing indiscriminate medical attention to all that seek it. I am pleased to announce the opening of a new ward, dealing with the care of those witches and wizards whose demand for care has not been met in the past. The ward will be led by myself, and staffed by some of the finest young Healers and nurses we have, working tirelessly to cure the incurable.”
Draco had wanted to keep his speech vague. He was sure that, despite his immaculate tertiary medical academic record, the majority of the people in this room were distinctly uncomfortable with Granger’s decision to hire him.
If they knew exactly what he’d been hired to do, he was sure they’d see to kicking him out of the hospital themselves.
“St. Mungo's is a modern hospital. I'm sure Healer Granger has outlined the exciting changes to the past system in extensive detail.” He cast a quick glance at Granger, pleased to see her almost looking offended. He was no longer a Death Eater, but payback was still sweet. If there was one thing he knew about Granger, it was that she hated it if someone so much as implied she had been unnecessarily long-winded.
“We must emphasise the importance of stepping out of the past. Updating outdated doctor-patient protocols and utilising Muggle technology, adapted to meet Wizarding needs, are both crucial strategies for the survival of the hospital and our population in the future.”
More than a few faces looked startled to hear Draco Malfoy praising Muggle science.
Draco wasn't sure whether to smirk and continue, or pause and cuttingly remark upon how he had, shockingly, learned a few things in the last seven years. He held his annoyance at a distance, as if to examine it later. He didn't need Granger breathing down his neck for having some kind of outburst at their conference.
That sounded like something Potter or Weasley might do. Draco sneered inwardly. He was surely better at containing his emotions than Weasley. He took a steadying breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, his chest puffing out slightly as if to be very brave, and continued.
“The hospital will release a formal statement to The Daily Prophet, and a select number of other small publications on the 20th of this month.” Pencils scratched down the date.
“On behalf of the staff and board of St. Mungo's, we sincerely welcome you to enjoy the new face of the hospital, and join us in our endeavour to find a brighter, healthier future,” he finished, cringing a little at the final address Granger had 'suggested' he tack on to the end of his speech.
“Thank you.” He stepped away from the lectern, glad that was taken care of. Preparing a speech had taken a toll on his research and he was keen to dive back into it.
The crowd slowly shuffled out of the room, a few muttering intently at the irony of Draco Malfoy seeming to be the new 'face of the hospital', a few looking curiously at the speakers, wondering if there was more information they could have. A few looking excited. Defeated.
“A word, Draco?” He groaned. Why Granger insisted on using his first name, he had no clue, but it felt like a file scraping along his bones, every single time.
It was something about the staff being on a first name basis to promote unity and trust in the hospital, without a doubt.
He turned around and prepared himself for the wrath of Hermione Granger.
***
St Mungo's was oddly quiet. The Kissed Ward was always quiet, he supposed. It wasn't like any of his patients were about to get up and walk around. Draco had set up a desk in the corner of the room where he could see the nurses milling around and do his research.
Today he was watching Barty Crouch Junior with interest. It was odd to think that this vegetable of a man had once turned him into a ferret and bounced him around the corridors.
Draco threw the thought into the back of his mind. It was best not to think of his patients in terms of actions they had no memory of, nor the capacity to commit again.
Crouch was the only Death Eater on the ward, besides himself. Harry Potter and his sympathisers had ensured that no one received such an inhumane punishment ever again, after the war. Draco supposed that was good, in the long run.
His job, however, a job Potter likely didn't even know existed, was trying to reach those who had the misfortune of being Kissed before Harry Potter had waltzed into the Ministry, reform trailing in his wake, and try to fix the damage.
Merlin, he felt a little dirty admitting it to himself, but he wanted to help them. That, and burning curiosity, drove his research.
He'd stayed awake late the night before, reading an old German text about soul damage. A lot of the information in the book was too old to be relevant, but there had been a paragraph that suggested a new direction for his research.
The loss of a soul should cause the body to wither and die. His experiments overseas had proven just that, working with complicated Dark magic and Muggle centrifuges.
These people were not withered.
Crouch looked just as he had the day they carried his unresponsive body back to Azkaban. Draco had stood on the Astronomy tower that day, wanting to be as far away from Cedric Diggory's wake as possible.
Snape had called him a coward, later. On the run from the Ministry and the Order both, after Dumbledore had fallen from the very same tower, Severus had turned to Draco one day and said, “You need to be able to look Death in the eye in His service, Draco. It is the only way you will survive.”
Draco had never taken that advice, again and again choosing cowardice over tainting his soul with murder and Death.
He rather thought, sadly, that Severus had drawn the short straw in that respect.
Crouch had been placed on the back of a horse, wrapped in a cloak and shrouded by Dementors. One dirty hand dragged by his side, looking for nothing in particular; inhuman.
He looked much the same now, a little cleaner perhaps. He looked happier too, but that might have been the setting. Draco didn't want to become the sort of person to only see what he wished to see.
He'd hated this man, when he and Granger fought for his removal from Azkaban. The only reason he'd taken him as one of his patients was because he was a promising case. Only recently Kissed, and younger than the others.
However, all that grime and viciousness gone, he was just a man, just as Draco was. Pardoned, atoning for his sins by virtue of the fact that supposedly not a scrap of the man he had been was left inside him.
Draco wasn't so sure, but he couldn't hate someone who was just a man. The people in the Kissed Ward were like newborns. Newborn criminals, serial killers, Death Eaters. There was some peace in that, surely.
Draco hadn't a clue what he would do, should it turn out they reverted back to their previous personalities thanks to his research, under his watch.
Crouch was even, when Draco dared to admit it, and certainly not when the nurses were around, somehow attractive, even with his blank eyes and open mouth. The nurses kept his hair short, in turn showing off his eyes, which Draco imagined to be particularly piercing, should he ever regain the ability to focus.
Draco grimaced. He was willing to admit to his attraction to men, but attraction to a patient was out of the question. He dreaded to think what Crouch would be like should Draco unwittingly restore his old personality, victory still intact from raising the Dark Lord from the dead.
With a shudder, Draco turned around and tried to finish his book, casting Crouch from his mind once more and leaving him to the nurses' mercy.
The loss of a soul should cause the body to wither and die. Crouch was neither dramatically aged nor dead, therefore there had to be something of his soul left.
Draco both cared and didn't care to find out which part. Confused, he began the next chapter.
***
Draco had applied for the St Mungo's training program two years consecutively before he gave up, rejected. The two years had at least been enlightening.
He and his parents had fled the life he'd led during the Dark Lord's rein, his identity still shifting and growing, as a young man's soul should. He'd found a passion for learning still lingering, not crushed by his last year at Hogwarts.
The two years he spent pinning his hopes on St Mungo's had been, although disappointing, oddly illuminating. Two years cabined in his father's library had, by the end, sharpened his interests to a fine point.
The second rejection from St Mungo's had heralded an exhausting move to France and a research internship with a respected French scientist, a witch; Adeline Dubois.
He hardly slept the first year, instead finding a kindred spirit in Dubois, strictly professionally, of course, and a world of information and philosophy opening it's doors.
He and Dubois had studied souls; blending magic, philosophy and Muggle science.
Their results were inconclusive. Souls were complicated. Bodies didn't exist on a separate plane, and the two were so intertwined with each other, not even Muggle magnification devices could show where one ended and the other began.
Draco believed the separation of the two was not a finite or neat process, even with magic involved. If there was one thing he'd learnt from the Death Eaters, it was that life was never neat.
With help from Dubois, he managed to replicate the Dementors' Kiss in the lab using centrifugal force, using magic to subvert the laws of physics. The centrifuge, another Muggle invention, rotated at such speed that particles would separate according to density.
He'd found that, at the highest speed his magic would allow, an impressive five hundred thousand rotations per minute, the substances; the soul and the body in various forms, were not only separate, but changed.
The blood, the fat, the very genetic material had discoloured, had atrophied, shrinking to a vastly smaller amount of substance than what he had placed in the tube to begin with.
The Soul-Matter, as he and Dubois had fondly named it, sat on top; a shimmering mist.
Dubois had written him a letter of recommendation to a Wizarding hospital in Paris after the year was over, where he'd studied medicine and worked for the next four years.
The job offer from Granger, received during his fourth year at the Bordelon Hospital, was too good to resist. She had apparently followed Dubois' findings carefully and seen an opportunity for the hospital to adopt a new research facility.
As Draco had returned to Britain, he rather thought Granger was a born administrator, and prepared his ideas for the ward. His ward. He could have mooned the old administrators who had rejected his applications.
That wasn't proper though, so he didn't. That was something Weasley might do, and Merlin forbid he ever act like a Weasley.
***
Draco rolled his eyes at the nurse, not believing he couldn't do a simple vaccination.
“Let me go find some more gloves,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Surely this idiot had not used up all the gloves and still not managed to inject the patient.
The nurse, a young man Draco had hired a few weeks ago because of his experience working with criminal patients in the past, stood uselessly next to the bed, hair hanging over his face. Draco couldn't remember his name. He hadn't exactly impressed Draco enough to warrant his learning it yet, either.
Mentally he ran down the list of patient files, trying to remember which one this was. Holly Cloudson. Murdered her husband. Probably in self defence. The Ministry really was full of idiots.
He turned swiftly and walked to the door at a steady pace, shaking his head.
No sooner had the doors to the ward swung emphatically shut behind him did he hear the nurse call for him, voice alarmed.
“Healer! Come, quick!” Draco ran back into the room, secretly a little excited.
The nurse stood in the middle of the ward, staring at one of the beds and wringing his hands together. The patients all sat in their beds. Everything was in its place.
“What happened.” Draco didn't bother to make a question of it.
“It was Crouch. He spoke.” The nurse looked decidedly unhappy.
Draco strode over to Crouch's bed, sweeping past the nurse.
He stared at Crouch, and the man stared back and didn't stare back. A shiver, electric, ran down his spine.
“Go home. I will watch him for the night. If he's talking, I can't promise the ward is safe.”
The nurse couldn't have left the ward faster if he was on fire.
Draco stared at Crouch, kicking himself for going to get the gloves. Vaccinations would have to wait.
Crouch stared back.
Draco pulled up a chair, positioning it so it faced the foot of Crouch's bed. “Why didn't you talk for me?” The question hung in the air between them, caught in the space between life and Death.
***
“I'm busy Draco. Can you show me the case files later instead?” Granger sounded irritated. Draco didn't care. This was important.
“One of my patients is showing signs of cognition. He stares at the other patients, and yesterday he mumbled something.” Draco stepped further into the office, smoothing down his robes.
“I can assign one of the nurses to keep a closer watch, but I honestly can't spare a minute today. Look at my desk!” Granger gestured at the huge pile of parchment in front of her without looking up.
“This is a sensitive topic, as you know. The nurses may not be-” Draco searched for the word, “equipped to handle, you understand.”
“Someone from the ethics committee then. You realise this can all be done via the paperwork, don't you Draco? We do have memos, for goodness sake.” Granger was still writing.
“Yes, because you clearly need more paperwork on your desk.”
Draco sneered and cast a glance around the room. Granger's office was stacked wall to wall with high bookshelves, and the entire office was covered in parchment and inter-ward memos, shaped like little birds, perched around on the shelves.
“Someone from the ethics committee is, perhaps, an improvement on one of the nurses, but still can't be expected to deal with a situation this delicate,” he explained, deliberately vague. The idiots on the ethics committee would surely throw Crouch in Azkaban, and that would put a definite halt on Draco's research.
“Malfoy, I assure you I'd hire you your own personal ethics committee, but we really can't spare the money. Now, look. I'll give you Roberts, Sanchez or Kowak,” she said, voice clipped.
“Roberts is an idiot and Sanchez is home with his wife. They had a baby last week. Kowak has been dead for three months.” Draco said, voice deadpan.
“Kowak is dead?” Hermione looked up, alarmed. A stray strand of hair had worked it's way across her face and rested in the ink smudge on her cheek.
“For Merlin's sake, Granger. Pull yourself together,” he said, taking another step closer to the desk, narrowly avoiding slipping on yet another stack of papers on the floor. “Hire an assistant. You can't even keep track of which staff are still alive under all these case files.”
Granger scowled at him. They'd had this discussion before. She looked frazzled, messy hair constrained in a bun atop her head, shirt unbuttoned, a black ink stain across her cheek, looking like an escaped bird. Draco feared a little for the 'future of the hospital' he'd been preaching about just the other week.
“We've had this discussion before.” True. “And I specifically remember asking you to either call me Hermione, like the rest of the sane staff, or Healer Granger. This is a hospital, not high school. And, I do not need an assistant! I am coping.” Draco would have to remind her about Kowak again.
Draco almost enjoyed arguing with her. She got spectacularly riled up but could hold her own; something that Potter, the other person he'd found himself disagreeing with a lot in the past, had never managed.
“Fine, Hermione,” he stretched her name out, pushed it across his teeth so the 'i' and 'e' sounded ridiculous, not yet willing to befriend the woman, “but I really do think you should come and see this.”
A final step towards her desk and his hands leaned against the smooth wood, his eyes dangerous.
“It's Barty Crouch Junior.”
Hermione dropped her quill and looked up at him, paying real attention this time.
“I'm coming.”
She stood up, smoothed her hair back down, catching the strand on her face and placing it back into the bun. She looked at her hand, blackened from the contact with her cheek and performed a quick cleaning charm. The parchments littering her office inoffensively placed themselves in three piles on the coffee table.
“Let's go,” Draco advised, Granger taking the lead out of her office, doing up her top buttons again.
***
“How long has he been like this?” Granger asked, flapping a hand at Crouch.
“A few days. I am yet to determine the cause.”
Crouch looked as peaceful as the other patients, blank eyes staring hard enough into the wall to leave marks. He wore the plain blue St Mungo's robes, a little stained from nurses trying to push food into his mouth.
Feeding the Kiss victims was hard, sometimes. They lacked awareness to the point that violating their personal space was never an issue, but with zero communication skills, the difficulty lay in getting them to first open their mouth, and second swallow.
Draco insisted that they be fed by hand, rather than by tube, trying to create as much normalcy around them as possible, in hope of triggering some kind of awareness.
The nurses sometimes rolled their eyes at him, but he only had four staffing the ward and the place was shrouded in secrecy, so they never complained.
“He looks fine,” Granger added.
“He does. If word gets out about this he'll be back in Azkaban, and I can't afford that. He's my best hope.” Draco felt an odd sort of duty towards the man.
“I can assign you a security guard and perform the Fidelius charm. I assume you consent to being Secret Keeper?” Granger looked at him intently, eyes worried.
Draco nodded.
“I'll inform the nurses.”
“See that you do. I'll go make the arrangements, and, Draco-”
“Yes, Hermione?” The name still felt off in his mouth, but the woman was doing him a huge favour. Most hospitals would have thrown him out onto the street by now.
“Be careful.”
Draco turned back to Crouch, not feeling reassured in the slightest.
There was only one person he knew he could trust not to say anything, Fidelius charm or no.
He realised, later, that he'd forgotten to remind Granger to send her condolences to Kowak's family. Of course, a more pressing concern developed, and he forgot about the man entirely.
***
Draco stayed at the hospital overnight. He was loathe to do so, because it meant no changing clothes and no shower, unless he used the staff showers; an option that was out of the question.
He wouldn't have had his shower in any case; he was too intent on monitoring Crouch. Any slight change in demeanour could be vital to predicting his actions. Draco didn't quite trust his team of nurses enough to leave a situation delicate as this in their hands.
The nurse showed up at seven in the morning, bustling in with a tray of food, uniform half on, hair a mess.
“Good morning,” Draco said, not getting up from his seat opposite Crouch's bed.
He could have sworn the nurse almost had a heart attack. She did not, however, drop the tray. Obviously a keeper, Draco thought. She continued her swift walk across the room, eyes alarmed but her stride steady. Draco approved wholeheartedly.
Draco turned back to Crouch and continued his wait.
When the nurse moved around the room and got to Crouch's bed with the breakfast, Draco intervened, standing up this time.
“I think it would be wise for me to do this one,” he said, taking the tray from her hands. She looked up at him, confused, hands still clutching the tray to make sure it didn't drop.
“We're not sure if he's cognitive or not,” Draco explained.
She gasped and relinquished the food, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Is he-” She looked at Crouch, moving slightly backwards. Draco moved to be of comfort, but decided against it.
“He's safe. Leave it to me. The others are due for vaccinations. Prepare the equipment, and come back at four o'clock so the other nurse can help you.” He set the tray down on the chair he had occupied the night before. He wasn't entirely sure if Crouch was safe or not and, terrifying as that was, the ward had to continue running smoothly. A jittery nurse would not help matters. The one yesterday had been absolutely useless, after all.
She nodded, moving to the cabinet where the gloves were kept. “There are no gloves, sir.”
Draco, too nervous to be pleased that she'd addressed him as 'Sir', sighed. “You'll have to go downstairs and get some from Supplies. Bring them back with you at four. I will set up.”
She nodded and left, the door swinging open and shut in her wake.
Draco idly picked up the tray again. There was a selection of fruit pieces, some porridge and some nuts. Granger really was doing well, giving the hospital a new look. Even the food looked healthy.
He put a strawberry in his mouth and moaned, the sourness stinging his mouth.
Crouch stared at him.
Draco dragged the chair over to the side of Crouch's bed, cringing at the sound of the wooden legs scraping along the floor. He delicately lifted a spoonful of porridge to the other man's lips and massaged the man's throat, coaxing him to swallow.
They continued in this fashion for a few minutes, Draco feeding the man and stealing the occasional piece of fruit for himself.
When the bowl of porridge was done with, Draco wiped the stray chunks of mixture off Crouch's shirt with his handkerchief and took Crouch's hand, running his fingers along the man's knuckles.
“It's a real shame you were Kissed before I joined,” he said quietly. He didn't often voice his thoughts of the war at the hospital, since moments without at least one nurse around were rare, and he hardly wanted to scare them off. Being surrounded by Death Eaters and criminals did tend to bring about rather painful memories.
“I would have beat the shit out of you for turning me into a ferret,” he joked.
Crouch stared back.
Draco was at a loss. He knew Crouch wasn't as empty as he looked, but he had no idea how to prove it. The silence of the ward, the relaxed look on the patients' faces was almost enough to convince him that everything was okay, was in its place.
He held Crouch's hand, tightening his grip slightly, torn between the urge to be right, to finish his research and the desire for things to stay the way they were, lest he loose dangerous criminals back into the world.
His hand, clutching tightly at Crouch's, began to hurt. Sharp pains ran the length of his arm, right along the bone. Draco made to let go, alarmed that he hadn't noticed he was in pain, but found he couldn't.
Swinging his head around, silent alarms ringing, his eyes met Crouch's. He was staring.
He was staring at Draco and clutching his hand, tightly.
They sat like that for some time, Crouch's eyes blank and Draco's wide and frightened, his hand slowly going numb, tingling slightly from the pressure.
“Please,” Crouch whispered, quietly, still looking for all the world frozen and unexpressive.
Draco leaned forward, letting loose the breath he had been holding since he realised Crouch was hurting him, his head spinning and heart beating too fast.
“Do you know where you are? Do you know your name?” Draco rattled off the questions, voice low and harsh. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the clock, relieved and frightened that the nurses would not return for another two hours, at least.
Crouch shuddered. Draco had not expected to get this far, especially not so soon, and didn't know how to proceed. Crouch still held his hand and didn't answer.
“Hurts,” he said, closing his eyes, face twisting ever so slightly.
“Where?” Draco asked, moving his other hand to his pager, not wanting to be alone with Crouch any longer, silently thanking Granger for insisting he use one.
Whether Crouch knew what Draco was doing or not was never clear. No sooner had he reached into his pocket for the little Muggle device did Crouch pull hard on the arm he had in the vice-like grip, first pulling Draco onto the bed, then pushing him fast onto the floor. Draco hardly had time to be impressed by his obvious strength.
Eyes wild now, he looked as though he were about to get up, but unsure of how to do so.
“Expecto Patronum,” Draco shouted, not pausing to think about the irony of casting that particular spell in a ward full of Kissed patients. Sprawled on the cold floor of the ward, he willed the shimmering crow towards Granger's office, not trusting the hospital security to keep this quiet.
“Incarcerous,” he then whispered, pointing his wand at Crouch's bed with a shaking arm.
He put his head in his hands, wand clattering to the floor. His hand was an ugly mess of bruising, his back sore from hitting the ground and his pride in tatters. He only hoped Granger would recognise his Patronus as the alarm for what it was.
He didn't bother standing up until she arrived.
***
Draco had almost sent an owl at the last minute, telling Pansy he was ill, not to bother coming, his sincere apologies.
Instead, he sat on a cold metal seat at his favourite café, a small wizarding venue tucked into an alleyway near the hospital. Muggles passing by saw only the brick wall and wet cobblestones, and further down, a yellow sign with ‘Danger: Biohazard’ printed across it in offensively dire capitals.
Draco had stopped paying attention to the slightly seedy location months beforehand. He had changed out of his work robes and into a sharp suit. High collared and crisp black, it made his skin look positively luminescent. Pansy always did appreciate the effort, after all.
He hoped that, when she arrived, she’d be too impressed with his wardrobe and wouldn't notice the tremor in his speech, the ugly marks across his hand, the shaken look stained on his face.
The bruise on his hand, from where Crouch had grabbed him yesterday, looked even more violent. What had been an angry red mark directly afterwards was now blooming into an ugly blue and yellow mess, striking against his pale skin.
Still worried, Draco politely shook his head when a waiter asked if he would like anything, with a quiet, “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
The waiter left with a small huff and Draco continued to press at his hand.
A few minutes later, and another offer of coffee from the waiter, the telltale sound of Apparition pushed Draco from his thoughts. With a start, he ceased his absent fidgeting and poking at his sore hand, and looked up to see Pansy, as composed as ever.
It wouldn’t do to have her think he was agitated.
Pansy looked positively radiant. She was wearing a short grey wool skirt and matching jacket, and her cheeks were tinged pink by the cold weather. She smiled when she saw Draco, red lips pulling back to show perfect white teeth.
“Pansy,” he said, a little relief settling into him as she leaned in for a brief hug.
She stepped back and looked him up and down, eyes lingering on the bruise on his hand from the day before, now turning yellow at the edges but still bluish in the centre. Her eyes narrowed briefly, but she obviously didn’t seem interested in asking about it just yet, instead opting to pull the chair opposite out from the table and sit down carefully.
A waiter approached them and took their orders for two coffees; one black, one white.
“Draco, honey. How are you?” Pansy asked, pouring herself a glass of water, her eyes raking over the bruise on his hand once more. He put it under the table.
“I’m well, thank you. How are you? Blaise?” Draco responded, electing the driest tone of voice he could muster.
“I’m good, of course. Blaise is having some trouble at work, but aren’t we all?” Pansy smirked and set her glass down.
“Things are fine at St. Mungo’s.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on Draco, you only ever owl me when things are going wrong.”
“I do not!” Draco said, indignant. He was certain he had owled her just last month, to tell her about that hilariously stupid encounter he’d had with Weasley, and before that-
Pansy may have had a point, he conceded. He frowned at her and teased his finger around the rim of his cup.
“It’s the- well, my patients,” he explained delicately, grey eyes looking up, searching for permission to continue. Pansy nodded.
“One of them, yesterday- my hand…” Draco trailed off, not wanting to say too much.
As expected, Pansy held out her hand, a perfect counter to his own, pale and unmarred, nails painted a dangerous red. She gasped softly as she turned his hand over and saw the full extent of the bruising.
“How?” She asked, eyes wide, too large for her face.
“We were holding hands,” Draco said, voice quiet.
“You have to resign, Draco. It’s not safe. Your research can- it’s not worth this.”
Draco shook his head. His research was about to take a turn for the better. Crouch’s outburst, while alarming and painful, had opened doors Draco hadn’t expected to see in ten years, at least.
Pansy dropped his hand and sat back in her chair, back straight.
“Which one.” It wasn't a question. Draco winced.
“Barty Crouch Junior.” He didn't want to look at her.
“Of course it was.” She didn't look impressed.
“Pansy!” Draco bit out, leaning forward.
He'd told her about his growing attraction to a patient the last time they'd spoke. This was before Crouch had started speaking, before he'd all but thrown Draco across the room.
“Draco, honey. You know I'm not going to lecture you about the ethics of- this thing,” she waved a manicured hand around, as if to explain what she meant by 'thing', “Date all the patients you want, for all I care. Barty Crouch Junior, however, is not just any old patient, though, you know that.”
“I know,” Draco dropped his head slightly. “I just- the situation is bigger than me, Pansy.”
Pansy reached across the table and clutched the hand Crouch hadn't. Pansy was rude and snobbish most of the time, but she could be sensitive around Draco, and clever.
“Resign, Draco. At the very least assign Crouch to somewhere else. Think about it, please.”
Draco nodded. He would think about it. He had thought about it.
He would never do it, but Pansy didn't need to know that.
They spent the remainder of their coffees discussing Blaise, Millicent, the changes to the hospital's system, what a pain in the neck Granger could be and Pansy's plans for Christmas.
Barty Crouch Junior wasn't mentioned again. Draco felt both glad and anxious about the fact.
***
“Draco. Come in,” Granger flicked her wand at the door, opening it fully. “Please, sit down.”
Draco sat, the heavy envelope he had brought with him resting on his lap. Another flick of her wand and the door closed itself again. Draco shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in front of Granger, especially since she'd seen him at such a vulnerable moment.
“We can't wait any longer to perform the Fidelius Charm, Draco. The whole ward is going to have to be placed under a new set of wards too, making it virtually impossible for anyone other than the nurses, you and myself to see it,” she said evenly, hands clasped in front of her on her desk.
“And Crouch?” Draco asked, trying to mirror her tone.
Granger looked down, brow furrowed. “He'll have to be sedated for now, at least until you can decide on what exactly set him off like that.”
Draco swallowed. He knew sedating Crouch was the best option, but the effect of sedating spells on an already dampened mind concerned him. He nodded to Granger, confirming the treatment.
“I'll have to Obliviate a lot of people, Draco,” she said, voice serious. Draco winced. The ward was already largely secret, but the nurses no doubt had friends and lovers they had told of its existence, the staff in Administration had surely seen the expenses from the mysterious new ward on the top floor. Merlin, he'd told a whole press conference of a new ward.
“We'll have to start tomorrow,” she said, knocking Draco from his thoughts. “Harry can help us put together a small team of Obliviators. Of course, we'll have to Obliviate the team too, afterward-” Granger brought her hands up to rub at her temples. “Merlin, Draco. This is going to be bloody complicated.”
“I know.” He almost felt like apologising.
Granger looked up at him again and smiled faintly. “You're making progress. We just need the protocols for these kinds of advancements to run at the same speed. We'll start at eight o'clock sharp, tomorrow morning. Can you commit to that?”
Draco nodded.
“Good. I'll make the arrangements with Harry.” She shuffled around the papers on her desk, which Draco distantly noticed were in much smaller piles than the last time he'd been in the office. She handed him a small jar with a faded label.
“For your hand,” she said, indicating the bruise, a constellation of purple and yellow on the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking the jar. “I'll be back tomorrow then.”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Granger swept a hand through her hair absently, looking at him intently. “Draco, be careful.”
He nodded and stood up, thick envelope and the jar in his hands. Just before he reached the door, he turned around and said, “Granger-” He cleared his throat. She looked up at him.
“Hermione,” he choked out, trying to show his gratitude. “Thank you.”
He swept out the door, ignoring the flash of emotion that crossed her face, and closed it behind him, taking a moment to rest his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
His childhood obsession with the Kiss had taken him to a dark place, dragging Granger down with him. He couldn't be more grateful, or more sorry.
Pushing the guilt aside, he took one last shuddering breath and slid the envelope containing the papers to file his resignation into Granger's inbox.
His thoughts flew to Severus, the man who had never understood his cowardice, to Potter, the man who would slowly be drawn into this mess as Draco ran away again, and to Barty Crouch Junior, wherever his soul may have been.
The hospital exit had never felt so far away.
***