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A chill crept up Draco’s spine, and he couldn’t suppress the shudder that wracked his tired body. As much as he enjoyed being an emergency healer, this was the one aspect of the job he’d rather do without. As he stood on the pier, waiting for the ferry, he idly wondered how much of the island fortress contributed to the Muggles’ apprehension of the North Sea.
The wind lashed at him, the salt spray stinging his exposed weathered face. He clutched his wand tighter in his fist casting a warming charm and an impervius — not that they worked here as well as they usually would elsewhere. Once again the thought crept in uninhibited — how far out did the anti-magic wards extend, and how did the aurors manage within the walls?
Draco steeled himself at the onslaught of memories as he stepped onto the waiting ferry, careening precariously atop the piking waves. He would rely on occlumency, but that was detrimental to his ability as a healer. As he had realised in his early years of practice, he was more likely to miss subtle but vital changes in a patient while was occluding.
Before he knew it, he was disembarking, with a stiff nod to the auror escorting him inside. He handed his wand over to be weighed, and with it his last line of defence — as another auror who was also the resident healer briefed him on the patient — even after decades it never got any easier.
Draco requested a few moments to himself, under the guise of corralling together his notes and the relevant potions. He took several deep breaths, sinking under the brunt force of his memories as they hit him.
Warm chocolate eyes and lilting laughs, tender caresses, and soft whispers, a brush of wild curls on his neck — they somehow kept him alive, yearning for more whilst simultaneously driving him mad due to how far-fetched it all seemed. The seven years of hallucinations never failed to threaten to empty the contents of his weak, roiling stomach.
Once he felt he was steady enough, he stood once again, asking to be led towards the medical bay. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and his head snapped to it automatically.
He stared at the photographs — three awkward teenagers, the couple on the steps of St-Mungos waving, holding an infant close, a woman, bright-eyed with a wary smile holding up a hand in an oath, a family of four smiling waving, and finally an epitaph on a marble stone.
“A sad day of the entire wizarding world,” the medi-auror sighed with a grave shake of his head. “My condolences to you Healer, it must not have been easy to lose her so suddenly.”
It felt like he had a bezoar lodged in his throat, his nose stung and his eyes prickled, threatened by the onset of unwelcome tears. He managed a small nod — his mind once again yanked him back to his delirium. A visit to Azkaban always made it resurface, bubbling up to the forefront of his mind in an effort to reconnect with the cradle in which it was conceived.
“Minister Granger-Weasley was a beacon, and it can be safely said she touched all our lives — she is the reason I have been a Healer for all these years.”
Hermione had become a huge presence in his life after Pansy had fallen in love with and married the Chosen One. At her insistence, he had signed up for the training program at St Mungo’s and went on to qualify as a Healer. He was now in his fortieth year of service. His age was getting the better of him, however, and now he was considering laying down his mantle.
Draco had loved her — somewhere during their fifth year at Hogwarts, he had begun to fall for her, implicitly noticing her. Even so, he forced himself to look the other way, in the unwilling service of the Drak Lord so he could focus on shielding his mother.
Azkaban gave him the time and opportunity to ruminate on his affections, feeding them, twisting them, and nurturing them into the delusions he later had buried deep inside.
Though the opportunity arose a fair few times — and his friends almost convinced him that she returned his feelings — he never told her. He was confused, disgusted, and ashamed that his love was tainted by his contorted fever dreams from Azkaban.
On some days he wondered if he loved her at all or if it was all just some fantasy his mind had conjured to while away his sentence.
She did not deserve such insecurity in his feelings, she deserved more than a shattered shell of a person. So he stood by her as a close friend, a confidante, a best friend even, as she married her teenage love. He watched as her family grew and she rose to power, conquering obstacle after obstacle thrown her way, supporting her in every possible way he could.
If he saw her look at him with an unnamed feeling clouding her eyes, mirroring what he felt within, he looked away pretending not to notice. That was better for them both. When he stood by her, holding her hand for the last time, as her trusted healer and a loyal friend, she looked at him with molten eyes and a gentle squeeze, her whispered words dying on her tongue with her.
As he called out the time, he had occluded, trying to squirrel away the memory of her faint voice and his reply, whilst also remaining steady and professional before their shared friends and family.
Only Potter saw through him, he was right next to Draco — close enough to hear their final exchange. The wizard placed a hand on his shoulder, fleeting recognition, followed by a look of grief and understanding in his eyes.
Later that night, cocooned in loneliness, he mulled over the moment that had passed between them, turning it over and over like a kneazle kitten with a ball of yarn. The alcohol had taken over and numbed him, but he still felt a hollow ache piercing his soul, every time their quiet words echoed in his mind.
“After all this time?”
“Always.”