When You Turn Your Back [Drarry]

[9] Paper Houses

The cover of the windows saved Draco from the wet weather outside, but not from the thunder of the rain that was pouring against it. The clouds had finally gave in. A week long wait for the sky to clear and take away the humid air with the clouds had boiled down to the crying heavens that hadn't ceased even on its third day. Although, the man laying inside the dingy apartment remained mostly unaffected by the world.

Copied darkness from the times when Narcissa stifled painful cries in the room prevailed even then. It had been busy for Draco, the month, even though it was mostly mental.

The last letter he had received was from Healer Foreman informing him about the foreign materials found in Narcissa's blood that was uncommon in the wizarding world. Hence, the long wait. Later on, Foreman had confirmed his prior suspicions of poisoning, though they were yet to be sure it was from a potion. The chances are slim. Upon extensive research and consultation, Draco had discovered the foreign object to be lead.

“Lead!” Hermione had exclaimed over the floo before stepping over to his apartment in a beat. “How's that possible?”

“I don't know,” Draco had shook the question away with a wave.

“Oh, Draco!” Hermione wrapped her arms around his shoulders to provide the man with some support. “I am so sorry.” she rubbed a hand on his back.

“She could have been saved!” Draco cried into her shoulder.

“Muggle doctors would have caught on to the symptoms a lot earlier...” she had meant to soothe him down, Draco knew. But those words hadn't helped him in any way.

It had only proved how weak he had been with his limited knowledge of medicine and chemistry that magical healers were supposed to acquire. All the symptoms had been glowing like flashlight in the dark and he couldn't see it. Pansy and Blaise had nodded their sympathies to pass their thoughts on how it hadn't been his fault.

“It isn't your field.”

Of course it wasn't. But what good was that knowledge supposed to do to him when he had cremated his mother with his own hands?

It wasn't the first time Draco had doubted the reach of magical medicine. Human anatomy did not always work different when magic was involved, nor did every problem had to be related to their magic. Multiple times had wizards lost their lives only because they blamed curses or potions for their anomaly and never sought for anything that could have been related to something regular like cancer or a heart abnormality. Even when they did, it would usually be too late for the patient.

The book in the store had sown seeds of suspicion and dread in his heart too late. And by the time he had contacted the Head Healer of St. Mungo's after a thorough check up of Narcissa's blood, she had already fallen into comatose. The blood samples in the lab had been enough for the healers to catch on, but it never occurred to them that it could be something so ... muggle, as Healer Foreman had said. Hence they never looked for it.

Draco was somehow glad for the rain to drown out the silence of the apartment. He had deliberately missed the floo calls from others, since his heart rejected all forms of contact at the time. The guilt of being a failure to save his mother despite of his practice added to the constant pressure from his drowning career weighed him deeper under the blanket of bleakness that suffocated him enough to lose any will to interact.

*********

2004
×××××

Somewhere between the dilemma of losing himself in the cold air and finding a straw to hold onto the remnant of his future, he had travelled back to the city life. This time it wasn't Newport or London, but somewhere in the middle of Birmingham. It would be easy for him that way, Draco had deduced, to escape from the pull of heartstrings or bitter nostalgia that would only slow him down somehow. Opposing Harry's request, he had yet again chose a busy job that left him with little time to wallow and enough in his personal vault at the end of the month, unlike his last job.