The Healer II- The Patient (Draco Malfoy Fanfiction)

Chapter 1- New York

Pictured: Hohenheim Hospital for Magical Illnesses and Afflictions. New York, USA.

January 2006

Snow fell outside my office windows on the 8th floor, and I was looking forward to another late night at the hospital. I loved my office. Sometimes, I even preferred it to my own home.

My office was my cozy sanctuary. I liked losing myself in patient paperwork while the radiator hummed through the frigid New York winters. On my desk was a moving photograph of me and my parents at the Empire State Building; my Pukwudgie crest paperweight; and the MACUSA certified award I received three years ago. On the wall of my office hung a painting I had done of the snow-capped Massachusetts mountains that surrounded Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And in my office there was absolutely no Slytherin memorabilia, and nothing to remind me of my time at Hogwarts. Nothing to remind me of him.

After I left Hogwarts 8 years ago, I graduated from Ilvermorny at the top of my class. I currently work at the largest magical hospital in New York City, Hohenheim Medical Center of Magical Illnesses and Afflictions, in the Dark Arts Rehabilitation Department. At only 24 years old I have become one of the foremost experts in my department and was recognized by MACUSA for my contributions to the field. The secret to my success was that I was wholeheartedly devoted to my work. So devoted, in fact, that my mediwitch trainee Cora Norgard often said I was "married to my work". And indeed, I was married to my work.

Unfortunately, my work wasn't the only thing I was married to.

A red voicemail light blinked on my desk. It was blinking the exact same as it had been for the past hour and a half. I didn't want to listen to it. I knew it would be from Len.

He's probably upset I'm spending another late night in my dark office. My husband Len complained a lot about how much I was gone. But he knew how important work was to me; after all, that's how we met.

Werewolves are plentiful in North America, and as a Dark Magic Rehabilitation Specialist, one of the most common injuries I see are werewolf related. Since their wolf instincts make them incredibly territorial, they tend to form packs (or "gangs" as certain condescending Aurors like to call them), which leads to a significant amount of fights around the full moon.

I was 19 years old when I met Len. He was a wild-haired 24 year old werewolf who reluctantly dragged himself into the hospital with wounds he sustained from a territorial dispute on the previous night's full moon. Werewolves in packs tended to avoid hospitals from fear of being outed for participating in illegal activity, which means they put off seeking medical attention until the last possible moment.

Len was definitely difficult at first. He fought my healing, and tried to escape the hospital because he was worried I would turn him into the Aurors. But I assured him I wouldn't. Not many people showed werewolves kindness because they were afraid; but I had learned a long time ago not to judge those touched by Dark Magic too harshly. Len saw that, and we took a liking to each other immediately. It took nearly three years of him asking me to marry him every day before I finally said yes. But lately, I suspect that he regrets even asking me in the first place; because now he was stuck with a wife who was barely home.

I stood and went to the window of my office to look for the moon. Through the January snowstorm, I could just barely see that the moon was waning. Len will be alright on his own tonight.

I lingered at the window, almost hoping to see stars peek out of the dark sky. But the city smog and snowstorm made everything but the moon pitch black. I didn't mind that about the city, though, because the stars always reminded me of him.

And I tried not to think about him.

My eyes caught on something flickering in the sky. My heartbeat quickened.

Dymphna-?

No. Just the blinking tail of a jet.

I had just turned away from my office window when something heavy hit the glass. I whipped around with my wand drawn, and was surprised to see a brown owl scratching at my window. It had a package in its claws.

Despite working in a wizard hospital, I rarely received owls. Most American wizards preferred email these days.

"You poor thing, flying out in a January snowstorm," I tutted to the bird as I let it in. It shook snow off of its wings and onto my desk.

The owl watched me with an odd kind of animal impatience as I screened the package for curses before touching it. Upon undoing the twine, I laid eyes on a letter addressed to Erica Thorncroft. My eyebrows raised. I hadn't gone by that name in almost a year.

The letter was written in scrawling feminine cursive.

Erica,

You do not know me, but I know you. You are renowned as one of the best Dark Magic Healers in the world, and I need the best. Your presence is requested immediately at my Chateau in Paris.

Attached is a portkey as well as prepayment. You can expect double after your services are provided.

As I said before, your presence is requested immediately.

It is a matter of life and death.

There was no signature on the extremely concerning letter.

The owl fussed. It was clawing at the other part of the package, which appeared to be a small purse. I opened it, and discovered it was filled to the brim with gold coins.

The coins weren't American wizarding money; nor were they English wizarding money. The coins were marked in a language that I didn't understand- and I realized that this coin purse was filled with roughly 100 French Bezants.

So, my patient is rich.

I began packing my medical bag. It wasn't that I was motivated by the money, or even the urgent tone of the letter. It was the mystery of it all that made me intrigued. Under normal circumstances, I would decline a house call summons from a stranger in Paris- but this person had sought me out by name.

My heart pounded as I closed my medical supply bag with a snap.

I loved a medical mystery.

As soon as I carefully unwrapped the final part of the package which contained the portkey, the owl took off out of my open office window. Its job was done.

I peeled back the layer of cloth covering the portkey, which was a simple grey ring, slightly decayed and dirtied. I highly doubted that this portkey was cleared by MACUSA for transcontinental travel. But luckily, there was a clause in American portkey laws that permitted Healers to travel via portkeys that were unregistered as long as they were on medical business. So I hastily scribbled a note on my desk for my trainee Cora in case I wasn't back by tomorrow. I considered leaving a phone message for Len, but decided against it. It was easier to beg forgiveness from him than to ask permission.