Echoes
Draco Malfoy sat in the dimly lit bedroom at Grimmauld Place, staring at the tray of food Kreacher had placed before him. He hadn’t moved much since waking up, his body still feeling heavy and foreign. The small table by the bed was now set with simple fare—soup, bread, and some fruit—but Draco found it hard to muster any appetite.
"Master Draco must eat," Kreacher said in his gruff, dutiful tone, standing beside the bed with his usual air of disinterest.
Draco glanced at the tray, his hand hovering for a moment before he picked up the spoon. His stomach was in knots, but he knew he needed to eat. Slowly, he took a few bites, the warmth of the soup doing little to comfort him. Each movement felt laborious, his muscles still sore despite the healing Harry had performed. The deep exhaustion remained, clinging to him like a second skin.
Kreacher watched silently, his large eyes flicking between Draco and the tray. After a few more bites, Draco pushed the tray aside, unable to continue.
"Thank you, Kreacher," Draco muttered, his voice quiet but firm. "But that's enough."
The elf nodded, clearing the tray efficiently. Draco rubbed his temples, trying to push away the fog that clung to his mind. As Kreacher worked, Draco sat back against the headboard, closing his eyes for a moment. His thoughts raced—memories of his captivity, flashes of pain, and the hollow feeling that had settled deep in his chest.
When he opened his eyes again, Kreacher had finished his task and was waiting nearby. Draco took a deep breath, gathering his strength. He knew he needed to clean himself up. He couldn’t stay in this room forever, wallowing in his misery.
"Kreacher," Draco said hoarsely, "I need a bath."
Kreacher nodded without question and disappeared with a snap of his fingers. Draco remained seated, staring at the door as if bracing himself for something. After a few moments, Kreacher returned, gesturing for Draco to follow.
Draco rose slowly, his muscles aching from disuse and stress. Kreacher led him to the bathroom down the hall, the air already warm and steamy from the prepared bath. Draco stepped inside, feeling the heat begin to ease some of the tension in his body.
But then his eyes caught on the mirror above the sink.
For a second, he didn’t realize what he was seeing. He took a step closer, his gaze locking onto the reflection. The face staring back at him was gaunt, pale, and bruised. But it wasn’t just his appearance that sent a cold wave of dread through him.
It was the face of his torturer.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. The image in the mirror was his own, yes—but in his mind, it wasn’t. It was the face of the man who had inflicted such pain on him. His reflection had become intertwined with the one who had broken him. For a moment, he wasn’t seeing himself. He was seeing the monster who had reveled in his suffering.
The panic hit him like a tidal wave.
He stumbled back from the sink, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The walls of the bathroom seemed to close in around him, the air too thick, too stifling. He could still see the face—his face—twisted with cruelty and malice. It was like being thrown back into that cellar, helpless and broken.
"Kreacher!" Draco gasped, barely able to speak through the rising panic.
The elf appeared instantly beside him, his expression neutral, but clearly alarmed by Draco's sudden distress.
"Take it away!" Draco rasped, his voice strained as he gestured weakly toward the mirror. "The mirror—get rid of it!"
Kreacher, not asking any questions, snapped his fingers. The mirror vanished, leaving only the bare wall behind.
Draco leaned heavily against the sink, his hands trembling as he tried to steady his breathing. The panic still surged through him, his mind flashing between the present and the memory of his torture. He felt sick, his stomach churning with the aftershocks of the attack.
For a few moments, there was silence except for the sound of Draco’s ragged breathing.
"Don’t volunteer this to Potter," Draco muttered finally, his voice barely above a whisper, his chest still heaving. "I know you have to answer if he asks, but if he doesn’t… just keep quiet about it."
Kreacher nodded without question, his expression unchanging. "As Master Draco wishes."
Draco took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand upright. He was still shaking, but he couldn’t allow himself to fall apart. Not here. He wouldn’t let the memory of that man control him.
Draco undressed slowly, the heavy feel of his muscles reminding him how far he still had to go to recover fully. As he sank into the bath, the heat wrapped around him, easing some of the tension, though his mind was still a storm of thoughts.
After soaking for a while, he glanced at Kreacher, who was dutifully standing by the door, as instructed by Harry.
"Kreacher," Draco said after a pause, his voice more composed, "Do you cut Potter’s hair?"
The question hung in the air for a moment. Draco knew that house-elves were generally trained to manage tasks like cutting hair. But looking at the wild mess that was Harry’s hair, Draco wanted to be sure before he allowed Kreacher anywhere near his head. If the elf was responsible for that disaster, Draco would prefer to trim his own hair blindfolded.
Kreacher shook his head, his tone as flat as ever. "No, Master Draco. Kreacher does not cut Master Harry’s hair."
Draco exhaled, relieved in a way he didn’t expect to be. "Good," he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he added, "Alright. Cut mine."
Kreacher fetched the scissors with a snap of his fingers, and Draco leaned back in the bath, closing his eyes as the elf trimmed his overgrown hair. He watched the water ripple with each movement, focusing on the rhythm of the snipping scissors rather than the turmoil in his mind.
Draco’s thoughts drifted as Kreacher worked. He needed to regain control—of his body, his mind, and the situation he was in. His body still ached, though Harry had healed him, but it wasn’t just physical. The psychological toll weighed heavy on him, and he knew he needed to get ahead of it.
And his wand. He regretted being without it, but for the first time, he didn’t feel entirely defenseless without it. During the war, when Potter had taken his wand, Draco had felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he had never known before. But now, things were different. He wondered if Potter might have kept his wand somewhere in Grimmauld Place. It was a long shot, but he made a mental note to search for it later—once he earned enough of Potter’s trust for Kreacher to stop shadowing his every move.
When Kreacher finished cutting his hair, the elf took it upon himself to wash Draco’s hair, gently pouring warm water over his head and lathering it with soap. Draco allowed it, his mind too foggy to object at first, but when Kreacher moved to wash his body as well, Draco drew back quickly, holding up a hand. “I can handle the rest,” he muttered, his voice rough with the lingering remnants of his earlier panic.
Kreacher bowed slightly and stepped back, allowing Draco the space to wash himself. Once finished, Draco dried off and changed into the clothes Kreacher had laid out for him—a pair of sweatpants and a jumper. They were loose and a bit too large, but their softness against his skin was a welcome comfort after days of rough fabric and shackles.
As he adjusted the hem of the jumper, Draco glanced at Kreacher. “Fetch me some parchment and a quill,” he instructed. Kreacher nodded and disappeared with a faint pop, returning moments later with the requested items. Draco took them, feeling the weight of the quill in his hand as he considered what he needed to do. He had to write down everything he remembered—every fragmented thought, every detail of his captors, anything that might slip from his mind before he had the chance to make sense of it.
With a deep breath, Draco turned and headed back to the room where he’d first woken up, his mind racing as he closed the door behind him.