Fallen stars
Draco
Screams tore through the silence of Malfoy Manor, each one a jagged shard of fear that pierced his heart. He recognized those screams, knew their desperate melody all too well. His boots pounded against the ancient floorboards, his breath ragged in his chest as he sprinted through the endless corridors. Portraits of stern faced ancestors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him with a mixture of disdain and pity. He burst through the grand oak doors of the drawing room, the hinges screaming in protest.
The scene before him was horrific, soul crushing. Hermione, his witch, HIS FUCKING WITCH, lay sprawled on the ornate rug, her body contorted in pain. Her attacker stood over her, their wand pointed menacingly in her direction.
He surged forward, adrenaline lending him impossible speed, his own wand outstretched, ready to unleash a torrent of protective magic. This time, he swore, it would be different. This time, he wouldn't fail, he wouldn't turn his back on her. But as he drew closer, his steps faltered, his blood turning to ice in his veins. The attacker turned. Familiar silver eyes stared back at him.
He was toe to toe with himself. A twisted and corrupted version of him, but him none the less. His face, a face that he now despised, filled with a chillingly familiar madness, smirked back at him, Hermione's blood staining his pale skin. A silent scream ripped through Draco, a desperate cry for help that died in his throat. He was trapped, a helpless spectator in his own nightmare, forced to watch as his other self, his dark reflection, continued to torment the woman he loved. Every scream, every sob, every drop of blood was a fresh wound on his soul, and he was powerless to stop it.
The solidity of the room dissolved around him, the walls undulating like liquid, their once familiar patterns twisting into grotesque, ever changing shapes. Reality fractured, splintering into a chaotic explosion of light and shadow. One moment he was plunged into an abyssal darkness so profound it seemed to crush him from all sides, the next he was blinded by a searing white light that stripped away all sense of form and dimension.
He was trapped in a vortex of his deepest fears, forced to relive every trauma, every regret, every agonizing moment of his past. Each vision was more vivid, more horrifying than the last. He watched Hermione perish in a thousand different ways, her face contorted in agony, her voice screaming his name. He witnessed his own failures replayed with excruciating detail, each misstep amplified, each consequence magnified.
Time lost all meaning, stretching and compressing in a maddening dance. He was adrift in a turbulent red sea, tossed and turned by waves of flames. Every second felt like an eternity, every breath a struggle against the suffocating weight of his own guilt and fear. He was lost in a swirling black tunnel of pain, an endless descent into the abyss of his own mind, where time had no meaning and suffering was the only constant.
The throbbing in his head was relentless, a drumbeat against his skull. Every muscle in his body screamed at the slightest movement. He could hear voices, murmurs weaving in and out of his consciousness, but his eyelids felt like lead, impossible to lift.
"He did what?" a voice, sharp with disbelief, cut through the fog of his consciousness.
"Cast a wandless Patronus," another voice replied, hushed with awe. "Sent it straight to Potter, I reckon. Potter and that search party of his found them half dead in the snow. Nearly frozen solid, they were. A miracle they were even spotted, really. Shrunk down to the size of – well, the size of ants."
"Ants?" the first voice gasped. "Merlin's beard..."
"Took Snape the better part of an hour to reverse the effects of that potion and get them back to normal size," the second voice continued. "Honestly, it was touch and go for a while there."
"But how...? Why...?" the first voice stammered, confusion evident.
"Nobody knows. Neither of them have regained consciousness yet. Both were severely starved, dehydrated, suffering from hypothermia. Young Miss Granger had a nasty infected wound on her leg – the healers said they almost had to amputate. And Mr. Malfoy... severe chest infection, barely breathing."
A long, drawn out whistle escaped the first voice. "Six weeks they were missing. Six weeks..."
"Merlin," the other voice breathed.
Draco lay trapped, a prisoner in his own unresponsive body. He couldn't twitch a finger, couldn't force a sound from his parched throat. The voices were unfamiliar, swirling around him like ghosts.
Hermione.
The name echoed in his mind, a lifeline in the darkness.
Hermione.
Hermione.
Hermione.
He strained, desperately trying to summon the strength to reach for her, to feel the reassuring warmth of her body, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive.
Just as a flicker of awareness threatened to break through, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, dragging him back into the oblivion. The hushed voices faded, swallowed by darkness and more nightmares.
*******
The fog in his mind had begun to lift, replaced by a sense of fragile clarity. He was cocooned in warmth, soft blankets draped over him, and a gentle pressure against his hand offered a strange comfort. As he pried his eyes open, he found his mother seated beside his bed, her gaze lost in the distance beyond the window.
Narcissa Malfoy, a woman who typically exuded an aura of meticulously crafted elegance, was a shadow of her usual self. Gone was the perfectly styled hair, the flawless makeup, the impeccably tailored attire. Her face was etched with worry, her usually vibrant blonde hair hung limp and dull around her shoulders. She looked... broken.
He took in his surroundings. The sterile white walls, the faint scent of antiseptic potions – he was in St. Mungo's.
"Mother?" he croaked, his voice raspy and unfamiliar.
His Mother's head snapped towards him, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Draco!"
Panic clawed at his throat. "Mother," he rasped again, struggling to sit up. "Hermione... where's Hermione?"
"She's fine, darling," she rushed to his side, her hands gently easing him back against the pillows. "She's okay. Just down the hall. Still asleep, but she's going to be fine. Don't move, love. Please, you'll hurt yourself."
He yielded to her touch, his legs suddenly boneless, collapsing back onto the bed with a soft thud. Relief washed over him in waves, warm and soothing like a healing balm. Hermione was alive.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
The words echoed in his mind. He closed his eyes, unable to hold back the tears that silently escaped, tracing hot, salty paths down his cheeks.
His mother's carefully constructed composure seemed to crumble. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft gasp. She looked shocked by his raw display of emotion, her hands hovering uncertainly for a moment as if she didn't dare touch him. He realized absently, through the haze of grief and relief, that his mother hadn’t seen him cry since he was a boy, a lifetime ago. Not when their home was infiltrated by the Dark Lord, their world tilting on its axis. Not after Dumbledore. Not even after his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban. He'd entombed his past in the deepest recesses of his mind, where it slumbered, a ghost of forgotten things.
His mother carefully gathered him in her arms. Her touch was tentative at first, then firm and reassuring as she held him close. He buried his face in her shoulder, his sobs muffled by the soft fabric of her robes. He clung to her, the scent of her familiar perfume only causing him to sob harder. He didn’t try to occlude. He let the tears flow freely, finally allowing himself to grieve, to mourn, to simply feel.
"My love," Narcissa murmured, her voice thick and cracking at the edges. Her fingers gently combed through his hair, pushing the damp strands away from his forehead. "What happened to you?" she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. "Talk to me, my darling."
He didn't answer. Words felt inadequate, meaningless in the face of the overwhelming emotions that consumed him. He only burrowed deeper into her embrace, his body trembling with the force of his silent sobs.
*********
He awoke with a jolt, his heart pounding against his ribs. The room was swallowed by an oppressive darkness and eerily silent. Disoriented, he reached out, his hand encountering only cool, empty sheets. His mother was gone.
He slipped out of bed. The floorboards groaned beneath his bare feet as he tried to maneuver through the darkness. St. Mungo's was quiet, the usual bustle of healers and visitors replaced by a hushed stillness. The corridors were dimly lit, the flickering sconces casting an unsettling glow on the polished floors. He peered into each room, his anxiety growing with every unfamiliar face, searching for a familiar bushy mane of brown curls.
Finally, at the very end of the hall, a faint light spilled out from beneath a half open door. He hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. He pushed the door open slowly, and there she was. It felt like he was dreaming, his mind unable to fully comprehend that she was still breathing. Still alive. He felt his chest tightening uncomfortably, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. He had expected to feel euphoric, overwhelmed with joy. But all he felt was a gnawing pain, a deep regret for all that had happened.
Hermione lay asleep, her breathing shallow and even. She looked so frail, so childlike. Her cheeks, once pale and drawn, were now flushed with a healthy pink. Her room overflowed with flowers. Get well cards lined the bedside table, a testament to how many people cared for her. He crept closer, his heart aching with a tenderness he couldn't quite understand. She was still worryingly thin, her frame almost swallowed by the oversized hospital gown, but the vibrant color had returned to her skin, a sign that she was slowly healing.
After a quick glance around to ensure they were truly alone, he lifted the edge of the blanket and slid into the bed beside her. He needed to be close to her, to feel the reassurance of her presence, the warmth of her skin against his. In the quiet darkness, he held her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her fragile frame. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her, and whispered apologies and promises against her soft curls.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice shook with emotion. "I'll never let anything hurt you again."
*****
A sharp cough shattered the peaceful silence, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Draco's eyes flew open, his pupils contracting as they were momentarily blinded by the unwelcome intrusion of daylight streaming through the window. He had fallen asleep, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion, but he wasn’t sure for how long. Hours? Minutes? Time had become a meaningless construct in this sterile haven.
Hermione remained nestled in his arms, blissfully asleep, her soft breaths a comforting rhythm against his chest. He tightened his hold on her, savoring the feeling of her warmth, the delicate weight of her body against his.
"Mr. Malfoy," a crisp, professional voice broke the spell, cutting through the intimate bubble he had woven around them. He flinched at the intrusion, resentment flaring in his chest.
He burrowed his face deeper into Hermione's hair, stubbornly ignoring the healer's directive. He wasn't ready to leave her side, not after everything they had endured. Not after the fear, the despair, the near constant threat of losing her again.
"Mr. Malfoy..." the voice repeated, a hint of impatience creeping in, a subtle edge to her otherwise polite tone.
Slowly, reluctantly, Draco lifted his head, his gaze heavy with sleep and a lingering sense of defiance. He met the eyes of the young healer, a woman with a kind face and tired eyes that hinted at long shifts and countless patients. Her expression was professional, but he detected a flicker of apprehension in their depths, a familiar wariness he had encountered countless times since the war. He knew her gaze would inevitably drift to the faded Dark Mark that marred his forearm, a permanent reminder of his past, a brand that seemed to forever define him in the eyes of others. It had never bothered him before, but for some reason, it did now.
He fixed her with an icy glare, his gray eyes hardening, his expression a mixture of defiance and possessiveness. The unspoken message hung heavy in the air: She's mine. I won't leave her. You will have to pry her from my cold, dead hands.
The healer, perhaps sensing the depth of his emotions, the raw intensity of his protectiveness, or simply intimidated by the ferocity of his gaze, wisely chose to retreat. With a quick turn, she exited the room, leaving Draco and Hermione alone once more. He settled back against the pillows, pulling Hermione closer, his protectiveness fierce and unwavering. He would stay by her side, guarding her sleep, until she woke. He owed her that much, and so much more.
****
A gentle hand on his shoulder stirred him from slumber, pulling him from a dream he couldn't quite grasp. Disoriented, Draco blinked against the soft light filtering into the room, the sterile white walls seeming to pulsate with the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He had lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep beside Hermione, his body and mind exhausted yet strangely alert. Each time he awoke, the light seemed different, sometimes the golden glow of dawn painting the room in warm hues, other times the hushed darkness of night shrouding them in a comforting anonymity.
He turned to find his mother watching him, a soft smile gracing her lips, her eyes filled with relief and…awe?
"I thought I might find you here," she whispered, her voice barely audible as if afraid to break the spell.
Carefully, he extracted himself from Hermione's embrace, his movements slow and deliberate as if handling a fragile treasure. He tucked the blankets securely around her, ensuring she remained warm and protected in her slumber.
"You saved her, you know," His mother said, her voice barely a whisper, "If you hadn't sent that Patronus..." She trailed off, a visible shudder running through her.
"No," Draco countered, his gaze drawn back to Hermione's peaceful form, his voice rough and uneven. "She saved me. She saved my life countless times in that forest. Kept us alive, kept us fed, kept us warm. I would have died within the first day if it wasn't for her."
"I suppose I owe her two life debts now," his mother mused, her eyes shining with admiration as she looked at Hermione.
Draco frowned, confusion clouding his features. "What do you mean?"
"Well," Narcissa began, her voice filled with gratitude, "she saved my son, the most important person in my life." Her voice cracked slightly, the depth of her love for him evident in every word. "But she also saved me... from a life in Azkaban."
Draco remained silent, his brow furrowed, urging her to continue.
"She testified on my behalf during my hearing," Narcissa explained, "Her testimony was the reason the charges were dropped."
The weight of her words crashed over him like a tidal wave, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. He felt like he was underwater. It was her. The anonymous witness who had exonerated his mother, who had saved her from the horrors of Azkaban. That was over a year ago, and Hermione had never breathed a word of it. Never used it for leverage, never sought gratitude or recognition. She had simply done it because it was the right thing to do, despite the pain his family had inflicted upon her, despite the animosity he had shown her.
He felt suffocated, his chest constricting with searing guilt. She had done this before she truly knew him, back when he was nothing but cruel to her, a bully hiding behind his family name and his own insecurities.
You don't deserve to breathe, a venomous voice hissed in his mind.
He had been a monster, and she, an angel, had saved them all.
"Draco, my love, are you alright? You look pale." His mother's concerned voice broke through his torment, her hand reaching out to touch his arm, her touch gentle but insistent.
He shook his head mutely, unable to articulate the turmoil within him, the shame and self loathing that threatened to consume him. He felt like he was going to be sick. He had to get out, to escape the suffocating weight of his guilt, to find a space to process this. Without a word, he turned and fled the room, leaving his mother staring after him in concern, her eyes filled with a worry he didn't deserve.
*****
Discharged before Hermione, Draco returned to Hogwarts, the familiar castle now echoing with her absence. The healers kept her sedated, facilitating her recovery, a process they estimated would take weeks. Each visit to her bedside was torture for him. He wanted to take her place, to absorb her pain. Seeing her fragile body, surrounded by well wishing cards but no family, filled him with a gnawing anxiety. He knew waking up in that sterile room, devoid of her parents' comforting presence, would be a cruel reminder of their loss for her.
He walked the halls of Hogwarts like a ghost, the weight of his wand heavy in his hand. The ease with which magic flowed from it now felt alien, so different from the desperate struggle for survival in the forest. Whispers followed him, curious eyes watched him, eager to hear his tale of survival. But he remained silent, retreating further into himself. Classes were a blur, his mind constantly drifting back to Hermione. He snuck into St. Mungo's whenever he could, desperate to be near her, sometimes even managing to evade the healers and sleep beside her.
But sleep offered no escape. Nightmares plagued him, vivid and terrifying. Hermione, limp in his arms, her face pale and lifeless. Hermione, writhing in pain on the drawing room floor, poison coursing through her veins. Hermione, the light fading from her eyes as he spat the word "Mudblood." He'd wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, the guilt suffocating him. He hated himself. The casual cruelty, the blind obedience, the gleeful participation in the torture of innocent Muggle-borns. How could he have believed that his pathetic life had held more value than theirs?
He felt like a fraud, undeserving of redemption. How could he ever face Hermione, knowing the pain he had caused her and others like her? He wanted to disappear, to cease existing.
One evening, driven by a desperate need to feign normalcy, he ventured to the Great Hall for dinner. The moment he entered, a ripple of applause erupted from the Slytherin table. Pansy, Theo, Blaise, and Astoria beamed at him, their faces alight with relief and welcome. It made him sick to his stomach.
"Finally!" Theo boomed. "He graces us with his presence!"
Astoria rose to embrace him, Blaise offered a warm smile, but Pansy watched him with a calculating glint in her eyes. He slid into the bench beside Theo, the familiar banter of his friends washing over him. They had long given up trying to pry information about the Forbidden Forest from him, sensing his resistance.
The world would be a better place without you. The insidious voice slithered into his thoughts, poisoning his mind.
Draco stiffened.
"Draco?" Blaise's voice cut through the fog.
"Hmm?" he mumbled, startled.
"Blaise was asking you a question," Pansy snapped, her tone laced with impatience.
"Oh. What is it?"
"We were wondering if you'd like to have a little party tonight," Blaise offered. "To celebrate your return."
Suddenly, the world seemed to tilt. His friends' voices sounded distant, muffled, as if he were submerged in water. His breath hitched, his chest constricting. Panic seized him. He scrambled away from the table, ignoring the bewildered calls of his friends, and fled the hall.
Reaching his room, he slumped against the door, gasping for air.
Do the world a favor, end it all. The dark voice echoed relentlessly in his head.
“FUCK YOU!” He screamed into the empty room.
The pain, both physical and emotional, was unbearable. He couldn't endure it any longer. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to shatter the suffocating silence. He envisioned himself leaping from the window, his body plummeting towards the unforgiving ground, just as Dumbledore had.
He raised his wand, the tip hovering inches from his forehead. His voice, a mere whisper, rasped the incantation.
"Crucio."
******
Hours crawled by, each one an eternity. Draco lay curled against the door, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. He could hear the muffled sounds of revelry from the common room – laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional boisterous shout of his name. But he remained unmoving, lost in the darkness. He was a prisoner in his own mind, trapped in a cycle of doom and despair.
As the night wore on, the sounds from the common room gradually subsided, replaced by a hushed quiet. Exhaustion finally claimed him, his body heavy and aching. He drifted into a restless sleep. He lay slumped against the cold, hard surface of the door, consumed by shadows.
"Draco?"
The sharp edge of Pansy's voice cut through the thick fog of Draco's troubled sleep. He groaned, lifting his head from the cold, hard floor, the world tilting alarmingly around him. His neck protested with a fiery ache, each vertebra screaming in complaint. Blinking away the lingering shadows of his nightmare, he focused on Pansy, hovering above him, her delicate brow furrowed with worry. She had lit a fire in the hearth, and the flames danced and flickered, casting a warm, dancing glow across the room. For a fleeting moment, the flames morphed into the golden light of the tent, and he saw Hermione standing above him, her form shimmering with firelight like the goddess she was.
"What are you doing?" Pansy's voice, laced with a mixture of concern and irritation, snapped him back to the present.
He didn't trust himself to speak, the lump in his throat making any words impossible. Instead, he pushed himself up, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. He stumbled towards his bed, the room swaying with each step, and collapsed face first into the pillows, burying his face in their cool softness. He felt the mattress dip as Pansy sat beside him, her fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back.
"Pans, I'm not feeling well," he mumbled into the pillow, his voice muffled.
"I bet I can make you feel better," she murmured, her voice soft and seductive.
"I doubt that," he replied, his tone flat and devoid of any interest.
Her nails continued their soothing ministrations against his back and then moved to his scalp, but he barely registered the sensation. He turned his head, meeting her gaze. He knew what she wanted, the unspoken expectation that hung between them. He had never denied her before. Perhaps it would offer a temporary escape, a fleeting distraction from the turmoil within him. But the thought churned his stomach, bringing with it a wave of nausea.
There was no one else he wanted. No other witch could ever hold the same power over him, the same allure, the same connection. The idea of being with anyone else, especially while Hermione lay vulnerable in a hospital bed, was repulsive.
"I'm sorry, Pans," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "I just can't."
"What's gotten into you?" she hissed, her tone shifting from concern to irritation. "Is it that Mudblood?"
The word, the vile slur he had used so carelessly in the past, ignited a fire in his veins, a surge of anger directed at himself and the ingrained prejudices he had once embraced.
He knew it wasn't entirely Pansy's fault. They had been raised in the same world of twisted values and ridiculous biases. But he had seen the consequences of that hatred, and had experienced the depths of Hermione's courage and kindness.
"Don't call her that," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
"Merlin, Draco," she scoffed. "You're the one who taught me that word. Now you're above it?"
"Leave, Pansy," he growled, "Just get the fuck out."
He kept his face buried in the pillow, unable to meet her eyes. With a frustrated huff, Pansy stormed out of the room, leaving Draco alone with his tormented thoughts.
******
Draco walked alone through the halls the next day. He barely registered the bustle around him, his eyes gazing off into the distance as students whizzed by, their laughter and chatter a distant hum.
"Malfoy! How was finally getting a taste of Mudblood cunt?" a sneering voice cut through him. Draco's eyes snapped up, his gaze cold and sharp. A group of Slytherins were lounging in the hall, their faces contorted in smirks, their eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. He couldn't even recall the name of the wizard who had spoken, just another nameless face in the sea of prejudice that had once been his world. The halls were beginning to fill, students pouring in from all directions, but Draco's focus narrowed to this small group, their words echoing in the sudden silence that had fallen around them.
Draco approached him, his steps deliberate, his mask in place. "The fuck did you just say?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"Heard the Golden Girl’s golden cunt has you rethinking your life choices?" The wizard continued, emboldened by the attention. "Death Eater turned saint? Must have been a damn good fuck." He let out a harsh laugh, the sound grating on Draco's raw nerves.
The world around Draco pulsed and blurred. The cruelty, the blatant disrespect for Hermione, ignited a rage within him, a fiery inferno that consumed all rational thought. He saw red, his vision tunneling, his hands clenching into fists. Draco got so close that their noses nearly touched, and the Slytherin had the decency to cower slightly. Draco didn't say a word, but his breaths were ragged, his jaw clenched so tightly that it felt like it might shatter. Without another thought, Draco pulled his head back and head butted the boy squarely in the nose.
A sickening crunch echoed through the hall, followed by a collective gasp from the onlookers. The boy stumbled backward, his hands flying to his face, blood gushing from his broken nose. Draco stood over him, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Don't you ever," he growled, "speak about her like that again."
He turned to leave, his anger still simmering, but a flicker of movement caught his eye. At the end of the hall, he saw Potter watching him curiously, his brow furrowed, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood the she-weasel, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something like.. approval? He couldn't be sure.
Draco met their gaze for a fleeting moment, then turned and strode away, leaving the stunned Slytherins and the curious Gryffindors behind.
****
Draco sat at the edge of Hermione’s bed, his shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on her beautiful face. She still hadn't woken. He held her forearm in his hands, his eyes and fingers tracing the letters that had been carved into her skin, a permanent reminder of the torture she had endured. A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a hot path down his cheek, and he didn't move to wipe it away.
A throat cleared, breaking the heavy silence, but he didn't look up. He didn't care which healer was about to tell him that it wasn't visiting hours, that he should return to Hogwarts. He felt a flicker of annoyance, a resentment at the intrusion, the constant reminders that he didn't belong here, that he was an outsider in this world of healing and hope.
The bed dipped slightly, and Draco turned, his silver eyes connecting with familiar green ones. Surprise flickered in his chest, quickly replaced by a guarded wariness.
"Malfoy," Potter whispered gently, his voice soft and devoid of the usual animosity that colored their interactions.
Draco watched him for a moment without speaking. Then his eyes returned to Hermione's still form.
"Potter," he finally acknowledged, his voice flat, his eyes averted.
"I'm not sure what happened out there," Potter began, his gaze shifting between Draco and Hermione. "I can only guess by the way we found you two that you have formed a connection."
For the first time, Draco pictured the scene: himself and Hermione, entwined in the icy embrace of the snow, their bodies locked together. He imagined the shock on the faces of the rescuers, stumbling upon such an unlikely pair – the Golden Girl and the Death Eater, clinging to each other for dear life.
Potter paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully. "It's obvious that something has changed."
"What's your point, Potter?" Draco hissed, his voice laced with a barely suppressed hostility. He wished Potter would just go away, leave him alone with his guilt and his witch.
"I have always believed that people can change," Potter continued, his voice earnest. "That people are redeemable." He met Draco's gaze, his expression sincere. "I think by what I've seen, you have obviously changed your views on people like... Hermione." He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "But... I feel that I must say this..." He took a deep breath. "Hermione has dreams. She could be the next Minister of Magic for Merlin's sake... she has a promising life ahead of her..."
"Please cut to the point, Potter," Draco breathed, his voice tight. "I already know she is much too good for me if that's what you are trying to say."
"What do you think she will be able to accomplish if you two end up together?" Potter asked, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "Hermione Granger, war heroine, with an ex-Death Eater? People would never see past it."
Draco mulled over his words, the truth of them hitting him like a searing spell. He didn't respond.
"No one would take her seriously," Potter continued, his voice relentless. "She would lose people's trust. They would question her judgment. You have hurt her enough. If you love her, which I think you do, in your own way, the kindest thing you could do for her at this point is to let her go. Allow her to be with someone who can help her flourish, not hold her back."
Draco felt his eyes stinging, tears threatening to spill over. He knew Potter was right, but he couldn't admit it, and he certainly wouldn't allow himself to break down in front of him.
"I mean, what was your plan anyway? Marry her? I am sure your mother and father would not approve," Potter continued, his voice laced with a hint of disdain.
That was exactly his plan. Marry her. Protect her. Spend the rest of his life making her happy in the best way that he could. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized, he would never be able to make her happy. He could hardly stand himself. How could anyone else? He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve happiness.
You're vile. Disgusting. The venomous voice echoed in his head, reinforcing his own self hatred. He closed his eyes, the weight of his past sins and present inadequacies crushing him. He was a burden, a liability, a stain on her otherwise brilliant life.
The weight of Potter's gaze, filled with pity, was unbearable. Draco couldn't bring himself to speak, to offer any explanation or defense for his actions. He didn't have one. He was a monster. He simply rose, his boots scraping against the floor with an unnervingly loud screech, and walked out. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to flee, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the hospital room and the emotions swirling within it.
He couldn't bear the pity in Potter's eyes a moment longer. It was a reflection of his own self loathing, a confirmation of his own failings. And strangely, he found he didn't want to hurt Potter, to lash out with the usual venomous barbs that had been their currency for so many years. He knew Hermione wouldn't approve. He could see the genuine concern in Potter's face, the way his brow furrowed with worry for his friend.
He hated himself for the jealousy that gnawed at him when he thought of Hermione with someone else down the line, for the bitterness that poisoned his thoughts. He hated himself for the mistakes he had made, for the path he had chosen, a path that had led him so far from any chance of redemption. And most of all, he hated himself for the way his heart ached with a longing for the love he could never deserve.
When he arrived back at Hogwarts, the familiar stone walls felt like a prison, the cheerful chatter of students a mocking reminder of his isolation. He couldn't return to his friends. Their blind prejudice, suddenly mirrored his own past behavior, a reflection of the person he desperately wanted to leave behind.
He sought refuge in a deserted bathroom on the second floor, a place he knew was usually empty. He stumbled inside, the door slamming shut behind him, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. He leaned heavily against the sink, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt like he couldn't breathe. No matter how deeply he inhaled, it was like the air was stuck, a suffocating weight pressing down on his lungs.
He gripped the sides of the sink, his knuckles white, and reluctantly stared into the mirror. Looking back at himself felt like looking at a stranger, a grotesque image of the person he once was. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and pain. He couldn't stand the sight of himself. His grip on the sink tightened, his knuckles throbbing, the porcelain cold against his skin.
End it. The voice whispered.
“FUCK YOU!”
He couldn't contain the pain any longer, the pressure building inside him like a volcano about to erupt. He lashed out, his fist connecting with the mirror in a satisfying explosion of glass. Shards rained down around him, glittering like fallen stars, reflecting his distorted image a thousand times over. He didn't flinch, didn't care about the blood welling up from his knuckles.
He left the bathroom. Left Hogwarts. The castle that had been his home for so many years now suffocated him. He walked away without a backward glance, his heart heavy, his future uncertain. He knew he would not return, not to this place, not to this life.