Hungover with Regret
The cold sensation of a ghost’s body creeps over Draco’s leg. He jolts his eyes open with a start and sees the Gryffindor ghost peering over him, his face blank and unreadable. When Draco scrambles to his feet, Nick’s eyes narrow, and he floats away.
The castle is still fairly quiet, but it’s brighter now. Draco has no idea how long he’s been asleep and hates himself for it. He dozed off on the stairs in public.
___
He heads to the girls bathroom; no one will find him there. There is water leaking from a stall, spilling out onto the floor, and the place is a mess, but it’s empty.
Draco finds the cleanest stall and closes the door. He exhales slowly.
“This is a reminder, Draco. Remember it,” he mutters.
“Diffindo.” Draco traces his wand over his right hip. The sharp sting comes only a moment later. His eyes bore into his skin as it opens, and the white gap becomes dappled with blood a moment later. He uses his fingers to stretch the cut open slightly.
“Tergeo.” Clearing the blood away helps him see the wound a bit clearer. It looks as if a layer of styrofoam is stretched out underneath his skin. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as he expected, honestly; the adrenaline is numbing. The line is shakily done and not nearly as deep as he would’ve liked, but it’s alright. He can always do another.
“Diffindo.” Draco speaks in a low whisper this time, but his voice is steady. He makes a slashing movement this time. Instead of slowly welling with blood, the wound fills quickly and overflows, a small drop of red travelling down his leg onto the floor.
He lets his knees drop to the ground and traces the blood into shapes with his fingers until it becomes thin and dries. "Scrougify," he mutters.
Honestly, this isn't just for today's mistakes, nor last night's. It's for everyone he's hurt. Everything he's done wrong. It's for his parents, who he's let down. His skin crawls at the thought. It's not just what he's done wrong. He just is wrong. His existence, his being. This time, he slashes a wound across his thigh without muttering a word.
He's never been good enough at nonverbal spells, but somehow it goes deeper than any wound he's ever seen. Huh. As he siphons off the blood, it continuously pours down, warm, sticky, and dark. Underneath, he can see strange yellow bubbles poking out. It won't stop.
"God." Draco shakes his head as if to clear it and groans. He should've planned better for this. He rips off a strip of his cloak with another flick of his wand and ties it around his leg before beginning to scrub the floor. Once it's no longer a pale shade of pink, he stands up and begins to make his way to the dormitory.
Draco smiles, a grim look setting across his face. He’s gone off the deep end, hasn’t he.