Trace All the Old Ideas
The corridors are all dimly lit. The castle is eerie and still. It seems as if Draco is trapped in a dream as his feet move silently across the floor. He slowly, as if observing from outside of his body, watches himself descend the staircase.
He makes his way outside. His steps become quicker and quicker. As he reaches the greenhouse, he tugs the door open and steps inside. Kneeling on the floor, Draco begins tearing at any plants that look remotely edible. He shovels them down his throat, not caring about the bitter taste or the possible effects that could befall him.
The voice in his head saying to stop grows small as his mind floats away from his body. He feels the primal instinct of hunger and survival, nothing more. None of the guilt that should awash him. None of the anger or self-hatred that should fill him.
His stomach protests as he continues. It’s shrunken after weeks of deprivation. The potions, evidently, haven’t done much to help with that.
The scent of earth fills his lungs. His head feels faint. He stands up shakily, and he quickly tidies the area before stumbling outside.
___
Draco hasn’t done something this stupid in a while. Not even the attempt to kill himself was this foolish. Does he care right now, though? No.
He walks back to the Room of Requirement, though it feels more as though his body has decided to, and not him. His chest squeezes tight as his heart tries desperately to keep up, and he leans against the door for a moment to catch his breath.
Where he expects the bed to be, he instead stumbles over a cold metal object. A bucket. It’s as if the castle is mocking him. He shoves his fingers down his throat, scratches at it furiously, and retches into the bucket. Everything tastes worse coming back up.
Somehow, it’s this that has helped him to keep going. Starving. A thin veil of fog over the blizzard swirling in him. It numbs him. It is the one constant in his life. Depriving himself of food. Giving himself control. Right now, it doesn’t really feel like control.
The one purpose he has to survive is to slowly disappear, and right now that reason.. isn't really much of a reason anymore. Why should he hang on for something that feels so pointless?
___
As he sits on the cold hard floor, he wonders for a moment what would’ve been if he’d succeeded. If he’d died.
He stares into the darkness surrounding him, and it swallows him whole. He pretends and hopes that tomorrow won’t come.