Chapter 3
“Something’s up with Malfoy.”
“Not this again, Harry.” Ron groaned as he buttered up a piece of toast. Harry refused to be deterred, sipping pumpkin juice and peering over his goblet at the Slytherin table as he did so. He hadn’t told anyone about his encounters with Malfoy yet, not even Ron and Hermione, but he thought that he may as well let his best friends in on the situation at hand.
“No, I’m serious.” Harry insisted, ignoring the way Ron and Hermione shared an exasperated look. “And I don’t mean it in the way that Malfoy is up to something bad. I mean, he’s being harassed but he’s not doing anything about it.”
“He’s being what?” Ron laughed incredulously.
“Listen, the other day when I went to Madam Pomfrey to get something to help me sleep at night, Malfoy was there. He was hurt pretty badly, and apparently it was because people are mad at him about, well, you know.”
Harry didn’t go into detail. He knew it wouldn’t be right to share something so personal, even if Malfoy hadn’t seemed to care very much.
“Yeah, well, maybe the git deserves some of what’s coming to him. I mean, he did bully people pretty badly before.”
“He was a jerk, yes, but that doesn’t mean physical violence can be justified.” Hermione reasoned. Ron almost spit out the mouthful of egg he had in his mouth.
“This coming from you, who punched Malfoy in the face during third year?”
Hermione glared at Ron.
“Sometimes a punch to the face is needed to bring people down a notch.” She sniffed. “Anyway, it didn’t do any real damage.”
“Gave him a bloody nose.” Ron muttered, but he looked more proud of his girlfriend than anything else.
“Back to the point.” Harry reminded them. “Even the other day, wasn’t Malfoy going on about turning in his assignment but it not being there when McGonagall checked? Someone’s out to sabotage Malfoy, I’m telling you.”
“Yeah, well, a missing essay is hardly life-threatening, Harry. I say we leave the little shit alone to deal with his own problems.” Ron grinned cheerfully. “Maybe it would do him some good.”
“Sure, the homework thing wasn’t harmful, but why did he just let it happen? When the person being harassed doesn’t fight back at all, it starts to look a whole lot like plain bullying.”
“Well, that’s easy.” Hermione shrugged. “The whole reason he’s back at Hogwarts is so he can prove that he was just coerced into being on the bad side, remember? His future in the wizarding world rides on him getting through this school year without any noticeable trouble, so of course he can’t fight back, because I doubt anyone would be willing to hear his side of the story if he went ahead and hexed whoever’s been messing with him.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Harry shook his head and went back to his breakfast. “Forget I said anything, it was just a random thought.”
“Good to see you’re back to being yourself, mate.” Ron clapped his shoulder. “An unhealthy obsession with Malfoy sounds just like you back in the good old days.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but let his gaze drift back to the Slytherin table as Ron and Hermione resumed conversation about a class they were taking together. He caught sight of Malfoy instantly, his platinum blonde hair making him stand out from a mile away. He watched absentmindedly as Malfoy poured himself some pumpkin juice and then made himself busy spreading jam on a slice of toast.
Just then, a third year on Malfoy’s left bumped Malfoy’s arm so hard that the toast dropped right out of his hands. Malfoy glared at the third year in question but when he didn’t even stop to apologise, Malfoy sighed and ducked down under the table to pick it back up. That was when another third year who’d been sitting on Malfoy’s right produced a small vial of clear liquid from inside her robes and emptied the contents into Malfoy’s goblet.
Harry’s eyes widened, rising from his seat instantly to try to warn him, but Malfoy threw the toast down on his plate, drank the rest of the contents of his goblet in one go, then grabbed his bag and got up to leave. Harry watched as Malfoy swept out of the Great Hall, conflicted as he wondered whether he should confront the third years first or follow Malfoy and make him throw up whatever he’d consumed before it did any harm. Harry looked around wildly but no one else had seen it, or if they had, they were pretending not to. Harry glanced at his friends, but explaining would take too long and whatever Malfoy had been fed may have started to kick in already, which meant he didn’t have much time.
Harry made the split second decision to take off after Malfoy. He wasn’t sure why he was quite so concerned - after all, whatever had been slipped to Malfoy’s drink probably wasn’t deadly, but he really didn’t have the time to question his own motives as he grabbed his things and rushed outside.
“Malfoy!” Harry yelled, running to catch up with the blonde who had gotten very far in such little time. Malfoy turned, saw Harry barreling toward him at top speed, and was so bewildered that he forgot to regard Harry with distaste.
“What do you want, Potter?” He asked irritably.
“You,” Harry panted. “Need to throw up.”
“Have you gone mad?” Malfoy was clearly appalled.
“I saw a couple of third years put something in your drink,” Harry began pushing Malfoy in the direction of the nearest bathroom. “It could be dangerous.”
“And why do you care?” Malfoy crossed his arms, refusing to budge. For someone so slight, Malfoy was unexpectedly strong.
“Are you not hearing what I just said? You could have been poisoned, and no matter how much I hate you, I’m not going to stand by while you get drugged.” Harry couldn’t believe Malfoy wasn’t more concerned.
“I think I can take care of myself, Potter. If I happen to feel unwell, I’ll be sure to note that it was because of whatever someone put in my morning pumpkin juice and tell Pomfrey all about it. Happy?”
Harry frowned. “Well, then at the very least we should report the third years that did this.”
“No,” Malfoy snapped. “I told you, Potter, keep your nose out of my business. I will handle whatever’s going on, and you will not mention a word of this to anyone.”
“Look, I’m just trying to help you.” Harry was beginning to feel a little indignant that Malfoy was being so cold when Harry was sincerely looking out for him.
“Well, don’t.” Malfoy hoisted his bag higher up on his narrow shoulder. “No need to go around trying to help the people you hate, Potter.”
“I’m not-”
Malfoy rolled his eyes before Harry could finish and walked away.
Harry stared after him, dumbfounded. He struggled to shrug it off, but try as he might, it was impossible to ignore the feeling bubbling up in his stomach that something bad was going to happen.
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Draco tried to focus on finishing the essay he was supposed to hand in the next day, but it was no use. After the scuffle he’d had with Potter earlier that day, Draco had headed straight to the library in the hopes to get some work done before he inevitably felt too ill to do anything.
Long story short, Draco knew full well that his pumpkin juice had been spiked that morning. He wasn’t proud of it, far from it, but merely last year his house had been home to many Death Eaters and even the Dark Lord himself. Draco was used to being on edge every second of every day even if it looked as though he was perfectly relaxed. No matter how hard they tried, nothing that a couple of third years tried to scheme up was going to be able to fly under Draco’s radar. Still, Draco feigned ignorance as he drank down his pumpkin juice in one gulp.
Potter noticing the ordeal was not something he’d expected however, and Potter rushing after Draco to warn him about it was even more of a shock. He’d been doing that a lot, come to think of it. Just the other night, Draco had been tracked down by Potter after they ran into each other at McGonagall’s office, and although Potter had tried to play it off by insulting him, Draco was well aware that Potter had been curious to know about the atrocious condition he’d been in.
At first, it perplexed Draco, because why would Harry Potter, who he’d been feuding with for years, be concerned about his wellbeing?
Thankfully, the conversation they had that morning cleared things up.
Harry Potter still hated Draco. He was simply sticking his nose in places where it didn’t belong because he couldn’t stand to see anyone get seriously hurt, even if it was someone he despised such as Draco.
Draco didn’t appreciate any sort of pity, however, and he really didn’t want Potter to hand the third years over to a professor because he knew why they’d done it. Draco happened to be very observant, and therefore picked up very quickly on the witches and wizards who had it out for him at Hogwarts. The majority of them were those that had been harmed by Death Eaters, and they often tormented the Slytherin house as a whole. Of course, Draco was always the main target, but as he’d told Potter, he was perfectly capable of protecting himself.
Recently, that same group of witches and wizards had taken to offering Slytherins a deal. If they helped attack Draco successfully and didn’t get caught by the professors, they would leave them alone.
Draco didn’t blame anyone for taking the deal. It may have come as a surprise for some people, but he wasn’t just proud of his house, he was also quite fond of the students in it, with a soft spot for the younger ones. He didn’t want any of them to continue being harassed just for being a Slytherin, and he didn’t mind them taking any out they could get.
The attacks were painful, but rarely life-threatening anyway, and in all honesty, Draco knew he deserved that pain.
He’d been on the wrong side of the war, and if this was how he had to pay the consequences, silently suffering through the curses, hexes, and poisonings and all the while get good scores on all his exams so he could prove that he would be a valuable member of society once he left Hogwarts, then so be it.
Draco’s gaze fell involuntarily down to his left arm where his uniform had ridden up just enough for the Dark Mark to be barely visible. He pulled his sleeve back down hastily, wanting the thing completely out of sight.
Draco had vaguely hoped that the Dark Mark would fade as Voldemort died, but over the summer, the black ink that stained his skin showed no signs of growing lighter. No matter how much he hated it, he had no choice but to keep wearing it on his arm and try his very best not to look at it.
Draco dropped the quill he’d been using back into the inkpot after putting the finishing touches to his essay. It was hardly his best work, but it would have to do as he finally felt the effects of the poison kicking in. His hands trembled, his palms were clammy, and he could feel himself break out in a cold sweat.
His fingers fumbled over his belongings that he rushed to pack into his bag. All he had to do was get back to the dormitory, or perhaps the hospital wing, and he would be fine. It was difficult to convince himself that everything would be alright as searing pain started to shoot through his chest, causing him to clutch at the area involuntarily, but he had little choice as there weren’t many people in the library, and he was positive none of them would be willing to help him.
Draco stumbled his way out of the library, his breath coming in short pants as the pain grew stronger and black spots began dancing in front of his eyes. Draco had been through much worse, however, and he quickly stabilised himself by placing his palm flat against the wall and using it to help guide him through the castle that he knew like the back of his hands.
Draco grit his teeth as drops of sweat fell into his already half-useless eyes, blinking fiercely as he dragged his feet inch after inch. He hadn’t been through multiple cruciatus curses, sectumsempra, and other various means of torture to be brought to his knees by a stupid potion that a couple of scared third years had slipped into his drink.
If he could just lie down so he could focus on his breathing, he would be just fine.
Draco wasn’t sure if it was another effect of the poison or due to the blinding pain, but somewhere along the way, his hearing died out almost completely, encasing him in an eerie silence that chilled him to the bone worse than the sickening pain in his heart that only grew stronger.
Eventually, Draco’s legs gave out and he had no choice but to collapse to the floor. He could feel the cool stone of the castle walls on his back and the floor beneath his feet, but he was quickly losing control of all his senses.
He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head between his knees, embracing the pain. It was a different type of pain from crucio , no, it wasn’t quite as agonising, nor was it something similar to sectumsempra , which had felt more scary than painful at the time because of the sensation of blood pouring from every inch of his body. This was a sharp pain that dulled into a throb in his heart, only the throb got more and more intense until it took over his entire body and Draco couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore.
It was the kind of pain that he felt when he had been on trial.
That miserable, lonely day when his mother’s complexion was paler than he’d ever seen it and his father had already been sentenced to Azkaban. Draco recalled standing in front of all those witches and wizards who called him a monster and looked down at him as though nothing he could ever say could change their minds.
That was the day Potter showed up to testify in his defence.
He didn’t say much. He talked about Draco in school - how he’d been a prick and a bully, but that he was just that. Nothing more. Not sinister, not cruel and violent. Definitely not a murderer. He was just a kid. Then he’d said something about how Draco claimed he didn’t recognise him when he’d been caught by Death Eaters, but Draco hadn’t really been listening to that part. For some reason what Potter had said before all that, before the crucial bit of information that granted Draco a second chance, about Draco just being a kid, made it feel as though someone was holding onto his heart and squeezing very hard.
Yes, it was that kind of pain.
But it went further back than that.
It was also similar to the pain he’d felt when he watched the Dark Lord torture Severus, then his father, then his mother in turn to teach Draco a lesson. He hadn’t been able to do it. He hadn’t been able to kill Dumbledore. Severus had sworn to keep that a secret but Voldemort still found out.
He tortured Draco first. Then, he made him watch as he tortured the people he loved, made him watch them scream and beg and cry until Draco swore never to disobey his orders again.
Draco rocked back and forth as memories flooded his mind and reminded him of every time he’d ever been hurt.
He was sixteen again, receiving the Dark Mark in order to regain the favour of the Dark Lord in place of his father, watching the dark ink spill over his skin and knowing that he was never going to be the same again.
He was fifteen, watching his father be sent to Azkaban.
He was fourteen, watching the last task in the Triwizard Tournament. He was panicking when he misheard the distorted shouts echoing throughout the spectator stands that Harry Potter was dead. He was ripping off his PotterStinks badge and stepping on it, feeling it crunch under his foot as he pushed to get to the front, because what did they mean, Harry Potter was dead?
He was seventeen.
Harry Potter was dead.
He was watching Hagrid carry someone very carefully in his arms.
Potter?
It couldn’t be.
Maybe it was.
Oh Merlin, it was. Harry Potter was dead, and it was all his fault.
He was sixteen.
His mother was caressing the side of his face. She was trying hard not to cry, but he could see the tears in her eyes. Draco tried to reassure her that things were going to be alright. He was going to be alright. His mother shook her head and her eyes slid down to the Mark on his arm. She whispered an apology that Draco pretended not to hear.
He was eighteen.
He was stepping on Hogwarts Express, knowing it was the only choice he had.
Now there was a memory that Draco didn’t quite recognise. It was a little blurry, but he could barely make out Potter’s face in front of him. But that didn’t make any sense, because Potter was dead, and it was all his fault.
Then again, Draco could see Potter right there, so maybe he was wrong. Potter was frowning, and he was mouthing something but there were no words coming out of his mouth. Draco frowned back. He didn’t understand what was happening. Then he watched Potter’s face grow further away from his, and Draco didn’t like that. Even though he couldn’t feel his arms, he tried to reach out. It seemed to work. Satisfied, Draco slumped back down, and the last thing he remembered before everything went black was Potter’s angry face.