FIVE.
He's suspended.
Weightless, floating in the water, arms stretched out, legs spread apart. Bubbles float past him - maybe they're from the fall, or maybe they're from his lungs, but wherever they're from, they slowly pass him on their way to the surface.
He doesn't fight - the punishment for following is to rot. He's rotting inside, inky veins spreading through his body and up his arms. Dark and black and thick, he sees them. They start from the left.
His eyes are open wide, his gaze fixated on the sky. From below the surface, the sun is nothing but a blur of light - the edges are soft yet jagged, sliding from side to side with the flow of the water - changing. Everything changes - maybe he can find change within him, too.
He's sinking - he's been sinking since he was a child, inch by inch, step by step, further and further away from the surface, from the sun, from the air that can fill his lungs and his veins and save him, and now that he's realized it, he fears that it may be too late. It started on the left. Does it have his heart yet?
He opens his mouth and takes a breath. Water comes in.
He's not worth saving.
----------
His eyes snap open, but instead of the cold water of the lake, he feels the warm sheets of his bed engulfing him. It takes him a second, but he remembers where he is: Hogwarts, his shared room with Blaise. He has Arithmancy in the morning, Transfiguration after lunch. He has a Runes translation he needs to do in the afternoon.
Runes - Potter.
Potter talked to him that Monday. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, then he rubs them with the side of his hand.
Moving to lie on his back, he stares at the beams in the ceiling above his bed. He didn't know how he thought the castle was made - he doesn't think he's ever thought about it before, actually - but he's looking at the beams in the ceiling, and all he can think of is how stone was placed carefully over stone, piece by piece, in order to make something as magnificent as the castle. They probably used magic. They might've used their hands.
The sound of Blaise shifting in his sleep makes Draco pause. He turns to lie on his other side, facing the window.
The sky is cloudy. It looks like rain.
Why is Potter suddenly interested in him? None of it makes sense. Nothing makes sense. When has anything ever made sense?
He's overthinking it. Potter feels sorry for him - that seems to be the only emotion people direct at him lately, pity or hatred - and he's confusing that with a desire for friendship. But the problem is that now, Draco doesn't know how to act around him anymore (even less than he did before the conversation on Monday). It brings him back to his first assertion - nothing ever makes sense. And either way, he has much more to worry about than whether or not Harry Potter wants to be friends - he has classes to pass (in one piece) and a future to think about (that he constantly avoids) and his mother to worry about (which he does often). He doesn't need to think about what the smiles mean, what the waving means, what Monday means.
He buries his face in his pillow and sighs - there's barely any ground left to stand on, and another fall might just break him for good.
----------
He'd almost forgotten. He'd almost forgotten - but he didn't.
He's standing outside McGonagall's door. Dumbledore's door. He feels sick for a moment, and the room starts spinning slightly. He rubs his hands over his face. He remembers Dumbledore's glasses. He blocks out everything else.
The password crosses his lips before he can talk himself into skipping the meeting; his feet feel heavy as he walks up the stairs. He stops in front of the door and takes a breath. He doesn't know why he's so nervous - he's been doing this for almost two months - but every time he finds himself behind the door, about to knock, he feels something churning in the pit of his stomach.
It's her eyes, he decides. She looks at him like he's real and he doesn't know how to handle that.
He gently rests his palm against the wood. Then, with a deep breath out, he curls his hand into a fist and knocks on the door. McGonagall's voice is muffled from the other side, telling him to come in. When he opens the door, the sound of her quill scratching over the parchment in front of her meets his ears. Then he sees her - she's slightly hunched over the desk, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She quickly finishes her sentence before turning her focus to him.
"Mr. Malfoy, I see you remembered to be on time today," she says, looking at him sternly over her reading glasses.
He smiles at her sheepishly from the doorway, straightening the hem of his sleeve. "Yes, Professor."
"Please, take a seat." With the quill she was writing with, she points to the chair in front of her, straightening her posture and taking off her glasses. Draco takes a deep breath and walks over to the chair, sitting on the edge. He feels eyes on him - not only McGonagall's but the portraits' as well. He refuses to look at the walls. There's no one there that he's brave enough to see again. He straightens his sleeve again and adjusts the cuff of his dress shirt underneath. McGonagall's eyes flit from his face down to his wrist and back again.
"There's no need to be nervous, Mr. Malfoy. You know this is not an interrogation."
Draco blinks, not having noticed that he was twisting the button of his sleeve. He looks down to find his nails on either side of the button and quickly sets his hands on his thighs, his fingers curled into a loose fist.
"I apologize, Professor."
"It's quite all right." She folds one hand over the other in front of her. "Now, let's get to the reason we're both here today. How are you doing? How are your classes?"
Draco doesn't know where to look.
His father had always taught him that you look someone in the eye when you're speaking to them - you keep your head held high, and your chin up, and you maintain eye contact. It's how you garner respect, how you establish superiority. Back straight, Draco, shoulders back. No, stop touching your sleeves. Do I have to tell you every time? Hands on the arms of the chair or in your lap. Nervous? Don't be ridiculous. Did you forget who we are?
Did you forget who we are?
Draco has to stop himself from raising his hand and putting it on the armrest. He can't look her in the eye when he speaks.
"Everything is alright. I believe my classes are going well."
"Well, I've spoken to your teachers, and the general consensus is that you're finishing your work on time, and your marks are up to the same standard that they've always been, which is good. However, most of them pointed out that you're unusually quiet in class. And, well, though that is to be expected, there is a possibility of the lack of participation affecting your results at the end of the year."
They all want to pretend that I'm not here in the first place, yet when I give them what they want and try to act invisible, they complain that I'm not trying hard enough.
"I apologize. I thought that my silence would be more comfortable for everyone involved, Professor.
McGonagall sighs. "Have there been any other incidents after the lake Mr. Malfoy? Is there anything I should know about?"
Draco's mind drifts to the corridors - to the hexes and the jinxes, to the bruises and the cuts. To Pansy insisting on accompanying him to class whenever she can, to Blaise deflecting spells in the Great Hall. To how it feels to be on the receiving end of a fist (not for the first time in his life, he might add). To how hard and unforgiving the castle stones can be. To the looks. To the insults. He should be in Azkaban - he should be dead.
But he's rotten, he thinks. Tainted. It's his punishment.
He shakes his head, "No, Professor. No other incidents. Thank you."
McGonagall purses her lips - he knows she doesn't believe him. She knows he knows she doesn't believe him. Neither of them, however, say anything. McGonagall sits back in her chair, her eyes still on Draco.
"Professor Babbling has also told me that you've taken to writing in class, it seems."
"Only once I've finished my translations," he says quickly, looking at McGonagall briefly before returning his gaze to the vase behind her.
"You're not in any trouble. I think a creative outlet can have positive effects. However, I don't have to tell you how important it is that you do well on your N.E.W.T.S. this year."
Draco nods, "I won't get distracted. I know I can't."
He can read between the lines. He knows things will be hard for him after Hogwarts, and he knows he can't give anyone more of a reason than they already have not to hire him. As it is, things will be hard. He can't make them harder on himself by slacking off. It's almost funny, in his childhood, he thought his name would secure his future. Yet another thing he was wrong about.
"Good. I also hear that you've been making new friends. Professor Slughorn says that you visit Mr. Potter's desk at least once every class to 'borrow a quill', I believe is the reason he gave."
Draco feels his ears heat up at the mention of Harry. He knows they weren't exactly subtle, but he didn't think it was something that was important enough to report to the Headmistress. Just a few tips in potions. Nothing to be embarrassed about, he reminds himself.
"I've also heard that Mr. Potter's marks in potions have gotten higher, as well. And, surprisingly enough, so have Mr. Weasley's. An interesting coincidence, one might say."
He's never seen McGonagall smile before, let alone at him. And he's not completely sure she's smiling at him now - but her mouth twitches up slightly and she gives him a knowing look.
"Yes, a coincidence," he says noncommittally.
"As you know, I prefer not to interfere with my students' personal lives, but I must say, I was pleased to hear that you and Mr. Potter are speaking. Maybe it can set an example for the other students."
Draco shifts in his chair. He doesn't think he should be seen as an example for anyone. He flexes his fingers, fighting the urge to move them to his shirt sleeve again. He wants to move - to leave. The eyes from the portraits are crawling on his skin now, even though he still refuses to look up at them. He swears he hears murmurs from within the picture frames; he knows they're talking about him. He's just grateful that no one has tried to talk to McGonagall yet.
"And another thing. Your mother is worried about you. She contacts me often, you know. She seems to believe that you're not being very forthcoming in your letters to her, so she comes to me looking for answers. And I, unfortunately, can only tell her what I know, and I'm not under the illusion that I know every single thing that happens within these castle walls."
She stops short, cutting herself off, and he sees her eyes dim a little. Draco immediately knows who she's thinking of. His stomach clenches. She continues.
"I simply think that you should be more honest with your mother. If not for your sake, then for hers."
"If I were honest, she would worry more." The words come out softer than he intends them to. McGonagall lets out a sigh.
"Very well. However, please, keep the suggestion in mind."
Draco nods his head, already knowing that nothing is going to change in his letters to his mother. She worries enough about him already and about his father in Azkaban. She doesn't need to worry about things she cannot change.
McGonagall takes out a pocket watch to check the time, the metal emitting a soft click when she opens it.
"Now, there is one more thing that I want to discuss with you before you leave today: the situation with your Healer."
It takes just about everything left in him not to sigh. Mind healers - talking. In Draco's opinion, nothing short of being obliviated is going to help him, and this ridiculous new form of pseudo-psycho-something-or-the-other is certainly not going to do a thing. It is not something that he believes in, nor does he understand why he accepted to go through with it in the first place. Fifty years does not a treatment make. And he has proof; he's already tried it - in his first month back he saw Mr. Webb twice a week, and all he got from each session were stiff legs and more confirmation that he should be in Azkaban and not in Hogwarts. It was a blessing when they both decided that the arrangement was not going to work.
"I know you had issues with your previous Healer, but I assure you, Healer Lanier is much different from Healer Webb. I'd like for you to meet her as soon as possible, preferably this week or the next. To prevent a repeat of last time, I suggested that we first have you two meet before you both decide whether or not to continue the sessions."
"Yes, Professor," is all that he says. He knows there's no avoiding it any longer. It's been three weeks - bite the broomstick and get it over with is starting to become his life's philosophy, it seems.
"Good. You know where to find me if you need anything. I shall owl Healer Lanier and find out when she's available and I'll inform you in the next few days. It's almost time for the bell to ring, and you need to be on time for lunch. You are dismissed, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco rises from his chair, his hand moving automatically to the button on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. "Thank you, Professor. Have a nice day."
And with a final polite smile, he walks out of the door.
The corridors are quiet, the only thing breaking the silence being the sound of scattered footfalls from afar - he's alone, and will be until the bell rings and students flow out of their class in waves.
He moves closer to the walls, running his fingertips over the surface. It's not smooth; it's jagged, like the edges of the sunlight from his dream. He can feel the cracks that come with age, and where the paint is slightly peeling off. There's history here. Some of it is even his.
He feels small when he looks up at the castle for the first time - it bothers him. He doesn't like feeling small. He's a Malfoy - Malfoys don't feel small. His father towers over everyone else when he walks into a room. His father is in control, his father has power radiating from his every move. He straightens his back and holds his chin up like his father would - he refuses to be small, to act small, no matter what he feels.
He's standing on the shore while the other boats dock. Crabbe and Goyle are beside him, still arguing about who gets to hold the lantern. He thinks he saw Pansy Parkinson in the boat beside him, but he can't be sure. Everyone's attention was on the castle - their eyes wide with wonder, some gaping, others smiling. Draco scrunches his nose up when he sees a boy a few feet away with his mouth open so wide he can see his tongue - how undignified. He'd probably be sorted into Hufflepuff.
After an eternity, every student was finally on land, and Crabbe and Goyle had decided that they'd simply hold the lantern between them, each using one hand. Draco shakes his head - idiots, the both of them. He could've told them that.
Their rather tall chaperone (obviously at least half-giant, he's not fooling anyone) then clears his throat. Up the stairs, he says, straight up to the castle. As if there were any other way. Crabbe and Goyle then started their argument about the lantern again - saying they couldn't both take it up the stairs. Draco sighs.
"You're both ridiculous, give it to me," he snaps, grabbing the lantern from them, leaving them looking slightly shocked at their empty hands. It doesn't matter who's carrying the thing, anyway, Draco sees quickly because beside the door other students are giving them to a man who bore more resemblance to a fossil than any other man he'd ever seen.
He has to blink twice when he enters the castle - the lights are so bright they seem to come from all around them - from every direction, around every corner, behind every pillar.
He briefly runs his hand along the wall as they're led up a large stairwell until they reach the top, his small fingers making a pattern of waves over the aging stone. He feels small again. He tucks his hand back into his robe. He looks up to the woman at the top of the stairs.
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Your House will be something like your family."
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."
"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks."
The memory flashes through his mind in an instant, and he rests his hand on one of the pillars attached to the wall.
He feels sorry for the little boy from his memories - he was looking at the world upside down and inside out, and he didn't even know it. Or maybe he did, and he didn't want to accept it.
He wonders if he ever questioned his father - if a part of him ever stopped to think, to ask himself if what his father said made sense - to ask himself if magic really made them superior, if blood purity really mattered in the first place, if it was right to follow a man even his father feared. He can't remember. He can't remember, and that scares him. Had he ever even tried to think for himself? Was he really that weak to believe everything that was told to him?
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
If Potter could, why couldn't he?
He rests his back against the wall, pinches the bridge of his nose, and tries to remember the exact moment when his father had become a god in his eyes.
----------
Eyes turned down in shame, I face you
With a heavy heart, I stand
Disgraced, displaced, deprived, I knew
[A shadow in my soul] and [blood on my hands]
Eyes turned down in shame
Hiding in the shadows black
Hiding among the ruins
I stand among the ruins
Hiding from the
Sunlight aflame
Tormented by shadows
A shadowy soul is no place for a heart
Blood seeps through
A shadow in my soul, blood on my hands
A Soul shrouded in shadows
Blood
"The rhyme isn't right," he mumbles to himself.
"What was that?" Blaise asks from his bed without looking up. He's sitting with his back against the headboard, his History of Magic textbook open on his outstretched legs, the piece of parchment paper that he's writing on to his side. It's half past nine and the sky outside their window is already dark. Candlelight flickers through the room, mixing with the magical light fixtures on the walls.
"The rhyme just isn't right," Draco repeats, louder this time, and turns in his seat in front of the desk to face Blaise. "It sounds ridiculous. Listen to this. Eyes turned down in shame / Hiding in the shadows black. I mean, come on. A toddler could do better," he says as he tosses the parchment back on his desk.
"You're really taking this writing thing seriously, aren't you?"
Draco taps his quill on a sheet of paper on the desk, turning it from side to side on the spot he created. He shrugs. "I don't know. I like it, I guess. And it feels good when you write something that's not as terrible."
"And have you written anything that's not as terrible?" Blaise says with a grin, finally looking up from his textbook.
Draco stops to think, his eyes falling to Blaise's hand on the edge of the page he was reading. The parchment that he was writing on when Harry interrupted him on Monday - that wasn't completely terrible. You are the peace I've never found and the ease I'll never feel - you are every almost and every maybe that I've been too much of a coward to ever pursue. He likes that. It's real. He's never going to tell Blaise that, though. Instead, he turns to his desk, fumbling through the papers on it before he finds one that's almost acceptable.
"The flower was beautiful - fragile, pure, and timid, like a child first experiencing spring," he reads off the paper before turning back to his friend. He almost laughs when he sees Blaise's half-impressed half-skeptical smile.
"It's not bad. It's kind of nice, you know, in the 'babbling romantic-sap' kind of way."
Draco laughs before throwing a balled-up piece of parchment toward Blaise (which he dodges with ease). "Remind me why I'm friends with you again?"
"Let's see... I'm smart, I'm charming, I'm handsome - "
"You're arrogant."
"Well, isn't that the cauldron calling the kettle black?"
Draco rolls his eyes, "Very clever. And I still can't believe you kept History of Magic." He throws another balled-up piece of parchment, and it lands directly in the middle of the book, over the spine. "Do you ever actually learn anything from Binns?"
"I actually enjoy History, Draco." Blaise tosses the paper back at Draco, hitting his shirt.
"Yes, yes, you enjoy reading about goblin revolutions and witch trials and ministry statutes. How fun."
"And you enjoy writing poetry about pretty little flowers."
Blaise raises an eyebrow, triumphant, and Draco can't help smiling while he throws the last piece of paper.
"Tu marques un point."
Blaise shakes his head with a smile and turns back to his studying, while Draco turns back to his writing. He taps the tip of the quill on his paper - the ink on the nib dried while he was talking to Blaise, so no marks were left behind this time.
A moment passes. He has an idea.
He then leans over his desk, dipping the quill in the ink, and begins to write.
Shame-casted, down-turned eyes,
Disgraced among the ruins,
A shrouded soul, a shadow dies and shadows rise
Blood-soaked hands, I face my _____