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"Draco! By Merlin, you look absolutely horrible! How marvelous! If you die this instant, I swear we will spend our death together. What a wonderful idea, am I not right ?"
Moaning Myrtle —or Myrtle Elizabeth Warren— roams in the air, a creeping smile painted on her ghostly face. She fades into the walls and dances around Draco —more as a nargle than anything else if he's being honest. He advances into the bathroom, his feet stomping on the watery ground. He can already feel the water entering his socks, yet he doesn't care much about it. He thinks of how disappointed his father would have been, allowing his socks to get dirty that way. But it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Because his father is in Azkaban. He's in Azkaban and will probably never see him again. He will never care for him again, never even look at him. No matter if or when he gets out of the inhuman place; he is never going to be the same again. Because this place breaks every and anything in a self. Thus so, his father is gone and his socks are dirty.
"It is, but too sweet of an end for me, Warren."
His voice is scratchy. It bumps into walls and hesitates to stay in the air —how funny that once, his voice only could shatter others in fear. It doesn't even seem to be reaching Myrtle all that well now. His throat hurts from the few words spoken. These days, Draco doesn't express all that much. His back collides with the walls. It's almost nauseous. The bathroom's walls are full of dust, remnants of old paint, and abhorrent water. He can guess that his shirt changed from white to something else in an instant, he even feels the cotton swallowing the grey out of walls. He lets his body fall on the loathsome ground, tarnishing the rest of his body in dregs.
"I could make it hurt, you know. I can do a lot of things! People think I can't do a lot! They don't trust me! If they did, I wouldn't be dead from those eyes! I can do so much, Draco! I thought you would understand! But you never listen to me, my sweet Draco! Oh, how I missed you! It's been a week already, you don't even visit me that much anymore!"
She floats in front of his face. Eyebrows furrowed in despair, her mouth screams of words Draco cannot hear anymore. He lets her howl as much as she wants. Claiming her shouts don't bother him anymore would be an utter lie. Yet, he lets her. Perhaps because —due to the time they spend together, he knows interruptive her is ineffective, or perhaps because in some ways, he thinks getting yelled at is something he deserves. Thus, she yells, she shouts, she howls, she screams about him not coming to her as often as during his sixth year, about how others are mean to her for no apparent reason —despite Draco being able to count more than one, about how everyone forgets about her at some point. Moaning Myrtle's screams pierce through his ears. His shoes are flooded from the disgusting water drowning the place. Yet, he doesn't move.
"I apologize, Warren." Because, truly, this is all he should do. "I will come again tomorrow after Professor Binns's lecture, what do you say about that?"
A light chuckle dances in the grey bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sits at Draco's side, and despite the coldness of her figure, he feels a bit warm at heart.
"Wonderful idea, Draco!"
Her smile is dazzling, truly. It lights up a bit the grey. Such is deafening to Draco. Smiles; he does not deserve them. His forearm hurts when he feels warm, thus he shrinks himself a bit; allows the cold water to infiltrate more of him. His uniform reeks of smells he can not distinguish anymore —hours of soaking the muddy waters are to blame. And everything feels disgusting. And perhaps, this is the only place in which he belongs. A small "Tempus" flees from his cracked lips; 7 p.m. shows through the grey all around. It's time for dinner. It's fine, he can only think. I could skip. A sigh escapes his mouth. He couldn't possibly eat in the Great Hall, anyway. He's not strong enough to stand there —once again, how disappointed that must make his father! His body is mad at him. He's hungry. But his mind keeps soothing the trembling of his hands. He thinks of how mad his mother would be; him! Missing dinners! That thought allows him to regain a bit of composure.
Ergo, he stands. He stands until he falls back on the ground. He stands because that's the only thing he can do now. He stands and regains a bit of blood in his legs. He stands and walks away from Myrtle. A quick "I will see you then." flies from his rough throat. He gives her a faint smile —to which she screams an array of headless words, before closing the door behind him. His feet stomp quietly in the corridors. Soon, the sixth-floor boy's bathroom disappears behind him.
Without paying much attention to the paths he walks on, Malfoy moves through the castle. As he descends the stairs, Hogwarts fills itself with colorful students. All dressed in robes colored of a panoply blinding to his eyes, and yet, around him still remains a circle of grey. Others don't dare to approach —much to Draco's joy, they stay in their own line, whispering about the past of his arm and the blank of his eyes. It doesn't bother him, this is what he tells himself over and over again. Such trivial matters, don't concern him. The disgust flooding others' eyes as they reach him, the fear and anger piercing holes in his neck; this is all he deserves. He doesn't expect anything more —he doesn't let himself hope for anything more. After what seemed hours and mere seconds, he reaches a wooden door. It creaks and opens in front of the Great Hall. He once loved it. The colors, the floating candles, the tables, the students; laughter, silent smirks, delicious food, gossip, smiles. It was everything he lived for. Now, it seems threatening. The candles frighten him. He's scared of burning. Students keep glancing at him, at his forearm, at his eyes, and sometimes, that scares him too. He's frightened at the idea that others could see him. See what he'd done. His weaknesses, his horrors, his guilt. He advances and the gossip scares him too. Silent smirks seem to mock him for everything he couldn't be.
He sits down at the Slytherin table, searching to drown himself in the sea of green. Some time passes. Draco couldn't tell. He's not good with it anymore. Time. He doesn't have any conscience of it. Sometimes minutes seem like hours, sometimes seconds seem like days, and sometimes months seem like weeks. The door opens again and again. His head snaps up as someone falls on the bench in front of him. His shoulders loosen as he recognizes Pansy. And at his side, Blaise takes a seat. He shoots them a faint smile as a greeting, too tired to manage anything better. Pansy narrows her eyebrows in disgust. She looks at him a few times as if his face would change to something better as she takes another glance.
"Darling, if colors were gold, you'd have to live in the Muggle world," Pansy remarked with a repulsed look. "Did you cast a spell on your face or is that your natural complexion ?"
He smirks a bit at her remark. "Why, I am merely trying to equal with your lovely skin, Pansy."
"I'm afraid you're doing a quite terrible job at it." She snorts, nose scrunching.
A lying disappointed plea paints his face. "You see me wounded."
Blaise smiles at the show his two friends are putting on. Their melodramatic mouths almost make him forget about Draco's. Draco's eyebags; dark, and hidden under deceiving charms, purple and blue. Draco's cheeks; puffy, and swollen only to hide how thin they truly appear. He sighs quietly, lungs full of worry. He doesn't dare to think about all that drowns Draco's head at the moment. Perhaps because the cruelty of such frightens him, or perhaps because of how helpless he will feel once he is struck with the fact that there is nothing he can do to alleviate such thoughts. And thus, he smiles faintly at his friend. Since it's all he seems able to do. In all honestly, if Draco were to find what Blaise is thinking at the moment, he is sure his friend would absolutely loath him —aside from probably insulting him for being a hopeless Hufflepuff.
Yet, the words are out of his mind before he can distinguish them. "I have to agree with Pansy on this one, Drac'."
Draco rolls his eyes —melodramatic git is all Blaise can think of. The blond sighs with a false pout. "Never took you for such a traitor, Blaise."
Zabini smirks in a way that resembles Draco's. "I am a Slytherin at heart after all." Then, his eyes fall back on the purple eyebags. Blaise furrows his brows a bit, distinguishing red in the eyes of his friends. A charm dances before his vision; red becomes white again. Yet, Zabini feels a shiver running down his spine. "But earnestly, Draco. If you still have trouble sleeping, I could—"
"There's no need Blaise." His voice is short and resolute.
Pansy raises her fork in front of Draco's face, an aloof sight in her eyes —yet Blaise can tell the concern hidden under it. "Darco darling, you should accept it. Any more sleepless nights and not even my very dear creams will save you from looking like old Flitwick."
Draco sighs again, rolling his eyes in the most extravagant way possible. "You are the most dramatic person I have ever encountered."
Blaise laughs a bit. "Very rich coming from you."
Pansy bursts into laughter and Draco feels a bit warm once again. An honest smile paints his face with tiring colors. Blaise looks at him quietly, as if assuring himself from far away that all is well. Quiet smiles, laughs, and smirks dance all around their table. And at that moment, Draco truly thinks all is well. Then, the Great Hall fills itself with screams and howls of joy and wait. Owls burst through the windows, parchments get thrown on the tables, on open hands, and even on some younger students' faces —and Draco would have laughed had he not been so damn tired. He hears the sound of feathers coming close. More mechanic than anything, he extends his arm into the air. Within seconds, claws squeeze his foreman. His other hand pats with gentle care the magnificent owl. Letter in hand, the owl's wings flutter. Draco watches with a fondness he does not recognize, as his mother's owl dances through the Great Hall.
His fingers open the piece of paper. Draco has never been gentle with papers, with owls, with others. However, as his world crumbled apart, he found solace in things he had not look at twice before. Papers, owls, and others have become Draco's biggest joy and worry. His eyes trace his mother's words, filled with so much that his eyes water a tad.
My dear Draco,
Do not worry for all is well. I can only hope and pray for you to be as well. I wish you would write to me more, please think of it, if you ever find yourself with free time to spare. I miss you greatly, and think about you always. I understand with the N.E.W.T.s this year, your time will be harsh. Keep your head strong, my love. For you are the greatest boy I could have ever wished for.
Your father is standing strong still. Do not fret yourself about this matter too much. I heard Ms. Parkinson and Mr. Zabini accepted to accompagny thee throughout this last year in Hogwards. Please confide in them, if words remain a difficult path for you to speak. You are strong, my son. But sometimes, it is not a weakness to talk. I wish I could be at your side during this time. Yet, please note that I am always open to you.
I have been gardening. It is quite amusing, plus flowers make me reflect back on my own days in school. I was a highly skilled witch in Herbology. Needless to say, as a Slytherin, poisons were —and still are— my favourites plants to observe. Your father spent quite a comical amount of times by my side in the school's sphere. To this day, it still remains one of my most treasured memories. Besides your arrival, of course, my dear Draco. I only wish for you to spend days, as happy as I did, for your last year.
If ever your paths collide, please thank Mr. Potter for his testimony at the trial.
I love you with all of my soul, my precious son. Reply quickly for I miss you an awful amount.
With love,
Your Mother.
Draco has always been good at hiding whatever would storm beneath his temples. Hence why Occlumency had been rather easy to grasp. Putting up walls, facades, and wards to protect his inner self. To confuse others, watch as they crumble before his indifference, while his heart would be truly flooding with any and everything. He was —is still, good at it. But as his eyes read his mother's letter, his walls crumble a bit. He feels the burn of Blaise's and Pancy's stares on his eyelids. But he quickly hides away once again in his cave, safe from everything outside, from the lumps in his throat, from the headache in his temples, from the shiver on his skin. For you are the greatest boy I could have ever wished for. The words, they drown him. In his little cave, safe from the outside of others, he drowns from his own feelings. How could his mother still say that? As if he did not torture others? As if he did not put his own friends in danger of death? As if his father's imprisonment, but really, soon death was not of his own fault? He hates the warmth in his chest. One that screams to him, you can be loved. It is a warmth that fights against the flooding waters. One that burns until the muddy liquid evaporates. But he drowns and his head screams that he doesn't deserve it. And the water grows, it grows, grows until the fire in his chest dies out. Then, Draco isn't burning. He's drowning and the water wants to escape through his eyes. Yet, Zabini's and Parkinson's gazes are still as persistent. Thus, he does the only thing he knows to do well. He hides.
"I will go to rest early," Draco says as he stands from the bench.
Blaise throws him a dubious glance. "Is Narcissa doing alright?"
"Of course." His voice is blank, too blank. "I will report your greetings to her."
Pansy smiles quietly at him. "Don't stay up late studying, alright dear? Your beauty sleep has hardly ever been needed that bad."
As Draco returns to his chamber, he thinks of Pansy's wrath when she discovers —later on, evidently— that he did, in fact, stay up late studying. That his bed only gave him nightmares and horrid visions, that only the quiet moon would bring him any comfort. He's probably becoming slowly insane. Perhaps in a faint way to imitate his father. Perhaps, if he goes a bit insane, he could understand his father better when —if—he gets out of Azkaban. He feels insane as he talks to the moon. As he writes his essays due in a month's time. As he occupies his mind with every and anything across him. As he writes letters to his mother. Sometimes, he even sees her on the moon. He imagines the ray of grey light on his hand, he sees his mother holding his hand. He thinks of his mother looking for him through the moon. When fatigue takes over his pupils, he swears he can't differentiate between the moon and his mother's hair any longer.
Behind his desk, face splattered with dried ink, white hair draping the wooden table; Blaise finds Draco in the early morning. He examines carefully the wrinkles on his face, his loosen muscles finally resting after what —he can only speculate from the purple eyebags, is a lasting time. Blaise lazes a bit against the wooden door. He controls his breathing to something idler, to one calmer. When he does, his wand casts charms over Draco's peaceful silhouette. The room begins to smell of baking muffins, chocolate, and strawberries. A sigh exhales him as he realizes; his wand moved on her own. The same charm has been cast so many times over the prior mornings that Blaise doesn't even think about it now. It has become second nature almost. Blaise goes to wake up Draco to avoid any tardiness in class. He finds him scattered over his desk. He doesn't try to walk behind him or anywhere near him in order to wake him up —the first time ended quite badly when Draco poured out his wand, beyond frightened, and Blaise had to be transported to the Infirmary's Wing, missing half of his morning classes. He now floods the room with Narcissa Malfoy's scent —it's the only thing that could ever soothe the man truly. And Draco gradually awakens from his nightmares, so vulnerable, so different from Malfoy for Blaise to call him anything other than Draco.
Thus, he does. "Draco," Blaise's voice arises in the room. He sighs, fingers massaging his temples. "You know, you should have been sent to Gryffindor, truly. There is no other way you would be foolishly brave enough not to obey Pansy's sleep order on a Thursday."
"Please, shut up, Blaise." His head hurts, and he's able to hear his own voice smashing his temples.
"Good morning to you, as well." Blaise cracks a smirk. Foolish, yet, Draco feels a bit warm again. He rolls his eyes while swearing of Pansy as nothing other than a 'Damn Hufflepuff.'.