iii
If Draco had one last thanks to address on his deathbed, it would definitely be directed toward whoever invented Occlumency. October begins, yet days become longer, nights shorter. He loathes it. The moon, his mother's shadow, they both seem so far away. Locked behind his dorm's window, the world feels foreign. As if everything he's ever known is gone. Nothing truly remains. His father, his mother, his family, they were everything. Now, his steps resonate alone through corridors. He tries not to make anything out of things. Enfeeblement makes his body tired. Purple stains under his eyes become quite hard to conceal through charms. He catches Blaise spotting them a few times. He acts as if nothing ever happened, either way. Thank Salazar for Occlumency! Perhaps, if he doesn't allow himself to feel, this foreign void would disappear surely? Thus so, Draco stops at once to express his self. Tenders, uncontrolled, thankful smiles cease. His hands still carry gentleness; as he unties letters from his mother's or Goyle's owl, as he reads letters from both of them. Occlumency shields him from any guilt reading of Goyle's letter. After Crabbe's death, it seems as if returning to Hogwarts was too demanding for Goyle —not that Draco finds it any easier, but he is on probation, after all. Yet, he can't help the guilt for reaching his cave, from burning his skin, and breathing becomes a bit harder. He tucks the letter in his cape, he shouldn't be in such a vulnerable position in front of others! His eyes close for seconds, moons become blurry fog. Once again, he hides in his safely hidden cave. A single strawberry muffin sits on his plate, he doesn't eat it anymore. What would be the point in dancing through illusions? His family is decaying, no need to replay old memories all over again.
As foggy as his vision could get, Malfoy could clearly see Potter watching him at times. He doesn't know what the boy thinks. He doesn't care much. No evil plan this time, how disappointed Potter would be! No criminal to catch this year around, bummer, innit? It's not unusual, after all. Others always stare at him. Disgusted, angry, fearful glances. They burn his neck, his forearm, his lungs. Ergo, he hides in his cave, and the water drowns everything.
However, it seems as if Potter sees him. That's the part frightening Draco. As Potter glances at him during Charms, during Potions; both classes become a bit harder to go through. Not due to the intent behind such glances —forbid Potter to ever share an ounce of hatred, but because of what they represent. Harry Potter looks at him as if Draco grew into an injured dog. Had his father been able to witness such an event, he would have most certainly beaten him rougher than the Dark Lord would have ever been able to. What a relief that those are the only two shared with bloody Gryffindors! Although, Draco tries to make nothing of it. He doesn't dare to articulate it, even if his fire doesn't burn. It's dreadful. Dreadful to think of. Too dreadful to dare to comment on it. Because it seems the world wants him to burn. He understands; he shouldn't be a part of it. This isn't his place, this has never truly been. And while he drowns and burns in his cave, while freezing nights steal tears out of his lungs, Potter's fire feels oh so warm. It isn't harmful. He thinks of his mother's embrace, of his father's kind words. Yet, he hates it. Old memories filled with hope warm his decaying cave, and he feels at home again. Dreadful. His home isn't anymore. He should become used to it.
Then, he doesn't comment on it. He doesn't even look at dreadful Potter. In corridors, in Potions classes, in the Great Hall, in Charms classes, in the library. Whenever that gentle fire burns his neck, he drowns himself in books, to not think of it. Why wouldn't Potter simply leave him alone? It isn't like he has any dark plan! The only goddamn plan he has is to pass his N.E.W.T. in peace, without some bloody Gryffindor staring at him as a lost puppy! Oh, truly, a puppy he is! Follows him as soon as the chance arises, staring at him as if his face would reveal his darkest secrets, waiting for Draco to eat his food first before touching it himself. Oh, how bizarre the whole thing is.
Wednesday comes forward, and Draco arrives at the sixth-floor bathroom, wearier than ever. He hopes Potter isn't following him. He sees nothing behind him, yet that Gryffindor git always finds something, doesn't he? And Draco is right! Harry does follow him under his father's cloak. He thinks, perhaps he shouldn't follow him. Hermione would definitely not approve of that. But it's not as if people can not go to the bathroom, right? He probably shouldn't listen to a perfectly private conversation, but he did it once already, so what's the harm? Malfoy sits under the sinks, Harry can't help but sit at his side. Perhaps it is because the Slytherin looks miserable, or perhaps he simply wants to. He doesn't differentiate the two anymore. Yet, Harry thinks the boy looks utterly miserable. He sits under the sinks as if they were some sort of roof protecting him. The floor is muddy, accumulated dust merges with old water. It's disgusting truly. Yet, Draco doesn't seem to mind. His uniform slowly becomes soaked. His back hits the wall, he closes his eyes for some time. And Harry doesn't know what to do. He feels as if he should leave, truly. Yet, Draco looks too peaceful for him to do. It isn't the kind of peaceful he feels now, free from some maniac wanting world domination. Free from the very first time of his life. To do what he wishes, as he wishes, when he wishes.
It's closer to the kind of peaceful he felt in the Forbidden Forest, walking to his death. It worries him, oh Merlin, how much! Purple dark circles, thin wrists, pale cheeks, blurry eyes, soaked uniform, hidden under the dirty sinks. It's horrid! Utterly horrid! He fought Voldemort in order for all to be free. Obviously, he wasn't under the illusion that all would be glitter-perfect as the war ended. But, he thought at least, none would have to live as miserably. This isn't what he fought for.
"Draco!" Moaning Myrtle appears out of the wall. "Oh hello Dear! You look disgraceful, as always!"
He speaks, yet his voice sounds shaky. "You as well."
Harry wants to throw up. Malfoy, he— This is just too much! It isn't what the boy is supposed to act as. He should act all snarky and pretentious and horribly mean for no goddamn reason, and he should go and insult him, and duel him, and punch him! So, why is that? Why is it that he doesn't care about anything? Of the stares, of the silence, of the muddy water and dusty walls? Why does his voice sound so weak?
"Myrtle, I—" The blur melts, and his eyes leak cold tears falling to the ground. "I fear my bones have grown tired of it all."
For once, Myrtle does not scream nor howl her pleas into the evening's cold air. She floats around the boy, and wraps her arms around him quietly. At that, Draco simply breaks. He leans into the cloudy touch, lets himself out of his cave for mere minutes. And everything overwhelms him. He feels disgusting, pitiful, remorseful, guilty of everything he did and did not, tears fall and fall to the ground, he drowns again and again, and he wants his mother, he wants his mother to hug him, he wants to roam around the Manor hand in hand with his father, and oh his father! And his father is dying, it's his fault and no one else's, and oh his father is dying. His lungs feel too small, he drowns in waters too grand, and it seems things will never be alright. It seems his father will never make it out of Azkaban, it seems his mother will never be well again, it seems his world stops spinning, and he's guilty of each once of it. And why is that? Because he's too weak, too fearful, he isn't brave, nor resilient; he gives up easily, breaks easily, he isn't strong like others. And if he wasn't who he is, if he was someone else, a better self, then perhaps his father would not die! And perhaps his mother would be well! And everything, oh everything would melt away, and the stares would be blank, or there would be none of it, as blank is better, nothingness is better. The water is too grand, he wishes for the void to drain it all away.
"Draco dear, you were sixteen, a child still." Her voice is much quieter than usual. Harry wants to run away.
His shoulders jump shakily, weak breaths exhale his lungs. It burns. "Yes, a child perhaps. Was that what people said at their funerals? Oh, do not fetch for he was sixteen, a child still."
"You didn't kill, Draco. Blood doesn't soil your hands." She whispers, hands rubbing his shaky shoulders.
He sighs, and oh how exhausted the boy sounds! Harry wonders just how many nights had Draco stared at. "All the same, Warren. It is all the same."
She doesn't answer much. She can not, obviously. Draco did lead countless people to their deaths, he did betray his school, teachers, and friends for messy promises and dubious safety. Perhaps blood doesn't soil his hands, yet it definitely soils his soul. Oh, how sweetly convenient, to erase his wrongs because he was sixteen! A child still! And it all feels fake. It probably is. Nothing but empty words filled with deary warmth, feeble fire unable to evaporate his drowning waters. Draco knows that well. He remembers emptiness thrown in his courtroom, as Potter's testimony enraged each and every of them. Draco hates that too. Because what did he ever do to deserve such? His father would— Well, he wouldn't do anything anyhow now. He hates that too.
Yet, the words are out before even knowing it. "I— The most horrible part of it, do you know?" His voice sounds horrible, so sick that Harry might throw up right there.
"Tell me," Myrtle's words are warm. He doesn't like it, his nails scratch his forearm.
He laughs, his back thrown against the dirty wall. "At times, I pray he would just die already. The wait is the worst part of it all."
"Are you speaking of your father?" Her voice worries at Draco's eyes, blurry yet again.
His forearm turns red; small blood spheres bead his skin. "Evidently."
She rests at his side for a mere minute. Drowned in loud silence, Harry can't even hear his own thoughts. Lucius was everything to Draco. He would parade it around school all the time. He would talk and talk and never shut up about his goddamn father! My father will know of it! My father works at a very important place, you see. My father got me classy gifts for Samhain! My father was the best at Quidditch. Oh, my father is better than your father, for certain. My father and my father and oh my father, and he would never shut up! Harry never thought of love fitting the Malfoys at all. Yet, they all loved each other far more than he ever fathomed. Narcissa betrayed and lied to Voldemort's face for her son, Draco gave everything for his parents' safety. Harry knew both of them would sacrifice every being if they had to. Yet, he never truly thought of Lucius' place in the Malfoys' dynamic. It was —is still, evident Draco loves his father, he just never measured the length of it, he supposes. But, Draco Malfoy wishing Lucius would just die already? Now, that's unsettling! And Harry thinks worry will eat him alive. Although, between worry and anger, he supposes the first is the best option he has.
Myrtle's voice soothes his thoughts for how serene it resonates. "I'm sorry, Draco. Things do get better, I promise."
Yet, Draco seems to rile up. He laughs again, a blood trail mixes with the water under his feet. "When, Myrtle? When does it? I simply can not wait any longer! Does it get better once he dies? How would things ever develop then? This is it! I did everything for them to be safe, and in the end! And! In the end, I killed him too? Nothing will ever change until someone kills me finally."
She smiles kindly at him, and starts to float around his head. "Well then, all the better for me, I suppose! I swear I will be good company in death!"
He chuckles, and Harry breathes. "Fantastic, Warren. Truly fantastic."
All becomes background noises for Harry. His ears buzz, he can only perceive distant sounds, or Myrtle's yells. His vision can only focus on Draco's nails scratching his forearm. He sees the blood, the water, the reddening skin. He sees Draco Malfoy, he sees blurry eyes, he sees the blood, he sees his messy hair, he sees fakely fond smiles, he sees blood, he sees red skin, he sees his lips humming words, he sees his eyelids struggle to stay open, he sees bloody water, he sees ashamed purple circles, he sees guilty red nails, he sees the path of past tears, he sees pale thin cheeks, he sees his blood. For the very first time, he sees Draco.
He sees the cave under which he hides, he sees the water drowning him, he sees his mother's shadow painted on old walls, he sees his father's content warmth, he sees him. This time, he's definitely going to puke. Because Harry realizes it. Truly, realizes it. He realizes the extent of Draco's fight. Truly, entirely realizes; that the war isn't over for him. He isn't free. He isn't free and is still fighting, all the time, all alone, again! And it's just not fair! One should never have to fight alone. He might be a gigantic prick, yet he still deserves to die of old age, not killed in some dark alley because of mistakes made at sixteen. It's not fair. Harry hates it. He tries to reassure himself. After all, this time around, he knows of Draco's fight. He won't let their sixth year happen all over again. Thus, he quietly leaves the bathroom, casting spells on his footsteps to not make noise.
And Harry swears he will never follow Draco to the sixth-floor bathroom again.
Draco could swear to never let Myrtle see any of his weaknesses ever again. However, that would be lying. A Malfoy never lies. They are Slytherins only; honor is everything if they lose all. Manipulate all you want, but lies are dishonest; is what his father would say.
Time flies when one hides away in muddy bathrooms. Then, dinner comes, and he enters the Great Hall with less confidence than he wished for. He quickly settles beside Pansy, Blaise facing her. As always the Hall bubbles of thoughts and ideas out loud. Screams and exclamation fill plates more than the food itself. Yet, between the Capernaum of noise, colors, smiles, laughs, and bites; he still feels eyes burning his neck. He doesn't need to lift his head to see Potter watching him, these past weeks have been sufficient proof to evince the truth of his hypothesis. While loud chatter drowns him, it seems as if a single look suffices to pour him out of muddy waters. He loathes it.
Pansy laughs in such a boastful way, Draco's attention snaps to her proud face promptly. "Salazar, Blaise! Do you see?" She giggles, chin pointed towards Gryffindors' table. It is then, Draco knows he's fucked.
"Oh, please! Any more of that and the table will incinerate right there. How could anyone not see?" Blaise smirks. Draco hates those. He hates when Zabini smirks in any way; it always means trouble for one of them at least.
Pansy struggles to breathe through her giggles. "Draco darling, I think your beauty sleep was hardly needed in fact. You look awful, yet, one always has eyes for you."
"Your disillusions never fail to amaze me, dear." He blurts in a rougher voice than wished.
Blaise smirks, because he noticed —obviously, he always does, the prat. "More than one I'd say. Apart from goody-two-shoes, Savior of the Universe, Boy Who Lived Twice, and all Harry Potter, that guy over there has not stopped staring once since you arrived. You absolute heartbreaker! I fear you spent too much time during summer around my mother."
"That guy?" Pansy spins her head in every literal sense, trying to catch whoever dared steal stares at Draco. "Oh, that guy! You mean Avery, certainly! Oh, yes! He is obsessed, if I may say."
Draco's head snaps at once. "What the hell are you saying?"
His voice sounds mean, rough, and unguarded. Far from his behavior these past weeks, this explains thus his friends' looks. Surprise taunts Pansy's eyes, her hands raise before his eyes, as if to show all is well. Blaise, on the other hand, seems far more suspicious of Draco's reaction. He glances over at Avery. In all honesty, he thinks the situation to be quite bizarre. Yes, others often stared at Draco. For very different reasons, but both Potter and Avery stuck out of the whole lot. By their intensity or how often they did, perhaps. Yet, while Potter's longing look grows to become quite endearing —well, from Blaise's perspective, Avery's does not. It is nothing as Potter's worried, longing, curious glances. No, Avery's were... Well— distressing at the very least. Murderous, dangerous, promising looks only drowned in anger and disdain. Hatred paints every glance Avery steals at Draco, it accompanies his steps, the way his eyes follow Draco's every breath, the way his hand bleeds only for the desire to take those away.
Pansy's voice quietens. Draco's reaction is scaring her, he never shows any violence towards them. "Hey, it's alright, dear. It's true, can you not see him? He's staring at you like some kind of—"
Yet, it doesn't help much. Malfoy's head is fuming, it seems not even drowning sorrow could keep him from burning. "Avery was with me then. How could either of you make a joke out of it? This is far from funny. Both of you."
Pansy hands dance in the air. "No, no, Draco dear. Look." They point at Avery's silhouette a few seats from where they sit.
He turns his head. It seems the whole world freezes this very instant. Because this could not be happening. That was not real! And Draco thought his state was still manageable! He thought— Well, he thought he was still fine, sure a bit sad and depressed, but overall; just fine. He didn't think for an instant to have fallen that far yet! For him to be hallucinating! In the middle of the day —technically, evening! Surrounded by others! He usually saw dead people in his nightmares only, not in plain reality! Yet, this is it. Draco is completely, utterly, done for, is he not? And he wants to cry, to bawl every tear he has left. What a disappointment! Oh, his father! His mother! What would they say? Perhaps, his mother could help. Before he finally loses his mind, he must write to her! All left unsaid!
"It's just...What— I... need to write a letter to my mother!" He breathes quickly, too quickly for Pansy's sanity.
She grabs his hands, and draws circles on his fingers. Her voice is calm, she thinks of the ocean and its waves. She hopes to convey a bit of peace to her friend as well. "Draco darling, I need you to use your words there. Explain the situation so we can assist. This is what we're there for."
Draco wants to cry. "No, no, you don't understand, Pans'! It's not— He was with me, Pans'! With me!" Others turn their head at him, yet Blaise turns them away with calculated smiles.
"Where?" Blaise simply asks. And that is all Draco needs to organize his words.
"At the trials!" He spurts. "Salazar, he had a trial! Avery and his dad both! I saw them, with me and Mother!"
Pansy speaks of the ocean yet again. "Is he on parol then, like you?"
But the waves only seem to crash against his cave, this time. "No, no! Pans', you don't— He's dead, Pans'! Dead!" His nails begin scratching his forearm.
Pansy narrows her eyes. She scratches a bit her head, she never thought of herself as a witch clever enough to solve mysteries. And this one is definitely outside of her abilities. Because she sees the guy five meters ahead, and he is most certainly alive. "No disrespect here, dear. Although. He is undeniably breathing over there."
She puts her hand on his shoulders. It seems to work a bit. He calms down enough for words to partake in sentences. He looks at Blaise as he speaks again. "The dad was sentenced to Azkaban, with my— Well, both went. But I learned soon after of Avery's suicide."
"He killed himself?" Blaise repeats.
Draco only nods, while stealing very much confused glances at Avery's replica. "Afraid so. His father was devastated."
"But he's there." Pansy remarks. "And he looks just like him as well." Her eyebrows crease, which is not a good look on her. Because Pansy Parkinson never thinks enough for her eyebrows to crease. Wrinkles, she says.
Blaise takes a moment to organize his thoughts. "I believe you, Drac'. Pansy does too, but you have to admit, this is a bit disconcerting, to say the least."
"I know! I don't have a single idea of what's going on!"
His forearm starts to bleed. Pansy puts her hand on her friend's wound. She smiles a bit, her fingers draw pictures of flowers and bubbles on his skin.
"I assure you, sweetheart. You are not to deal with this on your own. I am the gossip queen! I shall fetch information along with Blaise, he is scarily talented at seducing poor Hufflepuffs I must say. You, on the other hand, shall rest, all right?" Her voice is soft, Draco sighs. His skin hurts, yet he does not care much.
"But, Pans—"
Blaise rolls his eyes —oh, have Pansy and Draco finally contaminated him? Salazar, have mercy! "Oh no, Draco. If you do not rest and look awful because you lost sleep over that issue, Potter over there will definitely take notice. You do not want him and his squad to hop around our business now, do you?"
"He doesn't—!"
Pansy sighs —dramatic yet again. Her nails poke Draco's cheek. She turns his head towards the Gryffindor's table. He, unfortunately, locks eyes with Harry Potter right away. "Please, honey. Potter is the most obvious person I have ever encountered in my life. Why he does not just come over there and talk of what he wishes to; I do not know. But he stares at you more than Greengrass does. That should amount to something."
For the very first time, since the year has begun, Harry does not turn away. Well, he did promise himself to do something, did he not? Draco raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, surely demanding an explanation Harry can not find. He does not turn away either. Harry taps his finger against his table two times. Some food —he supposes, appears on Draco's plate, yet he does not look at that; his eyes are still on Harry Potter and his bloody smile. He truly compares to a puppy. His fingers dance before him, they fly twice before his lips. Eat, he signs. Perhaps Draco has been mesmerized by Harry's fingers, or perhaps by such insolence of using magic to conjure him food, as if he could not do it himself. Yet, when he sees just what Harry bloody Potter has conjured for him, his cave explodes of waters and everything he doesn't name. His plate falls to the floor, its noise shuts down any students speaking in the Great Hall. Yet, Draco does not give a flying fuck. He leaves the Great Hall without looking back at anyone, he could not see them even if he wished to, anyway. Thank Salazar, for Occlumency!
That night, Harry wonders to the moon whether he did something wrong. That night, Draco wonders if anything would ever get easier.
He can not keep up with this.
Bloody strawberry muffin.