Fool
Faint dark circles painting the under of his eyes, head pulled down involuntarily by gravity as it fought to stay afloat — hovering above a wooden desk that could be mistaken for a soft, comfortable pillow. Voices around him were nothing but noise rather than coherent words. On his mind but one thing: Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. That insufferable blonde idiot pushed to remain vibrant in his thoughts, nagging and teasing to the point of keeping him up at night. He wanted it to stop, he didn’t want to think about that bloody Slytherin anymore. But why was he?
“Harry.”
It was an obvious answer. To Harry, at least. The imbecile must, just absolutely and truly must be plotting or even actively doing something heinous. Why, oh why else would he waste the capacity of his brain thinking of such an insignificant, bothersome fool? Hate was a strong word — not strong enough to encapsulate the absolute sheer seething revulsion he felt towards the boy.
“Harry?”
He’s viciously annoying; positively rude and with no ounce of any manners at all. Not any social ones, at the least. And oh, lest he not forget that he’s a death eater — along with his equally tremendous father. And on top of that, he—
“Harry Potter!” Hermione finally yelped in frustration; startling the brunette to his core. “Were you even listening, or did the back of Longbottom’s head capture your utmost fascination?” She scoffed, crossing her arms as Ron held in a laugh. A smile creeped upon his face, twinged with embarrassment.
“Sorry… you were saying?” He blinked, slowly. Barely aware of his surroundings — even unsure as to what class this was. Hermione started to speak again but it was as if his brain refused to register it — muffled and incoherent. Is this what a lack of sleep does to a person? He couldn’t tell.
He blinked again, and it was as if time passed forward without his knowledge. He was in the dining hall with his friends, a scattered dish of food in front of him. He vaguely remembers getting here, trudging through the halls. Or maybe his mind resorted to skipping unimportant information to reserve what little energy he had. He got some sleep throughout the day, in terms of closing his eyes only to find out he had taken a nap sitting straight up — jarringly horrifying in a way. Losing consciousness for brief moments wasn’t the most pleasant experience. But he was okay, he was fine. It wasn’t that bad.
Maybe getting some food in his system would provide assistance — he couldn’t recall the last time he had a fulfilling meal, should that be the source of fatigue. Appetite didn’t quite run as high as it used to. And maybe that's why he was so tired, everything tumbling over and over to exhaust him, one after the other. Lest he hope this shouldn’t last till the start of his exams, because if there was one thing he dreaded, it was having to stay another year at Hogwarts. Oh, even though it used to be a home. He couldn’t stand the memory that lingered in now repaired walls. Then where shall he be off to, afterwards?
Could that be a thought for another day. Luckily, it was lunch. The day was almost over, then just a few more classes and perhaps he could collapse on a mattress in place of hardwood.
“Dinner ain’t to your liking?” Chimed a familiar voice, Ron Weasly by his side as per usual.
Ah, was it dinner, then? It seems as though time was lost to him this day. Or this week. He couldn’t quite remember what day it even was. But it wasn’t that bad, he could check his schedule later. Harry would be fine. He was always fine. Because why wouldn’t he be?
The brunette shook his head, pushing peas around his plate with a fork. “Not hungry.” He’d forgotten what he’d eaten today, just as he’d forgotten most things. Perhaps staying up late at night and staring at the map wasn’t exactly doing him any favours. The room of requirements… What was Malfoy doing there so often?
Ron looked sceptical, only for a moment. “I’ll save ya somethin’ for later, then. In case you get peckish,” said while wrapping a piece of bread and cheese in a napkin. Harry didn’t think he’d have it, but the sentiment was to be appreciated. The boy always went out of his way to take care of him — that at times he felt bad. Harry Potter was grown enough to cater to his own needs, he didn’t need help. But how was he to deny his best friend?
Had it gotten so bad that they’d started to notice? It wasn’t. It couldn’t be that bad. Because he was fine, just tired. It’d been a rough week. Besides, asking if he was okay once in a while and packing him a snack didn’t really mean anything. His mates were just being good, that’s all. Although he did notice that they stuck with him more often than usual, they didn’t go out talking to others as they once had. Perhaps it could be that they were all just worn out from it all. Who could blame them? He was too, if he had to admit it.
Although fatigue coursed through him, relieving it with a good night's rest seemed to be impossible. Eyes shut only to reveal… things he didn’t exactly want to recall. Memories that coaxed the sweat out of his body, rattled his limbs and tightened the lungs that seemed so heavy in his chest. The ceiling was his only company, until even it whispered the echoes of noises that no pillow could suffocate. An hour, maybe even two of unpleasant sleep was all he managed until he shot up, panting and clutching the sheets with whitening knuckles. The sound of loud snoring somehow grounded him. Ron always slept in the most uncomfortable looking positions, hair like a bush and drool staining his face in the morning. He envied that.
It was what, past midnight now? All he’d managed to do is toss and turn, discomfort no matter how he layed. And Merlin, he wished there was a spell he could use to shut his own mind off, if merely just for a moment. But alas, there was not. So what would he do but trudge over to his desk to unveil the marauders map, which seemingly had all his attention these past few days. Beats thinking of blood and bones. Besides, Malfoy was scheming, he just knew he was.
And speaking of that vile name, there it was, glistening against the old paper, a beam telling Harry Potter where he sat; the library. Now what was he doing there at this hour? Without even as much as a second thought, the brunette headed straight for him. Seething, tired and without a decipherable goal. All he needed was to see what he was doing, what book withheld the incriminating information that the blonde would gather. That damned death eater had to slip up one way or another. Step after step, he made his way down the halls and into the library where the door was conveniently cracked open. Had he stolen the key?
Quietly, he stepped in. Bright green eyes scanned around the desolate room for any sight of stark blonde hair. Slow, careful strides manoeuvred him through masses of shelved books until the grey eyed nuisance peeked from the corner of his eye, tucked away, hidden in a nook with his head buried in a book. Scrolls scattered round, notebook in hand. Was it research? What is it that he was doing? If Harry could just catch a glimpse of the open pages, or the front cover. Something. Something. What are you doing, Draco Malfoy?
Draco couldn’t see him, or hear him — perhaps too engrossed in literature. That is when the brunette decided to be brave and sit a little too close to the sun, peeking at what he clasped so tightly in his hands, eager to know what had him so distracted. Then, grey looked directly back at him, an expression of utter perplexity contorting his face, shocked and taken aback that Harry could’ve sworn that he almost jumped. Why had he jumped? What did he see?
“What in Merlin’s bloody name are you doing?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Harry didn’t have his invisibility cloak on. How could he have forgotten it? How could he have forgotten that he’d forgotten it? What is he going to say? Whatever it is he saw on those pages were completely wiped from his mind as panic washed over him. He didn’t say anything. In fact, he wouldn’t. The boy got up and walked out as fast as he could, wishing he could up and disappear as though he’d never existed. What on earth was he thinking? What did Malfoy think? Not that it mattered now, as his groggy self decided to sit back down on his bed until it engulfed him whole, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to watch the sun rise another day. Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot. His cloak! His cloak of all things is what decided to slip his mind.
That was now all useless. All the information he had now was nothing but the fact that he needed to get more sleep. Good bloody job, Chosen One. The one moment where he could’ve gotten any sliver of information about the intentions of that cursed Slytherin was now gone, and he had to pay the consequence, and embarrassment. Perhaps he’d attempt to sleep again, or dig a hole to die in. Either outcome was good as long as he’d get some sort of escape from this darned life that he lived. If only he was good enough at potions to make a dreamless sleep. But he can’t even brew herbicide, now can he? Harry wondered if Malfoy ever got nightmares in passing, a forgotten moment as he finally drifted off into some semblance of rest.
It didn’t last long, woken up by the sunrise that glare through windows each morning. He had tried to shake off the memory of his idiocy last night, to some avail. He was mostly distracted by the fact that Ron was up so early on a saturday. If anything, usually he was the last person to get up.
“Ron? What are you doing..? Why’re you up right now?” the brunette grumbled, lifting himself off from the mattress with a struggle — though he was glued to it.
The ginger glanced back, adjusting the sleeves on his shirt, then buttoning it up. “Mornin’.” Said as he noticed that his roommate had awoken. “Hermione’s got me joining a book club.”
Harry laughed, sure it was a joke; until he noted the absence of one from the other who stood. “Wait. You’re serious?” Had he ever read a book out of anything other than pure obligation?
“I guess. If you consider two people enough to be a club. Unless you want to join, eh?” The boy grinned, moving about the room, shoving stuff into his backpack.
“Yeah, Mate. You know how much I’m enthralled about literature,” voice oozing with sarcasm followed by an eye roll. A hand went up to his face to adjust the glasses he appeared to have slept with on. “I’m guessing you are as well?”
“‘Course, you know me.” He said matter-of-factly, holding back the sarcasm that would’ve otherwise been incessantly obvious.
“Do I?” A scoff as the Chosen One himself finally gathered up enough energy to stand on his two feet.
“Can’t say no to Granger, now can I?” A knowing look was sent his way. Harry didn’t think Ron would ever do a thing in the world to get Hermione upset, not with purpose.And of course, Ron in fact never reads a book without being obligated to.
A joyful sound it was; when he managed to laugh despite himself, nudging Ron as he passed him by playfully. “Good luck.”
A wink was the last he saw of the boy’s face as he made his exit. And instinctively, taken up on muscle memory — his feet trudged towards the desk in which the map sat. Eyes darted around it, looking for the obvious, the poison among the colony. He wouldn’t be surprised if the mere mention of that name would cause the paper to rot upon it.
There, he caught him. The counsellor’s office? Of all places in Hogwarts, that was where he least expected for Draco Malfoy to be. What could he need, what things would he have to talk about? Green eyes found it hard to believe — did the brewing storm ever carry rain? Maybe he read it wrong, maybe there was another Draco. But no, no matter how many times irises scanned over the stationed letters, they always read to be the same. Draco Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. He dared take up the space in which other students could benefit? The least thing a death eater required was help.
When they brewed dolour. When destruction leaked from the tips of their fingers. When they were the villains with countless victims.Why did he think he had any right to take up the one space where these people could possibly recover? What did he have to recover from? Being the one who held the wand was enough to say that Azkaban could be the only good done to this boy. He was void of emotion, he saw it. He was empty. A deepening, infinite hole with naught at the bottom. What a great fucking start to this morning.
The name moved, finally. Traversing through the halls, just before Harry was about to take his eyes off of it. He was headed for the room of requirements, the brunette knew — because that just seemed to be Malfoy’s new favourite place to linger. He hadn’t ever gotten the chance to really discover what he did there. But now he would, making sure as to not repeat the same mistake, he headed for his closet to grab that dusty old cloak, tossing it over his head before heading straight for a certain room.
Low and behold, there that bumbling idiot was. Sat in a corner, quill in hand as it moved across pages on a leather covered book. Careful the boy was whence moving forward, keeping noises to a minimum as he attempted to peek at what was clutched to the boy on the ground. Neat handwriting in parallel, uniform rows. Letters curved to connect with each other, and at this angle, weren’t the most readable. However, literature wasn’t the only thing present on paper, a sketch of a crow perched on a branch was carefully drawn — with precision and detail. Harry didn’t know Malfoy was an artist. Nonetheless, it did lead him to believe that what the blond held was but a diary.
Is that what the counsellor put him up to? At first he thought it useless — but a book that held all of the Slytherin’s deepest thoughts; well, it could come in handy. Whatever he had to be planning, such nefarious deeds had to be mentioned somewhere in the book that he held. If only he could just get his hands on it, but how would he? Did he really want to enter the mind of Draco Malfoy? It was a dangerous thought. A missing ring was one, but his diary, too? That could cause issues — something of value doesn’t disappear unknowingly.
But what Harry did know was that he had to get out of here before he made yet another impulsive decision, it was too early in the morning to rattle his head about such conflicts. Although it would be evident that leaving the room won’t keep the boy out of his head; it was a curse. Bloody Malfoy. The moment he finds out whatever it was that festering death eater was planning, he’d destroy it, then put these incessant thoughts to an end. Draco Malfoy shouldn’t be a name that wormed its way into his thoughts any longer.
Trudging feet that brought him to this sight walked him back out of it, off to somewhere where he can sulk and think of other matters. Maybe about how he craved bread and cheese, a refreshing glass of water that cleared his throat and if he lied to himself enough; his head. The rest of the day brought nothing — a meek attempt at studying was mostly just reading the same page over and over with hopes of ever grasping the letters that couldn’t form coherent words in his mind. How did Hermione do it? Really, how did anyone do it?
Luckily he didn’t cross paths with the Slytherin today again, but that only made him more paranoid. Could he have lashed out — would that be worse than looking over his shoulder, anticipating a glimpse of blinding follicles of hair. That’s how Harry Potter felt most days. Tired, dazed and fighting and failing to keep thoughts of a certain boy at bay. Hate drove him crazy but it drove him out of bed, perhaps if nothing sent his mind ablaze then nothing would get his feet onto the ground. That was one way to think of it. It wasn’t truly that noticeable.
The night came both excruciatingly slow and erratically fast, the day boring but still managing to slip precious passings of time right through the golden boy’s fingers. And there he was, routine on time, with his sorry self seated on the bed and Ron preparing for his own slumber.
“How was your date with ‘Mione?” The brunette remembered that was a thing that occurred. He hadn’t seen much of the girl today.
Weasly turned beet red, stuttering out a response. “D..Date? Stop messing around, mate. I-It wasn’t—... It was fine.” It was as if he’d forgotten what he was about to do, stumbling around the room.
Harry managed a chuckle. “Yeah? What did you do?”
“What one does during book club, Harry. Read. She’s a proper nerd, y’know.” The boy said as he slipped on his sleeping attire, flopping back on his own bed — turning to look at his friend.
“Hermione? A nerd? Merlin, who would’ve known.” The Chosen One did the same, relaxing upon the mattress. He wondered if Ron would miss how they’d talk like this, when they inevitably part to live out their own lives. Harry sure will.
“She missed you today. We should hang out tomorrow, us three.” A sigh of content, smile on his face. He was glad to see that expression. “What’s up with you, then? You were a bit on edge today.”
A silence, short. “...Nah, it’s all good. Just —. Tired.”
The flame headed boy didn’t believe him, not really. But he would leave him be; poking about this stuff daily surely wouldn’t be any good. “Let’s rest up then, eh? ‘Mione’s an early bird.”
A sigh was the last noise Harry made, glancing over at Ron who attempted to get comfortable. A hand of his own slid down underneath his pillow to grasp at a certain emerald ring, hovering it over his face and twirling it around with his fingers. It hadn’t done anything yet, he wasn’t sickly or poisoned or dying, and he had nightmares before it showed up so it couldn’t be the cause. Perhaps it was a key to something, or its potential hadn’t been unlocked. Whatever it is, it was something. With Malfoy, it was always something.
That was what he went to bed with tonight, the clicking of the lamp shutting off being the last of what he heard.