Made of Stone
It was truly… pathetic, almost. The way Potter was beginning to act, dazed and confused and scouring for answers that don’t exist. Draco had outdone himself, really. It was as though the brunette was in his clutches, while all he had to do was carry a carrot on a stick. Perhaps it was even sad, for him to be “The Chosen One.” A joke. Maybe his judgement could be considered impartial, he and Harry Potter never really stood on neutral ground. The thought of ever wanting to befriend him was a myth of the past — it was childish. He was young and naive, it was good that the four-eyed boy didn’t accept his gratuitous offer. Merlin knows where they’d be if he did; but it had to be a horrendous fate.
He’d recently taken notice of the other boy’s irregular sleeping — at least that's what it had to be from what Malfoy concluded. Falling asleep during classes and appearing lethargic most of the time. Not that he believed that he was a bright student when he acted as usual, but he wasn’t this idiotic. When he managed to keep his head up, his eyes usually shot daggers through him. Frankly, it was laughable. What happened to him; no longer all high and mighty? It would render as a bit worrisome to most.
“You know, I think I'm keeping him up at night. Reckon he's gone mental yet?” The blonde mused. It should be quite a feat if he were to be the one keeping the Boy Who Lived from a needed rest.
“You’re such a git.” Blaise spat, arms crossed as he sat improperly on the couch — leaned down and legs spread wide to take up much more space than he needed to. Pansy on the other hand tucked herself on the other end, busying herself with learning how to make a flower crown. She was paying little mind to the ongoing conversation. She’s been making flower crowns for about three days now, a couple scattered around the common area and dorms — a rather ridiculous way to pass the time.
“What? You lot are helping me too. That'd make you gits as well.” Pansy scoffed, unappreciative of being lumped into this as of the moment.
“No, I just think you're giving yourself too much credit. The world doesn't revolve around Malfoy.” The other boy continued, a teasing grin on his face.
“Course not. But Potter's world will. Seriously, I'd frame the sad face he makes when he gawks at me to hang it in my room if I could.”
“Would you really? A picture of Harry Potter in your room, like how you used to wish you had before he came here?” The reminder stung — how he used to obsess over the Boy Who Lived before he had actually met the twat.
“Oh, shove it up your arse, Blaise. I was eleven.” Draco said, unappreciative as he sunk himself into the chair he sat in.
“But y’know, he was right odd the other day, didn’t I mention?” He continued, eager to share.
“Isn’t he always?” Blaise was the only one who engaged, but he knew Parkinson was listening, lest she had gone spontaneously deaf.
“Yeah but not like that. The sod sat right next to me in the library as if I couldn’t see him. It was a bit frightening, honestly — he looked right at me.”
“You act like you haven’t been messing with him the past few weeks; surely he’d take notice. Didn’t he say anything?” Zabini said as he unfurled his arms, resting them against the back of the couch he sat upon.
“No. I asked what in Merlin’s name he was doing then… It was like someone slapped him right across the face. I reckon he was more frightened than I was, he’d just gotten up and ran away. It was a bit amusing, actually.” It was probably the only memory that involved Harry Potter that he was fond of, because it’s one he can hover over the brunette’s head at a later time.
“Maybe he just wanted to take a good look at your handsome face, gorgeous.” Blaise winks.
“Blaise.”
“Draco.”
“You know what? Speaking of the library, I’ve ought to go there and study. See you wankers later.” The Slytherin made his swift exit from the conversation, getting up to make his way out — picking up the bag that had been sitting next to him this entire time.
“Say hi to Potter for me!” Blaise yelled back, and Draco ignored him. The last thing he’d seen before leaving would be Pansy placing her finished flower crown on the head of the boy who sat next to her; rather pleased with herself. Merlin, he loved those idiots.
Then, he was off. And although getting under Potter’s skin was rather delightful, he would prefer his studying hours be void of that nuisance. There were little things that kept him sane; distracted. Though the brunette was one of them, he’d rather both not clash. He’d actually have to make himself productive, after all. Draco was rather fond of the thought of becoming a potions master, or something of the sort, now that his parents can’t really dictate his future all that much anymore. Studying was perhaps most of what took up all his time, partly for school and partly for himself.
His days onwards were relatively the same. Go to class, study, and muck around with his two remaining friends. He didn’t really know why they still held tight, why they stuck by his side despite his own atrocities. No one — not a single witch or wizard that walked in the halls of Hogwarts saw the death eater as a peer, no one but them. Hell, he’s making a game out of Harry Potter’s monumental ire towards him. Pathetic, really. Yet, he should never forget the day he was marked. Hand held down; by none other than his father, no less. He didn’t want this, the association killed him before it ever even happened. It was already disturbing that Lucius bent down to the Dark Lord, welcoming him into what was supposed to be a safe home, and lest he made his son do it himself. Either live to serve him or die trying to escape the fate of it.
The boy had never experienced such pain before, he doesn’t think he ever will. And Merlin, he’d just barely hit puberty at the time. Could becoming the Boy Who Lived before being able to form a thought be similar? No, he didn’t think as such. Destined to be a hero wouldn’t be comparatively similar to being bound to villainy. The Chosen One doesn’t get hexed in the halls. The Chosen One only needed to fight the Dark Lord once. Draco Malfoy had more enemies than days in his life, and the world was proud. Never the victim, was he? It was true — otherwise, why entrench it into his mind every single waking hour?
Nonetheless, his mind cleared by the sight of hundreds of stacked books. Walls of knowledge that could devour him.
It was a bit later in the day, not many people occupied the library at the moment; which is how he usually preferred it to be. Only visible a couple of students scattered here and there, giving him leeway to cram himself into a corner — and bury himself in books. That’s all he really was here to do, stepping up to go to his usual spot. Planning a detour to grab other books on his way. Well, that is what he envisaged until an unexpected face stood before him, blocking his path. And as per everyone, was not pleased. Hermione Granger. He’d always thought she had too much hair. He remained unsure with her vexation, they’ve never really spoken one on one, not without Potter around. If they had, it was too insignificant for him to recall.
“Malfoy. How are you?” She spoke, sweeter than she looked. Draco grimaced.
Had they really ever spoken before? Hardly. His memory was also unreliable these days, Hermione Granger was the last twat on his mind. This was about Potter, wasn’t it? There was doubtfully anything else in this world that he could assume that she of all people would approach him first for. But no matter what, it was dreadfully annoying.
“What do you want?” And he wasn’t particularly overjoyed with the encounter. Forced niceties were pointless, truthfully. Especially when he was paired with this bundle of joy.
“I’m trying to be nice, you know.” Hermione huffed, thinning patience.
“There’s no need.” The blonde spat, a roll of his eyes.
A sigh. “You haven’t been a bother, not for a good while. I don’t want to pester you.” Granger tried, pushed a little further. She wasn’t really one to be mean, was she?
“Great. So then you’ll leave.” Oh, he hoped. Said as a statement rather than an inquiry.
“Okay, I won’t be nice, then. That’s what you want?” It was sudden, a serious visage upon her complexion. She stepped forward, and kept stepping forward as Draco’s steps retreated, only ceasing movement when his back hit a bookshelf and they both stood face to face, too close for comfort. The darker skinned girl lifted her wand for it to be pointed right under the Slytherin’s chin, which rightfully prompted a sense of anxiety. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, even if he wanted. What idiot would, with a weapon to their face? So as it turns out, Hermione was one capable of effrontery.
“Listen, because I’ll only say it once, alright?” She began, but didn’t continue, expecting a response, which Malfoy wasn’t eager to give. That was, until she pushed her wand deeper down into the boy’s skin, coaxing one out. He didn’t find the purpose of it, yet couldn’t help but oblige.
“Ouch! Merlin, Alright!” It was certainly an ignominious position, and he wasn’t currently able to pull his own wand out. It could be for intimidation, or to be sure he was listening, at which point he’d be foolish not to.
“I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but I see the way you both scowl at each other. He hasn’t mentioned anything to me, but I know him, I know which directions he looks in and why. You’re the issue, aren’t you?” This felt like something Blaise would do; Draco was open to the possibility he was psychic. But, that’s what happens when you know someone so well, is it not? It would be charming if this wasn’t Granger, and if he wasn’t Malfoy, and if the person being defended at hand wasn’t Potter. So really, this wasn’t charming at all. It was cruel, is what it is. Can’t a boy have some fun?
“He? He who? I wouldn’t know.” He tried, mostly for humour. Hermione was not amused.
“I am not in a joking mood, you sodding prick!” The girl kicked him right at his ankle and fuck, was she strong. How was she so strong? He groaned as quietly as he could — they still stood in a library, after all. “Whatever it is you’re doing to put Harry on edge, I urge you to stop. He’s already restless, no thanks to you.” No thanks to him. What a compliment.
“Oh bother. The great Harry Potter, having a hard time? Well boohoo. He wasn’t the only git at war.” Idiot. He was an idiot, and a loudmouth, at that. Why on earth would he say that to the girl who could hex him right where he stood and very well break his ankle? Even he didn’t know.
“Malfoy, you will shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” He believed her, without a shroud of a doubt.
“I know there’s not much your sorry self can even do in these circumstances, but I swear on Merlin and Morgana both that if you’re the reason Harry breaks one day, you’ll have a reserved cell next to your prick of a father with your name on it in Azkaban, and I will make sure of it that you never see the sun again. Do not fucking underestimate what I’d do for my friends, Malfoy. Got it?”
Hermione was smart. With such great intelligence in fact, that Draco Malfoy would be the biggest blathering moron if he did happen to underestimate her. Granger’s devotion was almost admirable, and he unfortunately didn’t doubt her not for a second. But he bloody wished he could. Will this stop him? Probably not, maybe not at all. Harry Potter’s delusions were something he was not at fault for — if he chose to believe his minor spectacles then so be it; that’s a fault of his own, really. If there was a rock in the middle of a path, one that Malfoy knew was there, and he did nothing but watch and laugh at the next person who tripped over it, then that doesn’t necessarily mean he was culpable. He could adjust the rock, flip it upside down, and perhaps even switch it for another but that does not change the outcome of its existence there. Simply, he was just enthralled watching the result of Potter tripping over the exact same trap over and over. Is it such a crime?
Well, to bloody Hermione Granger it was deserving of a sentence to Azkaban, apparently. Unforgiving, this one. Admittedly, the thought was jarring — he’d only barely missed that fate, and yet the thought of it returning brought a tightening to his chest. The mention of his father, the thought of meeting the same end as he; sharing his grave, even. Well, in Merlin’s great name, he’d rather mix a potion straight in his stomach and then explode. But he believed in empty threats, what’s a girl his age going to do, really? A pathetic muggle-born, even. He shouldn’t make her upset, so he nodded. She left — left him in quite a miserable state.
He trudged onwards, back to the primary reason he entered this place; to study. Could he even manage to do that now, with all racing through his mind? He could certainly try. Draco knew he didn’t like Potter’s lot, but he wasn’t aware they could be just as insufferable as he was. A talent is what it was. He hoped he shouldn’t have to see the rest of them today — preferably not ever, but that’d be impossible. Speaking of which, it was always rather jarring how they were always aware of his location; popping up out of nowhere at the most inconvenient times.
Sure, Hermione Granger could just be a coincidence — she wasn’t the one pestering the blonde daily. But Potter, now that was starting to be an issue. Sure, messing with the bloke from time to time provided for beguiling entertainment, but having him on his tail as a constant was beginning to cause him a certain deal of anxiousness. At this point, it felt as though he sought out his every move. Truly, he couldn’t figure out as to how. The brunette; he couldn’t be much of a threat. If he could’ve inflicted any harm upon him — if he wanted to, he would’ve already, and no one would bat an eye. That was a glaring fact that Potter should be aware of.
Disdain coursed through him, disgust at a display of helplessness. It was how Draco could describe the feeling of all of this. It reeled him back in, the whirlwind that was Harry fucking Potter; always managing to shake the earth to his will. The storm that he chased and attempted to escape when caught within it. He could only fault himself, when he thought it first but a cloud. Malfoy would rather not think about how scarhead still managed to worm his way into his head even within his solidarity.
He’d managed to get back on track, finding a nook to tuck himself into, books stacking themselves around him as he drowned himself in words and parchments. Time passed him by, easily slipping through his fingers; long enough for him to almost forget about Hermione Granger, and how her wand felt as though it left a permanent mark upon his chin.
The blonde spent all his time in the library till the moment it had to close — returning all that he took back to where it belonged. All students that were once here cleared out a while ago, and he remained alone as he packed the last of his things. His head cleared as it got later in the day, fixated on things he learnt about potion-making and about how he was going to tell Blaise about it later despite his obvious disinterest in the matter. And amongst things he was going to relay to his friends, the Granger incident would be amongst them.
Then, he was on his way — traversing the halls to get back to the Slytherin dorms. It was a bit of a long walk, from here to there, but he didn’t mind. It served as a good way to clear his head, if he managed to block his mind from things that occurred in the past; in these same halls. It was particularly empty at this time, everyone already in their common rooms or chambers, leaving Hogwarts to look more spacious than it is with students out and about all the time. He liked it like this, less scowls from peers he didn’t know and avoidance from every breathing sorcerer. It kind of reminded him of home, before the war.
Empty. Quiet. Dark. Little did he hear from Narcissa or Lucius, only seeing them during dinner. His father also made appearances during study hours, or when he so kindly wanted to unload on his only son. It got worse when Lord Voldemort came around. At first he had no involvement, his only task was to hide away in silence as they… worked. That didn’t last for long. Sometimes he wished he had chosen death —- it'd be more forgiving than the slithering mark that lurched through his arm; it what marked his fate. Death would’ve been more forgiving than all the scars that he hid behind his clothes in shame, his skin ragged and beat. He couldn’t stand to look at it. Death would’ve been more forgiving than the mental turmoil he had to endure, the turmoil that yet still lurked in the back of his mind.
Now death was an option lost, not unless he was keen on doing it himself, which he didn’t quite like the sound of. It was already done, he couldn’t bring time backwards to undo it all. He regrets having to live with it. Walking and breathing alone were tiresome, but he did it out of spite. No one could break him further, now. He had already shattered. But that did not mean it didn’t hurt whence a boot encroached on the scattered shards that no one bothered to pick up and ameliorate.
As the Slytherin approached nearer to his destination, turning a corner, the hall was blocked by a wall of a couple loitering students — Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, and perhaps a Hufflepuff too. There weren’t many, about five, but enough that he couldn’t pass them by. He’d assumed they were younger than him, faces being less than familiar. Soon noticing his idle existence, it was clear that they knew who he was, faces contorting in emotions which ranged from disgust to hatred, which wasn’t all that lovely. He’d seen other students on his way, and they’d ignored him, and he made a point of doing the same. The few before him weren’t very keen on letting him pass, it seemed. Draco’s expression remained blank.
“Excuse me,” the blonde said, bored and monotonous. They were all already looking at him, aware of his current presence yet none made a move.
The biggest out of them, a Gryffindor boy — of course — stepped forward. He had quite the gnarly expression on his face as he stood barely a few inches taller than the Slytherin.
“Malfoy, eh?” He spoke, the other boys standing suit behind him. It was a bit of a ridiculous sight, really. Malfoy didn’t have the energy for it. Little choice he had but to face it.
“Congratulations. You’ve figured it out. Move out of the way, will you?” His patience was particularly nonexistent at the moment, his last human interaction of the day already leaving him in a foul mood, and here approached five more.
“Why should we?” A dumb query, really. He’d assumed it was for intimidation or something of that calibre — it failed miserably.
“Well I’d rather get to my room before curfew. You lot should too, unless you’d like Filch to have all your arses.” Draco crossed his arms, a huff leaving his lips as this boy was getting increasingly intolerable. Them being caught was the least of his concerns, it was being with them that he’d prefer a lack of involvement during.
The boy ignored him, continuing. “Y’know, It’s weird they still let you into the dungeons. You’re a hazard. They should lock you up in a cupboard — in case you hex someone in your sleep. It’s in your blood, isn’t it?” He began taunting, and it didn’t really phase Malfoy. He had heard worse; felt worse. A mosquito sting would be more of a hassle.
“It’s weird he’s still here in the first place. The tosser would fit in better in Azkaban.” A Ravenclaw spoke up, tall and lanky, talking to the other boys but glaring right at him. The audacity of these fifth years was almost laughable, but he’d be lying if he said the words said next weren’t hurtful.
Then, another Gryffindor boy, “yeah, next to his pathetic excuse for a father.”
The rest laughed, the grating noise ringing in Draco Malfoy’s ear; neverending. He wanted to shut them up himself, grapple at their throats till they choked on their words; but that would be a very, very ludicrous decision to make. So, he stood there, taking the humiliation, silent and as stoic as he was when he first came upon them. His younger self would be disappointed, loathe him in this very moment.
The big burly one spoke up again, no filter on this one. “Maybe we should show you why it’s a bad idea to stay in Hogwarts, shouldn’t we?” He said, proceeding to pull out his wand, and Draco tensed up.
Before he could hit back, or bring his own wand out, the one Hufflepuff girl in the group stepped forward, grabbing the wrist of the larger boy tightly, looking furious. Thank Merlin, because he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to take hits from a couple puny lower-years. Draco knows he would’ve done something impetuous if this were to have gone even just a second further.
“Oh, stop it, Henry!” What a stupid name. Perfect for a stupid boy with a stupid face and a bullocks attitude.
“Filch could walk around any second, you know better than this. Do you want another detention? Are you mad?” She reminded Draco of Granger, and somehow that made him a bit ungrateful for her interference. Only a bit. But she appeared to be the only reasonable one in this group of airheads, it made him wonder why she even hung out with them. Malfoy didn’t have the place to dictate this relationship, though. Not when he only had two.
“But he—”
“He isn’t our problem! You need to get a hold of your temper. Just let him pass, Henry. Please?” Henry looked displeased as he let out a grumble, huffing and puffing like a little child as he put some thought into it. His first, Malfoy liked to think. Then, he finally, slowly, to his own tragedy, moved out of the way.
Malfoy didn’t let a single second go by as he instantly walked right through them, not bothering to look back or thank the poor girl for her efforts. It was possible if he hadn’t, that big hulk of an idiot would’ve changed his mind, and he wasn’t going to take his chances. He’d realised that he began to walk faster, barely slower than a full sprint, footsteps harsh and loud. He was furious, seething. It was already made aware what everyone thought of him; where they thought his rightful place was. He saw it in their sour scorns and the way they gripped their wands as if they’re sure he’d try anything, though he’d be obtuse as to even merely think it. One wrong move and all the students’ dreams would come true.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Blood boiling, face red and chest tight. It was hard to breathe, lungs heaving as if he couldn’t take in as much air. Draco finally made it to the dungeons — ploughing through straight up to his bed, dashing past his friends who craned to look at him with concern that he didn’t stay around long enough to see. Pansy and Blaise knew better than to chase after him in this state, they’d wait until tomorrow. He was thankful that neither of them were there to watch as he tumbled onto his mattress, limbs failing him, not bothering to change out of his robes as he clutched his sheets so tight his knuckles paled, and began to sob. It was pathetic. He was pathetic, so unbelievably so. Unloveable and wretched and by Merlin’s name, at this moment, he thought it a better fate to sleep and never awaken. No one would miss him — he doubted it. His two friends would get over it, really. He wasn’t worth the tears.
The boy tired himself out, crying himself into a throbbing headache and sore throat, still exhausted enough to fall asleep. It really didn’t feel like he was much older than just a sad little boy, the same one that would cry for his mother after a nightmare; waning in her embrace for her to cradle her precious to sleep. His nose stained red, eyes burning, feeling dry yet still anchored with heaves of tears. His breaths were shallow and his head not dreamless, trembling even in his slumber. It was too much, all too much and it all came crashing down after weeks of burying it further away. This process would repeat itself, he knew.