Chapter 5
Draco’s ears were full with his own heavy breaths. Tearing through the corridors, ignoring vaguely accusatory glances from students, he refused to slow down until he reached the edge of the Black Lake. A cramp in his ribs accusingly broadcasted his poor fitness, but Draco didn’t care. He slid into a seated position and rested his head on his knees.
Three years ago, he would’ve balked at the thought of dirtying his custom-made cloak on the ground. But as he dug his nails through the soft soil, leaving hollowed-out tracks in their wake, he wondered why any of it had mattered to him at all. Foolish and stupid and cruel. That was all his younger self had been. He wasn’t sure whether he could currently be called anything else either.
Draco’s chest tightened with a familiar squeezing sensation. Hidden away in this secluded pocket of the castle grounds, he permitted the hollow, cutting sobs to claw out of his throat. The wracking irritated his already aching side, and there was something comforting about the distraction it offered. Draco was under no illusions. He had to atone. It didn’t matter how much or little society thought of him. What arbitrary motivations and punishments they would decide upon. Only Draco, himself, could ever know and therefore understand what dues were owed.
He was small and pathetic. Hunched into a ball, cowering on the bare ground when he could have been sleeping, or studying the way he’d intended. Draco hadn’t expected Potter to care for him, or even to forgive him. Even then, he had recognized Potter’s testimony as the trade it was. An eye for an eye. Or in this case, it had been a life for a life. Potter’s personal feelings could hardly have played into his decision. But God he hadn’t anticipated Potter to bring his mother into it.
Draco wondered if these had always been Potter’s intentions in seeking leniency for Mother. He had thought Potter untouchably noble. Pure and good and right in ways that couldn’t be fathomed by the likes of black, ugly hearts like his.
He’d been wrong. Potter’s forgiveness and honor could only reach so far. The way that Draco imagined the flowers weaved into Persephone’s hair had withered and rotted in the lowest parts of Hell, so was it the case that Potter’s brilliance could only withstand so much darkness. Draco was unsalvageable.
He had known that. He really had, but… it still hurt. Draco replayed the scene in his head over and over again. Forcing himself to re-experience Potter’s disgust, his anger, his threats. And slowly the feeling of betrayal lessened, tightening and desiccating into a coil of spiky acceptance that embedded in his chest.
Draco took a deep breath. He felt… lighter, somehow. The world made sense again. He knew his place. He still had to find a regular source of magical energy and a way to survive and all those terribly dull things, but… the foundations of his life no longer felt shaky and uncertain. He held no expectations.
Reaching into his bag, he found a piece of spare parchment. It was dirty and stained with ink, but Draco didn’t have the luxury of pickiness. Fishing out an equally ratty quill, he started to write. But, as the tip touched the paper, he hesitated. It would be dangerous to write out anything too obvious.
He would need a code. Or some sort of shorthand based on a non-English language that would be indecipherable to unwanted eyes.
Draco figured the quill was a lost cause and allowed himself to chew on the end. Another disgusting habit his Father had tried, and failed, to remove. Draco was full of those.
French would be too easy to translate. It would be stupid to use that. Half the British population knew some French, he was sure. Maybe a Runic language? No… maybe if he wasn’t currently locked up in the premier academic institution on Runes. Oh- did…did vampires have their own linguistic system? But, Draco deflated again, there was no information about vampires. Even the rarest collections in the Restricted section were useless.
Draco froze. He had heard something. The unmistakable crunch of leaves under footsteps from behind him. Not even very far away. 10 meters would be generous.
Fuck . His mind raced. McGonagall’s magical energy wouldn’t be enough to provide much defense. Regardless, he wasn’t permitted use of his wand. His mouth ran dry. He weighed the options. Perhaps it was some other student. Innocently here to enjoy some solitude among beautiful scenery. Draco’s instincts told him no.
The step had been careful. Probably accidental. And only one. Not the sound of a casual stroll. It was the sound of stalking. Someone who didn’t want to be heard. Or seen. Draco’s pulse rabbited. Would it be dangerous to turn around? To alert the would-be pursuer?
Maybe he could…
Tensing his muscles hoping to reduce the shaking in his hands, he aimed for casualness as he slowly stretched his arms out, sighing with affected fatigue. He brought them back in and wrapped his hands around the back of neck, protecting the area from any potential impact under the guise of massaging a muscle knot.
He counted down from 10…. 9… 8… and when he had consciously relaxed every muscle in his body, breathing regular and deep as if meditating, he jerked his entire body up and spun around, fists at the ready as if they would do anything for him against a curse.
But there was nobody there.
Draco took another step back and when his foot caught on a rock he crashed to the ground, hard. A crunch from where his right elbow had shouldered the impact gave way to burning. The pain blurred his vision. Undeterred, he frantically scanned the woods. His eyes bounced around so quickly the ghost of a headache brushed his temples. He wanted a glimpse of something, anything to give him an idea of what to expect.
He wasn’t naive enough to think he would escape. He just hated surprises.
Only silence met him. Cavernous and infinite in the way that only forests are. Behind him, the gentle lap of water against the lakeside sounded ominous. Draco breathed heavily, frozen in place. Maybe your imagination, his thoughts whispered.
No.
No.
It wasn’t. He could feel it. The tell-tale tingle of magical energy in the air. Nondescript. Unidentifiable. But there.
Someone was hiding. Somewhere. Terror clawed at him.
It wasn’t Potter.
And he realized that he had been hoping for that. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.
Who was there?
It wasn’t infallible, but his ability to feel magical energy was similar to any other sense. People’s energy was distinctive. The same way a bird’s song or a lover’s caress was familiar.
He didn’t recognize this person.
Or rather. There was nothing distinctive to recognize. Like the smell of water. Magic zinged and hummed against his skin, but there was no crackle like Potter’s. No soft sigh like Mother’s. It didn’t scratch at him like Father’s.
It was an empty energy.
His scalp tingled. The shocks ricocheted down through his legs. He wanted to run.
Bad, his mind hissed. You become the prey to chase.
Draco whimpered. A strangled, pathetic noise he hadn’t choked down in time.
Crunch. Closer. The sound echoed in Draco’s ears. He couldn’t tell where it came from.
A scream gathered in his throat. Instinctive. Futile. No one to hear it.
Pathetic. Cowardly.
Not like this, he prayed. Please. Please. Please. Mother–
DING-DONG. DING-DONG.
The clocktower chimed, signaling the time. It was noon. Lunch would be ready in the Great Hall. Draco seized the distraction and ran. Didn’t think. He picked a direction and ran.
He ran. And ran.
And ran.
Maybe he heard the sound of heavy steps behind him.
CrunchsnapCRUNCHcrunchSNAP!
But he pushed harder.
Pumping his legs, thrusting his arms back and forth. His breaths stuttered in and out, a staccato of raw wheezes. Everything burned.
And crashed, toppling down, stunned.
“GOD WHAT THE FUCK?!” A shrill voice pierced his blurry awareness.
“Guh-” his mouth responded automatically. Flashes of white light obscured his vision.
“YOU ASSHOLE I JUST BOUGHT THIS WHAT- are you–?” The girl trailed off as she looked up from her scuffed skirt and took in Draco’s undoubtedly feral appearance.
“Um…” her eyes widened. She looked a bit scared. Draco struggled to calm down. He needed his mouth to work. To warn her. Where is this? We…we need to run. I think someone’s coming.
“Mh-” he grunted instead. The girl began to back away, slow and wary, damaged skirt forgotten. Draco’s vision was clearing and he could see the trickle of blood running down her knee from where it’d skinned against the ground.
“ Go-,” he tried. “Where?”
She was moving jerkily, continuing her backwards movements and darting glances around them. Looking for an escape. Draco pushed himself off the ground. At full height, he was quite a bit taller than her and the moment she realized, she blanched, expression falling slack.
No, Draco wanted to say.
“EXPELLIARMUS!” It was a familiar voice, long burned into his hindbrain. A bellowing timbre that marked both salvation and ruin. Draco flinched at the sudden crackle of magic pulling at his skin. The girl’s wand clattered against a nearby tree and fell uselessly. Oh. Draco realized it had been pointed at him.
“What the bloody fuck is going on here?!” Potter was marching towards them. Blazing and brilliant and pissed off. Draco’s knees went weak with the strangest combination of fear and relief. He could deal with Potter. Anything over the nameless unknown lurking in the woods. And besides that, there was nothing in the world he would take over Potter – selfish, blackmailing arsehole that he was.
Draco wanted to bathe in the not-quite-painful static jolts of Potter’s magic that stung him and stay there forever. Merlin, he needed to get a grip.
“– and then he just came out of like nowhere and attacked me! I was defending myself!” The girl was anxious, shuffling her feet and twirling a strand of chestnut hair around her finger. Potter glowered down with tense eyes and angry posture.
Draco took the moment to hazard a glance behind him. The trees were silent and still. It was the middle of the day, but the shadows were so dark there. His teeth began to chatter. He wanted to leave. Now. Now. Now.
“Woah…. Hey.” When had Potter gotten this close? A firm hand wrapped around his arm, steadying him. Draco tried to slow his breathing. He used the familiar smell of oak and broom polish to ground him. It sort of worked.
“I didn’t do anything, I swear! I was literally here just trying to have a smoke without getting detention! He was already like this!”
“Shut up,” Potter cut her off. A bit rude, in Draco’s estimation, but such things clearly didn’t matter when you were the hero of a war. The girl quieted, confusion and resentment splayed on her face. Her knee was still bleeding. Draco tried to shake Potter’s arm off.
“Your knee-,” he bit out, gesturing down.
“Oh..shit what?! When-,” The girl swiped at her bleeding knee a few times. Draco winced thinking about how much dirt she must’ve just rubbed into the wound. Potter cast Concretus Sanguinus with a low voice, and the flow eased. The gash looked painful under the congealed blood.
“Sorry,” Potter offered, not sounding the least bit so. “Pomfrey will do a better job.”
“Right,” she rolled her eyes. Draco found that, despite their unfortunate meeting, he quite liked this person. She was acerbic and funny. It reminded him of his past self, a less blood racist version perhaps. The yellow tie denoted her Hufflepuff status and Draco wondered if they could have been friends in another life. He had never had many friends, and had even fewer left.
Potter hauled Draco through the scant remaining woods, not gently but not without care. Draco reminded himself that he was still mad at this man. The girl, Alisha, she’d told them, silently trailed behind. Draco strained his ears, listening for any strange noises. He couldn’t feel the strange energy anymore, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t due to his new companions. Potter’s energy was sensorially overwhelming by itself.
The Hufflepuff’s energy was milder, and ran over him like a low-frequency vibration. He tuned her out easily.
Vaguely, Draco remembered a chapter he’d read in his research; something about the intensity of a vampire’s magical signature reading being proportional to the “call of that person to the soul”, or some hogwash like that. He rotated his shoulder uncomfortably. It was becoming stiff.
Being half-dragged through Hogwarts, no doubt looking like a cross between a stray cat and a wanted fugitive was humiliating. You would think after everything, he wouldn’t have this flavor of vain pride left. Clearly the Malfoy nature was hardier than it got credit for. He was just thankful it was a Saturday, so very few students were in the halls.
Alisha had parted ways with them at some point, popping a stick of mint gum in her mouth as she nodded a stiff farewell. Draco had been the only one to respond in kind.
Potter’s prolonged hold on Draco’s arm was starting to hurt now. Attempts to get comfortable through repositioning had failed, and Potter either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Draco wondered if he would be chucked over the banister if he wrenched away. Now, safely situated within the castle, the morning’s events flooded back into his thoughts.
He legitimately hadn’t recognized the Potter of earlier. He hadn’t been angry, Draco was sure given his close intimation with that version of Potter. No, not anger. It had been… more unsettling than that. Potter’s eyes had reminded him of a predator. Curious, laser-focused, destructive.
Thinking it through now, Draco could believe Potter had been sincere when he’d admitted there were no true intentions behind his threats. Draco had been blind to it at the moment, short-circuited with fear, but Potter’s entire demeanor had been that of a cat swatting a mouse. Clinical assessment thinly masked with a playful malice. Unaware of snapping the small creature’s neck until long after the fact. Draco shook his head, trying to clear those thoughts. Well, now Potter knew his dirty secret. He hoped that would be enough.
Perhaps sensing the shifting tone of Draco’s thoughts, Potter pulled forward with more urgency.