venenum
Bibere venenum in auro
To drink poison from a glass of gold.
The day after Draco’s trial, he was alone. Because of Harry’s testimony and his status as a child, the Wizengamot had given him a lighter sentence than he deserved. He had been forbidden from practicing magic for the next five years; after the period of time passed, his case would be revisited.
Despite the ego he showed to the world, Draco knew he was far from perfect. There was a certain kind of agony to it; a burn in his chest with every reminder, a grasp on his throat that he couldn’t escape, losing oxygen with each passing second. It stole the air from his lungs and the voice from his throat, leaving nothingness in its wake.
There was a beautiful irony to it, to how cruel fate had been to him. Could he even call it cruelty when it had been deserved? When he had simply reaped what he sowed, and the fruits of his labor had rot? Truly, he had determined, it was a fitting ending to his story.
The vial was cool against Draco’s fingers, shaking ever so slightly with each breath he took. It was made of a fine black glass, with intricate gold vines tracing its entirety. It was an heirloom, charmed to only be opened by one of pure Malfoy lineage.
This heirloom had been one of Lucius’ lesser-known prides; Draco remembered the countless lectures he had received from his father on the importance of the vial and the history it represented. It had the ability to transform any liquid that it housed into the venom of a Basilisk and had been used by countless Malfoys in the past, all the way up to Armand himself.
Draco had been given the vial soon after he had become a Death Eater. Narcissa had given it to him after his initiation, speaking quietly of how it had been his father’s wish.
“A symbol of pride,” his father always said, “A coming of age.”
It never truly felt like pride though, did it?
After the war, it had become a symbol of his regrets. He carried it around his neck, a reminder of his mortality. He had spent countless nights sitting on his bathroom floor, vial in hand, contemplating what he should have done years ago.
The guilt Draco had come to have was deafening. He drowned in it constantly, letting the pain flood his lungs and slow his breathing. He let it spread through his veins, it was carried in his blood. He let it consume him until there was nothing left, merely a hollowed husk of what he once was: a coward, a traitor, a puppet.
He absentmindedly traced the vines, thinking of his own mortality. He wondered who would come to his funeral, and whether they would even hold a service at all. He wondered who would even think of him after his death, besides his mother confined to her home and his father rotting in Azkaban.
Slowly, carefully, achingly cautiously, Draco opened the vial and brought it to his lips.
And he drank.
◇ ◆ ◇
There is a certain elegance to the idea of death; Draco had always thought so. One’s own mortality, dangling over the precipice of peace and agony simultaneously. Time and time again, Draco’s mind had drifted towards it, around it, encompassing it, covering every facet of his own death within his head.
Now, waking up in a cold hospital room, all Draco had was weight on his chest.
He felt the cold metal of his hospital bed pressed up against his arm, the Dark Mark burning hot on the other side.
He scanned the hospital room for a familiar face but found only emptiness and the flickering lights on the machines. Even his own mother hadn’t come.
The healer entered soon after he awoke and closed the door behind him.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Malfoy?” he spoke stiffly, making no attempt to hide the discomfort he was experiencing.
“How am I here?” Draco croaked, his voice hoarse, “Who brought me here?”
“Truthfully, Mr. Malfoy, we have no idea. You were the victim of Basilisk poisoning but were given an antidote in time. As of who brought you here: you apparated into this room. We don’t have a clear explanation for what happened to you as of yet.”
Draco blinked, attempting to process the information he had been given. He didn’t have any Phoenix tears, nor did anyone know of his plans.
In the aftermath of what had come to be the most tiring night of Draco’s life, he was once again alone.