It started with a crawling sensation in his skull. He'd ignored it at first, resisting the urge to scratch the skin there. Then the crawling gave way to humming, but even that was fairly easy to tolerate. The day everything began to change was the day the humming had evolved into whispers, ghostly wisps of black tails wrapped around his spine so tight it was hard to move.
He argued with them, sometimes. The whispers. People had begun to notice the constant muttering, the dark circles around his eyes, the fingernails bitten to the quick. He began to shrink, his bones jutting out of his skin like little daggers, begging to slip through the wan, tired flesh.
But no one made a move, no one asked—because it was Draco Malfoy, and it was wise to stay out of his way.
Draco found himself with eight extra hours in his days, now. The trick was, when he needed to feel a little bit sane, to find the loudest place he possibly could. The whispers didn't reach him there. So he went to every meal, picking at his food, but mostly relishing in the lifted weight off his shoulders. He used to care about what the others thought, used to try to hide his elation. Draco thinks he's so far gone nothing really matters anymore, so he just lets himself enjoy that silence, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
But soon the dining halls weren't enough. The whispers were stronger now, droning on and on repeating the same broken phrases over and over. Sometimes they didn't make sense. One day, he'd had to listen to yellow teacup nine repeatedly, until he'd succumbed to a sleeping potion.
And quite predictably, the voices trailed after him, pushing past the once sturdy walls of the sleep potions, furling in his head menacingly, waiting until he'd snap again. They seemed to find delight in his tortured silences, but were even more gleeful when he screamed until his throat bled. Silencing charms were useful with this sort of thing.
The days just seem like a long expanse, until night greets him. Amongst the Scottish hills, he'd look up at the stars, screaming all the while, and it's only then, while drowning out the voices and tracing the freckles of light across the skies, that he feels sane.
The voices, disturbingly enough, had found a new way to wring his frayed nerves even farther. Tortured thoughts—you no good piece of shit, you ruined everything, die—bothered him less than the new way they'd devised to get his attention.
You can lie all you want, but we know. We know all of your dirty little secrets—love, Malfoy? Really? Love? The voices snarl, tugging at his spine authoritatively. The snickers rattle against his bones. You spineless little bastard, love isn't for people like you.
They like to remind him of how human he is. Well, how human he used to be.
He's not even a Malfoy anymore.
o-o-o-o
When the once-feared Slytherin collapses, the weary eyes suddenly turn into concerned ones. Suddenly everyone is all hands, all feeling, saying, wake up, wake up now, we want to help you, you need to wake up.
He doesn't.
Flittering around in his head, he hears—he's far too thin, we can't give a potion to this boy. Surely, surely there has to be something we can do? That's all he hears, before the voices take him away again.
That makes the voices go wild. Not with pain or fear, but with amusement. There seems to be no end to their cackling. They remind him, again, of his apparent lack of a spine, and have evolved, giving them the power to inflict pain at their will. Draco has the upper hand in this situation, because when he's locked in his head with them, they can't do shit. And it's almost blissful.
Eventually, though, he does wake up.
The room is quiet, light seeping through the doorway. He's aware of the murmuring down the hall, and of the nearly subconscious muttering that's started under his breath again. Draco hasn't missed much of the real world at all. But then, he thinks, he hasn't been part of the real world for a while.
A flash of red catches his eye and he turns, slightly, to meet the gaze of the boy beside him. There should be words said, here. Words dripping with malice. Except Draco can't say them, because the voices are loud and a little distracting.
Fucking queer, say something! The jeers are not very original, and it's odd how something as off-putting as voices in one's head can become expected.
And Potter, with bloodied gauze in one hand, just stares with those irritatingly bright green eyes, calmly, like it's normal for mortal enemies to tolerate each other's company.
Madame Pomfrey comes back, ushering Harry out, telling him he's dawdled long enough.
"Hello." Draco manages so calmly it even surprises him. Madame Pomfrey is a bit more reactive, jumping up with a squeal. Her face pales, and she stammers, "I must get Snape and the Headmistress right away!" She turns, as if to flee, then pauses. "You'll be all right, won't you, for a few moments?"
"Of course," Draco says, and settles down against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
Things get messy only once the three adults return to the room.
The voices remind him, with blows to his shins, to not say anything about them.
You don't want us to kill that Godfather of yours. Or maybe Potter would be the better bet. Throw you to Azkaban, isn't that what everyone really wanted?
He swallows hard at the mention of Azkaban.
"It's simply work exhaustion," Draco lies easily.
Snape, in a rare moment of poorly hidden concern, votes to send Draco to St. Mungo's immediately. A flitter of concern runs across McGonagall's face as she stays quiet, mulling over the situation for a bit.
"Well, Severus," murmurs the older women, as she eyes Poppy looking at his chart, "If there's no real reason to send him to Mungo's, I don't see why he can't rest up here."
They have no reason to not think it's work exhaustion. After all, the only observable effects are tiredness and weight loss.
"With everything that's happened…" Severus trails off.
They purposely leave the room to decide his fate. And all Draco can do is hope his lying pays off.
Snape, upon his return with the others, says, "You're staying here for the next few days. And after that, Madame Pomfrey will decide if you need to stay longer."
It seems like his lying did the trick.
Until McGonagall mentions the part about counseling.
Her tone is soft, and it's a little odd, coming from her. "…After your health has returned, I'm assigning you mandatory counseling for thirty days. We both feel that you need it, Draco,"
Oh yes, this is a problem indeed.
o-o-o-o
It's not long before everyone knows he's in the infirmary, and the incredulous whispers race around the halls like wildfire, stories of his fate slipped to another's lips with such smooth, simple exchanges, Hogwarts is actually in a slight uproar with all the rumors. Some say he suffers from a muggle-disease, and that he's only got days to live. Others say he's gotten the last tendrils of a curse from the war, and it's only just shown. The official story, says Snape, is that he's succumbed to work exhaustion.
Except it's rare to see Draco Malfoy to succumb to anything, so this poor explanation is discarded easily for want of a better—and more exciting—story.
Four days has crawled by, and he hasn't slept. He's got nothing to do except stare at the speckled ceiling above him, hiding clenched teeth behind grim lips. Madame Pomfrey's been busy with an amusing gaggle of first years, who've gotten themselves in quite the predicament while in Potions. One chubby boy cannot stop hiccupping frogs. The wet slap each green creature makes against the cold tiles causes Madame Pomfrey to shudder. She, presumably, dislikes amphibians.
Draco sits up, throwing on his robe, eyeing the woman carefully as her gaze stays locked on a particular toad inching toward her foot. He cannot stand this silence anymore, and enough is enough. He tried a silencing charm a few times, at night, to scream in his pillow for some relief, but Madame Pomfrey had caught him and simply told him to go back to sleep. Once in the hallway, pulls his robe closer to his body, forcing his tired bones to keep him up.
When he gets outside, Draco is surprised to see that it's almost evening. The rest of the students must be finishing their supper or retiring to their respective rooms, because there's no trace of anyone outside. That, he muses, he is thankful for.
The voices are louder, howling, jabbing his ribs with their long claws. As of late, all they speak about is Snape and the various ways in which one would kill the man.
Pull his bones out, piece by piece, roast the flesh—
—flay the skin, the iron will make you retch
Avada Kedavara is far too merciful in this case, we want to take it slow.
About to head for his familiar hills, fully prepared for a lovely screaming session, his ears prickle at the sound of footsteps behind him, and a very familiar voice.
"And what," Snape drawls, putting a hand on his shoulder, "exactly do you think you're doing, boy?"
There's a brief pause in which Draco's eyes flicker to his Godfather's, trying to read his expression before he says a word. Draco wonders what he would say if he knew what the voices said about him. Snape raises a brow in question, his robe swishing quietly as his arms pulled across his chest.
"Do you know how utterly boring and silent the infirmary is?" Draco says, matching the older man's drawl.
Severus looms above him, looking at him with that typical foreboding stare of his, probably meant to strike fear somewhere in him. It doesn't work, but what typically does work anymore?
"Madame Pomfrey told me you'd dashed out," Snape said, taking one arm easily. He flinches, for a moment, staring at the way his fingers wrap around the thin limb, but continues, "I could take you to St. Mungo's right now, Draco, if that's what you'd prefer."
—slit his throat, maybe
…expunge his entrails? An Incendio spell would do nicely here—As the two turn to head back to the infirmary, their path is blocked by a particular brunette who, upon noticing their presence, proceeds to widen his eyes and open his mouth, possibly in hopes of giving an excuse as to why he's lurking in the hallways in the first place. Snape easily overpowers his meek tone, eyes glittering dangerously as his hand subconsciously drops from Draco's arm. "Well, well. Harry Potter. And why, pray tell, are you wandering the halls at this time of day?"
Draco's lips curl into a sneer. Harry's eyes flitter to his own grey ones, dulled by exhaustion and hunger.
"I had to speak to Madame Pomfrey about something." Harry explains quietly, though he really has no reason to be so subdued in Snape's presence anymore. Old habits die hard.
"Ten points. Don't let me catch you again," Snape says, voice warning of further repercussions when Draco isn't around.
With a final glance at the blonde in front of him, Harry retreats.
When the two men return to the infirmary, Draco notices the first years have gone and Madame Pomfrey's attention is all on him. Draco grumbles at this, muttering under his breath about how he's survived much worse things, he doesn't need a mother to look after him. The word mother sends a pang through his chest, and it's not the voices' fault this time.
Snape gives him a glance of warning, and leaves without a word. Staring at the same ceiling again, Draco's expression turns into one of pouting, arms crossed against his chest childishly.
"Oh," Madame Pomfrey says, cutting into the voices' chatter like a blade, "Someone left this for you." She hands him a parcel. He stares at it, wondering who on earth would actually leave something for him. But his curiosity wins out, and he opens it, seeing one of the oddest contraptions he's ever come across.
Picking the thin item up, he almost drops it when he realizes how light it is. It's blue, fitting into his palm but threatening to spill onto the ground at any given moment. At the top is a white strand of rubber, eventually splitting into two thinner strands, with two cylinder-like objects at the end.
At the bottom of the box is a piece of parchment, detailing what actions the circle on the item performed. Further inspection of the parchment explained that the item was an 'iPod', a muggle item designed to play music.
"Eye pod?" Draco murmurs, bewildered. He eyes the odd circular ends of the wire wearily ('Ear buds,' states the parchment, but Draco wonders what kind of plant would create such a thing), but decides he has nothing to lose and hesitantly puts one in his left ear. It fits snugly, resting there without any help.
One index finger presses the lower part of the blue rectangle, and Draco stifles a yelp when he sees uppermost part light up. What kind of item was this! The parchment explains how to navigate through, and Draco, never one to not answer his curiosities, proceeds to run his finger along the circle, amazed at the pictures that ensue.
His body twitches slightly when the music begins (who was this 'Britney Spears' person, and why was she asking about this Amy girl?) but smiles when he realizes what this magical little item means. He puts the other earbud in, raising the volume, drowning those horrid voices out.
Madame Pomfrey says something, but Draco doesn't hear. He's too busy keeping the hysterical laughter from bubbling out of his throat.
So, Draco is horrified when, a day later, the beloved 'Eye Pod' promptly turns off, and refuses to alight no matter what he does. He's not sure what this means, but Draco is sure that he's broken it somehow and there seems to be no end to the forlorn expression on his face.
A simple reparo spell does no good. The item he has quickly grown to love is indeed, no more.
o-o-o-o
It should be said that an angry Hermione is a dangerous Hermione. She, thankfully, was not in possession of her wand at the moment. Harry was at least safe from any kind of hex, but physical violence did not warrant the need of any magic. He proceeded to hide behind a pillow as she yelled, eyes flaring.
"You're telling me," she snarled, "you gave my iPod to Draco Malfoy?!" Her long tresses caused shadows to dance on her face, illuminating the effect of danger.
Hermione had gotten the music player as a gift from her parents, and it had somewhat sentimental value to her, though she never used it much. So for Harry to simply take it without asking…it was uncalled for.
"He needed it," Harry said, in lieu of a real explanation. The red pillow in front of his face muffled his words, and the fingers were bone white, creasing the fabric further.
"I don't care! You took it, and gave it to Draco sodding Malfoy!"
The air tensed around them as she leaned in closer, whispering, "Where is he?"
Harry peeked out from behind the pillow, asking, "If I tell you, will you promise not to kill me?"
"I will promise no such thing!" Hermione snapped, tapping her foot in impatience.
"He's still in the infirmary." Harry sighed.
Hermione promptly grabbed her wand and left without a word, still seething.
Draco was still mourning the loss of his little friend when Hermione, with the grace of a hippo, stormed in loudly, startling both the blonde-haired boy and his healer counterpart.
"You," it was a low growl, something Draco had never heard come out of the girl's mouth before. Scratch that, he hadn't seen her look so positively murderous before. "Accio iPod!" The item in his hands flew away, landing in the hands of the girl now standing at the foot of his bed.
She tossed him a glare and stalked away, ignoring Poppy's questioning.
In the hallway, Hermione sighed, deciding to seek out some alone time away from her friends. "Honestly, Draco Malfoy!" she muttered, her robe swishing behind her as she headed to her books.
It took a few moments for Draco to get over the surprising outburst of Granger, but when he did, a new thought arrived.
Harry Potter was the one who gave the parcel to him in the first place.
An owl cut into the silence, dropping an envelope into Madame Pomfrey's lap and uttering a forlorn farewell before flapping away. As she read the letter, lips moving silently, Draco felt impatience rise quickly.
"Well?" Draco asked curtly.
She looked up, seemingly unfazed by his tone. "You may leave, Mr. Malfoy. The Headmistress has given you permission to return to your room and recover there. You are not to return to classes until she permits you to. Someone will give you your work."Finally. Draco didn't need to be told twice. He leaves, the first thing on his mind being a shower.
Showers, Draco decided, were lovely things. The heat surrounded him, water pattering on his back gently, soothingly. Applying a generous amount of body wash into his hand, he rubbed it onto his skin, ignoring noise in his head.
There were only so many times a man could listen to random snippets of loud conversationbefore snapping. They laughed, pleased when he'd finally yelled at them. They didn't take kindly to being ignored, and so his long-avoided muttering was music to them.
But they'd stopped being venomous, for the time being, settling for simply being irritating.
When others were around, they took advantage of the twinge of self consciousness he had, pulling and ripping until it grew into a sharp dagger.
He looked at you. He knows. He knows! You disgusting piece of—
—do you know what they think? They think you should be dead, why do you think they ignore you?
They want to hurt you, Draco. Get under your skin, rip that heart of yours out, make you bleed. See, they're laughing. Don't you see it in their eyes? They're all laughing, laughing.
Being in that infirmary was an escape, he realized. Tomorrow he'd have to face the others—and his accompanying guests' reminders.
Toweling his hair, he catches his reflection in the mirror.
The voices remind him, like a broken record, of how repulsive he is—it's all they really say, actually, but every time they say it, it increases in meaning.
After he dresses in a fresh set of clothes, he leaves for his Scottish hills, the howling from his throat long needed. Oh, he's missed it so.
o-o-o
Part of this chapter was inspired by BurningSky's fic, 'Eye Pod!' Read it, if you have the time. I quite enjoyed it.
Also, I'm not sure if she will see this, but I want to thank my reviewers for their input, especially Maria and I know okay for catching some errors and giving me some great suggestions on where to go with this!