Could be friendship or pre-slash, depending on what you want. Not as lighthearted as my other one-shot.
Inspired by a friend.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner.
Laughter burst out around me at Blaise's imitation of Slughorn's simpering praise of the Boy Who Lived. I force myself to join in, to partake in the time honored ritual of finding joy at the expense of others. I used to be just like them; better than them in fact. I had been the undisputed master at spotting every hesitation, every falter, every weakness, and exploiting them mercilessly; prying wounds open to reveal the softness beneath. Now I simply couldn't be bothered.
As we leave the Great Hall to go to our first class of the day, I let the voices of my housemates wash over me. Pansy's shrieking, Theo's sneers, Blaise's baritone, all blending together into meaningless chatter as I sink into the sanctity of my mind.
I interject when I should and respond when expected to. That is a skill I thankfully haven't lost. The consequences of my mental state being discovered was…it didn't bear thinking about. Still, it alarmed me – as much as I was capable of feeling alarm nowadays – that even my wariness was fading. One day soon, I would wake up and not don the Malfoy mask, because I simply couldn't be bothered to. And when that day comes… I absently wonder if it mattered. It would mean death, but it would be the death of a shell void of substance. It would be the death of something devoid of life, empty of meaning.
I couldn't be sure what sparked my spiraling descent into apathy. I only knew that it was now a constant part of my life, slowing leeching every feeling from me. It could have begun with my father's incarceration. Or perhaps my initiation into a life that I had always dreamt of and discovered was nothing like I had dreamt. Perhaps it had been my realization that I was about to die, and the only feeling that my death would elicit from the world was morbid enjoyment.
I shake the dangerous thoughts from my head. Now was not the time to ponder such matters. I hadn't lost all sense yet and I still had a role to play. I follow my classmates into the classroom and allow my thoughts to blank. My last thought is to fleetingly point out the creeping deepening of nothingness.
I walk around the rest of the day in an increasingly familiar daze. Time has no meaning, the day passes in the blink of an eye yet lasts for an eternity. I'm unsure how I came to be sitting in the common room, surrounded by people playing Exploding Snap or gossiping, despite of being able to recall the entire day with startling clarity.
Abruptly, a wave of intense, all-consuming anger overtakes me. It causes my heart rate to triple and my vision to distort. I barely maintain enough presence of mind to make an excuse and leave the common room without suspicion. I can't pinpoint a source for my anger, nor a trigger. It's absolute and encompasses both everything and nothing.
I wasn't sure what I had expected to happen once I left the common, left all witnesses. Perhaps I had thought I would expel my anger with hexes. It didn't matter. The anger left as abruptly as it came, leaving me deeper in the embrace of apathy than ever before. I vaguely entertain the notion that I miss the anger, that I miss feeling no matter what the feeling was. It takes no time at all before the idea too evaporates into nothingness.
I let my feet carry me where they will, making no attempts to conceal my presence, or to avoid teachers. The effort is beyond me. A strange sort of luck means I find myself in front of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom unimpeded and undetected.
I let myself in and find it unoccupied, even by the resident ghost who has claim to it. My gaze sweeps through the room, over the rough stone walls and grimy floor tiles, pausing for but a second on the rows of stalls standing open and achingly empty. Eventually, I find myself in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.
My hair is as immaculate as always, and my robes are as pristine as ever even after a full day of classes. But my attention is focused instead on deadened grey orbs. People have compared my eyes to storm clouds – rolling and flashing and full of hidden depths – and oceans – fathomless but alight with the reflected light of the sun. They were more comparable to the stone wall now, constant and dull. In fact, the walls likely had more texture.
A slightly hysterical giggle claws its way from my throat at the thought that I was standing in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom after curfew comparing my eyes to rock. And finding them lacking.
Then the bathroom door slams open and I find myself at wandpoint. Of Harry Potter's wand.
I fumble for my own wand after a moment too long. The brief narrowing of his eyes tells me he noticed my delayed reaction. Panic fills me as adrenaline courses through my body and seemingly counteracts the lethargy which has become my normal state of being. Potter can't know what's happening. Any of it. From my mission to my mental state, having Potter of all people find out…
My panic, ironically, enables me to steady my wand and bite out a vitriol filled "Potter" in greeting.
"Malfoy," is spat out in kind.
"Congratulations. You've proved you know my name after six years in school together. Would you like a medal? It is a fairly impressive accomplishment for someone of your intelligence," I drawl.
His eyes narrow into a glare and his snarls, "That's because you're not worth knowing."
My apathy slams back into me with a vengeance. Tonelessly, I suggests he leave. Then, I do something I've never done before, I turn my back on him.
His surprise is palpable. The idea that I would dismiss him now when I've spent the last six years of my life antagonizing him has him stunned. The idea that I would ignore him when his wand was pointed at my head has him stupefied. I know I've tipped him off to something, but I can't bring myself to care.
The silence of the room roars in my ears.
Footsteps shatter the silence and I peripherally register surprise that he listened to me for once. Then, I have barely a moment to realize I made a mistake before his hand falls on my shoulder and he spins me around to face him once again.
I force myself to meet his gaze, but I lack the motivation and energy to inject loathing into my countenance.
"What are you up to?!" he demands.
I make no effort to respond.
"I know you're up to something. Slimy snake. Always up to no good. Well I'm on to you! You hear me?"
His fingers dig harder into my shoulder, but the slight pain isn't enough to jolt me from my dispassionate stare. For a while, we simply look at each other. I, with detachment. He, with increasing desperation. The anger that had been so evident in every line of his body strangely absent now.
"What are you up to?" he asks, but it sounds more like a plea. "What do you have to do? T-tell me and I-I can help you."
The absurdity of Harry Potter offering help to Draco Malfoy is enough to cause a slight widening of my eyes. The movement is enough to ease off some of my apathy and I shake his hand off of my shoulder.
"Nothing." I say.
"Don't lie! I know you're up to something and I-I can help you. I know you don't want to do this. You might be mean at times but you're not evil. Don't do this. Let me help you."
"You can't!" I reply.
It takes me a second to realize I had screamed it. The apathy I had been affiliated with for so long vanishes for the third time tonight. But this time, it's not a single emotion that overwhelms it, it's every emotion I hadn't felt for months.
Blazing hatred.
Utter despair.
Crippling fear.
Irrevocable hopelessness.
Crushing loneliness.
Emotions which I had buried beneath a blanket of apathy so that I could function, so that I wouldn't fall apart at the seams like I was doing now.
"Saint Potter can't save everyone! You think you have it hard? You think you understand what I'm going through? You can't! You're perfect! You have the world at your feet and friends at your back! How can you understand what it's like to be a slave to the whims of another? To have the weight of the world on your shoulders? To have to accomplish a task so monumental that the only possibility is failure? To know that not only is everyone expecting you to fail, but they're looking forwards to it? To realize that you are entirely alone even when surrounded by people? To understand the only emotion your impending death causes is cool amusement? How can you help?!"
My throat hurts from my screaming tirade and I realize that I had started crying sometime during my rant. I can't bring myself to feel ashamed though, not when I'm drawn into a tight hug and words like "Dursleys" and "prophecy" and a hundred other things which make no sense to me are whispered into my hair.
As I slowly bring my arms up to return the embrace, four simple words stand out from his almost indistinct mumble.
"Not alone. I care."
AN: Please review! I welcome all comments and constructive criticism.
I feel like this is really disjointed and that the reasons for Draco's abrupt moods aren't expressed very clearly. Part of the reason is obviously that Draco himself often isn't consciously aware/has suppressed the reason but I still feel that this could be done better. What do you guys think? Is my impression baseless? Suggestions for improvements?