.

Vertigo

.

Everyone was looking down on them.

Draco swallowed thickly. He might not have been able to look away had his father not intervened. Sporting nothing but a few bruises and a less-than-regal appearance, Lucius Malfoy got up and stood. His father seemed shaken and ashamed, but strong in his resolve to hide his family from the unwarranted, yet accumulating stares.

But it was in vain, just like how everything his father had done was in vain.

It served as a reminder. They wouldn't have been in this mess if it hadn't been for his father, or maybe Draco was just looking for someone other than himself to blame. It certainly felt like it. There was no satisfaction in the glare he had fixed on the senior Malfoy. There was nothing but an overwhelming feeling that nearly choked him. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't anything.

Liar.

It was everything.

"Are you proud of me, father?" he forced out through his constricted throat. He didn't regret it. For the life of him, he couldn't tell if it was out of spite or sheer curiosity. Not that it either of the two mattered anymore.

Lucius never gave a verbal answer, but he did tighten his grip on Draco's shoulder. It was a mix of affection and chastisement; a warning not to ruin the moment, and an assurance that Draco had done nothing wrong. Draco was quietly thwarted from his orbit, blinking slowly.

There had been no reason to expect his father's relief when he found out that none of them had (suffered) died. And yet, there they were. Lucius was holding onto them – Draco and his mother— like they were his lifelines. His father didn't seem to care anymore that his son was a liar, and a coward to have defected (ran) at the almost end. His father didn't seem so bothered that he himself had given up all his ideals for his family's sake.

For Draco's sake.

Had this been any other situation, he would've felt self important. He would've grinned. He would've been someone other than the cowardly son of a Death Eater.

Stop thinking.

His mother had his face cradled in her shaking hands. Her nails were digging uncomfortably in his dirty, ashen cheeks, but he was loath to mutter a complaint. She was alive, and safe, but she still looked too pale with worry. Her eyes were shadowed and tired, but they relentlessly searched every inch of his features, looking for the kind of assurance he never thought to utter aloud.

"Shh... shh… You're alright, Draco," Narcissa was saying. "We're alive. We're all here."

Draco nearly choked on air, because suddenly it was too difficult to breathe. His throat was tightening again painfully, and his tear ducts stung in the most humiliating, yet familiar way. He couldn't help but over-think her worded whispers. He couldn't help noticing the implications in the way she didn't say they were safe.

Because they weren't safe.

Of course not.

The Dark Lord was dead. Potter had won.

What now?

The Death Eaters— and by extension, Draco and his family— were all done for. He couldn't even have the pleasure of wishing the circumstances were more different. He defected even while the Dark Lord was alive. His father and mother had abandoned their duties for him. Had the Dark Lord won against Potter, his family would've been dead faster than one could say Avada Kedavra.

Because no one betrayed the Dark Lord and lived.

Draco wondered at where his future would be. Potter had won. Draco's arm still stung, as if in refusal to allow him to forget anything. Where the Dark Mark should have been was an angry, red burn. The fact that the Dark Mark was gone didn't make him feel any better.

Potter had won. And every damned person in the Light knew the Malfoys were a family of Death Eaters. Draco knew it was stupid to hope for a little mercy for his mother, but he did anyway. The lives of his family - he and his father- were at stake.

Draco's eyes burned almost unbearably. The organ pumping life into him seemed to have realized that its days were numbered for it began a new, erratic pace that had him feeling nauseated. He could hear it in his ears. Draco was acutely aware of so many things at the moment that he was overwhelmed by it all.

Potter and his friends were cheering.

(Crabbe died. Aunt Bellatrix died. The Dark Lord died. His mother could have too; merlin, she was unarmed.)

He could hear happiness mingle with the Light, and he could see them clearly from the corner of his bloodshot eyes.

(There had been flashes of color, unrelenting jets of bright green light—)

Everyone that wasn't him, or his mother or father, were all understandably happy. They were laughing, talking incessantly about how they beat who, or how they killed what (not who, because "monsters like Death Eaters weren't ever 'who's, only 'what's", said a Gryffindor), but most others were cheering for Potter, that blasted Weasley and even Granger.

(— bodies falling, eyes frozen wide, hearts stopping and blood flowing onto the mass of rubble, mutilated flesh and floor—)

Everyone was celebrating every single bloody victory that had been Draco's loss. It was expected, it was easy, and it was sick that everyone else could still point fingers at his family like they were a main attraction, like they were white sheep in a field of hungry wolves. Narcissa no longer cared. She stopped caring the moment she handed Draco her wand.

Drawing selfish gasps for breaths, he turned his head and tried to will everything he had seen and heard away. It didn't work. His hands balled into fists, and he found himself physically hurting not to cry. It was all maddening. He was angry and confused, but he had no one to blame! Not father, not Potter, not anyone.

He couldn't find it within himself to begrudge the Light for being happy, couldn't hate them either. Potter and his friends were the reason no one had come to finish his family off while they were still there, breathing the death-stained air (the Dark Lord's fault). Potter was the reason the Dark Lord wasn't murdering Narcissa this very instant.

Draco wasn't sure if he was allowed to say thank you. He wasn't sure if Saint Potter wanted to hear it.

Draco felt too claustrophobic suddenly, but was utterly loath to leave the Great Hall. Leaving implied having this relative safety slip through their fingers, and then facing the Ministry, the Media, and even worse, Azkaban prison. He didn't want to find out if his family would ever make it past next week. He didn't want his mother Kiss-ed by Dementors. He didn't want his father losing his mind in some dank prison cell.

He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

As if understanding the reason for Draco's sudden tenseness, his father's hand tightened on his shoulder in a vague show of comfort. Lucius gently kissed his frightened mother on the lips, and Draco forced his eyes shut. Unable to stop the sudden onslaught of tears, Draco lowered his head to hide his face.

His parents pulled away after too long a moment. Narcissa drew both men in a rare embrace. Draco tried to will his arms around her, but they weren't cooperating with him. His mother didn't seem to mind in the least. Lucius made up for it by returning Narcissa's gesture in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, pride be damned.

Pride no longer mattered in the aftermath.

A/N: Reviews fuel my passion for writing. :)