A/N: Right now just a DPOV one-shot. This is just a little dust bunny I couldn't get out of my head. I'm trying my hand at a little present tense. It takes place after the trio is captured and taken to Malfoy Manor. Draco may seem vague or leave out details (such as the other prisoners in his house), but those things are simply not important to him at that moment, so he does not notice. As he says here, he's a right selfish bastard.
Heart Ache.
I read this term somewhere. I don't remember when or where. It was nothing special then. Meaningless. Just words.
But now I understand.
Heart ache.
My heart aches.
Pain.
A word I am intimately familiar with.
There are many types of Pain. I know them all. We know each other well.
Hate.
You'll believe me when I say I know Hate. My name. That's all it would take.
I have hated with my entire being.
I hate.
I am hated.
I am no longer sure if I still have a heart. Because of Pain and Hate. But then it aches. For them. For myself, although I don't think I should be allowed to feel sorry for myself. I'm a right bastard who deserves any Pain I get. But I'm also a right selfish bastard.
And so my heart aches. It aches so badly I wonder if it's still beating. I wonder which way I would prefer it: beating or not. The basest of desires begs for survival though, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel the slow, resentful thud in my chest.
If the Pain stops, what do I feel?
How menial my memories of school seem now. Sure, classes helped us along, I suppose. I don't imagine we could have gotten quite so far in our twisted, magical world without them. But the social aspects of my school days seem so petty. All of it. They sit us on a stool in front of the entire student body and allow a bloody hat to decide our fate. Separated into one of four houses, which everyone else will resent you for. That stool is where the trouble begins.
From there, it just gets pettier. Perhaps I'm blinded by the war outside those walls. Who am I kidding? I brought the war past the walls myself.
Ache.
thud.
I'm not sure that I ever really hated her then. She annoyed the bloody hell out of me with her know-it-all attitude. And I resented the hell out of her for making better marks than me.
I hated her because I was supposed to. It was what was expected of me. And then I hated her because I realized I didn't hate her at all.
It was fourth year when I first grasped just how much I didn't hate her.
My fourth year, Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament. With it came the Yule Ball. I'll never forgive them for that.
I had walked up behind Potter and Weasley to make some snide bash at them, when she came down the stairs to meet her date. My fourteen-year-old self noticed that she was female for the first time in the three-and-a-half years I had known her.
So did Weasley, that carroted baboon.
It sounds clichéd and cheesy, but that's how it happened.
I resented her more, and my hatred doubled.
None of that matters.
It shouldn't matter.
IT SHOULDN'T MATTER.
But it does.
Ache.
thud.
Right now. The present.
What's happening right now? I bring myself out of the retreat of my own head.
I am in my room at the manor. Sitting on the floor, head between my knees.
I am hiding. From Pain.
From the screams.
Screaming. New screams.
My aunt has acquired a new victim.
No… This is different. I tune in to hear Aunt Bella's angry accusations. She is usually gleeful in her torture.
No.
NO.
ACHEACHEACHETHUDTHUDTHUD
I sprint down the stairs of the manor to the room where my aunt is torturing—
"MUDBLOOD!" It's just a word, but it gives me reason to run faster.
I slow and peak around the doorframe, but my aunt's back blocks her victim from my sight. I see her knife at a girl's arm, the previously hurled insult glistening back at me in blood.
A whimper.
A cry.
A plea: "No, please! I didn't…."
I freeze.
It's her.
I have spent nights praying to gods I don't believe in that she has kept herself hidden. It had been so long since there had been any sightings of the "Golden Trio," I had allowed myself to hope.
My hopes all shattered the second I heard that plea.
"Ah, Draco. So lovely of you to join us. Come to play?"
Too much.
I look up to see my aunt's maniacal smile.
I was wrong. I have not known Hate until this moment.
I am quiet, but cannot help the Hatred pouring from my eyes as I look at her.
She cackles and says, "You don't have to touch it, dear nephew. It will be gone soon enough. Fetch the blood-traitors; they will watch!" She does not understand that my Hate is not for the girl lying on the floor, beseeching me with her eyes.
I hesitate for only a second before spinning on my heel and taking careful, measured steps out of the room. As soon as I am out of sight, I set off at a sprint to the dungeon, anxious to not leave my aunt alone with her longer than necessary.
PlanPlanPlan. What can I do? I could Side-Along her…but where to? Where do I know that she would be safe?
Suddenly, I am face-to-face with Potter and Weasley, the assumed blood-traitors I am to collect. Their unexpected appearance does not concern me enough to question it; they shove me to the wall and rush past, heading toward my lunatic aunt and her prey. With no hesitation this time, I follow, hoping—no, praying—they have the plan I do not.
I arrive to see Potter expelliarmus Aunt Bella. He catches her wand, and she backs into a wall, the wand in his right hand still pointed at her chest. Weasley is helping the bleeding girl on the floor to her feet and moving her to…
Bella's cackle draws my eyes back to her. She has raised her sleeve and is pressing her finger to the ugly black tattoo on her arm. The identical one on my own arm burns.
"NO!"
The shout is out of my mouth and my wand pointed between her eyes before I have time to consider an alternative.
"Stupefy!" My aunt's eyes barely have time widen in shock before she crumples to the ground, unconscious.
"Draco! What is the meaning of this!"
My head whips around to face the astonished voice of my father, flanked by my mother.
I reach to push Potter toward his companions, but he is already gone from my side.
I follow his direction to the small group waiting for him and point to the girl still being supported by Weasley. "Her," I say forcefully.
I manage to grab Potter's shoulder just before I hear a loud snap.
I barely get a glimpse of the sea before I am tackled face-first into wet sand. I do not struggle, even to breathe. I fully understand the severity of my situation.
"What the fuck, Malfoy!" Weasley's voice is above me, and I mentally cringe at the knowledge that it's the ginger loon overpowering me, but I do not move.
"Stupefy!" It's Potter's voice, and I—
black.
thud.
Blink.
"Stupefy."
black.
Groan.
"Stupefy."
black.
Ache.
Not just the void where my heart should be. Everywhere. My entire body. But not a post-cruciatus ache like I've become somewhat accustomed to. More of a been-still-way-too-long ache.
Oh. And a tackled-the-the-ground-by-a-ginger ache.
Upon that realization, I attempt to keep still because I remember being put back under multiple times before.
"I know you're awake."
Her voice.
Shit.
I open my eyes to a white ceiling covered in flickering, candlelight-cast shadows and blink a few times. My eyes are sticky with sleep. I have no idea how long it's been since they were last opened.
I make to sit up, but am unable to do more than lift myself a few inches off of the bed I'm lying on.
"Don't fight it. It'll only hold you tighter."
I do as the voice says and lie back, but turn my head to the right to find its owner in the dim light.
"How long—" My voice is too rough, and I cough.
"Almost two days now," she answers anyway. "The others would probably still have you stupefied if I hadn't volunteered for guard duty."
I stare.
thud.
She's wearing muggle jeans and a jumper, both a little rough for wear, but clean. Her hair is pulled back, and she's rolling her wand—no, Bella's wand between her fingers. She's alive and it's the most welcome sight I've ever seen.
The sleeves of her jumper are pushed up and a large, white bandage peeks from under the left.
Ache.
thud.
"Now that you're caught up, Malfoy," my family name is a swear word on her lips, "why don't you tell me what you were playing at back there at the manor. Stupefying your own aunt. Latching onto Harry. And particularly the part when you answered your father by pointing at me. I'm very interested in hearing that bit."
I try to wet my lips with a dry tongue then turn my head back to face the ceiling.
I hear the door snap shut a minute later.
thud.