Written for:
QLFC, Round Eight
Falmouth Falcons, Seeker
Mandatory: The Korean Wave: K-drama - Oh My Ghost. Theme - a relationship of any sort between a ghost and a human.
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Hogwarts (Assignment #3): Gardening: Flower Meanings, task 2
(Oof.. I'm still not positive about everything I'm supposed to put in here, but I'm a Slytherin)
Task 2 - Anemone: Write about losing hope.
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Word count (without AN): 1581
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Warnings: Bit of violence... hints at panic attacks... (This is... apparently a common warning for me)
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A/N: Draco is precious and I love him. I just wanted to say that.
Only She Knows
December, 1992: You see him. You've always seen him, but he's usually associated with an upturned nose, or a cold glare; today, his shoulders sag.
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"I don't want to be here," Draco murmured to himself as he leaned over the sink, tugging at his tie. The accessory isn't necessary; no one is required to wear their uniforms during the holidays at Hogwarts. But, Malfoys believe in pristine appearances, so Draco still wore the classy, black slacks with a tucked in, perfectly pressed button-down, and his Slytherin tie, wrapped to perfection around his slim neck. He hadn't bothered to put on his robes that morning.
Had it not been for the way his spine curved, thrusting each vertebra into the material of his shirt, creating skeletal shadows down his back, he would've looked his usual, perfect self.
His voice was barely audible over the silence of the bathroom.
"I just want to go home."
Before leaving the bathroom, he looked around wearily, as if expecting to be ambushed.
/-\
September 1993: He is angry today. Your fascination grows; his fury is something you have never seen before. It's exhilarating to watch the way his pale cheeks burn a bright red. This isn't a cold anger. No, it's a heated, punching the wall kind of anger.
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"Why do I have to do this?" Draco yelled. However, it was a quiet yell, more pushed out through his teeth as if he was trying to whisper out his anger. After stalking to the sink—the sink he had taken to leaning over—he tore off the sling holding his right arm to his body and threw it in the bowl, snarling at the white material. Not long after, a crumpled up piece of parchment joined the sling in the sink.
"This is taking it too far, Father," he ranted, pacing a few steps back and forth while glaring at the items in the sink. "It's too much. Even if it had been the hippogriff's fault, I wouldn't want him… dead. Why do you want me to advocate for his death?"
Draco paused his movements, his traveling from the items to his reflection in the mirror. He looked disheveled—his face flushed and his body sweaty from his anger. His eyes were filled with hatred, but he still lifted his wand and began casting spells to pull himself together. Slowly, he began looking more and more like a Malfoy
Finally, not breaking eye contact with himself, he re-tied the sling and slipped his arm into it before stuffing the parchment in his pocket.
"If Professor Hagrid gets sacked, or loses a pet, it's on you," he said in a low whisper, nearly growling. Without a second more spent looking at himself, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the bathroom.
/-\
June, 1995: You have never seen him cry. He has been on the edge before, but never have you seen a tear slip over the rim of reddened eyes...until he runs into the bathroom, falling to his knees and letting out a shaky sob.
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"No, no, no, no, no." Draco was nearly gasping for breath, a strand of his perfectly gelled hair breaking free and falling across his forehead.
"Diggory can't," Draco whimpered, his fingers burying into his hair, ruining any chance of style or composure. "He can't be...be dead."
Slowly, he pitched forward enough so his head rested on the same cold, stone floor of the bathroom as his knees. His 'Potter Stinks' badge dug into his chest painfully, but Draco almost embraced the feeling; he hated the creation anyway, and it's not like it made a difference to Cedric.
It was eerily quiet, save the soft noises coming from the boy curled up on the floor, for a single moment. But, then that moment was broken.
"What are you getting us into, Father?" Draco whispered, unable to make himself move.
/-\
June, 1996: You start to see him more often, and it's always the same story. He comes in, looking all prim and proper, but as soon as the door closes, he slumps. Today, when he begins to cry, you don't find yourself surprised.
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"You told me that things would get better," Draco whimpered, letting his head fall into his hands.
He sat underneath his sink, robe discarded and crumpled off to the side. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his hands were shaking visibly.
"How is you being locked up better?"
His voice was broken, cracking slightly as he wiped his palms roughly against his eyes, trying, and failing, to dry them.
/-\
October, 1996: You worry about him. He no longer looks put together; his hair falls over his forehead in stress-tousled waves, and he's thin—he hasn't been eating. You want to go to him, to help him, but the fear of losing him holds you back. You've spent the last few years watching him, the real him, and you can't have him leave you now.
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Draco breathed out harshly, leaning over his sink. His skin is a sickly colour; in the low light, he almost looks green.
"The cabinet. Figure out the cabinet," he muttered.
Draco repeated the words, over and over again, occasionally adding in other phrases, such as, "It'll be alright," "He chose you," and "Curses and poison. They might work."
After a few moments, Draco pushes himself back into a standing position, meeting his own, steel grey eyes. He hardly recognizes himself.
"If you don't do this, he'll kill you. He'll kill Mother. You have no choice. It'll be alright."
December, 1996: He is getting more desperate and careless. He's being followed and only recognizes it partially. You want to warn him; you can feel the words bubbling up in your throat, but they stop. The words are hard to breathe around, but you can't push them out. When he lays on bathroom floor, the bright red life-force leaving his body, you feel guilt.
The pain was intense, but he's had worse. The Cruciatus was painful until unconsciousness, but the blood loss seamlessly slipped Draco into a state of numbness before he passed out. He couldn't help but think, as his last thought before the world went black, that he deserved this—this and so much worse.
He almost wanted to thank Potter for reminding him of his place.
/-\
May, 1997: You're a little frightened. He whispers with such ferocity, that you shrink back into yourself, but you can't look away. You've never been able to look away.
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"For Salizar's sake, figure this out!" Draco cried out, clutching his head as he paces. His shirt was untucked and his eyes were red.
When his forearm started to burn, his head snapped up. He looked like a lost deer, frozen in place with a heavy load of fear in his eyes, weighing down his brain—he couldn't move or think. He was just stuck.
The Dark Lord had given him permission to ignore the summonings while he was at school, but just the thought of that...vile creature having the ability to summon him. It was lothesome.
And Draco was powerless. All he could do to withstand the combined forces of the pain and the idea was remain still, his hands clutching his messy hair, and his jaw clenching.
"I have to do this," he whispered, gasping for breath when the pain finally passed. "As long as I don't fail, it'll be alright."
/-\
September, 1997: Everything has changed. Dumbledore is gone, Death Eaters run classes. Harry Potter is missing. You stay stagnant, though. There's no reason for you to change. However, when he stumbles in to be sick in his sink, only managing to throw up bile, you realize that you were wrong: you need to change too.
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"That doesn't look very fun," a young female voice called. Draco's head snapped up, his grey eyes wild while a snarl danced on his tongue. He whirled around, his wand in hand, prepared to curse the person that dared to speak to him.
"I'm afraid you won't be able to hurt me with that," Moaning Myrtle giggled, her head cocked to the side as she looked at Draco.
Growling softly, Draco slipped his wand back into his robes. "What do you want, Myrtle," he asked, though it sounded more like a demand.
"The question is," Myrtle said, biting her lip. "What do you want Draco?"
The question caught the boy off-guard, and his anger softened, but only slightly.
"It doesn't matter what I want," he replied stiffly, stalking right through her to get to the door. He cringed when Myrtle made a light yelping noise, but didn't stop walking until she spoke to him outright.
"Then who gets what they want?" she asked and his hand stilled on the doorknob. He had been so close to getting out, to walking away, but he was starved—starved for a conversation that didn't have him fearing pain, or worse, his mother's death.
"The Carrows. The Snatchers. The Dark Lord," he listed out softly, remaining facing the door.
"What do the Carrows want?" Myrtle asked softly. Draco could feel that she was right behind him. Oddly enough, it was almost a comfort.
"Chaos. They made us practice Unforgivables on eachother," he breathed in reply.
"The Snatchers?"
"Money." His answer was immediate.
"The Dark Lord?"
"Complete power," Draco whispered, his eyes shutting tight.
"You?" Myrtle asked quietly, adding on to the list. Draco was silent for a moment, before his shoulders slumped in surrender.
"I just want death."
A/N 2.0: So... I may have written parts of this during the middle of the night? And I may have started crying? I'm not usually one for being emotional while writing, but apparently that was a thing here. Maybe I should stop writing sad fics? Maybe it's getting to me? Who knows XD