Five years had passed since the war.
He wasn't even sure why he had come to visit.
He didn't feel like he had the right to.
The students look at him like he is a monster. Voldemort himself. But worst. An enemy that had no courage to be evil. A friend that had no courage to fight back.
Maybe he liked the pain.
He liked to feel it burn.
Inside his soul.
Inside his heart.
Maybe when he looked at the fixed hallways, he felt hope. Hope of nothing like that ever happening again.
Hope was something he hadn't felt in a long time.
The teachers pretend they don't see him walking by. The ones that can't do that barely give him a nod. One stops. She looks at him, asks him how he's doing. He feels grateful.
He walked down the hallways, through passages and roads. He knew many faces inside that school. People that were in the second year when the war came are now almost graduated. Five years is nothing.
And yet five years in everything.
He changed in five years. But the world didn't change towards him.
Then, he sees them, and freezes. He doesn't expect them to be there, he doesn't want to talk to them, he doesn't want them to know he is there. Anything, any look or spit or slam is better than their judging eyes.
They see him anyway. It is too late to run one more time.
"Malfoy?"
She is the first that speaks up.
He feels cold, sad, hurting. His eyes burn and threat to tear up but he can't afford losing any more of what he has already lost. His pride is to a minimum. He has nothing left.
"Granger. Potter. Weasley"
He doesn't know how his voice comes out so even.
He looks down at their feet, because he doesn't want to look in their eyes. Why would he? He knows what he will see. Surprise, hatred, betrayal.
He hasn't left the house since the war ended for a reason. The reason was right in front of him, specially.
Sometimes, in moments like these, he regrets not forgetting the hatred of the past and becoming friends with the Weasley in that first day of school.
Maybe he would have had a chance, if he had ever been one of the golden four.
He hears and sees them stepping closer. He closes his eyes for a second, and a second only, and raises his face, because it is rude to talk to other people while staring down.
When he looks up, he has only a second of vision before arms wrap around him in a hug.
His eyes widen. His mind turns. His heart swells.
That pair of arms is slowly followed by another, more delicate ones, but just as strong. A third pair follows, hesitant, big and warm.
He blinks slowly, because he has no idea of what is happening.
But he likes it.
"I thought I would never see you again, Malfoy" Potter says, after that awkward moment is gone and the trio is standing in front of him. Potter is grinning from ear to ear. Granger has a small smile on her face. Weasley seems content, though it is only seen through his eyes.
"Call me Draco, please" he says, but inside he begs. They don't like the Malfoy name anymore. Not for a while. Not until it is clean again.
"Draco... how have you been?" Granger is the next. She tilts her head and leans against Weasley. He has an arm around her waist. He always knew. Those two were meant to be. Probably why he never let his own crush for the know-it-all go much further than insults and stolen glances in the monitor's rooms.
"Fine" he answers shortly. He doesn't want to talk about himself. His life is a desperate boring mess. "How about you three? I have heard you are all training to be aurors"
"We are almost there, in fact. Next year we are receiving our first jobs" Weasley says, proudly. He nods. Tries to smile. He hasn't smiled in a long time. He is afraid it will look foolish. Weasley doesn't seem to mind.
"I thought we would be tired of fighting after everything but... I suppose we were born for it" Potter completes, his eyes shining. He looks happy. He is glad. Potter deserves to be happy after everything.
"And you? What are you training for?" Granger asks, once again.
Sometimes he wishes he could just tell her to shut up again. He doesn't want to talk about him.
"Nothing" he says. The silence rules for a few seconds, making everything awkward. He hates himself. He wants to leave.
He doesn't remember if he took his potions that morning. He hopes so.
"How are the Malfoys?" Potter asks, and he doesn't know if he wants to break the ice or just humiliate him even further. Both sound plausible.
"Living. One day at a time" he says, slowly, because there is no point in lying. "Paying for our mistakes one day at a time"
The silent returns. Now it is heavy. So heavy. He feels sick. Now he is sure he didn't take his potions that morning. Or maybe he did. He doesn't remember.
Some days they make him bright. Some others, they make it all dull.
"You know that nothing that happened is really your fault, right?"
Oh. Sometimes he wants to kiss her. Sometimes he wants to slash her throat.
"I am one hundred percent sure that if it wasn't, we wouldn't be paying as much as we are"
The silence is even worst. Why don't they leave? Give an excuse? Why they insist in talking to him?
"Draco"
He stops. Turns to them. Their eyes are filled with pity and sorrow. He doesn't feel as bad as he thought he would.
"If you ever need anything" he continues. He is surprised. It isn't Potter nor Granger who offers help. It's him.
Weasley.
Why Weasley?
"We don't. We have more than we need" he says. He is talking about money. He knows Weasley isn't. He says it in hope that he will be angry, or annoyed, and stop pressuring. But apparently, not only Potter and Granger changed.
Weasley walks forward, puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Malfoy. Draco. Enough with these family rivalries. We have nothing to do with them. I am tired of wasting my energy in things that aren't worth it" he says, and his smile is as warm as the sun. He feels so cold, like the moon. "Everything is over. Why can't we start again?"
He doesn't feel like he is worth someone like him.
People like them.
Blue, green and brown meet gray in a soft dance. The song is slow. The ambiance is calm. Nothing feels wrong. Everything feels right. The sun rises and they are so warm. Grey is so cold. But it feels itself warming up.
"I don't want your pity, Weasley"
"Ron, please" he says, and the smile never leaves. He is sick of it. But he also needs it. "Call me Ron"
This feels wrong.
Longbottom should be here. Lovegood. The female Weasley. Blaize, Pansy, Crab, Goyle. Anyone. He betrayed them. He had the chance to choose. He made a mistake, he was saved, and yet he returned to the wrong side.
Why would they give him a chance?
Why him?
He only notices he is crying when Weasley's expression changes. His eyes widen and he pulls away, rubbing his eye with his sleeve and turning around, away from the trio, away from their sight.
He can't cry in front of them, he can't!
But he already has.
He has cried in front of Potter before.
He is sure Granger heard him once or twice.
They had probably told Weasley already so there was no hiding anymore.
But in front of them?
Like a useless, weak baby?!
That was all he was, anyway.
Just like his father. Weak. Dispensable. Useless.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
They touch him again. On his shoulder.
Like a toy, he falls, legs trembling. His knees hit the ground as the first sob comes out. It is loud and regretful and it shows how weak he is. How weak he has always been.
He knew he shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have come here. But he did. And now he has to deal with the consequences of his actions.
The trio surrounds him as if they had always been friends.
As if whatever hatred and distrust between them had never existed.
There is an arm around his shoulders, someone holds his hands and someone else caresses his head.
He doesn't want to know who is who.
He cries for what feels like hours. It's probably a few minutes.
He doesn't want to open his eyes.
"Do you want us to leave?"
Her voice is very soft.
He nods slowly.
One by one, they let go. He rubs his eyes then, and takes a few deep breaths.
When he opens his eyes, they are gone.
He hears no steps, no movement.
He stands, wondering if it was all a dream.
If he is so desperate that he is imagining things.
That he is so lonely that he creates fake company.
That he is so sorry that he presents himself with the three, specifically.
That he wishes everything had been different, and he had chosen the side that hurt less.
It has to be a dream. They would never forgive him. Not after all he had done. Not after all he had ruined. Not after all those years of pain and suffering he put them through. Not after the war. Not after the betrayal.
He stands and fixes himself, checks his hair and clothes.
And as he folds his sleeve.
He sees a warm red hair.