Is it a matter of life and death? This feeling of helplessness, uncertainty, desperation. Is it a matter of good and bad, of just making the right decisions? Whatever it is, he hates it, wishes it will just go away. But like life, like death, like good, like bad, it isn't an ephemeral idea, something fleeting that will be gone by the time he wakes up. It's something he lives with every day. Something that keeps him from wanting to go to bed at night and from wanting to get up in the morning.
But he does it anyway, faces the day, the people, the work. He faces the feelings. He pretends to smile and laugh to please his friends, to keep them from worrying. Because the last thing they need is to worry about whether or not he's happy. Not when they have their whole lives ahead of them to worry about.
He goes through the motions. Brushes his teeth. Eats. Does his homework. And no one seems to bother to look deeper, to see that behind that fake smile he's hiding a deep, terrible secret that fosters dark and twisted thoughts in his mind.
He needs an escape, something to block out the thoughts that creep in when he feels a little lost, when he's been alone for too long, when nothing seems right. He runs. He hides. But he can't outrun his mind and he can't hide from his heart.
He sits alone one night on the steps outside the school. The thoughts in his mind are particularly dark; he can't manage to lie awake in bed anymore. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lights it with shaky fingers.
Smoking is one of those things that he knows is wrong but does anyway. He wonders briefly about what his peers would say but shoves it from his mind. It's cold, and the cigarette does little to warm him. His wand is in his room and he regrets not wearing a warmer cloak.
There is more to smoking than the nicotine buzz. A sense of calm envelops his body and remains long after the buzz goes away. He thinks about his breathing, concentrating on taking deep breaths into his lungs and belly and letting the air out slowly. It's not a sense of euphoria, but of peace. Momentary peace from the endless struggle.
Long after he puts out his cigarette, when he begins debating lighting up another, someone joins him, sitting down softly beside him, saying nothing. He looks at the woman beside him; she looks up at the stars.
"You smell like Muggle cigarettes," she says after a long while. He glances at her but says nothing.
"Which one is Draco?" she asks.
He points. It is a relief to think about something else, something that doesn't way him down. Thoughts of the woman beside him, coupled with the relaxing after-feeling of the cigarette, distract him from him usual worries.
"When did you start smoking, Malfoy?" she asks. He looks at her again, studying the lines of her face as they crumple with concern. He wonders why she is bothering to care about his well-being.
He shrugs and begins to pick at his nails.
He thinks about all the moments they have shared like this one. Moments of quiet between the two of them long after the rest of the castle is asleep. There is no judgment in these moments, no prejudice or thoughts of blood or hate or of the war that once was. They sit in silence, cherishing the company. He likes the feeling of not being alone. He likes being able to pretend he's normal, happy, cared for.
He can't remember when it changed from pretend care to real concern.
"Have you ever smoked, Granger? It's a terrible habit," he says when his thoughts attempt to consume him once more. He looks at her, finds her staring at him with eyebrows scrunched. He cannot help but think that worry isn't a good look for her.
She shakes her head silently.
"It calms you down," he says mildly. "Would you like to try one?"
He watches her contemplate it. A brief, selfish feeling makes him wonder why he's sharing his precious contraband with her, but he squashes it down. She's been nice to him lately, and he wants to return the favor, in whatever way he can.
"Alright."
He hands her a cigarette from his pack and leans over to light it. "You have to breathe it in right here," he says, touching her chest above her breasts. Her eyes snap from the cigarette in her hand to him, but he pretends not to notice. She takes a drag and breathes out, coughing.
"That's terrible!" she exclaims, handing it back. He takes it, careful to avoid contact with her fingers, and takes a drag. His mind attempts to wander toward thoughts of indirect contact with her mouth, but he pushes them aside and focuses on the feeling of smoke, the nicotine, the chemicals. A peace returns.
Passing it back, he tells her to try again. "Everybody coughs the first time," he reassures. It takes her a few tries, but eventually she manages to take a drag without coughing.
"How is this pleasurable?" she asks. He shrugs, taking another drag. He taps it and watches the ashes float away in the wind.
"Wait for the feeling to kick in," he says. "You'll know."
They share the rest of the cigarette in silence.
"Look, Malfoy," she says eventually, causing him to focus his gaze again on her. "Draco." He flinches at his name on her lips. It is the first time he can remember her using it. Even after her tone lost its animosity, it was always Malfoy. Always Granger. She ignores him, and continues. "I want to apologize for what happened last week. I shouldn't have pushed you."
He recalls their encounter last week, when he was particularly depressed. They met in an alcove off the Entrance Hall - he marvels at how she can always find him no matter where he sits - and she tried to get him to open up to her. The result had been more disastrous than beneficial, and he cried on her shoulder for at least half an hour.
Perhaps that is why they're so reluctant to touch each other, after the close contact last week. She had held him, rubbed his back, stroked his hair. When he stopped crying, he could have sworn she kissed the top of his head before letting go and leading him by his hand back to his common room. They had certainly never been that close before.
"It's okay."
"No, Draco, it's not okay. You're not okay. I know you're in a bad place, and you need to open up if you're going to get over it and I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."
They both seem shocked by this admission. A feeling of unworthiness bubbles up in his throat and he turns away. As if sensing his self-negativity, she puts her hand on his shoulder and turns him toward her.
"I just want to help, Draco," she says. "When none of your friends notice what you're feeling, why can't you let me help?"
"Why do you want to help?" he asks, suddenly angry at her. "All you've ever done is belittle and harass me and now you expect me to welcome you with open arms!"
She sighs dejectedly. Even through his anger notices her defeat. He wonders for the second time that night when she started truly caring.
"I'm just trying to understand, Hermione," he says, softened. "Why now?"
She looks at him, stares into his eyes as if trying to decode his secret soul, as if trying to discover the exact proportions of his feelings. "Because I can tell you need someone to lean on. You used to be so strong; I always admired that about you, even then. You were always strong, and nothing I said ever hurt you. And now you aren't strong and it pains me, because the moments we share are so special to me, and you're intelligent and lovely and refreshing. Different." She pauses, gathering her thoughts, gauging his reaction. "I want to make you as happy as you make me."
He looks at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. His breathing picks up - fast, uneven breaths - and his leg jiggles nervously beneath his hand. And then he stops. Stops breathing stops moving stops thinking stops.
With a deep breath, he leans over and kisses her square on the mouth.
The next morning, when he wakes up, his throat hurts. He turns over, not ready to rise, and thinks about the events of the previous night. A small smile stretches his features. But however small, it is genuine. For the first time in a very long time he gets up feeling ready to face the day.