6/5/2017
Not a very happy chapter for Draco's birthday, unfortunately. :(
Warning for some sexual self-harm things going on at the very end of this chapter. A slightly more explicit version of the scene can be found at Hawthorn & Vine and AO3.
Haunted
Chapter Ten
To say Draco's mood had soured after his foray into the Room of Hidden Things would have been an understatement. When he wasn't in class or grabbing a quick bite in the Great Hall, he confined himself to his bed with the curtains drawn to deter his roommates from bothering him.
He spent the entirety of Saturday ensconced like this. Not even his hunger or a full bladder could motivate him to leave his bed.
This was what life was going to be like for the next nine months. He had no idea how his mother was faring at Malfoy Manor, and she, likewise, was as in the dark about him. No one engaged him in conversation that didn't involve insults and ridicule. No one looked at him with the adoration he'd enjoyed before the war. If anyone touched him, it was to hurt him. There was no more softness in his life, and he could expect to exist this way until the school year ended in June.
If he survived that long.
Draco's stomach grumbled for a full five seconds, twisting in his gut nearly to the point of nausea. He rolled onto his side and contemplated going in search of food and a bathroom, but voices entering the dormitory made him pause.
"Do you think what people are saying is true?" Blaise Zabini said, his tone disinterested even though he was the one who asked the question.
"I dunno," Theodore Nott replied. "Seemed like one of Pansy's pieces of gossip fodder at first. It's hard to imagine Granger'd willingly shack up with Malfoy, but they are seen together an awful lot."
Draco stilled, listening harder as a surge of anger made his heartbeat pound against his ears.
"It'd serve him right if the best piece of arse he could get was a Mudblood." The hinges of Zabini's trunk creaked across the dormitory from Draco's bed, followed by a rustling sound as he dug through the contents. There was something giddy in Zabini's voice, an emotion Draco had never heard from him before.
"Whatever, Zabini. I'm thankful. My father's extended stay in Azkaban makes me the steward of our estate. As miserly as he is, I wasn't going to see this kind of power or money until Father passed away. And what do you hate Malfoy for anyway? Your family wasn't touched by the war."
More rustling as robes were discarded and exchanged for pajamas. "I don't need a reason to hate him. He acts like his family is better than the rest of ours, and I enjoy seeing him knocked down several pegs. Stalking Granger like he doesn't know what else to do with himself, limping around from injuries rabid first years inflicted—it's been the highlight of my year."
Draco closed his eyes, remembering when he'd said similar words to Granger.
...I didn't want you to feel too proud of yourself. ...I like you best when you're moping around the castle trying to figure out how to fit in with all the other children.
"Maybe he misses Potter," Nott said with a snigger.
Zabini's laughter drifted back out of the room, silenced by the quiet snick of the closing door.
Rolling onto his side, Draco considered the implications of what he'd overheard.
Apparently, neither Draco nor Granger were as invisible as they'd thought. People had noticed him following her around and had interpreted their time together as time they'd chosen to spend with each other, rather than what it really was: Draco doing his very best to annoy Granger and succeeding. He hadn't really considered what other people would think of them together because he hadn't realized anyone was watching them close enough to notice.
Pansy had noticed, but Pansy noticed everything. Any observation could be tucked away in her memory to use against someone later, so it was not a surprise that she had catalogued how frequently Draco and Granger were seen together.
Weasley had noticed, too, but that was equally as understandable. Weasley was concerned for her friend, who had suffered hate and ridicule from her classmates since term began. Of course Weasley would notice Draco following Granger around if she was already keeping an eye on Granger anyway.
It didn't matter, though. Draco didn't care what anyone thought of him. The idea that there were students idiotic enough to believe or even entertain the idea that he and Granger were anything but enemies was laughable.
But maybe he could use this situation to his advantage.
He'd been searching for some way to piss off Granger and McGonagall, a way that was innocent enough to keep him out of Azkaban. Maybe this was it. If he played up to these new rumors, he'd brass everyone off, including Granger, who wouldn't appreciate the attention and speculation caused by his proximity to her. Maybe, if he played it just right, he could confuse Granger just enough that she'd stop acting like such an uptight harpy.
What else did Draco have to do?
He climbed out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown, thinking carefully about this epiphany as he donned the robe and slipped out of the dormitory. Scheming made him hungry. Maybe he could bully one of the house elves in the kitchen to fix him a sandwich.
He slipped through the common room unnoticed by his Housemates for the most part. Nott and Zabini had staked a claim on the most comfortable chairs in front of the fire while Pansy lounged across the sofa, a book perched on her voluptuous chest. Younger students took up space at study tables and sprawled on the chilly flagstone floor with textbooks or Exploding Snap cards. No one looked up at Draco except for Pansy, whose calculating brown eyes followed him out the portrait hole.
Draco paid no mind because that was the only way to deal with Pansy. She craved attention, and nothing infuriated her more than a lack of it. That's why she had clung to Draco for so many years. Now that he had fallen from grace with the rest of his classmates, Pansy had been forced to create chaos and seek attention some other way.
As he climbed the stairs out of the dungeons and descended the stairs leading toward the basement, he wondered at the conversation he overheard between Zabini and Nott. Had Pansy started those rumors, or had they begun independently of her, based solely off the interactions observed between Draco and Granger?
Lost in thought, he passed the portrait of the bowl of fruit that designated the entrance to the kitchens and only realized it when he reached the end of the basement corridor. He turned around and swore under his breath. His path was blocked by three students, Hufflepuff third years maybe?
"Look," the boy on the left said, the word coming out as an exhalation that echoed off the subterranean walls.
"What do we do?" the girl in the middle asked.
The girl on the right withdrew her wand, a wild glint in her eyes that did not bode well for Draco.
Upon seeing the girl's wand, the other two Hufflepuffs drew theirs as well, much more hesitant than their companion.
Draco knew what was coming next and left his arms dangling at his sides, his hands open. All too aware of his wand in his dressing robe pocket, Draco did his best to ignore it and squashed his instinct to defend himself.
Granger had been right a week ago, when she'd made assumptions about Draco's motivations not to fight back against the mob that had scored his leg. There was something freeing about pain, something transcendental. While someone beat him, bloodied him, his mind became blissfully blank, almost like being cursed with an Imperius. Except Draco's body roared with sensation, his nerve endings exploded in agony, and his mind floated along, unconcerned.
The confident Hufflepuff girl took a step forward, and as a "Petrificus Totalus!" left her mouth, Draco welcomed the spell, straightening his frame to make himself an easier target to meet the jet of white light. He hardly felt it when his limbs snapped together in a full-body bind and he fell backwards to the cold, stone floor. But he did feel it when the girl raced up to him to check the success of her spell and kicked him in the ribs in triumph. He felt every hit she aimed at him, and when her friends were finally convinced to join in, he felt their third-year spells, too.
He must have fallen unconscious eventually because he awoke to a house-elf levitating him through the dungeons, stopping before the portrait hole that led to the Slytherin common room. The creature squeaked when Draco groaned, its magic stalling, dropping him to the floor, prompting the house-elf to apologize profusely. It's bat-like ears flapped with furious vigor, and it's bulbous eyes watered, threatening to spill tears.
The Malfoys had had a house-elf once. Dobby. And then Potter had tricked Draco's father into freeing the elf, and afterwards Draco had been responsible for collecting his own laundry to send out for cleaning. He could remember cursing Potter's name as he picked up discarded briefs and robes from around his room. Thanks to Potter, Draco had received his own taste of servitude and it had not sat well with him.
Looking down at his dressing gown, Draco grimaced at the splotches of blood that stained the material. The Hogwarts house-elves might be able to get the blood out. He took the robe off and threw it over the elf mid-apology, and then he gave the password and climbed through the portrait hole, his whole body aching with each step and a stabbing pain puncturing his side with each breath.
He'd clean himself up in the morning. Right now, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep to forget his pain. Sleep to forget his failures. Sleep to forget that he was a man who no longer felt anything at all.
Draco's muscles were stiff and sore as he sat up late the next morning. Instead of braving a bathroom where he'd draw attention to himself, he rummaged through his trunk for a mirror and an old handkerchief and retreated back to his bed, curtains drawn as always. The blood that had ruined his dressing gown had spurted from his broken nose, making him look like an illustration from a Dark Arts text. This must be what vampires looked like when they fed. Or perhaps werewolves when they returned to their human shape, if they'd managed to catch any prey while transformed. He held the mirror further away from his face to get an overall impression, and he wasn't sure if he liked what he saw or not.
Did he look dangerous or weak with a broken nose, half a face covered in blood, and a black eye? He couldn't decide, so he conjured a glass of water and began to wipe away the oxidized, crusty blood.
He wished Granger were there to do it for him, but he pushed that thought away, reluctant to open the can of worms of the conversation he'd heard last night. Reluctant to consider the idea of Granger in his bed. But of course, once the thought had crossed his mind, he couldn't banish it. Granger was there, in his head, chiding him for being so careless or stupid. He imagined her snatching the handkerchief from him and insisting on cleaning him up herself. She'd have to sit close and straight to reach his face. Their knees would touch, her breath would be warm against his chin.
His eyelids shuttered and his hands fell, his task forgotten, as he pictured it.
She would be close enough that he'd feel the heat radiating off her body, and maybe, finally, for the first time since before the Dark Lord had taken residence at Malfoy Manor, he'd be able to absorb the heat and keep it. In the process of wiping his face, her bare fingers would brush his jaw or maybe his lips, and Draco—the real Draco, the present one—his breath hitched at the thought of that human contact. Skin against skin, even if it lasted for only one moment before she gasped and drew away, horrified at the thought of touching him and even more horrified by the groan he would release.
Draco's breath came in short pants, and both the mirror and the handkerchief fell out of his numb fingers, falling to the mattress, forgotten. His palm came to press against the erection straining against his underwear and pajamas, but he didn't move—couldn't move—beyond that point. His body was tight, drawn at both ends like a string, and if he moved, if he breathed, if he buried his hand in his pants and wrapped his fingers around his hot length as he wanted to do, the ripple effect of such gestures would shatter him into pieces.
No. He wouldn't let the idea of soft skin, an embrace, affection, or understanding break him. He wouldn't stoop so low as to jack himself off to the thought of Hermione bleeding Granger.
He gripped his clothed erection and squeezed until the pleasure escalated into pain. He would not sully himself in desperation. Not with her.
A moan slipped out from between his lips. The harder he squeezed, the more he wanted it: the pain, the desperation, Hermione fucking Granger. His other hand reached for his bollocks, squeezing, twisting, denying himself pleasure but his arousal escalating until his crushing grip sent him careening into a blasphemous, hateful release.
He leaned over, a shaking arm steadying him against the mattress, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the discarded mirror.
The rusty blood still coated his lower face, and sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips were flushed and swollen from biting them, and his eyes had grown dark and stormy, half-lidded as he caught his breath and exhaustion spread through his body.
No, he looked neither dangerous nor weak. He wasn't sure what he looked like, but the sight of himself sent a wave of disgust shuddering through him. Enough to pick up the mirror and throw it off the bed. With the curtains around his four-poster drawn, he did not see where it landed, but he heard a light thump that indicated a lack of satisfying shattering, which was just typical.
All of Draco's attempts to obtain some kind of relief blew up in his face, and he was starting to get the feeling that he would never experience comfort again.
TBC
Orignal Prompt:
Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione
Prompt: Soon after they return to Hogwarts for their eighth year of schooling, Hermione comes across Draco being taunted and tortured by a mob of students of all ages. All the horrible memories of her own torture in Malfoy Manor come flooding to the forefront of her mind. What does she do?
Preferred rating: Any
Squicks: None
Other comments: Go dark or as hopeful as you want.