Chapter Fifty-Eight
Something Dark Inside
Poppy:
Potter trudges into Poppy's office—still in his pyjamas—and slouches in the doorway. Despite the fact that he's had dreamless sleep almost every night this week, there are dark shadows under his eyes, making his sallow face look paler than it already does. He's taking longer to recover than last time, and though she knows it's a sign of his advancing condition, she also can't help but think a large part of the problem is this mood he's entrenched himself within.
She waits for him to speak, to break the quite scratch of her quill with whatever is bothering him. She knows better than to push him. He's like a thestral. Quiet, mistrusting and easily spooked. He has to come to her. Just like with the panic attacks, and the crush on Malfoy.
After a long moment, however, the silence stretches out, disrupting her research. She sighs, pausing mid-sentence and glancing up at him.
'Can I help you, Mr Potter?'
He stares across the room, at window that looks out to the forest. 'I…I was wondering if I can take the leaf out yet?'
'Leaf?' she asks. 'Ah, Minerva's training. You'll have to take that up with her.'
Potter chews on the inside of his mouth and Poppy gets the distinct impression that he had expected this answer. That this was not the real question on his mind.
She sets down her quill and straightens up, taking a proper look at him 'Something else on your mind?' she asks.
Potter picks at the sleeve of his shirt. 'I…I don't really understand what she wants me to do. The leaf, this meditation crap, how the hell is it going to help me?'
His gaze flicks over to her and away again.
'Have you asked her?'
His shoulders turn inwards. 'No,' he mumbles.
'Perhaps you should start there?
He doesn't answer. He frowns out at the grounds, his gaze distant.
'Can I have Hedwig? Just…for a night?' he glances toward her, his shoulders drawn inwards, still chewing on his lips.
She takes a moment. Normally she would refuse outright. An owl in the Hospital Wing does not encourage a sterile environment. However…
'Alright,' she says. 'On one condition.'
He sighs, his entire frame drooping into the doorframe. He glances up, dragging his gaze from the floor to meet her eyes.
'Condition?' he asks wearily.
'I want you to go back classes tomorrow.'
He scowls, some of that familiar ire returning to his features. He drops his gaze, his fists clenching over the hem of his long sleeves.
'Can I have Blue, too?'
She raises her eyebrows. 'A snake and an owl?' she asks, her tone disapproving. 'You ask for a lot.'
'So do you,' he mutters, dropping his gaze.
'You had to expect it, you can't stay in here forever.'
He crosses his arms over his chest. 'I guess,' he says, scuffing his feet along the floor. 'I just—what if, if I…'
Realisation courses through her. 'You're worried it'll happen again?' she says.
He shrugs. 'McGonagall says this training thing will help but…what's a leaf under my tongue supposed to do? And all that meditation crap? I don't get it. How is that supposed to help me if…if I…'
He shudders and runs a hand through his hair.
'It's okay to be afraid,' says Poppy softly.
Potter stiffens. 'I think I have more than enough good reasons to be,' he snaps.
She sighs. 'Potter—'
'Can I have them or not?'
She purses her lips. Reigning in her temper—which wants to berate him and dock points—she takes a deep breath and says (as calmly as she can manage), 'yes. If you return to classes tomorrow. And that includes taking meal times back in the great hall.'
He stares at her, arms still crossed, leg jigging restlessly as he leans agains the doorframe and considers her conditions. 'Fine,' he says.
'Good,' she says and, despite his attitude, feels as if she's made some small modicum of progress.
Pansy:
Pete is staring at her again.
Pansy hides a smile behind her steaming mug of tea, taking a sip and pretending not to notice him. She puts her mug down, leans an elbow on the table and turns to Daphne who is scribbling away in her notebook of secrets—the words instantly scrambled into a language that Pansy can't read. She rolls her eyes.
'What secret project are you working on now?' she quips, not really caring.
Daphne glances up, one eyebrow quirked in wry amusement. 'Bored of your Ravenclaw already?'
Pansy grins, pleasure bubbling up her spine. 'Oh, he's alright,' she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder in order to cast a quick glance his way.
He's still watching.
Daphne snorts. 'What happened to the last one?'
Pansy flaps her hand. 'The Hufflepuff?' she wrinkles her nose. 'Too needy.'
Daphne darts a quick look across the table. 'Your Ravenclaw seems much the same.'
'Hm,' says Pansy. 'There's needy, and then there's attentive. It's an important distinction.'
Daphne nods, her amusement making her face look less harsh and serious than usual.
She's almost passable as attractive like this. If she made more of an effort, she might even manage to keep a guy around. Though—Pansy looks down at the secret notebook—she doubts that boys are a priority of Daphne's.
As if sensing what she's thinking, Daphne rolls her eyes. She shakes her head and then pauses, her posture straightening as her gaze pins on something across the room. Curious, Pansy follows her gaze.
Potter.
He trudges into the room, his hands buried within the folds of his too-big robes (honestly, would no one teach that boy how to dress properly?) three steps behind Granger and Weasley. A few moments later, Weasley—the attractive one—steps through with a blonde girl Pansy remembers seeing once or twice (though, not long enough to know her name).
They walk around Potter like a guard, a loose circle that keeps everyone else away from him. Not that it was needed. One look at Potter's face and even a blast ended skrewt would steer clear.
Without meaning to, Pansy glances sideways. Draco, several seats down and across the table, is watching Potter. His face is carefully blank, but he's gripping his mug so hard his knuckles are white and Pansy half expects the cup to break beneath that grip in a dramatic shower of porcelain.
Rolling her eyes, Pansy shifts her focus back to Peter, only to find that he too is watching Potter. Half the room is watching Potter.
'Merlin don't they have anything better to do?' she scowls.
Daphne laughs softly. 'He's intriguing. People like intrigue.'
Pansy snorts. 'There is nothing intriguing about Potter.'
'Maybe not to you,' says Daphne.
Her gaze flashes over to Draco, so quick that Pansy almost didn't see it. Irritation spikes through her. Honestly, had everyone known except her? She sighs, pushing up off the table.
'You're not eating?' asks Greg, frowning up at her from across the table.
Pansy scowls. 'I've lost my appetite.'
She turns and stalks out of the room, her heels clacking against the marble. Out in the Entrance Hall, footsteps echo behind her.
'Pans.'
Irritation burns through her, but she stops anyway. How can she not, when he's said her name like that? Her pet name.
She turns back to look at him. He's still dressed the same, fastidiously neat. His hair, no longer slicked back, falls just short of his chin, perfectly cut and straight. His expression is still cool and superior, comanding the respect of his family and position.
Yet...
This is not her Draco.
She sees it in his eyes. Her Draco is lost; and even before he speaks, before he asks the question she knows is coming, she knows who she has lost him to.
'I need to know who it was,' he says, his eyes bright and blue and blazing—the only emotion on his face.
She doesn't pretend not to know. She would have, once. She would have enjoyed it, too. Dangling the information in front of him until he gave her something worth her knowledge. He would have, too. That was the game was played. He knew it, and so did she.
And yet…
'His name is Eric,' she says plainly, not in the mood for games that are no longer any fun. 'He's a seventh year. Gryffindor. That's all I know.'
He blinks once. He contemplates her, his head tilted slightly, confused by her honesty.
Finally, he says, 'that's all I need.'
'What are you going to do to him?' she asks.
'Do you really care?' he asks.
She tilts her head. 'No,' she says, and shrugs. She offers him a sultry smile, her best, and turns away. Heels echoing through the hall she heads away from him. 'I really, really don't.'
Draco:
He comes to slowly, wincing as he wakes up, not realising straight away that he is restrained.
Draco sits patiently in front of him and waits. Waits until the boy's eyes are open. Until the realisation and fear flash across his face as he tries to move his arms and finds them tied to the chair. Until he looks up and sees Draco. Sees the wand and Draco's hand, pointed levelly at Eric's chest.
'Hello Eric,' says Draco.
'Malfoy?' the boy gaps. He pulls his arms against the restraints. 'What the fuck? What the hell is this?'
'I wanted to ask you a few questions,' says Draco.
'You…? Are you fucking crazy? Let me go, now.'
Draco sits back in his chair. 'No, I don't think I will.'
Eric shakes his head, disbelief written all over his face. 'You are so screwed. You won't get away with this.'
Draco smirks. 'Oh, I think I will. Now stop complaining and answer my question.'
'I'm not doing anything—ow! What the hell, what did you just do to me?'
Draco rolls his eyes and levels the boy with a bland look. 'Nothing but a simple stinging hex. Now, shall we continue, or are you going to keep being a problem?'
'You're so screwed,' Eric spits, all but frothing from the mouth. 'You think I won't tell anyone about this? You don't scare me. Your father is in prison, and you'll be there with him soon enough. You're psychotic.'
Draco blinks. He stares at Eric and knows suddenly that nothing this boy has to say will make anything better. Not Draco, not Harry, not this whole fucking situation. All the miserable, pent up helplessness wells into a point. Fine tipped and sharp.
He leans forward in his chair. 'You know, you're right,' he says. 'Though I wonder. If that's what you really believe, what makes you think I'd let you leave in any condition to say anything?'
His voice is even. Calm. There's no jibe. No taunting. Just a truthful question that quiets Eric in an instant. His face goes pale. His breath catches. His eyes go wide and dilated. He might not have been afraid before, but he is now.
Draco's not sure how he feels about this. He thought it'd please him, to see this…this filth brought so low. To make him grovel for forgiveness. Instead, all he sees is Harry's face. Harry curled up in pain after the fire. Harry tired and broken and scared the day after. Harry, with eyes that burn with pain, telling him he had to be alone.
There's no more helplessness. No more misery. No more furious need for revenge. All that remains is cold emptiness.
'You wouldn't,' gasps Eric. 'You can't. They'll know. They'll expel you. You can't get away with it. You can't…I…I'll…'
Draco clenches his jaw. The sudden need to get out, to be as far away from this guy as possible, pours through him.
He can't change what happened. He can't undo the last few days. Can't stop this asshole from going and…and…
He closes his eyes. No. Don't think about that.
All he can do now is make sure this guy doesn't step foot anywhere near Harry, ever again.
He opens his eyes. Eric's stuttering chokes off. Draco raises his wand. Eric sucks in a breath. He's going to beg, or shout, or maybe even scream. Draco doesn't know, and he doesn't care. Whatever it is, Eric never gets the chance.
'Obliviate.'
