Tw: talk of self-harm, suicide ideation, sharp object, non con toward a minor, underage drinking
Later that night, Draco sits alone in his bedroom. He changes out of his blazer into a dark shirt, hanging the rest of his clothes neatly up in the wardrobe. He stares into the tiny mirror on the desk. He can't get the exchange with Slughorn from earlier out of his head, and the unease hasn't settled. Something about it doesn't seem right- he knows Slughorn, and he knows that he's ambitious first and foremost. Giving up the boy who got him where he is now does not seem ambitious in the slightest. Then again, maybe he's decided that Draco can no longer be worked to his advantage. He was being used as an utility, not for enjoyment, Draco reminds himself. It wasn't like Slughorn liked hurting him.
Catching sight of the various jewellery from Ron scattered across his desk cheers him up almost instantly. He opens the draw with the rest in and picks up his favourite one: the green and red beaded necklace Ron got him for his seventeenth birthday and runs his fingers across it. Remembering how Ron gently fastened it around his neck makes him smile.
Suddenly, he hears a rattling sound at the door. Draco slams the draw shut and springs up. It sounds like a key is being put into the door, which makes no sense because no one else has a key to his room, in fact, no one even knows this is Draco's bedroom. Therefore, he thinks, it's probably a misunderstanding.
Still, he doesn't let his guard down as he watches the handle slowly rotate, his face set in cold determination. Draco grabs his wand from the sofa and points it fearlessly at the door, ready for whatever is about to burst through. The locks clicks and the door swings open.
"Hello, Draco," smiles Slughorn.
Draco's body freezes. His wand drops from his hand.
"No," he mutters, staggering back. His fearless adrenaline melts into horror. The only person he wasn't ready for. The only eventuality he didn't consider.
Slughorn waltzes in, admiring the room with that smug smile on his face that he saves for special occasions. "This is a nice place, isn't it?"
Draco feels like he's floating as Slughorn shuts the door behind him. He bites the inside of his cheek: he can't lose control, not now, not with him.
"Relax," Slughorn says, strolling around and settling himself on the sofa. "It's late, I'm surprised you aren't asleep."
Draco doesn't dare move. Dread rises and falls in his stomach, but the dizzy panic remains constant.
"Why are you here?" he forces himself to say. He prepares himself to be yelled at, to be hit, to be forced onto. Why the hell was Slughorn in his bedroom? How did he get a key? And the most frightening thought- this room is so far removed from the rest of the school. He could do whatever he wanted and no one would hear a thing.
"To talk to you," says Slughorn. "We haven't seen each other since the end of July."
The words ring around his head, sending shivers down his spine. He thought it was over.
"You don't have to stand there like a lemon," Slughorn says, patting the place next to him. "Come on. I promise I don't bite."
Draco goes against the last shred of will in his body and sits down next to Slughorn. Although it's been over a month, he remembers exactly how it goes: Slughorn tells him to do something, he does it. If he doesn't, he gets a bloody nose, he gets a hickey, he gets kicked to the floor.
Draco looks at Slughorn's hands rested on his lap. The sight of them makes him feel sick.
"How were the holidays?"
Draco swallows. This can't be happening. Since when has Slughorn engaged in small talk?
"Fine," Draco says quietly. He focuses on keeping his breathing regular, waiting for Slughorn to snap and hit him or to rest a hand on his thigh.
"The weather was awful, wasn't it? Not a week of sun the whole holidays," Slughorn comments, tapping his hands on his knees. "That's a lovely shirt you've got on there."
Draco sits in silence and waits, suddenly self-conscious of every inch of his body. He waits for something to happen, for Slughorn to snap and drop this act.
The inevitable question arises.
"Are you and Ron still together?"
Draco smiles to himself sardonically. It was too good to be true. Whatever he says now, Slughorn is bound to flip. It feels almost comforting: the nice-guy act puts him on edge.
"No, we aren't," Draco says.
"That's a shame," says Slughorn, ignoring the blatant lie. "You'll have to try your luck with someone a bit more attainable this time. Pansy's a lovely girl, for example."
Draco doesn't dare unclench his stomach, convinced this is all part of his plan to lure him to safety before striking.
"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted," says Slughorn. "We should get some sleep. You should've been in bed hours ago. Don't you want a good night's sleep for tomorrow?"
Slughorn bumps his knee against Draco's, then stands up, and says without a trace of anger in his voice: "Are you giving me the silent treatment?"
"No," he says, trying to diffuse the situation. "I'm just tired." Was there even a situation to diffuse?
"Well come on, you can't stay up all night."
Slughorn wanders over to Draco's double bed, takes his jacket off, and lies down in it. He watches in shock for a minute. Slughorn can't be serious? But he just settles down under the duvet and signals for Draco to join him.
"You won't want to sleep in your shoes," says Slughorn, causing Draco to shrink internally.
He, as slowly as possible and denying the situation in front of him even exists, unties his laces and puts his shoes by the bed. It feels he's viewing another body drag his feet over to the bed and lie down with the man he loathes.
"See, that wasn't too hard," whispers Slughorn, wrapping his arms around Draco's torso and cuddling in. Draco faces away, suffocating under his grasp. How can this be happening in the one room he liked spending time in? In the one place he thought he was safe?
After a few minutes, he forces himself to slow his breathing into a rhythmic pattern and makes his body go slack, faking sleep. Maybe if Slughorn thinks he's asleep, he'll turn away or relax his grip or leave all together. After all, this is all performative, isn't it? There's no point in traumatising an unconscious body.
Instead, Slughorn's hands slide down under Draco's shirt, feeling up to his ribcage and naked chest. Draco freezes. He can't process anything apart from the overwhelming dizziness and Slughorn trapping him in reality. He can't even dissociate with his hands running over every inch of skin available. Slughorn rests his hands over both Draco's pecs and leaves them there.
He doesn't move, and Draco doesn't achieve the release of sleep until hours and hours after Slughorn.
When he wakes up, he's lying in bed, alone.
Seeing his shoes placed beside the bed is an unwanted reminder to Draco that last night was not a nightmare and did in fact happen. He rubs the sleep out the corner of his eyes, the dizziness from four hours of sleep making his head feel heavy.
Dirty doesn't begin to describe the overwhelming feeling of hatred that surges through Draco. He shouldn't be surprised: Slughorn's exceptional tranquillity had to have a catch.
He sits at his desk, takes out a small square of paper from his draw, and begins writing.
Dear Ron,
I am devastated to inform you that we cannot meet as planned as someone is guarding my room (no cause for concern.)
I am so sorry- this is completely out of my control. I will be in touch as soon as we can next meet- hopefully next week on Tuesday.
- x
He seals the message in an envelope and gives it to Ulysess to deliver. He doesn't trust Slughorn not to come into his bedroom again during the following evening when he planned to meet Ron. Precautions, that's all.
He recalls Slughorn stamping down on his ribs for wearing the necklace Ron made for him, screaming slurs at him for being with them, twisting his broken arm behind his back as he tells him he's unlovable. Something tells him the consequences would be even direr if he caught them together and Draco is not prepared to put Ron in danger, no matter what the cost.
As the tears fall down his cheeks at the utter hopelessness of things, Draco feels an overwhelming surge that this is only the beginning. The most infuriating part was the relief he felt earlier when he thought he was safe. He thought Slughorn was going to leave him alone.
He thought it was over.
Still, maybe it's going to get better if that's how Slughorn is going to act from now on: no more insults, no more touches, no more violence.
He goes into the bathroom and scrubs himself clean, two, three, four, times over.
The feeling of Slughorn's hands never leaves his chest. Somehow, this doesn't feel like a change for the better.
Draco waits. He waits and he paces. He gets out the chessboard then puts it away again. He opens a book then closes it. He ties then unties his tie four times. He puts on a jumper, then a shirt then a coat, then takes it all off.
The second-hand ticks to the top of the clock face. 11 pm. Another minute down. Slughorn didn't show last evening when he was supposed to be seeing Ron. Maybe it was a one-off?
Draco sits at his desk and picks up his quill.
Dear Ron,
Everything should be sorted. Meet usual day usual time usual place. If not, come and see me whenever after 21:00, you know where I'll be.
- x
He seals the letter and thinks back to Sunday and forward to this Friday and falling back into Ron's arms. He doesn't realise he's smiling until he hears a nearby scraping and his expression drops into terror. A key rattles in the door. Draco's heart sinks. Why does he do this to himself? Why does he love to trick himself with false promises of hope? Every fucking time.
It's never over, when will he learn?
Slughorn opens the door with a large bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"Hello," he says, ambling in. "Can you get the door? My hands are full."
Draco wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to sprint out of the door and down the staircase and out of Hogwarts and never return. But he can't so he closes the door and tries to swallow back the tears.
"I brought a drink, I thought you could use one," Slughorn says, setting the glasses down on the table. He opens the cap and pours an inch of amber liquid into each glass.
"I'm not supposed to drink, I'm underage," Draco says quietly.
"When's your eighteenth?"
"December."
"See," Slughorn smiles broadly. "Three months either side isn't going to hurt you. And don't give me that, I know what teenagers are like. Half of you start drinking at thirteen."
Draco sits on the opposite end of the sofa from Slughorn and takes a glass. He's never been a fan of alcohol: the smell alone is putrid, and he can't imagine it will taste much better either.
"Where's that nice shirt you had on before?" Slughorn asks, eyeing Draco's shapeless jumper. "You know, the one with the flowers?"
"In the wardrobe," says Draco tonelessly. He takes a tiny swig of the liquid, flaring his nostrils at the taste. "I can get it if you want."
"Yes, I'd like that."
Draco gets up, thankful for the excuse to put some distance between them and tries to wash away the lasting taste of whatever Slughorn gave him out of his mouth. He goes through his wardrobe and picks out the requested shirt. The cold air hits his back as he takes off his hoodie and replaces it with the shirt, keeping his back to the room.
"How pretty," Slughorn smiles admiringly as Draco walks back over.
Aside from the unavoidable disgust, Draco feels a tiny relief at being able to please Slughorn and he hates himself for it. The burning in his throat as he glugs the rest of his drink is bleak comfort.
"Steady on," Slughorn says watching him back it in one go. "That stuff is strong."
"What even is it?" asks Draco, pulling a face. The dizziness is already starting to take effect. He didn't realise he was this much of a lightweight.
"Whiskey," says Slughorn. "I bought a bunch of bottles over the holidays."
Draco barely registers he's being observed as he slumps down on the sofa, unable to stay upright with the overwhelming fuzz invading his vision. Slughorn takes the empty glass from Draco's hand and puts it next to his own untouched glass. A smug grin forms on Slughorn's face as he watches Draco flop sidewards unconscious.
Draco wakes up in his bed, alone, with a splitting headache. Everything hurts. A dull pain throbs throughout his body. He tries to recall the events of last night, but it gets to Slughorn opening the door and it all goes foggy.
All he knows for sure is that he won't be meeting Ron any time soon.
Ron purposely takes longer than usual to pack up his things at the end of herbology. They gaze after Draco as he makes his way out of the class without a backward glance. It's been four days since they received his letter about someone guarding his room, and they've not heard anything else. They hope it won't be much longer.
"Weasely, off you go," calls Professor Sprout, seeing Ron still standing in her classroom, alone.
"Sorry, I was just putting my things away."
Ron reaches into their pocket and puts out the scalpel, the very same blade he stole from this classroom this time last year. He drops it into the box with the other equipment and hurriedly leaves the classroom before they have a chance to change their mind.
"Come on," says Hermione when Ron appears in the corridor. "We've got lunchtime revision to get to."
Ron groans. "You're kidding."
"It's only Professor Slughorn, it might be fun," says Harry.
"Yeah, right," sighs Ron. "It's work, at lunch. When we're supposed to be eating. What about that is fun?"
Hermione rolls her eyes at them and starts walking to the potion's classroom. "I'm not covering for you if you're skipping."
"You coming?" Harry asks, glancing after Hermione as she makes her way down the corridor.
Ron catches a glimpse of Draco heading in the other direction. "Nah, I'll catch you up."
They catch Draco up in the busy corridor, walking practically beside him but not acknowledging him to avoid suspicion. After a few seconds, Draco realises that Ron wants to talk to him, so continues walking silently to the second-floor bathrooms.
Once in the deserted bathrooms, Draco finds it safe to turn to them.
"What's up?" he whispers, wary that at any moment anyone could come round the corner.
"When are we going to next meet?" Ron asks, smiling as they gaze into his pale eyes.
"I'm sorry, I don't know," says Draco. His usual gentle understanding seems to be replaced with an air of something Ron can't place. He doesn't know how to respond, Draco not giving him anything else to work with.
"Okay," they mutter.
"I'll write as soon as I can, ok?"
"Yeah."
Draco forces a small smile and strokes the side of Ron's cheek with his thumb before walking out.
Ron is left staring after the empty space wondering if he's done anything wrong. Draco seemed fine on Sunday, more than fine: he seemed happy. Now he appears to have fallen back into a rut. Maybe it's just being back at school, Ron thinks. They decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The lightness of their pocket as they head to the potions room for revision reminds them what they've done. No more blade. He's been planning this day for months. The moment of dropping the blade in the draw felt anti-climactic somehow. But it's done.
They roll up their sleeves and stride down the corridor. The scars on his lower arm from last year have vanished, all but one or two which could be put down to nasty accidents.
Feeling the breeze on his bare arms is delightful. Most importantly, they feel free. Free from this addiction, for now at least. They have no plans to ever bring a blade to their skin again.
This time it's for good.
The clock ticks to midnight. Draco perches on his bed, his eyelids growing heavier by the minute, his limbs feeling like lead. He rubs the knobbly red and green beads of his favourite necklace between his fingers, thinking back to the day Ron clipped it behind his neck. It feels like a distant daydream, a long-lost memory. They exchanged a glance today, a fleeting flash of exhilaration when walking out of transfiguration. It takes Draco back to the first time he noticed Ron stare at him last July. Today, the blush was replaced by a wistful glimmer of a smile.
He tries to hold onto that thought, the reminder of Ron's brown eyes staring straight back at him being enough to motivate him to watch the second-hand tick up to the top of the clock face again. 00:01. Apparently the start of a new day, but the day hasn't begun yet, not until he hears his bedroom door click open.
He doubles the necklace twice over and slides it around his wrist. It protrudes noticeably from the sleeve of his shirt. Slughorn will probably ask about it, where it's from, who gave him it. He'll reply from Ron and Slughorn will go red in the face and smash his hand into the side of Draco's face and begin yelling, throwing slurs around, forcing their bodies together.
Maybe he'd prefer that to whatever deluded act Slughorn has been keeping up for the last two weeks. At least this would be a sign of rebellion, something to show him that Draco hasn't completely given in.
A key rattles in the door and Draco flinches, his shoulders instantly sagging with awareness. The thought of Ron's warm eyes capturing his slips away as he stands to attention.
"Draco?"
The sound of Slughorn's voice makes him sick to his stomach. The door thuds against the chair he wedged under the door handle deliberately to ensure Slughorn wouldn't be able to burst in.
Draco hesitantly removes the chair from behind the door.
"What was that doing there?" asks Slughorn, entering the room with uncanny chirpiness.
"Nothing," Draco says.
"Don't put the chair behind the door again," Slughorn comments seemingly offhandedly as he settles himself on the sofa. Draco knows him well enough to detect the dangerous warning under his tone.
"Have a seat."
Draco sits as far away as possible from him on the sofa, which isn't too far considering Slughorn sat himself down right in the middle. He focuses his mind to a happy place, which in practice proves virtually impossible. Ron's eyes fade out of his memory.
"Can I?" says Slughorn, signalling to the embroidered black roses on the sleeve of Draco's shirt.
"Yes."
"This brings out your eyes," says Slughorn, running his fingers over the fabric. After a few moments, he pauses to set down two glasses on the table in front of the sofa. As routine, he pours a small portion of amber liquid into each jar.
"How was your day?" Slughorn asks. Draco gulps down half of the drink immediately, the burning sensation at the back of his throat serving as a welcome distraction.
"Fine."
"That's a nice bracelet," he says, catching a glint of the entwined beads tied around Draco's wrist.
"It's from Ron," Draco says. He tries to sound defiant, challenging, daring Slughorn to slap him, to hit him, to raise his voice. Anything. But it comes out as a tiny confession, a sigh of a memory.
"Are you two still together?"
The age-old question. The bracelet seems to have received no response from Slughorn. Draco wants to push him further, to see how far he can take it before snapping.
"Yes."
Slughorn nods neutrally. Draco watches him closely: nothing in his body language changes, not an inch of eyebrow frowns, not a muscle twitches.
"That's good."
That's good.
Draco blinks for a long second to check he's not dreaming. He opens his eyes, Slughorn sat on his sofa in his bedroom, arms on his shirt, smiling at him. This has surpassed a dream: it must be someone's hellish idea of a nightmare. A fucking positive affirmation about him and Ron? What the fuck happened to Slughorn over the holidays?
"How were lessons today?" asks Slughorn, moving on without hesitation.
"Fine."
"You haven't got much to say for yourself today, have you?"
"I'm tired," says Draco, the world moving slower as he finishes his drink.
"I suppose I came a bit later than usual today. I've been busy. Well, that's a lie," chuckles Slughorn, half to himself. "I had a nap before I came here."
Numb anger builds inside Draco. "I was waiting for you for hours," he says, barely above a whisper. He can't bring himself to betray the rage he feels through his tone.
"Oh, were you waiting for me? That's my bad," says Slughorn mildly. "It's been a long day, I needed a quick lie down before I came up. You wouldn't want to see me tired, I get very pissy. I shouldn't say that, should I?" he sighs to himself. "Let's say I get very irritable."
Draco stares at the whiskey glass on the table, unable to believe his ears. Every day Slughorn manages to surprise him with something new. Today, correcting his swearing. Apologising for being later than usual. Endorsing his relationship with Ron. What next?
He catches himself in a yawn. It's hard to tell if it's Slughorn or the drink causing the floating disconnected sensation this evening.
"I won't keep you up any longer," says Slughorn. "Come on, let's get to bed."
Draco gets up off the sofa with him.
"Goodnight kiss?" Slughorn suggests as he places his robe on the back of the sofa. "Or are you too tired?"
Draco sways to one side, the effects of the drink finally kicking in. He hears a voice, certainly not his own as it doesn't seem to connect to his body, agreeing to Slughorn's proposition. Yet it must have been his own because the next thing he is aware of is someone kissing him lightly on the lips.
He hates himself. Hates hates hates himself so much more than anything in the world. Why would he agree? Why would he say yes? Is Slughorn right, is he enjoying this? The dizziness overcomes him and his last strain of consciousness before he collapses is repulsive self-hatred and pure shame.
Why would he say yes.
Snape goes over Draco's most recent test again, looking for any marks he can give him. Even if he was more than generous, it wouldn't be enough to get him above a D. Frustratingly, the few questions Draco bothered to answer pick up full marks. He slaps the test on the pile with all the others.
"Am I interrupting?"
Snape glances up at Remus at his classroom door.
"No, no," says Snape, filing the test papers away. "I was just doing some marking. It's ridiculous the number of tests they're giving the seventh year. We've been back at school two weeks, and they've already rinsed them dry."
"Don't get me started," Remus sighs. "And they expect us to do all the marking like we haven't got lives outside of this bloody place."
"I'm frustrated, too," says Snape, standing up.
"Go on."
"One of my students is getting Ds and Us on every test when he knows exactly what he's doing and it's making him seem clueless on the system. Practically every question he attempts he gets right."
"Who's this about?" Remus asks.
"Draco Malfoy."
Remus rolls his eyes, earning him a hard glare from Snape. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing," Remus says. "Come to think of it, he's been doing the same in my class. He's an intelligent lad but he's bringing the class average down by a lot."
"That's not what I'm concerned about."
"Did you want to go anywhere?" Snape asks, not elaborating further on his concerns.
"Yeah, I thought we could go for a walk down by the river," says Remus. "Before it starts getting too cold. It's quite nice, actually. Have you been out?"
"Briefly, in the morning."
"Ah, well it's warmed up now. It's always more pleasant in the evenings at this time of year," says Remus. "Come on, you look like you could do with a bit of sun on your face."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Snape asks, following Remus out of the classroom.
"You're a bit pasty."
"I beg your pardon."
Remus chuckles at his insulted expression.
They stroll down to the river. A few students are also walking around enjoying the sun while they can. They clear off when they see Snape striding in their direction.
"I should've brought my coat," says Remus, wrapping his arms around him. "It's bloody freezing."
Snape smiles slyly at him. "Not so pleasant then?"
"It's nice compared to this morning," Remus says. "So don't give me that."
The forest is teeming with life, still a few weeks before all the leaves start turning orange and animals hibernate for the winter. The river flows loudly and birds chirp, looping in and out of the damp branches.
"You're shivering," says Snape as he glances back at Remus.
"I know."
"You can have my jacket if you're that cold."
Remus raises his eyebrows.
"Don't give me that look," says Snape defensively. "Do you want the coat or not?"
"I'd love the coat," Remus grins.
Snape hands it to him hastily. "How did the wedding go?" he asks.
"God, the wedding," Remus sighs, slipping his arms into Snape's black trench coat. "You know what? It wasn't too bad."
"Oh, goody-good," says Snape. "The supposed to be best day of your life 'wasn't too bad', I'm sure that's one to put in the diary."
"Severus," Remus rolls his eyes at his tone.
"Yes, all right, how was it really? You never wrote to me."
"I did write," says Remus.
"Oh, well, your letter didn't get through to me."
They pass under a large fir tree, all its pines scattered on the dry floor under the shelter of the leaves as they head deeper into the forest.
"I'm being serious, it wasn't bad," says Remus. "We didn't make it a massive deal, what with everything going on, it didn't seem right. But the cake was good. You should've come, you'd have loved it."
"I don't like cake."
"I forgot you're weird, aren't you? You don't like chocolate either."
"I'm not weird, I just don't have a disgustingly sweet tooth like you do."
Remus laughs softly. "Fair enough."
"Can we head back now?" says Remus a few minutes later. "I can't feel my fingers."
"I've put you off that much, have I?"
"Oh, not nearly," Remus dismisses. "You'll have to try harder than that next time."
"It was the coat, wasn't it?" says Snape. "Put you in a good mood."
"That's the one," grins Remus. "You started off nice, I suggest setting the bar a bit lower next time."
"Calling you a few names, perhaps."
"Absolutely."
"Is bringing up your dead husband too far, or...?"
"Don't get too ahead of yourself," Remus scoffs.
They walk back on the same path, the sun sinking lower into the sky.
"I'm heading to the shack," says Remus as they reach the turn off to Hogwarts. He points to the sky. "Full moon, unfortunately."
"Oh, right," says Snape. "Try not to eat any students."
"Yeah, cheers, I'll try my hardest." Remus hands Snape his coat back. He puts out his arms, then drops them a fraction later when Snape doesn't move.
"Right, I forgot you weren't a hugger," he says, rolling his eyes. "See you soon."
"Night Remus. Look after yourself."
"You too."
Ron's mouth forms an 'o' with surprise when McGonagall hands back their transfiguration essay with a large "78%, well done" scribbled on the front. The highest mark he's ever accomplished in one of these essays.
"Bloody hell, look," they whisper, showing it to Seamus.
"Wow," says Seamus, casting aside his own paper discontentedly. "Well done, mate."
Ron bounces their leg up and down, excited at the prospect of potentially being able to pass their end of year exams in nine months.
"Well done on your essays, most of you, the class standard is certainly higher than it was last year," McGonagall announces. "Remember to bring your textbooks in for next lesson. Class dismissed."
Ron follows Harry and Hermione out of the hall.
"What?" says Harry at Ron's cheerful face.
"I got my best ever score on the test," they reply.
Harry claps them on the shoulder. "Good job."
"I cannot believe we still have to do flying lessons," Hermione mutters as they head outside to the solitary block next to the field where flying lessons take place. "Honestly, they treat us like third years. I am eighteen and they insist on us parading around on broomsticks in a field, it's ridiculous."
"You're too old for that kind of stuff, are you?" Harry teases. Hermione only turned eighteen last week.
"Quite frankly, yes Harry, I am."
Ron snorts and walks with Harry to the boy's changing rooms.
Today, they don't hide around the corner in the toilet cubicles as they have done for the last year. Ron stands in the main room with the rest of his class and pulls on his oversized shorts. The cold September air makes the hairs on his legs stand up. He looks down at his calves which he's routinely kept covered since last winter.
The scars are practically unnoticeable. Even if they were, who would be looking at their calves in the first place? They'll be covered by mud by the end of the lesson regardless.
They walk out onto the field beside Dean, Harry, and Seamus feeling a million times happier than when he pulled up his sleeves the other week. The urges are there, but they've settled down to a vague reminder every few days, nothing like it was a year ago.
Naturally, the stinging yearning for Draco is still present as Ron mounts their broomstick. It's been verging on three weeks since they last interacted at all. Every morning Ron watches the owls swoop into the great hall with mail, desperately awaiting that letter, that signal that the threat is gone and they can start seeing each other again. He even considered writing one suggesting a different place to meet but decided it was too risky.
The wind whistles through their hair, as they shoot across the field unstably on the broomstick. He can't jeopardise this, this streak of happiness, however strong the impulse is for otherwise. They are prepared to wait for as long as they need to until they can safely meet again. His heart's ache is still bearable.
Draco knocks his ankle against the chair leg in a feeble attempt to bring his mind back into the room. The moment McGonagall raised her voice, the moment he was sitting alone in the classroom with her rendered him hardly there at all. He stares down at the paper on his desk, trying to mold his expression into something resembling shame at the "9%. SEE ME AFTER" written in block capitals.
Some undetermined amount of time later, the incessant yelling appears to have suspended itself.
"Malfoy, are you listening?" McGonagall says sharply as Draco brings himself back into the room. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
He swallows back the stabbing anxiety and looks up. Imagining Slughorn standing there, his grey eyes piercing through him, Draco bites his lip, quite clearly on the verge of tears.
"You're not getting my sympathy, young man," McGonagall says, her tone softening marginally. "One more U and I'm contacting your parents. Off you go, you have a flying class to get to. If Madam Hooch asks where you were, tell her you were talking to me."
Draco clenches his jaw to stop an outburst of emotion and puts one foot in front of the other until he's safely out of the room.
The prospect of going to flying class seems like a mountain so high to climb that he'd surely die trying. Instead, he treks up to his bedroom. The familiar worn stairs, the crimson sofa, the decaying smell of Slughorn's body odour.
The black belt lies on top of his desk as Draco enters. He navigates his way through the gloomy room, grabbing the belt and channelling every last fraction of energy into throwing it around the top of the bedpost.
He collapses onto the mattress, the reassuring noose of the belt illuminated by the sliver of sunlight at his feet. For ten months, ten whole months, the dark leather was collecting dust tucked away in the bottom of Draco's draw.
Today is the fourth day in a row he has tied the belt up.
It's not like he's tried to kill himself again, but next time he's going to make sure the knot is tied properly so there's no chance of a repeat of last time. The noose he tied today hangs limply and would hold his body weight for about three seconds before unravelling and falling to the floor.
Something has shifted, too. Draco wishes he felt scared of realising that if he truly tries to kill himself again, he's not going to stop until he's dead, however messy it gets. Slitting his wrists and feeling himself bleed out knowing he would never be conscious to feel Slughorn lay a finger on him again sounds chillingly appealing.
Tears don't come, they don't even feel close to falling as Draco simmers in exhausted despair. Slughorn has taken away everything good. His calculated grin leads Draco to no other conclusion than that his actions are a deliberate attempt to stop him from seeing Ron: he still has the Marauder's map, he knew exactly when and where they were meeting.
Draco gulps air down, imagining Ron beside him, poking fun at his chess obsession, running their fingers over his piercings, their face flushed red as they pull away from a gentle kiss. He craves the soft touch of their hands, to run his fingers through their flowing hair, to hear the sound of their laugh.
Knowing that the cause of their separation rests solely with Slughorn inches him closer to the edge.
Some days he pretends none of this is real in order to drag himself into the next minute alive. Other days all he wants to do is take the weight off his legs and hang until his face is purple and his skin is deathly cold.
Is it a comfort or an agony that Slughorn would doubtlessly be the first one to find his body? Would he stare it at and smile, his job complete? Would he run his hands over Draco's body, savouring the feeling for one last time?
Lying in the same position he does at night with Slughorn's breath tickling the back of his neck. Almost every day without fail. For the last twenty-five days.
He doesn't know for how much longer he can bear it.