Blood traitor?
Draco stared at the bathroom mirror, not really seeing his own reflection. Of all the insults, the first that always came to mind was blood traitor. The twisting of his stomach was familiar and nauseating.
Sinking to the ground, Draco traced the outline of the tile with a finger. The intricate white lines of the sixth floor bathroom were far too familiar—he remembered his face flush against the cold floor, shirt soaking his skin. And here he was again, crouching in the shadows, listening to the drips of water echoing around the empty room.
It was like nothing had changed. Would anything ever? His fight with Potter was so clearly a confirmation of what Draco had long suspected that the realisation felt like a brand against his heart. The shame was overwhelming; the reasons for it so many he could not sort one from another. It was all one tangled black mess in his head, a knot with no beginning or end.
Draco felt he finally understood why he'd been sent back to Hogwarts for probation. He had naively hoped the Ministry did believe in him, the good in him that was surely buried somewhere deep inside, waiting to sprout. But his two months here were only concrete proof Draco would never outpace the looming past. And now he knew. The Ministry was eager to see him fail.
He could not even muster the pure spite to show them otherwise. His classes weren't hard, his studies a relief compared to the demands of the years before. But the constant pointing and whispering, the outright aggression, the nightmares, the sleepless nights in a bed too big—rightfully deserved, Draco thought—that, he could bear no longer.
He could take the Dark Lord summering in his home for years, but he could not suffer even another week of life at Hogwarts pretending everything would be okay.
What a pathetic display of willpower.
Thoughts of past summers ran together in his head, becoming a wall of vivid color and sensation. The images sent spikes of familiar terror running down his spine, and Draco tilted his head back and thumped it against the wall, closing his eyes, focusing on breathing. His jaw throbbed. He rubbed at it, willing it to unclench.
Not here, not now.
"Draco, Draco, come here."
He could barely move his feet. He was wading through a river of molasses.
"I have another task for you. Perform well and perhaps I'll consider returning Narcissa." A hideous grin.
"Draco, I said come here."
The sky, the pond.
Draco forced his eyes open. How many tiles were laid in this room? He began to count, starting from the far left corner.
Twenty-five, twenty-six.
Draco froze when he heard footsteps outside the bathroom. He pulled himself off the ground, standing so quickly that black static filled his vision. His head whirled as he leaned against the wall.
The footsteps faded. Someone passing by, heading to class.
Draco had Arithmancy soon, too. He readjusted his robes and turned the knob of the sink. The splash of ice water on his face tugged him back to reality. More reflex than anything, Draco studied his reflection—and found it to be ghastly. The black collar of his robes only made the contrast of pale skin more severe.
He sighed, making a mental note to stop by Pomfrey's this evening for the sleeping draughts that Slughorn mentioned.
Draco grimaced as he recalled the furious insults he'd hurled at Potter. Maybe it had been uncalled for. And embarrassing, if he were to be really honest with himself.
But somehow, Potter always had a perfect seat to view all the failures in his life. How utterly hateful. Draco relished the hatred; he felt comfortable in his fury. The emotional territory was like sinking into a warm bath. Truly, Potter was insufferable—from the aghast expression on his face as if it had never crossed his mind that someone actively disliked him for who he was, to his constantly rumpled shirt collar and loose tie. Worst of all, Potter had everything, yet he seemed completely unaware of it.
Draco desperately hoped the upcoming tutoring sessions would be brief.
"I'm so disappointed in you," Pansy announced as she plopped down on Draco's bed.
Here she was again. Draco rolled his eyes and ignored her. He scribbled another note in the margin of his Arithmancy textbook, taking care not to smudge the ink.
"And I brought you dinner." Pansy nudged his arm before producing a handful of pastries wrapped neatly in a napkin.
"Thanks," Draco muttered, setting the package aside. The smell of fried bread and jam wafted through the room. His stomach churned at the thought of biting into the sweet potato cakes.
"Saw you skipped class again today."
"Missed my handsome face?"
"Not at all. I find your face obnoxious, if you must know." Pansy popped a cake into her mouth.
"I'm trying to do homework. Can't you leave me alone?" Draco growled, shoving her leg off his bed.
She took it as an invitation to further sprawl onto the foot of his bed. Pansy pulled out a textbook, and the two of them worked together quietly for a few hours, the only sound being the scritch-scritch of quill against parchment. Draco had just started to relax when Pansy stopped, her quill unmoving.
"Draco," Pansy said suddenly, her voice breaking through the comfortable quiet. The irritating, nasal tone she often inflicted in her speech had vanished.
Sighing, Draco looked up from his paper.
The flat, harsh lines of her face had softened, an expression most people rarely had the privilege to see. Draco rolled the quill between his thumb and forefinger, letting the rough edges scrape against the pads of his fingertips. The silence between them stretched, and Draco looked away. She was either going to confess her love for him, or say something else equally offensive.
Tempted to make a break for the door, he snapped the textbook closed and continued fiddling with his quill. "If you say anything along the lines of 'I'm in love—"
Pansy rolled her eyes and cut him off.
"No, I was actually going to point out that if you keep doing this—" she gestured broadly at him. "You're killing yourself slowly."
At this, Draco had to laugh. The dark, acerbic sound echoed against the stone walls. Pansy placed a hand on his shoulder. Draco flinched, and Pansy immediately let the hand fall back into her lap. He could feel her taking in a deep breath, about to launch into whatever painful spiel she'd probably prepared beforehand.
He stared down at the palms of his hands, idly rubbing at the blotchy ink stains. He could've stopped her, but he didn't.
"I mean, it hasn't been easy for me either. It hasn't really been for any of us. I get your situation is a little different, but I was the one who offered Potter up," Pansy paused.
Her lips tightened until her mouth looked more like a dark slash on white skin.
"And I've been trying to—make amends, if you could call it that. I get we were taken advantage of, but I also don't really care. Because I knew things were fucked all the time when we were still in school, but it was easier to go along."
Pansy took another deep breath, talking faster and faster as if she could repaint the past by laying it all out in front of him.
"Maybe it's in my blood. Being cruel. Or cowardly. Or whatever. But I'm sick of carrying all that self-loathing everywhere I go. We had to survive and we have to now. Sometimes I think it would've been better if I just died. But I didn't fight back at all back then. So at least I have to fight back against those thoughts now. Do better, you know? I don't know if that makes sense."
For a moment, Pansy looked slightly abashed. As if the words weren't planned after all. Draco sensed she regretted her moment of honesty. He felt his lips moving in an attempt to soothe her, to acknowledge her, but no sound emerged.
Pansy looked down and adjusted her robes. The surge of emotion on her face faded back into blankness.
"All I meant to say is you should either let someone help you, or help yourself move forward. It's been months. You need to survive, or you're doing a disservice to all those who gave you this second chance," Pansy finally said.
"Thank you, Pans, I appreciate it," Draco ground out. "But I'm actually doing fine."
"Mm. Clearly." Pansy arched a manicured eyebrow at him. He'd seen that expression millions of times.
"Really. I appreciate you—as a friend. I care. I hope things will get better for all of us," Draco managed to squeeze the words out. His mouth was so dry. He felt the familiar pounding start in his chest, traveling up until it reached his temples.
"Then let me help you. This is going to sound ridiculous, but on Thursday nights, a mind Healer—" Pansy started to say.
Draco stood. He clamped his hands together, willing them to stop trembling. Why was Pansy always pushing his buttons?
"You know what, thank you." Draco strode to the door and opened it. "I actually have a practice Quidditch match soon."
All the hopeful expression drained from Pansy's face. She got to her feet.
"I can't help you if you don't want it," she said slowly.
Draco remained silent, not looking at her. The pounding in his head drowned out her voice.
"Apologies. I won't keep stopping by." Pansy's uncharacteristically quiet voice resounded with finality as she stepped past him. "And for the record, Draco. I did still love you."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Draco went to the practice Quidditch match.
He didn't play any Quidditch.
The sky was darkening. Swaths of golden sunlight turned purple on the horizon, a deep bruise-like color that faded into black right above the Forbidden Forest.
Draco watched the two teams fly back and forth like a relentless pendulum across the makeshift field. Occasionally, an unlucky player would get knocked off their broom, spiraling down onto the dirt as viewers in the stands rushed down to cushion their landing with a well-timed spell. The teams were particularly raucous today. A mix of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor students took turns taunting one another with increasingly offensive remarks. There was no Seeker, and the game seemed terribly one-sided as one particularly obstinate Keeper constantly mistimed his dives. The swish of the quaffle through the hoop had long become background noise, as did the jeers of the crowd.
Draco sat in the shadows of the stands on the far side, where a few scattered Ravenclaw students sat gossiping about who was going with who to the upcoming Halloween Feast. Draco tuned them out, letting his gaze wander across the field. The grass, once thick and vibrant, had thinned out. Patches of dirt peeked through the layer of vegetation, worn down by a thousand careless soles.
The game finally ended as the quaffle bounced off the rim of the hoop. The Keeper raised his arm in victory and dived down on his broom to join his teammates on the ground. Cheering wildly, the group of students headed back to the dorms. Draco wasn't sure who had won, even though he'd been watching the whole evening. It was getting colder as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and a wintry chill stole across the field.
Draco pulled his robes closer together and stared dully at the receding crowd. He ought to head back with the rest of the students, but he felt reluctant to move. Sitting here watching them had resembled normalcy. The stragglers were peeling off their helmets and shin-guards, taking their time as they ribbed one another. Two boys in bright Gryffindor colors bickered loudly with each other while they packed away the bludgers and bats.
Draco caught the tail end of the conversation as he slipped down the stands and onto the path.
"If you keep missing like that, I might have to kiss those beautiful lips of yours."
"Bugger off! Just say you want to kiss me."
"Shouldn't you kiss him if he blocks the shot, not if he misses?" A girl remarked as she joined them, her wild brown hair obscuring her face. "That makes no sense."
"Well, Ron misses more than he blocks."
Draco risked a glance back. The trio were now walking a few yards behind him, wind whipping their red and gold scarves back and forth as they argued. Harry was turned toward Hermione, his eyes bright and cheeks ruddy with exertion. Framed by a tangle of black curls, his face practically glowed with contentment.
Draco's gaze lingered a second too long. He saw Hermione's eyes dart in his direction, and Draco turned back around before she could make eye contact. Hunching his shoulders forward, he popped the hood of his robe and hurried into the safety of the entrance hall. Envy, familiar and unwelcome, pricked at him as he brushed past the mingling crowds of students. Pansy was with a few of her Slytherin friends in the back of the hall. If she saw Draco, she made no sign. Perhaps it was for the best.
Someone brushed roughly past Draco. Draco looked over at the short red-headed first-year who had bumped into him. The kid was in Ravenclaw colors. Surrounded by his friends and emboldened by the energy of the Quidditch match, the boy glanced at Draco and wrinkled his nose in an imitation of disgust.
Draco glared back. The boy instantly flushed red and disappeared up the staircase.
These days, even first years had the audacity.
His stomach rumbled, but he packed the sensation away into a corner of his mind and trudged toward the dungeons. Sleep first. Dinner an afterthought.
But when he was alone in his dorm again, Draco only had the energy to flick his wand and let the lights go out. Though he felt exhausted, as always, the tension refused to drain from his muscles once he'd climbed into bed. With the sheets pulled up to his chin, Draco laid there staring at the square of lamplight under his door. His heart thumped too loudly in his ears—he'd forgotten to pick up the sleeping draughts.
Draco wondered if he should drop everything, find Pansy, and beg her to help him. She was right. He should let himself move on. He should do something. Everything was only getting worse.
His head hurt.
Pansy mentioned she loved him.
They had dated, sure, but he had always thought it was a match formed out of status and posturing, not true affection. So why had she phrased it that way? Had it been a ploy to unearth Draco's vulnerabilities? Did she care or had she been bribed by someone to look out for him, to make sure he didn't fail his second chance? And most of all, he wondered why he hadn't said something more to her. Why hadn't he nodded his head in understanding, comforted her. The questions mocked him, unanswered, running circles. Draco couldn't bear to think of the finality in her tone. The genuine disappointment.
He and Pansy had been a constant ever since he was six and she was five, racing around the big, gilded manor on their toy brooms and careening into the house elves, who would pick them up and bring them iced apple cider after a long summer afternoon. He loved her like a friend, a sister, someone who had suffered in solidarity. Understood the precarious foundations upon which he had been molded.
Suddenly, Draco couldn't bear to think of her at all.
Soon, weariness overtook him, and the racing of his heart slowed. But every time his eyes threatened to close, he saw the flash of searing purple light. He heard the whip of something heavy against wet flesh. The sound of someone screaming started and never stopped. It went on and on and on, a shrill ringing in his ears, and Draco pressed his hands against his head. He slammed back against the pillow, pulling it around him. But with the noises of the creaking Slytherin dungeons muffled, the screaming only became more clear. For the first time in two months, Draco felt his face wet with frustrated tears.