Draco blinked. The sky was blindingly bright and there was one shadow moving across it. He heard yelling. He shut his eyes again. It was too much. This whole thing wasn't making sense.
"Draco?"
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Potter?"
Shit.
"Draco? What the hell's wrong with you?"
Draco struggled to sit up. It was quite a challenge as the path was completely covered in snow and he was quite dizzy. He was starting to remember what had happened. He'd been walking along the path when Potter had come up and started abusing him. Then he remembered feeling sick and suddenly the world had gone black.
"Draco, stand up," said Harry angrily as he heaved the other boy to his feet. "What the hell are you playing at?"
"I'm not doing anything wrong. I just felt like… lying down."
"On a snow covered path?"
"Yes. There's nothing wrong with that… you should try it… some time."
Draco struggled to talk as he battled a wave of nausea. Harry looked on in horror as his body lurched again. He grabbed Draco around the waist; his thin waist. He struggled to put the image of the blood stained sleeves out of his mind.
"Come on, let's get back to the castle."
"No, you go, I want to stay here."
"I'm not leaving without you."
"Potter and Malfoy. What on earth is going on here?"
Harry froze as he heard a voice behind him and he saw Draco wince.
"Well?"
"Well, um, Professor Snape, we were just walking along the path when Malfoy here tripped over and fell down. So, um, I was picking him up."
"Likely story Potter," sneered Snape as he surveyed the scene in front of him, "And you Malfoy?"
"Um, I fell down, Sir."
Draco felt his cheeks flush and looked at Harry. Harry was wearing a look of resigned determination. Thank god Harry hadn't told Snape the real story. The idea of the entirety of Slytherin knowing he had fainted was, to be honest, a bit embarrassing.
"Well," Snape said, obviously put out that he couldn't punish anyone, "Hurry up and get back to the castle. You're due in the Great Hall."
Draco sank against Harry as he watched Snape stalk off down the path. That could have been potentially dangerous.
"Um. Potter?"
"Yes Draco?"
"Would you mind removing your hand?"
Harry blushed, obviously embarrassed. "Um, yeah, right. Sure."
That night, Harry was lying awake in his dormitory, oblivious to the time. He kept on having annoying little thoughts about Draco: the horrible image in his head of Draco swaying, pale and thin, in a jumper that swamped his frame. Draco slumping to the snow. Draco's thin wrist clasped in his hand. A blood stained wrist.
He knew he needed to tell someone. But what could he say? I was walking around the grounds harassing my rival when suddenly he fell over and had blood on him. It sounded stupid. What would Draco say if he did that? He'd probably murder him… violently. Very violently. Even so… blood on his wrists. All that blood seeping through the wool. It wasn't normal. Was it?
He rolled over and stared blankly at the red curtains… red like blood… fresh blood. He groaned. Why did this have to happen to him?
Draco was also staring at the curtains. Green like jealously and envy. Like mould and decay. Green like the eyes of the guy who'd picked him up off the path and lied to a teacher for him. Actually, that was a lie. The curtains were an uglier green then that. He should tell Snape to change them. Slightly brighter and with more blue. He sighed. It had been a long day. His head hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Was it yesterday? Or the day before?
He shook the thought from his mind. Stupid thought really. He'd have breakfast tomorrow anyway.
He rolled over and reached under the mattress. He'd put his diary there for safe keeping. All in all, a Slytherin dormitory was the safest place to hide things. The house had such a reputation for cunning and deceit that no one in their right mind would hide anything in its dorms. And anyway, anyone who tried to steal anything from Draco Malfoy would regret it severely in the not so distant future.
He picked up the diary. Somehow, he felt nervous about writing in it. It had been violated. However, he wasn't going to let some mudblood stop him. The very thought of it: a Malfoy, scared by a Mudblood. Not likely.
He picked up a quill and began to write.
Hermione was staring at the duplicated diary, still shocked by what she'd done. It was… not right. It was a violation of privacy. But Malfoy's pale face and disturbed entries… she knew she shouldn't read it… but at the same time.
Harry had been behaving strangely during dinner. The last she'd seen of him he'd gone off to find Malfoy. To ask him what he'd done to her, to Hermione. She hadn't seen Malfoy since then but Harry had sworn adamantly that he hadn't hurt him.
She opened the diary at the last page and started as she saw small shaky writing beginning to appear on the page.
18/12th
It was cold today. Very cold. I woke up in a bathroom. I then vowed to never become an alcoholic. Waking up in bathrooms is not at all pleasant. Granger gave the diary back. I ran. Father would have been mortified. And now. It's still cold. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. I'm so scared. Scared of going home. Scared that my father might be there. Scared that anyone might find out. I'm weak. I'm powerless. And I can't take it.
Draco shook as he stopped writing. He couldn't do this again. He was feeling sick enough as it was.
Even so, he found his hands scrabbling deeper under the mattress. He'd stashed the knife that morning, carefully under the mattress with the diary. His breathing was loud in his ears. He hoped no one else could hear. He knew this looked bad. It looked as if he was desperate: an addict.
His hands slipped over the blade as he pulled it out. It cut his fingers… but he didn't care.
He grasped it, trying to get a firm grip… wouldn't do to stuff it up.
He ran it along his arm… cold metal against his skin. Running over the cuts he'd made the previous night.
It was sharp. A biting pain and he bit his lip and he watched the cut go white. Very white. Then red. A deep red. Like the red of the Gryffindor flag. How ironic… this wasn't brave. He wasn't brave. This was weak. Pathetic. Just like him.
Harry rolled over, still trying to get to sleep. In his mind he could see the blood still seeping through the thick wool.
