A/N; Chapter Warning(s) for: explicit language, mild violence, and blood

At long last! The wait is over, happy reading!

Next Update: May 23th

Chapter Seven: Story of Survival

...

"This is a story of survival.

It is your story,

even when you feel like that word

does not belong to you."

― Ashe Vernon (Wrong Side of a Fistfight)

...

As soon as Harry is out of Umbridge's office, for the fourth time this week alone, his left hand goes to clutch at the other, and he doubles down as he leans against the stone walls, a fair distance away from the woman's office. Ignoring the burning behind his eyes, Harry hisses. He couldn't have shown weakness in front of that toad, but the cuts hurt. And today, unlike his other three detentions, the cuts weren't closing as quickly as before. She had kept him with her almost till curfew today, and his hand throbbed.

It's his fourth detention of the week, and the school had only just started, too. Umbridge seems to represent everything that was wrong with the Ministry. Or the world as a whole. Harry never thought he'd see someone worse than Aunt Petunia, apparently, he's wrong. And there are worse people, way worse.

Harry prefers Aunt Petunia's shrieking over this disgusting… bloated pink toad any day.

In his game, she actually is a giant toad, with a pink tiara on her head and a cat pin stitched to her tight pink vest, hopping around on her fat useless legs and shrieking nonsense. Nonsense that no one takes seriously, that is.

In his game, serving detentions with this bitch doesn't consist of him cutting his hand open in a twisted parody of self-harm and reverse torture… he doesn't serve any detentions with this person, to begin with.

Harry uses his robe sleeve to furiously wipe at his hand, the blood dripping down his fingers, and hisses in pain again.

He isn't sure if these kinds of punishments are even legal, but she's from the Ministry, isn't she? She's obligated to follow the law, at least that's what Harry thinks. She would probably give him something worse to do if he complains, not that he is going to, of course.

As he walks towards his dorm, he has to keep from staggering, exhaustion and blood loss are making him dizzy. He hadn't slept well last night either. There are very few nights that he does, even at Hogwarts. Harry thinks that Ron is probably suspecting something too, but being able to use the silencing spells is what saves Harry in the end. He doesn't want his friends to worry, not even Seamus. Who is still being an insufferable git, and refuses to even look at Harry anymore.

Seamus doesn't believe him. Harry can't wrap his head around that.

A lot of people refuse to believe him, even though the truth is so obvious it's hitting them upside the head, it couldn't have been more obvious if it burst in, dancing in front of them with coconut bras and a lulu skirt. The Death Eaters escaping? Cedric's death?

They probably think Harry killed Cedric himself and then also recruited the Death Eaters, and also attacked a bunch of Muggle-borns, and then probably kicked a few puppies too, just for good measure. At least… that's what they could be assuming, given the way they glare at Harry.

Harry doesn't know what else he should do in order to prove his innocence, and he's quite sure that he has done all that he could in a span of a week. The only thing left for him to do is either wear a shirt that proclaims "I don't kick puppies!" or speak under the influence of Veritaserum so he could prove to them that he's not the one who killed Cedric Diggory.

Well, not in the real sense anyway. He's still fully responsible for the other boy's death, even though he didn't carry out the Death sentence himself.

Gritting his teeth, Harry reaches back into his bag and pulls out the Invisibility cloak, he would rather go unnoticed and reach his dorm in peace than be ogled on by others, some pressing him about the events in the graveyard, some just accusing him of being a liar, others just mad about the imaginary puppies.

Harry instantly feels better once he's under the cloak, even though the burning in his hand doesn't abate at all, it feels like taking a break from the world. A break he sorely needs. Besides, he's not in a mood to explain his bleeding hand to Ron and Hermione. They'll worry.

Just to clear his mind, Harry takes a detour and the longer route for the tower. He probably won't reach the tower before curfew, but that's what the cloak is for, isn't it?

' I must not tell lies,' those are the words etched on the back of his left hand. They cause his blood to boil with indignation. Harry isn't a liar. He is many things, good or bad, mostly weak, but he's not a liar. What he said to Umbridge during her first class was nothing more than the truth.

Harry doesn't know in what world, one is supposed to be punished for telling the truth other than this one. He wasn't looking for sympathy, he wasn't throwing a pity party… he was just telling the truth.

' I must not tell lies' is apparently the price of truth. Harry isn't sure how long he can carry on before he gives in, even though he knows that he shouldn't. It's only been a week since the start of the term, and this was his fourth detention and Harry cannot bear to think of the following one this Friday night.

Had everything gone right in Harry's life, he would be playing chess with Ron in the common room, and chugging butterbeer with the other boys… not wandering the halls, hungry, frustrated, and bleeding.

Somewhere along the way, Harry realises that instead of heading for his common room, he had headed for the wrong floor, the second floor to be exact. Just a little bit ahead of him is the girl's bathroom, and Harry promptly decides that there's no harm in dropping in to check on the Moaning Myrtle before he heads back. No one comes to visit her, after all. And he knows what it feels like to be lonely, also, he might be able to get his hand to stop bleeding if he holds it underwater long enough.

He enters the desolate bathroom, about to call out when he hears a noise. A sob. Now, that in itself won't be surprising, she is, after all, called Moaning Myrtle. But the sob was distinctively not Myrtle. He pauses, tense under his cloak, listening for it again. But it's quiet. He pulls his cloak tighter around himself, and takes a step forward, into the bathroom.

Then he hears it again, not a sob, but a sniffle, as if someone is trying hard to stop crying. Harry would know, he had had to stifle enough sobs with the Dursleys when he was smaller. And that's when he notices him, standing in front of a sink, bent over with the water running.

Malfoy.

His first instinct is to go for his wand, but he suppresses it. Malfoy doesn't know he is here yet, and from the looks of it, it doesn't seem like he is about to attack anyone anytime soon. This seems like a huge violation of privacy, but Harry doesn't seem to be able to make himself leave.

He watches Malfoy in morbid fascination, noting the boy's disheveled hair and pale face as he gazes into the large mirror reflecting the boy's withdrawn figure.

Unwittingly, and as quietly as he can manage, Harry steps closer and gets a good look at Maloy's face. Then he'll leave, Harry thinks to himself. Just a quick peek.

Because clearly, this isn't the same boy Harry saw during lunch that very day in the Great Hall. Harry isn't sure how the dramatic alteration came to be, but he's curious as to what had made Malfoy look the way he is.

The Slytherin's face is gaunt, and his eyes rimmed red. The bags under them are even more pronounced than Harry's own, and that's saying something. His hands are trembling, Harry notices. Shaking hard, even as he grips the sides of the sink in a white-knuckled hold. Harry's mouth suddenly feels dry.

Malfoy hadn't looked that bad in classes. Or the Great Hall. Ron had said he looked awful on the train, and he did look… not quite right at the feast either, but he'd been normal, if not a bit quiet.

How could he deteriorate this much in a matter of hours from when he had seen him during Potions and then lunch?

Glamours, probably.

He gets within touching distance of Malfoy, almost mesmerised. Those grey eyes have a haunted look in them. It reminds Harry too much of the Malfoy of his dream, the one thrashing in his bounds, desperate and vulnerable. Malfoy has clearly lost weight too, and the already sharp angles of his face look cutting in the dim light of the bathroom.

Harry isn't sure what drives him to do what he does next, but it's a compelling force that cuts right through his logic, he reaches out to Malfoy's back with his bleeding hand, his fingers just an inch away from the other boy's heaving back.

All of a sudden, Malfoy tenses up and whirls around, whipping out his wand, "Who's there?" he says. With his drawn face and the tear streaks down his cheeks, not to mention his still shaking hand, wracking the wand in his hold, he doesn't paint a very threatening picture.

Harry had stumbled back, loudly, when Malfoy had taken out his wand, with his back painfully slamming into the clanky sinks. Harry stifles a hiss of pain and slowly breaths through gritted teeth. He needs to get out of here. Fast.

"Who's there?" Malfoy repeats again. Hysteria edges his tone.

Harry slowly starts backing away from the other boy, his eyes wide and his face pale.

Malfoy is looking right at him. Well. Not at him, Harry knows that's impossible. But he is standing right into the boy's line of vision, and can do nothing more than flinch when Draco lashes out with a "Revelio!"

Harry wants to duck but then is reminded once again, that such spells wouldn't work on the cloak. He's safe as long as he has a tight grip on the cloth.

"Son of a- Revelio! Revelio!" Malfoy is blasting the curse at the walls, at the air that surrounds him as Harry starts tiptoeing back towards the doors.

Suddenly as if slapped, Draco points his wand to the double doors and shouts a locking curse, trapping Harry in the bathroom with him.

"I know someone is here," Malfoy says, a deep frown on his face, then suddenly something in his eyes flash. "Pansy?" he mutters, his wand wavering in his hold.

Harry pauses, bewildered. Pansy?

There is no way he would have been able to sneak out. If he takes out his wand to unlock the doors Malfoy would be on him before he makes it out, if he simply stays, who knows how long it'll take for Ron and Hermione to get worried and look him up on the map… chilling with Draco Malfoy in an abandoned bathroom.

His dream had been clawing at his mind ever since finding out Bellatrix was out of Azkaban and it rears its ugly head once again, the longer he stares back at Malfoy's face. Twisted in agony then, and deeply etched with a frown now. It's the most expressive Harry has ever seen the boy.

"Pansy, I swear to Merlin, if it is you, I'm going to curse your bloody panties!" Malfoy spits out, running his free hand through his disheveled hair. Harry stifles a snort and then winces. That's not an image he really wants swirling in his head at the moment, or ever if he can help it.

"I know you get a kick out of this, but following me into the bathroom is a tad too far," Malfoy sneers this time, much more composed and put together, but still looking like he's been saved out of a snake pit.

"Pansy, oh for the love of-"

Harry, with the same impulse that has gripped him moments ago, slowly lowers the Invisibility cloak before Draco can take another jab at a clearly absent Pansy Parkinson. Harry gulps, wondering if he is just making a huge mistake. He watches as Malfoy's eyes widen dramatically and his mouth goes slack as if he cannot believe what he's seeing.

Well, Harry wouldn't have either, to be honest. But it's not like his choices were too adverse, to begin with. It was either revealing himself to Malfoy or waiting him out, and Harry's hand hurts too much to put up with unnecessary bullshit. He'd take a jab at Malfoy, throw a few curses if necessary, and then bail.

Harry realizes with a flush that Malfoy probably isn't seeing anything beyond Harry's head floating in thin air, and that might be the reason why he looks so shocked instead of angered, and so with a resigned sigh, he drops the cloak all the way, letting it pool in a tangle around his feet.

"Malfoy," That's the only thing he can think of saying, he crams his hands into his pocket robes, one of them tightly clutching his wand. He cannot be too lax around a boy that would not hesitate to curse him into oblivion.

Malfoy just looks at him.

##

Draco is having an awful day.

From the moment he opens his eyes in the morning, his body tense with the remnants of another nightmare and his mind screeching for a respite to the moment Potter literally appears out of thin air, he's having an awful time. This morning, He gets out of bed cursing every deity to the depths of hell, ignoring a sleepy Blaise brushing his teeth with perfect precision, Draco walks right under the shower and finishes up, fixes the glamour in place automatically, his posture tensed and straight, just like before.

That's Draco's life now. There's a 'Before' and there is the 'After'. And Draco is hating the After more than he has ever hated anything.

He doesn't eat at breakfast the way he wants to, of course, it would look odd for him not to eat anything at all, so Draco bites into the sausage wishing he could spit it out, and munches on a toast that tasted like ground sawdust coated with peanut butter… which wasn't an improvement.

He smirks and jeers at the younger children, intimidating those who haven't yet learned to be intimidated, but his heart is not into it, he doesn't have the patience nor the vigor to be himself or make the effort to antagonise others. These days, all he wants to do is mostly sleep. Proper sleep. Not what he does now.

Blaise pushes him to study… or at least, he does it the way a Slytherin forces anyone to do anything, he picks up after Draco's mess and engages him in mundane one-way conversations so Draco won't have to put up with someone else, or mostly Pansy eyeing him. He seems to have figured out that something is off about Pansy, but neither she nor Draco is telling him anything, so he is sticking to not letting Draco sink lower than he already has.

Pansy makes for a comically lousy spy, as far as Draco is concerned. Not a pinch of subtlety, not a grain of grace, and Draco, even in his haze of grief and monotony, is mildly amused by the girl's fruitless efforts. Such an amateur, Draco thinks to himself at least once a day before he remembers that same amateur 'Agent' is assigned to him.

The classes are tedious. Not only are they exceedingly boring and mind-numbing, they're overwhelming as well, he knew that his O.W.L year wouldn't pass in a simple breeze, but honestly… The workload they already had been assigned in the first week was ridiculous.

Although Draco bets, Granger would be having a heart attack at the sight of her homework pile, and Draco himself, despite being frustrated beyond measure by this situation, is somewhat glad that the workload is big enough to hinder his thinking and occupy it with useless academics.

If he's busy doing homework, he doesn't have to worry about… 'Before'. He's in the After now, he cannot afford to think about before in the first place. So homework helps. Classes don't.

He despises two in particular. One used to be his favourite. But from the first second Draco walks into the Potions classroom he knows that things won't be the same, and he cannot even bring himself to look at Snape as he dramatically barges into his classroom and starts lecturing off the bat.

Severus tries making eye contact only twice, and gives up after Draco evades him both times, carries on with his lesson and the usual platter of insults thrown at the Gryffindors, today Longbottom, in particular, seems to be getting the brunt of Snape's rage, and Potter is… Potter.

Draco doesn't listen to the lecture, and he lets Blaise do most of the work and sticks to preparing the ingredients, cutting up leeks and crushing Newt's eyes and beetle wings, it's familiar, he doesn't even have to think about the process and Snape doesn't dare snap at them either.

He gives Draco an O even though Blaise's Potion is barely adequate enough to pass Potter's standards, he asks Draco to stay after class, Draco doesn't. He heads to dinner with Blaise and then lets the other boy drag him to the library to complete their homework so as to 'not get overwhelmed later.'

"It's simple logic, Draco," Blaise tells him once they're in the library the very first day, Pansy poorly shuffles, hidden behind a few shelves over. Both boys are aware of her presence but skillfully pretend otherwise.

"If we want to succeed, we need to stay ahead," Draco swears that the other boy is turning into Granger, minus the bushy hair and her irritating front teeth. He doesn't mention this to Blaise and resigns himself to finishing his workload for the day.

One day at the time. That's how 'After' works.

A week later, things have barely improved. Umbridge's defense class, the other class that he hates is an absolute nightmare, the woman is a pink menace, and Draco wants nothing more than to march to the front desk and throttle her fat neck with his bare hands. But he refrains himself because he values his life.

Potter clearly doesn't.

Umbridge gives him detention in the very first class for the rest of the week. Then throws him out of the class and Potter goes, stomping off with a note clutched in his hands. Draco turns back to his so-called textbook and resumes reading.

Everything is a joke. And the worst thing about it is that it's not funny in the slightest.

Lunch tastes the same as breakfast and dinner last night, and Draco eats, all the same, feeling his guts churn and bile rise in his throat every time he swallows a spoonful, which he quickly drowns with pumpkin juice, which also promptly tastes like cough syrup, or those irritating flu Potions Severus forced down his throat when he was sick as a child.

Snape tries talking to him again in double Potions, Draco ignores him, Weasley blows up his cauldron and gets detention, and Draco barely participates in making his with Blaise. Snape gives him an E anyway but doesn't ask him to stay after class.

Instead of the library, this time Blaise takes him to the Great Hall.

"There are snacks there for the study groups," he babbles as he drags Draco by his elbow, "And I'm waiting for Cedar to bring me a letter."

Cedar is Blaise's tawny owl, and hates Draco with a deep burning passion that Draco fully returns, the damn thing always nipped his fingers whilst delivering things for Blaise on Draco's behalf or scratched him with his claws, or damaged him one way or the other. Draco nearly stopped all contact with the other boy because of the same reason. That blasted owl.

At least his hatred for Cedar is the same.

Blaise catches the nasty wince on his face and snorts, rolling his eyes as he drops his bag down on their table. The hall is mostly empty, with the exception of Granger and Weasley with a couple of other Gryffindors tucked at the end of their table and two Ravenclaws huddling together at theirs… and of course, Pansy, who happens to arrive a minute after they do, hanging off Daphne's arm.

"If I didn't know any better, Pansy, I would say you have the hots for me," Blaise drawls to a flushing Pansy and then promptly receives a subtle kick from Draco under the table.

"If I didn't know any better, Zabini, I would assume we live in the same castle." Pansy snaps after a beat, her cheeks still blotched with two bright red spots.

Blaise easily shrugs and flips his book open. "True," he says, and that's it. Draco opens his own transfiguration textbook and just stares at it. There's not much else he can do.

When Cedar arrives, it drops down on Draco's book, flapping his wings and glaring at Draco with the same ferocity he stares at him.

"Blasted creature," he grits out, and Cedar hoots, wildly shifting and clawing at Draco's book. Draco glares at Blaise and the boy shrugs.

"He doesn't know any better, Draco," he says with a smirk and reaches for the package tied to Cedar's claw. "He's just an owl."

"He's a demon. And he hates me," he sounds as if he's whining, and for a single moment, Draco almost feels as if he's back to normal. Almost.

"Well, to be fair, most people do. You're not the easiest person to be around, Draco."

"Cedar is a bird." Draco feels ridiculous for pointing that out, snapping his book close with a snarl. Cedar hoots at him again, angrily waddling away to Blaise.

"So was Hagrid's beast." The dark-skinned boy replies. "So was your own owl before you got rid of him."

"Whatever, Zabini," says Draco with a flippant wave of his wand. He reaches for the bowl of crisps nearby and takes a few on impulse.

Blaise tears into his package with an expectant grin, his eyes narrowing in amusement as he quickly scans the letter and then runs a hand over the green scarf that came with the package.

"Honestly, all this nagging," Blaise finally says and drops his letter on the table, reaching out to cram his scarf in his study bag.

"Who is it?" Draco asks with mild curiosity and reaches for the letter, the crisps still in his other hand.

"Oh, no one important," Blaise waves him off. "Just mother, nagging as usual. I wrote her about that scarf I forgot, and she's written a whole volume on responsibility and Slytherin mindfulness… honestly. Mothers." He rolls his eyes the same instant something sinks in Draco's stomach.

His other hand fists around the crisps, turning them into powdered mush as he stares at the letter in his hand, the looped handwriting, and the admonishing words. Affectionate. Motherly.

The same way Draco's mother scolded him. The same way she will never do again.

The letter falls from his hand, and Draco stands abruptly in his place, drawing startled glances from Blaise and Pansy. The crisps flecks in his hand irritate his skin as Draco steps out of the benches.

"What the hell, Draco?" Blaise asks him with mild surprise. Draco masks his face into an impervious frown.

"I have a thing," he says and turns away.

Blaise looks confused. "You have a thing?" he slowly repeats after Draco and he barely hears him over the pounding of his heart against his ribcage.

"Yeah, I just remembered," he distractedly waves Blaise off and briskly starts walking out of the Great Hall, not giving his friend a chance to retaliate.

He ignores his surroundings as he walks out of the hall, all he can hear is the sound of his own, barely controlled breathing and he ignores that too, he ignores everything, even the image of his mother, pasted to the front of his mind, burned into his flesh.

He needs to get out of view, somewhere he can just be. Be the Draco of After without having to pretend,just for a little while, only an hour. He needs to breathe, take a break from himself, and the glamoured face that doesn't belong to him anymore, which belongs to the Before.

Almost on instinct, Draco heads for the second floor, knowing that the east wing is mostly abandoned in the area, and time of the day. There's a heaviness in his chest, and Blaise's mom's handwriting is all over his consciousness, so similar to his own mother's elegant scribble, so defined, and firm… confident.

Draco walks into the vacant bathroom, opens the tap and just collapses upon the porcelain sink, hanging onto the cool surface as if it's the only thing holding him up because it is. He whips his wand out of his robes, slams the doors shut, but doesn't lock them, and just… lets himself go.

He didn't cry at that joke of a funeral, he didn't cry when his father left him twitching and aching in his bed, alone for hours, he didn't cry in the whole month he was confined to his own wing in the Manor, trapped with nothing to think about but his mother. He didn't let himself cry. It wasn't the matter of pride, it was something deeper… almost feral. An urge that stifled his sobs and dried the tears before they even had the chance to creep upon him.

Draco was a Malfoy. And Malfoys were composed, Malfoys had grace, his mother always told him that. 'You're a Malfoy, Draco. You are unique, and you should act as such. My unique little dragon'

From his father's point of view, that meant learning the art of manipulation, politics, and the slimy trail of history that his name has left in the wizarding world. It meant lying like he breathed, acting as if he was a statue. It meant knowing his place, above others, poised on a crystal throne. Above all else.

Except that wasn't true, though, was it? His father wasn't on a throne, he was down on his knees, with his nose touching the ground as he bowed to another man, like all other mere mortals. He was tortured the same, degraded the same, spat at the same. His wife was treated the same.

Draco almost retches as he thinks about it again. He cannot help it, he cannot help crying anymore. Tears start falling down, and Draco vaguely realizes that this is the first time he has really cried in years… he cannot even remember the last time he ever cried over something or wanted for something. It's been so long that it takes Draco a moment to realize that crying actually takes a lot of effort.

He lets out the huge scream purged under his throat in small wretched sobs, and it's not enough, not in the slightest, but there's nothing else for Draco to do but cry.

Blaise's mother wrote to him, sent him a scarf, scolded him in a letter, and it wasn't fair because Draco's mother would never do the same for him again, and that wasn't fair, not when Blaise didn't even appreciate his mother's dedication the right way. Why cannot Draco have that now that he knows how much he'll miss it?

What was wrong with him, what made the world decide that he didn't need a mother anymore?

The thought sends him down another spiral, deep and twisted and seemingly endless, and Draco sobs like a child in the face of it, a small lost toddler who misses his mother… because he is lost, and he really misses his mother.

If the roles were reversed, Draco's sure that Mother would feel the same way about him. They were always close, the two of them.

As he cries, and the water runs, Draco abruptly notices the shift in the air, bold enough to jolt him out of his crying, and he tenses, his senses firing off warning bells in his head as he turns, expecting to find a culprit pointing a wand at him.

It's not that irritating ghost, and there's no one behind him. But Draco is a Malfoy, and a Slytherin. His instincts are never wrong. It could be Pansy, catching him in his moment of weakness.

Draco curses, threatens her a few times to no avail, he's only about to unlock the doors to leave himself when Potter's head appears before his eyes. Quite literally. Draco just stares, wondering whether he has gone mad or hallucinating, perhaps his lack of sleep is finally catching up with him, he blinks a few times and continues to stare until Potter flushes vermilion and drops the cloth assisting his Invisibility to stare back at him.

"Malfoy," Potter says, his hands in his robes.

Draco stares at him. There's still a thirty percent chance of him hallucinating the other boy, and in case it isn't, Draco really doesn't want to make a fool of himself. Although he's done that already, his archenemy already caught him bawling his eyes out a few minutes ago.

There's the obvious choice, the first approach he would have made had he not been the Draco he is today. He could have cursed Potter, made it hurt, sting as much as the humiliation coursing through Draco's veins right now. And then deny, deny, and deny if Potter tattled on him.

This Draco just stares at Potter, with his wand pointed to the ground, jaw slack.

"Potter," he says after a beat. "Do you always make a habit of stalking people?" He is aware that his words come out hoarse, and his eyes are probably still red.

Potter's jaw flexes and one of his hands, the one curled around his wand comes out of his pocket. It's also pointed to the ground, but Draco sees the threat, loud and clear.

"I don't stalk people," Potter grits out, his eyes narrowing behind his smudged glasses. Draco takes a moment to sigh to himself. He really doesn't want to deal with Potter right now.

"It's just me, then," he snaps, rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms, his glamour crawls up in place with a subtle flick of his wand that he's sure Potter doesn't even notice. His mother was natural with non-verbal spells. "I didn't think you'd miss me that much," he keeps his voice dry, unimpressed.

Potter makes a face at him. "Stop flattering yourself, Malfoy. It was an accident."

"So, you accidentally stalked me." Draco loves mirroring other people. It's a nice trick he learned early on after getting sorted into Slytherin. Mirroring people is the equivalent of slamming a chair into someone's face, and it doesn't even have any repercussions.

"Not that you're much to look at," Potter sneers and leans down to pick up the heap of invisible cloth. An Invisibility cloak, most likely. Draco has heard of those, but never seen one with his own eyes before… figures that Potter would have one.

"I'm not the one with the disfigured face," Draco jeers back, flicking an eyebrow as he catches Potter's other hand dripping on the floor. Dark red against light marbles… blood.

"Yeah well, better disfigured than inherently ugly," Potter drawls himself, slightly shifting in his place to fold his cloak. Draco is still looking at Potter's hand, slightly inflamed, irritated and bleeding. It looks too deep to be a slight graze or Potter's usual bout of clumsiness. Draco has seen his fair share of those, he swears the boy is either too blind to be aided by glasses, or just loves walking into walls and tripping on shit.

"I'm not sure whether you believe the myth regarding the blood of a virgin improving your love life… but it's a hoax, and you're bleeding in the wrong place."

Potter rolls his own eyes, "Oh, shut up," he says, wiping his bloodied hand against his school robes. Draco sighs. That was disgusting.

"Did you slam it into a quill?" he says, pouring a familiar dose of venom into his voice.

"Not that it's any of your business, Malfoy, but I've got a lot better things to do than go around self-inflicting injuries."

He's right. Draco could care less about Potter's clumsy ass slamming into things and damaging himself. In fact, he should be enraged, indignant, mad beyond reason that Potter had seen him, caught him crying, even if they were both pretending that part didn't happen.

He shrugs, slowly with an unimpressed curl of his lip. "You're right, Potter. Although, let me say, you're actually doing a splendid job of damaging yourself on my behalf. Feel free to bleed all over the-" marble floors.

He stops himself, breaths, and then forces his face to go blank. Devoid of any outward emotions.

"Get out of my way," he snaps at Potter, finally uncrossing his arms to move. "I don't have time to deal with you and your stupidity." He whips his hand at the doors and they slam open, rattling in their hinges. Draco inwardly shudders at the sound but brushes past Potter with a glower fixed in place.

"You're right," Potter jeers as Draco shoulders past him. "You have sniveling to do." his eyebrow quirks. "I won't stop you,"

Draco takes another deep breath, his wand coming to prod Potter between the shoulders in a painful jab. "If you ever… ever spy on me again," he hisses, his other hand holding Potter in place. "I'd curse you so hard, that you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between your ass and your face."

He lets Potter go as if he's touching a rodent and wipes his hand on his own robe, in an unwanted parody of Potter's similar actions earlier. Potter whirls to face him, snarling.

"Empty threats." They are.

Draco is already walking out of the doors. "Don't try me."