Outsider Looking In
Cold sweat clung to his skin and dampened his sheets.
The expensive fabric wrapped around him like chains, constricting him, tighter and tighter with every shallow breath. The weight crushing down on his lungs was unbearable; it wrapped around his chest, pressing and squeezing until he felt sure his ribs would collapse.
Warped memories struck his unconscious mind like physical blows—a courtroom full of Dementors wearing Wizengamot robes, his Hogwarts dorm converted into an Azkaban prison cell, Fiendfyre engulfing his home while his mother fought helplessly against locked windows, and everywhere, cold red eyes watched on as a hollow laugh rang out.
Those eyes kept Draco petrified, unable to fight back or scream or even wake up.
Wake up … wake up … he wanted to wake up …
He bolted upright, gasping for breath, his sheets tightening their hold on him, strangling him, killing him.
The eyes were gone. Dead.
Draco would not go where those eyes could see him. He couldn't. He wouldn't. So he fought.
The sheets fell away, and finally, he could breathe. He inhaled great, shuddering breaths, which felt like fire to his struggling lungs. His heart rate slowed, no longer trying to beat its way from his chest, and slowly the fear seeped away.
Yet still, his eyes stayed shut, and the darkness remained.
"You're still afraid," a cold voice whispered in his ear. "You'll always be afraid."
A shudder ran up his spine, and he clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks, close to drawing blood. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare. All perfectly normal. He was home. He was safe. He could open his eyes.
He did so slowly, ungluing his eyelids and taking in the soft grey morning light, which seeped in through the tall windows and fell over his room in beams and dapples. The last of the cherry blossoms from the tree outside his window had long since fallen, leaving behind drooping green leaves and bright red fruit. A small bird was making a feast of the drupes. Draco watched it as it fluttered from branch to branch, focusing on it instead of the urge eating away at him to cry and call out for help.
Malfoys didn't cry, not even behind closed doors. They didn't show emotion. They never gave away their hand, and they never lost. As it had turned out, Draco made for a rather terrible Malfoy—a fact that no longer surprised him nor anyone else.
Draco heaved a shaky sigh and pushed himself out of bed. There was no point in wishing for rescue when the darkness resided within his mind. No one could save him from that, and whimsical fantasies were of no use to him.
The tree branches swayed as he dressed and primped, fixing his appearance so that no one would notice the hollowness of his cheeks or the bags under his eyes. Appearances were all that he and his family had left. The moment he forsook those, he would be reduced to nothing at all.
The long halls of Malfoy Manor felt emptier and colder than ever. The slap of Draco's shoes against the polished floors echoed through the house, desperate to fill the silence.
His long trek to the dining room led him past his mother's parlour. He caught a glimpse of her through the half-open door, sitting by the window, staring out of it but seeing nothing at all. Even from this distance, the vacant glaze over her eyes was clear as day. She sat like that every day, still as a statue.
A familiar pull invited Draco to go to her, to talk to her and comfort her as he knew he should, but he stopped himself. He didn't know what to say. What words could possibly fix this?
He knew the answer to that question, and so he walked away. On and on, getting further and further away from his bed, which he so desperately wanted to crawl back into. He'd tried that solution before. Staying in bed for days on end and hoping that alone would soothe the ache gnawing at him. It hadn't. If anything, it had only made things worse. So now he forced himself out of bed and out of the house. Every day. A constant struggle.
"Master Draco, has you come down for breakfast, sir?" asked Gilly. The little house-elf bowed low, bat-like ears swivelling as Draco cleared his throat.
"No," he said. The smells of coffee and toast reached his nose, and his stomach turned. "I'm afraid I'm already late."
He spun on his heel, veering away from the dining room and toward the fireplace in the sitting room, but stopped halfway there.
"Bring something up to my mother," he said to the departing elf who dropped into another bow at the sound of his voice. "Please."
The civility came sluggishly, slow and hesitant. Showing common courtesy to house-elves had yet to become second nature. He wondered if it ever would, but as it was a step in the right direction in this reformed post-war society, he kept at it.
Floo powder in hand, Draco stepped into the grand fireplace and said loudly and clearly, "Ministry of Magic."
Green flames sprang to life, swallowing him whole, pushing and pulling at him until he spotted his stop. The ache in his belly worsened as he stepped into the Ministry's Atrium. The Floo Network was only partly accountable. The glares he received from every person who walked past him could also be blamed. At least the mutters of 'Death Eater', 'traitor', and 'deserves the Dementor's Kiss' had ceased; he counted himself fortunate for that.
Draco travelled down to Level Two and entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with his head held high. The glares and harsh whispers increased tenfold once he got to the Auror Headquarters, but Draco kept his face impassive. He could still act like the perfect Malfoy even if he was anything but.
As he passed by one cubicle after another, each containing an Auror who would gladly see Draco either imprisoned or dead, he tried to remember a better time, back when things were easier, back when he still felt as though he could be worth something. A glimpse of unruly hair across the office caught his eye, and his mind came up blank. He couldn't think of a single good memory that came without the taint of darkness and corruption. They all featured his father, and Lucius Malfoy was nothing if not dark and corrupt.
Was it reassuring or gut-wrenching to realise that things had never been much better than this?
Draco walked past Potter's desk and received a curt nod from the department's star Auror, no suspicious glare, no whisper of ill-will. Potter was the one person in this room who had the most right to hate Draco, yet often, he was the only one who showed Draco any kind of civility. Whether that was a torture technique or a kindness, Draco wasn't sure. All he knew was that he didn't deserve Potter's professional respect and that every time he found himself on the receiving end of it, the gnawing in his stomach worsened.
Draco's desk was as far away from the golden boy's as it could possibly be, in a corner, behind a pillar. Out of sight for anyone who wished to pretend he wasn't there, but easy enough to keep an eye on for those who assumed that he was up to no good.
According to Draco's father, community service was not fitting for a Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy had chosen to pay a hefty fine rather than stoop to that level and had urged Draco to do the same, but a month spent wallowing in bed had been enough to convince Draco that any excuse to get out of the house was a good one.
He was given menial tasks, nothing high-risk. Paperwork, mainly, the more gruelling, the better. He didn't complain, instead welcoming the distraction.
His morning break was his least favourite part of the day. Those fifteen minutes during which he was forced to leave his desk or else be accused of treason were unpleasant, but he rose, nonetheless, and headed to the cramped break room, where he poured himself a cup of tea and stood in his usual corner, out of everyone's way.
During his first couple of weeks in the department, he had tried to make friends—or at least friendly acquaintances—as most of his were either dead or in prison. All of his attempts had failed spectacularly, so now he stood quietly, doing his best to fade into the background.
A thunder of footsteps and rowdy laughter tore Draco from his self-pity and drew his gaze to the doorway where Potter and his adoring co-workers were all cramming themselves into the small room.
Draco eased further into his corner, checking his watch and holding back a swear. He was always careful to plan his break at a time when he could avoid this particular crowd, but they were so disorganised that it made the feat difficult.
The group stood between Draco and the door, trapping him there. They had yet to notice him. Although he was grateful for that, it didn't fill him with confidence knowing that the best Aurors the Ministry had to offer were so blissfully unaware of the serpent in their midst.
"Are you settling in okay?"
The voice startled him badly enough that, for a second, his composure fell away, and he jumped to the side, banging into the wall next to him, his eyes darting to Harry Potter, Saviour of All. Draco cleared his throat and brushed down his robes as though he hadn't just acted like a frightened rabbit. "Yes. Thank you."
Potter nodded and looked back at his colleagues who had yet to notice his absence, too busy daring one of the newer recruits to transfigure Head Auror Robards's teacup into a turtle. "Are you enjoying the work?"
Draco's eyes narrowed at the question, taking note of the tension running through Potter's shoulders and his lack of eye-contact. Interrogation techniques might not have been something that Draco was well-versed in, but he knew enough to read the obvious signs. "Yes."
"That's good." The tension dropped from his shoulders, and his gaze swung to Draco's, something akin to a smile flitting across his mouth.
Draco didn't let his surprise show; he didn't let anything show, still waiting for a trick or threat, but none came. Potter kept him silent company as his colleagues continued to horse around, and it dawned on Draco that this was the first time since the end of the war that he had stood so close to someone without it being accidental or rushed. He was loath to admit how comforting it felt, how it soothed the roiling of his stomach, how for the first time in over a year, he didn't feel as though he was going to throw up or pass out.
As the minutes ticked by and Potter's colleagues began to trickle out of the break room, Potter pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against and held out his hand to Draco, who stared at it dumbly for a good minute before shaking it.
"See you around, Malfoy," said Potter, and before Draco could truly register the touch of skin on skin, Potter released him and left.
Draco watched him go, hand still stretched out in front of him, clutching at air, and said, too softly to hear, "You too."
The rest of his morning passed in a blur, during which he spent more time staring down at his hand than working, until the time came to go home.
Through a haze of distraction, Draco passed through the Floo Network, arrived home, and headed to his bedroom, intent on studying the odd emotions a few seconds of physical contact had caused him. On the way there, though, he once again saw his mother's parlour door, open just a crack.
He glanced in to find her sitting by the window in the exact same position as when he'd left several hours ago. She had moved, though. A tray of food had been brought in, and she'd eaten some of it, and her needlepoint lay on her lap. Yet the door remained open. Always open.
The skin of Draco's right palm tingled. He slipped into the parlour, softly and quietly walking over to his mother. She didn't look up as he took the seat next to hers; she didn't even blink, but she moved her hand from her lap to the arm of her chair, palm up and fingers open, reaching.
Draco hesitated only a second before slipping his hand over hers and holding on tight. Neither of them said a word. They sat in silence, and Draco realised that finding the right words had never been necessary.