Chapter 2: Alive.

Unfortunately for Draco, his bitch of a Professor was right: the days that followed his return were bitter tasting.

Sunday morning escaped through his thin fingertips, as he slept till late afternoon, attempting to fix his previous almost non-existent sleep schedule. A dreamless lack of consciousness was exactly what he needed, and his body seemed to agree with him, waking up with the feeling that he had gained ten more years of life.

He calculated that by the time of day, the sky was already a burning red hue when he first awakened from his deep slumber.

It was refreshingly pleasant to not be able to see the sky though. A lot of sleepless nights under no roof tired him of the open nothingness. He already knew all the constellations that riddled the darkness by heart; he could read the sky like the palm of his hand, and knew the color of it almost any time of day without having to look. For him, it was all the same, really: boring and highly overrated.

Much to his surprise though, when his grey eyes flashed open that afternoon, Blaise's figure was hovering eerily over his bed, his eyebrows knitted together and his lips parted open.

"What the fuck!" Draco groaned, sitting up on the bed with his right arm stretched out, ready to hit his silent watcher.

"That's what I should say." Blaise huffed, making his way out of Draco's hitting range. "What the fuck are you doing back here, Malfoy?"

"I don't know what you mean." Draco cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. He decided to scoff and derail the conversation to his advantage, marking his territorial position "Why you ask? Are you that scared to see me?"

"I thought you were dead!" Blaise explained, still with a doubting expression splattered across his face, whilst Draco had a smirk planted on his "Well, your parents…"

"Well, I'm not." Draco spit out dryly, condescending as always. "Obviously."

"Where have you been?" his friend asked, ignoring Draco's usual aggressive remarks.

"That's none of your fucking business." Draco barked roughly at him, making Blaise back away even further.

"Fine, don't get your panties in a twist." Blaise rolled his eyes, losing rapid interest in that interaction. "You look like bloody shit, by the way."

Malfoy blankly stared at him in response, with that deadly, evil glare only he could pull off so effortlessly. He knew he looked like shit. Anyone who'd been through what he'd been through, or starved like he did, would look undoubtedly even worse than him. It was a miracle he held on so well.

But bloody hell, he surely didn't expect that Slytherin's arrogance and sharp tongue. Had he always been like that, or had Malfoy just been away for too long? Usually Blaise would have never acted like that towards him; he was just like Crabbe and Goyle, patient and quite clearly to him, inferior.

His lip twitched when the image of Crabbe falling into the pit of blazing fire shuffled in his brain. Despite always being tough and some times unforgiving with his friends, he still cared about them; and watching one of them fall to his certain, scorching death was certainly one of the memories that scarred him the most during the final battle.

Shaking his head and dark thoughts away, he noticed Blaise walking out of the dormitory. Slimy bastard, he was. Didn't even welcome his Slytherin mate like he ought to. Ridiculous. The school was in a worse state than he first thought.

So, he realized, this is it.

The word was officially out: Draco Malfoy, the arrogant, evil prick was back and ready to terrorize Hogwarts once more.

He could already imagine what would be said about him, all the nasty, false information that would spread like a wildfire through that joke of a school. Questions would be tossed at him continuously, and rumors about his absence would fly out of everyone's dirty mouth… Which meant that undressing from his protective armor was not a choice. He would have to keep his guard up, quiet and steadily, and not tell anyone about anything that happened to him. It was only his, and his heavy conscience secret to keep. Thank Merlin that he could be so vicious so naturally: came as easy as sleeping, and as of lately, came even easier than breathing.

He'd have to be nasty, like always. Unpleasant. An absolute pain to deal with. If he wanted any peace of mind at all that year, he would have to stray away from everybody else. Not that it was hard; he was lover of solitude at heart.

A final solution raced through his brain, and Draco nodded to himself when he approved of his own idea:

People would have to fear him in order to respect him.

And for the entirety of that hellish year, that would have to be his motto.

—

On Monday afternoon, Hermione met Professor McGonagall to resume their weekly lessons in casting silent spells.

Hermione wasn't in the headspace to work at all, since for the whole of that day she had had the intricate feeling that something wasn't right. The students around her were behaving rather strangely, always whispering or talking (she couldn't ever be sure), about something, and not knowing what was driving her insane. See, she might've lost her will to study or read as spontaneously as she once did before, but her curiosity remained intact. Some times, it appeared to be enticing her more than ever, and this was definitely one of those times.

Harry had barely spoken to her on that rainy Monday, and actually seemed to be avoiding her, which Hermione found bizarre and unsettling. They had exchanged a few notes during a Charms class, but Harry was distant and had a worrying expression in his eyes, which riddled her immensely. What was bothering him? Why couldn't he just tell her what it was? She despised being kept in the dark.

And Ron… Well, she was used to Ron being distant and ill looking, but that day something else was bothering him as well. He looked angry. He was chewing on his tongue whenever she happened to glance at him, his fists tightened in a furious manner. The last she had seen him like that was during the summer, whenever he talked about capturing and torturing the last remaining death eaters… But that couldn't possibly be what was making him so heated. There were no more death eaters anywhere, right? Especially at Hogwarts… It was silly; they were safe, thankfully.

Still, it didn't sit well with Hermione. Something was wrong, or at least something was different, and she seemed to be the only who didn't know about it: it was infuriating.

"Hm… Professor…" Hermione cleared her throat, unsure. It was always so damn hard to speak now.

"Yes?" McGonagall replied slowly, putting down her wand.

"Is there something wrong?" she then asked, sitting down in her usual chair at her professor's office.

"With what, dear?" Hermione read her lips carefully, making sure to understand what was said before continuing her train of thoughts.

"People were acting quite odd today, Professor. It seems like something's changed. Did it?"

"Well…" the old witch said quietly "I suppose you will know of it when it presents itself to you."

Hermione took a few minutes to respond. What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

"If everyone seems to know, why can't I?" Hermione argued, folding her arms across her chest. Impatience was flourishing in her rather quickly.

"There's more harm than good to know about it now." Her professor responded, returning to her usual rigidness.

"But…"

"Please, Miss Granger." McGonagall interrupted her "It's really best to not speak of it."

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say anything back at her. Arguing with Professor McGonagall was useless; she would always have the upper hand, and they both knew it.

The professor raised her wand once more and continued with the lesson, attempting to retain Hermione's focus, but it was quite obvious her mind was elsewhere.

"Try the Expelliarmus once more please." She requested, and Hermione proceeded to demonstrate it with success, which relieved and relaxed Minerva a little more.

Usually minor victories like that would excite Hermione, as they made her feel somewhat normal again, but that afternoon, she couldn't celebrate, her brain still wrapped around the strangeness of the day she had spent.

Why wouldn't anyone just fucking tell her what was going on?

—

It took Malfoy another two days before he could wander around the castle. For the beginning of the week, he only went to his Slytherin classes, and stayed in the dungeons common room for the rest of his free time. With each hour of each day, his undying hatred for Hogwarts seemed to grow more relevant.

McGonagall still hadn't given him a new wand, and he was in desperate need of one. He was a useless wizard without it. Plus it would've been great to hex all the idiotic students who dared to speak of him in such a grotesque manner.

"Death eater…"

"Evil…"

"Killer."

He had heard enough. Those who spoke of him did not know him. Yet the judgments that were made rang painfully true when he really thought about it.

And so Draco slept, as he found that sleeping was the best solution to all his problems, a profound sigh exiting his lips whenever he lied in bed. He couldn't think when he was sleeping. It was easy, unlike the rest of his life.

It wasn't until Wednesday that he decided to have dinner in the Great Hall, as nervousness was depriving him of the full course meals. He didn't really know what was making him so anxious. Maybe it was the forceful sharing of space with all the other inferior houses, or maybe it was simply being in the spotlight again. Normally, he would love and thrive on being the center of attention, but months of hiding had turned him into a nervous, paranoid wreck. He just wasn't used to people looking at him innocently now; moments of panic and solitude were all he had ever since the war ended.

Any time someone passed him on the hallways and gave him the look, he felt threatened, anxiously waiting for them to take out their wands and either bring him to Askaban, or end his life mercilessly, like they did to his parents.

And that was the most annoying part: he still didn't feel safe at all. It would surely take a long time for him to be able to resist the urge to constantly look over his shoulder, or to close his eyes at night and know he would wake up the next day. He hated being that paranoid, but then again, he hated a lot of other things about himself as well.

On Wednesday night, a thunderstorm raged furiously outside the castle, colliding perfectly with Draco's rapid heartbeat. He was roaming around aimlessly, burning time until he felt secure enough to enter the Great Hall.

He was acting so impeccably foolish. He knew he had always been the single, central image of blind confidence, the epitome of futility and imprudence. He was embodiment of ruthless: snide and prideful.

The Gryffindors cursed his existence, and the Slytherins celebrated it.

Or at least they used to. He was still widely popular, though for parting reasons, even through his downfall. No press is bad press, he nervously constantly reminded himself.

So was it so fucking hard to just have dinner in front of everyone?

The grand doors stood now in front of him, closed and uninviting, and his head began to hurt. With a spring of courage, he pushed the doors open with great strength, making them seemingly effortlessly swing back.

Every head sitting in the Great Hall was now turned to him. Draco swallowed hard, walking slowly towards his table. Whispers darted their away across the room, and sweat started to form on his pale forehead. The air seemed thick and he found it harder to breathe once he was inside. He avoided looking around, deciding that he would look much more fearless when unbothered, and without taking others into his consideration.

No sound other than the rattling whispers could be heard, making the environment threatening and rather awkward. Each of his steps echoed loudly through the high ceiling, and he wondered if anyone could hear his heart raging as well.

Suddenly, he eyed wild, red hair. The Weasley rat was sitting rightfully at his moronic table, along with all the other Gryffindor idiots, muttering something under his breath. How wonderful. Right beside him rested the great Chosen one, his green eyes enlarged with surprise under his thick glasses. He had his arm on Weasley's shoulder, apparently trying to stop him from getting up. Draco felt violently nauseous. The sight of the red and gold duo made him sick to his stomach. Only one member was missing to complete that idiotic little group.

And where was Granger?

Probably in the dormitories already, studying her little arse off for a test that would only come in two months or so. He smirked at the image. How pathetic.

He was so focused and wrapped around his own head, he didn't even see the Weasley prick coming at him in full speed, groaning in a hoarse voice.

Ron tackled him in such a beastly manner that by the time Draco realized what had happened, his body had already hit the cold ground, his back cracking loudly at the fall.

"What the fuck!" Draco cursed out, as Ron grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, putting himself on top with such force, the blonde couldn't move from underneath him.

"How dare you come back here, you piece of shit!" Ron roared, his clenched fist aimed right at Draco's porcelain face.

Time seemed to slow down noticeably for Draco the moment he realized Weasley's disgusting hand was about to hit him.

And it did hit him. Hard.

Everything felt as if it was happening in slow motion. The first sloppy, angry punch hit him square in the jaw. He tried to speak; he tried to curse back at the ginger bastard, but another sharp punch came as rapidly as the first one, this time to his mouth. And then to his nose. He felt the trail of blood gushing out of his lips and nose and felt suddenly repulsed: his superior, pure blood, wasted in a fight with such an unworthy creature.

Why wasn't he fighting back?

With a dark, powerful groan, Draco overpowered his enemy, who was instantly surprised by the sudden strength. His own hands were now searching for Weasley's stupid face, as he cursed words he wouldn't remember saying in the following hours. It was his turn to cause some real damage.

"You animal!" Draco yelled, his violent temper finally creeping up to help him fight.

He was sure he hit at least Ron's mouth and nose, possibly breaking it even, who even gave a fuck at that point? Hatred was burning through his veins, and he wasn't sure if he could leave that violent encounter without viciously attacking him some more. He just wasn't satisfied yet. His wish was to crush Weasley like an irrelevant bug, and turn him into a bloody shadow of himself.

"Fucking death eater…" Ron managed to choke out, giving Draco the temptation to kill him right there with his own hands.

None of them were sure just how long it all lasted for, but suddenly a voice spoke, as powerful and strong as the thunder outside.

"Enough!" It enunciated, making both the fighters stop for a second.

Harry was now standing right by them, looking down on them with rage and repulse. Professor McGonagall was also there, making both of them unsure about who had actually spoken.

"If you do not stop this infamy right now, you will both be expelled." The disappointed professor told them a little too calmly, as if she already expected this, and with a strong push, Draco got away from his beat-up enemy.

He got up, diverging his grey eyes away from the bloody mess. His feet took a sudden hold of him, and he started to run. He wasn't exactly sure what he was running from, all he knew is that he couldn't stand there for another second, even if his life depended on it.

He wasn't afraid to be expelled tough, and he definitely wasn't ashamed to have been in that satisfying fight with the read headed prick in any way, so why was he running?

"Fucking coward!" Ron shouted as his pale enemy took off, his lengthy legs dashing across the Great Hall.

The thunder outside continued to clap with brutal magnitude, and he wondered if maybe the gods were cheering him on. Draco was now shaking with a mixture of anger and ecstasy. He hadn't felt such a violent range of emotions in months, but

it certainly made him feel more human. The adrenaline was rushing through him, sending his whole body into overdrive.

He was still running, though he wasn't sure where he was headed. He obviously couldn't go back to the dungeons right away, everyone in the green house had seen his beastly battle, and he wasn't ready to face anyone who was questioning his sanity and morality. For that he had himself, thank you very much.

Draco could barely feel any of the bruises that marked his doll-like face at that moment, he couldn't sense pain or discomfort at all; he was absolutely numb. He just wanted to be alone. He had gotten so used to the solitude of his existence that now it was challenging to spend time with people, especially when he didn't like anyone in that whole damn school.

In a flash of lucidity, or maybe insanity, he changed his direction and ran towards the library. It was past 9pm, no one would be in there for sure, not even the bookworms that infested those old corners. At least he could hide, even if just for a little while.

The library was hauntingly silent. The thunderstorm was drifting away from the castle, less audible with each passing minute. His system was just beginning to recover from the adrenaline, and he sat down, trying to catch his breath again.

His fingers instinctively reached for his lips, tracing them with care. He felt a tear on his bottom lip that stained his translucent skin dark red.

Continuing to pass his fingers over his face, a shiver was sent down his spine when he touched the bridge of his nose: swollen and finally hurting. Not broken though, he knew that scummy arsehole couldn't do that much damage, especially with those sloppy punches of his.

He rolled his eyes. Ridiculous. Everything was ridiculous.

He didn't even have his fucking wand, for fuck's sake. How would he heal himself? He was too lazy and too prideful to go see Madam Pomfrey, and he knew right away no one would want to charm him out of the pain. How humiliating.

He would just have to be useless like the muggles and wait for his body to heal itself. Merlin, how he despised his whole existence… He was nothing without his wand, without his parents, without his status.

With a groan of frustration and desperation, Draco got up, deciding to entertain his aching brain with a trip around the empty library. He had always been a fan of reading, but only for himself and for his own enjoyment, just like most things he did. Late night trips to the library were always a gratifying experience, and a great occupation of his time. He had read at least half of those decaying shelves, of that he was sure. It wasn't exactly a secret, just one of those details that no one knew about him. Who would care if he liked books anyway?

The smell of old, torn book pages was inflaming his nostrils, and though it one of the smells he enjoyed the most, inhaling deeply was hurting his deviated nose bridge. Sighing, he continued to roam around, inspecting spines and hoping to see some yet unread books to pick up.

While observing the space around him, he noticed that at the back, right before the entry for the restricted area, there was someone. They were sitting at a table, back arched towards the wooden surface, with a pile of books featuring as lonesome company. Draco slowly advanced towards the student from behind; investigating who it was before he got any closer.

Brown, messy curly hair grasped his attention, and a familiar sound echoed through the deserted library: pencil taping against the table, and legs swinging nervously, hitting the chair rhythmically.

"No fucking way." He chuckled, quite amused.

Granger. He could bet his entire life that it was her who was sitting, still studying, still miserable, and still with that laughable good girl attitude. This was his chance to win back some of his pride by devouring her endlessly with insults. The confrontation was just he was craving, just what he needed. His tongue was already itching to say something…

"Hey, Granger…" he called, holding in a laugh "Still studying, huh? I get it, we both know how hard it is to achieve something when you were born with nothing."

Silence. She didn't twitch or turn around. It was like she didn't even acknowledge his presence. Thankfully for Draco, he was nowhere near giving up, and that only fueled him to continue taunting her, maybe even harder.

"Because you know you will never mount up to anything, Granger." He told her, in a snake like whisper "Because you will never be one of us. You will never be a real wizard."

Still nothing. Draco was confused. Usually a sentence like that and he could've already earned a tear, or at least a furious speechlessness. What changed? "Come on, Granger." He said through grinded teeth "Fight back."

Maybe she put a silent charm around her. It would've been pointless, since no one else was there, but that girl could always manage to do the most pointless shit anyway.

"What the fuck, Granger!" he shouted, coming close enough to hear her breathing and be able to smell her. "Are you fucking deaf or something?"

Still ignoring him.

How he fucking hated being ignored.

He stood tall next to her, on her right side, as he took a deep breath, ready to exhale all the built up anger.

"Stop ignoring me, you filthy mudblood!" He groaned, punching the table with his whole strength, making it rock slightly.

Hermione let out a loud scream, followed by a gasp. She eyed the person next to her and her heart stopped. There was no way. He couldn't be there. That wasn't Draco Malfoy standing next to her. It was impossible. It was surely just a dream.

So how did he look so real…?

"Why aren't you answering me?" he mouthed at her, and she didn't understand. He was mumbling too fast.

"I… I… I…" Hermione stuttered, her heartbeat suddenly picking up its pace. "What-what are you doing… Here?"

"Haven't you heard the news? I study here." He chuckled, obviously amused by her inability to speak properly. "I see that you're still as clueless and dumb as always."

Hermione still couldn't pick up half of what he had just said; she was in a dream-like daze, looking at him with confusion and fear. He looked thinner than what she remembered, his arm and his large, graceful hand rested on her table, far too close for Hermione's taste. She was chewing her bottom lip nervously, completely stuck to her chair. She noticed he had a slight, menacing smile drawn on his lips, and dry blood was staining his chin and cheeks. His nose was also slightly swollen, and his cloudy eyes were piercing right through her, making her scared and uncomfortable. She wondered what happened to him. It was obvious those bruises were from a recent fight between him, and only Merlin knows who else.

Hermione didn't expect to see him ever again; her own conscience subtly reminding her most days that he was probably dead. But he wasn't. He was right there, though he looked more like a spirit or ghost of himself than him, than a real person.

Her chest tightened.

She hated him, for everything he had done and anything he might still do. She was expecting to fight, or to at least say something to show her repulsion towards him, but he had caught her so off guard, she couldn't manage to choke out a single word.

"Wow, Granger," Malfoy continued to laugh, "You're even more hopelessly stupid than I remembered."

Now she was sure she read her name being said on his rough, bloody lips. Still, her throat was dry and words were failing her.

"I…" she stuttered once more, knitting her eyebrows together "Just leave."

That's it? Great fucking job, Hermione.

"Feisty." Draco mocked her, finally taking his hand from the table to pass it through his hair.

"The fucking worst." Hermione mumbled under her breath, unsure of what she really meant to say.

Now sufficiently humiliated with herself, Hermione gathered all her belongings quickly and got up to leave, locking eyes one last time with a confused Malfoy.

"You're making no sense, Granger." He huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

There it was again: her name. She felt disgusted. Her tongue was snaking around in her mouth as she thought of what to say.

"Fuck off." Hermione spat out, suddenly proud of herself "Fuck you."

And without even attempting to read his lips to know his response, she turned around and stormed out of the library, her heart pounding and her legs trembling as she clumsily ran back to her dormitory.

Once in the Gryffindor tower, she ignored everyone that was sitting in the common room, and went to her bathroom to wash her face with ice-cold water.

Malfoy.

How could he be there?

Then, suddenly, something clicked in her brain: that was what everyone was talking about. He was the big secret she wasn't supposed to know yet; he was the reason everyone was acting so strangely. And by her ridiculous reaction to him just now in the library, she knew she wasn't any different.

For months she had planned what she would say to him if she ever locked eyes with him again, just to let him know how much she hated him, hatred she had never felt towards anyone before, and to tell him how much she despised his unneeded cruelty and vanity…

Yet, when he was standing barely inches away from her, she didn't manage to say any of it.

Right now, she hated herself nearly as much as she hated him.

But things wouldn't stay like that for long. She would no longer be caught off guard. Now that she knew he was there, it was obvious what she had to do. Clearly he hadn't moved on from his childish, violent manners, so why would she move on from her burning hatred?

Still, she couldn't imagine the insults he would come up with once he found out she was deaf. Maybe he already knew. She couldn't be sure, not having understood any of the shit he had already tossed at her during their surprise encounter.

Hermione hitched at the thought of Malfoy using her deafness to his advantage. Anyone else wouldn't do it, but Malfoy wasn't anyone else. He was cruel, ruthless, and vicious. He would do anything to see his favorite mudblood suffer under the touch of his words. Surely he could also use her deafness against her.

Hermione felt frustrated tears well up in her eyes as she reached her bed. Even after everything that had already happened in the last months, Malfoy's return still managed to sting like an open wound.

And though she knew it was just her psyche messing with her, Hermione could swear she felt her mudblood scar tingling and itching at the thought of him.