The last day of his life passed like a photo album of someone else's. Snapshots of inconsequential moments that didn't matter, didn't belong to him.
It felt like opening his eyes underwater, the sting of tears just barely held in under salted eyelids, because Malfoys didn't cry. Often. When it mattered.
The world came in and out of focus and, if he let himself concentrate on the insane part of his mind that kept screaming for control, he could have sworn to hear the sound of a camera going off.
Click.
Pansy's nose scrunched up unattractively in laughter.
Click.
Greg's huge hands reaching for a third serving of muffins, nails short and uneven.
Click.
Vincent's knee, bouncing with expectant energy. With gleeful anticipation. Draco dug his nails in his own knees and swallowed the bile.
Click.
The slanted curve of Blaise's eyes, fixed on his face with that knowing look that curled Draco's fingers into fists. He wanted to pound at the soft flesh of Blaise's high cheekbones until smooth velvet turned purple with abuse, demanding who had appointed him to the Supreme Court of the High and Mighty.
For the lack of better, he settled on flipping him off. Then, remembering his manners, he added his index in a double bird salute and averted his eyes, knowing he couldn't stand to see the pity he would see in the other boy's.
Pathetic, the dying voice of his remaining sanity whispered in his mind, sounding a lot like the sneer that used to taunt Potter ten thousands years ago.
Even breakfast stretched over decades, the clock mocking him with the gift of time when all he wanted was the day to be over and done with.
He had always believed that his last day would taste like longing and regret, but all he could feel on the tip of his tongue was a tender ache and burnt coffee. As if the elves knew it would be his last and messed it up, just this once.
He rolled the flavour around his mouth, thinking that if things went to shit he would never taste coffee again.
He would never taste someone else's tongue in his mouth, and for the first time that year he felt the unwelcome jolt of raw want in his gut. His gaze lifted on its own accord.
Click.
Theo's mouth, already tilted in his direction like a pull. The brief moment of desire dwindled at the perpetual frown matching Blaise's stare, lips a thin line of judgment.
He could have loved Theo, maybe. In another life, when he was a week past his 17 birthday and allowed to be just a boy that thought with his dick and his heart. They could have conquered the world, the three of them, with Blaise's charm and Draco's poise and Theo's quiet and sharp wit. The Slytherin's throne, in the worst case scenario.
They could have.
Instead Draco hunched his too thin shoulders and nodded in the direction of Vincent and Greg, a signal that they had things to do. Their responding grins made him sick, and he couldn't decide if he was weak or just human.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of snapshots, where all the in-betweens were lost to muscle memory and actions he couldn't remember doing.
Things were bound to go to shit.
The sky was dark when he finally stumbled out of the Room of Hidden Things, shutting the door and feeling it disappear behind his back. Two girls giggled with the grace of Vincent and Greg and Draco let his head thump against the hard stone, wanting to laugh hysterically until he was a crumpled mess on the floor.
Wanting. 16 years old Draco had wanted many things. 17 years old Draco closed his eyes and thought of flying. Hands tight around the handle of his broom and off against the wind, chasing a flicker of gold dancing just inches out of reach. If he could ask one last thing, Draco wanted the simple feeling of happiness.
The end-of-spring air filtered heavily through the castle's windows, carrying the smell of rain and, strangely, of wet dog. Magic bubbled under Draco's skin, making the fine hair of his forearms stand under the baggy sleeves of his shirt. Powerful. Deadly.
He couldn't help the small flare of pride in his chest at the thought of the spells he had mastered during that wrecked year and hated himself for it.
He thought about Theo and Blaise, probably fucking in their empty dorm while Blaise mind was on Daphne's tits and Theo's on Draco's sins. He thought about Potter, the bastard that got out behind everybody's back, with the shape of Draco's knuckles still fresh on his skin. Maybe Potter was a product of his insane mind, and they were all crazy. Maybe Potter was Draco's first step into the pit and he was a killer after all.
It should have made it easy, that thought. Easy to take each step to the Astronomy Tower like it was the honour he had so foolishly believed it to be when there was another Draco living in his much healthier skin. But new Draco didn't lie to himself, and this was anything but. Because, no matter the outcome, tonight was the end. The inevitable finish line.
If he survived, tomorrow nothing would be the same. And, the cowardly part of Draco that was the last standing piece of his old self, was planning to survive with his teeth and nails, Salazar be damned.
"Draco, you are not a killer". Dumbledore's voice sounded faint but steady. He stood slumped and twisted, pale skin hanging off his bones like he had died a year before, on that first of September that would go down in Wizard's History twenty years from then, narrated in Binn's monotone drawl.
Draco wanted to tell him just that. He wanted to lie through his teeth and claim he could do it without a hint of guilt, that it would be like kicking dead meat anyway.
"It wouldn't be the first time." He said instead, going for cocky and falling a mile short. Bitterness tasted like burnt coffee.
"Close." Dumbledore admitted sadly, "But that poor girl, Katie, is doing much better. It was a dangerous game, Draco, but it's not too late."
All Draco could hear was the condescending tone that reminded him why he held the Headmaster to such contempt.
"I didn't even remember about that stupid bint!" He lied, the image of Bell's seizing body suspended in mid air forever burnt behind his eyelid and in the deep subconscious of his nightmares. "Im under no obligation to tell you anything but. . . A dead man's last wish, I suppose I owe you that much. It's ironic, how the Greatest Wizard of our age couldn't figure out what happened to a 16 years old whose talent only exist in legends and bed-time tales. It's killing you already, I can see it." He spat, feeling a rage that wasn't entirely directed at the man in front of him, a man that he had almost begrudgingly come to respect on some occasions. "Or maybe it's the guilt eating at your flesh, for not even you could protect our precious celebrity", he added, glancing at the darkened hand gripping at the rail without any strength if not sheer shock.
Draco noticed just then the two abandoned brooms behind the Headmaster and the sudden feeling of alarm sent the clock in his mind ticking down faster.
Dumbledore's voice wavered "You cannot possibly mean. . . No, it's impossible, I would have known. You are a child, Draco." The last sentence sounded like "monster" to Draco's ears.
"Yeah, I killed him on that train and no one ever suspected me. A child, you say. And I- I left Potter choking on his own blood on that filthy carpet. I guess that cloak of his was more powerful than expected, because no one found the b- b- body". Draco's voice broke, begging for absolution.
Dumbledore's reaction caught him by surprise. The older wizard stood straighter, shaking his head. "What have you done. . . Oh, what have you done. I should have known, after Sirius. James and Lily. I should have seen it in your heart, one can only take as much. . . Please forgive the blindness of an old man". He pleaded, louder, to the air.
Draco started to feel unsettled and confused, buckling under Dumbledore's sudden stare. None of the accusations sounded like they were directed at him and he thought that his confession might have finally broken the pillars of the Headmaster's precarious sanity. The hysterical image of pins flashing bright, welcoming Dumbledore as a member of Draco's "Nutters Club", invaded his mind, further proving the fact that he was indeed losing it.
"The train, you say?" The Headmaster demanded. There were no traces of crazy in his voice and Draco wanted to ask "how", because it wasn't fair to sound that composed on the edge of madness.
"Draco" Urgent. An order, and Draco snapped out of it because at least he was good at following orders. He nodded, wary.
"Then we have no time". Dumbledore eyed his wand, clutched tightly in the boy's grip and sighed. With a twirl of his healthy hand a vial appeared out of thin air, steadily filling with the stream of pearly liquid coming out of the Headmaster's right ear.
Draco watched, enchanted, until the vial was thrusted into his hand, the other man's finger closing around his own. "This is vital, Draco. I trust you. I am no fool, despite what you might think, and I know I am dying tonight".
The sound of steps was getting closer and Draco knew. His heart clenched painfully, and suddenly he wanted this long day to last a little bit longer. A little more time.
"Watch it." Dumbledore instructed, resigned. "You are not a killer, Draco, but you are also a survivor, and you want this war to end. I wish I had more time to explain, more time to lift this burden from your hands, but I am dying tonight. Find Harry". Then, to the air, again "Remus, please".
Draco wanted to ask, wanted to swear and cry and scream. Wanted to say Harry was dead and Harry was never alive and they were all crazy.
He wanted to beg to call Granger, that he didn't want any job or any burden or any Potter in his life. Wanted to ask who the fuck was Remus, and please what and why.
But the clock ticked to zero and the steps were now voices and Dumbledore was falling with all his answers. Draco stood frozen, fingers tight around two wands and a glass vial. Until Snape's hand tugged at his wrist, dragged him down the stairs and eventually lost grip in the chaos waiting for them inside the castle.
The smell of wet dog was the last thing he felt before he was pulled into the opposite direction, towards the dark hideout of one of the castle's many alcoves.
"Stupefy". Draco's vision went black.
He vaguely registered the cooling sting of tiles against his cheek and an oddly familiar voice telling him "I'll be back" before he passed out again.
