GeneralUnicornDuckPudding: If you've read any of my past fanfics, you'll know that angst is kinda my sweet spot haha Hope you like how the story continues :) Thank you so much for reviewing!

Chapter five

Everything hurt.

I don't care about you.

He felt it in every inch of his being and every echo of Potter's voice stung him deep within.

His energy was being drained slowly with every repetition and he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. As if anyone would care, his mind supplied. They did have defense against the Dark arts during the afternoon but he hoped to be up by then. In the meantime it wouldn't matter.

He could stay in bed, he could cry, he could scream in his pillow, it wouldn't matter. He basked in that feeling for a little bit, hoping it would offer him some relief.

It didn't.

Never in his life had he felt quite so alone.

Beginning of the afternoon, he managed to get up but felt like he was carrying a bag of sand on his back. He told himself it was just for one class and that he would return to bed afterwards.

The DADA class was to be held outside in the largest court, with a practice doll. They were working on Bombarda Maxima, which for obvious reasons, was not recommended to try indoors.

They were being taught by Professor Brindlemore; it was her first year as a teacher. With Voldemort's demise, there was a certain hope that the DADA jinx was lifted and perhaps Professor Brindlemore would be capable of staying longer than a year.

She was a shy kind of teacher, hiding part of her face behind a big hat. But she explained well and was patient. For the most part, Draco had little complaints about her from the few interactions he had had with her.

Draco looked over to Potter and his goons. The latters were interlocked in what seemed to be a rather heated argument. Potter was absently twiddling his wand, staring off into the distance.

Look at me, Draco wished silently.

But he didn't.

Draco shook his head and turned towards the class.

The lesson was rather entertaining, blowing up the poppet loudly over and over again. Every failed attempt at the spell made the boys laugh and every successful casting made the girls scream. There was a good energy all around.

When it was Potter's turn, people stopped talking and focused on him. As if he's so special.

He is.

Almost nonchalantly, Potter cast Bombarda Maxima on the puppet, causing an explosion that surpassed by far any attempt done by the others. The girls screamed and scrambled back as sparks flew onto their hair. Professor Brindlemore was quick to extinguish any starting braise. And the boys were quick to clamp Potter's shoulder and congratulate him, telling him loudly it was no surprise coming from the-boy-who-lived!

However, Draco, who was attuned to Potter, could tell something was off. The Gryffindor had a light furrow to his brow and he looked at his wand as if it wasn't his. Draco had felt the difference in the casting, a light that was stronger than normal, a power that seemed to overwhelm.

It was his turn.

He stood in front of the puppet. The students looked at him with arms crossed but remained politely silent.

Something felt off about his wand too, as if it was lighter, but he cast aside this worry, wanting the class to be over.

He breathed deeply and concentrated on the mouvement they had learnt. He felt the magic coursing through his veins, warming up his body, as he called:

"Bombarda Maxima!"

His voice had carried far, but the energy that he had felt pooled in his palm, leaking out of his wand instead of being cast. It was like a hole had been prod and he was just losing the flow of magic bit by bit.

The heat disappeared from his body.

His entire being started shaking and his knees gave way.

Everything was being lost.

He was falling apart.

He didn't hear the calls of the students around him, nor the hands that grabbed for him. The darkness surrounding him grew and grew, until all that remained was a small tunnel towards Potter's eyes, that looked at him with worry.

Then it all faded to black.

The nauseating smell was enough to tell him where he was. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking heavily.

His body felt further from him than it did before, everything seemingly happening in slow motion. His vision was even darker, shrouding his entire surroundings in a black veil. His peripheral vision was completely gone. He could still see directly in front of him but everything was in black and white, with a brightness similar to dusk, regardless of the time.

He gulped away the tiny pool of tears filling his eyes.

He heard footsteps approaching and turned towards Madame Pomfrey. She immediately made him sit up and drink a full glass of water.

"How are you feeling?" She asked.

He sighed, "Just fucking wonderful."

"Language," she warned, crossing her arms. "I hope, Mister Malfoy, that you will extend me the courtesy of not believing I am an idiot. When was your birthday?"

He couldn't see the look on her face but her tone was clear enough and he knew that denying it wouldn't bring him anywhere.

"June fifth."

"And you have not yet found your mate?"

"I have."

She practically slammed another glass of water into his chest, exclaiming, "And yet you are not bonded! It has been almost four months, you must realize time is running out."

"I am the one living it, so yes, thankyou, I am aware," he replied sarcastically.

"Do not take that tone with me, young man. This is not a laughing matter."

"I'm not laughing."

Madam Pomfrey paused. He figured she was assessing the situation as best she could with the little experience she had. She took the glass from him slowly and put it on the side table.

"How are your symptoms?" She enquired kindly.

He took a deep breath and laid out the symptoms as best he could. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that it felt good to share it with someone.

He felt her process everything and finally she answered, "It seems the condition is quite advanced already. Ordinarily, Veelas are at least close to their mate at this stage to keep the symptoms at bay… I think you know there is little that I can do at my level; there are no spells or potions that could help. I can advise you on the advancement, see with the Headmaster to give you as comfortable an environment as possible."

"That sounds like I'm on death row already."

"Well…" she paused, "Not quite, but we need to be ready for every eventuality. It will not get easier going forward."

"I know," he gripped the bedsheets and closed his eyes, finding some comfort in the familiarity of this darkness. He added, "Regarding my magic…"

"It is being transferred," she replied easily, "It's a rarer symptom but if the Veela senses their mate might be in danger before the bonding happens, it will unilaterally transfer its magic to them to protect them."

"So I'll keep losing it until I'm a bloody squib. And if we're bonded, then it will come back?"

"After the bonding, the magic is shared by both. So you will have your magic back and theirs will be added."

"Right."

He started feeling a rising heat in his chest, starting to close up his throat. Keeping his eyes closed, he whispered through gritted teeth, "May I have some time alone?"

He didn't look up and waited to hear the footsteps leaving.

As soon as he was sure that he was alone, he grabbed the pillow behind him and screamed loudly into it.

The reality of his situation sank into him.

He would lose his magic, his vision, his control over his own body.

All because Potter didn't care about him.

But he cared about Potter.

Fuck.

No one had visited him during the rest of the week when he had to stay at the hospital wing for observation. No real surprises there.

He was however greatly shocked when Madame Pomfrey brought him a hamper with sweets and chocolates that had been mysteriously sent by "Your fellow Slytherins". Considering the type of bonbons that had been included, he could guess that some of the fellows had to be the other Slytherin returnees.

It warmed him in ways he couldn't describe. They avoided him, talked to him no more than was necessary, but they had not completely forgotten about him and some of the bond they had created over 7 years had remained.

They had wished to be anonymous and he would not try to uncover their identities, but it shook him deep within in ways he had not expected.

Almost more surprisingly, he had received a small collections of books and notes, signed:

I know you are normally at the library at this time. This way you can still read a little.

I hope the notes will be of some use to you.

Get well soon,

Hermione Granger.

In this regard, he had no idea how he felt. The notes were particularly complete and meticulous, and the books were well chosen. He could absolutely find some use for all of it. However, it was the intention that bothered him. That she knew he was at the library but he hadn't noticed her. That she had thought about him in a way that seemed sincere.

He wondered if she had figured something out about him and taken pity. While he had never enjoyed her know-it-all-ness and superior attitude, even he had to admit that her knowledge was formidable, and that that inevitably came with good observation skills. The change in his appearance was everything but subtle, and if anyone might look it up, it would be Granger.

As he thought this, he had an instant of hope. If she was willing to communicate amicably with him, Potter might be too, and that gave Draco an in.

What Draco really wanted was an out of all of this.

But he needed an in.

He wished the note had come from Potter.

Family holidays is taking most - if not all - of my time but hoping you still enjoy this chapter!

Enjoy the summer xxx