Chapter Text
PART 1
Hogwarts.
1998.
8th Year.
***
Draco Malfoy was ever so slightly bored.
Alright, fine, he was terribly bored.
He sighed, propping his chin on his fist as he listened to McGonagall drone on about the history of Hogwarts for the eighth time in his life. He knew he should be bathed in gratitude and appreciative of her benevolence but it was difficult when it felt like every single person in the entire bloody school was staring at him.
Truly, he knew he was lucky that he was allowed back in Hogwarts to complete his final year, what with his past and his Death Eater father rotting in Azkaban and the glaring mark of his prior transgressions so boldly inked into his skin.
He had tried—oh, the ways he had tried—to get rid of it but the Dark Lord’s magic wasn’t like other magic. There was no way to rid himself of the darkness that coursed under his pale skin. Even now, as he looked at his forearm under the table, he could see the burns, the scratches, the cuts through the Mark. Vivid memories of his attempts flashed through his eyes—using every form of magic, Dark or otherwise, to remove it from his body. He must have read thousands of pages in hundreds of books, desperately trying to find a way to free himself from the chains of his past, but alas.
Served him right, he thought. He had to pay penance for his sins somehow.
When he let out another heavy sigh, Pansy nudged him with her shoulder.
“You alright?” She asked, concern flickering in her eyes.
Draco shrugged.
Pansy sighed.
Draco sighed in response.
Blaise rolled his eyes at all the sighing. “Is this the kind of optimism and positivity I can expect from the two of you this year?”
Draco and Pansy shared a look before responding in unison. “Yes.”
“Lovely,” Blaise muttered under his breath.
Theo snorted and shook his head at the two of them, knowing better than to get involved. Draco thought that was wise.
It wasn’t that he was trying to bring down the mood, it was just… the mood was already down, wasn’t it? Every single person in the Great Hall was recovering from a bloody war. Even the First Years who were currently being sorted into their houses were looking at the Slytherin table with unease in their eyes, wishing and praying that they wouldn’t be sorted there. And who could blame them when McGonagall had quite literally sent the entirety of the house to the dungeons and away from the others fighting for freedom. Of course the First Years didn’t want anything to do with Slytherin, and certainly not him.
No, they wanted to be at the Gryffindor table. The fearless, brave lion’s den. Where the king of the pride was none other than one Harry James Potter, The Boy Who Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World.
If Draco was a bright-eyed First Year, he’d want to be seated at that table too. In fact he’d tried in his own First Year, hadn’t he? To befriend Harry Potter. Only, the boy had other loyalties, turning down his handshake without another thought.
Even now, he sat with the aforementioned Weasel, looking like a general abomination to society with his wrinkled robes and messy, black hair that desperately needed a comb or at least some product. And yet, despite all his shortcomings, everyone wanted to be near Potter. Wanted to know him, wanted to sit by him, wanted to breathe his air.
Draco didn’t understand it. But then again, Draco wasn’t a bright-eyed First Year. He was a jaded, tired outcast Eighth Year who was truly just trying to get through another year so he could desperately hope to leave the country. Malfoy Manor was not an option for every corner reeked of Dark magic and memories of a time he didn’t want to keep reliving.
As if he knew Draco was looking, Potter’s eyes flicked toward him.
Caught red-handed, Draco didn’t back down. Instead, he lifted a challenging brow.
Potter stared back, narrowing those green eyes ever so slightly before rolling them and running a hand through his disastrous hair. Draco wouldn’t be caught dead with hair like that. Though his own blond hair had always been carefully styled, he left it more free now—no longer the slicked back, uptight look his father had practically beaten into him. It wasn’t as catastrophic as Potter’s, but it had a softer look now. Theo had said it made him look younger and rouge-ish. Draco smacked him across the head with his Potions textbook.
Draco dragged his gaze from Potter and his posse, but couldn’t be bothered to tune into McGonagall’s rambling about finding the light amidst the dark, the usual rules about the Forbidden Forest, etc.
For some reason, looking at Potter made him sick. It flooded him with guilt, with shame, with a sense of desperation that he could have—and should have—done more. He had known, to some extent, that as a Malfoy, he had certain obligations he had to fulfill. But Merlin, the cost that they came with.
Never mind that Potter had spoken up for him at his trial.
Never mind that he had lied to his own aunt about Potter’s identity when they had been captured in the woods.
Never mind that Potter had given him back his wand—the one he had used to defeat the Dark Lord himself—without a single moment of hesitation that Draco wouldn’t try to hex him.
You could have done more. You should have done more.
Useless.
Unworthy.
Unloved.
It never failed to make him feel utterly empty.
In fact, by the time the tables were filled with more food than an army could eat in one lifetime, Draco felt remarkably ill. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. In fact, it was one he knew all too well. Stomach churning, he pushed himself up from the table and turned toward the doors, needing to get away from all the people.
Theo asked, “Where are you going?”
“Out,” Draco replied simply.
“But you haven’t eaten,” Pansy pointed out helpfully.
“Not hungry.”
Blaise frowned. “Why—”
“I have one mother in France already and I am not in the market for more,” Draco snapped and then walked out of the Great Hall without another word.
He knew he was probably going to hear an earful from McGonagall and Filch’s abomination of a cat was going to harass him and he’d hear no end from his friends once he finally returned to the dungeons but he simply didn’t care.
He needed out.
He needed air.
He needed it all now.
Un, deux, trois.
Walking as fast as his legs would let him, he sprinted outside and nearly keeled over when the first blast of night hair hit his face. Shucking his robes off his body let the wind press against his white shirt, but it wasn’t enough. Yanking his tie off his neck, he rested his hands on the stone bannister and greedily gulped the cooling freshness into his lungs. Even though his ribcage felt like it was closing in on itself, he ordered himself to calm down.
He was used to panic attacks. He had them all the time when the Dark Lord was practically his roommate. He could get through this too.
He just needed to be alone. He needed to breathe.
His mother’s voice filtered through his mind. Respire, mon chéri.
How Draco wished she could be there with him now. He knew how to battle the panic attacks on his own—he had to learn, of course—but it was always so much easier when he felt like he could lift the weight of the world off his shoulders for a minute and rest his head in his mother’s lap as she whispered soothing French in his ear.
Just as the pressure began to ease off his chest, an exceptionally irritating voice invaded his calm.
“Couldn’t eat?”
Draco whirled around to the source and groaned, the guilt and anxiety and pressure rising all over again, threatening to choke off his air.
“What do you want, Potter?”
Potter shrugged. “Couldn’t eat either. Hermione says it’s a survival thing. Since we didn’t have the easiest access to food for so long, my body doesn’t know what to do when it’s presented with so much at once.”
Draco bristled at the cavalier way Potter shared those words. Of course, he knew that defeating the Dark Lord by hunting down Horcruxes for months couldn’t have been easy… but he had never learned the full story. He and Potter weren’t friends who shared those kinds of sentimental things over a cup of tea and all.
“Are you telling me this to further my guilt?”
Potter blinked behind his glasses, like he hadn’t even considered that, and then frowned. “No.”
“Then, what do you want?” Draco growled, looking away and trying again to get some air into his body. He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t have a conversation. He could barely breathe, for fuck’s sake.
Silence permeated through the air for a moment and then he heard the sound shoes coming closer to him.
“Malfoy, are you alright?”
Draco could have laughed if he didn’t think he was going to die. “What the fuck do you care?”
“You don’t look well.”
“Charming.”
“Seriously, Malfoy, I think you should—”
“Merlin, Potter, can’t you just leave me alone? Haven’t you done enough?”
Potter’s brows furrowed further. “Do you want me to get Madam Pomfrey?”
“I want you to leave me alone,” Draco yelled, and the very act took so much out of him that he had to rest his weight against the bannister again. “What part of that do you not understand? What part of that can you not get through your thick skull?”
Potter straightened, cold shutters coming down on his mossy eyes. He looked… hurt? That was preposterous. No way the Savior cared how Draco Malfoy of all people spoke to him. He’d said worse. Done worse.
You could have done more. You should have done more.
Useless.
Unworthy.
Unloved.
“Fine. I was just trying to—” Potter let out a caustic laugh and ran his hand through his hair one last time, shaking his head like he couldn’t even believe himself. “Fuck you too, Malfoy.”
Potter turned on his heel and walked toward the dormitories without even sparing another glance back. Good. Draco didn’t need help. He would be fine. He would be fine all on his own because that was all he had left. He was the only person he could rely on. There was no one else to look out for him.
Draco slid down to the ground, his back grating against the stone wall. He could feel the cuts through his shirt but he didn’t care.
Pain grounded him anyway.
Pain, he knew.
Pain, he was familiar with.
Pain was an old friend.
As he pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head between his knees, he forced himself yet again to take deep breaths.
Respire, mon chéri. Un, deux, trois.
It was many, many hours before he could finally get up again.
And as he made his way back to the dormitory, he had the faintest feeling he was still being watched.