Chapter Text
He never thought he’d go back. Even if he was allowed to, he would never want to. The prospect of going to Hogwarts was nonexistent, in Draco’s eyes. Yet here he is, clutching a letter that is forcing him to for a whole year. The parchment crumples easily between his long, pale fingers, the only thing that has come easy to him in months. First, there was waiting for the trial to come, in a house smeared with memories of V- Vol-... the Dark Lord. Then there was the trial itself, having to face everything he’d done in a brutal few hours, fully convinced he was going to rot in Azkaban until the Golden Boy decided to vouch for him. Draco knew he had a saving-people thing, but turning up at the trial of the boy who did all of this, and defending him? It’s still too much for Draco to handle.
Finally, there was the aftermath. The unbearable effort of getting out of bed every day, walking through memories in every room, venturing out so little his skin became practically translucent. By the time the owl arrived, he had resorted to staying in bed all day and night, in a haze of half-sleep, ignoring the trays of food left by his bedside. The burst of anger is a welcome change from the numb feeling that has consumed him.
Huffing, he swings himself onto the carpeted floor, stumbling at the sudden lightness in his head. His legs shake, so he sits once more, resigning himself to calling a house elf to help him. They had all been under Vold-...the Dark Lord’s control when he had arrived here, so it was a shock when he found a few of them still in the house after he was defeated. Secretly, he’s grateful. His mother needs someone to keep her company in her house arrest, with his father in Azkaban, and Draco...like he is.
Draco knocks on the frame of the bed, three times. Instantly, one of the house elves appears, wearing their new uniform. His mother had created them, with a mixture of magic and sewing, to replace the old sacks his father preferred they wore. She had told him it was to make them look neater, but Draco knew she needed to have something to work at. To keep her sane. The house elf bows his head, fingers twisting together in front of the silver sash.
“What would it be Master Draco is wanting, sir?” It squeaks, gazing at him with round, watery eyes.
He motions for the house elf to come closer, then tries pushing himself to his feet once more. The creature’s hands steady him by his waist, wrapping around it and letting him grip the emerald silk on its shoulder for support. Draco, the old Draco, would have felt disgusted by this. Needing a house elf for support? Pathetic. This Draco is far too tired to care.
Gradually, he regains enough of his balance to walk unassisted, yet the house elf insists on staying by his side, ‘just in case youse is gonna falls, sir’. He doesn’t change, not quite yet ready, so they make their way through the empty halls, Draco’s eyes fixed on the floor, until they reach the kitchens. The house elves don’t shoo him out politely like they used to do. The dining room is a closed off area now, crackling yellow spells across the doors as though they could hold in the nightmares of that place. Even if any of them could steel themselves to go in there, the stench of dark magic and death would be enough to drive them out.
A single apple is all he manages. It’s the only food that tastes like anything to him any more, and when the acid burns the wounds across his tongue, fresh from the previous night of biting it to suppress screams, he can’t help but feel ever so slightly less like a moving corpse.
The days pass. He manages a tiny bit more every day; a short stroll in the gardens, a whole bowl of soup, changing into new pajamas, running water and shampoo through his hair in the sink. His mother notices instantly, of course, and now sits with him while he eats, or reads to him before bed like she used to. She’s trying to make up for it all, he knows, and he wants to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t to blame, but every time he takes in enough air and is on the verge of saying it… his voice catches in his throat. Her forehead will wrinkle up, eyes pleading, but he can’t speak. He just can’t.
And then it’s the day before he has to leave, and he’s not ready. He’s finally started properly showering, yes, and he wears clothes in the day, yes, and he eats a small meal twice a day, yes, but… no words ever come out. He’s cold all the time without his blankets. His hands shake when he remembers. He screams every night when he is able to sleep, which is not very often, and his tongue bleeds every morning after. His mark still throbs, under all the permanent bandages. He’s only talked to house elves and his mother since the trials ended.
So, no, he’s not ready in the slightest, even when he’s standing with his trunk by the door, ready to apparate to King’s Cross. The clothes he wore before don’t fit his skeleton frame, and he refused to go to Diagon Alley with all the people, so his mother let him use a muggle computer to order new outfits, while she ordered his robes. He wore one of his new outfits now, black sweater over black skin-tight jeans over black trainers. Without his father around, he no longer had to wear tailored suits, so he took a rather savage delight in wearing clothes from people his father despised. The lack of attention it brought to him was a benefit too.
Before he apparates, he pulls on a black beanie over his silver-blonde hair, tucking as much of it away as he can without looking stupid. Not that looking stupid matters. When you’re the cause of a mass murderer taking over the wizarding world, what you look like really doesn’t change anyone’s opinion.
The world twists around him, knotting his stomach, and then it’s all noise and lights and movement and people, so many people chatting and laughing and pushing past him that he can’t breathe, it’s all too much-
Thud. He lands on the floor, eyes blown wide up at the person hurrying so fast they didn’t see him. They’re male, and as he turns hastily, an apology written over his face, Draco sees the black hair and green eyes and those ridiculous glasses and knows he’s screwed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to…” Harry Boy-Who-Lived-Twice Potter trails off, apology replaced with shock. “Malfoy?”
Draco swallows. He schools his expression blank, gets to his feet, and tries to pretend that Potter wasn’t standing right in front of him expecting an answer. A nod is all he gives to the stranger (he’s just a stranger don’t look don’t look don’t look) as he picks up his trunk and marches off.
“Wait! Malfoy!” Potter scowls after him, but he doesn’t see, he doesn’t see because he’s definitely not looking, he’s not looking except he is, and he’s stopped, and now he can’t pretend he’s just a stranger because those stupid green eyes are glaring at him.
He tilts his head slightly, raising an eyebrow, and it’s the most expression he’s done in a week.
"What are you doing here?" The Golden Boy jabs, and it's almost funny how annoyed he is, except it isn't. It really isn't, because Draco knows why he's annoyed. He would be annoyed too if the person who'd caused the death of so many friends was standing right in front of him.
He waves his ticket lightly in the air, the material creased from the amount of times he twisted it, and gestures towards the train.
This only makes him scowl more. "Too good to talk to me now, Malfoy? I expected at least some politeness after what I did, if not any thanks, but I guess not." He folds his arms and marches off towards a ginger head bobbing inside a crowd.
Draco opens his mouth a fraction, to retort or apologise, he has no idea, but his voice snags. Lowering his head, he snatches his trunk from the floor and climbs into the train, all too aware of the whispers caused by their confrontation. They only continue down the train, faces glaring at him from inside the compartments, until he finally finds an empty one and collapses in it, sealing the door with an anti-alohomora locking charm and conjuring a curtain over the window. Silence. Breathing out a long sigh, he rests his head back and closes his eyes, praying for a restful journey. Unfortunately, life has other plans. Only a few minutes into the train ride, sharp rapping yanks him from his stupor.
"Draco? Draco, darling, is that you?" The familiar whine of Pansy comes from the other side of the door. Pansy. He hadn't even considered that any of his old friends would come back, especially as most of them were cleared of everything. Letting out another sigh, he resigns himself to listening to her whine until they get to Hogwarts.
"Draco! I would know that sigh anywhere. Let me in! Pleaaaase?"
Wiping any pained expression from his face, he pulls himself to his feet and unseals the door, dragging it open. His torso is instantly wrapped in Pansy’s arms, sending stabbing pains through his body at the pressure. Behind her, Blaise stands, arms folded and chin raised, looking as neat as ever. Of course he does. He hadn’t been through the war.
Draco winces, carefully prying Pansy from him. Instantly, she grabs his hand and pushes him back onto the seat, flouncing down beside him. “Oh, darling! You’re so thin! What happened to you?” She fusses, gazing at him with over-wide eyes.
He lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug as Blaise closes the door behind them, seating himself opposite. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them there - indeed, he was glad he would have someone to stick up for him - but he wasn’t ready for these questions. He just wasn’t ready. Why could nobody see that?
“Well you’d better eat a lot at the feast tonight, I can’t bear to-” She cuts off, suddenly noticing his outfit. “Draco! What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Is that...muggle…clothing?” Her nose wrinkles up, and she not-so-subtly shifts away from him, as though afraid it might stain her clothes.
He shrugs again, uncaring. She could think what she liked of him. Eventually she will see the monster he really is, when they arrive at school with all the whispering and the glaring. Maybe that’s what he is scared of. Not the questions, but the answers. He’s not ready for them to know how horrific his true nature is.
She scowls at him for a few seconds, then continues to chatter away. Draco remains silent, unresponsive apart from the odd shrug, causing her to become increasingly hysterical. Eventually, she storms out to recover in the bathroom, leaving him and Blaise in silence. A few moments pass.
“I don’t blame you, you know. You’re a coward, but I don’t blame you.”
Draco stares at him. Blaise drops his gaze, uncomfortable, and stands. “I’d better get changed. We’ll be arriving soon.”
As soon as he’s left, Draco rubs his eyes wearily. Far too much is happening today for his liking. All he wants is to be back in his room in the Manor, curl under the covers, and sleep until it all goes away. Heaving himself to his feet once more, he grabs his robes from his trunk and steps out into the corridor.
...Straight into the Golden Trio. They look as startled as he feels at first, before all three of their faces morph into dislike. The weasel is the first to speak.
“What’s wrong, ferret? You look like you’ve just been dragged through a hedge backwards.” He snarls.
Draco smooths out his face, putting on a stony mask. With this, he fixes the weasel with an icy glare, warning him to back off before something bad happens. He should have guessed it would have the opposite effect.
“Not speaking to me either? Wow, you’re really stuck up your own arse. Even on the losing side, with dear old daddy in Azkaban again.”
Anger boils hot in his stomach, creating a twitch in his jaw. It’s almost a habit now, after seven years of it, to grow furious at any mention of his father, despite the fact that he agrees with the weasel. No! Not agrees. He would never agree with him. The confused swirl of emotions he is incredibly unprepared for make him turn rapidly, marching off swiftly before… before something bad happens.
“Running away again? Yeah, thought so!” His voice taunts from behind, forcing Draco to spin to them. Opening his mouth, he prepares to yell at them to leave him alone, that they have no idea what he’s like, that he wouldn’t run from them. His voice sticks.
Their eyes watch him, still angry but now confused, as he chokes on his own words. A pathetic cough echoes from his throat. He flushes, humiliated, a hand rising to cover his mouth as he spins and storms off.
Stupid. He’s so stupid.