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Do as you’re told.
You have no choice.
What else are you good for?
Keep your head down.
Follow him if you know what’s good for you.
The commands and demands swirled through his mind, words that wove into his skill, threatening to crack bone and leave him spilling blood on the floor.
“It tastes foul.”
“Do you think I care? I need a watcher. You’ll have to do.”
Long hair the color of fire. Eyes the shape of almonds.
Black curls that spill over his now-slim shoulders. A pair of dainty feel lost in his loafers.
A short blonde bob, cut sharply against his chin. Slender arms that carry books he pretends to care about.
He hates it. The Polyjuice lingers in his mouth for hours, sometimes over a day, and by the time he’s rid himself of the bitterness, Draco tells him it’s time for another dose. He feels like he’s losing his identity, like he doesn’t know who he is anymore.
“The Malfoy name is in tatters. Draco has been given a task to uphold the name.”
“You are a Goyle. You will be obedient. You will help the Malfoys as we have always done.”
“Follow instructions, Gregory. Follow and be rewarded with The Dark Lord’s Mark.”
He feels numb, like his blood no longer flows freely through his veins, but instead clumps in spaces beneath his skin as it waits for Dark Magic to bring it back to life. He tugs at his fingers to try to bring feeling back to the digits but nothing works, not even the fire in front of where he sits.
“Gregory?”
He looks up, already knowing who the deep voice belongs to; Blaise is the only one in their circle who uses full names at all times. It makes him sound refined, a bit pompous if Greg is honest, but it’s also soothing, like he sees something more in people than they actually show.
“Are you alright, mate?”
Alright. It’s such a simple word, really, but it’s so much more than its two syllables. He clenches his jaw and grits his teeth as he thinks about how much he is not alright. His hands curl into fists that make the muscles in his forearms tense until his veins rise up, pulsing into his skin.
And then a soft touch of fingertips falls to his cheek before a palm cups his chin. Slowly, Blaise lowers himself to a crouching position in front of Greg’s chair. Their faces are almost even. A firm hand curves over his shoulder, over his bicep, and down to his fist, fingers unfurling fingers. The brush against his palm almost tickles and Greg looks down, fascinated at the way Blaise’s minute movements seem to calm the rushing in his veins, the maelstrom in his mind.
“What is he doing?” Blaise’s voice remains calm, a steady cadence that stills the air around them.
Greg shakes his head. “I can’t say.”
There is a pregnant pause. “You can’t say? Or you will not?”
“I can’t.” Unfortunately, his words are true; the secrecy charm was placed over the summer, to himself and Vince. Sometimes, he wonders if it’s worth it to keep Draco’s task a secret.
“I see.”
Blaise stands and for a moment, Greg panics.
Brute.
Idiot.
Stupid.
Neanderthal.
May as well be a squib.
Insults are normal to hear, statements meant to tear through his skin, words that are seared into the space behind his eyes. He’s used to them now, though he wishes he weren’t.
“When does he need you again?” Greg blinks at the question, so Blaise clarifies. “Draco. When do you need to go to him again?”
And just like that, Greg’s carefully crafted walls crumble, and an odd sort of dampness lines his eyelids. He buries his head in his hands, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can stop his emotions from spilling over. A warm hand settles on the back of his neck, fingers kneading. The weight of Blaise’s body presses against his side.
“What are you —“
“You’re safe. No one is here. I’ve put up a privacy ward. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”
The words are said in a steady cadence, a song of promise, and for the first time all year, Greg feels safe. He doesn’t stop his own body from turning, allows himself to lean into someone he never even thought of as a friend.
“I can’t do this,” Greg says the words as a confession, a plea to anyone listening.
And Blaise is listening.
Everything spills from Greg’s lips. He speaks of the belittling, the strain on both his psyche and his magic. There is anger and hurt and pain. Loneliness plagues him, insecurity often takes hold and doesn’t let go.
Through it all, Blaise soothes him with long strokes of his fingers over skin, comforting hums, and nonsensical murmurs that say he’s still listening. His entire attention is on Greg, the young man who is run down and made to feel like a child. They stay there on the couch for what might be hours, the fire still crackling to keep them warm. Fellow Housemates come and go, but ignore the two men on the couch, Blaise’s privacy ward holding strong.
There is a sudden commotion at the door, a familiar crash that resounds in Greg’s ears. He looks over to see a short but curvy brunette walking into furniture until she runs toward the boys’ dormitory. Draco walks in a few moments later, disheveled and annoyed. He’s seething, a wild look in his eyes, as he gazes around the room. The Common Room is emptier now than it’s been all night.
“Has anyone seen Goyle?”
Greg shrinks against the back of the couch. Despite his size, he tries to curl into a ball, tries to become invisible. Next to him Blaise’s mouth twists into a snarl as Draco’s voice keeps asking the same question. As Blaise begins to stand, Greg grabs his hand.
“Don’t.”
In a single word, Blaise hears terror, a begging plea, so he rolls his shoulders and squeezes Greg’s hand. Together, they watch as Draco finally storms back out, the door slamming shut behind him.
“It’s almost past curfew,” Greg says with a tone of dread. He still stares at the door. “I should –”
“You don’t need to do anything.”
“But –”
“ Gregory. ” A firm voice, one that dares anyone to argue. “You do not need to do anything. At least, not tonight.”
And so they sit.
The clock ticks its way past curfew. Students disappear into bedrooms to sleep. Greg envies them.
A curled fist.
An open palm.
Thin scratches. Pinpricks of blood. Raised lines that scar.
Purples and blues that fade to yellow. But not fast enough, never fast enough.
Shouts. High-pitched screaming.
“You are worthless to me!”
“How could I ever be proud of someone like you?”
“What good are you if you can’t even be a proper lookout?”
Memories and hurtful words. Those are the things he sees and hears when he closes his eyes to sleep, so he tries to stay awake. It’s why dark circles mar the skin beneath his eyes, why his hands sometimes shake when he reaches for food to fill his plate. His concentration comes and goes, and so everyone believes him to be stupid and unable to learn.
But in the now-quiet of the Common Room, and with Blaise still next to him, Greg thinks maybe he can find a safe haven, at least for one night. And just as he begins to drift off, he feels slightly chapped lips brush against his hairline.
“I have you, Gregory. Sleep.”
And so he does.