Chapter Text
Chapter 1 十二岁
空气里弥漫着一股混合着白藓和腐烂苹果的味道，这是德拉科把自己关在屋里的第六天，第一天的时候他把左手小臂的皮肤剜下来再倒上白藓，而那片黑色的扭曲纹路仍旧存在着，于是他恶狠狠地咬掉了一块青苹果，第二天的时候他把左手小臂的皮肤剜下来再倒上白藓，那片黑色的扭曲纹路仍旧存在着，于是他恶狠狠地咬掉了一块苹果。第六天的时候他已经吃掉了三个苹果，而那个黑色的痕迹仍旧存在，白藓导致新生的皮肉仍旧灼痛着，就像那个人还在的时候一样灼痛着。苹果核在桌上扔着，从苍白的米色变成深褐色，变得干瘪，生长出黑斑，最终散发出腐烂的味道。德拉科也是，那片黑魔标记像是氧化的果肉，固执地存在着，而德拉科就在这里慢慢腐烂到变成和果肉一样的黑色。
这时候他想起霍格沃茨。
其实他不记得多少了，但他才19岁，战争结束了两年，那座城堡坍塌的墙壁也才重建两年，他人生的7年都在那座城堡的地窖里和黑湖的水一起流过去，所以那些零碎的记忆仍旧占据他头脑的大半，就像他能偶尔想起《甘普食物变形守则》序言里的一处印刷错误一样，他仍旧能想起来地窖的炉火和真皮椅子。
还有哈利·波特，这其实是最容易想起的部分，黑色头发的救世主，那个大难不死的男孩，他至少知道几百个他的头衔，来自预言家日报或者唱唱反调的。可有时候他会想起来报道之外的片段，那个救世主作为人活着的样子，他骑着火弩箭，或者更早，扫帚间借的光轮2000追逐飞贼的时候，那双绿眼睛会和他短暂的对上一个瞬间，还是绿的像新腌的蛤蟆，带着怒意的。那个时候波特活着，至少比报道上说的波特更活着。于是他听见那时候十二岁，或者十四岁的德拉科对他喊：“在练芭蕾吗？波特！”，而波特回了他一个F开头的音节，于是他笑着追着飞贼冲出去，波特紧随其后。然后发疯的游走球冲出来追着波特敲打，他的光轮2001失去控制，打着晃飞出去，正撞在球场边缘突出的排水木排上，然后轰然倒地。
于是波特又赢了，波特总是赢。他想，这不算坏，假如他至少没有输。马尔福庄园的白孔雀毛色有些脏污了，父亲终日沉默，而德拉科再也没有看到过母亲像从前那样扬起头过，从来没有。
马尔福一败涂地。德拉科如此想，后脑勺磕在床头的樱桃木上，那块木头上了妥善的黑漆，和霍格沃茨床头是一样的颜色，但是是冰冷的。他突然久违地感受到一种近乎安心的疲倦，像是有人在他的眉间施了一个强效的无梦咒，那些粘稠的念头就像泡沫一样变轻。
于是德拉科沉沉地睡去。
……
德拉科是在温暖中醒来的，他躺在一张床里，身上是丝绸被面的蛇纹被子，枕头很显然在入睡前被拍打到合适的蓬松度，此刻正忠实地包裹着他的后脑。而德拉科看到有银色暗纹的床帘顶端，他掀开被子坐起来，旁边床铺的布雷斯似乎又在磨牙，德拉科几乎要恍惚了，他19岁，离开这间寝室已经有三年，这种过于祥和噪音对他而言像是一场过于真实的噩梦。
于是他走到布雷斯床前，掀开他的帘子。布雷斯几乎是立刻就醒了，看到是德拉科的时候大概是以为小少爷又犯什么病，含糊地骂了一句梅林就继续安睡。
德拉科于是光着脚向浴室摸去，脚底贴上冰凉的瓷砖，他在镜子前轻声念荧光闪烁，杖尖冒出一团细小的光圈，他就在这层光晕里看到自己。在镜子里，那里站在一个睡衣领子歪着，铂金色发丝凌乱的灰眼睛男孩，那张脸是稚嫩的，甚至还带着点睡醒的红晕，和19岁形销骨立的德拉科相去甚远，这个男孩举着魔杖注视着他，袖口上还有银线绣的小龙。
德拉科彻底醒过来，或者是，现在十二岁的德拉科。
Chapter 1 Twelve Years Old
The air was filled with a mixture of the smell of dittany and rotting apples. This was the sixth day Draco had locked himself in his room. On the first day, he had cut away the skin on his left forearm and poured dittany onto it, but the black, twisted mark remained. So, he viciously bit into a green apple. On the second day, he cut away the skin on his left forearm and poured dittany onto it, but the black, twisted mark remained. So, he viciously bit into an apple. By the sixth day, he had eaten three apples, and the black mark still remained. The dittany made the newly grown flesh burn painfully, just as it had when that man was still there. The apple cores lay discarded on the table, turning from a pale beige to a dark brown, becoming shriveled, growing black spots, and finally emitting a rotten smell. Draco was the same. The Dark Mark was like oxidized fruit flesh, stubbornly persisting, and Draco was here, slowly rotting until he turned the same black as the flesh.
Then he thought of Hogwarts.
Truth be told, he didn't remember much. But he was only nineteen. The war had ended two years ago; the castle's collapsed walls had only been rebuilt for two years. Seven years of his life had flowed past in that castle's dungeons along with the water of the Black Lake, so those fragmented memories still occupied the majority of his mind. Just like how he could occasionally recall a printing error in the preface of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, he could still remember the dungeon's fireplace and the leather armchairs.
And Harry Potter. This was actually the easiest part to recall. The black-haired Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One. He knew at least hundreds of his titles, from the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler. But sometimes he remembered fragments beyond the reports, the way the saviour lived as a human. When he rode the Firebolt, or earlier, the borrowed Nimbus 2000 from the broom cupboard, chasing the Snitch, those green eyes would briefly meet his for a moment – still green as newly pickled toads, full of anger. Back then, Potter was alive. At least more alive than the Potter in the reports. So he heard the twelve-year-old, or maybe fourteen-year-old Draco shout at him: "Potter! What's the matter? Having a little ballet lesson?" And Potter retorted with an F-sounding syllable. So he laughed and chased after the Snitch, Potter close behind. Then the mad Bludger came out, chasing after Potter, beating at him. His Nimbus 2001 lost control, wobbled, flew out, and crashed squarely into the protruding wooden drainpipe at the edge of the stadium, then fell to the ground with a crash.
So Potter won again. Potter always won. He thought, it wasn't bad, if only he hadn't lost. The white peacocks at Malfoy Manor had somewhat dirty feathers now. Father was silent all day long, and Draco never saw Mother hold her head high like she used to, never.
The Malfoys had fallen spectacularly. Draco thought this, the back of his head knocking against the cherrywood headboard. That piece of wood was properly painted black, the same colour as the Hogwarts headboard, but it was cold. He suddenly felt a long-lost, almost soothing exhaustion, as if someone had cast a powerful Dreamless Sleep spell between his eyebrows. Those sticky thoughts lightened like foam.
And so Draco fell into a deep sleep.
...
Draco woke in warmth. He lay in a bed, covered by a silk-covered, snake-patterned duvet. The pillow had clearly been fluffed to the right level of softness before he slept and now faithfully cradled the back of his head. Draco saw the top of the bed curtains with their silver-threaded patterns. He pushed the covers aside and sat up. In the next bed, Blaise seemed to be grinding his teeth again. Draco almost felt disoriented. He was nineteen. He had left this dormitory three years ago. This overly peaceful noise felt like an all-too-real nightmare to him.
So he walked to Blaise's bed and pulled open his curtains. Blaise woke almost instantly. Seeing it was Draco, probably thinking the young master was having one of his fits again, he muttered a vague "Merlin" and went back to sleep.
Draco then felt his way barefoot to the bathroom. The soles of his feet met the cool tiles. He whispered "Lumos" in front of the mirror. The tip of his wand emitted a small circle of light, and in this halo, he saw himself. In the mirror stood a boy with a crooked pyjama collar, dishevelled platinum blond hair, and grey eyes. That face was youthful, even tinged with a bit of sleep-induced flush, a far cry from the gaunt and emaciated nineteen-year-old Draco. This boy held a wand, staring back at him, the cuffs of his sleeves embroidered with silver-threaded dragons.
Draco was fully awake now. Or rather, he was now the twelve-year-old Draco.