Draco is hopelessly lost between what he is supposed to do, and what he wants to do. As the pressure from his father to follow in Lucius' footsteps grows heavier, and Draco's feelings for Harry grow stronger, Draco finds himself at a fork in the road.
Chapter 09
Chapter Summary:
Why, oh why, is Draco always such a jerk? Why can't he wake up and act how he really feels?
Posted:
10/07/2002
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488
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“I live
I wake
I try hard not to break...”
-Kasey Chambers “Pretty Enough”
“Today, we’ll just be learning the correct stances you need to assume to inflict the most damage and absorb the least amount. So everyone stand up and face their partners.” Draco pushed himself out of his chair, blinking rapidly as the blood rushed to his head, and turned to face Potter.
“Now, spread your legs slightly and crouch. You boys want to keep certain areas turned away, and girls, you’ll do well not to go for those areas during your practicing.” There was some collected giggling from the girls, while the boys glowered. Clio nodded. “It’s the first place you go for in a fight.”
Draco spread his feet a little, playing a game with himself as he balanced on the backs of his heels for a moment. He glanced up and saw Potter watching him, but it didn’t bother him.
But he did mind the tickling in his nose, and he sneezed into his hands. His head felt groggy and he felt waves of heat rush over him. It was definitely a fever coming.
“Bless you,” Potter said as Draco sneezed again. Draco waved one hand.
“No problem,” he said, his voice contorted because his nose was so clogged.
By the end of the class, Clio was teaching them trust exercises to work on their reflexes. Draco stood in front of Potter, and at any given moment, would fall back, hoping Potter was quick enough to catch him. Once caught, the two boys switched places, and pretty soon were practicing with their eyes closed. They had to listen for the slight movement of the air or the feeling of the shifting of weight on the mat beneath their feet. They became experts at it, and were pushed to the front to demonstrate in front of the classroom.
Draco stood in front of Potter, who glanced at him then closed his eyes, his arms stiffly by his side. For a moment, they both stood, frozen, and Draco shifted and fell backwards. Automatically, Potter stuck his arms out, and caught Draco, stumbling a bit, but quickly righting himself. The class applauded as Clio called out, “Ten points to Gryffindor and ten points to Slytherin. Excellent trusting, boys.”
“Okay, so we get the least likely pair of the century award,” Potter commented in the rush after the bell rang. Draco slung his backpack over his shoulder and scoffed.
“That is us in spades, Potter,” he sneered, and left the room.
Why, oh, why does it have to be us in spades? Draco’s conscience screamed at him as he walked to the Great Hall. He reached the door and placed his hand on the grandeur handle, but paused. What was the point of going in there if he wasn’t even going to eat? What Draco really craved was a tissue and a head cloth.
Avoiding any Slytherins at all costs, he went to his dormitory, soaked a rag in cold water, laid in his bed and put it across his forehead. Before he fell asleep, Draco promised to himself to find a spell to get rid of the sniffles. He didn’t want to go to the hospital wing.
With the absence of any real healing, the week slogged by, slowly, but incomprehensibly. He was dimly aware of Potions class, where they tested the Veritaserum potion on a brave volunteer (Gryffindor, of course) and of Defense against the Dark Arts, where they were introduced to baby Basilisks, who had small handkerchiefs tied around their eyes to keep from knocking anyone out. But these classes were so endless in their monotony Draco barely broke from his stupor. He could only remember throwing up more than a few times every day, and eating little, and drinking so much water it was a wonder that when he wasn’t throwing up he didn’t spend all his waking hours peeing.
But what scared Draco the most was his ease with being miserable. He knew quite well he could easily go to the Hospital Wing and get fixed right up, but the thought of doing that and having to be aware of his surroundings frightened him. At one point, he got a letter from his mum, who wished him good luck and told him she was off to look for his father, so her correspondence would be few and far between. Draco alarmed Pansy by having her read it to him, since his head was so congested.
What Draco didn’t know was his fever, innocent at first, was now slowly getting worse, but it probably wouldn’t have bothered him anyway. The dank dungeons that served as his sleeping quarters didn’t help his cough, which, though he could control with a few spells, grew heavier still.
His normally pale face was now so horridly white teachers inquired daily about his health. Deep purple circles appeared under his eyes, and his attention skills went from defiantly low to nonexistent. It was a popular rumor that he was trying to kill himself, but he let the whispers run rampant like wild fires because he didn’t have the energy to fight them.
Everyone walked around him as if he were made of ice, careful not to touch him for fear he would die underneath their fingertips. Only Pansy remained near him, and she acted as though she was his mother. She made him eat, without knowing he threw it up later; she paid Blaise to see him to bed, though not knowing he couldn’t fall asleep once the curtains were drawn.
In short, Draco Malfoy was truly, slowly killing himself.