Where The Sun Drops | drarry post-war

eleven | pain

Draco soon realised that the best way to feel alive was to mess with Harry.

It made sense - Potter was the only living being who could see him, and thus the only proof he could have of his existence on the earth any more. The only way he could have any impact on anything at all was through him.

And, as much as he hated that theory, he had to admit that it was rather fun to fuck with Potter specifically. The pillock was evidently on a knife edge mentally as it was, and Draco liked the power of knowing he could be the one to push him over the edge.

And so he did his worst.

It began with the odd piercing scream whenever Potter didn't know he was about, and usually in front of Weaslette so he'd have to play his jumpiness off as something else.

"Stubbed my toe," Harry found himself having to lie several times after a sudden jolt caught Ginny's attention, or, "Thought I saw a spider!"

"You're not scared of spiders," the girl had responded on that occasion, her nose wrinkled in confusion. "That's Ron."

"No," Harry insisted through gritted teeth, "It's me."

Gradually, Draco amped up the noise. Wailing through the night to deprive the brunette of sleep became a speciality of his, as did talking loudly about the war or his death whenever Harry and Ginny tried to have a conversation, or watch something on their stupid Muggle picture box, or worst of all, have sex.

It killed the vibe effectively every single time, until eventually, after about three weeks, Potter stopped trying.

He stopped watching the box, took to wearing small white music-playing contraptions in his ears most of the time, and gently pushed off all Weaslette's attempts to initiate intimacy.

"Not now, love," he'd say, with a softness that irritated Draco like nails down a chalkboard, "Not tonight. I'm not feeling good."

After five weeks, he'd even quit therapy, including the three couples' sessions Gin had persuaded him to go to. There just didn't seem any point, with Draco there laughing at everything he said, or mimicking him, or making obscene comments.

Ginny's reaction when he announced this decision was one of anguish.

"You're not even trying to get better, at this point, Harry," she said in concerned exasperation. "This is why you took your year out - didn't you tell me your intention was to get better and work on your mental health while I do my Quidditch stuff?"

"Yes," said Harry tiredly. "I just don't think the therapy is working any more."

"Well, it won't if you don't bother," his girlfriend told him, and there wasn't much else to say after that.

Then one day in early Autumn, Harry had an idea to prove Malfoy's existence to Gin once and for all. He couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to him before, in fact, and marvelled at the genius of the plan.

He had thought back to Malfoy's interruptions in therapy, where a key move of his was to read out the notes on Annie's notepad, so one afternoon he sat his girlfriend down with a pen and some paper, and told her to draw whatever she liked.

"Make it relatively hard to guess," he said, taking a seat which faced away from her on the other side of the room. "And don't tell me what it is."

Turning to the ghost, who had been overseeing the events with a sardonic expression, he nodded his head towards the girl. "Go and tell me what she's put, then," he said.