Everlasting 2 (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

I Beg

And in a final blow, you slammed the chair against the wall, causing the legs of the poor, darling chair to snap off from it, the wood falling apart and gliding along the floor, onto the opposite end of the room. That did not appease you. In fact, your adrenaline sparked even more, causing you to turn back to the desk even angrier. You rose your foot to slam it against the desk, only to be stopped by a figure in the doorway. 

Snape stood, watching you ruin his office completely. He did not speak, nor did he stop you. He was dressed in his usual clothes and looked neat and fine; it did not seem like you'd awoken him. 

Nonetheless, seeing him took you aback. You froze, mid-kick, until you slowly lowered your leg and stared at him across the office. He did not speak, nor did you. The two of you were left staring at each other in silence, empty faces, defeated faces, analytical faces of mutual understanding. 

"You never went to sleep," you finally said, exhaling, and turning away. 

"No." He said. "I anticipated this." 

"Sorry about the chair," you shrugged your shoulders.

"Yes," he said softly, walking into the office and closing the door behind himself. "Why my office, [F/n]?"

You pursed your lips, refusing to look at him as you walked away, the closer he got into the office. 

"Why have you become so obsessed with this? Did you find out more than what I'd told you? You're actually acting weirder than usual, I think. I heard about what happened between you and Zabini, too. And momentarily snapping at Draco? Lack of sleep? Misbehaving so badly in classes? I thought we were past this. This is another kind of issue. What's really driving you here?" 

Frustrated, you twisted your wand between your fingers, slowly strolling around Snape's office. He awaited a response and entertained himself by tidying the mess you'd made by hand. He did not know when to expect an answer from you, thus he busied himself by lifting all the papers manually, putting them back in their drawers. He gathered the bits of wood that you'd wrecked from your chair smashing. He placed his desk and equipment back in the place, which you'd thrown around. 

Finally, after a solid five minutes of silence, and of Snape awaiting an answer from you, which he knew he would eventually receive, only after your mind processed the correct words and created a [F/n]-Potter-styled response. And so, you spoke. 

"English oak," you finally said, staring out of the window of Snape's office, looking into the night sky, into the moon, as it longingly looked back at you. "And unicorn hair." 

Snape did not answer immediately. Rather, he stayed in his position, gazing ahead of himself, lost for a moment, dazed at your words. 

"What are you talking about, [F/n]?" 

"You know," you exhaled, turning back to him. Seeing your eyes at a moment like this was truly horrifying, for the dark bags under them proved your lack of rational thinking, as the emptiness within them proved worthy of fear, and the despair in your gentle eye colour terrified Snape, yet brought him to his emotional knees, whereby he could not help but pity and feel and share your emotions. "You know what I'm talking about." 

"I do not."

"Tell me," you said quickly, opening your eyes wider, turning to him in a much more interrogative manner, slowly stepping closer to him. "Do you know what my wand is made of, Snape?" 

He paused, not looking at you. 

"Acacia wood."

"And its core?" 

"Phoenix feather." 

"You've a talent in knowing people's wands." You said, stepping back, as though you'd just given a speech and just delivered the conclusion of it. 

He finally closed his eyes momentarily, sighed, opened them, turned to you - stern eyes - partially of worry and partially of terror, but no less of frustration. 

"Why Astoria's wand?" He finally asked, standing straight. "That file had information on all their wands. But you - you memorised Astoria's. Why?" 

You turned away again, back to the window. "Why not?" 

"When did you last get proper sleep?" 

"What's it matter?" 

"A lot. Such severe sleep deprivation leads to paranoia and obsessive thoughts, [F/n]. You know this. You're barely thinking - "

"I thought they were dreams," you cut him off, feeling your breath deepen. "I thought they were dreams, but then I paused, and I realised ... I don't get enough sleep to have dreams!" 

He did not reply, but watched you in silence. A worried silence, that is. 

"So I've figured it out." You turned to him again, those huge eyes of yours, begging for sleep. "What I've been seeing aren't dreams - they're the future. They're visions. I've had them before. With Voldemort ... with everything. I could always feel the danger. I would always be sick. My body was capable of warning me. This ... this is the same!"

"What happens in those supposed visions of yours, [F/n]?" 

"Every damn time ... I see her smirk at me. She takes Draco's hand into her own, and slowly pulls him away, and he is not looking back at me, but she is, and she is smirking. It happens over and over and over and over."

"Is this why you're avoiding sleep?"

"No - I need answers."

"You don't need answers. You need to sort yourself out."

"Don't tell me to sort myself out." 

"[F/n] - "

"I can't lose more people, Snape. I can't. Please. Don't let her come here. I beg. I don't want to beg. But I am. I still see Harry's face. I still hear his last words. I still feel my actions in that moment."

For guilt does not disappear within a good night's sleep. Guilt and regret do not leave one's side, for they are pests, and they cling to one's soul, sucking at it, devouring it, taking the individual's character with it. One loses a sense of themselves in the feast of guilt and regret. They eat you up, until you become them; your individual becomes defined by them. You are them. You are left to wonder, Who am I? and Who was I before this? for the person before guilt and regret is not the same as after. And there is only so much of a given emotion any individual can take. 

"She cannot come - Draco will be gone too."

And you found yourself in Snape's arms, somehow, so quickly, balling and crying endlessly, releasing the emotions in a healthy way, for crying is healthier than throwing furniture and obsessing over an alternative ending to one's hypothetical one. And Snape recognised this suffering; he'd seen it in himself, those years before. The guilt and regret; he knew what kind of enemies those emotions could be. 

"I'm sorry, [F/n]," he cried out in a whisper, "you will be okay."

And you did not exactly understand his apology. What it was for, at least. But an understanding came about soon enough, when Snape's wand had gently pressed itself against the back of your head as you were mid crying into his chest, and upon the press of his wand, the magic did its job, as your consciousness was wiped away within seconds. You drifted off into a long paradise of sleep, of a silent and scarcely conscious existence, limp in Snape's arms. He had caught you perfectly in time. 

But you were too far gone to acknowledge this now.