Ex-Friends || A Drarry Story

Two: Thirteen

It was dark, and then Draco could see again. Well, at first it was blurry, his eyes heavy as if someone was holding them down. After a few more seconds, his eyes opened and he let out a low moan of pain. His entire body---especially his head---hurt all over.

With another groan, he sat up, looking around once his vision had cleared. First, his eyes landed on a huge snake, sending a shiver down his spine. His eyes travelled up from the tip of the tail to the head, where it lay bloody and mangled. Then, his eyes spotted Harry Potter.

He was swaying slightly, his hand twitching, a quick up and down motion of the wrist. In one hand, he held a sort of fang, and in the other, he had the diary. He was soaked in blood on one half of his body. Draco drew a shuddering breath, and tears began to pour down his face.

"Riddle---"

"I know," said Harry simply. His voice sounded tired. "I know everything. Draco, I don't get it. Not at all."

"I---I didn't know at first, I---" he stopped, wiping at his face, feeling so weak and vulnerable. Potter was standing right there, just looking at him, watching him cry. "He listened to me, he cared for me! My own friends didn't care when I tried telling them!"

For a moment, Harry was quiet. "And your parents?"

"What about them?" said Draco softly, wiping his face again, but the tears continued to come.

"Are they. . ."

"My parents are amazing parents, Potter," Draco snapped furiously. "Shut the hell up about them, got it?"

Nodding, Harry frowned. "Riddle told me everything, Draco. You killing Hagrid's chickens, the writing on the walls---"

"It wasn't my fault!" sobbed the blonde boy. "I never knew it was me until I had paint all over me! I never knew!" He buried his face in his hands, sobbing loudly. Harry crouched beside him, placing a twitching hand on his shoulder. "He told me so many things, Harry! Told me I was needed, that I was wanted."

"You are want---"

"By who?"

"Me." Harry stood. "And your friends. Now, c'mon, they're waiting for you."

"Friends?" repeated Draco, sniffling and wiping at his face. "I---All of them?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, leading Draco over the dead Basilisk and into the dark tunnel. Overhead, Fawkes the Phoenix circled, his light leading the way. "They were the ones who found Ron and me."

"Theo, huh?" Draco chuckled. "Yeah, he's got a screw loose."

Harry sighed as they walked into the tunnel, the heavy stone doors behind them closing with a hiss. They continued on, and the sound of slowly shifting rocks and bickering reached Draco's ears.

"Hey, everyone!" Harry yelled, speeding up. "Draco's okay!" Draco heard them give a cheer and he felt himself smile. He saw Harry looking at him, smiling as well. "See?" he said softly. "They want you."

There was a small hole and Draco saw Blaise Zabini's face poking out. "Draco! Come on, come through!"

Not too carefully, Draco wriggled through the hole, grabbing onto Draco's arm, pulling him. As soon as he was able to stand, he felt Blaise wrap his arms around him, squeezing firmly. "Why in the world---?"

"You worried us!" said Pansy Parkinson sternly, her dark eyes flaring.

Draco shrugged, welcoming her hug as well. Next came Theodore Nott, shyly rubbing his hands together. "Er, you aren't mad at me are you?"

"I should have listened to you, Theo."

"You called me---"

Draco interrupted, "Yes, I know. But. . .I think I've been too harsh." He shook his head. "Enough of that for now, please, I feel rather, rather exhausted."

"Oh, okay." Theo sighed, grinning at the familiar coldness of his friend. Suddenly, his eyes drifted upwards, where Fawkes flew above their heads. "When did that bird get there?"

"He's Dumbledore's," Harry explained quickly. He looked around, asking, "Where's Lockhart?"

Pansy scoffed. "Up there," she replied, pointing towards the pipe. "He's gone mad."

Led by Fawkes's light, they all walked back to the mouth of the pipe, where Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting, humming placidly to himself.

It was then that Draco paid little attention to what was going on around him, tears flowing down his cheeks again, a knot entering his stomach and throat at the thought of returning to Hogwarts. He would have to speak to McGonagall about the whole ordeal, possibly Dumbledore, definitely his parents.

His father had specifically placed that diary in Ginny Weasley's cauldron in Flourish and Blott's in Diagon Alley. Why had he stolen it, caused a scene just for a ratty old diary? He didn't know what this diary had been capable of before he wrote in it for the first time.

Soon, he found himself sitting in a comfortable armchair, face blank as his eyes focused on Professor McGonagall's emerald robes. He could see her mouth moving, but couldn't hear it, not responding. On either side of him sat his parents. His mother's nails dug into his back, unseen by McGonagall, and he could feel the blood being drawn.

Dumbledore was also there, icy eyes on him, piercing his soul. What was it about those eyes that just seemed to burn a hole in Draco's stomach? Why did he hate them so much?

His parents decided on taking him out of school for the remainder of the term, instead telling Dumbledore that he would be better recovering in the safety of Malfoy Manor. Safety.

Was safety screaming in his face, slapping him, lifting him by the front of his robes, slamming him into a stone wall until he cried out and his mother had to cast healing spells to fix his fractured bones, just to have to do the same thing a day or two later?

Draco didn't understand how this could be safety. Why had Dobby told his father all about how he spoke about them? Why did Dumbledore have to inform his parents about the diary?

His father often asked why the hell he had stolen that diary, slapping him multiple times as he held still, or attempted to. Draco never replied, just took the slaps until his father stopped, shoving him so hard his tailbone bruised.

"Go to your bedroom," he growled, smacking him once with the silver snake head of his cane.

Up in his bedroom, Draco wriggled beneath his bed, sobbing softly into a pillow he had put down there. On the floor beneath him, he heard his parents screaming at each other, glass breaking.

Would they stop? Why won't they?

They had to love him, right? They loved him enough to dicipline him, loved him enough to take him out of school before anyone found out he had been the one to open the Chamber of Secrets, loved him enough to hit him. . .

But his friends had never hit him. Harry Potter had never even raised a hand to him. No one but his parents did. . .

They love you, he told himself. They're older, they know love. Love is hitting. Love is being snide, rude.

So then why doesn't Potter see that?

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