potter! (drarry one-shots)

one: saint potter

Draco Malfoy, young and most bitter.

He rubbed at his eyes, and pulled at his hair. This was driving him nuts, locked away in a house that barely had anything left, not even skeletons in closets.

What he wouldn't do for a walk outside.

But, he smiled with chapped lips framing sharp teeth, he could never risk it. Walk outside? Outside the walls of this house? He would rather die then do such a thing.

Who would risk their magic, for a pathetic thing such as the sun? Or the grass? Or the peacocks that Draco hadn't feed since... since when?

Well, Draco sat down to think on this. Has he ever fed the peacocks that lived on the Malfoy Manor grounds?

No, that was his father's job.

As he sat their, slumped over the fire's hearth and drinking in the heat, Draco almost started to cry. He had to count back from one hundred, to stop the tears that would have caused him to pass out.

From disgust, or not having any sleep for four days straight?

One may never know.

But he could feel it now, along with the ringing in his ears. Before he tried to sleep, and after he had given up on it, too. He could feel the emptiness, the loneliness.

He could feel his magical core, fading away.

In all of his twenty five years of living, Draco had not once let himself go so far. Into the pit of pity, where disgusting things hide, and cruel things breed.

He was so old now. He missed being eleven.

If Draco didn't have so much self worth, he would have thrown himself into the fire.

He would, if he didn't have so much self worth, have killed himself a hundred times over by now.

He would have slit his throat, or drowned himself in his oversized bathtub, or gauged his own eyes out.

'Or I would have-'

Sadly, Draco didn't get to finish that thought. Because now he was on his back, and there was an angel.

An angel from the place his mother used to take him to, an angel from the book his godfather used to read for him.

An angel from the hopes of his father's dreams, a man so far deep in death he cried out for, an angel that could heal wounds and fix lives. Miracles, that's what his father used to call for.

It took him half a second to realise that the face, disgust and helplessness weaving lines, was none other then Harry Potter.

Harry. Bleeding. Potter.

Draco really started to cry then, sobbing ugly sounds, spit and snot and tears mixing until Draco couldn't bare it any longer, rolling over to rub his face in the dusty carpet.

"Can't you bastards just leave me alone!" He was bawling now, headbutting the ground until he swore his eyes were about to burst.

"Right. W-well I'm just going to go make myself a cup of tea, then." Draco crawled to the stairs, hiccupping and waiting for the rest of his eyeballs to drain out of his head.

They didn't.

When he found himself in bed, he was stretching out as much as one could in a closet. The sounds of a kettle whistling was too loud for that quiet house, Draco flinched and crawled deeper and deeper until he was at the very back.

It was nice in here, dust clogging up his senses, rats probably making nests in draws and clothes.

Draco feels like his later teenage years were slightly ruined.