sweetener; drarry

19; draco's decision

TRACK 19
I Know It's Over
The Smiths

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The pressure against his face was paramount and blinding. It was as if his head had filled with cement, or that his skull had instead decided to expand and crush his brain — crumple his thoughts. There was no room for those anymore. Not when his fingers were halfway down his gullet, poking and invasive. If only he could hit the spot, the spot that caused him to gag and expel all the guilt from his body. The guilt that burned and fought its way up and out as he heaved over a toilet bowl.
If only he could keep his fingers down for just long enough—
With a full body tremor that traversed from his feet to his fingertips, Draco's stomach gave a great lurch and the anxiety burrowed inside of him sloshed into the bowl. He wiped the line of saliva from his mouth with a sleeve, coughing and whimpering as his eyes leaked with remorse.

Rain thrummed on the window panes like a spluttering engine as the storm screamed into full-throated rage. Draco inhaled sharply, and for a moment just knelt listening as it seethed and howled. It sounded like a caged animal that had just been kicked in the belly. He shuffled on his knees towards one of the many blurred windows and threw it open, the air pressure dropping and the temperature falling. Draco gazed out into what could only be described as a black hole, starless and barren behind a mountain of thunderclouds. Whipping rain and unforgiving wind rifled through his hair, jets of lightening bleaching him bone white and making the dark that followed all the more frightening.

It was as if Draco had spoken to Mother Nature herself, requesting the most horrific storm to match his mood. Or, perhaps, he had simply pissed her off and this was her only outlet — to hope that he would wander out into the storm and be swallowed up. The thought, albeit fleetingly, crossed his mind. Would it be so bad to offer himself up to the weather?

He turned back to the bathroom tiles upon which he sat, bitter cold curling around him — grabbing, grabbing, grabbing at him just like the water in the lake had. His head throbbed, stomping to some imperial march but with all the wrong notes. The world could have imploded right then and there, yet the ache deep within his chest and stomach couldn't possibly have gotten any worse. His thoughts raced back to almost an hour earlier, when a boy's fist tried so very hard to embed itself in his abdomen. It seemed like decades ago now, so insignificant and small but heavy and cruel nonetheless.

Draco pulled back his shirt, the surge of emotions within his head betrayed by his bland expression upon noticing the spreading purple bruise on his belly. It was like a virus, eating away at his insides. Or, in a morbid way, purple flowers just beneath his skin — planted by the boy he had so stupidly fallen for. But these flowers were not tulips nor daisies, they were discoloured roses who's thorns had not been snipped. Beautiful upon first glance, yet so catastrophic to touch.

Why had he let himself be fooled? He knew this would happen, though a huge part of him had hoped it wouldn't.

He felt swollen; gargantuan and seething with anger. He had let himself be vulnerable, just once, and it had all rebounded. Now he sat, crumpled in the boy's toilets — deflated, depressed, destroyed. That's what every Malfoy deserves, right?

Draco pulled his knees to his chest, hands trembling as the cool air licked at his nose, turning it purple and icy to the touch. He felt alone. He had always felt alone, but never quite like this. Never before had someone barged into his life and made him feel special, only to (quite literally) beat him back down again. It was too much to take, too much, too soon.

Air. Draco needed air, just when the room had suddenly stripped itself of oxygen — right when he needed it most. He dragged in fast, shallow breaths, gripping onto the fabric closest to his chest as if it would act as a lifeline. His vision dissolved at the edges, burning up like an old photograph when exposed to too much light. His head swam in a fog that engulfed his limbs — making them light but also lining them with lead at the same time. He needed to get low, low to the ground, but before he could get there, two hands enveloped him in an awkward embrace. He still couldn't see, so instead he leaned into the arms and closed his eyes. They were firm but so motherly he could've cried. Draco was starved of a mother's touch, this was the closest he would get.

"Harry?" Draco choked out, the arms only held on tighter. There was silence for a long moment, almost uncomfortably so, before a familiar but unexpected voice spoke up.
"He's in the hospital wing with Ron." And just like that his world did implode. Here was Draco Malfoy; entirely pureblooded and heir to the Malfoy fortune, cradled in the arms of a mudblood. He opened his eyes then, teaming with humiliation.

The heat from Hermione's embrace crawled onto Draco's cheeks and caused a shameful blush to spread across them. How pathetic. He wanted to scream at her, to push her away and make a show of washing himself after her touch, but instead all he could manage was to burrow into her hug deeper.
"Wuh-what did he tell you?" Draco spoke soberly, refusing to look at her face so instead focusing on a stray strand of fabric on her robes.
"Nothing, but I guessed what had happened by the look on his face and what Ron said about you." She always had been an insufferable know-it-all. She wasn't being spiteful, in fact she almost sounded as though she cared about the daily affairs of Draco Malfoy.
"Why did you come and fuh-find me?"
A blush developed on her cheeks now, clearly uncomfortable by the look on her face.
"Well...you haven't been in the best mindset recently, you've been quiet and..."
"And what?" It wasn't a question. He stared her down now, daring her to contradict him.
"Not yourself." She finished, unafraid and clearly not intimidated yet still oh, so uncomfortable.

Draco dropped his gaze, relaxing his tense shoulders and wiping away the tears of fear with his bare fingers. How had he stooped so low? He had been the king of Hogwarts — albeit a mutually hated one — and now he was little more than scum. He really did push Hermione away now, heaving himself to his feet and dismissing her with a nod of gratitude. To be fair, she had just helped expel his anxiety attack, and he didn't want her getting in the way of the plan he had just concocted in his head. He had to shake her off his tail to follow through with this newly constructed arrangement, and the easiest way to do so was to be nice.

"Sorry that you had to see me like this, but I'm fine. I'll get over it." Draco forced a weak smile upon his face. Hermione didn't seem convinced, but she returned the gesture and left soon after. Clearly, she wasn't comfortable around him. How could she be after the way he treated her for so many years?

As soon as she had left, leaving the doors swinging behind her, Draco stormed through those same doors and straight for the janitors closet he had transformed into a small home. The one place he had felt safe. The place that had been defiled and laced with bittersweet memories. Memories that coiled around his heart and squeezed until it popped.

Draco couldn't cope. Everything was too much and he longed to simply not feel.