The Taming of The Viper

Chapter 17: Sick In The Head

Professor Moody hobbled to the chalkboard, urging everyone to get out their quills. There was a reluctant obedience from students as they began to sleepily rifle through their bags and prepare for note taking. Quills out, wands away, it was already a recipe for a dull lesson.

The chalk screeched horribly as Moody scribbled something with his gnarled hand, and when he moved out of the way for everyone to read to the board, Draco groaned and hung his head.

Counter-Curses.

Why teach students to defend themselves against something they can't even do properly? Your opponent will always have the upper hand, Draco thought. Sure, they'd learned the silly hexes and jinxes, the ones that made bats fly out of your nose or made your ears twitch uncontrollably, but none of that would help in a real duel. Not if someone really wanted to hurt you.

It was foolish of Hogwarts to shun the Dark Arts. Draco's father always said that a self-respecting wizard should study all branches of magic, which is precisely why he regretted not sending Draco to Durmstrang where they put heavy emphasis on learning the intricacies of the Dark Arts instead of its restrictions. Because of the lacking curriculum Hogwarts had to offer, Draco's father opted to supplement his son's studies at home. Himself.

The memories washed over Draco like a flash flood. He'd tried to put up mental dams to keep them at bay but it was pointless. Once they started, there was no stopping them. They washed away any rational thought in their wake.

He stared at Professor Moody, watching his scarred mouth form words, but anything he said sounded like white noise to Draco's ears. Theo had been drumming on the desk with his wand but now that sound was gone too.

Draco felt his skin prickle into goose flesh, his palms turn clammy, and his mouth go dry. Was it always this hard to swallow?

The white noise vanished and before Draco even had the chance to miss it, a reel of memories began to spin, projecting a horror show before his eyes. All of the sudden, he was looking down at himself, hovering over his own form like a ghost, watching but unable to do anything. Draco's younger self was curled up on the black marble floor, his skin sickly pale and glistening with sweat. He was shaking as sobs rattled his body and the choked noise of his cries filled the grand entryway of the manor.

A wand was lying beside him.

All he had to do was reach out and take it but he was utterly immobilized by pain. Every breath that inflated his chest felt like a dagger pressing and twisting in between his ribs.

Go on, Draco, pick it up. His father's voice was as clear as crystal.

Draco watched his own bony fingers twitch in an attempt to comply but it hurt too much.

The cold voice drew nearer. If this were a real duel, you'd be dead by now. Pick it up.

I can't, he sobbed. It hurts. Everything hurts.

It only hurts because you let it hurt. His father knelt over his trembling form and brushed away the hair that was plastered to Draco's forehead. Do not let the pain make you weaker than you already are, Draco. Ignore it. Ignore it and eventually you will go numb to it. Now go on, boy, pick up your wand. PICK IT UP!

Draco pushed himself onto his knees, fingers curling around his wand as tightly as he could manage. A tear splattered onto the black marble beneath him.

Good, good, his father coaxed. Stand up. Now.

Draco didn't want to. He knew what would happen once he'd rise to his feet. It would start all over again, the infinite loop of pain, but if he didn't stand, the consequences would be more dire than just the splintering he felt in his bones.