healing | drarry

thirty-four

~no pov

Draco was full after one small meal, but that was okay. He took the leftovers home and told himself he'd have that later. He was going to eat unhealthy food, lots of it, and appreciate it.

He appreciated the fact that there was a takeaway place open on Christmas.

For someone in mourning, he felt way too stable.

The next thing he did, which was slightly less stable, was drink a whole bottle of vodka. (Not all at once). He knew there was ninety-seven calories per shot of vodka, and a whole bottle would probably have a thousand or more, but he didn't care.

Calories didn't matter if you were dead, and Lucius was dead, and Draco didn't want to die the same way.

Feeling bored, Draco drunkenly decided to cook a curry, and he'd eat that curry happily. He wasn't as bad as his father, so he could eat. The curry was probably missing a few spices and half of the actual meat, but Draco didn't care.

He ate that curry with a small amount of rice, and if it made him sick after, he didn't care. He just drank more and came up with more things to do.

Eventually, he drunk enough to numb his feelings, his mind and his thoughts. He forgot about all of his troubles, and the world around him, and decided to watch TV. But watching TV got boring quicker than he expected, so he went back to his kitchen to make cocktails.

Drinking more was definitely a stupid idea, but he made a Daiquiri, a Negroni and a Martini, and although all three of them were probably missing an ingredient or two, he didn't care. The bitter taste of alcohol numbed the bitter thoughts in his mind.

And then he started sobbing, for a reason he couldn't think of. Like his mind was trying to make him remember what had happened, and make him deal with it instead of drink it away.

He ended up shattering several glasses and throwing his empty vodka bottle at the floor, and then he was sobbing in a mess of broken glass, the shards cutting his legs and arms and it was fine. He couldn't feel it.

But Scorpius would, when he got home.

Shit. Scorpius.

Draco checked the time and, upon seeing it was only seven pm, he cleaned up first. He definitely got hurt more than he expected, but it was fine if he couldn't feel it. The glass was gone, and the blood stains were gone and oh, he should probably clean the cuts up.

He stumbled into his room to strip out of his bloody clothes, and went to shower, letting the water wash away the excess blood. He dried the worst ones off and covered them with simple plasters, before getting changed into black joggers and a hoodie.

His head was starting to hurt, so he drank some whiskey, something he did with his father when he was growing up. Lucius told him he had to learn how to take hard liquor, as that was what all strong men did. He learned on his own, mostly, during sixth year, when his task and Mark became a burden and not something to flaunt.

His phone rang again, and it was Potter. Draco didn't want to pick up, not to see the entire Weasley family staring at him in disgust for mourning a war criminal. He was a war criminal; they'd stare at him in disgust regardless.

And he couldn't deal with that.

But his son. Oh, for fuck's sake, he had to get his son.

He tried to Apparate into the kid's room to just pick up his son and leave, but he was drunk, and ended up in the kitchen, falling against the counter with a loud thud. Potter ran in and asked him if he was okay, and Draco just walked past him towards the hallway.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, you're drunk, alright, it's not the best time to get your son. Scorpius can stay over with me until you're sober, okay?"

"No, it's fine. I can take my own son, thank you very much."

Potter grabbed his arm in the middle of the hallway, spinning Draco around to look at him. He felt dizzy and sick, but he held his ground and stood still, staring at the brunet.

"You're drunk, and no doubt it's because of what you saw on the news." Potter began. "You are in no fit state to take care of yourself, and definitely not a child either. Sit down and let me get you something to drink- no, not alcohol."

"I'm fine, Potter. What was on the news doesn't bother me."

"So why are you drunk?"

That was a good question, one Draco couldn't answer without crying. He drank so he could forget, and here Harry Potter was, ruining that for him by reminding him.

"My father fucking died, okay? My mother has lost her mind and people think I'm an ass for not visiting her. People think I'm dead too. What the fuck do you expect me to do?" Draco shouted without meaning to. "Do you want me to smile and laugh and sit in a room filled with people who hate me and my family?"

"No, Malfoy, I don't-"

"And enough with calling me Malfoy. It's like everyone's forgotten my goddamn name." Draco felt too light for his own good. "My name is Draco, okay? Did you fucking forget that?"

"No, Ma- Draco, I didn't. It's just a habit, like the way you call me Potter."

"Everyone else calls you Harry. It's not a big deal if someone calls you Potter." Draco said simply. "But no one calls me Draco, no one from the Wizarding World. Because everyone from there hates me and wishes I was dead."

"Hey, no, that's not true."

"Stop fucking lying. You know damn well everyone hates me."

Potter frowned. He didn't know what to do. "People haven't had the pleasure of meeting the matured Draco. They don't know what else to do but hate you."

"And they'll never fucking meet me, because if I go home, they'll lock me up and let me die the same way my father did."

The brunet's face fell. Draco still called the Wizarding World home.

"I'll take you home some day, and we'll show everyone that you don't belong in Azkaban, just like I did at your trial seven years ago." Potter whispered. "I wouldn't have defended you if I didn't believe you deserved freedom."

"I'm not free." Draco admitted. "I'm hated, and I don't have magic, and I can't go home. That's not freedom."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"I don't blame you." Draco said softly, before collapsing in the brunet's arms.