By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 18: Draco

Draco decided he was done with Potter witnessing his weakness. It was bad enough that his father was dead and his mother may be as well: he didn't have to sit here and let Potter look at him with those wounded green eyes of his while Draco fell apart. He silently dragged himself upstairs, ignoring Potter's probing gaze and collapsing into the bed his mother had always slept in. He shoved his face in the pillow and pretended he could smell a trace of her perfume—gardenia and apple blossom—before falling into a (blessedly) dreamless sleep.

He awoke in the pale blue veil of early morning, just before the sun crested the horizon. For a moment, he forgot where he was, his eyelids sliding open sleepily, the blankets tangled around his waist, the ivory curtains still thrown open from the day before. Yet as his eyes adjusted to the watery morning light, he realized he was not in his bed in the Slytherin dorms, or the one at Malfoy Manor, but was instead tucked into the dusty bedroom of a forgotten French cottage. His hand was stinging, his chest itching, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his own skin and disappear.

He would've laid in bed the rest of the day (the rest of his stupid, pointless life, even), but he could smell his own dried sweat from the past two days wafting up from his pale skin; even in death, his father's voice slithered through his head, rife with disapproval. Throwing off the blankets, Draco climbed from the bed and went into the bathroom, tearing off his robes and the ridiculous reindeer jumper. He didn't wait for the water to heat up before clambering into the copper bathtub, his bandages lying in a soggy pile on the floor. He scrubbed himself with a hunk of lavender scented soap and drank water straight from the tap. When he was done, he stared down at his own reflection in the murky water. His face was pale and disturbingly blank, wreathed in soap bubbles and Draco's own filth. Before he could think on it, he laid down, knees scrunched up so he could fit and head sinking below the water. He couldn't hear anything beyond the blood rushing in his ears. His lungs began to protest, but Draco welcomed the discomfort: it was something else to focus on besides his father's murder, the torture his aunt had wrought on her own sister, the fact that he may soon die as well. How long could he really evade the Death Eaters, playing house with Potter while he constantly watched him like a bomb that may go off?

Only once his consciousness began to flicker, his lungs screaming for air, did Draco push himself up above the water. He gasped for breath, rubbing his eyes and inhaling deeply until his pulse steadied. Climbing out of the tub, he wrapped himself in a towel and went back into the bedroom, dripping onto the wood floor. He was surprised to find his wand on the bedside table, warmth spreading through his injured fingers as he picked it up, realizing Potter must have put it there after he'd fallen asleep. The symbols of Potter's quiet trust that he kept tucking into Draco's back pocket made his blood fizz, and he shoved down the thought, buried beneath everything else he was trying to avoid.

He crept around the dividing wall to find Potter asleep in the bed Draco himself had spent many of his childhood nights in, the blankets pulled up to his chin, his glasses on the bedside table. One hand was curled around the top of the coverlet, as if he were ready to fling it off at the slightest provocation. Draco tiptoed quietly to the wardrobe, pulling out a silk white button down that had once been his mother's and a pair of black trousers.

After getting dressed, he padded downstairs with his wand and went outside, the morning dew cold on his bare feet as he walked through the grass. A restless energy coiled through his limbs even though he couldn't have slept more than a handful of hours. He found himself pacing up and down the hill, beating back thoughts of his father, of his mother, of the Death Eaters and their crusade of blood. He wanted to use his magic, but he didn't know for what—he had no exams to study for, no stupid pranks to pull with Crabbe and Goyle, no adversary to even fight, at least not one he could see. He thought of Potter upstairs, someone he thought was his enemy, who he was still not entirely sure wasn't his enemy, but who had tended his wounds and cleaned up his vomit and looked at him with a tenderness he hadn't seen in a long time.