The Bitterness of Infinity

Chapter 1

Notes:

This fic is Canon Divergent from the Chamber of Secrets onward: Voldemort was fully defeated in Harry's second year (this will be elaborated on later in the story). Everything from the Canon remains, excluding anything directly correlated with the return of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Enjoy!

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Draco Malfoy was drowning again. He was back, flailing about in the dark sea next to Malfoy Manor, which was peculiar as Malfoy Manor wasn't next to a sea. But there the house stood, a behemoth in the night. And even as his head is ducked violently underwater repeatedly and the icy water burns at his eyes, the Manor remains strangely clear in his vision— its looming outline imposing, the ink-capped spires tall, preening, watching his struggle.

Watching him die.

A sudden wave falls on top of him, submersing him fully into the cold water. The impact of the current is like a punch against his gut, and out of pure instinct Draco opens his mouth to gasp for air, but only water pours into his mouth with an eager violence. His entire body burns. He claws against the water, desperately thrashing around, but in which direction was the surface? Where the hell was he supposed to go? All he could feel was his heartbeat, throbbing angrily in the inside of his skull.

He was going to die. He was going to fucking drown. And nobody could save him. Somehow, inexplicably, he knows that he is alone in this strange, fatal sea.

The faint image of his father flickers into his mind, his lip curled with distaste, staring down at Draco's body with anger as if Draco had died to personally piss him off. How dare you die, Lucian Malfoy spits. Everything you have is because of me. Your honour, your reputation, all leeched off the Malfoy name. You are nothing.

The roar of the water nasals, turning into tremored wails.

You're nothing, the waves echo in a whisper. You're nothing, you're nothing, you're nothing.

Despite the softness at which they echo, every word sets off an excruciating ringing in Draco's ears. Bubbles escape from his mouth as he shoves his hands against his ears, but it only makes their voices louder. A strange sense of despair falls over him with every word. A deep sadness he can't quite place, as if he had lost something incredibly precious to him but had forgotten about it.

You're nothing. You're nothing. You're nothing.

White hazes at his vision. He was almost out of time. Light scatters all around him, taunting him, and though he desperately thrashes his arms around his limbs have already gone completely numb; it's as if he's trying to swim through honey.

You're nothing.

The surface was close. So, so close. He was almost there.

But almost was never enough.

And tonight, just like every other night, Draco knew his death was here. Somewhere hidden in the murky sea the Grim Reaper watches him with empty eyes, strands of seaweed snaking around his scythe. And as Draco lets his body sink deeper and deeper away from the sun, skeletal fingers brush gently against his neck.

Death's kiss was always cold.

But suddenly the gentle fingers around his neck solidify into hands around his shoulders, shaking him roughly, and he sits up with a sudden gasp, almost crashing his face into Pansy Parkinson's.

"Watch it!" she yelps, jumping back dramatically while clutching her forehead. "You almost hit me!"

Chest heaving, Draco sits up and runs a hand through his hair, disoriented. He lays a hand down by his side, expecting the feel of the soft cotton of his bedsheets but instead his palm meets cold, rough stone. The summer sun glares down at them, and beads of sweat trickle down the skin of his nape. A strong taste of bile floods his mouth. They were outside. He had been sleeping on a bench outside. Has anybody seen him before Pansy? The Malfoy heir sleeping on a bench— what would they say to Father?