Picking up the Pieces of Our Lives -Drarry

Chapter Two: Hogwarts

Draco

During the battle of Hogwarts, he wished he would've died. No matter how many times he played it in his head, it would've been better if he did. There were so many opportunities for it to have happen as well, in the room of requirements, when he refused to fight, even before the battle when he refused to kill people, but he hadn't. And he wish he had.

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed in his room after refusing yet another meal. He couldn't sleep, eat, or do anything knowing the pain he had caused on other people. It was all his fault after all, wasn't it? All Draco did when he was up in his room was reflect on why he was such a bad person and cutting his arm. He would drag a dagger he got one of the house elves to bring him and would try to get rid of the ugly blemish on his pale skin, but no matter how many times he cut it, no matter how many times it healed, it would still be there. Draco usually had scabs on his left arm at all times because he didn't have a want he could use to heal his wounds, not that he wanted to. Draco felt as though he deserved every wound he got, every hex or jinx was somethig he deserves for being one of them.

He didn't want to be one of them, so why did he go through with it. He should be locked up in Azkaban with his father, but for some reason, he wasn't. Draco had no idea why he wasn't rotting away in Azkaban, even thought he confessed to being a Death Eater.

Now, he was crouched over the side of his bed watching the blood trickle down his forearm, mesmerized by it, when he heard a tap on his window. There, stood a brown barn owl. "Hogwarts." He thought. The blond had no idea why the school would have ever wanted him back, after all he had done, but then decided it would be much better to be at Hogwarts than the manor. All he ever thought about was that The Dark Lord had been there with him in the manor. Now, no matter how much had changed, no matter how much time had passed, the manor would never feel like home, all it would bring is memories of the screams–then silence. Memories of people begging for mercy, memories of Him being there, forcing Draco to hurt them. In fifth year, Draco couldn't even pay attention in class because he knew that He was living in his house, hurting innocent people. He was failing every class and had to sign up for Professor Umbridge's inquisitor squad to make sure he could continue going to Hogwarts. It only got worse in sixth year, however.

As he looked through the letter, his mind wandered off to first year, when he met Harry Potter. He wanted to impress him so much, even before he knew who he was. Draco had no idea at the time why he felt like he had to prove to Potter how much better he was than him, why he felt he had to show off and tease him, until Blaise told him he might actually like Potter. He said that maybe Draco might like the Gryffindork because he hasn't let the shame of rejection go, and it had been four years. The blond had been so mad at Blaise for even insinuating that he might have affections for Potter, but then he realized how right he was. Now, Draco laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the manor, wondering how bad the tormenting at Hogwarts would be.