Isolation x Draco/Reader

The Slug Club

A/N:. Hi, thanks for joining me!! I will be making a brief explanation of Y/N's experience in this chapter, but please be advised of possible trigger warning.
~*~

"There's something about hanging out with the wicked kids
Take the pill make it too ill
The other day I forgot my old address
I'm sitting pretty on the throne
There's nothing more I want
Except to be alone"
- The Love Club, Lorde

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KARKAROFF AND DOLOHOV HIT IT OFF
Shamed Orphan Pietro Karkaroff spotted in Diagon Alley with young Ambrosia Dolohov-

   "Rubbish." I muttered, feeling bile rise in my throat as I slammed my paper down on the table. Undoubtedly another Rita Skeeter poison piece.

   Since when were either of them important enough to make the Daily Prophet? My stomach dropped as I looked up from under my lashes, head still lowered, to see that I was under the surveillance of many sets of eyes in the Great Hall. I stood up abruptly and left in a sweeping motion, robes flitting behind me madly. I noticed a side glance from Malfoy at the Slytherin table as I made my way out.

   My heart pounded painfully in my chest. Of course he waltzes off shamelessly into the sunset with tarty Ambrosia Dolohov while he's only wreaked havoc and chaos in the wizarding world. By all means, it was his "love" life that was most remarkable; utterly newsworthy. After everything he had done to the wizarding world, to me.

   And the audacity of Dolohov to cohort with the likes of him after the scandal and trauma he had caused? Was there no bitter end to her desperate cry for attention after being expelled last year, followed by her father being taken away to Azkaban? Had neither of them any shame? I was suddenly feeling quite lightheaded. I grasped the wall in the corridor for support as I found my way to the floor, backing up against the hard stone and hugging my knees.

   —-T/W mild mention of
torture and abuse —-

   "Why are you doing this?" I shrieked, dizzy from the heartfelt pain of realization, and the physical pain of the torture I had been under.
   I trusted him. He told me he wasn't a part of it. After his father had disappeared running for his life from them, how is it he could have joined them?

   He was Pietro Karkaroff, son of Igor Karkaroff former headmaster of Durmstrang. We had met and fallen in love in the fourth year when Durmstrang had come for the Triwizard Tournament, and he had deferred his schooling the next year when his father had disappeared. What began almost immediately in amorous exchanges and daunting romance soon turned into a dark, mentally abusive imprisonment. It was only upon later reflection that I had come to realize the emotional spell I was under. He kept room in Hogsmeade, the dingy Hog's Head Inn, and we met on weekends during school until he had joined my family at the Manor that Christmas Holiday. Neither I, nor my family were to predict the betrayal that would befall us that Christmas Eve.
   He was deranged, and determined to pick up after his father after he had put down the gauntlet as a Death Eater and run for his cowardly life. But as I laid on the cold cellar floor that night, enduring the unspeakable things that I did as he attempted to convert me to the Dark Lord's cause and punished me when I refused, I was turned to face how I had missed the monster that was hidden beneath.
   I didn't return to Hogwarts for the remainder of my fifth year, and he ran off to resume his work with the Death Eaters. It wasn't until the events that early summer when everyone had learned of the Dark Lord's return and confirmed that he was not just a deranged enthusiast, but a very active follower of a very much alive Voldemort. And then his father Igor had been captured and killed by the Death Eaters. Everyone in the wizarding world had learned what he had done, and what he had done to me. I supposed that's why they made it to the papers in the first place. But how he had not been caught yet was blasphemy in my mind, despite his shunning from the wizarding world.
   This is how he had continued to torment me from afar. Popping up periodically only long enough to spread his notoriety, then disappearing into the night before he could be detained. I had learned of his whirlwind affair with Ambrosia Dolohov as soon as the next month of January following that fated Christmas Eve. As trivial and minute as this particular detail was in the grand scheme of things, it was another painful jab and insult to injury in what I had already endured. And instances such as this were mere painful reminders.