19 Years (HP - Drarry)

Chapter 14: Trauma

Monday, September 25, 2017

Draco stalked back to his rooms from the Headmaster's office, seething with anger. How dare Potter's brat attack his Slytherins like that? First-years, no less. Draco squeezed his hands into fists, imagining wrapping them around the smug little menace's neck. He knew that Potter had been in to see Headmaster Longbottom earlier; he'd seen the stricken look on Potter's face as he'd left, without seeming to see Draco at all. And that told him all he needed to know about Potter's state of mind. On the one hand, it made him feel a bit better – at least Potter wasn't condoning such abysmal behavior. On the other... did Potter have any control over his House – or his son – at all?

He'd half a mind to stomp over to Potter's door and demand an explanation. Maybe even demand reparations. Except that that would mean breaking his "no talking to Potter" rule. Damn. Maybe it would be worth it, though. That hadn't been a mere schoolboy prank – Draco had engineered enough of those in his day to know. There had been genuine malice there, and those first-years were lucky they hadn't been killed. Potter was lucky they hadn't been killed.

Draco rounded the corner into the corridor leading to his room – and Potter's; he still hadn't ruled out pounding on his door. In fact, that sounded rather fun –

Draco was abruptly jarred from his thoughts by a shout and the astonishing sight of Potter's door imploding. He froze, riveted by the sight of McGonagall striding through the resulting cloud of dust, and by... Draco blinked. Potter. Curled on the floor in front of his door, apparently in shock. Potter. Staring up at McGonagall with wide, frightened eyes. Potter. Convulsing with laughter.

Draco abruptly slumped back against the wall, staring, as McGonagall frowned down at an inexplicably hysterical Potter, as she sent a Patronus whisking away down the corridor, as Madam Pomfrey came bustling in with Susan Bones, and the two of them floated Potter away down the hall.

McGonagall waved her wand and restored Potter's door, then turned on her heel. Draco reached out without thinking and caught the sleeve of her robe, gulping as she trained indignant steely eyes on him and he realized what he'd done.

"Sorry, Professor," he whispered, quickly letting her sleeve fall and dropping his gaze to the floor.

He saw, just before he did, the moment McGonagall bit back her automatic sharp retort, replacing it with a clipped "Yes, Mister Malfoy? I'm afraid I'm a bit busy, at the moment."

"Yes, Professor," he said hurriedly. "I mean, no, Professor. I mean – "

McGonagall sighed. "Out with it young man."

Draco felt his lip twitch, amused at the notion that he was still a "young man" to her, at nearly 40. It gave him the courage to ask, "Professor, what happened? Is Potter..." He trailed off, uncertain what he intended to follow that with, and McGonagall placed a thin – but still firm – hand on his shoulder, patting gently.

"He'll be all right, Mister Malfoy. He's been a foolish boy, and neglected himself of late, and he had a bit of a shock – we think he triggered some leftover trauma from the war. It's nothing Madam Pomfrey and Miss Bones haven't seen before."

Draco nodded, closing his eyes. Not good news, then, but not bad either. He swayed on his feet, suddenly bone-weary. He couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten...

McGonagall shook his shoulder gently, then fixed him with a gimlet eye when he looked up at her. "You've been neglecting yourself too, Mister Malfoy. Do us all a favor and get some food and rest, now. We can't have all of you dropping like flies – the school won't run itself, you know."

Draco nodded vaguely, watched her stride down the hall with a brisk energy that reminded him of how very weary he was. He fumbled his key in the lock a few times, trying to open his door, and when he finally managed, he stumbled straight to his bed and collapsed on it.

Some minutes later, he was still sitting there. The image of Potter, curled up on the floor, wouldn't leave his head – it was burned onto his retinas, vivid and painful. "Leftover trauma from the war," McGonagall had said. Draco snorted. They all had that, didn't they? He thought of what his mother had whispered to him, one night soon after they'd returned to the Manor.

"He died, Draco. I lied to the Dark Lord for him, yes, when I told him he was dead at that moment. But it wasn't entirely a lie. He really did die, if only for a moment. Do me a favor, Draco, and look into his eyes, one day, when you're back at school. Really look at him. That boy carries shadows in his eyes, now."

Draco dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Of course the git had trauma. They all had trauma. But, once again, Potter had to be special. He had to have "I died for a minute, but I'm back now" trauma. Draco sighed heavily, gaze dropping to rest, as usual, on the inky black mark that marred his pale skin. He hated that mark. Hated it more than anything, because it was a reminder of his failures, his weakness. Draco was a weak man, and he knew it. Merlin, did he know it. And, because of his stupidity, and his father's blind ambition, it was written on his arm for all and sundry to see. He wondered if he should have another tattoo done. On his forehead maybe. "Draco Lucius Malfoy is a weak, pathetic excuse for a man." Yes, that ought to do it.

As always happened, when the war came up, Draco's thoughts turned maudlin. He replayed his memories again, turning over each moment, each choice, and looking for one he could have made differently. Looking for a key moment where he could have made a choice that would have made a difference. That could have lessened the destruction and suffering. As always, he couldn't find one. As always, that didn't stop him from spending half the night searching. When he finally drifted off to sleep, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, his mind was still frantically spinning. He dreamed of the battlefield. Of churned mud and blood, the pop of broken bones, the sizzle of burnt flesh, the screams and flares of light that lit up the night in neon pulses of red, green, yellow... the sickly green light of the killing curse.

He woke with a start, his vision tinged with echoes of green, the shadow of a scream on his lips. He lay there, rigid and wracked with shudders, until the pale pre-dawn light brightened and the rays of early-morning sun chased the remnants of the dream away.