Monster

Despite the few fantastic hours of sleep he had gotten before, Draco fell asleep again almost immediately, his belly full and the rain outside lulling him into a false sense of security. For the first time in weeks, he let down his defenses and truly slept.

He hadn’t had the Fiendfyre dream in quite awhile, and it seemed the nightmare had finally caught up with him. A flaming basilisk coiled and struck out at him, and he had to dive through a hole in the wall of rubbish to avoid being burned. On the other side, a phoenix swooped down at him, balls of fire pouring down its face like tears and dropping near Draco as he ran and ran, leaping and bounding over things like forgotten tables and smashed potions bottles. The door never got any closer and smoke started shrouding everything in sight.

Draco coughed, his breath ragged as he pulled his robes over his nose and mouth. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes so badly that he stumbled into a pile of old armchair fluff. He couldn’t find the brooms that Potter used to get them all out before. It was hopeless.

He was, officially, a goner for sure.

A flaming chimera rounded a corner and sped towards him, its breath scorching Draco’s flesh. He screamed in pain as his skin festered and peeled away as more and more fiery beasts closed in on him. Hope leached away with every blast of fire that was sent his way.

Back in Andromeda’s little brick house, the hopeless blonde boy screamed himself back into the present. The blue duvet had somehow covered him while he was asleep, and the once-comforting fabric was now a smothering hell. Draco tore his sweaty limbs from it and fell knees-first to the floor, inhaling lungful after lungful of oxygen.

There was no Fiendfyre here. There was no smoke. There was only steady rain outside and clear air inside. But it was not enough. Shaking almost as hard as the loose windowpanes at Hogwarts in a bad storm, he stood and stumbled out the room, making his way down the hall until he found the kitchen. He wrenched the back door open and lurched out into the cold rain.

Within seconds he was drenched, his clothing clinging to his skin. Still weak from the dream and his couple of weeks in the belly of the Ministry, he sunk into the muddy grass. He was already freezing, but at least the rain was clearing his mind of the smoke and the sight of his bubbling, charring skin.

He pulled his legs up to his chest and hugged them, shivering terribly, his teeth chattering. He’d catch his death out here. He wasn’t sure if he would mind. After years and years of trying to beat death by working with whichever side was winning, he didn’t care about living as much anymore. He took a deep breath, sucking in a few drops of water that poured off his nose. He wondered how it would feel to drown to death. Probably better than burning to death.

And, by Merlin, he really did deserve to die. He wasn’t a great student, he was a lousy friend, he was a shoddy follower, and he was a disappointing son. He rested his forehead on his knees, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He was a Malfoy; Malfoys did not cry, and they certainly did not wish for death. But here he was, sitting in mud in the yard of an old Mudblood’s house, having quite the pity party. He could only imagine how mortified his father would be to see his son like this.

“Malfoy?” a voice called from behind Draco.

He slowly lifted his head and turned to see Potter silhouetted in the doorway of the kitchen. “Potter,” Draco croaked in reply.

Potter disappeared for a moment and returned with an umbrella, padding across the muddy grass in his bare feet to stand over Draco with the umbrella. “Come back inside.” He offered Draco his hand and without having to think about it, he grabbed it, letting Potter pull him up. He didn’t say anything as Potter led him back into the kitchen and sat him down at the table.

“I woke up and thought you’d ran off,” said Potter as he busied himself with heating some onion soup.

“N-n-n-no,” Draco chattered, almost unable to utter the word, he was shaking so hard.

Potter looked over at Draco. “You’re shivering.”

“N-n-no sh-sh-sh-shit-t-t,” he replied sarcastically.

Potter smiled a bit as he took his wand out from his back pocket. “I’ll either end up drying you or setting you on fire,” he warned, and before Draco could react, Potter had waved his wand.

No flames sprang up to envelope him, but his clothes were suddenly as warm and dry as if they’d been hanging in front of a fire for several hours. He sighed deeply and tucked his tartan shirt closely around his body. “T-thanks,” he chattered, still chilled to the bone but at least he was now dry.

Wizarding-kind’s savior smiled, looking rather pleased with himself. “We’ll have to find you some clothes that fit better. Those are more or less falling off.”

Draco stayed silent. He didn’t want Potter’s help, or Andromeda’s help, or any of the Order’s help. He steepled his fingers and rested the bridge of his nose along his fingertips, closing his eyes. He wanted this all to be over. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to right his crooked world.

There was a thunk of a bowl being set down on the scrubbed wooden table, and Draco jerked back to attention, making Potter take a sudden step back. “Sorry,” they muttered simultaneously. Draco flushed and picked up the spoon from the bowl of soup, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of lukewarm onion soup into his mouth.

He glared down at the bowl, trying to concentrate on one thing at a time. Finally, he dared to glance up at Potter. The boy – no, Potter was a man now, not only because of his age, but because of how the war would not have let him out of its clutches without inducing some sort of maturation or mental change – was watching Draco intensely with a furrowed brow. Or maybe he was staring through Draco, because he did not react when Draco looked up. He supposed he should feel uncomfortable with Potter staring at him, but he couldn’t feel a bloody thing; just the emptiness that the war and the nightmare had left behind.

Suddenly Potter snapped out of his fixation and both averted their eyes from the other’s face. He cleared his throat and said, “I suppose if we both transformed our appearances, I could assist you in finding some clothes that fit you.”

Draco looked up, confusion paling out his face even more so. “You would do that?”

The corner of Potter’s lips twitched, as if he was fighting off a smile. “It’d have to be Muggle shopping though, I’m afraid.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t go out in the Wizarding world without a guard.”

He knew what that meant. The Order was still anticipating an attack; perhaps even the Ministry had finally gotten their toe into the door of the Order’s plans as well, and was providing certain necessary precautions when it came to Potter’s protection. The guard, no doubt, had not one skilled wizard, but many. Draco was surprised by how smart the Order was, even though they were wasting their time. Unless there was a Voldemort sympathizer out there that the Death Eaters didn’t know about, Potter would be safe for the time being. Especially with the remaining population of the Wizarding world kissing his arse.

“Perhaps by the end of the week?” Potter suggested before making his way out of the kitchen. “Just let me know in advance.”

Draco sat in the warm, dimly lit kitchen alone for a long time, long past the soft snores of Potter’s resumed sleep drifted through the hallway.