never let me go

salt

TW: self harm, panic attacks (mentioned).

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Matt Maeson – Grave Digger

"Tell me, if I run away, how long will I bleed?"

Draco Malfoy hadn't wanted to come back to Hogwarts. There were too many foul memories, and he was struggling enough as it was and knew going back to school would only make things worse. But his mother had insisted, and in all honesty, he had grown weary of seeing her wander the halls of Malfoy Manor, lost in her own thoughts. Draco supposed he was pretty lost too.

What was an ex-Death Eater supposed to do with their life anyway?

Draco pushed those thoughts out of his head as Filch brought him to the painting concealing the entrance to the new eighth year dormitories and told him the password. It was ridiculous, he thought, that he had to share a dormitory with the other eighth years and not just his house. Most of them hated him. But he knew there were a great deal of Slytherins that hated him too, and at least he had a private room here.

Wondering how he would know which room was his, he headed up the stairs and quickly realised that the doors had their names on them. He passed Longbottom, Weasley, Potter, and then – oh no. That was his room right next to Potter's. On his other side was Zabini, and he supposed that they had just put all the boys on one level and the girls on the next one up, but he would've much preferred if their floors where divided by houses. Now he had to share a wall with blasted Potter.

Potter. He had seen him downstairs, just outside the Great Hall, looking like he was coming down from a panic attack. Draco was all too familiar with panic attacks, but he wondered why Potter of all people would be overwhelmed enough to have to step outside and calm down. Surely, he would rather be basking in the glory that came with being the saviour of the Wizarding World.

But it didn't matter. Draco planned to avoid him as much as possible, which was made a bit more difficult by having his room right next to his, but he would manage. He would cope.

And he would push his feelings down until they shrivelled into nothing and didn't resurface.

Opening the door to his room, Draco stepped in to find that it looked like a typical Slytherin dormitory, but fitted for just one person with a four poster bed, a desk, wardrobe, a small fireplace with a couple of armchairs (not that he would ever be entertaining a guest) and a door off to the side that led to the bathroom. That was where Draco headed first.

His luggage would be brought up shortly, but all Draco needed was his wand to relieve some of the pressure of the day. And it had been a very difficult day – leaving the Manor after feeling like he was trapped there all summer, dealing with his mother fussing over him as she said goodbye, returning to the school that brought back so many memories, and seeing Potter...

He needed this, he told himself as he pushed up the sleeve of his left forearm. Underneath, where his skin had once been pale and spotless, numerous scars shone angry and red, some fresh, some very old. He was running out of room if he was perfectly honest. And underneath it all, the reason he had begun cutting in the first place, was the hideous Dark Mark. The skull and snake tattoo had the most scars covering it, some of them particularly gruesome from where he had tried to cut or burn it off. He knew it would never truly go away, but at least he could get some pleasure from marring it as best he could. And over time, the cutting had become a reprieve, a way to release all the anger and despair that was bottled up inside him.

Taking out his wand, he whispered a curse as he drew it across a space on his arm, the tip of his wand acting as a blade. Blood welled up, and Draco let out a sigh as he watched it slowly drip into the sink. Looking up at his reflection, he hated what he saw. He was a shadow of his former self, he knew that.

Disgusting, despicable.

The self-loathing reared its head and threatened to drag him down into a place deep within himself that he didn't want to explore. He dragged his wand across his arm once more to silence it.

After a few shuddering breaths, he watched calmly as the blood continued to drip off the side of his arm, until eventually it slowed and started to clot. Draco then whispered the healing spell that would seal the cuts but not make them disappear completely. They were there in part to cover up the Dark Mark after all.

Satisfied, Draco left the bathroom, not daring to look back up at the mirror again.