Fiendfyre

Burning.

Potter gave a speech, almost everyone's eyes were rimmed with tears. There was no Professor Snape at the Head Table, no Headmaster with his twinkling half-moon spectacles, no sense of familiarity anymore. Just smiles on faces with sad eyes, trying to keep the demons away.

Potter, Granger and Weasley had returned, along with Finnigan and Thomas, looking tired and nervous. Finnigan and Thomas were wrapped around each other as usual, Finnigan's arm around Thomas's own. Smith and Abbot were seated at their table, heads bent whispering to each other, their bodies curved towards each other. Lovegood was at the Ravenclaw table staring at the Creevey sibling, hands in her hair and tears in her eyes.
He couldn't remember the others, there were so little left. He wanted to scream. Where were the others?

Blaise lay a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He knew what Draco was going through, Narcissa had written to him, advising him to look after and protect her son. That he hadn't spoken to her and Lucius for weeks. He' just sat on his bed the first few days, head in his hands, muttering "Fire, Fire" and rocking back and forth.

Later on, he emerged from his room for meals, melancholy and subdued. He would wander around the Manor in an old threadbare brown dressing gown and no slippers. His hair was always in disarray and his eyes had pronounced dark circles under them. He looked dreadful and for once in his life, he didn't seem to care.

She had brought in healers, asked them to do something to him. She had pleaded with them to bring her graceful proud son back.

She has advised a change of environment would do her son a whole world of good and she voiced her thoughts to Lucius, who by then had noticed their Dragon's strange behaviour.

They told him that they were leaving the Manor and moving to their bungalow in Southampton, to be near the beach, near the waves and warmth.

But he hadn't responded. Hadn't agreed or voiced his opinion.
Anyhow Narcissa and Lucius set about getting everything ready. He was their son, he would have to come.

He began eating, but not as much and seemed to have lost all grace.
He was changed.

They spoke to the healer and a mind doctor at St Mungo's again. This time it was advised that maybe some familiarity would be good.

And so Lucius had arranged for him to go back to Hogwarts, and on Narcissa's bidding, done the same for Blaise.

Narcissa trusted Blaise, he was one of the few who had come to check in on Draco, even when Draco was unresponsive. Sometimes she would walk into Draco's room and find Blaise at his side, arm around her son's shoulders as he wept.

It was at these times her heart seemed to break. She hadn't seen her son cry in a year. He had cried when he got his mission to kill Dumbledore, but never in front of her. That hadn't changed it seemed. He was still hiding in the confines of his room.

She then wrote to Blaise and told him all that had transpired and asked him what exactly happened with the fire.

When she learned the truth she was shocked. She needed her boy to go back and confront his fears. To put his demons to rest as was the Muggle saying.

As she sent him off on the first of September, her heart felt heavy. What if he came back more broken than he already was? He had just begun to mend through the rest and relaxation of their new life near the beach.

He began to open up, but it was not to her that he spoke first. Lucius had been relaxing on a lounger on their porch, Daily Prophet and lemonade in hand. Draco had approached him with a weak smile and sat down by him in the sand. They had spoken about the seagulls.

That's what Lucius told her, but it was good enough for the time being.

Later on, Blaise told Draco all that had happened. That he knew what he was going through. And now whenever he seemed to lose himself in his mind, when all he could see was fire, Blaise would remind him that it was all going to be fine. Sometimes he just needed reassurance and a warm arm on his back.

But even on that first day back, spirits had been low. That didn't stop what transpired in dark corners as he walked to the dungeons. Didn't stop a certain dark-haired boy beating him senseless. A dark-haired boy with glasses and a lightning scar.

"You killed my friends, why?"

"You murderer"

"Why did you come back?"

It didn't seem to stop and he didn't want to stop it. He felt like he deserved it. He felt he should have died in that fire. He was to blame, these were his deeds.

Blaise had seen the bruises and questioned, and after that he had begun concealing them, hiding behind a glamour. Hiding behind a mask, a facade.

Some days later, Potter apologised and suddenly, one day it stopped. It seemed as if the beatings had never occurred.

And then, not a week later, it was a Hufflepuff, along with two younger Gryffindor's. He didn't know their names, but they didn't stop. He would sometimes wish it was Potter beating him. At least Potter had a reason.

If it wasn't them, it would be someone else, but never a Slytherin. Never one of his housemates. They were loyal to the core. They saw, they knew. They had volunteered to walk around the castle with him so he wouldn't be alone. But he had said no, this was his burden to bear.

And today, he didn't know who had broken his jaw, bruised his stomach and head. All he knew was that he'd be with Madame Pomfrey in no time, facing her questioning stare.

He tried to stand up, groaning softly as the sore muscles in his back stung with pain. His head felt incredibly heavy, almost as if someone had hung stones from his crown.

A hand appeared in his vision, slightly scruffed stubby nails attached to veined pudgy fingers with coarse tufts of hair.

"Up you get Mr Malfoy, can't have my snakes being beaten up can I?" the cheery voice said, and Draco looked up into Professor Slughorn's face with a grimace.

"I need to know names or at least houses. This has to stop. The war is over for Merlin's sake,"

Draco didn't answer. Just whispered a quiet thank you and limped off towards the dungeons, imagining a hot bath and a soft bed accompanied with a nice long nap.

That was all he needed now. Not justice, not when he deserved this. Not when he should have burned.