Only Ash Remains

Chapter 4: Draco POV

Draco Malfoy seethed with impotent fury. He was beholden yet again to Saint Potter, who had gallantly stepped up to save him and his parents when, truth be told, things had looked quite dire. Surrounded by armed ruffians, held at wand-point, with nothing to defend himself, he'd held his head high, his chin up, his back ramrod straight... and he'd wished desperately for anything, anyone that could help them.

He laughed soundlessly, bitterly. He'd got his wish in the form of his most-hated rival. He didn't hate him, though — hadn't for a long time. Not since he'd felt that broad back against his chest as they raced through the air, felt the pounding of his heart as Potter had wrenched him from a fiery death of his own making.

He'd realised, after, stuck in his room at the Manor with his accursed useless leg, that his hatred of Potter had been eclipsed by something worse — by stupid, agonising, pointless want.

He knew how to deal with impossible dreams, though. He'd ruthlessly squashed the memory down, trying to forget.

His world at Malfoy Manor had narrowed to the walls of his room, occasionally with the walls of the dining room for variety. His leg didn't allow him to navigate the stairs often, though — the Dark Lord had fried his nerves with too many Crucios.

The haughty Healer who'd checked him over while in Ministry custody had looked down his nose at him and told him he'd never walk without pain again, and it was no more than Death Eater filth like him deserved. He'd found it easier, as time went on, to not even bother.

He'd spent his days sitting on his unmade bed, on his familiar, luxurious thousand-count sheets, staring out his window and wishing he were out there, soaring through the sky.

That terrifying ride with Potter had been his last broom ride. He hadn't been able even to look at one since. Not that his leg would let him fly, even if he could. That was in his past. His future was... nothing. Endless, excruciatingly painful nothing.

He'd read every book on his shelves, every book the Ministry had deigned to leave them. It hadn't been much. With nothing but time, he'd thrown himself into studying. Without his wand, he couldn't practice spells, and he certainly wasn't allowed a potions kit, but he performed each experiment in his mind, anyway, determined to prove himself to someone, someday.

Not that any of that knowledge did him any good now, stuck in a new room — a bit dingy, lower-thread-count sheets a bit musty, everything stinking of disuse. Kreacher brought him his meals. His mother tried to talk with him but he'd sent her away. His father had gotten the same treatment.

He was just as trapped as before, only now his cage was unfamiliar, every part of it that little bit less luxurious than his old room. New house. Same everything else.

It was only the three of them— and Potter. Stupid, reckless, irresponsible Potter. Who had saved him. Again.

Draco didn't know how to deal with that. Didn't know how to deal with this new Potter who didn't rise to the bait. Who acted like he was too tired to fight. Fighting would have made things more bearable, he thought bitterly. Fighting would have been familiar. He knew how to fight with Potter, what barbs to throw at him to best make him bleed. But even that was denied him.

Now he had to avoid this new Potter in his own house, lest he be taken up as his next pity project. He'd tried to get Potter to fight him to distract him from noticing. The irritating Gryffindor was more observant now, with a better hold on his temper, and he hadn't fallen for Draco's ruse. Now his only hope for sanity was to stay out of Potter's way.

Which was apparently going to be impossible.