*TW: self-harm, depression, panic attack, sexual assault trauma/self-blame. 

Note: The literary reference/inspiration for this chapter might be distressing to some (to this day it remains one of the most depressing books I've ever read). Please do not read the Glossary if you're sensitive to topics such as depression and suicide.     

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     We stood in the Entrance Hall, taking a moment to dust the snow off ourselves and savour the warmth. Ainsley unwound her scarf to reveal the delicate skin of her neck, where an ugly purple bruise had once been. I wanted to bend down and kiss it, then I had to remind myself that I didn't know her like that anymore.

     "Thank you for dinner, it was lovely," she said, even though we both knew it wasn't.

     "I have something for you," I said, and dug around in my jacket for the box. It was long and skinny, tied with a white satin bow.

     She swept a cursory glance around before taking it from me hesitantly. "You shouldn't have," she said under her breath. "You really shouldn't have." And I knew what she meant.

     When she lifted the lid there was a sharp intake of breath as she stared at it in surprise and confusion.

     "It's swan feather," I explained. "I know my parents gave you the Phoenix feather but I really wanted you to have this. Don't worry, no swans were harmed in the making of it."

     But I was mistaken. It wasn't the quill she was staring at. It was what was folded underneath it.

     It was a coil of maroon scarf — the same one she had offered me on the front porch of my house all those months ago. When she looked back up at me, her eyes were wide and glossy. "You kept it all this time?"

     I hung my head to the floor, shifted my weight to the other foot. "I think I already loved you then. I just didn't know it yet."

     Under the glow of torches, her smile was soft and cashmere-like. In a quiet voice, she says, "Me too."

     She picked up the quill between her fingers and twirled it around, like she did with the rose. "It's beautiful. You remembered my Patronus."

     "Not for your Patronus," I said. "For Cygnus. Because you won't let anybody fuck with you, remember?"

     Her cheeks balled up with her grin. "But they're welcome to try."

     As she replaced the lid, I willed all the strength left in me into that quill, prayed to whatever god that when she looks at it, when she holds the sturdy point between her fingers, she would be reminded that she is worthy, that she is loved. 

     I walked her back to her common room, where again we stood outside the door, trying to linger in each other's presence a little while longer. My eyes stung so much it was difficult to see. All I could think about was how she would be alone there, with nobody to watch over her or talk to. Montague could do whatever he wanted with her and no one would know.

     "We still have a few more months, you know?" she said.

     It nearly brought me to my knees. "Ainsley, I'm sorry," I said, invisible arms bursting from my heart and straining for her, begging her to forgive me, to take me in her arms; wanting so desperately to reverse the irreversible, unbreak the broken.

     She reached out and touched my elbow briefly. Her voice was strained with effort. "We'll be alright," she said.

     I nodded and tried to smile.

     This is the permanence of life, I know. Every moment that passes, every breath we take is an inkblot on a bigger canvas that cannot be rubbed off. Our mistakes are splashed out, streaked across the clean white for everyone to see. And there they will stay, long after we're gone, for the next generation to gawk at, to learn from, or to repeat. But they cannot be undone.

     We bade each other goodnight, and I waited as she hit the rhythm of their password against the barrel with her knuckles. At the doorway, she paused and turned back to me.

     "Happy Valentine's Day, Draco."

     I forced another half-hearted smile. The door swung open, she let herself in, and I was alone once more.

     It felt like all the air had been stolen from my lungs. I took a deep breath to refill them, turned around, and walked away.

     I walked and walked, through the kitchens and up the stairs, back through the entrance hall and back out into the star-studded night. I staggered down the frozen hill towards the Quidditch pitch, crossed the field, and into the tunnels that led to the changing rooms.

     Hufflepuff's changing room was clean and fresh-smelling despite months of disuse. I ran my hands over the stone walls and the wooden benches that jutted out from it at waist-level. The wind whistled through the hollow underground structure. I closed my eyes the sound, feeling the room expand and contract around me. The castle was breathing, speaking in an ancient language. It was trying to tell me something.

     Suddenly the room flooded with light as if it were morning, filling the empty chamber with a glorious golden warmth — no, not empty. The Hufflepuff team was there, in the middle of the room. Their foreheads were damp, yellow robes leaden with sweat. They were crowded around someone, jumping up and down in victory, crying out in joy. You fucking legend, they hollered. Diggory here's a fucking legend!

     In the centre, Cedric seemed uninterested. His head, rising tall above them, was swivelling around. He squinted hard around the room, looking for something. Then he saw me, and his arms spread out. When he spoke, it sounded as if his voice was right next to my ear, like a giant calling out from the sky. "At least they'll remember me," he said.

     Just then, another person stepped forward from behind him. It was Dumbledore, with his half-moon glasses and wiry beard that tickled his waist. He, too, saw me and smiled. "Draco," he said, placidly, "perhaps I should have told you earlier, that one moment's hesitation can result in a lifetime of regret."

     Before I could react, a third figure stepped out from behind Dumbledore. He had a beaked nose, and stringy ebony hair that matched the colour of his robes. He did not smile. Instead, he lifted his chin and regarded me with a mixture of disdain and pity. I recognised his stilted way of speech, the permanent scowl in his voice. "He hasn't got the stomach," said Snape. "Just like his father."

     My heart was racing a mile a minute. I thought it must have been another one of my nightmares, but the three ghosts did not evaporate as they often did in those dreams. They stood there waiting patiently for an answer, a reaction.

     "I- I couldnt," I stammered. "I'm not..." 

     They waited.

     I dug my feet in the ground and, raising my voice, said, more confidently: "I'm not a murderer."

     Cedric's laughter boomed deafeningly. "What about me, then?"

     "It was an accident!" I said. "I swear!"

     Cedric's mouth snapped shut, his smile dropped, and his eyes turned black with hatred. "No, it wasn't an accident," he said menacingly. "You made me enter the Tournament. It was a strategic, calculated move. I was nothing but a chess piece to you." Then he was back to his warm, affable nature again. A lazy smile spread across his face as his shoulders lifted casually. "But tell yourself whatever you want, if it helps you sleep better at night. No one believes you, anyway. I mean, look at us." He gestured at Dumbledore and Snape. "Had it not been for you, none of us would've died."

     "Ainsley believes me," I said, trying to sound sure. "And- and Ernie."

     Snape' lips curled in disgust. "They've simply taken pity on you. Pity that you do not deserve. You should hear the things they say about you back in their dorms. Have you not remembered anything I told you in your First Year about Hufflepuffs? You should know by now they're the poorest judge of character, and their greatest folly would be to think that a sniveling, scheming, loathsome toad like you is deserving of their trust and concern. You," he pointed at me, "are not just a murderer. You are a failure in every possible aspect of your life. It's no wonder Ms. Ainsley chose someone else. Even your own mother couldn't bear the thought of having you when you were but the size of a roach in her belly."

     My back hit the cold wall behind me. My breath came in short pants. "Please," I said, "leave me alone."

     "Oh, but you are alone, my boy," said Dumbledore as-a-matter-of-factly. "You've never been capable of keeping anybody close, friends, lovers, and enemies alike."

     Cedric took a step forward. "I have to say, you really did try with Ainsley. But I suppose that's the thing, isn't it? Trying only gets you so far, then it's down to just who you are. And I guess that wasn't really enough for her."

     They advanced towards me as he spoke, growing larger and larger, until they were twice as tall as they had been when they first appeared. 

     They kept talking. Saying things I didn't want to hear, truths I already knew but refused to believe. I killed Dumbledore. I killed Snape. I killed Goyle. I betrayed my schoolmates. I failed my father. I failed my mother. I hurt Samson O'Connell and his sister and the other wizards and Muggle-borns who were caught in the fires. No one would attend my funeral, not even my parents.

     They closed in on me, like hyenas stalking their prey. There was only wall behind me. I was trapped, cornered. I would die. I slid onto the floor and clamped my hands over my ears. "Go away," I shouted, my voice childish over their overlapping condemnations. "Go away! GO AWAY!"

     Suddenly it was quiet. So quiet I could hear the still air moving.

     I looked up, only to find that they had vanished. The moon cast a grey hue over the empty space before me. The showers gleamed dully in the light. I was completely alone in the Hufflepuff changing room.

     I really did cry then. I pressed the backs of my fingers to my eyes but the harder I tried to stop the tears from coming, the more they seeped out, hot and wet.

     Every sob felt like a punch to the stomach. My hands were numb all over and trembling even as they covered my face. I couldn't breathe, until I was gasping deeply, but every inhale of air seemed to diminish the oxygen in the room. Blood rushed to my head, screaming in my ears and behind my eyes. 

     I pressed myself further into the corner, curling up as tightly as possible, as if I might physically make myself disappear. Bringing my legs up to my chest, I tucked my head in between my knees and listened to myself make ugly, childlike noises. 

     I did not feel like me. It was as if my soul and my body had separated and could not be put back together. There was a strange impending feeling of my inevitable death, which struck both fear and peace within me. It made me want to retch. 

     I pressed my forehead against the freezing stone, and it was then I realised that if I really did die here, no one would discover me until Quidditch season started again in November, and the idea didn't scare me as it may once have.

     I cried and cried, although my mind had long gone blank and I'd forgotten what I was crying about. My body was functioning of its own accord, against my will, heaving so violently that a smarting pain shot up along one side of my neck. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest, and I placed a hand over my chest in an attempt to slow it down.

     The episode finally tapered off after what felt like an hour later, when my exhausted system did not have the energy to keep it up. And there was no sadness, or sleepiness, or calm that awaited me at the end — just a gaping chasm of nothingness that no amount of alcohol or love or punishment could fill. There was so much nothing that I became nothing. 

     I held out both my arms in front of me. One was smooth and pale. The other was etched with the scar of a skull and a snake, the shape pink and raised, like corded ropes that ran under my skin to create little hardened walls that shone dully if I tilted my arm this way and that.

     Without thinking, I jabbed my thumbnail into the forehead of the skull, digging down hard as though I could crack it open. The pain was white and sharp, flashing across my vision before dissipating. Dragging my thumb downwards, I sliced the face right down the middle, between its black hollow eyes and vertically through the snake's head and tongue.

     I hate you, I thought. I hate you I hate you I hate you. You are a philandering cheater. You are a liar. You are a worthless drunkard. You are nothing. You are my body and you belong to me. 

     A certain pleasure flared within me at the thought: my body was the only thing that was still truly mine, and I could do whatever I wished with it.

     The knowledge made me feel giddy with power. Using whatever force I could summon, I slapped the wall with my palm. Pain immediately bloomed under the tender skin. I smiled. This confirmed what I thought. I curled my hands into a fist and slammed it against the wall like a hammer, sending a shock of jolting pain up to my shoulder. I did it again and again, pounding the stone like a a crazed workman.

     Some wild, hopeful thing in me waited for someone to burst through the doors, maybe Ainsley or Ernie, or even Hannah; to come in and tell me that what was happening wasn't real, that this was all a dream and I need only open my eyes to wake up. They would tell me to stop destroying myself because there was so much more to life than this beautiful, miniature hell I was trapped in.  

     No one came, and I felt disappointed again, that they had left me in the deserted Hufflepuff changing room at four in the morning to beat my own hand into a meaty sludge.

     I stood up and, looking around, saw the benches that were attached to the walls. Above the benches was a thin iron plate with sharp, rusty hooks. During Quidditch season they would've been draped in uniforms and towels, but now they were empty and useless.

     I took a few steps back, and when I felt there was enough distance between me and the benches, charged towards them.

     My knees crashed into the protruding wood. The hook caught onto something, my back or my neck, I couldn't tell, because my vision went blurry and I crumpled onto the floor. Something warm trickled down my spine. It was not blood. Or maybe it was. 

     I hoped it wasn't, because that meant the pain was real. And if the pain was real that meant I was real, and if I was real, my life was real, which meant my parents were real, and that I had really killed Cedric, and that I had sex with Pansy even though I hadn't meant to, which was why Ainsley was leaving me for Switzerland with Montague, and I would be alone again but only this time I wouldn't know how to readjust and the only way out would be death but I couldn't kill myself because I promised Ainsley things and I loved her and something deep in me still believed that things would work out for us and that she could forgive me for sleeping with Pansy and we could be happy together.

     Then I felt it. Pain. 

     It radiated from somewhere just below my right shoulder blade, the exact spot where wings might have grown if human beings had wings. 

     A memory came to me: trapped in pitch-darkness under the boiler. A hand feels for mine. The skin is coarse and rubbery. A voice, skittering and familiar. "Master Draco doesn't need to be scared of the dark. Master Draco need only go to sleep, and when he wakes up, it will be bright again. Only a few hours. Dobby promises. Only a few hours. It will be bright again."

     I picked myself up from the ground and by some grand miracle, managed to keep myself upright. With great effort, I began to make my way back to the castle.

     As I have always said, hope is a wily thing.