faerieghos-t

[faerieghos-t]

Blood Tastes Like Water

The summer before your sixth year at Hogwarts had been doused in grief. Cold and miserable and utterly unshakable, you wonder whether you will ever find salvation. Draco Malfoy is caught in his own silent battle of wills. He doesn't know if he is strong enough. A diary, a secret chamber, and a mysterious dark-haired boy will bring into question all you thought you knew about the world. A tale of trust and betrayal; hurting and healing. "No matter how much we want it....some stories just don't have a happy ending."

*****

The train ride back to Hogwarts was, like the summer before it, tainted with an infrangible sadness. Since Sirius’ death nothing had quite felt real. It was as though you were a spectator - your head two feet away from your body, watching people and things and days pass you by with no end in sight. The holiday had been mostly spent in your bedroom, each day somewhere between wailing for the mercy of some- any -God, and a hollowness that you couldn’t shake away. Your exceptional OWLs results qualified you for some advanced classes this year, and the relief you felt when you had opened the letter confirming this stemmed undoubtedly from the quiet gratitude that maybe you would be busy enough to forget. Forget. That word seemed almost impossible. Dangling just out of your reach, begging you to overstretch for it and topple into oblivion. How could you possibly forget? Forget the screams and the flashes and the blistering white hot agony that choked you when Sirius fell through the veil. Tears pricked your eyes and shook you back to reality. You were alone in the carriage save for two first years comparing the sweets they had bought earlier in the journey. Outside the window, the sky was finally beginning to darken from the warm September glow into a wan purple: the hue beneath a sleepless eye - often, lately, your own. The colour washed the barely-visible Hogwarts in a sickly light, as though it, too, felt the hum of evil in the air.

The Great Hall was bright and warm and abuzz with a hundred different conversations all at once. To your left, Ron was speaking incoherently through a mouthful of jelly, ignorant of Hermione’s disdain that he was - “eating when your best friend is missing!” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at this; you loved Hermione, you did, but there were moments she could be a little overbearing. Besides, her concern was unnecessary, because Harry came stumbling through the large oak doors several seconds later. He was covered in blood. Your subconscious drifted back to that day - those events now flicking through your mind like a photo album. “What happened to you?” Someone further down the table asked him; he shrugged it off. Conversation resumed, and continued in a sluggish, reluctant recount of summer exploits until Dumbledore cleared his throat and the room fell silent.

There was some calm, quiet energy about Dumbledore - one you could never totally put your finger on - that seemed all-knowing yet totally intrigued. Nobody doubted his abilities as a headmaster (at least, nobody with whom you chose to associate), but his ability to hold and maintain the full attention of every person in a room was a singular marvel. The usual formalities of his yearly speech barely registered in your mind, and you weren’t fully paying attention, picking at your finger nails until his utterance that “Professor Snape will be filling the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.” It had been something of a running joke among your peers that Defence Against the Dark Arts was a post whose inhabitants rarely stayed for long. In your fourth year, Seamus Finnegan had joked that “it’s the most dangerous job in the whole wizarding world.” At the mention of their Head of House, you heard some rowdy cheers erupt from the Slytherin table. Looking over, however, your eye caught a head of icy blond hair, and skin as pale to match. If anyone else’s summer had proven excruciating, it was Malfoy’s. Several rumours had already been circulating that his father was placed in Azkaban for his involvement with the Dark Lord, and it was Harry who, in a letter he sent to you over the holiday, confirmed it to be true. Something had changed about Draco over the summer - his typical scowl of arrogant contempt had been replaced with something sadder. Something hollower. The loneliness in those pale blue eyes could not be disguised by his erect carriage and feigned nonchalance. You indulged, briefly, guiltily, in the romantic notion that maybe you were two forlorn souls amongst a sea of blissful idiots. It was when his eyes locked on you, mouth already twisted back into that disdainful snarl, that you remembered. Draco Malfoy did not care about you, or your sadness, or your foolish romantic indulgences. Draco Malfoy did not play nice.

You were ushered back to the Gryffindor common room, the hallway a cacophony of first years’ exclamations at the stairs - even you had to admit, there was some residual excitement as the heavy stone rumbled beneath your feet - and merry exultations from the paintings, welcoming every student back for another year at Hogwarts. Outside the Gryffindor common room - as was annual tradition - the students huddled around the entryway to hear the fat lady proclaim the password, to be used right until school ended in July. “Welcome back, my lovelies!” She sang. “Keep your ears peeled children; I will say the password once and only once.” A hush fell. One year, Fred and George managed to hex the doorway so that, while the password was Grindylow, the painting would only swing open at the merry exclamation of “I’m in love with Professor Snape.” It was a grand success for about a week before someone - their brother, Percy, they had speculated - reported them to McGonagall. Gryffindor did not win the house cup that year. “Anagnorisis!” Pulled you from your reverie. It was a word you were unfamiliar with. Hermione, however, wasn’t, and as you filed into the common room, she began explaining its literary significance to any unfortunate souls who happened to be in her vicinity.

You spent very little time in the common room that evening, choosing instead to unpack all your things and place them meticulously neatly in your drawers. Having already been given your timetable - free periods reduced from nine to a pitiful two thanks to the advanced potions and arithmancy classes bulking up your busy schedule - you plucked tomorrow’s books from your suitcase, throwing the rest into the bottom drawer, beneath your clothes. Afterwards, there was nothing much to do but lay on your bed for an hour or so before the others began trickling in. The events of the evening, arriving back at Hogwarts had distracted your heavy head for a while. Now, though, the dull ache of sorrow set its way back in. Maybe it was selfish of you, to be grieving so bitterly over Sirius - Harry’s godfather, and a man you hardly knew before last year - but you couldn’t help yourself. In a way, the secret pain almost felt thrilling, as though in some hedonistic way you finally had a reason to look at the world through somber, sober eyes. Your wandering mind found its way back to Draco, sitting alone - though surrounded by his peers - in the Great Hall. It had been strange, catching him in a moment of doubt - so much so that you wondered whether you really even had. Either way, it was a reminder that - no matter how hard the Ministry tried to hide it, no matter how innocent and oblivious the new students, no matter how desperately you wanted it to go away - something dark was on the horizon, and you could not shake it away.

*****

hi

I hope you enjoyed my first foray into fanfiction (entirely inspired by the fact HP has been dominating my tiktok for you page) Ive got a brief outline for this story, but updates may be few & far between any/all feedback is welcome :)

PS here are thinks to this story on my wattpad:

https://www.wattpad.com/959623615-blood-tastes-like-water-chapter-one

and my ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700265/chapters/65129323