Please Be There If I Remember

Chapter Forty-Nine: Interventions

"Draco?" Blaise whispered, concerned.

"Not now, Blaise."

"Fine. But we are talking about this after," he hissed.

Draco didn't manage to write anything else on the blank expanse of furling brown for the rest of class.

~*"*~

Draco didn't talk with Blaise after. In fact, he didn't talk to anyone at all. He snuck away from the curious stares of everyone—Harry, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Neville, and even Hermione after someone told her what had happened—and booked it to the Room of Requirement, the only place he could think of where no one would find him easily.

Then he had a slight panic. Alright, it was a pretty big panic.

His lungs squeezed, his throat closed up, and he faltered on his way in.

I can't breathe.

His thoughts whirred, spinning like an out-of-control wheel.

Breathe. Why can't I breathe?

He fell down onto the red chair in the middle of the empty room, a sunset painted on the walls, and hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face into his school robes.

He didn't get up for a while after that.

Once Draco was able to take large gulps of air without looking like he was going to faint, he noticed that his entire body had gone all tingly like a thousand little needles were pricking under his skin. It was an odd feeling, but it lessened as he got more oxygen in him.

Was this normal? Did others around him feel the need to run and hide away when something bad happened? Were they just as shattered and torn as Draco?

He wondered why he was the one to always get these attacks when something bad happened—he even almost had one when he first woke up in that blasted hospital wing. None of his friends seemed to have the same reaction, but maybe they hid it well. Either everyone hid it well, or Draco was the odd one out. The thought only managed to make him feel worse.

He wondered if anyone was questioning where he had gone. Harry wasn't here this time to lessen the rough grip of pure panic, and Draco wasn't sure how long he had spent hunched over his knees, hyperventilating like someone had taken a large hand and squeezed his lungs.

"I hate this," he whispered into the silent, mostly blank room. In his rush to get away from everything, he hadn't actually thought of a proper place for the room to conjure. The Room of Requirement was almost empty, except for the red chair and the yellow and orange walls.

Draco jumped when he heard the sounds of waves crashing against a shore.

What in Merlin's name—

It was the black lake from his memory, but one in painting form on the walls. The image moved, and the sound accompanied it. Draco sighed.

"Thanks," he said to the room. The waves grew even louder.

~*"*~

The words burned through his hand like water being released in a flood through his skin.

I must obey my superiors.

Draco had, admittedly, felt like throwing up when he heard the words he had to carve into the back of his hand, never more grateful for the fact that it wasn't dark magic that forced him to actually follow the command. It was just painful.

Borderline torture.

Draco didn't have to write it once like he did when he was forced to make the vow. No, he had to keep writing, and writing, and writing.