Chapter Text
Druella felt lighter a few d—relieved, even. With the diary gone, her thoughts felt more like her own again. She still slept in fits and starts, still flinched at sudden whispers, but the tight coil around her ribs had loosened.
Now, in the Slytherin common room, she sat curled in one of the armchairs, backlit by the flickering firelight. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them. Morgana pressed into her side, purring softly.
Druella rocked slowly, humming under her breath—the same tune she used to hum as a child. It leaked out in whispers, like a lullaby with no words.
Draco entered the room and paused in the doorway, catching sight of her. The fire cast shadows over her face, making her look smaller, older, harder. He hesitated.
Then he walked over.
“You alright?” he asked, trying for casual. But his voice was too tight, too stiff.
Druella didn’t even glance at him. “I’m fine.”
Morgana leapt down from her lap the moment Druella stood, too fast. Her hands were twitching by her sides, her jaw locked.
“I just—” Draco shifted awkwardly. “I wanted to apologise. For… everything.”
Her eyes flicked to him. Cold.
“For calling me a Blood Traitor?” she said sharply. “Or for helping Uncle ruin my life?”
Draco winced. “Okay, yes. That. And I… sort of… might’ve also spread a few rumours about you.”
Druella’s brow furrowed.
“What?” she asked flatly.
“Rumours,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes anywhere but on her. “I was jealous, alright? Everyone was talking about you—the Prodigy, the special one, Dumbledore’s attention, the professors whispering. Lucius—my father—he told me you were becoming… a liability. That people might start seeing you as more powerful than me. And I… believed him.”
She stared, cold silence settling between them.
Draco pressed on, nervously. “It wasn’t about the spying for Mother or Aunt Bella. That’s what you thought, right? That people assumed you were some family informant?” He laughed weakly. “No, I started that. I said you were unstable. That the pressure had gotten to you.”
Her expression didn’t change. But something in her shoulders tightened.
“I told people you’d been cursed. That you had some kind of… breakdown when you were three. A bad temper tantrum that caused some mental issues. That you were under some kind of influence—dark magic, maybe. I said you talked to yourself, that you had nightmares so bad Pomfrey had to sedate you this year when no one was looking. I said you were hiding something that you wanted to hurt everyone, that your wandwork was too precise to be normal. That you knew things you shouldn't. That you just wanted to hurt anyone if you had the chance.”
Druella’s stomach twisted. The silence in the common room felt suffocating now.
Draco swallowed. “They believed it especially when you started pulling away. When you stopped talking to people. I mean—how could they not believe it, when you already looked like something was wrong?"
She blinked once. Slowly.
“And if they didn’t?” he added bitterly. “I told them you were a Lestrange daughter through and through. The Lestrange curse will meet a sticky end for you. That whatever Rodolphus and Bellatrix were, it was only a matter of time before you snapped like them. End up the same as your father.”
Then, quieter: “The Board of Governors was actually on Mother’s side. They're actually signing for Dumbledore to step down as we speak.”
Druella didn’t speak.
She didn’t move.
Draco’s voice finally faltered. “You didn’t know why people started turning on you. Weasley kinda ignored you to spare the pain. I didn’t think you’d ever find out. But… Patrick found out. And he told me I needed to own up to it. Or he’d tell you himself.”
Druella was still frozen, her voice quiet but breaking as she whispered:
“You… did this?”
And then her hand moved faster than thought—crack.
Her palm connected with his cheek hard enough to echo. Draco staggered back, his hand flying to his face.
Druella stood in front of him, eyes wide with fury, betrayal thick in her voice.
“What is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I’ve been isolated for months. Months! I thought it was because I was spying for Aunt Narcissa. Hated by people who used to talk to me. I thought it was me. I thought I was the problem—too quiet, too strange, too scarred.”
She stepped closer. “And it was you.”
Draco tried to speak, but she cut him off.
“‘I didn’t mean to’ isn’t an excuse when you meant to do it. You let them turn on me. You wanted it.”
“I didn’t want you to get mad at me—” Draco began, wincing.
“Mad?” Her voice rose. “Mad?”
She was trembling now, her voice tight and shaking under the weight of held-back rage.
“I’ve been walking on glass for months, Draco. I’ve sat in silence while people whispered, stared, made up stories—your stories. I’ve taken the blame for everything, let McGonagall think I was the problem. I let them hate me. They all hate me. Because you made sure they were scared. You made sure they all hated me.”
Her breath hitched, jagged and low.
“And now you come here with some pathetic attempt at guilt—what was it, Patrick, who finally called you out?”
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“Of course it was,” she snapped. “At least someone in this place still has a spine.”
She turned to go.
“I don’t need your concern,” she said, each word clipped and steady. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Draco instinctively reached out. “Wait—”
But Druella shoved his hand away and stared him dead in the eyes.
Her eyes drew water as she looked at him.
Her voice dropped, ice cold.
“I hate you.”
Draco froze.
Her eyes burned—not with tears, but something fiercer.
“You’re cruel just like your father,” she said softly, with venom. “Cruel when no one’s looking. Coward when someone is.”
The words hit him harder than any hex she could cast.
She turned, the hem of her cloak snapping like a whip as she strode down the corridor. Morgana followed at her heels, her footsteps silent on the stone.
Draco stood there, alone in the flickering firelight.
His hand fell uselessly to his side.
And he didn’t follow her.
He didn’t even try.
Because he didn’t know how.
She ended up in the girls’ lavatory. The one no one used anymore.
The floor was still damp from the flooded toilets. She didn’t care.
Druella leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on her face. She gripped the edges of the porcelain basin like they might anchor her. Morgana padded in after her, curling up silently near the door. The bathroom was quiet, echoing faintly with the distant trickle of water and her own ragged breaths.
Then she slid down the wall and curled into a ball in the corner, pressing her knees to her chest.
It was all too much. The weight of her title. The diary. The fear. The silence.
She wasn’t strong. Not like her mother. Not like her aunt.
She's just a scared little girl who can't do anything but sit by and watch others do what she wants to do.
She didn’t want to cry—but the tears came anyway. Silent and hot. Her shoulders trembled, and she covered her face with her hands.
“I don’t want Hogwarts to close,” she whispered to no one.
A soft sniff broke the silence.
Druella looked up and saw Moaning Myrtle hovering above one of the stalls, watching her.
The ghost blinked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You’re not supposed to be in here, either,” she said, but her voice lacked malice.
“I don’t care,” Druella murmured.
Myrtle stared at her for a long moment, then drifted lower, almost solemnly. “Everyone forgets what happened. But I remember. You’re scared too, aren’t you?”
Druella didn’t respond. She just lowered her head again. Myrtle didn’t leave. She just floated nearby, quiet.
A soft knock echoed through the room. Then the door creaked open.
“Miss Black?”
Madam Pomfrey’s voice was gentle but firm. Druella didn’t move.
Pomfrey stepped inside, kneeling down beside her. She reached out and stroked Druella’s forehead with the back of her hand.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”
Druella blinked through her tears, then nodded once. Slowly.
Pomfrey helped her to her feet with care, keeping one arm around her shoulders as she guided her out. Morgana padded behind them like a shadow.
Druella glanced back one last time. Myrtle gave her a small, sad wave.
At the Hospital Wing, Pomfrey helped her into a fresh set of robes, brushing her hair back gently while Druella's arms were folded and eyes wide. Pomfrey is checking her face. She paused at Druella’s lower lip, still touching the spot Lucius had split back at Diagon Alley. It had long since healed, but Pomfrey still touched it like it hadn’t.
“All healed,” she said kindly. “But I know that it's been for some time. But doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt mentally.”
Druella gave the faintest nod.
"I know you've been quiet. I know something is wrong. It'll all be ok," Pomfrey purred ", you're safe and protected."
Pomfrey didn’t ask questions. She just helped her to bed, tucked the blankets around her, and left a warm cup of tea beside her nightstand.
“Thank you,” Druella whispered, eyes downcast.
“Anytime, dear,” Pomfrey replied with a soft smile.
And for the first time in days, Druella let herself sigh in relief.
The following morning,
Druella woke up and walked down the hall, her thoughts spinning as she approached the Slytherin common room.
"Draco, I'm back." She called out.
"Hey, um, maybe we can work some things out." She called, and she looked and saw something.
"I mean, I know I've been acting badly lately, Draco."
"Draco?" Druella asked quietly, "Are you alright? A cold wave of panic surged through her chest, her knees giving way beneath her. She staggered toward him, her breath shallow and uneven.
"Draco?" she called softly, her voice quivering as she reached for him.
When her hand touched his cold, unmoving shoulder, the shock of it hit her like a ton of bricks.
He didn't respond. He looked as if he was protecting himself; he couldn't move. He was like stone, like the Muggle-borns who were attacked.
"No... no, no, no!" she screamed, her voice breaking as her hands trembled in desperation.
She shook him, hard, as if she could somehow jolt him back to life.
"Draco! Wake up! Please, Draco!" Her heart hammered in her chest as she tried to force him to move, her hands clinging to him in frantic urgency.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she cried out again, her voice raw with panic.
"Please, don't do this! You can't be... not like this!" Every inch of her body felt heavy with fear.
It felt like the room was closing in on her, suffocating her. She could hardly breathe, let alone think.
The weight of the situation was too much to bear.
She had to get help.
She couldn't do this on her own. With a final, desperate glance at Draco, she bolted from the common room, her feet pounding against the stone floor as she rushed toward Snape's office.
"Sir! Sir, you have to help him! He's... he's—" The words caught in her throat, her voice cracking under the pressure of her fear.
As she entered the potions professor's office, her panic-stricken eyes met Snape's.
He took one look at her and, without a word, followed her back to the common room.
The sight of Draco's petrified form in the dim light of the room was enough to make even Snape pause.
Druella's hands shook as she gestured helplessly to Draco. "Please, Snape, he's... he's not responding. He can't be like this. You have to help him!"
Snape knelt beside Draco, examining him carefully. "He's been petrified," he muttered, his voice low and steady, despite the situation. "But he will recover. Madam Pomfrey will know what to do."
“I don’t understand,” Druella whispered, trembling as she stared at Draco’s petrified face. “He’s a Pureblood, why him? I shouldn’t have left last night. I should’ve stayed and forgiven him—I shouldn't have said I hated him. Anything’s better than this. I didn’t protect him. I should have been there. I should have done something. No.”
Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. Her throat ached with guilt, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“I… I said things,” she choked softly, barely audible. “I opened up. I complained. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve kept my lip shut.”
Snape glanced at her sharply, but she turned away, clutching Draco’s rigid hand as though her grip alone could bring him back.
She didn’t tell him what she meant. She couldn’t.
That she’d poured her frustration into that diary. That she’d written about Draco being the favourite, about how he reminded her of Lucius, about the bitter little things she never dared speak aloud. And then—this. Draco can't move frozen now.