ей повезло больше других, навскидку и не вспомнить, был ли хоть оидн фик где она отврат злобн карга - что бы не случ уваж на ее стороне

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Prim and prudish and octogenarian, that is how Draco remembers her and that is how she is, as he casts a quick eye over her. Age has not wearied her, but the years have condemned. When he first saw her, she was old. She doesn’t seem any older now, but then he doubted she could get more faded and wrinkled and sagging, dried up piece of cunt that she is. She acknowledges the attention, but doesn’t do anything about it, ..............and he feels a brief moment of visceral rage. This was the Deputy Headmistress he so loathed? This was a woman who claimed that being fair and balanced meant to discriminate against the Slytherins in the same way Snape did against the Gryffindors. This was a woman who helped lead the war effort, who took on running Hogwarts when Dumbledore fell, who proved canny and determined despite her age, who singularly failed to die despite Draco personally trying to kill her four times in three years. People on the other side seemed to have refusing to die like good little victims in common; it was, upon reflection, probably a reason why they won.

She knows all this, of course: knows that he tried to kill her, knows that he knows she knows, and doesn’t care one whit. It drains him, that he is so easily dismissed by these people, that he is seen simply an object lesson in ‘Why Slytherins Are Bad’ and ‘Also, Why We Won And You Did Not,’ not even held as a joke or source of pity-and-contempt. He’s too tired for anger, and it wouldn’t do any good – he’d just lose again, so he makes a brief scene out of flopping back against the sheets, discontent. Potter glares at him, but even that isn’t enough to give him any joy any more. There’s just khaki ceiling and khaki walls and a khaki life and khaki is quite frankly, so not his colour. The itch continues to build in his chest, tingle throughout his body, and pushes down the sheets, not caring that he’s naked, not caring that they might see. He runs fingers over skin that’s not even scarred anymore – the Healers did a lovely job, and how long has he been unconscious? Long enough for this to happen, long enough for his history to be smoothed away and erased, deliberately forgotten because they are compassionate and guilty, and Draco’s very existence is both crime and mortifying reminder of their own mistakes, their own inability to redeem him. But they made him look nice and pretty again, so he supposes they want him grateful. “What’s wrong with me?” he asks, barely able to keep from screaming, and he can see the look that Potter and McGonagall share. They know, they know and he hasn’t even got his wand. His fingers flex for it automatically, but it’s not there and he feels cut again.