Slick, sharp, and well put together.

Three choice words to describe an aristocrat, if you're being nice.

Haughty, cruel, and snobbish.

If you're not.

None of these words could he find on his person, hard as he may try. Only fragments bits of thought, interrupted phrases, or confused adjectives seemed to surface, when he dug deep enough. The most convenient, and the most common, definition of himself seemed to rest in his name, no further explanation required. As soon as a someone found out that specific bit of information, their opinion of him would, without a doubt, crash and burn and swirl into something much more hideous than he could now bear. Once, it had been a blessing. Now, a curse didn't even begin to explain on the hell it put him through, each time that name, damnation - his name, was voiced.

A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.

Even bound, hung, and castrated by the critique of others, he was doomed to spend his life, eternally convicted.

Of what?

He couldn't bear to approach the topic anymore. He couldn't stand to feel so angry, so sad, so anxiously misplaced ... and not being able to let it guide him, as it always had. Instead, what he felt only helped to further jail him into his own mind.

Scattered on the ground; he bent down and moved his hand across the loose soil, letting his finger graze one of them. They drew blood, so he retracted his hand, staggering back onto his feet.

Docile, clever, innocent.

When she'd said those words, he'd snorted.

Stubborn, idiotic, guilt-ridden.

That was all he amounted to, he assured her.

Guilt-ridden and guilty aren't the same thing, she'd been quick to argue.

The enormous truth of the words hadn't seemed as clear then, as it suddenly did now. It was acute, a sharp thrusting, lifting a part of the mangled carcass of a burden he carried, throwing it up and letting it simply blow away with the leaves in the soft autumn wind. The same wind he let press against his face now, sucking him dry and spilling him out all over the world, until he could no longer gather himself. Completely dematerialized, and he supposed he liked it that way.

Because now, suddenly, he was on the edge. Fully conscious and aware, he had plotted and predicted his own demise, and there was no spoil in his plans. There were no hands to pull him back, and he could not feel more foolish, standing there alone and precarious, his only thought and hope for someone to be down there to catch him when, inevitably, he fell.

Anyone would do, but no matter how he viewed it in his mind, it was always her he saw.

Plain, straightforward, bookish.

Simple words. Chosen by simple people.

A lump rose and fell in his throat.

Merciful.

He contemplated his departure, but the sunrise seemed too far away. Slowly, he fell back to his knees, his palms and gaze flat on the ground, his breathing uncontrolled and raw.

Forgiving.

Through the wars he endured, both personal and nationwide, he'd never known how to lose. It was a win, or nothing. Nothing else was acceptable. If he stopped trying, who could point a finger? He simply didn't have it in him. It wasn't his fault.

A charade he'd been able to convince himself of until she'd shown him true forgiveness.

Beautiful.

A rose slipped into his palm.

Then he heard her.

"You don't realize how much you have to live for."

"I'm not worth anything," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"You can't let it define you."

"What?" He knew perfectly well.

"You can't let the fact that you're a Malfoy define you."

He let the silence ring. He knew better than to respond; it was over.

Closing his eyes, and taking in the moment, he rose to his feet, imagining once more that she was there, willing and open to guide him.

Empty.

There was really only one word to describe what was left of Draco Malfoy.

The rose fell from his fingertips, hitting the ground without a sound.