Disclaimer: I don't own Kings and Queens. All rights go to 30 Seconds To Mars. Same for Harry Potter- not to 30STM, though. To JK Rowling.
Into the night
Desperate and broken
Draco grits his teeth as he pushes into the woods. He leaves behind the dark roses whose thorns have scratched his skin and burnt craters onto his arms with fingertips like cigarettes. The darkness consumes him as the branches fall in place again, blocking the only way out. Now there is no going back.
The sound of a fight
Father has spoken
The war is at its peak, blossoming behind and before him. His wand rests helplessly on his inside pocket- he cannot believe the extent of his surrender; he is so powerless, so resigned, he lets his legs guide him blindly away, under the pathetic orders of his agonising father. He never had much of a chance at the war. Death Eather. Draco knows death doesn't nurture you: it poisons you.
We were the kings and queens of promise
We were the victims of ourselves
And he realises that all this time, as he fell, enchanted by the childish illusion of walking on the right path, a new world floated before his clouded eyes.
Maybe the children of a lesser God
Between Heaven and Hell
Heaven and Hell
And then all of a sudden he changed. He came back as a completely different person, with a new mindset, a new gaze, a new soul. A boy who once cared too much about dignity and pride no longer cared at all.
Into your eyes
Hopeless and taken
Draco's eyelashes flutter, dance, and fray. A cold tear trails down his pallid skin, void of its usual confidence: all he needs is someone to plant seeds of closed hope on the crook of his neck- whenever he holds his chin too low, they will gently guide him up and steady his pace.
We stole our new lives
Through blood and name
In defense of our dreams
His feet are cold on the harsh meadow he walks upon. The drizzle isn't such any longer- the curtain of rain falls down in torrents, scarring the ancient ground and the dreams buried underneath. Draco's shoulders hunch down under the pressure of gravity and the pull of a family legacy crumbling down to ashes. A gust of wind scatters it around.
The Dark Arts had given him their word. Only now does he realise how naive he had dared to be, believing every single lethal lie they had thrown out at him. But he had been weak, and they knew what to tell him to weave a daydream of security into his young mind. Now he knows. Now he has found out that no one ever stays, and no one ever cares.
But he misses being a kid, for a scratched knee is easier to heal than a broken heart.
We were the kings and queens of promise
We were the victims of ourselves
But he knows he brought it on himself. He doesn't blame the storm. He doesn't blame the Dark Lord. He doesn't blame the scar on a child's forehead. This -this conflict tearing his mind apart- is an entirely different matter, a war only Draco can feel.
With a cry of frustration, he tugs at his damp hair and yells out a faltering hope.
Maybe the children of a lesser God
Between Heaven and Hell
Heaven and Hell
Wrapped up on his thoughts, he trips and stumbles. There is a sliver of conscience left on his mind, but it's enough for him to regain his balance and grab a low-hanging branch. the rough skin of the wood sinks onto his skin deeply. Draco presses against its pressure. Maybe pain is the answer. Maybe he needs to feel.
The age of man is over
A darkness comes at dawn
He steals a furtive glance over his shoulder. The castle glimmers over the hills, rays of green and red light stabbing the misty air. Draco's wand, now a dead weight on his robe, seems to grow heavier. Sometimes it isn't enough to fix what is broken, he tells himself grimly. Sometimes you have to start all over again, and create something better.
These lessons that we've learned here
Have only just begun
And he will. Draco isn't sure about how he is going to do it, but he knows he will redeem himself. Let's start over, he tells himself, not allowing his thoughts to quiver. Who knows? Maybe this time I won't mess it up.
We were the kings and queens of promise
We were the victims of ourselves
Maybe the children of a lesser God
Between Heaven and Hell.
And maybe it is not possible for him to start over, but it is possible to start again and make a new ending.