Series: Harry Potter, 6th book
Genre: Angst/Drama
Author: Aethyrial Flame
Summary: He was known buy many names, such as Brat Prince, 'That bloody Slytherin', or, even, buy his mother, as 'Honey'. But none of these described the face he kept hidden from the world… ONE-SHOT
Disclaimer: Poor little Draco and his angst feast don't belong to me; J.K Rowling gets all the joy outta that.
The inspiration came from the sixth (cheers) Harry Potter Book- Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. It's a short, introverted kind of ficlet; a look at the head of one of our most beloved characters.
WARNING! SPOILERS!
If you have not read HP6, DO NOT READ THIS. It will spoil your read, because it gives away the ending. So don't complain if you read it, and have your book spoiled. (coughs) Ahem, er, yeah. Originally, I was gonna make this introspective from the point of a semi-original character talking to him, but….. it wanted to be written this way.
Enjoy!
((EDIT as of 7/2/06 : changed a little of the sentence structure, so the flow of it was better, and made more sense. Minor grammar etc editing, that's really all.))
Changeling
Summary: He was known buy many names, such as Brat Prince, 'That bloody Slytherin', or, even, buy his mother, as 'Honey'. But none of these described the face he kept hidden from the world… ONE-SHOT
The night was dark.
Above him, the star washed heavens wheeled and turned in the slow, incremental movements that his human eye could barely perceive. But they weren't moving; not truly, in any case. This lump of rock and ice and fire and water and air and movement and light and heat was what moved.
But did any of that matter, in the end?
He didn't think so. Raking long, tufted strands of gel slicked platinum from a steely, mercurial gaze, he shifted his attention from the spangled cape of the night goddess, to the bountiful beauty of that of the earth.
Stretched out below him, an endless sea of dark and thrusting branches, shadowed hollows and secret places, a forest stood. It was old; immeasurably so, and those that walked beneath its enfolding arms had done so since the greenwood had begun. Creatures both sacred, and twisted and dark, were birthed in the shadows that it created, in the richness of its magik and life.
Fingers scraping across rough stonework, he idly contemplated it. The forest was known, to the thousands of humans in the solid walls around and below him, as Forbidden. Forbidden because of the danger that stalked the unwary, of the traps and wiles used to punish the foolish, the arrogant and contemptuous.
To truly walk in safety in that black labyrinth of darkened walks and pine scented winds, one had to have known the forest's core; to see beyond the twisting veils of misconceptions that veiled its throbbing heart.
As all others, he feared it, of course; feared the revelations it might bring, the truths that it might show. And, as he stood on the parapet, a harsh breeze scouring his face and tangling his hair, he realised that he feared it no longer.
Once upon a time, he had been a foolish, brash and arrogant youngster. Cloaked in the power of his forbearers, he had been so sure that nothing could touch him, nothing could harm him. As one who held ultimate power in slightly pudgy, immature hands, others had, of course paid homage to him. It was expected for them to do such a thing; to integrate themselves within the circles the powerful, so that they might wheedle favours from, or escape the notice of those lofty beings.
And, revelling in that power, that freedom, and the unlimited access that he had to it, his younger self had grown drunk and slothful. It had taken a boy that knew nothing of his world, nothing of his power, and with messy black hair and flashing green eyes, to shake his belief.
Where once he had always been right, had always won, he found himself thwarted at every turn. The halls and corridors and arching doorways and temperamental staircases had seen his every, humiliating, defeat and penance. For every sin that he committed, he was paid back in fashion, his pride and ego almost battered beyond repair.
But that was okay.
Because at home, that place of lofty ceilings and covered windows, he still knew that power. His parents where quick to assure him, in their own ways, that he was more than that ratty little half-blood with that stupid, inconsequential scar.
Because at home, he was constantly assured of his parent's power; of his father, highly placed in the innermost circle of one who, he knew with sickening inevitability, would soon rule over this world that had been all that he knew.
Because dark threats assured his power, because they where more, oh so much more than threats, and because the Lord that promised that dark power beyond all had taken an interest in him.
Had offered him a mission, one of the highest importance. One that would elevate him above all who had thought him a stupid, brattish, immature little child. He would show them- show them all. He wasn't precious Potty's whipping boy; oh no. No, he would show them his true power, as he did what no one- not even the Dark Lord himself- had been able to do.
But it came at a price.
His mother, delicate, beautiful, shattered thing that she was, had been threatened. And his brave, strong, ever defiant father, was locked away in prison, having his soul slowly sapped of all things bright, and turning him into a mere husk.
So, to protect those that had always shielded him, to show them all that he was powerful, was good enough to be looked upon with pride; he would do it.
He would take that most final, irrevocable of steps. He would do what no one else dared to, dreamed to, do.
He would shake the foundations of this castle, and shatter its heart in a final blow. Then, then, power would be his, glory, pride and honour…
… that would, he knew, turn to ash and dust in his mouth.
Bitter, scalding tears dripped silently down his face as he stared into the strengthening wind, and into the dark, throbbing heart of the forest. The greenwood didn't know good, didn't know evil- those petty, human shackles- it knew only life. And, perhaps, he could find one for himself beneath those thick, spreading branches,
And perhaps he could find the courage to throw those that he loved and cared for down into the depths of hell through his actions.
Shoulders shaking with the force of his indecision, hot tears streaking his skin with inflamed, tender pink tissue, and swelling his nose and stoppering his throat, the stormy eyed boy wept on the battlements of the place he sought to destroy.
Because… because… he had to do it. There was no choice- no other choice- but for him to kill the one that had never judged him, never expected the worst, most cowardly of actions, from him.
As all others had.
But the thought of his sorrow, his grief, in the face of this; this most wretched of tasks; it didn't comfort him. It didn't comfort him to know that the son of a cold blooded killer felt empathy, didn't help him justify his future actions buy the fact that he had a few tender spots in his heart, and that this heart that he sought to shatter was one of them.
It didn't comfort him at all.