Primus: Oceano
Sunday, 09 June 1995
"Charmed, I'm sure." The child sneers. It is well after midnight, and he is once more at ease. The false pretences had ended after finally being able to force the young man out of his home.
Closing the door, he desperately wishes to forget the nuisance of the world outside. Leaving him vulnerable to the foreboding nature of his own home.
He wants nothing more than to sleep the night away, or what was left of it. The gathering began more than seven hours ago. The majority of which was spent implementing well-versed courtesy.
He still shudders at the thought of appeasing Mr. and Mrs. Ciccotti, the latter of whom could not refrain from pinching his cheek.
Of course, he found no reprieve from friends who were conspicuously absent. Their reasoning involved an excursion to Italy or France. He can only recall a fraction of the actual conversation; however, the consequence remains the same.
Who was he to suffer alone?
Fifteen years old and reduced to the petty whims of adults.
Although now, he wishes he were younger. There existed a time when his mother would carry him. She travelled these everlasting steps and down the long corridor into his room.
Despite his fanciful musings, his parents were asleep. They left shortly before midnight and bid him to humour their guests.
He could now attest that it was not the most unproblematic of labours.
But he is fifteen years old. He is old enough to plaster a smile and be economical with the truth. He even told Ms. Dubois that her ghastly perfume smelled "most pleasant."
It is really no wonder she remained single.
He is ready for this, is he not? These minimal tasks would lead to greater things.
The exception being Mrs. Gallo and her spawn. How could he forget the proud woman? Her newly acquired status of widow would in itself be questionable, if anyone had the courage to question her husband's death.
Even in this dark corridor he can see her. The candles are barely lit and the portraits resting with open ears. But in the menacing glow, he envisions her long hair. The strands darker than shadows concealed. Faintly glistening and developing about her hardened face.
But those eyes.
Her beady eyes are why he is peering cautiously behind him. Frantically attempting to verify that he is alone. He can still feel them, like a raven, constantly upon him. Even now that she is gone, they continue to haunt him.
Not that he would admit it aloud, but she frightens the fifteen year old boy.
However, it is the creature that she calls son that bothers him most. Wandering hands left shadows in their filthy wake, while he was rendered helpless under the watchful gaze of Mrs. Gallo.
Burdened by his position as host, he could only make incessant chatter as his guests continued to take. It is a dangerous game.
One he perilously tries to manipulate.
"Father? I didn't see you…in the shadows. I thought you and Mother were asleep."
"Did you think us so callous that we would feed you as a lamb to the wolves?"
"Of course not, Father. I'm far from being called a lamb. I assumed you had finally given me responsibility." However, responsibility loses its luster after being accosted against one's will. "But Stuart was something I could have done without."
The Father reveals a manic twinkle in his eyes. His face holds no certain mirth. Yet, it is as if he knows something crucial.
And he is only too pleased that the child before him did not.
Because his son is, for all shapes and purposes, a lamb. Well-concealed to no one but himself. Nonetheless, he can at least admit that he still adores the child.
Leaning forward, he can barely resist the urge to stroke the pale angular face.
The likeness they share is uncanny.
The child is still, entranced by his Father's actions. He shudders at the unwanted contact. Although remains pliant until the hand gently removes itself.
His Father then twists, beginning the trek down the long corridor. No doubt to lie beside his Mother, who is asleep, though not oblivious.
He slowly traces the path where the soft finger had travelled. Albeit the gesture is not unwonted for the child's Father, he can still feel a patronising sting.
It resonates through the darkness.
"Go to bed…Draco," The Father insists, "You are little good to your Mother half-dead." He gives no further thought to child he knowingly forsakes.
Despite his Father's request, Draco makes no sudden motion, leaning heavily against the door of his room.
Dreadfully alone, he can do nothing but convince himself that at the age of fifteen, he is old enough.
He has to be.
Honestly, I should not be doing this. Yet, I have this overwheliming urge to write...even if not the best work. I actually started this a little bit after the fifth book came out. I had yet to make my way around it.
It's actually pretty long. Three parts I think. And this is slash, mainly between Harry and Draco. But it won't really appear until nearly the end of the second part. This is Draco-centric, but I do try to involve most of the characters. Mostly those not often spoken of in the book, such as Terry Boot.
Disclaimer: I don't have anything to do with the ownership rights of Harry Potter. If I did, my books wouldn't make any money.