He held in his breath as he creeped into the Slytherin common room. If he were to be caught out at this hour, there would be no telling what Snape would do. Draco sighed in relief as he made it into his four poster bed, closing the curtains and casting a silencing charm. Draco had just come back from exploring the dark halls of the slimy Slytherin corridors of the basement. Why? Draco didn't know. It seemed Draco didn't know much these days.
He didn't know why he purposefully spoke out of turn or antagonized every single person he passed in the hallways. Maybe he just wanted to feel something. Maybe he wanted to slip in the hallway and knock his head or get clobbered by a particularly strong Gryffindor. Draco was supposed to be the strong one. He was supposed to be the villain that was humiliated by the hero. He was only human.
Draco didn't understand, as he laid there in the green four poster bed, why he was who he was. Why was he forced to be the villain? Why couldn't Draco be the hero for once? Oh yes, he could've changed a long time ago, in the beginning. But back then he was young and dumb and by the time he had realized the path he was on, it was too late. If Draco had tried to change right then and there, he would be mocked. Called a coward and a poser. So then he was damned to follow this path, a road of pain and cold expressions and high expectations, for the rest of his life.
Draco liked to call it the human condition. The way his supposedly 'emotionless' mask cracked at night, when he was alone at last. Or the way Draco would stare up at the lifeless ceiling, imagining the stars glistening in the midnight sky. They were out there, hanging in the balance, the pinks and yellows and greens of the all seeing cosmos. Draco looked up, and he felt trapped. He was here, kept on a dull planet by the force of gravity, when the entire universe lay awash in mystery and open for exploration. Draco had lived on this planet his entire life, and he was doomed to die here, just like everybody else.
It was suffocating. Draco was surrounded by millions of people, all that were in his immediate vicinity seemed to hate him. And that's what Draco didn't understand. Why couldn't anybody see? His mask couldn't be that good. Why didn't anybody talk to him or even ask if anything was wrong? Was it another side effect of the human condition? Are people unable to forgive and forget anymore?
You see, it's a cycle. At least, that's how movies portray it. First, a hero is wronged. Draco insulted Potter's friend. Then, the hero is called to adventure, a quest that is hindered by the villain. That could be anything from Quidditch to simply normal insults thrown in class. Lastly, the hero prevails, completes the quest, therefore defeating the evil villain. And therein lies the problem. Draco is still here. He isn't dead or cursed to life in Azkaban. But yet there's still no way to change either. Is Draco just supposed to sit and follow each and every rule to the wire, avoiding eye contact and talking until school is finally over?
And those are just a few small issues. The point is, nobody ever expects the villain to become good or be anything other than evil. Draco doesn't feel evil anymore. He never did. Draco doesn't feel anything. To a villain, that would be a blessing. To a bleeding boy, shunned and hated, it's a curse. He doesn't feel human anymore. Perhaps that is the answer. Perhaps that is why Draco started to take more risks. He just wants to feel again. Whether it be pain or nay.
It hurt, whether you wanted to believe it or not. You may not be able to see it, but no matter what, the villain can always feel the pain. The pain of heartbreak. The agony that nobody wants to be near you. The pinpricks that nobody will ever love you. The raw, bloody stabbing pain of knowledge. The knowledge that this could've been stopped. That the whole reason Draco is here right now is because of one wrong decision.
The days were so hard. One insult after another. Draco would endure. One wrong step and he'd be shipped back home to Malfoy Manor. Draco couldn't go back there. To the dark halls that echoed with the past. It was so cold. Draco would enter the Manor and it seemed like the temperature would drop noticeably lower. It makes sense. The Manor was cold and dark. It didn't ooze that warm homey feeling like most homes as shoes lay scattered here and childhood art projects there. No. It was like Hell finally froze over.
So, leaving Hogwarts was not an option. Draco didn't know what else to do. Trying to make new friends was a pain. Class was a pain. Reality was a pain. So Draco held himself together during the day, never wavering, for a crack in the facade meant more insults. Never sympathy. Always jokes. 'Aw, look at the dumb Slytherin.' And 'Looks like the Death-Eater isn't so scary after all.'
Draco was resigned to keep it together until night fell, and the wine dark sky cast shadow across the grounds. And the stars sent down beads of moonlight, shining into windows and reflecting off of the pale skin on Draco's face. It was so hard to explain, yet there are dozens of words that do it justice. Draco is alone. There is no other who understands. Who would? The Slytherin was alone in body, in mind, and in spirit.
He was the son of the famous Death-Eaters, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. He was the outcast. The unwanted. The shunned. He was Draco Malfoy, former Death-Eater and member of the House of Salazar Slytherin. He was the epitome of cunning and sly. He had baby pale skin and white blonde hair. His eyes were the color of tears falling through a numbing grey sky. Stormy. Filled with conflict granted through fate.
Draco didn't like reality. Draco liked to lay on his bed, staring with vacant eyes until dawn with her rose red fingers reached across the sky. He liked to spend those countless hours thinking and listening to the silence. It sounded so peaceful and poetic when put like that. So misleading. Draco's mind is a curse. He hates people, but he needs them to distract him. Without people, Draco can't help but to think and think until it's hopeless and everybody will eventually die and we are all just infinitesimal specks in the span of the universe.
So Draco sits and stares and thinks as flaming rock shoots across the sky and dying stars burn blindingly bright before finally fading away. Sometimes Draco feels like a star going supernova. He's trying so hard to shine bright and fool everybody into thinking he's still the same cold hearted villain. And of course it works. Nobody feels sympathy for the enemy. But when Draco goes to bed at night and turns off the facade, it's hard. It's like the emotions are overflowing and he can't stop them and it's too much and not enough all at once. Maybe one day, somebody will finally see the truth. Draco could care less when it happens, because right now, he sort of feels like he is shining so bright, it's near unbearable. The burn makes Draco feel useful, like he has a purpose again. But the thing is, stars always burn the brightest before fading away. That's it. That's all he is. Draco is just a fiery star, waiting to be seared with heat and scorched into oblivion.
And so Draco Malfoy, former Death-Eater, member of the house of Salazar Slytherin, looks up at the sky. He watches as comets shoot across the atmosphere, fiery tails leaving a streak on the navy blue, like rain drops on a window. He sees the twinkle of stars and the solitary shine of watches as suns light years away go supernova and galaxies expand. Draco sits and watches the universe as life passes by with a brain that refuses to cooperate and eyes that no longer shine.