C1 :)
a/n
starts off with the end of summer before draco's 7th year!
The chandelier hanging over the parlor of the Malfoy Manor was a beautiful arrangement of light and glass, of which Draco was often fixated. It seemed to gently mimic the night sky, and its mimicking brought about an unwelcome reminder of Hogwarts that often prodded the back of his mind.
His grayish eyes flickered over the bouquet of diamonds. "Draco?" The voice seemed to be coming from another dimension, as if the speaker was from a dream that lingered into day. It was said again and Draco was pulled from his reverie. He turned to face his father.
"I know things have changed for you, son," Lucius Malfoy said, drifting around a large black sofa, his pale hand grazing the leather. His son was identical to his younger self - he could be a long-lost brother, a twin. Looking at Draco was like staring into a time-transcending mirror, although Draco appeared to be afflicted with some kind of life-depriving illness. His son walked around the Manor like a ghost, a shallow shell of himself. He spent most of his time in his room, scribbling away into a leather-bound journal that held the remnants of himself. The thought occurred to Lucius that reading it would be insightful, yet he realized he had no desire to uncover the demons that tortured his son's poor soul.
Lucius said his name again. "Draco."
Rather forcefully his son lifted his head, his eyes piercing. "Yes?"
Lucius was grateful for this response. He spoke quickly. "Draco, you must realize that you cannot go through life like this? We all must cope - you must cope, Draco."
It seemed Lucius had lost his chance. His beautiful boy's eyes drifted into his dream world, where Lucius imagined there would be no pain, no strife, only a transcendental realm of sanction.
"Is this really what our lives have degraded to, father?" Draco asked, his voice clear and sharp. It seemed he had been awaiting to eloquate the statement. "Coping?"
Lucius cocked his shiny blonde head. "Well I don't expect you to exactly thrive in our current situation, Draco."
Draco's willpower stubbornly refused to look at his father. He couldn't stand to see what he had become. A trip to Azkaban hadn't done him well. His white-blond hair had turned a sickly shade of grey. His skin was so starkly pale it glowed in the dim light. Draco blinked sadly into the windows. A white peacock walked proudly on a hedge. It could have been a ghost roaming throughout the gardens.
A thought came to him. Draco realized his arrogance had faded with his family's prestige. No longer was their name spoken with the reverence Draco desired. He turned to look. His gaze what shrouded in apathy. To care was emotionally exhausting.
He walked autonomously up the staircase to his room. It was grand and extensive with an overall emphasis on the colour white. It symbolised many things for Draco and his family. Purity would be one.
Simultaneously it represented weakness, frailty, it was a quiet voice speaking of a dainty little boy that hair to match the walls and eyes to match the stone.
Veering off from his bleached bedroom was the bathroom. It also followed the same style - snow white tiles and perfectly clear, spotless mirrors, which Draco supposed could show the seer what they refused to see themselves. From a flurry of sparkles and lavender mist appeared Thimbles, Dobby's replacement. She was overly short, even by House-Elf standards. She was endowed with huge purplish eyes and skin a shade of malformed grey.
"Masterses Malfoy, sir! Cares for towels, Masterses? Needses to get cleans?" she asked frantically, tossing a towel at him, which fell awkwardly onto the floor.
He sighed. "No, get out."
And in that shard of a moment Thimbles and the towel were gone in another wave of purple smoke and glitter.
Draco felt like all his personality, his life, his air had been sucked from his lungs. He was drained. Exasperated, that was the word. Exasperated. Vaguely, he remembered advice from a counselor at St. Mungo's. She was a pudgy red-haired woman that vaguely reminded him of a Muggle he had seen while on holiday in London. "In order to change your emotions, you must first identify your emotions." And so he attempted to identify the very few emotions that plagued him. Loneliness. Fatigue. Hungry? He hadn't eaten in days and yet the need evaded him. Sadness? No. An absence of emotion.
Draco had refused to take the train to Hogwarts, and his request was a viable option as any.
The Anti-Apparating Charm had died with Dumbledore. Draco had packed his things (two suitcases, a bookbag, and a trunk), ode farewell to his parents and turned on his heel. When he opened his eyes he stood before the wrought-iron gate leading into the Hogwarts grounds. Filch was checking luggage. "Ay. You can't Apparate into Hogwarts! It's-it's illegal!" he cried out.
Draco gave him the most hateful look he could must and strode past. "Locomotor bags," he said quite clearly, directing his floating luggage with the smooth tip of his wand. He would refuse for his things to be checked. Not because he carried anything pertaining to the Dark Arts, but because he believed he was above it all. His elitist attitude could not be extinguished so easily.
He also chose not to attend the first night's feast. Instead, he walked up what seemed a thousand flights of stone staircases to the seventh floor and turned onto the White Hall. The blonde-headed boy kept walking until he reached a huge, blue-ish mirror with a shattering embedded in the black-spattered glass. He pressed one pale palm to his reflection and the mirror became almost translucent - it had transformed into a white stone pathway. Draco ventured into the passage.
DONE with C1! :)