Summary: Drabble from Theodore Nott's point of view, mainly on Draco, being a Death Eater, and the aftermath of the war.
Warnings: Mentions of sex and some graphic images.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in the fic or mentioned in the fic. I do own the idea and my interpretation of the war and Theodore Nott's personality.
The world always stopped turning when he walked into the room. People looked up; some even stopped talking all together. He didn't even have to make an entrance; all he had to do was walk in. Of course, he usually made an entrance anyway, coming in talking loudly and voicing controversial opinions. He smirked, rarely showing his teeth, at the students in the room, before sauntering over to his seat. Seconds passed where people would still be watching him, and being the extrovert he was, Draco Malfoy basked in the attention.
He was always the person to catch everyone's eye. The kind of boy half the school felt sexual tension for. Not to mention the kind of child parents would be more than happy to show off. An incredible actor; that was what Draco Malfoy was. He could smile and laugh when he needed to, he could cry when he needed to, he could make the world feel at least a little sorry for him when he needed to, even if they knew there was nothing to feel sorry for.
Nothing... I guess that's what Draco Malfoy really was...A whole lot of nothing hidden behind a pretty face. I knew him, he hardly knew me, but I knew him. I spent my entire life observing people, and he was one of the people I observed more than the others. I didn't need friends, I didn't really want friends. The human mind is so confusing I can hardly deal with my own... so I just watched people.
I pitied him. I pitied him because he didn't realize he could just say no. He said no to everyone, but when it came to his father he couldn't seem to say anything. He'd deny it if you ever asked him, but he walked in his father's footsteps because he didn't know any different. I don't think he realized what he was getting himself into, and I think that if he did, he would've backed down. He would've realized how messy killing and torturing was, and he wouldn't want to do it anymore.
But he did do it, he did a lot of things he didn't stop to think about. He was always impulsive; I guess maybe that was the way he was a little bit of a Gryffindor. He wasn't brave, but he was impulsive. He got the Dark Mark, and watched me get mine. At school we had a sense of understanding because we knew what the other was going through. We ended up shagging, on impulse of course, but we kept doing it. It was a way to vent any frustration that built up because of the war. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't tell him how lovely I thought he was, because I knew he wouldn't answer. He never answered. I think that after the door was closed and our robes were off, he let his walls down to reveal how dead he was.
By dead I mean lacking of a soul, a conscience, even a personality. He would let me do what I wanted to him without protest, and as horrible as I felt doing it, I couldn't stop. I didn't want to. I guess in a way, I didn't want him to be real. If he was real, he would've wanted to talk and get intimate, and I hated getting emotionally attached to anything. My mother was the last thing I ever got emotionally attached to, and after she died I hated human contact. Physicality doesn't count as contact. Contact is more of an emotional, spiritual level. Physicality is just... being physical. Touching Draco was like touching silverware, or a book. It happened daily and I never thought anything of it.
I watched him waste away. I saw it happen, but I never cared. I noticed how thin he got, thinner than he already was, thinner than I was. I noticed the bags under his eyes. I knew he didn't sleep and I knew the pressure was building. I knew he knew what was coming.
I'm still watching him waste away. I've taken to referring to him as if he were dead, because he is dead. His eyes are dead, and that's all that matters. He may still talk, mumbling to himself and having conversations with people that aren't there. He may still move, pacing around his cell. And he may even still feel, because sometimes he scratches at his face until he bleeds. The other prisoners aren't any better, but somehow it's more heartbreaking to see him tear himself apart with his own fingernails. They've taken to restraining him at night. They tie his arms behind him so he can't hurt himself. The other prisoners scream when they do that to them, but Draco just laughs.
He talks to me, because he knows that I'm in the cell across from his. He tells me that being restrained is funny because he was restrained his entire life. He tells me that he hurts himself because he doesn't want to have his father's face anymore. He tells me he talks to people that aren't there because he's just saying everything he meant to say over the years. I've heard him talking to Potter, Weasley, and Granger, screaming at them about how much he wanted to be them.
I watch him still. He smiles at me and tells me that all those times we were together; he never said anything because he didn't know what to say. He reaches through the bars at me, his wrists nothing but skin and bones. His face is scarred and mangled from him tearing away at his skin.
I smile back, because I've just realized that somehow he's more alive and more beautiful and more real now than he ever was before.
Author's Note: R/R please! Tell me what you think...