retracing
.drabble one.
Just a little drabble for the DG forum, which I have abandoned recently due to school. My latest focus has been Draco so I thought I would write on this prompt: 11. Draco watches Crabbe die (DH - Chapter 31). You don't really get a lot of insight to Draco's thoughts in this particular moment, so - yes, I hope you enjoy. I welcome critique as long as it is not just a pointless flame.
Everything is burning.
He is barely aware of the fact that his back is pressed up against a cold wall until he feels the flames begin to lick towards the edge of his coat, singing the material. Panic flashes through him, breathing down his back like a foul demon, and he pushes, struggles to get away but he can't. He wants to scream - what would his father think of his cowardice - but instead clamps his lips together, tightening his hold on the unconscious Goyle slumped in front of him.
Then a sound, a hand. He's grasping, getting away, and the fire is singing his polished shoes as they rise up. His arms clench around someone's torso and he spots jade eyes. Instinctively his fingers tighten and he would have bellowed - let me go, filthy half blood - if he hadn't been so scared. And look at him now: shivering like a first year, shivering like he hasn't killed men.
They swerve again and his grip tightens. There's the door, but they're rolling, turning away -
"What are you doing, what are you doing, the door's that way!"
It's his voice, but not; he sounds twelve years old again with the cracking voice and hiding away in broom cupboards until he's presentable and masculine again. Harry's broom dives again and he loses himself in a world of screams because he's too young to die.
And that's when he realizes that something is wrong, because here he is, there's Goyle sobbing like a baby on the mudblood's shoulder, and there should be one more but there isn't. Where the bloody hell is Crabbe?
They touch down just as the vicious flames lick at Potter's broom and they're safe but the world is spinning. He clutches the ground like it's life itself, lung heaving and eyes streaming and looks for Crabbe once again. He shouldn't be feeling off like this because all he's ever been worried about is himself - and isn't that enough?
"C-crabbe." His voice sounds like one of those pitiful, muggle creatures. "C-crabbe."
"He's dead," says the freckled red thing in the corner.
Dead. Dead. Shouldn't that word mean something along the lines of happiness, or even duty? He's watched men die before, so Crabbe shouldn't be much different. After all, they weren't really friends; just someone to go to when they didn't feel like brooding alone, just someone to sit with in the Great Hall for meals.
Dead.
Dead.
He's used to being a loner, used to hiding things within himself.
This shouldn't mean anything, doesn't mean anything.
He huddles with Goyle in the corner, still shivering, wishing he could trust his own thoughts.
