The time is five past eternity, and the room is dark.
Pitch black, if one were being finickity. Black, seeping into the corners, coating the walls and the ceiling. Black, dusting the little dresser and the creaking chair. Black, falling over the shaking body and crisp, clean clothes.
Suddenly, a beam of light falls through the door as it opens, the room and occupant hissing in disgust.
'Draco?' says a voice from the door, softly. There is no reply. The voice sighs. 'They're waiting.'
The occupant of the room shifts slightly. 'Aren't they always?' he says, bitterly.
There is a long pause, and all that can be heard is the soft ticking of a watch, lurking somewhere in the deep dark.
'They love you.' the voice whispers, and it is a strange revelation.
'I know.' Draco says, quietly.
There is another long pause, and the owner of the voice drums their fingers along the door.
'Why are you sitting in the dark? Are you ready?' the voice asks, slightly on edge.
Draco nods, but in the dark, it cannot be seen.
'Are you ok?' the voice asks finally.
'I'm fine.' Sarcasm, but it is missed.
'Well...are you coming?'
'In a minute.' Draco says.
A pause.
'Shall I tell them you're coming?'
Draco sighs. 'If you must.'
The voice hesitates, before shutting the door once again.
Draco lets out a breath, and gripping his wand in his hand, he mutters, 'Lumos!'. The shadows and the evils of the dark scamper away, letting a soft, dim light fill the room. It is small, unadorned and empty save for a small dresser. One of the ones that can be found backstage of a popular production, complete with too many lights, a dusty mirror and a beautiful star.
This particular dresser, in Draco's opinion, lacks something. Whether it is the beautiful star or something else, Draco isn't sure.
He sucks in a breath, and dares to study his reflection in the mirror.
Angular cheeks and smooth, pale skin. Swirling, grey eyes thick with eyeliner. Strands of blond hair falling artfully down his face. Pouting lips, with small creases where he bites them unconsciously. Slightly pointed but still very strong features. Effeminate, perhaps.
Someone once told Draco he was beautiful. He didn't know what to make of it. He still doesn't.
He reaches out his hands, examining them. Shaking. Pale. Long, elegant, clean. Pianist's hands. Lover's hands. Killer's hands.
Draco fancies he can see the blood running down them. He shakes himself.
They love you.
That's what he needs to focus on.
But that never works, does it? Because Draco knows, better than anyone else, what unrequited love is.
Worthless.
Draco sighs, and picking up the microphone, he heads into the madness he created for himself.