A/N: So this was written, as I said, for owluvr's Character Diversity Boot Camp. Each chapter will be a different one-shot/drabble based on different one word prompts. Most will probably be under 1000 words, some may be over. A lot of them will be entirely stand-alone, but there may be a bit of flow between a few of them... I hope you enjoy, though, and please Review! :)
Disclaimer: All following characters belong to JK Rowling
Character: Draco Malfoy
Prompt: Facade
It's broken and chipped and dirty, this facade that Draco's been throwing up for years. He's desperately kept everyone at arm's length, refusing to let anyone in too close for fear that they might discover his deepest secrets, his most private obsessions, the terror that lurks just beneath his skin. But after seeing so much horror and bloodshed and torture, after being forced to do dirty, despicable, vile things, he's not quite sure he has the strength to keep it up any longer.
He wants to pull his hair out in great, filthy clumps, wants to run away and hide. He flinches whenever he hears his Aunt Bella's voice, grimaces at the thought of serving one more day in the service of the Dark Lord, and the urge to spit in his father's face is overwhelming every time he's near the man. More than all this, though, Draco is disgusted with himself. He's worlds away from the boy who, just a few years ago, had been so eager and excited to accept the Dark Mark, proud of all the power that came with it. His fingers itch to scrape away the flesh from his left arm, to claw at his skin until there's no trace of the tattoo left.
But he doesn't. He doesn't do any of these things. No, instead he keeps up the facade, allows his parents and his aunt and his master to believe that he's still fighting for their cause. He's reluctant, to be sure. That much is obvious to anyone who bothers to look closely enough. But the sheer, unadulterated panic that he feels with every waking moment doesn't show through in his face. His eyes are stone cold, lips drawn tight, cheekbones high and aristocratic as ever. Heartless and blank and empty. That's the face that he shows the world. And he succeeds, at least to a certain extent. They all believe it, because none of them pay him much attention. His facade remains intact.
That is, of course, until that dreadful night in the Room of Hidden Things. He can't quite hide the note of anxiety in his voice as he begs Crabbe not to kill Potter. Draco doesn't know why he's so desperate, but he is sure that Potter is absolutely his last hope. If he does it, if he defeats the Dark Lord, Draco knows that the boy is trusting and naive enough to give him a second chance. That's the reason that he tells himself, at least. He needs Potter to win so that he can have a chance at manipulating his way into freedom.
But then the fire starts, and it's horrible. It's worse than anything he's ever felt, hotter than the deepest pits of Hell, and he's running flat-out, desperate to escape. But it isn't enough. He's going to die; he's certain of it. He feels a sweaty hand grasp his once, twice, slipping out on each go, and he can hardly see what's happening through the smoke and ash that's hanging thick in the air.
Before he knows it, though, he's being pulled forcibly onto a broom, soaring high over the blazing inferno. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face in the back of Potter's shirt in a futile attempt at keeping himself from choking on the black soot. His arms are tight around the other boy's middle, a hard, unrelenting grasp, and through the haze of blackness and fire that's covering everything in sight, he screams himself hoarse in Potter's ear, shouting out all the terror and distress that's built itself up inside him for two years. As they tumble into the corridor, slamming into the opposite wall, and collapse, gasping, into a heap on the floor, Draco realises that his facade has been burnt away just as easily as if it had been made of wood