Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the copyrights, trademarks, or registrars of or having to do with Harry Potter. I pay whole price when I buy my Harry Potter things, just as much as everyone else. The Harry Potter book rights belong to Ms. Joanne Kathleen Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Little Literacy Agency, Arthur A. Levine, Random House, & Warner Brothers. I own nothing but this plot.
Digital storytelling and collaborative writing:
Draco pushed himself further down the corridor. He heart beat hard. Flashes of white stone blurred in his vision. It was getting too much. Was it too much? Couldn't he handle this? Yes of course! He had to. Shit! He turned the corner just in time. Fucking walls almost ripping his heart from his chest. The tension kept building. There was the door. Finally. He slowly slid the last stretch to slide to a stop.
Draco opened the door and let himself in. It was a bathroom. A girl's lavatory on the 2nd floor to be exact. He knew no one would come in here. Hostile. That's how his body was behaving to him right now. He could feel this heaving up and down, a tightening in the chest. Limbs were shaking, and the room echoed with a sound like a panting dog in a desert with no water. When he sensed a wetness slide down his face, not near any normal sweat glands he knew he had made into the bathroom just in time. He was just one face in a sea of china dolls. Or maybe stringed puppets were a better metaphor. "Ha," he wheezed out a dry laugh. His body was raking with shivers now. He looked like a fucking dying seagull. The salty water on his face just set that atmosphere.
He was going to die. Oh god. There was no way around it. What was the point of his life? Of the money. The famous family. Hell the rare albino peacocks they kept at home. This shit was real. This was life. And life was not what he had imagined. Life was death. The shaking body in the room began to shudder hard; it let out sobs of desperation. Like when your claws rake at an itch that just won't go away. So you scratch at it harder! The body was beyond hope now, engulfed in a sort of pain. Draco's eyes caught the mirror. Oh, that was him.
Dear Merlin he should have known. He was naïve to think serving some all powerful dark wizard would a grand adventure. He knew. He knew as soon as the Dark Lord called upon him that he was screwed. His father had fucked up as a servant. So Draco knew that when mighty Lord Voldemort summoned the sixteen year old pureblood wizard it wasn't to be cute. The task he was given was damn impossible. But he wasn't stupid. He knew he wasn't supposed to be able to do it. He was supposed to fail and be punished. But he had to try. He didn't want to die. God no. But he was going to die. Fuck he was going to die. Unlike Saint Potter, he didn't have a gaggle of stupid's doing his dirty work for him. Draco's stupid followers were merely social tools. They'd be no help here. He was alone in this. Alone.
Draco Malfoy tore his eyes away from the mirror. The image was sick. He was a bloody sick bastard. Crying because he couldn't think of a way to kill Dumbledore. A wizard who could be his great-grandfather. And Draco was trying to off him. He was crying because he couldn't! But he'd smile again if he could! He would. He would fucking smile because at least he'd be alive. He looked sick. He felt sick. He was sick. In all ways wizardly possible. And the old Dark Lord was probably ecstatic about it. Might even be having a good old pull of the life chord from it. Sick fucker!
"O-oh M-merlin. F-fuckkk!" Draco shuddered as the sobbing over took his functioning. Desperation leaked through his mind. The sobbing wasn't his fault. I mean, who wouldn't cry. Scared, alone and utterly fucked. It wasn't his fault, but the guilt was dripping off his clothes. He tried to witch his mind off. It was working, sort of. He could hear a loud whimpering now. It was him, maybe. He didn't know. If he was going to die, he might as well leave something behind for people to remember him by. He pulled out his wand. Some hands were shaking. He had to do this before he was completely certifiable… or pure evil. He pointed the want at his head and a long silver ribbon poured out. A memory.
It was hazy now, but still opaque enough to be forced out of a young man's mind. It was rain, rushing readily from the clouds. It was a little boy out in a field but under a tree, trying not to get wet. The boy rubbed clammy hands together in hopes to raise a temperature like burning cells against a rough carpet. It was a shivering boy under a tree in the rain and a wet little girl running through brown puddles of slush. It was a little girl under the tree. It was two little grey eyes scrutinizing a pair of blue ones. It was a small smile that made grey eyes widen in surprise. It was a little boy telling a little girl to take his jacket. It was cold you see, and mother say's rain can make you sick. It was a little girl saying thank you. It was the cloud's stopping their tears and pulling up their golden fishing lines. It was an angry father storming into a field, worse than the storm before him. It was a little boy being sent away, back, back to the house with him. It was a little girl waving. It was a little boy walking away. It was an angry wizard staying right where he was. It was a little hazy now, transparent enough for the sliver ribbon to stop flowing.
It wasn't until many years later did Draco Malfoy realize that the little probably wasn't a witch. And with that realization he knew what had probably happened to her. After all he was raised to hate all non-magical being's and look down upon non purebloods. It wasn't even a maybe. He knew what happened. Maybe he could give this memory to someone. To show he wasn't pure evil… well yet. He deposited it into a jar and into his cloak. He'd have to give it to someone sympathetic. Granger maybe? He'd heard her defending him this year. Cute. His body let out another involuntary shudder and sob. For fucks sake! He really was a sick bloody coward.
Yeah, he was. He was also very alone in this. Very, very alone. He was just one face amongst many stringed puppets. But he would only ever have a monologue. He had thoughts that no one else would ever hear. There was the sound of heavy breathing. Draco looked up. That wasn't him. No. That wasn't him. He pulled out his wand.
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