This is a little different… And yes, I write in fragments. Embrace it.
For the Ultimate Death Eater Contest with the prompt: Life is not always black and white.
For the 100 Characters Competition with the prompt: eyes
And for the Character Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: regret
Draco walks through the front door of Malfoy Manor with his parents and surveys the damage. The Death Eaters have dispersed and the house is theirs once more, but it's not the place it used to be.
He stares blankly down at the bloodstained floor, the broken china smashed and brushed into the corner, miscellaneous rubbish that he doesn't care to identify. It sickens him. And it will haunt him for longer than he will ever care to admit.
He feels his mother's hand on his shoulder, and his first instinct is to slap it away, but he doesn't. He maintains his composure and stands completely still. He counts his breathing to make sure he's still conscious. He clenches and unclenches his fists and relishes the feeling of his nails piercing his palms.
He's glad his father has gone up the stairs. He can't bear to look at him right now. He can't bear to even attempt to consider the three of them a family after all that has happened, after what has just happened at Hogwarts, after the unspeakable things that have happened in this room. It's too disturbing.
"Draco," his mother's voice comes from behind him. "Draco, dear, are you all right?"
The question is so absurd, he wants to scream. No he's not bloody all right. Who would be?
She releases his shoulder and comes around to face him, and he doesn't want to look her in the eye. He'll lose it if he does. Because he's learned now, two years too late, of course, that life is not black and white or even shades of grey; it's the color of a person's eyes and the look they give someone when they see them, really see them, for the first time.
Draco squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them with the heels of his hands, wishing he could be anywhere but here. And all he can see are those colors flashing, never stopping, making him sick to his stomach.
Blue…green…red…blue…green…red…
Over and over and over…
…Blue…
"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."
Merlin, how he'd wanted to do it then. In that moment, that's all he'd wanted to do. But he couldn't. His hands had been shaking too badly, and he'd lost his nerve long before he'd gone to the Astronomy tower. He'd lost it six months before and resorted to foolish stunts instead and insisted that at least he'd tried. Tried with half a heart like the old man had said. And failed miserably. Pathetically.
"It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."
And then he fell.
Mercy. Somebody have mercy.
…Green…
His face had been puffy, and his scar was stretched wide across his forehead. He'd been practically unrecognizable. But those goddamn green eyes were unmistakable, pleading with Draco for help. And all Draco could do was lie. Because that's what Slytherins do. They lie and they doubt and they break.
Draco rubs his eyes even harder now, to rid himself of the memory. But he can't. It's like that expression is tattooed to the insides of his eyelids, begging him forever for mercy he doesn't have to give. But all he'd had was time, precious time.
He'd done what he could, but they'd found a way out without him. So typical.
He should have asked to go with them. He wonders if Potter had seen that when he'd looked him in the eye. He saw something. Was it fear, pain, regret?
Regret. Definitely Regret.
…Red…
Painful, bright, angry red that burned him worse than the Dark Mark on his arm ever had. The pain pierced his soul like a knife and twisted, demanding that he become something less than human. And he'd almost done it. Almost.
Those eyes had just laughed at him, taunted him. They were cruel and snakelike and sick. And they knew everything there was to know about Draco Malfoy just by looking at him. They knew that he was scared shitless. And they found that incredibly amusing.
And the Dark Lord had toyed with him for months, dangling lives above his head like carrots on a string. And now that he's gone, Draco doesn't know how to feel about it.
Relieved? Of course.
All right? Impossible.
...blue...green...red...
"Draco. Draco, dear." His mother's voice rouses him from the disturbing images behind his eyelids and he lowers his hands to his side. "Draco, are you all right?"
He sniffs and clenches his fists once more, drawing blood this time. He turns away from her without making eye contact so as not to have another color, another face to add to the overwhelming cycle and heads for the stairs.
"I'm fine."