Chiaroscuro
The world is going to hell.
The angels are falling, children are crying.
And there is no God to watch us.
The world is going to hell.
Satan is laughing, angels are dying.
And I am one of the demons.
"Come now, Draco, don't you know why we're here?" the pale-faced figure sneered, each word overlapping each other in a dangerous hiss.
"I-no, I don't know, my lord," the white haired young man said quietly, struggling to keep his voice calm and level. There were subtle giveaways of the man's true emotions, hinted by the voice's slight rasp, by the simple clench of knuckles, by the slight tremor of skin that had nothing to do with the weather.
A claw-like hand curved to stretch into a cloak, fingering a bony wand. "I have heard," the man who wasn't a man began, "that you are a traitor. A liar. A spy. What do you say to such a rumour, Draco?"
The shivers strengthened now, but Draco willed himself to respond. "They are rumours, my lord. Nothing more. I have always been loyal to you."
He looked outside the window, grey eyes stone cold. Rain was pouring outside, thrumming against the ceiling like pebbles against glass, hail against stone. "Always, my lord," said Draco, quietly.
Voldemort examined the man, his red eyes hard as steel. He seemed to be waiting, or perhaps, thinking.
"I have never betrayed you," Draco pressed, firmly, his voice reasserting itself. His face revealed no emotions. "I am a pure blood. I have been raised to serve you. I have no need to associate with worthless Mudbloods or filthy blood-traitors."
The snake-like man's mouth curled into a crooked grin. "And why should I believe you?"
Draco sank to the floor, the dark folds of his cloak brushing the cold paved tiles. He bowed his head, and murmured, "I am a Malfoy. I swear it on my honor, and if that is not enough for you, my lord, then I swear it on my family's."
"Do you swear it?" said the dark wizard, tilting his head to stare directly at Draco's face.
Draco did not flinch. "I swear it, my lord. Always, you have my allegiance."
-x-x-x-
Narcissa Malfoy watched her son, her lips pursed together tightly. Dark circles underlined her blue eyes, dusting her pale complexion a sad black. Streaks of white intertwined themselves with the woman's blond hair; Draco resisted the childish urge to pluck them out.
"Draco, Bella told me -"
"It's fine," said Draco. More gently, he said, "Mother, I'm fine."
Narcissa sighed. She reached trembling fingers to touch her son's face - he's still alive - studying the aristocratic features that were yet to be dulled by the wearies of war. He looked so much like Lucius, herLucius, who had been killed in battle that seemed so long ago.
Her hands reached down to his left arm, tracing the skull and the snake and the oath that they carried.
"We can run, you know," she whispered, a sudden compulsion seizing hold of her. "The war is too dangerous for us, my son. We can live. Oh, my Draco, we can live."
The young man moved closer to her, prying her fingers from his arm. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, reminded of the times he would sit in her lap as she read stories to him. Stories of victory and happy ends, stories of power and gain.
He could use a story like that right now.
But after a moment, he stepped away from his mother, thinking, I am not a child. We are at war, and we must fight. We can't run.
It's all the same to me. Run, stay - we'll all die eventually.
-x-x-x-
"Avada Kedavra," Draco said, quietly, pointing his wand at the last Muggle of the household. A green light flickered through the room, and a little girl slumped to the ground like a puppet who'd just lost its strings.
He walked towards the corpse. She hadn't screamed, in the end. She'd just looked at him with wide and quivering eyes, and...crumpled.
Draco slipped his wand back in his pocket. He felt his gaze drawn to his wand hand, and he turned the snow-white palm upwards. Then he groped at the air below him, settling his fingers to close the Muggle-girl's dead eyes.
Light streamed from above, shining from the skylights on the ceiling. The moon was bright tonight, illuminating half of Draco's face in simple whiteness. Moonlight touched the side curls of his hair, following the hairs from tip to tip, showing the raggedness to it all.
"We will make a perfect world," his father had said once, and it sounded so easy - like steps, one-two-three-four-five, laid out in front of Draco to fulfill.
Like folding a figure out of paper, folding corner by corner.
With a wry smile, Draco mentally dog-eared a page out of his father's book. Something tugged at him, suddenly, he felt the urge to do the mental equivalent of smoothing the corner down with a flick of his nail.
Draco pushed down the surging emotion. He took out his wand, opened one of the windows above him, and murmured, "Morsmordre."
The Dark Mark lit up the night.
-x-x-x-
i want to cry but my master will not let me/he weaves a cage that traps us all/a net of iron twisting curling/their ends meeting on my flesh sinking in my blood slitting the tips of my fingers cutting the lies on my lips
-x-x-x-
A mirror stood in front of Draco.
There are no words, here, to describe him.
-x-x-x-
"Let's go," he told his mother, impulsively, one day. He took her hands, and smiled - and it was a real smile, not wooden, not empty. "Let's leave."
He laid out his plans before her: Narcissa will leave and find a safe place to take shelter in. Draco shall transfigure or Polyjuice something to resemble her, thus faking her death. Then, after a few weeks, he will find a way to fake his own before joining her.
That night, she packed her bags and fled. The red-coloured ribbon that was twisted into her hair, streaming down her back, was the last thing Draco saw before she apparated away.
-x-x-x-
Draco allowed himself to make a mistake. A letter addressed to the Order of the Phoenix was found traced back to him. The Order was unaffected and unharmed, but the traitor was revealed.
That night, he welcomed death, that stream of green in the heavy darkness.
i want to cry/but death comes to me first in the end
-x-x-x-
Fin.