There is such a thing as an actor---he holds himself like he would want other people to see him...potrayed. Most people get him and most people don't. But potrayl is something utmost savoring, and he savors it like it's own, clinging embrace of many roles. He has a role. And the world is his stage, and there are other players but none as good as him, none that would step forward into the tidiest of ties and the complications of weariness to get where it he is today---at the forward of something else. Steps are not his own but the character he plays. Lips are not the things he says but the character he has invented---no matter who has given the character's name, it is the character that builds itself up who is truly the actor. It takes truly that role to mold him into a person he wouldn't be otherwise but he is everyday. But this role has been broken down, more rationilizied and specific than before. Do this. Do that. Don't take away this. Give that. There is only so much that even an actor can take, even as such a role as him. He does not want to give anymore. He does not want to take anymore. So he sits and does nothing at all, as no character but the nothing he really is. He likes it. He likes the quiet, the silence of his usual remarks. He likes his blinks, his breath. And he likes that there's absolutely nothing in him that is visible to the eyes. Only his structure moves. Only his eyes and his lips. He says something. He needs to. A character like him is nowhere but inside, and he is not just a name anymore. He has built up many roles and characters, but he has never, ever built himself. And he begins to. Hello. One word, aloud. "Hello." Nobody answers. "I am." Name, please. But really, does he need to use it? "I am a person," he says aloud. It is stupid to say that aloud when there is nobody to hear him.

"Well, that's nice to know," says someone behind him. "But, really, Malfoy, why are you talking to yourself?"

Or perhaps there is, after all.