One More Suicide
The Slytherin common room was empty. All the round little green lamps, which hung from the stone walls and cast off a peculiar glow, had been put out, leaving the room dark save for the firelight. No one was sitting in any of the carved chairs. Everyone was sleeping.
Except Draco.
He was seated on the hearth of the ornate fireplace, staring past the golden flickers, to the back of the chimneypiece. He played with the glass of Butterbeer he'd finished half-an-hour ago, fingers gliding round the glass. And he stared through the firelight. There were snakes carved into the bricks.
He ran a hand lazily through his platinum blonde hair. It was wild, sprung up in slight curls. His face twisted into a scowl to feel it greasy at his fingertips. He normally took such pride in his hair: combed and sleek and neat. His father was more conceited that he was, though. He wore his hair long just so it could catch the light. Not that it would do him much good in Azkaban. Still, it didn't matter, Lucius would be out soon.
But the name of Malfoy…there was no dignity to it anymore. Nothing to be proud of. His mother had laughed at him when he brought up the matter. She said that the Malfoy name had even more dignity now his Father's allegiance to the Dark Lord was clear. Draco had stayed away from her for the rest of the summer; he was beginning to doubt her sanity.
The foul looks that people wore when they saw him were getting to be unbearable. It was a look that someone wore after they had eaten something nasty. All his Professors hated to look at him; even Snape. No matter how well the Potions Master hid it, he could see the contempt in those beady, black eyes. How had Snape dissapated from the Ministry that night? Draco didn't know, but he was sure that when his father got out of prison and found out that some people got away, he'd be spitting fire. Hopefully Draco wouldn't be around to see it. And bear the brunt of it.
He ran a hand down the side of his pale, pointed face whilst moving his other hand from the cold stone of the hearth to feel for his schoolbag. He pulled it towards him and slipped his hand inside. He could only feel schools books and quills. Annoyed, he pulled it up on to his lap and peered inside. He couldn't see much, but he could make out the bottle, gleaming under the opulent glow from the fire he was so close to. Draco smiled slightly.
His popularity may now have been severely diminished, but he could still get people to swipe things for him. No one had asked any questions when he asked for the strongest painkillers possible from the hospital wing. These particular pills came from Pomfrey's private stores. They were made with extract of belladonna, and so were extremely potent. He didn't want to know how his contact had got hold of them; it had been risky, but Malfoy had paid for the privilege.
He fiddled with the cap. It didn't want to open. The bottle was shaking violently in his grasp…or was that his hands shaking? Draco grabbed his wand from the pockets of his robes and pointed it at the bottle, wondering briefly if Alohamora would work. Draco smirked, racked his brains for the correct charm, then used it. The lid flew off the bottle, clicking against a table leg on the other side of the room.
He looked inside. The bottle was shaking again. There were a lot of tiny, white pills inside. Hundreds maybe. It was a big bottle. He poured some out into his hand. The pills seemed to tremble as they sat in his palm. He grabbed the hand with his other one, and the pills stopped shivering. Draco sighed. He was not nervous. He wasn't that pathetic.
He observed the pills, and the way the glittered underneath the firelight. He poured more into his palm, and they covered his hand like a drift of fresh snow. Draco paused to smile at that simile. A few of the pills kept slipping from his hand, so he had to pick them up with his other and placed them back on top, precariously balanced.
Not wanting to take his eyes off his snow-capped mountain, he felt for his wand, grasping it, and then allowing a jet of water to fill the glass he'd been playing with earlier. Then, with the very tips of his fingers, he took a single bauble…a single pill from the top of the pile and pushed it against his lips. He looked upward, just to check that no angel was hovering above him, trying to save him. He only saw the ceiling. So he took the pill into his mouth.
It tasted sweet, and he rolled it around his mouth with the end of his tongue. It felt good. With a gulp of water it disappeared down his throat. He felt a slight sizzling in his gullet, and a vague sense numbness came over him. Oh, the painkillers were good. Gooood.
Now he'd started he couldn't stop, and he forced the pills in his mouth. Three at once, seven at once, a handful. He gorged himself on them in the way he never let himself do with food. He ate greedily until the bottle was empty.
He must've consumed hundreds of the white pills.
White sequins.
The sizzling feeling within him was slowly multiplying, swirling faster and faster inside him, scorching his insides. Draco felt like there were water rapids inside his stomach. He felt dizzy. He felt faint. He felt clammy. Was the fire getting hotter?
He brought a hand up to his face. It was pleasantly cold from the stone floor it had been resting on. He ran it over his eyelids. The chill was soothing. Suddenly, he began to shudder into a coughing fit. He brought his hands up to his mouth. It stopped as soon as it had started. When he moved his hands away there was blood on them. Draco blinked: already? He sighed. It was the same colour as Pansy's lipstick. He shook his head at the flash of memory, and wiped the lipstick-blood off on his robes. And he smiled as his chest began to constrict.
Oh yes, his father would never see this coming…
When he got out of prison to find that his only son was no longer able to be his heir…
That he was free of tradition…
Free of constraints…
And how he wished he could see the looks on their faces tomorrow when their leader, the eminent Malfoy, lay fallen…
They'd be surprised…
Oh, how they would be surpri…
Pansy had been the first up that morning. She'd fiddled with her long hair as she skipped along the corridor that lead to the girls dorms. Then she faltered. What was that by the fireplace? She moved closer. One step. Two steps.
Then she screamed.
Breakfast the next morning was a sombre affair. The Slytherin table looked shaken to its very core, and all the other tables seemed incapable of speech. Even the Gryffindors. No one had suspected it.
The teachers looked worried. Pale and worried. As each day went by there were more and more casualties of the war. But no one had suspected it.
There was an irreverent cry of owls as the flapped in with the morning post. Heads shot up, some to glare at their disrespect, others to see if they had any post.
A barn owl dropped The Daily Prophet in front of Hermione. She picked it up and unrolled it as she paid the owl. She read the front cover. Her lips tightened and she sighed.
The morning newspaper said: One More Suicide.
The End.