for hogwarts: writing club [liza's loves; showtime - requiem]; insane house comp [fugacious]
606, by google docs
The first loss Draco experienced was his owl, when he was five. His family had bought the owl when it was already old, but it still stung him to see his precious owl, who was the first thing that was his, not move. That was the first time he had an understanding of what death was, for something to be there one moment and be gone the next. He cried, at the time. His father didn't want him to cry. He also found out, at age five, that he shouldn't show his grief. That wasn't how the Malfoys operated.
When Draco was fourteen, Cedric Diggory's death shook Hogwarts. Draco didn't even know Cedric, so why was there a pit in his stomach when he heard the news? As he knew from his father, he wasn't supposed to feel sad about someone else's death. Yet, it scared Draco somehow, knowing that someone that was almost his age, someone that had his whole life ahead of him, was just killed.
Draco couldn't stop the nightmares. He would have them, night after night, always the same: Albus Dumbledore's body shooting backwards off the Astronomy Tower. It scared him, time and time again. He would wake up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, trying to remind himself that his hands were clean of blood, that he didn't do that, that he was innocent. It terrified him that a man as great as Albus Dumbledore could possibly die. It terrified him that he almost killed him.
Draco never took Muggle Studies. His parents would probably would've disowned him. Still, looking up at this teacher he never knew, he couldn't help feel something. He knew what was going to happen, soon: she would die. He didn't want it to happen. He didn't want death to taint his home the same way it tainted his life and his dreams. It did, anyway.
Draco regretted abusing Dobby. It was true, that he abused Dobby. He was never kind, treating him like a piece of filth. He hated Bellatrix for throwing that one knife. He wanted to let them get away, all of them. Nothing that he wanted seemed to be coming true.
Everywhere Draco stepped, death followed. Everywhere he turned there was another dead body. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't tell if it was somebody that he knew, if it was somebody that he loved. He didn't want to know, for fear that it was. It was a battleground.
Karma was a bitch. Draco couldn't save his friend. Draco couldn't save Crabbe. He couldn't do anything but watch him fall, backwards, into the fire. He couldn't help his friend who was slowly burning to death. He couldn't help grieving, out loud. He hated, for the first time, being a Malfoy.
Draco knew that Voldemort was evil, but he still couldn't help but wince as he died. He couldn't help but start to think that no one should die. Why should people die? Why couldn't everyone just live in harmony? Why did this dark thing have to taint Draco's life?
Draco thought he could be happy. Draco thought that maybe, for once in his life, the happiness would overtake the darkness that spread. It didn't, though. The light was fugacious. He couldn't escape it, he could just live happily with his wife and son. He had to watch his wife breath her last death, finally gone from the world. He didn't care about being a Malfoy, he didn't care about being strong in front of others. He cried, on the floor of the hospital, letting every death that ever affected him wash over him.