Author's Note: Hi readers! This is quite a dark piece, it involves descriptions of self-harm and things like that and is definitely not suitable for people younger than 15.
Disclaimer: I don't own J.K. Rowling's work (in this case, the Harry Potterverse), and I don't own this poem either. It belongs to Stephen Chbosky from his book The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
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"That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
And a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen."
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Even when Blaise announced that he and Luna were a couple, standing hand in hand next to each other on the platform, even when they kissed and she looked down at the ground blushing and Blaise tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, he made not a sound, merely inclining his head ever so slightly. There was no change at all in his impassive and blank expression as he turned his gaze away.
A quiet and subdued Draco Malfoy stepped onto the Hogwarts Express, finding a compartment all to himself and sitting in it. He pulled his cloak around him like a shield, bowing his head and not looking at anyone.
He was an Outcast, a Nobody. He was an ex-Death Eater, though many people still considered him to be one. No-one joined him, and he didn't want them to, either. He liked the quiet, liked the peaceful silence that being alone gave him.
It allowed him more time to grieve over his dead parents.
They hadn't done anything wrong, except, of course, joining the Death Eaters on Lucius' part. But they'd never killed, never tortured or done any of the despicable things the other Death Eaters had done. They'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Aurors had come, and they had been in his house, no better off than house elves under Voldemort's rule. And the Aurors, 'knowing' that Lucius was involved in Death Eater activity and him being 'at the scene of the crimes', was killed instantly. His mother was tortured for days for information about the Death Eaters before she finally went insane and killed herself one day in her cell with a rusty knife. Later, he was told it took her days to die, and the Aurors watched her, and the Aurors had done nothing to save her.
Her bloodless body was dumped on Draco's doorstep unceremoniously, and Narcissa Malfoy's shell arrived in a dusty and cracked wooden box, the knots in the wood falling out and creaking ominously as he moved it gently inside the Manor. He had looked around for the deliverer, but there was no-one, not even a note, not even a lie telling him how sorry about his mother's death they were. He had opened the box, tentatively at first. And he called it a box because it wasn't even close to a coffin. It was nothing like what his mother deserved.
It was just a box.
It was unworthy of his mother.
And then he saw her.
The books had lied. Dead people weren't peaceful and happy in death. At least, Narcissa wasn't. Her face was pale and sad, and her cheeks were gaunt and there were obvious signs of distress lingering like a bad smell over her body. She didn't look like Narcissa Malfoy; she had been elegant, beautiful. This body looked only like a ghost of her former self; pale and empty and hollow.
None of her warm smiles would greet him ever again. Her gentle arms could never hold him again. And she would never talk to him and calm him down again.
He had cried for days. They were anything but feeble tears, though. He had nearly wrecked the whole Manor in his fury, heart-break and anguish. It was so intense he could feel it burning him like acid from the inside out.
"THAT WAS MY MOTHER!" He had screamed many a time to nobody in particular, which ended in hate-fuelled tears and more destruction.
And he sat in a room of ruin, a house that taunted him, that haunted him with happy memories that he didn't want anymore.
And the silence hung in the air, so different and contrasting to the tinkling crash of glass shattering and the splintering of furniture.
And that was the day that Draco Malfoy picked up a razor.
He was no better or worse off on any side, Light or Dark. Dark killed people outright, Light just included extra torture and used feelings to twist the knife in the wound, to let them suffer before they died.
So he stayed an outcast, watching the rolling green hills out of his window, thinking about how he'd never get packages of sweets from his mother, or notes from his father telling him things about the Ministry; he would miss those the most. The little things, those were the ones that made him the most nostalgic, that made his chest pulse painfully and his soul ache for something more. Those were the things that had turned him to cutting. But the scars on his wrists reminded him of them every day, and that made it worse, a vicious cycle.
So Draco Malfoy sat alone in his compartment, the Head Boy badge on his chest gleaming dully, like his eyes. He felt dead inside, and he seemed to have run out of emotions to express anything with after he had wrecked the Manor. Then he had tidied it up, and buried his mother, digging the grave with his own sweat and tears, and then he pretended that everything was fine, and that everything was okay. And nobody noticed a difference, nobody noticed the change because nobody was there to notice how much of a recluse he had become, how empty his eyes were.
Hermione watched him silently from outside, her eyebrows creasing in the middle. He was so still, so quiet. He could've been a wax figure. She opened the door, and he didn't turn, didn't move at all.
"Um, er..." She wasn't sure what she should call him anymore, whether he should be Malfoy or Draco. She decided on Draco. "Draco, we have to go see McGonagall in the head compartment." Silence. "Can you please come with me? Now?"
He turned to face her, and his eyes were so dead that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. As soon as he made eye contact with her he looked away. "Yes, of course." He murmured, his tone polite but flat. They were the first words he had spoken since the day he had destroyed his house. That meant they were the first words he had spoken out loud for three solid months. His throat felt scratchy and dry. Draco stood in one fluid, elegant movement.
Everything is fine.
Everything is okay.
Everything is normal.
I am fine, I am okay... I am not normal.
And he walked out of the compartment before Hermione, who frowned slightly in concern, leaving a strange scent hanging in the air, like musk and spice and ice and mint. And somehow, she could detect the faintest whiff of death, though maybe it was just her imagination running away with her, seeing as she had read the Prophet. She knew exactly how Lucius Malfoy had been killed, and she had read about the torturing of Narcissa Malfoy, which had been met with cheers and smiles, and how she had killed herself, slashing her wrists. And there were pictures of her lifeless face and the lake of her blood around her body. It was disgusting. It was gross and vulgar how the Light lauded their so-called 'victory' around like a banner, their offensive and graphic photos of dead and tortured ex-Death Eaters littering the papers like miniature conquests each time a new Death Eater was found and tortured.
They sat next to each other while McGonagall talked to them, and Draco listened politely, quietly absorbing all the information. Hermione watched him, observing the large gap between them on the seat.
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When McGonagall had finished, Draco stood without a word, inclined his head slightly at the Professor, and left, cloak swishing slightly in his wake.
McGonagall turned to Hermione. "You have read all the articles in the papers lately, haven't you, Miss Granger?"
She nodded. "Yes I have. What happened to Draco is... it's..."
"Mr. Malfoy's fate truly is the worst that anyone could wish on someone." She stared at Hermione with beady eyes. "Professor Snape went in to the Manor one day to see Draco, and it... well. You can see, he doesn't talk anymore. I don't think he eats either, you saw how skinny he was. It is heart-breaking to see one of my students in such a distressed state. So I made him Head Boy this year so you can keep an eye on him, so you can watch him and maybe help the sadness I see in his eyes."
Hermione took a deep breath and nodded. "I will."
"Thank you, Miss Granger. I hope we can fix this broken young man. He has such potential, and if he... well. He shouldn't waste it."
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She walked back to his compartment, and watched him as she had watched him before. He was in the same seat as before, this time staring at his hands. He looked so lost and alone.
Hermione opened the door and sat opposite him. She thought she saw the ghost of a very small smile on his lips, but it was gone before she could take a second glance.
"Draco," She started quietly, watching him. "do you want to talk about it?"
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