Vonne: Originally, this was going to be just a short piece about Draco and his life after the War. However, after some thought, I feel like I want to write more about such a story so, that being said, I'm going to start my first chapter fic based off of Draco and post-War life. Warning for an overflow of angst, meant to stand as a character analysis of those after the War. I hope you enjoy it!
Orchard Omniscient
"Those who have crossed with direct eyes to death's other Kingdom Remember us, not as lost Violent souls, but only as the hollow men. The stuffed men."
Lights flash. Curtains rustle. Behind the scenes, everything is chaotic.
In the crowd sits a collection of the light and the dark. The important and incessant. The living and the dead. Onward, they shift their attention to the sheath of red that flows, billowing in the night like the skirts of a woman or the ends of a bed; inviting or intriguing, not a soul can tell. Behind the stages stands a man, tall and slender, with blond hair and gray eyes and the ghost of a sneer tacked tastefully to his lips. It's all in his head, but he sees the rows of those who chose to attend. The Amateur Photographer, The Wolfman, The Secret Cousin, The Best Friend, The Prank-Puller, Father Time, and The Potions Master. All in the presence for his final say. His great big finale. One last time before the see all, end all of his magnificently massive departure.
Ladies and gentlemen, Draco Malfoy.
And the world thus sways with him, welcoming as if knowledgeable. Adoring as if encouraging. Supportive, the very stars sparkle prettily in his presence, and the breaths of the land then fawn for him as if a deity- something falsely divine that, for the greater good, will finally be put to rest. And the simple chirp of the unseen crickets clap in lieu of his entrance; its almost loving with admiration, too, you know, but pompous little thing that he is, absolutely none of it goes unnoticed. Yet it's with a rush of elegance that he strides forward, out into the spotlight of really nothing more than the glisten of the moon and the rush of nightly lungs. And the midnight inhales along with him, through the nostrils of the nose that's nothing more than the trees and the bark- flesh, naturally.
Still, it does nothing to elude from the image of the deep green centerpiece. Green like the eyes of the 'Savior' that he hates, green like the house of the cunning and the villainized- green, of course, like the light before the dark. A pond. A great, big, mossy pond. He knows not of what lies beneath, but embraces the mystery of soon finding out. And he plans to be part of it soon, intermixed with the likes of the lost and the languid. He's ready to leave with the pains and the pings of the pressure that's plagued him and, at this, the Amateur Photographer laughs. He knows not of the side in which he did not see and, because of it, Draco thinks he'll start with him first.
But not yet. Not now. For now, Draco graces the surface of the twinkling water with the tease of his polished feet. Gently, the toe of his nice, leather Oxfords ruffle the complexion and send frilly patterns across the expanse of the crystal-like entity. And the water rises up to his ankles, pooling through the fabric of the dark black trousers that he'd properly pressed just for the occasion. A splendor of surprise erupts with the action. Along the lines of the clearing, Draco Malfoy's guests press their hands together and the pretty ones blow kisses from the shadows, enamored. "Thank you all for coming," he says, and its the bugs on the ground and the ghosts in his eyesight that flourish with the fancy. Still.
"One for the papers, Draco?" the Amateur shouts, and the blond looks up, just in time to dizzily catch the light of the child's camera.
Colin Creevy, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Vincent Crabbe, Fred Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, and Severus Snape. He could have saved them all, he thinks; and candidly, its been driving him crazy, but that's beyond the point. No amount of therapy can fix this leak. No excess of gauze can prevent this wound. They're dead, and gone, and six feet now, so Draco starts with the youngest, the smallest, and the purest. Creevy, Colin- dead at sixteen and daring enough to push himself through it. In the vision that he has of him, a head full of curly golden locks masks the image of two curious orbs, wide with inquisition. He's slumped against a pink haired woman, and his lap cradles the toy by the bunched up fabric of his trousers. But what Draco thinks of when he thinks of the Amateur now is a pair of blood-tainted shoes and, when a knot forms at the center of his unforgiving throat, he looks away in the meantime.
They were too tight. He remembers. Cutting off the circulation in his limbs, Draco was running through the Hogwarts corridors, when he felt his feet strangled by the immensity of them. And it was hot, for all around sparked the fire that latched up to the very soles; and everything was ash and everything was dust. May 2, 1998; the End of the End. Even now when he remembers, his fingers shake beneath the slip of the water around him; Colin Creevy's smiling corpse had beamed at him from across the hallways.
Longbottom had been the one to find him, not soon before, of course, the insufferable Potter. "I told you you were just jealous," muses the Amateur from his spot against the tree, and for once Draco bites his tongue. He's sitting on the couch on a Friday night when the doorbell rings and, at his porch, stands a stubby solicitor with a smile on his face and a special deal on Potter bobble heads. The following Saturday finds him browsing the streets of Hogsmeade in disguise when he spots what he first takes to be a mere reflection in the glass before it moves and reveals itself to be nothing more than a rather impressive cut-out of Potter's frame. And thus plays out the worst weekend of the ex-Slytherin's entire existence. Igniting, bloody mugs with the likes of Saint Potter's face on the front are displayed on every street corner. Potter pencils, Potter posters, Potter pocket books. It reaches a climax so high that he can't even gawk at himself in the front of his own bathroom mirror without getting sick of the unsightly impression. "The Boy Who'd Lived and Lived and Lived and Lived..."
Then the Wolfman answers his call.
He advises seriously, "It's not wise to dwell too much on the past, you know," and everything falls silent.
Remus Lupin is caught in the moonlight, his pale face lit up generously by death. He's just as rugged as he'd always been, but Draco smells milk chocolate and a breeze of cologne that's five years out of style, but far too closely obsessed over. There's something about the demeanor of the ghost that makes him look fatherly and Draco knows he'd had a child. Teddy Lupin, he hears, is a spectacular little boy now with a head full of blue hair. It does nothing, however, the soothe the strangeness of Draco's certainty- the man would never get to know him. As awful as a professor Draco has always thought Lupin to be, he can barely look at him with the thought. There'd been a War, you see- so big that it'd destroyed houses, and burned down buildings, and demolished cities. Among many, this man had just been one, but it does nothing to prevent the foundations as they shake around Draco Malfoy's floor plan.
Lupin's eyes flick over to the twinkling bottles perched up against the pile of Draco's discarded clothes. He's nothing more than a figment of the boy's distortion, but he waits a long moment before clucking his tongue in disapproval. "Now that doesn't look like chocolate, Mr. Malfoy."
"Very well spotted, Professor," responds Draco, irises wet with the woes of the Fire Whiskey. His fingers fiddle in the depths of his pockets. He's trying to make amends here and the lot of them have only strove to make it difficult. Perhaps, he thinks, he deserves it, but most of all he'd like to get it over with.
Anyway, it's been twelve tantalizing months. Since the insanity, Ministry officials have rebuilt Hogwarts and lessons have started up anew. As it goes, Draco purchases his own flat, decorates the interior and, when its all said and done, steps back to take in the result of what's been eighteen uneasy years in the making. He fills a rather bothersome void in his chest with the contents of liquor and dozes off to the nightmares that persist in his sleep. But in the end, Draco guesses that there really must not be any rest for the wicked and, with the notion, allows the pond water to inch up to his waist.
He's sorry he ever poked fun at Professor Lupin for his poverty. All the money that the Malfoy's had in France is gone, along with the homes, and the valuables, and the "assets". He's got not a penny to his name now and, despite the left-over belongings, Draco feels like nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. Kind of like Lupin. "Quite a lot like Lupin," corrects the man.
"Right," mutters Draco. "Quite a lot like Lupin." Still.
He's a deer in the headlights, but there is no highway, there is no driver, and there is no road. Rather, wind blows, ghosts talk- and he's in a tux, and he feels like a bloody idiot.
Draco Malfoy is long past thanking his guests for their arrival. Nevertheless, they sit and they stare and he's half-soaking wet with his blond hair messy on the crown of his skull and his head rather hazy in the process. But what that permits is the temporary torture of silence that he can't quite stand in the first place. Lupin frowns back at the choice of his drink and Draco, all the while, permits him. "Don't tell me you wouldn't either," he mutters, and The Secret Cousin scoffs from the side lines.
"You know," she says, tantalizingly, "he never did. Brilliant, that man." And the Wolfman grins in way of his thanks.
Anyway. The woman is absolutely noting like Draco, but similar, he notes, in the respect of their noses. Pointed, the structured end sits proudly at the end of her face, though she holds it not to the sky, but instead down at the ground daringly; her eyes, on the other hand, watch the boy carefully. And he thinks, in the spot light of her attention, that she and he just might have had a connection, had they known one another in the long run. It's quite the stretch of a possibility, but the cousin, secret as she is, lets her pupils dilate before letting them twist into a stone shade of gray. "I can make my hair blonde, too, if you'd like." Somewhere in the water up to his chest, Draco opens his mouth to tell her that it's quite alright, but looks up to find that she's already done the deed herself. "How's that for relations?" asks Nymphadora Tonks, giving Draco a small wink from the spot of her gray flecked demeanor.
With her locks all shiny at her shoulders, Mrs. Tonks looks rather like his mother. Granted, she lacks the sense of poise and properness that Narcissa Malfoy had possessed in her lifetime, but her wonky sense of pride almost flares to redeem her. And even the gentle twist of her lips makes Draco stand still; there's a ping of odd mischief behind every pinch of her posture and, even with the likes of Colin Creevy spent against her shoulder, she possesses a young spark about her as if she may never grow old. He wonders how family reunions with her may have gone and considers, with mournful imagination, that they might have even been enjoyable. Thus, "More than enjoyable, 'Cuz," corrects Tonks through the stretch of his internal monologue. "I'm a blooy Metamorphagus; we'd have had ourselves a riot." And she nods to confirm this, ignoring the way that Draco's own stature tenses.
"Is that so?" he manages to ask, "I take it you also did children's parties?"
In the midsts of the silent scene, Nymphadora gives her cousin a curt little glare. For a swift second, Draco stares back at her and she stares back at him; and the cycle, never ending as it may have been, is broken with the jolt of the woman's bobbing chest. "Aw, what do you know, Remus," says The Secret family member boastfully, "my cousin's got fantastic wit!"
And Draco's grimace lifts for a moment in the meantime.
What he doesn't apprehend, however, is the eager way that he ducks his chest into the pond water. It's freezing cold beneath the surface, and he does his best not to shiver. Nevertheless, the rattling rhythm of his teeth stand to expose his discomfort and, fearful of the possibility, he clamps his mouth shut and ignores the bluish twinge of color that his lips take on as a result. He wonders, as a side note, how long he can do this; for the eyes of the remaining ghosts watch him expectantly and he knows that his performance is far from being over. Yet, The Best Friend nods at him once from the shadows and Draco, shivering Draco, swallows hard to mask the madness.
Then he braces himself for the plunge.
o O o O o O o O o O o O o
"How did I ever end up like this?"
It's a question he asks the lot of them, but neither of the group makes a move to answer. Rather, they stare from their places, still waiting.
A long time ago, Draco Malfoy had it all. Had he been told that, years later, he'd be contemplating his suicide in the middle of a goddamn puddle, he'd have died of laughter there on the spot. Why onearthwould a Malfoy resort to killing themselves? Such an idea was ridiculous because Malfoys were rich, beautiful, and powerful. They'd owned acres of land and possessed a multitude of galleons in the bank. However, what Draco Malfoy had not considered, of course, was the possibility of his forthcoming downfall. Mummy and Daddy had gone and what that left was Draco and what Draco had was nothing. Huh. "God, what a sick joke."
He's about to dunk his head completely beneath the water, but The Best Friend shifts from the shadows and Draco glances up, just in time, to catch his mouth moving. "I suppose," Vincent Crabbe says to the sopping wet madman, "such an event was bound to happen. You were always a bit of a wanker."
"Right," Draco says to the Nothingness, but the outline says nothing and Draco, weary, takes the silence as a hint. In death, the big boned figure looks as if he has been carved from a furnace. His robes are singed and small sparks of dying flames light up at the ends of the tattered fabric. It takes persistence for Draco to look at him, too; for the majority of the boy's fat face is scared pink from the burns in an impossible and peculiar manner. Though Vincent Crabbe was never too much of a sight before the mishap of his curse, even in the darkness the boy resembles something of a disfigured monster.
And Draco can't help but feel completely responsible. They'd been running through the Room of Requirements and he'd been yelling so loud that his throat hurt. In the heat, Draco had looked all over for Crabbe in the wreckage, but had only spotted Goyle. Gregory Goyle, the survivor. And he hadn't even managed to keep a good hand on to him, either, because soon he'd been lifted into the air away from him entirely- and then, only then, did Draco's whole world flick to black.
After all was said and done, Crabbe's body was one of the many that had not been found. In the papers, reports flew in suggesting that perhaps his remains would rest forever within the stone of the school. "Ashes to ashes," Draco now thinks, "dust to dust," and all that nonsense.
"Maybe they swept me out?" suggests Crabbe seriously and a sob wracks Draco's shoulders.
Reactively, he murmurs, "That's not funny," and Crabbe lifts his lips up in a smile.
"You never really thought I was."
It's true; he hadn't. And the notion makes Draco loathe himself for the snub. Still, around him the world carries on. The wind blows by the mess of his blond hair, moving him in ways that it does not to his guests. And when a soft cricket sounds out in the emptiness, Draco mulls mechanically on his bottom lip. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you," he tells his very best friend, and his eyes sting with the memory.
However, only a slight second passes. Draco's looking down at his distorted reflection when Crabbe shrugs in the close distance. "It's fine," he decides, "I doubt you'd have been able to carry me too far anyway." And despite any previous conclusions Draco had drawn about Crabbe's sense of humor, the blond shuts his eyes and chokes out a solemn little chuckle. "Pity laugh?" tests the blackened bystander. Though Draco says nothing, he gives his head a swift shake and draws his hands across the lids of his eyes, cleaning them. "Well," Crabbe smirks, "what do you know?" and then falls back behind the bushes.
Still. Draco's shoulders shiver above the pond water, but he stares unsteadily into the likes of his own image, so mournful and unfazed below him. And what that permits, however, is the temporary tranquility that he only half-senses in the midsts of his final farewell. Somewhere in the brush behind the clearing, a quiet chirping cries out and Draco, preoccupied, hears nothing. Nevertheless, he's taken with the result of his chaotic youth and, regretful, wishes once that he'd saved himself sooner.
And yet, he says nothing to excuse it. Rather, shaking, Draco raises his eyes in meeting with the bright redheaded teenager- freckle-faced and slouched, as if he very well owns the place. The Prank-Puller is almost nothing like the other apparitions surrounding him now, however. Instead, he garners a certain spark about him in his absolute youth- quite different in the ways of The Secret Cousin, but similar in the existence of the daunting notion of something impending. He doesn't inch forward, but instead lifts his brow, attractive and goofy with the physical attributes of his quite unmistakable poverty. And yet, like a badge, he wears the likes of a hand knitted red sweater. Even in the lack of light, a bright, gold, "F" stands out at his chest.
"George and I thought about spelling your hair red once," he proclaims, and Draco's smile flickers.
"I'd have had you bloody castrated."
Nonetheless, the comment does not seem to jolt Fred Weasley at all and, amused, he rocks vibrantly at his spot against the dewy emerald grass. "Just about permanent hair dye, too," he continues, and his face is so red that he looks as if he's about to burst with laughter. "George cooked up this vile that would have had the color lasting for at least a year."
With the whoosh of the wind outside, Fred Weasley's laughter reaches what Draco Malfoy believes to be impossible heights. Yet, caught up within it, he looks not a thing like an illusion and, instead, appears rather lively with jubilance. Every back and forth sway that his body swerves off to does wonders for him and, fingers clutching his feet, he sniffs back a collection of more muddled chuckles to add excitedly, "We were working on temporary freckles, too."
Shoulders half-way submerged within the water, Draco stares back at the gracefully blond image of his own complexion. It's as if he's watching the vision of himself stuck beyond the pond and he wonders what it will feel like to strain his lungs and hold his breath until he just can't do it anymore. It might hurt, he decides, but then dismisses the notion with a blunt, determined swallow. "I wonder what a never ending eternity with you is going to be like," he collectively snaps, and The Prank-Puller's smile broadens.
"You're alright, Malfoy," Fred announces affirmatively. And all goes quiet.
But Draco hates the quiet and the lack of noise does much to disturb him. Though he does an exceptional amount of nothing about it, he presses his eyes shut to ignore the haunting way that the blackness edges in on him and, to busy himself, repeats a mantra of nonsense under his breath. He thinks, perhaps, that its the alcohol that's driving him crazy, but succumbs to the pressure of the starlight and attempts to consider everything but the nightmares that it brings him. However, the moon-shaped specs of Father Time rip him back to reality and he thinks of space and constellations andastronomy.
Astronomy, of course, like the towers at Hogwarts. Big, thick, tall ones. High in the expanding sky ones, with windows to the Witching Hour and staircases to the Heavens. The type of towers that hedreams about, tangled beneath the sheets like a child. And that's enough to lead him to taking countless vials of Dreamless Sleep every night too, you know. But Draco doesn't quite want to get into that. Anyway.
The old man's been sitting there contently for what seems like years. He's moved not a muscle, but Draco notes the happy way that his smile remains faint and persistent. There, along the wrinkled complexion of his features, two twinkling blue eyes catch him for a split second before Draco tears his own away, horrified.
He should have taken Albus Dumbledore up on his offer of protection when he'd had the chance.
And that's what gets him the very most of all, for the moment that the notion slips into his head, the flood gates open and Draco feels the pressure at the swollen end of his throat. In front of his ex-Headmaster, he tries to conceal the glistening way that his eyes lose the battle, but, as assumed, this one's too clever. "There's no shame in having a conscience, Draco," whispers Dumbledore, and Draco's face is so wet with tears and snot that he almost laughs with humiliation.
"That's easy for you to say," he hisses, and Father Time doesn't even flinch.
"It's what makes us human," he answers back softly, still staring stonily, as if all powerful and divinely knowing.
But Draco blinks out the salty tears that coat his face and hurt his pride. Rather, he figures he's got absolutely none of the latter left anyway and, defeatedly, pushes the stray from his eyes with a sigh. Really, despite everything, he wishes that he'd listened. Nonetheless, it's the same thing that he wishes every night, curled up into a fetal position on the mattress- all that's left of the Manor to begin with. He'd have been so much better off then, too; and perhaps it'd even solidify the likes of his gracious guests. Just like perhaps his parents would have always avoided social rejection. Like perhaps he'd be standing in his own house with a beautiful wife instead of preparing himself to drown within the depths of a moss covered water space. Perhaps.
He'll soon be one with the fishes. And whatever else is rotting down there, of course. So he asks, "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
And there's no moment of contemplation behind the way the Father's lips move. Instead, every action flows freely and, when he speaks, a certain air of wisdom floats fantastically around him. "I don't claim to know the future, Draco," he emits.
"But you don't deny it, either."
And Father Time smiles in the spotlight.
o O o O o O o O o O o O o
When the water reaches his neck, Draco Malfoy finally lets his gaze fall to the Potions Master, silent and looming beneath the brush like a banshee. Overpowering. He's tall and tantalizing, and something deep, dark, and crimson oozes out from two deep holes on his pale neck; so Draco has no other choice but to look away.
He can't do it, either. Even in his afterlife, Severus Snape seems every bit too daunting. And it's Draco now, who feels so small.
A pair of delicate, wiry hands clutch the edge of a twinkling band of pond water. They shake, but not with the woes of the weather. Nevertheless, the night carries on and the ghosts wait patiently while, all the while, Draco Malfoy hesitates. Closeted. It does nothing to dismiss the likes of his own lonely figure, tainted and tormented beyond the years of what he assumes has got to be somewhere around eighteen. Going on eight hundred. Soon to be six feet deep within the maggoty confines of the earth, neighbor to all the worms and the corpses in the ground- some of which he'd put there himself. And there's no amount of light, but in the creak of his head, an orb flashes dimly to mock him. The Potions Master stands. His robes float out around him. He's no longer behind the scenes, but everything still is chaotic.
"I should have listened to you," Draco chokes out and, reactively, the professor lifts his brow. "God, I was so stupid."
"Stupid, no. Foolish, ignorant, and proud, however..."
There's a slight moment that the crickets chirp about them for emphasis. Severus is not alone, but his figure is perhaps the most demanding and possessive in the nighttime. And against the tree bark, Dumbledore allows The Potions Master his piece, eyes closed and humbled beyond the thick glass of his all-seeing gaze. He warns him not about the figure behind the bushes, breath held and eyes wide. Rather, Severus Snape's mere shadow casts the shade in darkness and Draco, too consumed with the likes of the man he'd absolutely idolized, stares on. When he brings his left hand from the water to slide away the newest onset of tears, the flash of a large, ugly mark slices simply through the evening.
He admits tearfully, "I was so scared."
And it's the first time he ever breaks contact. Every damn cell of his terribly trembling being collides into one pile of messiness and he sobs, freely now, despite the guests and the looks that he gets from them. Yet, the act is unwilling- unstoppable, even, for it rises up to the air of his throat and forces its way past his lips like bile. Irrefutable. But the Potion's Master lowers his chin. In an act riddled with composure, he gives Draco Malfoy a curt nod and murmurs, "With good reason," though the whisper is far from an excuse. Rather, strong words float to Malfoy's eardrums like a train wreck. He doesn't exactly look at Severus Snape, but he doesn't quite look away from him either.
"I wasn't expecting you to leave me alone," Malfoy breaths to the reflection of the pond water. He keeps his head down and watches with slow trepidation his tie as it floats on green moss.
Truth of the matter is, however, Draco Malfoy hadn't been expecting anyone to leave him alone. Rather, when the war ends, he tip-toes back to his large, luxurious home and follows instruction from his father on how to act for the rest of his post-battle existence. Nonetheless, everything goes to shite when Draco receives his first bloody nose. It's his eighteenth birthday and he's nabbed down the alleyway by a couple of war veterans that smell of whiskey and reek of bitter aggression. They take his wand and they snap it in two. Then they leave him there to rot and when he comes around in the morning, he promises himself to never leave the boundaries of the Manor again.
Anyway, Draco's in too far over his head to spare himself this pity-party. It's when he looks back up at Snape, of course, that he just can't hold it in and, as the tremors reach his already quivering fingertips, he lets out a choking sound that's painful and angry all at the same time. "I think I might hate you," he tells him empty-heartedly and, at the very instant, he slams his hand over his mouth as if he can barely believe he's uttered it.
"And what good what hating me do you, Draco?" inquires the professor, robes still billowing out behind him in the darkness.
"It makes going under a whole lot easier," answers the boy and, for one last time, gives the scope of his audience one last look over.
It's the exit, however, that still remains the hardest part. He can't even bow, his body is so tense.
From the sidelines the Amateur Photogrpaher snaps his last portraits, head against the broad, steady shoulders of his very Secret Cousin. Then The Wolfman frowns, for his eyes remain fixated on the empty liquor bottles, silent disapproval dripping from his every unmasked expression. But the wind goes by and the time only fades, for Draco stands sopping wet without the slightest hint at where to actually begin his end. Though it's The Best Friend that stirs, head sideways as if considering the act as The Prank-Puller seems to lean in slightly in what comes off as a frighteningly morbid interest. And Father Time is blank-faced and The Potions Master is, too. Nonetheless, before the looming shadow in the bushes makes his move, before the cockroaches in the darkness can come forth to devour his bobbing corpse, Draco Malfoy- he actually does it.
In the end, he finally goes under.
Vonne: Please review! Thank you!