Chapter Four; The Perishable and the Imperishable

I like this one :)

The days at Hogwarts passed slowly and coldly. The cheerful gust that had seemed to blow through the school in the month before was an untrue echo of years past. Things were all too very quiet. Since Dumbledore had died, Gryffindors and other residents of the school who'd aligned with the Headmaster had become restless. The red and gold cloaked students often whispered about their hopes and their hero, Harry Potter. Somehow, they all knew deep down in their silly little lion-hearts that he was alive - vanquishing Death Eaters and performing other miraculous deeds. Draco's cynical soul wouldn't believe it himself, but he so envied their optimism.

He remembered his father's words about coping and his own utter lack of it. Perhaps wishing and dreaming about Harry Potter was how the Gryffindors coped, and perhaps he should take a hint from all of them. And so Draco spent long hours eavesdropping on his rival classmates - in the library, in the bathrooms, in class. He was captivated by their stories. His daydreams provided a welcome escape from reality. Draco wondered why the Gryffindors never stopped speaking ever so eloquently about the Chosen One's hypothesised whereabouts with himself so close in the vincinity. He supposed they had forgotten about him and moved on to the Dark Lord, yet it surprised him that there had been no conflict. Draco was a known and confirmed Death Eater. As was the entire Malfoy family. It was common knowledge among the Wizarding World. Yet he attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry along with aspiring Aurors and professors. Not even the Ministry had contacted him.

A chill seemed to pass through the castle. Fires did not seem cosy, neither did cookies and cakes and muffins seem sweet. Draco wore layers and layers of heavy clothing, yet he seemed always shivering. Others commented on his increasing thin body, although he had always been slender. Yet Draco could not fit eating into his busy schedule, he was far too preoccupied following Gryffindors about.

The only refuges from his dull, chilly existense he found in daydreams and Quidditch. In both he found uncondictional freedom and both he cherished. His team consisted of individuals he hand-picked, and unlike other captains who had chosen based on friendships or test answers, Draco chose for pure talent. This results in the most wonderful Quidditch team Draco had felt Slytherin had in ages. He had a special place in his green Slytherin heart for his Keeper, a Sixth Year named Spencer McConnell. Spencer was a very statuesque boy like Draco, yet he was funny and outgoing and a pleasure to be around, and kept Draco's mind off the tragic and threatening things that plagued it.

Draco had awoken early one morning in the dormitory and saw that Blaise was still sleeping. It was altogether uncommon for this to happen as Draco went to bed around nine and woke sometime after eleven, causing him to skip breakfast and the majority of his study hour. Sleep was addictive, he found, and he could not soak up enough of it. But because he had got up so early he had hours of time to seek out Gryffindors before Double Charms with the Hufflepuffs at ten, and so he went searching. He looked throughout the entire library, even venturing into the dusty Restricted Section, three of the boys bathrooms, (including the Prefects') Potions classroom, the Great Hall, and after a long and cold trek, the Owlery. He returned to his dormitory frozen, his long fingers white with chill, and found that Blaise was still in bed. He checked his watch. It was only eight-thirty. Why wasn't he up? Draco leaned over Blaise's bed and looked at his friend cautiously. He pressed his two pale hands on the mattress and pushed - one, two, three times and Blaise finally awoke, his greenish eyes staring up at the blonde boy.

"My God, Draco," he exhaled, his piercing eyes scrutinising his fellow Slytherin. "What's happened to you? You're like a corpse."

He swung up out of bed and Draco rushed to the silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall between their two beds. He examined himself to the smallest detail; his eyes were a light gray surrounded by a fringe of white eyelashes, his hair was a white blonde, his face was pale as snow. Draco's bony hands examined himself. His cheekbones protruded slightly, yet that was the only defect he could see.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in days, Draco," Blaise said, opening the trunk at the end of his bed and pulling out clothes for the day. A black sweater. A white shirt to go under. Black trousers. A Slytherin tie and scarf. "Why're you up so early? We all leave you sleeping every morning. You're never in the Great Hall either, for dinners or lunches or anything, I'll say thats why you're so thin." Blaise shook his head. "Oh, and Draco, just look at your clothes! You're swimming in them."

Draco examined his countless layers of clothing and held them up. Over two undershirts and a long sleeved shirt he wore a gray cable-knit that hung off his skeletal body like a rag. He grimaced. The sweater had fit him perfectly his Fifth Year, before all this Death Eater business started.

"And look, you haven't touched the post the eagle-owls bring you. There's a whole stack by your night stand, Draco, haven't you seen? I expect Narcissa's worried sick." Blaise checked under the bed for a pair of socks, found one gray and one black and pulled them on his feet. He watched the Malfoy grasp the collection of letters, each addressed to him in a different handwriting. He flipped through them, apparently mystified he'd not seen them there before. He recognized his mother's curly script and ripped apart the envelope, leaving scraps on the floor.

Draco,
Why haven't you been answering the post? Lucius's been writing weekly. How are your classes? And how is Severus doing as Headmaster?

The letter continued on for the entire page of parchment, yet Draco couldn't bring himself to finish it. He folded it back in place and returned it to its fragmented envelope. He sighed at Blaise. "Has she sent post to you?"

Blaise nodded. "Yes, to me and Lydia. Just asking if you're still around or not, I don't know." He shrugged and rummaged through his book bag. It hung on a wooden bedpost and from it came a dozen pieces of parchment, organisers, quills, and spare ink. He was apparently trying to find the letter. "I really can't believe you're here so early, Draco. I honestly feel as if we haven't spoken in ages."

"We have, though, haven't we?"

"Just in passing. You're always off doing something, Draco. I hear you spent lots of time in library. Getting very good marks, are you?" Blaise asked sarcastically. "You're just like Lydia. See her much in there?"

He shook his head. "No. Never."

"Maybe you just aren't looking for her. Lydia's been avoiding me lately. I hear she's saying I want some Ravenclaw girl now. I can't understand a bit of her." He smiled. "You should talk to her, Draco. She'd probably cheer you right up. Hasn't she been around the pitch?"

Draco shook his head again. "I've not seen her, Blaise, but she might've been. She came up to me a while ago about organising some uniforms for the team, supporters, and the like. I didn't think much of it."

Blaise laughed. "Of course you didn't." He looked at his silver-rimmed watch. "It's about half past nine, Draco, would you like to head up to Charms?" He smiled at his friend, it was a good smile. Draco could see it in his eyes and felt it through his shaken body. The blonde boy nodded, took his book bag and followed Blaise down the stone stairs to the common room, traversed to the shattered mirror of Salazar Slytherin, and walked across the long underground passage that would take the boys back inside the castle.

a/n

I started drawing a portrait of Draco, its really of tom felton from DHp2 and its coming along nicely! :)

the title "pershiable/imperishable" relates to draco and harry. thats how Draco sees himself and 'the boy who lived' :) its from a bible verse, but i cant find which one!

Also, just finished reading ernest hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises". I was disappointed to say the least, i have to write an essay on it for my A.P. Literature class. I've come to think of my writing style almost a complete opposite to the modernist theory of writing. Modernism is way too terse for me, I need to have lots of sensory details in my writing!

Hmm, what will happen in c5?