Chapter 6: The End of an Era
The End of an Era
The Candle has burnt itself
The Rain has spent itself
The Wind has moved to other lands
And Time has forgone its sands…
Voldemort was dead, and he, Draco, had played no part in the fiend's downfall! Voldemort's power and cunning had been of no use for the latter till the very end. In his lust for power and eagerness to conquer death, the Dark Lord had been blinded and had failed to conjecture what Potter had so quickly learned: the Elder Wand's story. And, to say that he, Draco, had disarmed Dumbledore and been, albeit for a short time, master of that wand.
Draco did not care about the Elder Wand. He was not caring about anything as he stood in the partially destroyed Great Hall, amidst so many people who had bravely fought the Death Eaters. His mother and father stood just behind him. He saw Luna speaking to Potter; and the Boy Who Triumphed soon disappearing beneath his invisibility cloak. Hermione sat with Ron, and if he was not wrong, they were holding hands. They too, shortly, disappeared under Harry Potter's cloak. Everyone had fought with all of their heart and resolve.
He had done nothing.
Draco had witnessed countless people being tortured and killed when he had come back from Hogwarts. It had been for the Easter holidays in his seventh year. He had witnessed Charity Burbage, the professor who taught Muggle Studies, being tortured, killed and ending up as dinner for Voldemort's snake, Nagini.
He had done nothing.
He had witnessed Hermione being put under the Cruciatus Curse. Not once, but seven excruciating times.
He had done nothing.
He had feared that if he showed he cared about a Mudblood, that it would have been the Killing Curse that would have hit the girl he loved, instead. When he had been asked to bring Griphook upstairs from the cellar, on his way in the darkened corridor, he had conjured up a sound proof spell and summoned a very fearful and confused Dobby. Draco had not been sure that the elf would come, as the elf had been freed. Yet, the goodhearted elf had heeded his call, even if the Malfoys were no longer his masters.
"I'm glad you came, Dobby, don't be afraid! I've not time to explain. Apparate in the cellar and save Harry Potter and his friends! Do that as soon as I retrieve Griphook from there. Potter is your friend and he freed you, and now, you can thank him properly. Take everyone and go far from here! Go!" Draco had urged the little house-elf.
Dobby had looked at him with tears sparkling in his big, round eyes.
"Master Draco is not—is not the only one who has asked Dobby for help, Dobby has been summoned by the owner of Hog's Head, Aberforth Dumbledore-" The little elf had started saying.
"No time, Dobby! Go I say!" Draco had ordered the elf and had knelt down briefly to hug the little creature.
"Thank you for everything, Dobby, thank you for the violin," Draco whispered almost inaudibly. Dobby's tears were falling freely now. Draco wiped at his own face as Dobby Disapparated and lifted the spell that muted sounds.
Draco had known that he had no right to ask Dobby to put his life in danger, but he could not think of any other way to help the prisoners. He had asked Dobby to take Potter and the rest, and had been very astonished on seeing Potter and Weasley escaping from the cellar; no doubt, to save Hermione and Griphook. He should have thought about that. They were not the sort to leave their friends.
Draco had been doing some fast thinking to find a way to get Hermione and Griphook to safety. However, as Potter and Weasley had rushed in, Draco had had to, surreptitiously, jinx the Death Eaters so that the Dark Lord's minions did not impede their escape whilst trying to duck hexes from the courageous trio.
In the end, amazing Dobby had Apparated once more to save them. Draco had witnessed the knife of Bellatrix flying to meet Dobby's side, powerless to do anything to stop the weapon's trajectory…
There, Draco knew, he had caused the death of the first being that had genuinely made him smile; the first being who had known what would make Draco, when he had been merely a child, happy. Draco had thought of the broken violin then, and his hand had gone up to his neck and felt the small, wooden G-clef pendant hidden behind his black shirt. The piercing pain in his heart kept getting more and more acute.
Dobby was gone. And so many others, such as Crabbe, had died too.
And he had done nothing.
Draco remembered how Crabbe, Goyle, Flint and he himself had once, in their fourth year, disguised themselves into Dementors to scare Potter. It was with some difficulty that he had lifted himself up onto Goyle's shoulders. Trying to stand there without losing his balance whilst wearing a large cloak was quite a challenge! Potter had sent a Patronus at them, and they had ended up making a fool of themselves.
He recalled how they had been scolded by McGonagall, and once they had regained the Slytherin Common Room, all four of them had been unable to hold back peals of laughter. Such times would never come back again. He would never be that fourteen-year-old attending Hogwarts again. He always thought he never liked the school, but now that he was not ever going to be offered the possibility of going back again, he knew he had appreciated the years he had spent there.
Those years would never come back. There would be no more Quidditch matches against Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw. There would be no more sitting back at the Slytherin table and making fun of others; no secretly stealing glances over where Granger usually seated herself at the Gryffindor table. Those times were forever gone; how could they have passed by so quickly?
He could not even credit himself with having helped in saving Granger and the rest from Malfoy Manor! Indeed, Dobby had already been asked for help by Aberforth Dumbledore.
Even Snape had been working for Dumbledore and not for Voldemort, as every one else including himself, Draco, had thought. Why could Snape not have told him? He could have helped. But nobody trusted cowardly Draco. Draco was a teenager with unremarkable powers. He had never distinguished himself the way Potter and his friends had. Why should anyone ask for him to fight evil alongside them when he himself was evil?
I will never deserve Hermione Granger, thought Draco.
The seventeen-year-old was remembering their escapade in the abandoned tower four years ago. Oh, it seemed so very far away and felt as if it had all been a beautiful dream both of them had lived. However, on waking up, one of them had their brief encounter seared in his mind whilst the other one remembered nothing of that bittersweet exchange. Now, he will have to be separated from her forever. He could not live in the shadows, watching her fall into the arms of someone else. Nobody had an inkling of his feelings for her, and they will probably never know.
Hermione would go on to live her life with Ron Weasley, and he could only wish for her to be happy. He knew his love would never die. Indeed, love was eternal; only people died, and it is said that if the love has been true, the Universe will conspire to bring them together again. So maybe not in this life, but he had hope that in another one, lovely Granger would be his…
It had greatly pained Draco to hear that Snape, too, had loved and had that love snatched from him. The pain that man must have carried inside of him must have been tremendous! Still, Snape had died courageously fighting Voldemort, and the same could not be said of Draco…
Minerva McGonagall was still addressing all those gathered in the Great Hall, but her words were not reaching Draco's ears. The war was over - even though the clash with his own self was only starting.
Draco walked away from where he was standing, and his parents quickly followed him. Nobody paid them the least attention. They had never mattered.
Outside, the sun was shining bright. Its warmth, however, could not penetrate him. The cold fog that had enveloped him for the last few years seemed thicker than ever. Thorns were pricking at the back of his eyes.
"Draco! Stop! Where are you going?" Narcissa Malfoy asked, putting a stilling hand on Draco's shoulders.
Pitch black curtains were gradually falling onto Draco's eyes. The cloying feeling of the huge snake encircling him was gaining more and more hold of him. He wanted to disappear. He did not want to see the sun anymore; he wanted to sink into the darkness of oblivion.
"Let me go, Mother," he said, quietly.
"Draco, what is this?" Lucius Malfoy asked, worried to see his son looking so frightfully detached. Both Narcissa and Lucius felt that something was wrong. They could feel their son slipping from their hands. It was some time before Draco responded.
"Mother, it is time for me to leave this place," Draco answered quietly. He did not find in him the power to explain. He was slowly suffocating in his own body. He gently dropped his mother's hand from his shoulder and started running as if his life depended on it.
He Disapparated a few seconds later, leaving his parents exchanging stunned and horrified glances in the deserted Hogwarts grounds. Birds could be heard lively chirping and twittering in the trees of the Forbidden Forest. A cloudless blue sky stretched to the horizon. There was an odd, cathartic feel to the air.
The Great Hall's audience started coming out in pairs and in groups. Some chatted quietly amongst themselves, others stared listlessly at the destruction, but all of them looked upon the Malfoys not without feeling some slight dislike and resentment.
Nobody noticed or cared that Draco Malfoy was gone.
In the meantime, Draco had landed with a huge splash in a muddy pool. He had fallen so hard on his right arm that one of the bones inside could be heard snapping harshly. Raising his eyes with some difficulty, he realised that he had landed in a place where no living soul had come out of alive. Thousands of Dementors swarmed about and were precipitating avidly towards him. It was very dark and the air beheld a deathly frost. The stench of rotting flesh pervaded the place. Draco had lost his wand when he had fallen down and was now groping blindly into the thick, black mud with his left hand.
He found it at last. The Dementors were circling him now, not at all in a hurry to suck his soul out of him; they wanted to savour their rare meal. Draco held his wand tightly in his hand and turned it so that the tip pointed towards him.
"CRUCIO," he bellowed ruthlessly. The intense pain that overwhelmed him caused him to point his wand away at once. His eyes were swimming and, strangely, the Dementors stayed quite immobile, as if watching him through the dark, abyss-like holes they had instead of eyes. Draco was not paying them any attention, though. He still had six more times to go.
"CRUCIO," he cried out a second time. Again, no success; as soon as the severe pain besieged him, his reflexes directed him to point his wand away. Five more times, he said to himself, five more and the Dementors would be allowed to do whatever they wanted to with him! The soulless creatures were becoming more agitated again. They were trying to come nearer to him it seemed, without success.
"CRUCIO," Draco shouted, hexing himself once more with an Unforgivable Curse. This time, he succeeded in keeping his wand pointed in his direction for a while longer. The pain was beginning to feel as if a live fire was consuming him, and he pointed his wand away. His left hand was trembling convulsively. Don't think, don't think, he urged himself.
"CRUCIO!" It was the first time a wizard was using a wand against himself. Tears were freely falling from his eyes and blood poured out from his nose. Three more times, he thought.
The Lighthouse painting in his room, back at Malfoy Manor, was in flames. The lonely structure was gradually blackening, and the little blond figure with the violin was on fire as well. The handsome boy's silver-grey eyes had died out. The boiling sea seeped out of the picture, carving deep tracks into the bluish-dark, granite wall and burning holes in the marble floor of Draco's room. The beautiful painting was well on its way to combust into ashes…
"CRUCIO!" Draco raised his eyes up to the mountain ranges ahead. They were black and blurry. He could feel the crimson liquid flowing from his ears. The inside of his head felt as if it was being cruelly whipped. The Dementors were performing some kind of eerie dance around him. They were not coming near him anymore. He lowered his wand for a little moment of respite before crying out again.
"CRUCIO!" He was screaming now. It was some sort of odd release. He was screaming for all the times in the past when he had wanted to do so but could not have risked showing his concern. He had wanted to scream when a year ago the Death Eaters had entered Hogwarts and wreaked havoc there, even if it was his fault they had gotten inside the school in the first place. He had wanted to scream when Voldemort killed Charity Burbage in front of him; he had wanted to scream when Bellatrix had tortured Hermione; he had wanted to scream when he had seen the knife hitting Dobby's side.
All those times, he had just bit his tongue so as not to let any betraying sound come out of his mouth. Draco found that he could now keep the wand pointed on himself for much longer. One more time, he thought. The Dementors were going round and round him so fast that he was feeling dizzy and nauseous. His whole body was now trembling. He felt his wand sliding from his slippery hand, but he managed to tighten his hold on it. It felt as if every pore of his body was tearing - he could take it no more. Draco pointed his wand away and let himself fall in the shallow, muddy water. His breathing came at jagged intervals. All strength had left his body.
That proved to be a wrong move, though. As soon as he had let himself fall down, the Dementors crowded on all sides of him. No, he thought, no, he still had one more of that Unforgivable Curse remaining to be inflicted on his piteous self.
"CRUCIO!" cried Draco, for the last time. He could feel the skin of his back opening up in deep gashes. The will to fight at once deserted him. The thousands of Dementors pressed themselves on him, eager to be the one to perform the Death Kiss on the latter. The muddy pool in which Draco lay was gradually turning to black ice. His fingertips were freezing, and he felt ice coating his lips. There was no hope, only despair, thought Draco.
Think of something that makes you happy, Draco faintly urged himself. He could not summon any cheerful thought, however. It is better if they take away my soul; it is of no use, he reflected bleakly. He closed his eyes-he was dying. He would never see Granger again. What wouldn't he give to have a few seconds in the abandoned tower with her for a last time…He was remembering their kiss...
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Draco shouted. He felt something incredibly warm shooting up from the tip of his wand. The wand had vibrated so violently in his palm that Draco had lost his hold of it. It could not have been enough, thought Draco. There were thousands of Dementors here. The Land of Dementors was a place he had only read about.No one who had had the misfortune of venturing here had been able to go back to their families. There was not going to be anymore storytelling around cosy fireplaces for them; no more hugs from their loved ones, and they would never feel the warmth of the sun again.
Draco did not know what was happening to the Dementors, and neither did he have an inkling of what was happening to him. Had he been given the Death Kiss? Had he died? It did not seem to matter anymore.
His could not open his eyes. It felt as if he was hovering from a great height. Strangely, the scorching pain in his heart and body was subsiding.
Soon, Draco Malfoy's consciousness was lost to the world…
