hello there !
a bit of a filler chapter for Draco's part.
THANK YOU to the reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, review.
DISCLAIMER; I do not own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)
Chapter Six
Fresh
The familiar howl of the Hogwarts Express entered Draco's ears; the slight tug and pull of the train and the steam rolling passed the windows of the train. In his seat, he could feel the smooth breeze of the air passing, slipping into the train and running through his hair. All in all, the ride back to school was refreshing. Everything was real. Familiar. Something he could handle. The students and the level in which he stood that intimidated them all. It was old. He was strong here. He was alive, here. However he was also alone here. Sitting in a booth by himself. But oh, how solitude felt so good.
He scratched his forearm and leaned his head against the window. The air was slipping through the crack and hit his cheeks furiously as the train gained speed. Platform 9 ¾ was now escaping him. His eyes were staring forward, away from the platform, and the families that stood on it. As the train passed, he could just make out the red hair from the Weasley's—watching as Ron stuck half his body out of the window to wave goodbye. A slow twisting turn went off in his stomach, an uneasy feeling—jealously. There was no other platinum blonde in that area. No one but him. No mother. No father. Just one Malfoy.
Over the train's howl, he could make out the several 'I love you's,' and 'Behave's' being last said as the train entered the tunnel.
Bitterness fled through his veins. He closed his eyes, letting the reds of the Weasley family evaporate. He hadn't seen much of his father that day, and caught only a glimpse of his mother. It was as if he was a stranger in his own home. But he held his head up high—just like any Malfoy would, and exited the manor, heading towards the Hogwarts Express. He couldn't help but feel as if he got the wrong end of the stick. Son to devoted death eaters, follower of Voldermort at sixteen, and enemy of the boy who lived. He was bound for some horrible happening. However, he did feel sorry for the other as well.
The ones on platform 9 ¾; they all seemed remotely happy. Worries seemed to be scarce in their eyes. He felt some sort of pity for Harry Potter—he was in fact the boy who lived, and will eventually die. However after all these years the Dark Lord had plotted to kill Harry, some part of him felt as if that was impossible. Maybe Potter was some sort of unrecognized force not to be reckoned with. Although Draco did loathe Harry, he felt quite envious. Harry had gone all his life fighting against the odds. Draco, wasn't supposed to fight those odds. Inwardly he did. And that bit felt slightly inevitable. He tried not to put pressure on himself, knowing that his new found responsibility was rather heavy. Of course he was going to have trouble carrying it. However no one else hadn't made me seem that way.
He breathed. No one else really knew.
The more he thought about it, he had more pity for the ones he was supposed to be fighting, than himself. All the muggles, half-breeds, and blood traitors. People like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He sighed. Hermione Granger. He wished that sometime along this year she'd suddenly become a pureblood out of some distant family relation. She was smarter than him. She was cleverer. She was swifter. She was stronger willed than he was. From what he gathered, she was rather graceful and had a way with words. She was even pretty in the traditional sense of the way. And yet, all this had no effect. She was still a muggle born. She would still end up dead by the end of it all. At least, that was the plan, the side-plan. Extermination and control over the muggles. As well as the boy who lived.
With more thought, Draco felt some sort of pull at the corner of his lips, the frown finding some way to slip even further. All the plans he knew—all the things he was trusted to fulfill; he could only imagine Hogwarts fall. The wizarding world—fall. The muggles tortured. He knew it all. And for that, Draco felt horrible.
However, Draco tried. He truly did. To embrace the future. And find happiness in his present. He tried to forget his past—his childhood, and days at Hogwarts. He truly did try to hate muggles. But it was as if he hadn't tried hard enough. Inwardly he blamed himself, for the slight guilt that burdened him and incapability to direct his emotions elsewhere.
Eyes opening, he took a rather long intake of air. Holding it in a bit as his eyes adjusted to the light of the train. Exhaling he surveyed his booth, both sides of the booth seats were scarce. There was a breeze and a creak that alarmed him—his eyes moving from the window to the door. He sighed, noticing the door had opened slightly. Closing it with much force, he noticed a few of his Slytherin classmates pass him. He stood tall and allowed his neck to straighten gently, his lips in a fine line. He watched as Pansy Parkinson smiled a slightly nervous smile—and Blaise Zabini following, leaving Draco with a nod for his greeting. He pulled the blinds down before he was recognized alone. It was rather distasteful for a Malfoy to be alone.
A sour feel in his mouth resurfaced; it was rather distasteful to be a beast, as well.
He licked his lips and pulled a book from the top shelf in the booth; his fingertips resting heavily on the thick cover and with a pull, the book fell from the booth and into his unoccupied hand. The lighting around him changed as the train pulled from the long tunnel, the natural light of the sun and the light from his booth had mixed. The light seemed to have absorbed in his black blazer and caused the buttons on the blazer to shine. The gold looked lovely with the light—he brushed the buttons before setting himself back down on the corner seat, leaning against the window he slowly opened the book. The metallic lettering of the book gleamed at him; History of the Dark Arts.
The book, much like its contents, had a rather dark author. Draco's fingertips lingered on the fine script written on the first page, and with little effort he slipped the page between his fingers and went passed them. Over and over he repeated the fashion, skimming the pages at the words he had underlined prior to the train ride.
…Unworthy muggles…
…Mudbloods…
…Avada Kedavra…
He slipped hand to his back pocket, pulling his wand out and into his hand. With his eyes on the book and his wand in his hand, he began to move it—as if he were about to cast a spell. And with a soft whisper he spoke; "Avada Kedavra." He tried to imagine someone in front of him. An unworthy muggle, he thought. He pointed his wand and whispered it once again, as if it were a secret being told to someone else. But as the tip of his wand illuminate a certain green color, and released only slightly to touch the couch in front of him, he knew he was alone. The green returned back into his wand and spiraled its way back into the tip. Quickly it disappeared.
He leaned his elbow against the book and rubbed his temples, his hand holding the wand resting on his knee. Hair curtained his face as he lowered his head, with a blow the hair escaped his left eye to slip over his right eye.
He allowed his silver eyes to slowly fall to his book once again, reading over Avada Kedavra, and felt uneasy. Draco Malfoy was no killer. And with that, disappointment and guilt ran through his veins.
Setting his book down and his wand back in his pocket, he stretched his legs out in front of him, laying them on the couch and resting his head against the window. The air was slipping from the crack, and yet again hit him once again on his cheek. He closed his eyes and indulged in the fresh air. Slow deep breaths. And quickly—a slow, deep slumber.
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