Hello hi I'm back! Thanks for all the reviews while I was away, along with everything else! I just realized I started this story about two years ago now...thank you to everyone who has stuck around! Hopefully I'll be able to get the rest of these, along with the remaining drabbles for Sweet Hufflepuff, out by the end of May or even before hand! But without much further ado...
21. Magic
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Draco was tired of magic.
It was an odd thing, in a way, for a wizard to grow tired of magic. Like a Muggle growing tired of oxygen – magic lived within Draco, made him who he was, filled his world with its own unique light, and yet, after the war, he was so sick of it.
Magic was the reason it had all started, it seemed – the Dark Lord (his name was Voldemort, you twat) taking over his home, ruining his father, leaving his mother an empty shell. Driving his aunt crazed to the point where he would never know her, or at least how she used to be. Magic led him to that night on the tower, wand pointed at the greatest wizard of his day, crying and shaking like a scared little boy, because, in the end, that's all he was. That damned spell that Crabbe couldn't control, that fire that killed him, burned him to ash so that no remains could be found, his mother, alone now, burying an empty casket while her husband rotted in Azkaban. Magic, he decided, was the root of it all – of evil, of death.
He refused to buy a new wand for three months, hating the idea of strolling into Ollivander's, facing the man who's screams he'd ignored for months. And yet when he finally did, and the old man gave him a solemn look as the wand pulsed with power in his hand, it felt so right to have that thin sliver of wood in his hand again. A wand, like so many before it, that had been the weapon of choice for thousands of witches and wizards, destroying structures, murdering humans.
And something clicked in Draco.
Never again would he use magic for evil, to destroy. Never again would he raise his wand against another wizard. Even though the Dark Mark still itched on his arm, still but vivid, Draco would never return to those days, those foolish days, of his youth.
The Dark Lord had fallen, his influence with him.
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-Reels