Vonne: New Years resolution... update as soon as possible.

Chapter Seven:
Pretty Faces, Ugly Places

For the second time with the radio, Hermione felt her breath shorten. The little thing, how delicate it felt in her quivering hands. This time she held her breath and she made sure of it. However, the person on the other end, they breathed in broken up exhales. She could almost sense his anxiety through the black plastic speakers. Hostile beyond comprehension, the voice was segmented, one weary breath after another. Each, "testing. Testing," had been tainted with undeniable fury and, sitting still, Hermione couldn't deny the sense of terror that overtook her, though the thrill of excitement surely made up for it.

"I know you're there," the voice on the other end warned, hostile, yet still seemingly drunk. Momentarily, an uncontrollable little laugh sounded out from Hermione's radio and she dropped it, watching the plastic thing spin delicately on the floor. With timid response, she dove again for it, picking it up off the carpet slowly. Then she lifted it to her ear, as if the voice were whispering into it. "Oh, come off it. Say something!" Hermione lifted her finger of the button, laughed eagerly to herself. As if such a thing would happen. In no way, shape, or form would she risk such a thing again. No, not a chance. However, her desire to remain put stayed consistent and the voice repeated once again, "I. Know. You're. There."

So, he knew she was there. Hermione felt her chest tense and heavy inside her skeleton. Perhaps this wasn't a bad thing. Truth be told, she felt comfort in her secrecy. Though, she let her finger press down on the radio's little button, allowing him to hear the whip of the wind around her room. Although, this did not soothe the voice's anger. On the opposite end of the tiny toy, the male's voice grunted, as if maybe leaning back on something hard. He let out a long and tiring sigh before speaking again. "Well, that's just fine," he sniffed, "you don't have to tell me anything. Just know that I know and when I find out who this is..."

Both Hermione and the voice stopped short. When he found out who was on the other end... then what? The sentence was left open as a threat, but proved utterly as an empty one. Even sitting there, anticipating the endless possibilities, Hermione admittedly felt no threat. Of course, she wasn't about to risk her chances, nonetheless. Provided, she also leaned back, more relaxed than she had been previously, and waited for him to continue. When he did add on to his ramblings, the voice only laughed, this time rather desperately, as if doing such a thing might calm his nerves. He was, sadly, mistaken. "You know," he informed Hermione, his mysterious bother, "I don't know why I continue talking into this silly thing. Even when I know you're there..."

Hermione shrugged to herself and, possibly, to the man on the other end if she'd thought he was watching. She didn't know either. Then again, she didn't know why she continued on listening.

"Let me just tell you that if you're listening, I doubt you'll be doing so for much longer. What you are going to hear from me isn't going to be sugar coated. Life's not that beautiful. Life's not all that peachy. My friend wants to me to go and see a therapist." There was a pause, a third laugh, and then one last inhale. However, he seemed to drop the subject of therapy altogether. With another sniffle, he put on, "I give you about two days. Hell, maybe even a week if you're bloody demented. You won't like hearing me talk, promise you that."

"First off," the voice continued, "I'm not an honest person. I never have been, either. I'm not even a good person. Truth of the matter is, I'm a bad person. A really bad person. You're not going to like that, either. Second; I'm a drunk. As of recently. Or, at least, that's what they say... that I'm a drunk. But really, I don't think I'm a drunk. So, there's also that going against me." The way in which the voice spoke was with an undeniable amount of desperation, as if convincing his listener of everything that he was trying to say. So he was a bad person who drank on occasion. Hermione mulled over the two stated claims, considered them rather vague, and kept awfully quite.

Then the voice lowered to a tone that was practically more hoarse than Hermione had ever heard a voice to be. "Third... I'm a murderer. I've killed people. Probably a lot of people. I've done things that would absolutely horrify you... you're not going to like that, either."

A long and daunting chill ran up and down Hermione's leaning spine. She felt her blood and breath run short and chilly. With her fingers on the Muggle toy, she dared not to move. Now more than ever, she was curious. Who was this on the other end? Perhaps, her mind quizzed, he was lying. A self admitted fibber, the possibility of him doing so was high. If he had been telling the truth, she wondered how long he'd been doing such things and why, most of all, had she not heard about it? A murder in the Wizarding Word, of course, was not unheard of. Though, she would undoubtedly know about it. There was no way he was telling her the truth. No way possible... was there?

"So," came the voice again, a little more cocky and convinced, "you still there?"

She was. After all his confessions of being a truly horrible human being. After his admission of lies and, most of all, of murder. She was still seated there. Now more than ever, she wanted to say something. The bubbling pressure in the depths of her chest was calling out to her brain, advising her to speak up, to snap out of it. And so, giving in to the pestering need, she replied without hesitation, "yes."

On both ends, silence mounted like an inevitable road bump. Hermione didn't move, but she'd suspected she'd sure spooked her partner. So she waited, patient and nervous, for the voice to come through once again. However, such a thing didn't happen as easily as she'd suspected. There was a fit of rapid breaths, a rather nervous chuckle, and then the voice came through the radio louder than ever. "I fucking knew it," he said, tinted with both rage and embarrassment. "I knew it. Who is this?"

Hermione shut her eyes, rather weary of all the complications. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and chewed her bottom lip considerably. Surely he didn't perceive her to be so stupid? Shutting her eyes, she replied with a testing tone, "and who is this?"

Coldly, the voice calculated, "none of your business."

"Oh, really? I find it to be my business considering you're speaking into one of my radios. Hm." Quite frankly, Hermione did not mean to come off as cold as she had, however, her previous sense of warmness towards the voice had very much changed. Besides, whoever he was, he wasn't all that tough now. Considerably, she thought him nothing but a bother, and wished hurriedly that someone else had picked up her radio.

The man hesitated, and then shot back, "that's beyond the point."

"Oh, really," Hermione replied back testily. She could feeling her own boiling anger rise up form the depths of her chest. There was a slightly urgency in her mind to put down whoever truly was on the other end. No longer did she feel sympathy. "Then what is the point, then?" Leaning back, she adjusted herself to a position more comfortable, "enlighten me."

"The point is..." the voice started, nervous and stammering, "the point is that you... you're invading my privacy. You're... you're--"

"What?" Hermione's eyes whipped open, joyful to have caught him. "I'm what, sir? Snooping? Don't make me laugh, we're not children-- or, you could be as far as I know. But I'm hardly a child and, believe it or not, I try to stay away from ignorant, immature, unintelligent people like I assume you are. So, quite frankly, I hardly find the issue of privacy to be the main problem here."

Now there was urgency behind the mysterious man's voice. He paused for a moment and Hermione was certain she could hear him moan after slapping a hand shakily to the top of her forehead. The way his voice came to her so close-like, she was sure he'd pressed his entire mouth to it, saying furiously, "who. Is. This?"

"Ah, well, who is this?"

Then thee came nothing but an admittedly loud clatter; the sound of the entire radio being thrust out of the man's hands and hitting a wall. The last thing Hermione heard was the toy as it clattered to the ground. Then there was nothing, the line went blank, and in the night, one of Hermione's candles went out.

Draco Malfoy was a wreck. Perhaps even more of a wreck than he had been earlier that morning, if such a thing were entirely possible.

He was on his knees, piecing together the remaining parts of the useless little radio. When he'd put the last of the pieces together, having only slightly improved the toy, he leaned his back against the wall, exhaled slowly, and ran a quivering hand through his head of sweaty blond hair. His room was dark, despite the florescent light that dangled from the roof, and he sat alone in the center of it, looking rather deranged considering the circumstances.

The bags under his eyes were, for the most part, understandable; he'd been attempting to fix the radio for quite some time now. Though his running nose was only probably due to the hefty amount of liquor he'd consumed in the process. His slouchy posture was, in his parent's concern, inexcusable, though for the time being, Draco didn't quite care much what his parent's thought of his posture, or his presence as a whole, entirely. He was beyond his parent's now, beyond whatever they're considered appropriate. Because, by the looks of it, their ideas of what was socially acceptable was, in all aspects, not all that acceptable.

Maybe, considering everything afterwards, he shouldn't have tossed the radio against the wall. Yes, that probably wasn't the best idea, all things considered. With his head in his hands, he stared at the toy with newfound sorrow, still rather furious, but undeniably regretting his past rage with the thing. Perhaps he should have gently plopped it in a tiny toss pillow. The effect wouldn't have been as whole-hearted, but the consequences might have left him with a better working two way radio.

But what was the use in crying over spilt milk? Was there any? If there hadn't been, Draco Malfoy wasn't aware of it. Because sitting there, sulking, he'd found himself rather unhappy. That wasn't to say that at first he'd quite liked the feeling of tossing the thing- because doing so had, in truth, felt rather empowering. However, that feeling didn't last long. So temporary was this feeling that Malfoy considered himself much less of the person he was during the Battle than ever before. And the thought scared him. Furthermore, if he couldn't handle the offense of a broken toy, what could he handle now?

However, he was sure he'd fixed it. But then again, he wasn't about to test it out. Since cradling the thing in the palms of his sweaty hands, he'd heard the voice on the other end ask, "still there?" in mock tones, though the reception was undeniably muffled. Fuzzy and a bit unclear, he'd did as he wished he had previously and set the thing aside-- gently. Managing only to stare it down with furious intention, he kept to himself, hands pitted at his side, standing opposite it with his teeth clenched.

He lost the staring contest, blinking out sweat from his eyes. It wasn't as if the thing was possessed, but the way Draco saw it currently, it may of well had been. He was only just about to approach it, though even he wasn't exactly sure what to do after he'd done so, when a rather polite knock sounded at the other side of his bed room door. On usual days, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't bother to knock, but such times were unusual, and maybe now, more than ever, Draco's father had began to come to accept his son's privacy. "Draco," Lucius called out, rather cold than inviting, "are you in there?"

Draco's posture faltered. He ran on fast feet towards the toy, swooped it up off its mattress, and thrust it under the pillows of his bed. With that, he carefully flopped down on the thing, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Without conviction, he said out loud to his father, "yes, I'm here." And the door whisked open, revealing the pale figure that looked almost identical to Malfoy in all ways. In the dark light, Lucius' face had been relaxed, masking the wrinkles and lines that he had received after aging so much. The Battle had, of course, caused such imperfections to come to him too soon and Lucius Malfoy appeared much more older and much more tired than he actually was.

When he walked, it was with a false sense of superiority. Maybe the truth of his social status had not yet sunken in fully, but the lack of luster beind Draco's father's eyes was certainly undeniable. So, yeah, maybe his father hadn't quite got it yet-- the Malfoy's were no longer the most prestige family in the Wizarding World, but he could certainly act as such in the presence of his own son. "Your mother wanted me to come and talk with you."

Unlike other fathers, Lucius Malfoy stood as stiff as a board. He did not approach the bed, nor did he take a seat next to his son. He did not place a hand on top of his boy's shoulder, didn't even attempt to go for comfort. However, he remained statuesque. There was something both so calm and controlling about the head Malfoy as he remained stiff, and his face didn't even offer a twitch. His stillness unnerved Malfoy to no end, but he remained put on his bed, concealing the Muggle object that he knew his father would surely disapprove of.

Malfoy, however, was all nerves. His sly mouth twitched and his eyes darted from the cushions to his father. He did not make complete contact with his eyes, but stared at his face in a whole, watching it slightly blur as he tried to pass off as showing complete concentration. "She did?" he asked with sheer politeness, "and what did she want you to talk to me about?"

"About how your time is being spent, Draco." Lucius shifted, gripped the end of his walking stick rather fiercely. True, the man had lost some of his temper since all his stress had been lifted off of his shoulders, but he still had the same pride. "It has been five years since... everything occurred. You should be venturing out. Lord knows your mother and I have." Malfoy, to show agreement, nodded timidly. The issue was not whether he truly had agreed with his father or not, and it never really was. "She's concerned you've been spending too much time in solitude. And I have to agree with her. You're twenty-two years old now. You can't just keep to yourself. It's not... healthy."

Inside, Draco couldn't control himself. To him, spending time in solitude was much more healthy than pretending everything was alright. Sure, his parents were too prideful to be closeted in the Manor forever, but Draco had truly lost quite a significant amount of pride over the years. And, thinking back on it all, Malfoy could see how those years had taken quite a beating on his personal life, his personality being his title sacrifice. Mentally, he thought to himself, "oh, how time does fly when you're not having any fun..."

But still, he wasn't sure as to what to do next. He shifted, looking a bit dodgy and then, offered his father a slightly childish glance. Looking up meekly, he asked his should-be role model, "what do you propose?"

"Propose?" Lucius quipped, rather shocked that his son had taken such interest or, at least, had bothered to pretend to. He seemed to take a hint of admiration in this, but his satisfaction didn't really last too long. He rest his chin down a bit lower and then additionally squared away his pointed jaw, offering, "we haven't proposed anything, Draco. We just think we should bring this to your attention."

"Well," Malfoy sighed, looking pale and somewhat hurt, "you can tell mother I'm fine. Really. I'll be okay."

Lucius raised an eyebrow, signifying that he truly was quite a caring father, despite being as solid as a rock. "And you're quite certain of this?"

Draco smile sincerely; he was, after all, quite a good liar. "I am absolutely, one-hundred percent positive."

Lucius hesitated. At the knob of his walking stick, his pale fingers slightly shifted. He seemed to consider his son for a moment, taking in just the very presence of him. He had, quite frankly, grown over the years. He was still just as scrawny as ever, and he still looked rather handsome underneath his shaggy burst of white-blond hair. But the undoubtedly malicious look in his eye had gone; a fact that slightly bothered Lucius Malfoy. Maybe his son wouldn't be the cunning man he'd always thought him to become. And the realization that Draco wasn't going to turn into the second generation of Lucius was not a thought that Lucius Malfoy was very fond of. Of course, he'd taken to pushing this thought from his head on the very occasion that it did pop up just to pester him.

"Alright," Lucius did finally say back, slightly weary of his son nonetheless. "I trust you, Draco."

Malfoy bit his lower lip, considering for a moment that lying to his father may not be the right direction. But he was an adult. His father had even said it; he was twenty-two years old. He could make these types of decisions by himself. Besides, his father didn't need to know every little depression detail in his son's life. And, on the whole, Draco didn't desire to tell his father about these facts anyway.

Still, just like an actor, Malfoy replied, "thank you. I'll do my best to show her how content I really am."

"Good," Lucius said, managing what looked like a smile, "well you can start with joining us for dinner. Your mother's been getting quite good at cooking ever since they banned the use of house elves." He finished his last sentence with a variety of bitter carelessness, though managed to regain himself as he said with new discontent, "even if it did take her five years."

"Lovely," Draco smiled, looking as proper as he could muster.

"Be downstairs in five minutes, Draco. You know how your mother doesn't like waiting." With that, Lucius turned on his heels, smiling at his son. Perhaps he'd been appreciative of what he thought to be honesty coming from his son. Malfoy watched his father stride out of his room and waited until the door gently shut behind him. Then, he let out a long breath, relieved. Anxiously, he leaned back against the wall at the post of his bed, and slunk off the bed, allowing himself to clamor to the floor at the skirt. Safe, he thought, for now.

A ping of guilt hit him as he thought about lying to his father. However, the feeling only lasted temporarily. He rest a shaky hand on the front of his chest, feeling his beating heart. With his father so extremely satisfied with him now, breaking his pride would only be a huge misstep. And back pedaling was certainly not one of the things on Draco's to do list. So maybe lying was not the best idea, but it certainly was a necessity. Besides, Draco thought as he remained put feeling his heart beat, what would be the use of telling his father, anyway? He'd only suggest therapy, take him on more of their family outings. Nightmare.

Finally, he picked himself up. Though with a stagger, he did so using the edge of the bed for support. He slipped towards the mirror, regaining his faux posture, and examined his reflection in the mirror. He had begun to look quite tired, though he had been suffering almost five years of being treated as such. And he was tired. So tired that he could hardly stand it. The fact annoyed him bitterly. The war was over, Voldemort was gone. Why did he still feel so... empty?

Sniffling, he straightened his black tie and readjusted the buttons on his white shirt. He even wished for a moment he could find some concealer for the sake of his puffy, sleep deprived eyes. Instead, he slicked back his messy hair, tucked in the end of his shirt into his black trousers, and topped it all off by whipping his runny nose on the sleeve of his once ideal button up.

In the mirror, Malfoy practiced different versions of amused smiles. To no one in particular, he said out loud, "wow, this is exceedingly brilliant, mother," while convicting himself to a pearly white smile. Shifting his weight from side to side, he considered putting on a watch, but wondered if his father would note this as vibrantly over doing it. So, instead, he passed on the watch, remained steady on his feet, and departed from his room, smelling what smelled like a mixture of roast beef and pea soup.

He wasn't particularly hungry. He wasn't really in the mood to sit at the dinner table with his intermediate family, hadn't really felt like doing so for quite some time. Admittedly, he'd felt quite distant from them, though he had for quite some time. Of course, he'd love them and he always would, but something had been broken and he wasn't really sure what himself. Walking down the marble steps to meet with them, he considered it quite a shame to have to face the day that, as their son, he saw through all their foolishness. He remembered a time when he'd perceived them, particularly his father, to be the ideal human being; successful, vibrant, outstanding. And they turned out to be no such thing.

So, really he wasn't in the mood, would never truly be in the mood. But what did that matter now? He didn't really have the choice. Walking in slow paced steps, he squared away his shoulders and prayed that he looked sincere and presentable. Gritting his teeth, he led himself down the long, daunting steps to sit and fake his way through the entire family meal.

Sure, he could put on a pretty face, but inside he was just as miserable as always.

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