This is written for The Houses Competition.

House: Hufflepuff

Category: "Theme: Discovery – what does it take to discover new places,

self-discovery, inner meaning, strength, even treasure"

Prompt: ""Actions speak louder than words," [Speech]"

Word count: 872

Song recommendation: "Dark Piano- PTSD" by Lucas King

Title: "Good Things Become Blurs"

Warnings: Implied attempted suicide. Depression. Some themes may offend readers.

A/N: Draco has depression. Don't believe him when he thinks "your life was

insignificant," alright? He's actually referring to his own life. If you are feeling like I

wrote this to offend you or make you feel like a terrible person, I didn't. I apologize in

advance if this makes you feel like you're not important, it's not supposed to. This is

simply what Draco was feeling.

Disclaimer: I did not write Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling did.

~Blue Rose

It was all a blur. There were no faces, only splotches of color in the dismal world of grey. Eventually those colors faded, too. Until all that was left was a sea of never-ending shadows.

The smiles disappeared off the younger ones as they grew into adults, the laughter faded from the world as the adults were given their coffins. All of it changed. All of it blended so well that there was only ever one color.

Silvery eyes that would lose their shimmer. Green gems that would grow dim. Diamonds that would soon cover with dust. All of it.

Draco grew up in this black world. Draco knew it as well as the back of his hand. He was ready for it by the time it visited again. But, the others weren't prepared for the change.

He watched with bored eyes as the others were molded into themselves. As the others shed tears over their losses. Their backs bent forward, knees hitting the ground as their shoulders shook. How pointless.

They hadn't had loss before. They didn't know what it was like to lose your laugh. They didn't know what it was like to lose your beliefs. But Draco did; Draco was given everything so his father could take it away from him.

Draco had seen it all before, done it all before. He'd gotten over the shock of it the first time, and he'd done so the second time, too. Was there really any difference with the sixth or seventh?

He didn't bother to help those that were hurting; they'd get over it. He did, and back then he was just a child made the same way as any other. With a heart and a soul. With rosy cheeks and large, curious eyes.

There was no way to comfort someone who was losing. They didn't want the words. They didn't want your arms around them. They didn't want anything from someone who was winning.

"Actions speak louder than words," Lucius told him. Draco was five at the time. His mother had been crying in the other room. She was begging. For what, Draco didn't know.

He watched her shoulders hunch over, her arms around herself. Draco wanted to go to her, to put a hand on her head. Lucius put his warm hand onto Draco's small shoulder, holding him back.

"She'll be alright," Lucius had said. Draco never knew what his mother was crying about. All he knew was that she had slapped away Lucius' hand when he had reached for her. Actions, yes, speak louder than words.

Draco couldn't count the number of times he'd felt his heart break. Not that he wanted to. He knew that others would, though. He had to wonder why people would ever want to keep track of that. Draco knew he was different, but he just couldn't understand other people.

The one thing Draco had yet to do was die. He was particularly looking forward to that part. He knew that people feared death, but he wasn't sure why.

You were born, you lived, and you died. He was ready to lay his head down one last time by age eleven. He saw it as this: your life was insignificant. It was just another tear drop that added to the pool of others. It was a small afterthought in the Sunday paper that was going to be burned, anyways. Your life was one splash of color in a barrel of paint.

The people you knew, the only people you affected and they were going to die, too. And then, who would be left to remember you?

Draco knew this all so well. Draco knew it like the back of his hand. He'd thought about it over and over and only ever came to one conclusion: That his life was just as important as that one person's you saw four years ago for two seconds in that coffee shop, and you haven't thought of that place for years.

Draco wondered where the colors went when they died. Did it go where he would when he died? He wanted to know. He wanted to see it for himself. It was perhaps the only thing that made him excited.

Draco knew what it was like to have everything. He'd had it all, once. He had a wife, he had a son, a mother, a father, and a friend. But all good things come to an end.

Everything gathered dust before you could clean it. Everything would be taken if you put it down for a moment. Nothing was the exception.

Draco wanted to discover where all the life went. Draco wanted to know, and the only place that could answer his questions was the next world .

Maybe that was why he had a bag of ice in one hand and a razor in the other? He would've denied that he was depressed if you were to ask him. He would've said, "I'm not depressed. I'm just the only one that wants to discover what it means to see color."

He knew that he wasn't a madman. He knew he wasn't depressed, despite what people might think. But, as Lucius always said, "Actions speak louder than words."