Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence? A Dramione through and through.
And, finally, let the drums roll, -Mournfulseverity has officially accepted to be my Beta. We stay in two opposite halves of the world. So, my typos will vanish only after the sun rises on her side of the globe. I am still finding my way through this site.
Disclaimer: I tried and tried, hard to write something else- but this Dramione was too stubbornly lodged at the tip of my pen. The Harry Potter world, belongs to JKR. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life.
Chapter 2
He is Mute
Malfoy Manor
More than a year ago
The Dark Lord had been most disappointed. That was the lightest way to use the word. Draco Malfoy chuckled humorlessly. The shivers had minimized to occasional trembling. His mother though, he did not know. The last he saw of her was in father's arms. He was trying his best to lead her out of the destroyed living room. Her entire body convulsing, his father holding her tighter.
" Crucio".
He knew that spell since he could walk. His father's special form of punishment, if he dared to put his foot out of the line even for a fraction of a second. With the years, that special punishment had simply grown, both for the amount of time he was meant to be under it and in its intensity. And he had hated her the most. Because she was the reason he suffered.
He had first seen that wild bushy haired short girl, jumping on platform 9 ¾. And had chuckled to himself. Later she had been forthcoming in introducing herself. Draco had started scribbling her name to keep a tab on those he would specifically choose to be friends with. He needed a clear picture and then plan. A Malfoy must make sure to keep the best of the lot by their side. He had written her first name and then had just written "G"- before realizing the chatting, bumbling dictionary of facts, the buck toothed, short girl, was a Muggle. NO, father was most insistent, that he used the world "Mudblood". He had all but, rudely tossed the girl out of his compartment. Made fun of her and laughed at her, even drawing in his pureblood friends into the jest.
All she had left behind was a "G".
And every year that "G" had tortured him, kept him awake. Made him work hard. Made him push his boundaries. And of course, he hated her so much, that he would disparage her, mock her and call her names, sully every single thing that made her who she was. Those idiots she had started calling friends, stood up for her. But he would never forget, that stubborn chin tilting up in defiance, that straightening shoulders, that slight shake of her head and those burning eyes, threatening to cry in humiliation, yet, not a drop spilled out.
She got petrified, even though she was the first to find out how to tackle the lurking beast. He was awestruck. When she would relay every information to his godfather in the potion classroom, he would in turn sit back baffled at how much that puny girl could retain.
"G" would always come before "M" in the merit list at the end of every academic year. He would watch "G" covertly, through the stacks of old arithmancy books. He would simply stand there quietly watching how she gnawed her lips red, at being unable to solve a problem. And how slowly her head would get lost behind those heavy tomes she kept piling one above the other.
He thought her to be slight, and "G" punched him like a giantess. He thought she could only mug up and vomit on the papers, her intelligence made him eat his own words.
He had started doodling "G" on parchments and at the edge of his textbooks. Rather an elaborate pattern, twirling and swaying with the flutter of pages.
Today, "G" along with her side kicks had broken the Dark eaters resolve. They had kicked at and stamped their feet on their purity claims and supremacy propaganda. They had broken free, from the Dark Lord's headquarters and will be living proudly enough to tell the tale.
And "G". Oh! She was breath taking. Draco will no longer deny that. To lie in the face of his lunatic Aunt Bella. To hold a firm grip at her mind, as her body rattled under the "Crucio" spell. Draco was sure he would break. But then she had to keep looking at him. Her eyes actually piercing through his toughened Occlumency shields, and caressing his battered soul.
In the eerie night, in his grandeur bedroom, the Malfoy heir, for the first time in his life felt just like a knutless pauper. He opened the buttons of his shirt sleeves. Folded the cloth, now hanging loosely above his left arm. And looked blankly at the hideous, moving Dark Mark. When he had taken it, he was proud to stand as an equal beside his father. And now, he poked at it, once, twice, thrice.
His eyes burnt alight with a realization, whose fragments he had been gathering and keeping locked away in the deepest confines of his beating heart. He clenched his jaw, cleared his throat and steadied his index finger.
Very slowly, right there, over the hood of the serpent, he started tracing one single letter.
"G".
On and on, not stopping for once. His finger moved, like a snake moving to the sway induced by the snake charmer. Over and over. The candles flickered, the elves brought in food, his father knocked then without a response trailed away, the sound of his walking stick gradually fading away into the silent mournful night.
Even when the dawn threatened to come through his darkened, shamefaced room, Draco Malfoy was found sitting hunched over his left arm, at the edge of his four poster canopy bed, shaking, in guilt and grief, his index finger reverently going on, tracing the single letter "G," over the farce of a mark of the Dark Lord.
theLastoftheLaiquendi- thank you hope this is good enough.
iNiGmA – I really cannot take credit for that expression. "Their blood was still keeping the Hogwarts grounds moist, just a few layers below those springtime grass blades." Two years back, we had gone to Rajasthan, a state in India, and had visited the magnanimous Chittorgarh Fort. We had a guide, who had rather poetically narrated the glorious history of this fort. The tour had ended at the oldest and single fort entrance on the opposite side of the hilltop- Surya Pol- dedicated to the Sun god. The Rajputs of Mewar considered themselves descendants of the Sun clan. When we had managed to climb down a bit, over the completely broken pathway, we saw a vast expanse right below, before us. It was stripped with small patches of green fields. My husband had joked, "On one side we have the city clustered together and on the other, its fields- its rather a smooth arrangement". Our guide had grown solemn. What he said next will live in both of us for years to come. "These fields, you see, sir, are the same ones, were thousands of Rajput warriors, fought and killed and then got killed to protected this fort. For it was believed, if one could capture this, one would capture the heart of the lions. The land, today, where lesser quality food grains are grown, right there the brave slain warriors of our land died as martyrs. Their blood is still keeping the ground moist, just a few layers below those green crops." He might have created a poetic eulogy, but what really can grow on a blood-soaked patch of land, if not just shrubs?
aggersfam2011- is this a fitting next?
MournfulSeverity- glad and honored like always.
saoyedaoez01- I am hoping to keep you interested for more.
Shall I let the balls of captivated emotions keep rolling?
