Doubts and Spinning Tops
By Kay
Disclaimer: Oh, if I only owned Harry Potter and company... ::shines:: Then I would put Draco in pretty clothes and make him the star! YAY!
Author's Notes: Well. This is my first finished HP fic... god help you all. ^_^;; Being the absurd, obsessive Draco-fan I am, it's naturally revolving around him. Part of me is DYING to do more, and make it a SLASH, but... ayi, that all just depends, I suppose. Very angsty. If you don't like Draco- this probably isn't for you! And if you like GOOD, in character fiction- this probably isn't for you!
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It's another long night devoid of moonlight and sleep again.
There's something incredibly strange and unearthly about not being able to rest your eyes so late in the twilight's fall, when the quiet dorm rooms are filled with soft sighs and loud snoring from each particular bed. Crabbe especially, he's always had a horrible case of talking in his sleep, and usually about things I'd rather not hear about in this lifetime or the next. It's a wonder we manage to sleep at night.
Or rather, it's a wonder *they* manage to sleep at night. If I were in the same state as they obviously are at the moment, then I wouldn't even know about Crabbe's problem. There wouldn't be any knowledge of the way the shadows shift and blend together against the dark stone granite of our bedroom walls, twisting to contort into wispy, shaded tints that are easy on the eyes. If I were able to dream contently as the rest of the foolish people in this school do, then I would never be able to tell you just how the starlight comes through our small window near the cieling, streaming in with gentle threads to glimmer on the floors and bedspreads.
The night is beautiful without a moon, less threatening, as though the large eye watching you constantly in the sky suddenly removed itself without excuse, to the great relief of all. Without a glowing orb in the sky, the dark bruised purples and blacks weaved together like watercolour paints drenched in water, and everything was the mysterious colours they painted. It was beautiful, watching the black heavens swallow the stars.
However, I'd rather have my sleep, thanks. Shifting drowsily, the heavy perfume of late hour seeps into my head, clouding rational, clear thoughts. It's addictive, that haze, and chances are I won't be sleeping tonight. Not that I ever do now.
It's strange, how quickly someone's life can change. Months ago, at the beginning of the Hogwart's school semester, I would have been joining my fellow Slytherins in blissful slumber. Now, all I could do was sprawl myself out on my back over the bedspread, flinging my arms out to the corners in lazy exhaustion, and stare impassively at a dead cieling with alive, silver eyes. There was no peace.
Nothing was forthcoming, so why did I ever bother to admit it? As though it could change?
Not impossible. Change is reasonable, although horribly scalding to someone from a family like mine. Tradition is a rigid law of fact, keeping everyone in line, and knocking the unworthy out. That's what my father says, and I believe in it. If people just accepted everything that came along to them, the world would be a sorrid mess of idoicy. Such as the Mudbloods- there was no doubt they'd probably make a mess of everything, tarnished people. Not that I'm one to talk about not being tarnished- sometimes I feel as though I'm just as stained as the rest of them.
I'm changing, you realize. I do believe my father's going to hate it.
Detached from myself with the observation of someone not interested in themselves, I calmly trace the cracks withering above me in the cieling rocks. The entire room, as well as the commons lounge, is marked by the rough granite stones that create it. Cozy place, isn't it? One could freeze in rooms like these, if it wasn't for the fact we never were anything but cold to begin with.
I wanted to shiver in the chill of the night, but my spine has been taught to stay strong. There's no relief coming in the future from that, just like everything else that will come forth. Damn the world for not seeing it like others have.
My father will be joining the Dark Lord soon; I can feel it deep within me like a constant ache, a desperate, grim uprising of hot madness within my chest. Months ago, I rejoiced at this sign, believing in it would lie my key to completion- but I have seen past that. The world is being struck slowly by the chaos of Lord Voldemort, and I'm still missing parts of myself I expected to fill immeadiatly.
So. Step back, evaluate, and ignore the fact your father expects you to become a Death Eater. Ignore the fact you have no friends, only untrustworthy allies now, who would betray you in an instant if it meant staying loyal to the Dark Lord. Such lovely choices!
My hands clench the cool, silk bedsheets beneath me.
No one can understand me now, not myself, nor anyone close to me. It's not even a question of understanding, but acceptance, which is even harder to guarantee these days. And somewhere in the dim corners of my dazed mind, I'm aware that what I say makes no sense anymore, but that's alright. Life wasn't making sense, so it was only right.
My father was going to hate me. I stared at the cieling when I remembered that.
It wasn't as though he dared to love me before- to Lucius Malfoy, I am nothing more than his precious heir, destined for greatness in the shadows of the Dark Lord's footsteps. There is no "Draco", there is only "Draco Malfoy", the one with the impressive name. Not once in the years I lived with him has he ever introduced me as just simple "Draco". I'm not even sure why it bothers me anymore, why it fails to strike me as important but still irks at the strings of my consciouseness.
My father is a cruel man. I have seen this first hand, in various situations, either relating to myself or someone else. You would never know the harshness a single slap can bring when accompanied by the right words- to break someone with mental strategies, placed at such young ages that they build higher as they grow older- he plays with that game. Because of his administrations, his molding of me, I understand him.
I can't hate him. I can't love him anymore. I lost the ability to love at a young age; my cousin Jashin once remarked I am nothing but the shell of a human, a puppet created by my place in life to ensure continuation of the "Malfoy Family Honour".
Fourteen years of living with my family, and I have yet to see any honour.
With my mother, it is different, of course. Narcissa Malfoy... sometimes I'm not really sure if she really is my mother, even though she cares about me as though she was. Does that make any coherent sense? That a woman who passed on her hair and grace to me, took care of me and tried to protect me from the dark secrets of our family in my youth, she might not truly be my mother. There is no bond between us, despite her attempts to start one.
It aches. Harshly, painfully, that I cannot even love my own mother. If she is mine. If I am truly hers, and not just my father's creation.
The cieling blurs slightly before my eyes, a sheen of surface water filling them. I make a move to brush the strange, foreign water drops away from my cool skin, lingering over them as though they were precious silver diamonds. Perhaps they were even more valuable than that. It's not every day a Malfoy cries- I daresay it's been a generation or two before that's actually happened.
I'm the first failure, I suppose. The first heir to have these doubts, these traiterous thoughts that poison my mind with fierce, burning sensations and ideas. Normalicy is something I'd hate to accomplish, being that it's disgusting how most people live, but the idea that perhaps I could achieve an unordinary life still, without The Dark Lord... that is dangerous to think. And so addictive.
In the years my father's raised me, I have never been a truly loyal son, neither to his ridiculous cause or him. You cannot respect a man who twists the world to fit his own distorted vision, but is groveling and kissing the filth-ridden black robe hems of another wizard. Fear, a dreadful sort of screaming in agony fear, there's plenty of that which whirls constantly in my head, but there's no respect anymore. I remain silent in his presence now. Soon he might even notice.
How do you tell someone who could destroy you, because they made you, that you want to live the life of a human? Not a puppet on strings of wire, but the life of making your own decisions about who to hate and taunt, what world you want to live in. Not a puppet in danger of being burned as firewood for just letting down his defenses, if only for a moment, and enjoying what the sunlight has to offer.
Sunshine is tempting, even more so than the night. People claim it's the Dark Arts that weave into a person's mind, taking root and igniting desire to join them. What they don't realize is that the side of good is just as powerful in that aspect, offering the change to be "right". The chances to be alive, a human in your own degree, without fear of stained souls.
They don't know how good they have it, the idiots. Potter and his gange of freaks- they don't see how wonderful and amazing it must be, to live in a place where you don't have to fear your own family, or make the wrong move. Where you're in danger of turning everyday.
Betrayal. It beckons to me. Yet-
I would not go against the Dark Lord if it killed me. Only if I lived long enough to feel that warmth...
I'm such a fine one to speak of warmth. Lying here, dead to the world on a cold, hard bed that digs into the slender bones in my back, a broken doll. Doubts tear at my soul, urging me to turn away, and I'm not sure if it counts as being a traitor if you were never on the good side at all in the first place. Does it count? Do I count?
Do I even want to stray to the light anymore... away from these moonless nights of wondering, debating, ignoring the tight, slick fire burning inside of me like fear, only harsher. It's consuming me whole, keeps my skin feverish and hot, my soft strands of hair sticking to the back of my neck. I'm afraid of the answers to my doubts and questions, and even more scared that the answers will be something I won't be able to accept in time.
What will it take to escape this hell? I can't serve the Dark Lord, the rebellious part of my nature resists him in a plea of instinctive survival. At the same time, I can't join the side, Harry Potter's side, because my own hatred and bitterness would melt in the light offered to me, and they're such a huge part of my soul already that I could never be entirely whole without them. Couldn't be safe from anyone, either.
Yet I doubt. I grasp the concepts held to me by the moonless night sky, and I doubt.
I believe the spell my father has put over me is broken, sometimes. Perhaps I won't be a puppet any longer, if I could only cut those strings.
Crabbe's snores echo in the bed a few down from my own, and I sigh gently in the night air streaming through the window. The faint arouma of wet grass and forest heightens my already charged adrenaline, causing my thoughts to spin faster, quickly spinning thoughts, like a top that Muggle's put on the table and twirl with a string. I'd seen one in London once.
I wonder if I'm like a top, spinning and whirling, until I fall off the table.
I wonder what side of the table I shall fall from.
I wonder... does anyone even care?
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OWARI...? ^_^;; If anyone really likes it, and actually WANTS me to continue this god-awful rambling thing... and actually have something happen besides OOC babbling... tell me! And I WILL write it! ::blushes:: Sorry if no one likes it... it's my first HP fic... YAY! Go Draco-chan! (Tell me if you want slash... heh... cause that's the only romantic pairing I DO.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Kay
Disclaimer: Oh, if I only owned Harry Potter and company... ::shines:: Then I would put Draco in pretty clothes and make him the star! YAY!
Author's Notes: Well. This is my first finished HP fic... god help you all. ^_^;; Being the absurd, obsessive Draco-fan I am, it's naturally revolving around him. Part of me is DYING to do more, and make it a SLASH, but... ayi, that all just depends, I suppose. Very angsty. If you don't like Draco- this probably isn't for you! And if you like GOOD, in character fiction- this probably isn't for you!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's another long night devoid of moonlight and sleep again.
There's something incredibly strange and unearthly about not being able to rest your eyes so late in the twilight's fall, when the quiet dorm rooms are filled with soft sighs and loud snoring from each particular bed. Crabbe especially, he's always had a horrible case of talking in his sleep, and usually about things I'd rather not hear about in this lifetime or the next. It's a wonder we manage to sleep at night.
Or rather, it's a wonder *they* manage to sleep at night. If I were in the same state as they obviously are at the moment, then I wouldn't even know about Crabbe's problem. There wouldn't be any knowledge of the way the shadows shift and blend together against the dark stone granite of our bedroom walls, twisting to contort into wispy, shaded tints that are easy on the eyes. If I were able to dream contently as the rest of the foolish people in this school do, then I would never be able to tell you just how the starlight comes through our small window near the cieling, streaming in with gentle threads to glimmer on the floors and bedspreads.
The night is beautiful without a moon, less threatening, as though the large eye watching you constantly in the sky suddenly removed itself without excuse, to the great relief of all. Without a glowing orb in the sky, the dark bruised purples and blacks weaved together like watercolour paints drenched in water, and everything was the mysterious colours they painted. It was beautiful, watching the black heavens swallow the stars.
However, I'd rather have my sleep, thanks. Shifting drowsily, the heavy perfume of late hour seeps into my head, clouding rational, clear thoughts. It's addictive, that haze, and chances are I won't be sleeping tonight. Not that I ever do now.
It's strange, how quickly someone's life can change. Months ago, at the beginning of the Hogwart's school semester, I would have been joining my fellow Slytherins in blissful slumber. Now, all I could do was sprawl myself out on my back over the bedspread, flinging my arms out to the corners in lazy exhaustion, and stare impassively at a dead cieling with alive, silver eyes. There was no peace.
Nothing was forthcoming, so why did I ever bother to admit it? As though it could change?
Not impossible. Change is reasonable, although horribly scalding to someone from a family like mine. Tradition is a rigid law of fact, keeping everyone in line, and knocking the unworthy out. That's what my father says, and I believe in it. If people just accepted everything that came along to them, the world would be a sorrid mess of idoicy. Such as the Mudbloods- there was no doubt they'd probably make a mess of everything, tarnished people. Not that I'm one to talk about not being tarnished- sometimes I feel as though I'm just as stained as the rest of them.
I'm changing, you realize. I do believe my father's going to hate it.
Detached from myself with the observation of someone not interested in themselves, I calmly trace the cracks withering above me in the cieling rocks. The entire room, as well as the commons lounge, is marked by the rough granite stones that create it. Cozy place, isn't it? One could freeze in rooms like these, if it wasn't for the fact we never were anything but cold to begin with.
I wanted to shiver in the chill of the night, but my spine has been taught to stay strong. There's no relief coming in the future from that, just like everything else that will come forth. Damn the world for not seeing it like others have.
My father will be joining the Dark Lord soon; I can feel it deep within me like a constant ache, a desperate, grim uprising of hot madness within my chest. Months ago, I rejoiced at this sign, believing in it would lie my key to completion- but I have seen past that. The world is being struck slowly by the chaos of Lord Voldemort, and I'm still missing parts of myself I expected to fill immeadiatly.
So. Step back, evaluate, and ignore the fact your father expects you to become a Death Eater. Ignore the fact you have no friends, only untrustworthy allies now, who would betray you in an instant if it meant staying loyal to the Dark Lord. Such lovely choices!
My hands clench the cool, silk bedsheets beneath me.
No one can understand me now, not myself, nor anyone close to me. It's not even a question of understanding, but acceptance, which is even harder to guarantee these days. And somewhere in the dim corners of my dazed mind, I'm aware that what I say makes no sense anymore, but that's alright. Life wasn't making sense, so it was only right.
My father was going to hate me. I stared at the cieling when I remembered that.
It wasn't as though he dared to love me before- to Lucius Malfoy, I am nothing more than his precious heir, destined for greatness in the shadows of the Dark Lord's footsteps. There is no "Draco", there is only "Draco Malfoy", the one with the impressive name. Not once in the years I lived with him has he ever introduced me as just simple "Draco". I'm not even sure why it bothers me anymore, why it fails to strike me as important but still irks at the strings of my consciouseness.
My father is a cruel man. I have seen this first hand, in various situations, either relating to myself or someone else. You would never know the harshness a single slap can bring when accompanied by the right words- to break someone with mental strategies, placed at such young ages that they build higher as they grow older- he plays with that game. Because of his administrations, his molding of me, I understand him.
I can't hate him. I can't love him anymore. I lost the ability to love at a young age; my cousin Jashin once remarked I am nothing but the shell of a human, a puppet created by my place in life to ensure continuation of the "Malfoy Family Honour".
Fourteen years of living with my family, and I have yet to see any honour.
With my mother, it is different, of course. Narcissa Malfoy... sometimes I'm not really sure if she really is my mother, even though she cares about me as though she was. Does that make any coherent sense? That a woman who passed on her hair and grace to me, took care of me and tried to protect me from the dark secrets of our family in my youth, she might not truly be my mother. There is no bond between us, despite her attempts to start one.
It aches. Harshly, painfully, that I cannot even love my own mother. If she is mine. If I am truly hers, and not just my father's creation.
The cieling blurs slightly before my eyes, a sheen of surface water filling them. I make a move to brush the strange, foreign water drops away from my cool skin, lingering over them as though they were precious silver diamonds. Perhaps they were even more valuable than that. It's not every day a Malfoy cries- I daresay it's been a generation or two before that's actually happened.
I'm the first failure, I suppose. The first heir to have these doubts, these traiterous thoughts that poison my mind with fierce, burning sensations and ideas. Normalicy is something I'd hate to accomplish, being that it's disgusting how most people live, but the idea that perhaps I could achieve an unordinary life still, without The Dark Lord... that is dangerous to think. And so addictive.
In the years my father's raised me, I have never been a truly loyal son, neither to his ridiculous cause or him. You cannot respect a man who twists the world to fit his own distorted vision, but is groveling and kissing the filth-ridden black robe hems of another wizard. Fear, a dreadful sort of screaming in agony fear, there's plenty of that which whirls constantly in my head, but there's no respect anymore. I remain silent in his presence now. Soon he might even notice.
How do you tell someone who could destroy you, because they made you, that you want to live the life of a human? Not a puppet on strings of wire, but the life of making your own decisions about who to hate and taunt, what world you want to live in. Not a puppet in danger of being burned as firewood for just letting down his defenses, if only for a moment, and enjoying what the sunlight has to offer.
Sunshine is tempting, even more so than the night. People claim it's the Dark Arts that weave into a person's mind, taking root and igniting desire to join them. What they don't realize is that the side of good is just as powerful in that aspect, offering the change to be "right". The chances to be alive, a human in your own degree, without fear of stained souls.
They don't know how good they have it, the idiots. Potter and his gange of freaks- they don't see how wonderful and amazing it must be, to live in a place where you don't have to fear your own family, or make the wrong move. Where you're in danger of turning everyday.
Betrayal. It beckons to me. Yet-
I would not go against the Dark Lord if it killed me. Only if I lived long enough to feel that warmth...
I'm such a fine one to speak of warmth. Lying here, dead to the world on a cold, hard bed that digs into the slender bones in my back, a broken doll. Doubts tear at my soul, urging me to turn away, and I'm not sure if it counts as being a traitor if you were never on the good side at all in the first place. Does it count? Do I count?
Do I even want to stray to the light anymore... away from these moonless nights of wondering, debating, ignoring the tight, slick fire burning inside of me like fear, only harsher. It's consuming me whole, keeps my skin feverish and hot, my soft strands of hair sticking to the back of my neck. I'm afraid of the answers to my doubts and questions, and even more scared that the answers will be something I won't be able to accept in time.
What will it take to escape this hell? I can't serve the Dark Lord, the rebellious part of my nature resists him in a plea of instinctive survival. At the same time, I can't join the side, Harry Potter's side, because my own hatred and bitterness would melt in the light offered to me, and they're such a huge part of my soul already that I could never be entirely whole without them. Couldn't be safe from anyone, either.
Yet I doubt. I grasp the concepts held to me by the moonless night sky, and I doubt.
I believe the spell my father has put over me is broken, sometimes. Perhaps I won't be a puppet any longer, if I could only cut those strings.
Crabbe's snores echo in the bed a few down from my own, and I sigh gently in the night air streaming through the window. The faint arouma of wet grass and forest heightens my already charged adrenaline, causing my thoughts to spin faster, quickly spinning thoughts, like a top that Muggle's put on the table and twirl with a string. I'd seen one in London once.
I wonder if I'm like a top, spinning and whirling, until I fall off the table.
I wonder what side of the table I shall fall from.
I wonder... does anyone even care?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OWARI...? ^_^;; If anyone really likes it, and actually WANTS me to continue this god-awful rambling thing... and actually have something happen besides OOC babbling... tell me! And I WILL write it! ::blushes:: Sorry if no one likes it... it's my first HP fic... YAY! Go Draco-chan! (Tell me if you want slash... heh... cause that's the only romantic pairing I DO.)
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