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A Malfoy Doesn't Cry.
If sanity came from your mind
forgetting or ignoring certain details of existence, he was sure he remembered
it all.
He remembered the feeling of
his housemates' eyes on the back of his neck as he left the locker room, still
sweaty, still somewhat bothered. Their words of reconciliation, their subtle
words of blame had, for once fallen on deaf ears. It wasn't that he hadn't
heard them -- the acoustics in the locker room somehow made words ring, made
them become twice their volume until the only way you could find peace was to
absorb and ignore. That was what Draco had done.
He remembered a time when he
was young, seven years or thereabouts. It had been a party, thrown by his
parents so that they could immerse him and themselves into the aristocratic
culture that would be the foundation of the rest of his life. He could
remember exactly what the guest had looked like -- a gentleman with long grey
hair, vaguely reminiscent of Dumbledore's. The man had been dressed in a red
cloak, deep blood red. His voice had been raspy, deep in his throat, and it
sent chills down Draco's body, little, repulsed chills that he doubted he could
hide very well, even at seven. He could remember, to this day, the man's exact
words.
"You're going to grow up
to be very much like your father."
He remembered the noise that
filtered through the crowd; little gasps and noises of surprise that he had not
paid much mind to at first, until he had felt his father's hand land heavily on
his shoulder.
"Draco. Stop
that."
He had jerked to a halt, his
mind at first wondering what it was he had been doing until he looked around
the room, when he had bitten his lip in just a touch of surprise. Everything --
the food, the walls, the cieling, the floor, and a few of the more unfortunate
guests had been covered with a thin sheet of ice. He had apologized,
particularly to the guest he had been talking to, whose beard had become a
brittle victim of the cold, and then he had been shuffled off to bed by
Narcissa's cold hand on the shoulder his father had touched. He had never
managed to warm up that night.
That was when he realized that
he would never grow up to be like his father.
He remembered another night,
not so very long ago. He had been eating dinner with the rest of Slytherin.
Pansy's hand had been on his arm, her nails digging in with enough pressure to
make him wince. He had brought his eyes up, smiling at Goyle's words about
tripping Longbottom as he wandered by, and he had looked to Gryffindor, looking
for Neville so that he could recover his trademarked smirk. Instead, he had
caught a glimpse of black hair, tousled and shining in the light. Potter. He had
kept his eyes lingering there, just for a minute. Long enough to see Weasley
say something to make Potter and Granger laugh, Potter's dimples made his heart
hurt, and it only took a second longer for Potter to catch his eyes and throw
him a glare.
He knew what had happened this
time, when Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle had gasped turning to him, suddenly, flashes
of movement in the foreground of his vision. Pansy had dropped his arm,
quickly, and Draco had understood why. Cold burnt. Draco got to his feet, then,
murmuring apologies as he left the fake warmth and camaraderie of the dinner
room.
And that was when he knew
exactly why he would never be like his father.
He could remember every second
of the game vividly. Gryffindor had been as solid as they always were. If he
hadn't have been a Malfoy, he would have been forced to admit that they were
the better team. It didn't matter, though, all that mattered was whether or not
he was the better Seeker. He caught sight of the Snitch just a half a second
after Harry. It was the story of his life -- always a few seconds late. He had
been closer, though, and the snitch was flying towards him, he moved towards
it, as Harry had sped forward, both of them diving with the Snitch. It was when
they were only about ten feet above the ground that he had realized something.
He was winning; he was going to get the Snitch.
It only took a second for
Draco to look back, and see Harry's face. It was full of desperation; a
horrible need to achieve... it was filled with dread. Harry had realized he was
behind. It only took a split second for Draco to make his choice, for him to
realize what was going on, only a second to weigh the two decisions he could
have made.
He let go, making it look like
his grip had slipped. The impact with the ground forced the air out of his
lungs, making it all the easier for him to school his features into looks of
shock, of pain. He hadn't fallen far enough to be seriously injured, but he
knew the bruises would last for awhile. He had always bruised easily. Potter,
for his part, had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch game, to
no one's particular surprise.
That was how Draco showed his
love.
He left the locker room,
walking slowly because he still hurt, inside and out. He had not gone back to
his dorm room -- being around his housemates held little appeal for him.
Instead, he had climbed up to the astronomy tower, settling beside one of the
windows that looked out over the lake. He was shivering, why he didn't really
know. He felt cold, inside more than out.
He didn't know how long he sat
there, before soft words made him turn away from the view.
"You're frosting over the
window, Malfoy."
Harry looked more disturbed
than concerned. It was alright, Draco was used to that kind of action. He spoke
softly in return. He felt no compulsion to make this into a confrontation.
"I'm sorry."
"There's no reason to
apologize. I was just stating the fact of the matter." Harry had moved
closer, sitting beside Draco, and wiping clean a circle in the glass, so that
he could see out. "Why did you throw the game?"
Drace didn't answer, a little
self-deprecating smile taking his face over. It only took a few seconds for
Harry to catch on, and he sighed. The line of frost rose further on the window.
"Jesus Christ, Malfoy.
Why don't you just cry and let this out?"
Draco's voice was soft when he
spoke, but deadly serious. It sounded emotionally cold, however, as if he was
simply quoting something someone had said to him. As he remembered it, he was.
"A Malfoy doesn't cry."
Harry brought a hand up,
around Draco's shoulders to pull him closer. Close enough to drop a kiss on
Draco's forehead. "I guess it's good that you have nothing to cry about,
then."
For the first time in
his life, Draco didn't feel nearly as cold.
