Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.
Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.
"In the midst of life we are in death."
--Book of Common Prayer, 1662
Burial of the Dead, First anthem.
The cloudy skies of December were gently shifting in a peaceful swirl of mild cerulean, and the newly risen sun hovered in the air outside of Hogwarts. Harry Potter, also known as The Boy Who Lived, found himself struggling not to stare at the celestial image of his archrival, one Draco Malfoy, from his place at breakfast at the Gryffindor table. This proved to be quite an obstacle, however, as Harry couldn't help but notice how the soft, dusky yellow rays of sunshine floated down from the high glass windows of the Great Hall to bathe Draco's fair form in a muted golden glow. The aforementioned Syltherin was still struggling to come fully awake, it seemed, and thus his movements were lethargic and meticulous, though still enviably graceful (like everything he did, whether it was delicately sneering in calculated distaste or precisely arching one perfect platinum eyebrow as he delivered a particularly scathing remark). Harry felt as if he were in a dream, viewing a surreal, unknown world through a murky golden haze.
He was abruptly shaken out of his silent reverie, however, by the animated chatter of his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasly. They were discussing, interestingly enough, the efficiency of various Quidditch techniques. Harry wisely decided not to inquire as to how that discussion got started. He smiled a bit to himself and continued with his breakfast.
Just then, the post owls flew into the hall in a flurry of feathers and hoots to deliver the morning mail.
Ron, who'd been excitedly discussing the most strategically beneficial placements of chasers just then, suddenly stopped, turning several shades of white before taking on a decidedly green pallor and gasping out a startled "Oh fucking Merlin!"
Harry simply gaped at him, shocked at his outburst, while Hermione, after a second or two of startled silence, began immediately asking him what was wrong.
But it seemed that Ron wasn't the only person in the Hall acting like this. A quick scan of the roomed showed that almost every Wizard born in the Wizarding World had an identical sick-looking expression on their faces. Most eyes were pasted on a lone raven owl that had just flown in.
The creature was quite large, roughly about twice the size of a regular owl. It was beautiful as well, with its ebony feathers glistening in the early morning light; its large molten eyes searched the room.
"What-what is it?" inquired Hermione once again, her tone now subdued and frightened.
"It's a Death Messenger," whispered Ron, his eyes never leaving the flying bearer of bad news. "It's sent to inform people about… about their loved one's death." Ron's strained voice cracked with emotion at this last part of his statement, and he blindly reached out towards the seat next to his, where his younger sister Ginny was seated, and grasped her hand in his own.
The tension in the room was almost tangible, so thick and repressive that it was virtually suffocating the Great Hall's mealtime occupants.
Who was the bird looking for?
The question was answered soon enough, as the bird swooped down and dropped the letter previously clutched tightly within its beak onto the plate before a certain Syltherin named Draco Malfoy.
The Hall was deathly silent.
Draco's face remained completely impassive.
Nobody moved.
Abruptly, another Death Messenger arrived, then another, and another, until the whole Hall was filled with them.
One by one, another letter was dropped before Draco, and one by one the birds left.
Draco's face was like stone as he looked at the growing pile of letters before him.
Finally, the last black owl had gone, and Draco silently stood up and gathered his mail. Not a word was spoken as he swiftly departed to read his notices in peace.
The outbursts of speculative whispers occurred only after he had gone.
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Draco had woken up that morning unhappy. As this was a regular occurrence in the life of Draco Malfoy, however, it hadn't concerned him in the least, as it wasn't anything particularly remarkable or noteworthy. He'd taken a shower, brushed his teeth, dressed himself in his sleek, expensive school robes (for the Malfoys always bought the best of everything), and done his hair. He'd tiredly trudged to the Great Hall to eat, accompanied by his usual crowd (which consisted of his two dull-witted personal bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, the starry-eyed, salivating Pansy Parkinson, and a few select others worthy enough to be associated to the name Draco Malfoy), and sat down to eat, listlessly picking at his food. But none of this was unusual.
What was unusual, however, was the appearance of a Death Messenger.
In all of Draco's six years of being a student at Hogwarts, he'd never been witness to the coming of one of these magnificent, feared animals.
They were reserved for use only by the Ministry of Magic, and thus were only employed to send Death Notices to the families of members of the Light (aka the Anti-Voldermort) side that had died on a mission. They were also used, though very rarely, to send a Death Notice to "innocent" (technically neutral or against Voldemort in the Magical War) family members (or, lacking that, the beneficiaries) of Death Eaters killed by Aurours.
Draco had looked up with all the rest, and interestedly wondered who the unlucky person was that the owl was so intensely searching for.
He'd idly wished that it was a Weasly, and promised himself that, whoever it may be, he'd make fun of them later. His father was always so proud of him for exploiting the weaknesses of others. Lucius had always considered this a certain kind of power. And the Malfoys loved power.
It hadn't occurred to Draco that it might have been him that the owl was to deliver its message to.
He hadn't even had time to comprehend what was going on before he'd found a crisp cream-colored envelope deposited neatly on his scrambled eggs, with more wretched smoky-black birds swooping in, all of which were heading towards…him.
Draco forced himself to breathe normally and keep all of his inner turmoil off of his face as letter after unkind letter was dropped before him.
His palms were sweaty and his heart was beating more quickly than a hummingbird could flap its wings and his stomach felt like it had been twisted into knots, but Draco made use of his extensive lifelong training in proper Malfoy behavior before a crowd and painfully gathered every last shred of self-control that he could muster to stiffly gather up his things and exit the Hall, back straight, head held high, and no expression whatsoever in his handsome face. Well…no expression except his eyes.
An observer, upon closer inspection, would find that Draco's usually cool, clear gray eyes were clouded with repressed emotions and obscured by welling tears.
But no one saw that.
No one ever saw Draco Malfoy cry.