Draco Malfoy couldn't sleep.
Every time eyelids decended over silver eyes, the image of Harry Potter, tears streaming down his hate-filled visage rose, haunting as his mouth spewed silent curses. And if not that, another despised face appeared. The one that had tortured his wee body for as long as he could remember; the face of Lucious Malfoy.
Draco had never been able to call Lucious "Father" or "Da". He wasn't a father. Lucious Malfoy was a monster, he was evil. When speaking of Lucious, "evil" could not be used as an adjective, to describe a cruel- person. No, "evil" in relation to Lucious Malfoy was a noun. Lucious *was* evil. He was the embodiment of evil, and not even Voldemort held a candle to the absolute evil that was Lucious Malfoy.
Draco heaved a sigh, rolling in his bed so that he faced the opposite set of identical forest-coloured curtains. The slender fingers came to his face, cupping the despair-ridden sob that escaped the boy's throat. He knew, as well as anyone did, that the person who hurt Harry Potter was a monster. Just like Lucious Malfoy. Perhaps he, Draco, was the personification of evil as well.
He still remembered every detail of that night. The terrified sobbing of Harry Potter as his small body was violated in a way that Draco knew, from his own experience, could never be forgotten, or washed clean. The stains of that one night, would remain with The Boy Who Lived for all time. No matter what happened between them now, it would always be remembered that Draco had hurt him. Not that Draco expected anything to happen between them. Perhaps, if this were a fantasy world, where peace and happiness abounded, they could be mates. They might be able to trust each other with their own deepest secrets, or light hearted ramblings, product of a few philosophical moments spent contemplating the workings of their utopian world.
This wasn't Utopia. This was Britain, and Draco had done unspeakable things to Harry. Yet, had that emotion that flickered across the other boys face for the barest of moments been what Draco thought… or was it simply the embellished imaginings of a soul longing for acceptance in a world too dark and harsh for innocence long buried in a heart so hardened by years of torment that it was a wonder to Draco that it still had the ability to beat? For the most fleeting seconds, Draco thought there had been understanding on Harry's pale face.
He was a beautiful creature, if nothing else. Harry was lovely. The always-tousled, raven dark hair. The eyes, green as the ocean, or perhaps the cool deepness of a forest, that, though glimmering with sadness, held a goodness and purity that made Draco's heart skip a beat. Harry was the embodiment of Good, and Draco, of Evil. Harry was an angel, and Draco a demon. A demon spawned by the foulness of Satan himself.
And what if the madness were to take Draco again? He'd not been thinking as himself the day he'd broken Harry, he'd not planned it, nor wanted to do it until he was doing it, and what if it happened again? What if he laid eyes on some innocent student, who brought the unimaginable rage bubbling to the surface, clouded his mind with images of a horror too painful to consider?
*What if he did it again?*
Would he be able to stop himself? To find the control he'd been unable to bring all those months ago? Would he be able to turn his face away, and convince himself that this was not, and had nothing to do with the unspeakable evil of his father?
*What if he did it again?*
The tears sliding horizontally over Draco's temple and nose as he lay there, were big and hot, burning wet trails over the smooth whiteness of his skin. His head pounded with the ache of his cries, and his eyelids longed to close, eveloping him in the warm darkness of a sleep that would surely be too deep to hold dreams. Nightmares. And he finally succumbed to himself, allowing the leaden lids to slide down over silver plated eyes, the breathing to become slow and easy. He allowed the sleep to descend on his worn body, and somewhere in the back of his jumbled mind, the desire to never wake from the peaceful fuzziness of sleep made itself known.
TBC
Ah yes… short I know. ::cringes:: I'm sorry, but this was a train of thought chapter and it *is* late. The muses are all asleep, so if this chapter isn't up to snuff, its not my fault.
I'd like to thank Pepsi, Franthepheonix, and Quidditchgrrl. Your reviews made me feel wonderful, and without reviews like yours I probably wouldn't even have the motivation to write more of this. An author like me can't go on with out her feed back…
Every time eyelids decended over silver eyes, the image of Harry Potter, tears streaming down his hate-filled visage rose, haunting as his mouth spewed silent curses. And if not that, another despised face appeared. The one that had tortured his wee body for as long as he could remember; the face of Lucious Malfoy.
Draco had never been able to call Lucious "Father" or "Da". He wasn't a father. Lucious Malfoy was a monster, he was evil. When speaking of Lucious, "evil" could not be used as an adjective, to describe a cruel- person. No, "evil" in relation to Lucious Malfoy was a noun. Lucious *was* evil. He was the embodiment of evil, and not even Voldemort held a candle to the absolute evil that was Lucious Malfoy.
Draco heaved a sigh, rolling in his bed so that he faced the opposite set of identical forest-coloured curtains. The slender fingers came to his face, cupping the despair-ridden sob that escaped the boy's throat. He knew, as well as anyone did, that the person who hurt Harry Potter was a monster. Just like Lucious Malfoy. Perhaps he, Draco, was the personification of evil as well.
He still remembered every detail of that night. The terrified sobbing of Harry Potter as his small body was violated in a way that Draco knew, from his own experience, could never be forgotten, or washed clean. The stains of that one night, would remain with The Boy Who Lived for all time. No matter what happened between them now, it would always be remembered that Draco had hurt him. Not that Draco expected anything to happen between them. Perhaps, if this were a fantasy world, where peace and happiness abounded, they could be mates. They might be able to trust each other with their own deepest secrets, or light hearted ramblings, product of a few philosophical moments spent contemplating the workings of their utopian world.
This wasn't Utopia. This was Britain, and Draco had done unspeakable things to Harry. Yet, had that emotion that flickered across the other boys face for the barest of moments been what Draco thought… or was it simply the embellished imaginings of a soul longing for acceptance in a world too dark and harsh for innocence long buried in a heart so hardened by years of torment that it was a wonder to Draco that it still had the ability to beat? For the most fleeting seconds, Draco thought there had been understanding on Harry's pale face.
He was a beautiful creature, if nothing else. Harry was lovely. The always-tousled, raven dark hair. The eyes, green as the ocean, or perhaps the cool deepness of a forest, that, though glimmering with sadness, held a goodness and purity that made Draco's heart skip a beat. Harry was the embodiment of Good, and Draco, of Evil. Harry was an angel, and Draco a demon. A demon spawned by the foulness of Satan himself.
And what if the madness were to take Draco again? He'd not been thinking as himself the day he'd broken Harry, he'd not planned it, nor wanted to do it until he was doing it, and what if it happened again? What if he laid eyes on some innocent student, who brought the unimaginable rage bubbling to the surface, clouded his mind with images of a horror too painful to consider?
*What if he did it again?*
Would he be able to stop himself? To find the control he'd been unable to bring all those months ago? Would he be able to turn his face away, and convince himself that this was not, and had nothing to do with the unspeakable evil of his father?
*What if he did it again?*
The tears sliding horizontally over Draco's temple and nose as he lay there, were big and hot, burning wet trails over the smooth whiteness of his skin. His head pounded with the ache of his cries, and his eyelids longed to close, eveloping him in the warm darkness of a sleep that would surely be too deep to hold dreams. Nightmares. And he finally succumbed to himself, allowing the leaden lids to slide down over silver plated eyes, the breathing to become slow and easy. He allowed the sleep to descend on his worn body, and somewhere in the back of his jumbled mind, the desire to never wake from the peaceful fuzziness of sleep made itself known.
TBC
Ah yes… short I know. ::cringes:: I'm sorry, but this was a train of thought chapter and it *is* late. The muses are all asleep, so if this chapter isn't up to snuff, its not my fault.
I'd like to thank Pepsi, Franthepheonix, and Quidditchgrrl. Your reviews made me feel wonderful, and without reviews like yours I probably wouldn't even have the motivation to write more of this. An author like me can't go on with out her feed back…