Father of Mine, part X

A/N: No, I haven't forgotten it. So many other things to do lately, what with a HUGE English project and Track and Prom sh*t...*siiiiigh*

PS: Nobody picked up on the little 'Three Doors Down' thing I stuck in there, either! LOL You know, when Draco's mapping out directions to the infirmary...? Meh. Forget it.

SPECIAL THANKS: Omniscient, Draco Malfoy 'n Harry Potter, annakas, Auroress13, Archaic Raven, chochang913, candledot, and twilite.

Knight In Obsidian Armor

She called me her 'knight in obsidian armor'. Not shining. Obsidian. Black. Dark. Evil. That's all I'll ever be to anyone. All I'll be seen as; described as. And yet she kissed me. Sweet passion that lit a fire in me in that instant, melting all the ice that flowed through my veins. In that one perfect moment, I felt that I could be just like everyone else in the world. That I could be human, that it was okay to feel emotions and to show them, too. It made me feel lyrical and I told Professor Snape, aKa Father, as much.

"Well, you might feel like a poet, but you sound like an idiot."

Such was his response, and rather a rather blunt one at that. I blushed crazily and he just smiled and shook his head. Thinking about Keira makes me think about Erik.

Poor chap. He's been so pale and, well, transparent looking lately, it's a wonder how he can even function in the morning. His skin is so ashen that his lips have a strange bluish cast to them and so do his fingernails. If I look carefully enough, I can see the purplish veins snake around his wrists and his hands, through his skin; like looking through a frosted glass potions bottle. Lately, it's been getting worse and worse. I worry about him. I think Keira does too, but she never says anything about it to me other than to "keep an eye on him, please." Nothing more, nothing less.

When everybody else is asleep, I sit up and watch him slumber. Queer, yes, I know, you don't need to tell me that, but then again I'm not like other people. Erik isn't either, apparently. He looks so troubled while he dreams. Everyone else has these untroubled, no-worries, no-cares faces. He tosses and turns and twists himself in the bedclothes...on occasion, he's sat bolt upright in the middle of the night, reaching out for a comforting person to hold. But nobody is ever there. Sometimes he cries, but whether it is in sadness, fear, or something else altogether I know not. I think if I had a heart, it would break.

He has a way of melting into the background like a wraith, a shadow, that you wouldn't even notice except for the fact that it's so cold. Lifeless. Like his eyes. They frighten even me at times, with the intensity of the blue and the inhuman quality of them. Keira's eyes, on the other hand, are bright; vivacious even. They tell of good times had by all and of summer fun. They tell of the desire in every human being and of the suffering too. They bare her soul for the world to see, if only people would look closer. She could never belong in Slytherin House no matter how hard she tried. She shows her emotions entirely too easily. A pity, because she would add so much to the mix.

And the way Erik's always so silent. Keira is such a chatterbox next to him! It's almost as though he's afraid to speak at times. I get the feeling that he doesn't really connect with anybody; not even me. His sister is the only one who really understands him. She's the only one he lets close. They share a bond that reaches beyond all understanding of mine. They don't even need to speak to each other to understand what they need to say. They both are on another level. I yearn to grasp it and become part of it.

Tonight, however, I consult the mirror again. I've been avoiding it lately. Stripped down to my boxers, I sit precariously on the ledge of the sink, gazing into the glass.

What a sorry sight greets me: A scrawny, pale boy straining against what he is destined to become. Sorrowful grey eyes peer listlessly out of a sharp face. It doesn't look like me. What I mean is, it is me, and it's how I look, but I don't think that's really my reflection at all. It is the same with all the photographs of me; I know it's me, but it feels as if I'm looking at another person. This isn't me, I think, this is not me at all...

I pull my face into a smirk. Still, I don't recognise it. A smile. Same. A frown, a lopsided grin. Nothing at all. No recollection of myself whatsoever in that face, that mask, that is mine in the mirror. I cover my face with my hands, sighing. I don't know what to think anymore. About anything. I am a Death Eater. I bear the Mark of the Dark; the Damned. I am a Malfoy, bred to kill with killer instincts and a killer's cold heart. My reflection shows all of that, but it doesn't show me.

I remember my father showing me my reflection in the fountain in the South Garden one time when I was six years old. "Tell me what you see," he said. I replied, "I see myself. And I see you, Father. I see you."

"Very good, Draco. What else do you see?"

"I see the trees, and the flowers, and-"

"No, Draco, you do not. You see what you are now and what you are to become. You will become like me, my boy. My son. You are of the Malfoy line and must carry on our name and our noble duty, to serve the Dark Lord and his purposes. You see your future in me."

"My future?"

He put a cold hand on my shoulder, gripping it like a falcon does his prey.

"You said it yourself: You see me in the water there. I am what you will become. My father showed me, his father showed him, and you will show your son when it is time. Trust in me on this one, Draco. Trust me."

I was naive then, I know that now. What more could a young boy have wanted than to be exactly like his father? I took the pains to imitate everything he did. His expressions. His cool, collected manners. How he treated servants and his opinions of others. And his beliefs.

I shudder to think of how I wanted to be like him. Fuck that, I wanted to BE him, not like him. And in wanting it, I became dependent on his approval for everything that I did, no matter how insignificant the task. I uncovered my face and stared hard at the looking glass again. This time there was no emotion. No expression. A carefully drained visage which gave no hint of the pain, the suffering, the torture, the turmoil that went on behind it.

I squared my shoulders and breathed deeply. What I saw was no longer an innocent little six year old.

Tell me what you see....

I saw glittering silver eyes which held no warmth in them, no love

Tell me what you see...

I saw a hardened criminal waiting for his chance to come into his glory of the Dark Arts and his triumph over the death of his enemies.

Tell me what you see...

I saw the shell of a person; of one who had no soul, no bearing, no purpose.

Tell me what you see...

I saw the Knight in Obsidian Armor, the Saviour to some, the Angel of Death to others.

But I still did not see me in the mirror.

A/N: YAY, he found the mirror again! Wheeeeeeee! I wanted to put something like that in for so long now and I finally have. Yippee for me, huh? Seriously, though, think about this: Can you actually see yourself for what you are, truly, when you look in the mirror or in a picture of yourself? I can't. I see an imposter, a fake, a doppelganger of me who looks like me but isn't really. I know for a fact that it is me in there, but I have yet to identify with it. So in a sense, it is not me in the image, it is only a double. A mimic. I know it is me, but at the same time it is not. I really don't know how else to put it or how to make you understand how I think of it. But next time you see yourself, just ponder a bit on it: Is it really you in there? Or is it just an image of what you want people to see?