Title: Ignis
Author: Nihilism of Snakespeare
Rating: G
Summary: Ever lost your mind? Burn. Burn it to the ground.
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Disclaimer: None of this stuff is mine, just the plot. Please don't sue me.
Enough. He. Had. Had. Enough.
The Dark Side, the Light Side, the fight, the future, who cared? In the midst of all this inane struggle that started with a muggle-born boy who was mad at all muggles for the action of ONE muggle, the Wizarding World seemed to have forgotten itself. They were all in terrible danger, yes, terrible danger of losing their lives. No life means no pain. And they knew not his pain, nor did they care to find out. If only they knew how much better they'd all be without life.
What would it take, really, to end it all? A knife, sharpened razor-blade thin with problems, perhaps. 17 years of his life he'd had problems, surely that would be enough to make the cut, so to speak. From birth expected to be something he could never be. From birth expected to be something he never wanted. For the last three years, expected to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. And now, now he would end it all, but not before taking someone down with him.
You are my son. You are my pride. You will make this family proud. You will do as I say. You will obey me. You will obey Him. You will appreciate all we've given you and you will not take it for granted. You are my son.
The boy dropped his hand, let the curtains fall into place, and dropped his head. Eyes showed no feeling; eyes of a silvery-grey color flecked here and there with blue. Was that the color of insanity? Perhaps. No thinking. Was he insane? No. No he wasn't. No witnesses to this, no one to judge him but himself. Crazy people make mistakes. He would make no mistakes. He's not crazy and they know that and they can't get him because he's not. No thinking now.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
They were in the parlor now, entertaining 'friends'. A mirthless smirk forms on pale pink lips, shaped to perfection after many years of practice. The 'friends' weren't 'friends' at all - they were associates. Associates in causing chaos. Associates in following blindly behing a pathetic man with an unsupassed ability to hold a grudge.
Manicured nails dug into palms with vicious determination. Start at the top, a voice in his head told him. Yes, start at the top. Making his way out of the room, the boy moved with a cat-like grace and fluidness to the stairs. He wound his way up, all the way up. The laboratory was to the left of the prestigious hallway, and he went there first. It wouldn't be hard to do.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
It and all of it's filty occupants, filthy history, filthy memories. He poured the substance on the floor, on the curtains, on the tables. There was enough to go around, and if there wasn't there was always ingedients to make more. His father, the despicable bastard, had made sure that the laboratory was well stocked. Didn't know he was preparing for his own death. The smirk claims the lips again, the eyes flash malevolence. Next room, soak the bed, don't forget the closet, the pristine clothes bought with filthy money that had been in the family for years. Money gained by exploiting others. Next room. Get the sofa. Soak the curtains. Douse the carpet. Next room. And the next. And the next. Leave the parlor.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
Outside, the container drooped, nearly empty at his side. Trails of the incendiary fluid leaked out in droplets onto the well-tended lawn. Not that he'd ever raked a leaf in his life. No, the family was much too good for that. Too good...too good. Take pride in the fact that you are useless. Take pride in the fact that you can do nothing for yourself. This family is above such things. Above...above. How could something so low and vile be above anything at all.
The boy turned and looked back at the house. House, manor, mansion, whatever. It was exorbitantly large, filled to the brim with expensive furniture, the finest of everything. Yet so cold and empty, void of love. Full of hatred. Hatred is pride. Hatred is weakness.
"Hatred is my life," spoke a cold voice. The boy scarcley recognized he had spoke the words. That voice...so unfamiliar. So empty. Just like the house. Just like the life.
This is not a time for words, empty or otherwise. This is a time for one word, and he realized that now. Of course he had realized it all along, otherwise why would he be standing here, on the front lawn of his home, an empty container that one held flammable liquid, flammable liquid that was now poured all over said house? One word. One word that would put everything together. One, concise, all-consuming word. More than half the population of the Dark Lord's followers were congregated in the parlor on the second floor. All of the rooms except the parlor were doused in the liquid.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
The container drops with a metallic clank to the ground. The boy reaches into a pocket, pale, slim fingers curling around a switch of wood. The fingers remove the switch and it's raised before the eyes. Eyes like ice examine the wood. In an almost convulsive manner, he flicks the wand downward and speaks the word.
"Ignis."
The night sky is illuminated, bright, so very bright. Surely it makes a sound but no sound reaches the ears of the boy except for the cold laughter that erupts from his throat. As the building burns the boy turns and stalks off into the night. The woods, surrounding the house, the house that is now a veritable ball of flame. No screaming can be heard, but the laughter has stopped. Replacing the laughter were sharp snaps and pops from the house. He wondered idly if they had died instantly, or if they were burning now. Excruiciating pain as their skin melted and fell off in chunks, their muscles turned to jelly, their bones cracked from the heat. He kept walking.
Walking. Walking. Walking. He walked until he reached the top of the impressive hill that stood behind what once was the manor. He might've walked for days for all he knew. No, no, it was still dark, so it musn't have been days. Turning to the west, he looks down on the mess he created. Beautiful destruction. The house was no longer a house but a wreck of foundation and support beams, the marble on the inside being able to withstand the heat. Flames still shot up here and there on occassion but for the most part were out. Reflected in his eyes, a smile crosses his features.
He turns his back on the compound and faces the east. Here the darkness fades to a deep indigo. As he watches, the indigo fades to purple. To red. To orange. To yellow, to white, to bright brilliant blue. The flames of the sun beat down on the flames of what was once his childhood home and a new fire is lit. A fire in his heart. A flame encompassing all until laughter once again bubbles from his esophagus. Real laughter. When was the last time he laughed like that? Who knew. Had he ever?
The wand falls to the ground with no noise at all. He hadn't even realized he was still carrying it. Now he had nothing. Nothing at all, the clothes on his back. The slate was clean, and rightly he felt cleansed.
Burned. Burned it to the ground.
Strangely he no longer felt the need for the knife, the one sharpened with problems, because the problems no longer existed. This causes more of that gleeful laughter, or perhaps it was hysterical but who could say for sure. The sun was up, he had seen it rise, he had seen the likeness of the sun to the burning of his problems and he was renewed. Like a phoenix rising from the flames of it's own demise he would be rebirthed.
Burned. Burned it to the ground.
Not knowing what was to come, he couldn't convince himself he really cared. When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose. With a smile, Draco took a step.
Author: Nihilism of Snakespeare
Rating: G
Summary: Ever lost your mind? Burn. Burn it to the ground.
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Disclaimer: None of this stuff is mine, just the plot. Please don't sue me.
Enough. He. Had. Had. Enough.
The Dark Side, the Light Side, the fight, the future, who cared? In the midst of all this inane struggle that started with a muggle-born boy who was mad at all muggles for the action of ONE muggle, the Wizarding World seemed to have forgotten itself. They were all in terrible danger, yes, terrible danger of losing their lives. No life means no pain. And they knew not his pain, nor did they care to find out. If only they knew how much better they'd all be without life.
What would it take, really, to end it all? A knife, sharpened razor-blade thin with problems, perhaps. 17 years of his life he'd had problems, surely that would be enough to make the cut, so to speak. From birth expected to be something he could never be. From birth expected to be something he never wanted. For the last three years, expected to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. And now, now he would end it all, but not before taking someone down with him.
You are my son. You are my pride. You will make this family proud. You will do as I say. You will obey me. You will obey Him. You will appreciate all we've given you and you will not take it for granted. You are my son.
The boy dropped his hand, let the curtains fall into place, and dropped his head. Eyes showed no feeling; eyes of a silvery-grey color flecked here and there with blue. Was that the color of insanity? Perhaps. No thinking. Was he insane? No. No he wasn't. No witnesses to this, no one to judge him but himself. Crazy people make mistakes. He would make no mistakes. He's not crazy and they know that and they can't get him because he's not. No thinking now.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
They were in the parlor now, entertaining 'friends'. A mirthless smirk forms on pale pink lips, shaped to perfection after many years of practice. The 'friends' weren't 'friends' at all - they were associates. Associates in causing chaos. Associates in following blindly behing a pathetic man with an unsupassed ability to hold a grudge.
Manicured nails dug into palms with vicious determination. Start at the top, a voice in his head told him. Yes, start at the top. Making his way out of the room, the boy moved with a cat-like grace and fluidness to the stairs. He wound his way up, all the way up. The laboratory was to the left of the prestigious hallway, and he went there first. It wouldn't be hard to do.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
It and all of it's filty occupants, filthy history, filthy memories. He poured the substance on the floor, on the curtains, on the tables. There was enough to go around, and if there wasn't there was always ingedients to make more. His father, the despicable bastard, had made sure that the laboratory was well stocked. Didn't know he was preparing for his own death. The smirk claims the lips again, the eyes flash malevolence. Next room, soak the bed, don't forget the closet, the pristine clothes bought with filthy money that had been in the family for years. Money gained by exploiting others. Next room. Get the sofa. Soak the curtains. Douse the carpet. Next room. And the next. And the next. Leave the parlor.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
Outside, the container drooped, nearly empty at his side. Trails of the incendiary fluid leaked out in droplets onto the well-tended lawn. Not that he'd ever raked a leaf in his life. No, the family was much too good for that. Too good...too good. Take pride in the fact that you are useless. Take pride in the fact that you can do nothing for yourself. This family is above such things. Above...above. How could something so low and vile be above anything at all.
The boy turned and looked back at the house. House, manor, mansion, whatever. It was exorbitantly large, filled to the brim with expensive furniture, the finest of everything. Yet so cold and empty, void of love. Full of hatred. Hatred is pride. Hatred is weakness.
"Hatred is my life," spoke a cold voice. The boy scarcley recognized he had spoke the words. That voice...so unfamiliar. So empty. Just like the house. Just like the life.
This is not a time for words, empty or otherwise. This is a time for one word, and he realized that now. Of course he had realized it all along, otherwise why would he be standing here, on the front lawn of his home, an empty container that one held flammable liquid, flammable liquid that was now poured all over said house? One word. One word that would put everything together. One, concise, all-consuming word. More than half the population of the Dark Lord's followers were congregated in the parlor on the second floor. All of the rooms except the parlor were doused in the liquid.
Burn. Burn it to the ground.
The container drops with a metallic clank to the ground. The boy reaches into a pocket, pale, slim fingers curling around a switch of wood. The fingers remove the switch and it's raised before the eyes. Eyes like ice examine the wood. In an almost convulsive manner, he flicks the wand downward and speaks the word.
"Ignis."
The night sky is illuminated, bright, so very bright. Surely it makes a sound but no sound reaches the ears of the boy except for the cold laughter that erupts from his throat. As the building burns the boy turns and stalks off into the night. The woods, surrounding the house, the house that is now a veritable ball of flame. No screaming can be heard, but the laughter has stopped. Replacing the laughter were sharp snaps and pops from the house. He wondered idly if they had died instantly, or if they were burning now. Excruiciating pain as their skin melted and fell off in chunks, their muscles turned to jelly, their bones cracked from the heat. He kept walking.
Walking. Walking. Walking. He walked until he reached the top of the impressive hill that stood behind what once was the manor. He might've walked for days for all he knew. No, no, it was still dark, so it musn't have been days. Turning to the west, he looks down on the mess he created. Beautiful destruction. The house was no longer a house but a wreck of foundation and support beams, the marble on the inside being able to withstand the heat. Flames still shot up here and there on occassion but for the most part were out. Reflected in his eyes, a smile crosses his features.
He turns his back on the compound and faces the east. Here the darkness fades to a deep indigo. As he watches, the indigo fades to purple. To red. To orange. To yellow, to white, to bright brilliant blue. The flames of the sun beat down on the flames of what was once his childhood home and a new fire is lit. A fire in his heart. A flame encompassing all until laughter once again bubbles from his esophagus. Real laughter. When was the last time he laughed like that? Who knew. Had he ever?
The wand falls to the ground with no noise at all. He hadn't even realized he was still carrying it. Now he had nothing. Nothing at all, the clothes on his back. The slate was clean, and rightly he felt cleansed.
Burned. Burned it to the ground.
Strangely he no longer felt the need for the knife, the one sharpened with problems, because the problems no longer existed. This causes more of that gleeful laughter, or perhaps it was hysterical but who could say for sure. The sun was up, he had seen it rise, he had seen the likeness of the sun to the burning of his problems and he was renewed. Like a phoenix rising from the flames of it's own demise he would be rebirthed.
Burned. Burned it to the ground.
Not knowing what was to come, he couldn't convince himself he really cared. When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose. With a smile, Draco took a step.