hora ue kara mama ga watashi-tachi mioroshiteru
Staring out the window, watching the countryside fly by at an alarmingly fast speed (in his own mind), Draco did his best not to think about the coming winter vacation. Two weeks at home, without his mother (but he wasn't going to think about that, either, not now), would be hell. Possibly hell would be better than his home during this frigid Christmastime.
The landscape passing by the window was stark and white. The bleakness of the scenery seemed to reflect a perfect mirror of Draco, wind-up doll, except for one fatal flaw. The scenery was incapable of contemplating the future. This cognitive function was currently serving to shatter Draco's carefully preserved doll image. Draco, person, was dreading the future with an intensity that would have driven any other person mad. For the future contained, inevitably, his father.
But not his mother anymore, oh, no. For of course the good in the future was not as inevitable as the bad. Of course.
Draco shook his head slightly to clear it. Long-forgotten Latin rose to his mind: /tabla rasa/, blank slate. If only he could wipe away his memories, wipe away his past, wipe away his very existence, become the very essence of the blank slate. Like the snow flashing before him, clean, new, empty.
The train pulled into the station.
Draco debated just not getting off, just sitting in his seat and going wherever the train went next. Yet even as he considered the idea, he knew it was a futile thought. Appearances must be kept, after all. He was a Malfoy, and his father would track him down. Embarassment did not sit well with Lucius. Narcissa's death had enraged him, a quiet rage that had been vented on the nearest available target. No matter that the manner of death had been covered up quickly and efficiently, it was still an embarassment in his own mind. To have the perfect wife kill herself! it was simply an outrage. If the truth ever surfaced, Lucius knew he could cover it up, but it would have to involve admitting that his perfect wife might not have been so perfect after all. And that was almost akin to admitting a failure, which any Malfoy would never do unless in a hopeless situation. They were taught from birth to always be right.
So Draco walked off the train to meet his father, and knew he had made the right choice, for he was a Malfoy, and it was inconceivable that he would make the wrong decision, even if he knew in his heart that the abuses he suffered at home were not right, that the choices Lucius made concerning his son might not be right, despite his being a Malfoy.
It all came down to power.
hohoende kokoro ga ne harisakete waratteru
"Power, Draco." said Lucius softly. "I have it. You don't."
"I know, Father." replied Draco.
"Do you?" Lucius took Draco's face in his hand, tilting it up to stare in his eyes almost tenderly. "Do you really?"
Draco closed his eyes, knowing what came next.
Through it all, he thought of his mother, thought of the gazebo, of the songs they would sing together. He ignored the pain the best he could, ignored his father's voice trying to insinuate itself into his consciousness.
Concentrating hard on his mother, he ceased to be attentive to the agony wracking his body. His father, sensing this, redoubled his efforts. Draco, for the first time in years, fell into blessed unconsciousness.
When he awoke, the first thing Draco was aware of was pain. He felt as though he would rip apart at the slightest movement. Lying still, he waited for the first wave to pass, then sat up. Sitting up was about the worst thing he could have done. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he very nearly passed out again. But he was a Malfoy. Clinging to this tenuous train of thought, he made his way down the hall, enduring the agony flaring up at every step, finally coming to rest in Narcissa's room. It had been stripped of all its furniture and decoration, and was now a mere box with wood flooring and faded wallpaper. Draco didn't care. He sat down in the center of the room, seeming to see his mother all around him, as she was when alive, as she was when dead. Unable to think coherently, Draco took hold of a memory of happier times, grasping it tightly as though a lifeline. Empty without her, he took solace in times past.
After a while, as the pain subsided, he began to sing softly the last song they had ever sung together.
He knew what he would do next.
Okay, sorry this chapter's so short, but I figured I should get something out before everyone forgets about this thing. I just don't have the time to write as much as I'd like. With Christmas break coming, the next bits should come faster.
Staring out the window, watching the countryside fly by at an alarmingly fast speed (in his own mind), Draco did his best not to think about the coming winter vacation. Two weeks at home, without his mother (but he wasn't going to think about that, either, not now), would be hell. Possibly hell would be better than his home during this frigid Christmastime.
The landscape passing by the window was stark and white. The bleakness of the scenery seemed to reflect a perfect mirror of Draco, wind-up doll, except for one fatal flaw. The scenery was incapable of contemplating the future. This cognitive function was currently serving to shatter Draco's carefully preserved doll image. Draco, person, was dreading the future with an intensity that would have driven any other person mad. For the future contained, inevitably, his father.
But not his mother anymore, oh, no. For of course the good in the future was not as inevitable as the bad. Of course.
Draco shook his head slightly to clear it. Long-forgotten Latin rose to his mind: /tabla rasa/, blank slate. If only he could wipe away his memories, wipe away his past, wipe away his very existence, become the very essence of the blank slate. Like the snow flashing before him, clean, new, empty.
The train pulled into the station.
Draco debated just not getting off, just sitting in his seat and going wherever the train went next. Yet even as he considered the idea, he knew it was a futile thought. Appearances must be kept, after all. He was a Malfoy, and his father would track him down. Embarassment did not sit well with Lucius. Narcissa's death had enraged him, a quiet rage that had been vented on the nearest available target. No matter that the manner of death had been covered up quickly and efficiently, it was still an embarassment in his own mind. To have the perfect wife kill herself! it was simply an outrage. If the truth ever surfaced, Lucius knew he could cover it up, but it would have to involve admitting that his perfect wife might not have been so perfect after all. And that was almost akin to admitting a failure, which any Malfoy would never do unless in a hopeless situation. They were taught from birth to always be right.
So Draco walked off the train to meet his father, and knew he had made the right choice, for he was a Malfoy, and it was inconceivable that he would make the wrong decision, even if he knew in his heart that the abuses he suffered at home were not right, that the choices Lucius made concerning his son might not be right, despite his being a Malfoy.
It all came down to power.
hohoende kokoro ga ne harisakete waratteru
"Power, Draco." said Lucius softly. "I have it. You don't."
"I know, Father." replied Draco.
"Do you?" Lucius took Draco's face in his hand, tilting it up to stare in his eyes almost tenderly. "Do you really?"
Draco closed his eyes, knowing what came next.
Through it all, he thought of his mother, thought of the gazebo, of the songs they would sing together. He ignored the pain the best he could, ignored his father's voice trying to insinuate itself into his consciousness.
Concentrating hard on his mother, he ceased to be attentive to the agony wracking his body. His father, sensing this, redoubled his efforts. Draco, for the first time in years, fell into blessed unconsciousness.
When he awoke, the first thing Draco was aware of was pain. He felt as though he would rip apart at the slightest movement. Lying still, he waited for the first wave to pass, then sat up. Sitting up was about the worst thing he could have done. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he very nearly passed out again. But he was a Malfoy. Clinging to this tenuous train of thought, he made his way down the hall, enduring the agony flaring up at every step, finally coming to rest in Narcissa's room. It had been stripped of all its furniture and decoration, and was now a mere box with wood flooring and faded wallpaper. Draco didn't care. He sat down in the center of the room, seeming to see his mother all around him, as she was when alive, as she was when dead. Unable to think coherently, Draco took hold of a memory of happier times, grasping it tightly as though a lifeline. Empty without her, he took solace in times past.
After a while, as the pain subsided, he began to sing softly the last song they had ever sung together.
He knew what he would do next.
Okay, sorry this chapter's so short, but I figured I should get something out before everyone forgets about this thing. I just don't have the time to write as much as I'd like. With Christmas break coming, the next bits should come faster.