"Why did I marry that [I]shrew[/I]?"Draco Malfoy clutched his brandy glass,
and the decanter next to it, on the table in front of him. He was sitting
at his dining room table, in his family home. He was visiting his parents,
for the first time since he got married to Pansy Parkinson, Pansy Parkinson
Malfoy, that is. The high-pitched drivel he was listening to was coming
from his wife of six months, who was in the next room, conversing his
mother. Soon after his marriage, Draco had taken to drinking heavily.
His brand throbbed painfully, as it did now and then. It had been 5 years since his final year at Hogwarts, when he had joined the Death Eaters, 5 whole years since [I]Harry Potter[/I] killed his leader. Not that Draco hadn't gotten his own revenge, that night Draco had killed Harry's own leader, [I]Albus Dumbledore[/I]. Draco almost felt sorry for what he had done, as he lazily looked at his empty brandy glass.
"Already?" Draco muttered to himself. He poured himself his fourth shot. Gripping the glass tightly, Draco sipped the alcohol. The incessant chatter coming from his mother and wife was driving him towards insanity. He twitched involuntarily, as his wife made a shrill squeal of delight. He was feeling almost no pain, which was close to his aim: to get drunk enough to forget for one heavenly, blissful, exhilarating moment, the hurt and the fear his life had always known.
The long table, which could seat 20, was empty besides Draco, who sat at the head, accompanied only by his brandy. It was semi-dark in the room, but Draco didn't light a candle, he preferred the dark he had grown so accustomed to. Darkness was his friend, the darkness that encompassed all he knew. His friends were more like henchmen to him, and his wife had a wet mop for a personality, which he supposed, was better than a dry mop.
Draco poured his fifth shot, and quickly downed it. The alcohol burned his throat, sending a fiery sensation to his dulled senses. Draco's bloodshot eyes roved the room of his childhood. He couldn't remember a single time, during his childhood, when he had laughed gaily. It was always mockingly, and at others, copying his parent's sneers. Draco felt bitter, more so that usual. The drink was dulling his thoughts, but not his emotions.
"Draco?" Pansy's annoying, piercing voice carried across the dark room. Draco gripped his glass so hard it shattered, leaving cuts and shards in his hand; but he didn't care.
"Draco, not again! That's the third one this week!" Pansy sashayed to her husband's side, pulling out her wand, and taking his bleeding hand. He roughly shoved her away.
"Draco?" Pansy was going to cry now, he knew it. Sure enough, his wife's lower lip began trembling.
"Get out." Draco kept his hoarse voice low and threatening. Pansy positively fled from the room, wailing. Draco had remained seated the whole time. He drew his wand, and fixed his hand. He then laid his wand on the table, watching the long thin stick of wood as if it mesmerized him. The piece of hornbeam wood, with its dragon heartstring core, had killed over 65 people, ranging from muggle children to feeble old wizards. The more he thought about it, the more he hated it. The more he hated it, the more he wanted to be rid of it. Draco took a swig of brandy right from the bottle. He had made his decision. He stood up and his chair, which he hadn't bothered to move, clattered as it fell over. He picked up his wand, and boldly snapped it in half, with a deafening crack and a blinding flash of light. Then, Draco Malfoy strode out of the room, out of the house, and into the world.
He would never look back. ~*~
His brand throbbed painfully, as it did now and then. It had been 5 years since his final year at Hogwarts, when he had joined the Death Eaters, 5 whole years since [I]Harry Potter[/I] killed his leader. Not that Draco hadn't gotten his own revenge, that night Draco had killed Harry's own leader, [I]Albus Dumbledore[/I]. Draco almost felt sorry for what he had done, as he lazily looked at his empty brandy glass.
"Already?" Draco muttered to himself. He poured himself his fourth shot. Gripping the glass tightly, Draco sipped the alcohol. The incessant chatter coming from his mother and wife was driving him towards insanity. He twitched involuntarily, as his wife made a shrill squeal of delight. He was feeling almost no pain, which was close to his aim: to get drunk enough to forget for one heavenly, blissful, exhilarating moment, the hurt and the fear his life had always known.
The long table, which could seat 20, was empty besides Draco, who sat at the head, accompanied only by his brandy. It was semi-dark in the room, but Draco didn't light a candle, he preferred the dark he had grown so accustomed to. Darkness was his friend, the darkness that encompassed all he knew. His friends were more like henchmen to him, and his wife had a wet mop for a personality, which he supposed, was better than a dry mop.
Draco poured his fifth shot, and quickly downed it. The alcohol burned his throat, sending a fiery sensation to his dulled senses. Draco's bloodshot eyes roved the room of his childhood. He couldn't remember a single time, during his childhood, when he had laughed gaily. It was always mockingly, and at others, copying his parent's sneers. Draco felt bitter, more so that usual. The drink was dulling his thoughts, but not his emotions.
"Draco?" Pansy's annoying, piercing voice carried across the dark room. Draco gripped his glass so hard it shattered, leaving cuts and shards in his hand; but he didn't care.
"Draco, not again! That's the third one this week!" Pansy sashayed to her husband's side, pulling out her wand, and taking his bleeding hand. He roughly shoved her away.
"Draco?" Pansy was going to cry now, he knew it. Sure enough, his wife's lower lip began trembling.
"Get out." Draco kept his hoarse voice low and threatening. Pansy positively fled from the room, wailing. Draco had remained seated the whole time. He drew his wand, and fixed his hand. He then laid his wand on the table, watching the long thin stick of wood as if it mesmerized him. The piece of hornbeam wood, with its dragon heartstring core, had killed over 65 people, ranging from muggle children to feeble old wizards. The more he thought about it, the more he hated it. The more he hated it, the more he wanted to be rid of it. Draco took a swig of brandy right from the bottle. He had made his decision. He stood up and his chair, which he hadn't bothered to move, clattered as it fell over. He picked up his wand, and boldly snapped it in half, with a deafening crack and a blinding flash of light. Then, Draco Malfoy strode out of the room, out of the house, and into the world.
He would never look back. ~*~