And he knows, knows as he has never known before, what this means. And he sees it all in a new way. Cold as stone and as unforgiving. He looks in the mirror and for a moment allows himself to wish futily for a dream that never was.
And as he sweeps back his silver hair, cold grey eyes stare back from the mirror and the skin that even in summer would never tan, is porcelain white and untouched. It never bruised either. Like marble, cold and perfect, unflawed.
And he knows he can never be forgiven, that always in his mind it will lurk the thought of maybe, maybe if he had been faster, maybe if he had been just a little bit stronger or wiser. The crys of those he had killed had faded now, and in this cold room it was as if they had never been.
And he remembers how alive he felt as he killed them and how empty afterwards. The only time he had ever felt like that before was when he was on the broom and he was flying, flying and none could catch him, none could bring him down. And even then that one had beaten him. And his broom had dragged through the mud and afterwards though he had not cried, for father would be ashamed of him, if he cried, he had lain on his side and then unconciously straightened- father said lying curled up ruined your posture, and he had let the match replay in his head to see where he had gone wrong.
And he found it, he simply hadn't cared enough- not like the other one who poured his soul into it. So next time he did the same, he cared, he poured himself into it. And he won. But it wasn't like he thought it would be. He didn't feel happier or wiser. He felt as though there was just one less thing to live for.
And the other had congratulated him on a good match. He had stared at tousled hair and warm alive eyes and without warning had leaned forward and given him the snitch. Walking off he had heard their puzzled voices, behind him, and he shrugged and walked on. After all did it really matter?
And the next day the alive one stalking up to him with the snitch, waving it in his face. He had listened politely to the diatribe asking him why he had done it, and then had said calmly. "Its just a game." Nodding he had strode off.
Again that night he looked at his pale hands so perfect and unmarred and was filled with an urge to hurt them. But he didn't he simply lay back and looked at the green of the curtains and cursed them into cinders. And surrounded by the burning ashes he had laughed.
He conquered his life, bit by bit and as he did so he became emptier and emptier until he was just a shell, a pretty shell. After he had won, he had quit the game. He went on to get the highest grades that year and afterwards let his grades slip. And he heard their puzzled exclamations and didn't care.
His father ranted at him then gave up on him as a hopeless case. He didn't care.
And the war came, and rather than die on Voldemort's side, he claimed the light as its own, though he himself remained dark. And the killings and the life that spewed out. How it filled him for each bare second, each life gave him back his soul for such a short time.
He became known as the butcher, he killed so many that it was like a job to him.
After the war? He settled down some thought to a life of obscurity. And then in the morning on one winter's day, when the snow was like a carpet or the bridal veil of the world, he opened his door and there was a figure wrapped warmly up and holding in one hand like a peace offering a golden snitch.
The memories faded and he sighed quietly. He looked in the mirror one last time brushing an errant strand of hair from his face.
A pair of warm arms stole around him and hair was felt against his face. Blue eyes looked at him merrily and he heard a voice say, 'Merry Christmas, Draco.'
And he pretended for the other's sake that the kisses fill him and make him less empty, because he knows the other needs it. Needs the pretence that everything can be right.
Nothing can be different. He knows this and he thought he understood the way her mind worked the babble of thoughts, not like his own silent and compartmentalized mind. And he wished for the dream that once was his, of a young boy with silver hair looking in the mirror and the hope that had once been his.
And as he sweeps back his silver hair, cold grey eyes stare back from the mirror and the skin that even in summer would never tan, is porcelain white and untouched. It never bruised either. Like marble, cold and perfect, unflawed.
And he knows he can never be forgiven, that always in his mind it will lurk the thought of maybe, maybe if he had been faster, maybe if he had been just a little bit stronger or wiser. The crys of those he had killed had faded now, and in this cold room it was as if they had never been.
And he remembers how alive he felt as he killed them and how empty afterwards. The only time he had ever felt like that before was when he was on the broom and he was flying, flying and none could catch him, none could bring him down. And even then that one had beaten him. And his broom had dragged through the mud and afterwards though he had not cried, for father would be ashamed of him, if he cried, he had lain on his side and then unconciously straightened- father said lying curled up ruined your posture, and he had let the match replay in his head to see where he had gone wrong.
And he found it, he simply hadn't cared enough- not like the other one who poured his soul into it. So next time he did the same, he cared, he poured himself into it. And he won. But it wasn't like he thought it would be. He didn't feel happier or wiser. He felt as though there was just one less thing to live for.
And the other had congratulated him on a good match. He had stared at tousled hair and warm alive eyes and without warning had leaned forward and given him the snitch. Walking off he had heard their puzzled voices, behind him, and he shrugged and walked on. After all did it really matter?
And the next day the alive one stalking up to him with the snitch, waving it in his face. He had listened politely to the diatribe asking him why he had done it, and then had said calmly. "Its just a game." Nodding he had strode off.
Again that night he looked at his pale hands so perfect and unmarred and was filled with an urge to hurt them. But he didn't he simply lay back and looked at the green of the curtains and cursed them into cinders. And surrounded by the burning ashes he had laughed.
He conquered his life, bit by bit and as he did so he became emptier and emptier until he was just a shell, a pretty shell. After he had won, he had quit the game. He went on to get the highest grades that year and afterwards let his grades slip. And he heard their puzzled exclamations and didn't care.
His father ranted at him then gave up on him as a hopeless case. He didn't care.
And the war came, and rather than die on Voldemort's side, he claimed the light as its own, though he himself remained dark. And the killings and the life that spewed out. How it filled him for each bare second, each life gave him back his soul for such a short time.
He became known as the butcher, he killed so many that it was like a job to him.
After the war? He settled down some thought to a life of obscurity. And then in the morning on one winter's day, when the snow was like a carpet or the bridal veil of the world, he opened his door and there was a figure wrapped warmly up and holding in one hand like a peace offering a golden snitch.
The memories faded and he sighed quietly. He looked in the mirror one last time brushing an errant strand of hair from his face.
A pair of warm arms stole around him and hair was felt against his face. Blue eyes looked at him merrily and he heard a voice say, 'Merry Christmas, Draco.'
And he pretended for the other's sake that the kisses fill him and make him less empty, because he knows the other needs it. Needs the pretence that everything can be right.
Nothing can be different. He knows this and he thought he understood the way her mind worked the babble of thoughts, not like his own silent and compartmentalized mind. And he wished for the dream that once was his, of a young boy with silver hair looking in the mirror and the hope that had once been his.