Draco Malfoy (Darien Maxwell)
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"If melody is my destiny
Then what's left of me
I'll give to you
If next to me
Is all that you need to be
Would you settle for fantasy?
If it's the best you could do
Can I have my cake?
Can I have you too?
Would you follow me
Could I ask you to?
Would the world between us break these ties
We've worked so hard to realize?
Can a postcard say
What I see in your eyes
Could I ever break away?
Would I be satisfied
And find peace inside
Rolling half my life
Over broken white lines
Will I wake up one morning
And see the streaks on the window
That the rainstorm makes
Could you bear all the weight
And the strength that it takes
Could I ever break away?"
John Mayer- Break Away
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His eyes shone the color of midnight, and his hair was the color of bark. His head was bowed, his hands moving in a smooth circular motion across the rich smooth mahogany wood of the bar. People looking on might assume that he was cleaning, but actually he was using it has a tool of forgetfulness. Maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, he would stop reliving the moment he had been running from for so long.
"Today is the Twenty Seventh of February, and it has been a cold day indeed in New York City…" the television behind him droned. The auburn haired man could feel himself flinch; it was the anniversary. He wished of nothing more than to returning to his tiny one bedroom apartment around the corner, and curling up to a tiny ball in the corner, trying to erase the memories and the morbid guilt ridden voices within his own conscious.
He reached for an empty shot glass that a patron had left there an hour prior; it smelled heavily of vodka. The auburn haired man shut his eyes as a painful memory flashed before him. He could still see the drunken glazed look in Eva's eyes. He could remember the awful choking feeling of death; he could still feel the heat from the green glowering fire, as the dark mark was etched into his skin. He could see himself hovering over Sam Austin's lifeless body. Draco Malfoy shook his head; he could even remember the feeling of all the warmth in Sam's lifeless body silently escaping him.
He returned to his mindless scrubbing. He could feel the familiar sensation of the cold winter's air brushing past his cheeks as he was sent barreling head first towards the ground. He could remember his lips forming the incantation that temporarily softened the Hogwarts grounds. He could remember his full sprint into the Forbidden Forest. He could still feel the grumbling of his empty stomach after going nearly two weeks without food. He could remember his mind forming the ingenious idea to disguise himself as Lector Malfoy, a long lost cousin of the family. He could feel the pride when he emerged from Gringotts, uncaught, and with bagfuls of galleons to last him a lifetime on the lamb. He could remember the feeling of absolute amazement as he visited all the places he had ever dreamed off. He could still taste the fear, and feel the beads of sweat pouring down his forehead as he narrowly missed being captured by a pink haired auror. His father's death was proof enough that Azkaban was no place for a Malfoy, for any wizard.
There was one emotion that Draco could still hear, taste, feel, see, and touch from his past; it was his love for Hermione. He thought about her everyday, thinking of what could've been, and sometimes what should've been. He almost hated himself for mustering up the strength to write Hermione that reassuring letter that his life was fine; for it was all a lie. Yes, he had managed to live enjoyably for the first two years after his disappearance, but soon his life lost real meaning. In the end, he was still a murderer, he no longer had a home, and he had lost all he had ever loved, he was an orphan, and he was alone.
However, just when Draco had grown to accept his monotonous life, she came. He had moved to the United States, and much to his own dismay, he was living as a Muggle. No matter how much he loved his wizarding community and background, he was no longer safe among them. Muggle New York City was worlds away from London, and the people he knew who were silently hunting him down. Draco strayed away from the Wizarding community in New York, only venturing into the wizarding shopping center, located under the Empire State Building, to purchase ingredients for his numerous appearance altering potions. Then he made the ultimate change; he changed his name, to Damien Maxwell. He chose to keep his initials the same, so he would never forgot who he was, a Malfoy.
"Hey Maxwell! Get back to work!" A familiar voice rang from the other side of the bar. Draco raised his head up, his lips contorting into a small grin.
"I am working." He grinned, his eyes locked on the silhouette now emerging from the shadows. She was short and petite, with flowing blond locks, and a sweet oval shaped face. She had small slightly pursed lips, and at the corner of her eyes, were tiny folds of her pale skin. Draco's smile widened, he loved those lines.
"Working on what?" she walked towards the bar, her brown leather stilettos clacking with each step. "Polishing the bar until you can see that gorgeous mug of yours?" her voice was now dripping with sarcasam. Draco looked up at her, suddenly becoming aware that he could see his reflection in the mahogany of the bar. He hated that face, for he knew it was not his. He had altered the shape of his nose with highly complex potions, he had changed the color of his eyes to a deep blue, he had changed the shape of his jaw, and to finish off the disguise, he had dyed his trademarked silver, almost white blond hair. However, all he could see, behind all the magic, was the visage of his father. Draco hoped it was a delusion, but after years of maintaining a different face, whenever he stared at a reflection, he saw Lucius Malfoy. Draco bit his lip, his eyes lingering down to the scornful face before back to the blonde; she was beaming at him as she sat down. She seated herself on the stool directly across from him. He reached his hand out to her, she took it, and smiled wider at him.
"Hello love…" Draco whispered in a mock seductive tone. The blonde let out a small giggle, she loved the greeting because of the way he pronounced his hello, and his British accent seemed to hug every curve, emphasis, and syllable of each word he uttered. It drove her mad, and Draco loved to excite. Draco let out a small smile, stared at her momentarily before adverting his gaze back to his towel and his constant scrubbing. She was wearing a short bright red miniskirt, and a turtleneck sweater, a long brown cashmere scarf that silently brushed the ground as she walked, and huge chandelier earrings. She was glowing as bright as embers in a fire. However, even on a day such as this, even the world's brightest and warmest glow couldn't erase his haunting memories.
"It's near midnight, I don't understand why you're still here. Didn't you say Bob was closing early tonight?" She asked brightly. Draco still did not look up at her, into her small chestnut color eyes, he hated those eyes, because they were too reminiscent of eyes he had stared into before.
"I know Christa, but I think I'll be heading home tonight." He mumbled; the smile on his face had now disappeared. He couldn't do anything tonight; he could barely function without seeing her face, without feeling her skin rubbing against his, without smelling her saccharine smell. He detested himself for not being able to forget her.
"But.." the blonde stammered, "You said.." her voice trailed off, her eyes began to drop, as the small lines at the corner of her eyes began to crease more than usual. "You told me we'd spend Saturday night together, you…" her voice trailed off yet again. Draco picked up the towel with slightly shaky hands as he turned around and threw it in a small cardboard box underneath the bar.
"I changed my mind." He replied, trying to make his voice seem as detached as possible. His back was now too her as his eyes carefully traced and recorded the levels of all the assortments of alcohol in his stock. Christa and him had often wondered how a bar at a family restaurant could serve so much alcohol.
"I don't understand why you do this." he could hear Christa say from behind him. Draco remained frozen in his spot, arms at his side, pretending to be doing something, when really all he was doing was trying his best to ignore her. He knew what he was doing; he was hurting her. She had grown to close to him over the years. He tried keeping her at an arms length, so in case if something went wrong, he could disappear, without hurting anyone, and without the heavy burden of his own guilt. However, he had allowed himself to slip with her, repeatedly, she was too close to him. However, he couldn't just cut her off, because he was starting to realize, he needed her as a friend. She was his only friend, and years of being alone had done something to his psyche, to his mentality, it had left him jagged. It had left his heart like a piece of ripped paper, torn and crimpled, rough at the edges, because someone failed to cut with a fine straight blade.
"One minute you're all happy, enjoying life, living. Then, BAM." The curly headed woman clapped her hands against the top of the bar. "You're depressed, you're avoiding me, and you're ignoring me. You lock yourself up in that shitty apartment of yours and forget about the world. You can't shut me out like this, because I'm not always going to be here." The girl stopped suddenly, as she realized she had said something she didn't mean to say. Draco turned around abruptly, his mind slightly staggering over the words in her last sentence.
"Not going to be here?" he repeated. He leaned forward, pulling up the long dark blue sleeves of his work shirt, suddenly feeling his world spin slightly around him. He couldn't bear the thought of Christa not being there. She looked up at him, her eyes wide in sadness.
"I…" she stammered. "My mother wants me to move back to Philadelphia. This whole New York thing isn't working out." She said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. She bowed her head, a lock of her honey blonde hair falling out of place. Draco blinked, as he felt a familiar stinging sensation hit his eyes. He wanted to reach out for her, but he remained in the same position. He could feel himself building his wall; didn't he want her to leave?
"New York isn't working out, or am I not working out?"
Christa stared up at him incredulously, her eyes wide and wet. Draco bit his lip, hoping silently that she would not burst into tears. She opened her mouth, to speak but only a strange sound seemed to escape. "Damien," she choked. "You know that's not true. You're my best friend here. I'll be here for you no matter what…" her voice trailed off. Draco bowed his head.
"You don't have to lie to me. I know I have something to do with you moving back." He muttered; he could feel his fist clench as his mind moved from a state of disbelief to a state of anger.
"Damien," she paused. Draco could feel her place her soft hand upon his. "I love you to death, it's not like that, and you know it." She whispered. Draco could feel himself shaking his head, wanting nothing more than to grab Christa by the shoulders, shake her back into reality and tell her the truth. No matter how many times she said she loved him, it just didn't seem right, for he was living a lie. He was lying to her.
"You're running." Draco muttered, mostly to himself than to her. He wished he could warn her, tell her that running was useless and it only made all your problems worse. He was one to know. Christa bit her lip, and opened her mouth like she was going to speak, but only a strange semi moan escaped her cherry red lips. Draco looked at her, yearning to reach out for her, but he could feel his mind building that familiar brick wall, as he yanked his hand out from under hers. He wanted to break through, to talk to her, to tell her the reason why he ran so hot and cold. Why he was so secretive about his past, and why he tried to keep her away. Christa reached for his hands again with a slow tremulous hand, finally placing it down on the sickening raised scar on his left forearm. Draco kept his eyes locked on her as she traced the lines of the skull and the serpent. He couldn't look at it, for it held too much meaning, and too many memoirs. Draco could feel a wave of stomach turning gut wrenching fear hit him like a torpedo. He would often find Christa staring at the mark emblazoned into his skin, but she had never opened her mouth to ask him the scar's origin.
Draco was a secret. Yes, he had allowed himself to befriend Christa. Yes, he had allowed himself to love Christa, in almost a friendly, endearing and deep way, that didn't technically compare with the love he held for Hermione. That love pulled at him ravenously, requiring all of his effort to numb. The love he felt for Christa was smoothing, relaxing, calming, remedial. It was something he didn't want to numb. Yes, he had allowed Christa to love him in such a way back, but he was yet to come out to her, and tell her of his past. He had remained silent, only telling her of his British origin, and he was yet to tell her he was an orphan. He never told her about Hermione, or Vincent Barboyle, his illness, his past relationships and friendships, and he never dared let her in on the fact that he was different than her.
Now here they were, her soft fingers tracing the mark that symbolized his downfall. His eyes were low, and his heart heavy, for he knew what was next. He wished he could disappear, but her lips had already formed a question. Next thing he knew, he was at the point of breaking, his arm arched, in preparation to knock the wall down.
"What is this Damien?" the question seemed to reverberate off him. He opened his mouth, his tongue felt like sandpaper.
"I.." he stammered, what would he say. She continued to trace the Dark Mark inquisitively, she was silent, but her body language was showing she was clearly demanding an answer from her. Draco could feel his arm warm, and remember the feeling of an intense searing pain shooting up his arm. His eyes widened as he looked down at the mark, it was glowing its proverbial shade of green. Draco could feel tears well in his eyes, and Christa's eyes widened. She jumped back in surprise as if somebody had just smacked her in the face, and Draco remained frozen in his spot, unsure of what to think. The Dark Mark hadn't glowed for nearly nine years.
"What the fuck!" Christa managed to sputter; she stepped back from Draco. His face was flushed, his eyes locked on the Dark Mark. He could feel the warmth from his arm slowly diminish, and the glowing green hue slightly fade, but the mark had changed. It was no longer a faint reminiscent scar, it was as clear as the day it was first seared into his skin.
"I…" Draco managed to stammer; he was at lost for words. However, Christa was not.
"What was that?" she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the empty restaurant. Draco stared back at her; his jaw seemed paralyzed for it refused to move. He wasn't sure if it was his jaw, or his mind, that was stunned. All he could ask himself is, why? Draco could feel a strange sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, something was happening. It was if some strange sixth sense was foretelling him of something. Draco attempted to swallow the lump in his throat; the last occasion he had this feeling was when he was nearly caught in Romania. He slowly bent down, his hand resting on a plain box underneath the bar. It was where he kept it.
"Answer me! I…" her voice seemed to trail off, her lips moving quicker than her mind. "Why won't you tell me who you are?" Christa screeched from the corner, her eyes were slightly boggling out of her head. Draco stared back at her, eyes wide, as the hue of midnight blue slowly faded, as if spiraling back in time. This is not good. Draco could feel his insides scream, his muscles growing slightly taunt as they reach out for the box concealed by the bittersweet mahogany of the bar. He licked his lips slightly in preparation for the inevitable; if he wanted her to stay around, he could lie to her no longer.
"You're right, Christa. I haven't been entirely honest with you about my past." His lips seemed to cease to function as he struggled to put the flurry of emotions he was feeling into a complete sentences. She continued to stare back at him; the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes were no longer refreshing. Those sweet folds of skin, crinkled up as tears slowly began to form in the crevice of her eyes, felt like a double-edged sword being thrust into his heart.
"What was that?" she asked again. The tone of her voice had softened, but she still wore a look of acute melancholy. Draco could feel his head lower as he felt himself answer her.
"It's…" he paused, his fingers fumbling listlessly to unlatch the lock of the wooden box. "My father…" Draco could feel himself stammer. He could hear Christa's chic boots clank loudly against the floor as she walked closer, but he still remained indifferent, head bowed, searching for the right words to explain the glowing mark emblazoned on his arm. Tell the truth! He could hear one of his more positive inner voices urge.
"Back in England, I was the only son of a prominent family. However, my family wasn't exactly the most moral of people…" Draco could feel the familiar lump in his throat slowly rise. "My father, and dozens of other families, were loyal followers of a man who's views, and tactics were much different then others. It was almost a right of passage, being apart of these families, and a follower of this man. Then," Draco choked back his tears hesitantly, his grip suddenly tightened around the thin piece of wood. The object almost felt foreign to the touch. "My father, who was a pivotal figure in the public eye, was soon found out as a follower of this dissenter. My father saw no fault in this man; he almost worshipped him. He would of done anything for him, even die." Draco finished. He guiltily wiped a tear that had fallen from his eye. Christa was now standing across from him, her eyes wide, her heart and mind taken in the information simultaneously. Draco cleared his throat loudly, the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing; danger was drawing closer.
"You're an orphan…" Christa mumbled, her mind finally piecing two and two together. Draco looked up at her, desiring nothing more than to see her again. Hoping that the past eleven years of his life was all a dream, and he was back, safe in her arms again. He continued to stare at Christa, as her sharp features slowly softened. A small smile came to his lips as her sweet face came into focus on top of Christa's. Her long chestnut brown locks, he even could still inhale the light spring like scent of her hair. He could feel his heart swell for her slightly as he watched Christa's slightly sunken cheeks, slowly expanded, filling out in all the right places, then he watched the skin slightly flush. Then, the eyes, the window to her sweet soul; he remembered those the best. He smiled, a true genuine smile as Christa's eyes widened, filling with the emotion and love that he had never seen before in another living creature. Nothing could replace her, no one could imitate her, and he couldn't get over the fact he would never get her again. Hopefully, if aurors were soon approaching as his inner instinct was warning him, they'd take him to Azkaban, and hopefully he'll be stripped of all his thoughts, and his soul too if he was lucky. It was the only way to get her out of his mind.
"Is that why you ran away? Your parent's dying?" her question seemed to bounce off Draco as if he was made up of some sort of rubber. He had been allowing everything and everyone to bounce off him for too long, he had to make a change, and it was time. It was time for him to stand up. The gut-wrenching discomfort in his stomach was now nearly unbearable. "Why?" she asked again.
Draco looked up at her, Why? Why did he do all the things that he had done? Why did he allow himself to fall for her? Why… why did he betray his friends? Why was he friends with them in the first place. Why, why did he choose to go out to the Forest that fateful night? Why did he want to end it all that night, was it actually that bad? Why did he let Blaise kill Sam? Why did he leave her? Why, Why, Why, it was all he could ask himself, for it was all he asked himself anymore. Why did he allow himself, mentally and physically to slip, to let down his guard, to unmask himself for all to see? Why did he allow the world to realize that behind his snotty exterior was someone was damaged, hurt, angry, afraid. Why? Her question was almost baffling, for much to his surprise. He didn't know exactly why he had down what he had done. Why?
He liked to tell himself, he was doing it for Hermione. For her own good, for his own good, for the good of everyone. He used to feel that their world was better without him in it. He also told himself, that all he ever caused Hermione was pain. However, over the years, as his mind and heart matured, he really began to speculate his true reason for leaving. Was his leaving England a selfless act or a selfish one? He looked up at Christa, the sadness reflecting eerily in the deep blue pools of her eyes, as she anticipated for his answer. Draco opened his mouth, however, before his lips could even form the words, the door to the restaurant was flung open quite forcefully. Two robed figured immediately stepped into the room, their faces hidden, their arms both reaching out for Draco.
Draco, loosing all sense instilled in him, acting solely on the mix of the fear of being caught and his catlike reflexes, brought his hand containing his small wand, and pointed it at the mysterious figures looming dangerously in the doorway. He was ready; his lips stiff with tense excitement to utter an incantation, he had almost forgotten about Christa's presence. Much to Draco's surprise, the two figures turned to each other, and broke into a dry laugh.
The robed figures turn to each other before disrobing. Draco almost immediately recognized the taller, leaner man. He wore a pair of silver wire rimmed glasses; his hair was long, messy, and uncut. His cheeks were slightly sunken in, and on his forehead was the jagged lightening bolt-shaped scar. Beside him stood a somewhat stocky man, with fire red hair, and big brown eyes. Draco could feel his face contort into a scowl, before him stood Harry Potter, at his side however, was not Weasel, but one of his older brothers. Draco could feel a strange glimmer of curiousness as to why Harry would be on a mission to capture his arch-nemesis, Draco Malfoy, without his sidekick.
"Where's Weasel Potter." Draco asked Harry. Draco was somewhat surprised at the own coldness in his voice, however he felt he had to keep up his image in front of Harry. Hopefully he could retain at least some of his dignity before Potter would apprehend him. Harry snorted loudly before replying; Draco did not remember Potter being so defiant.
"What's going on with your hair mate, and your clothes?" Harry spat, his tone quite cruel. Draco stared back at him, his jaw locked, his hand still clutched tightly around his wand.
"Put your wand away, we're not going to hex you or anything." The Weasley said slowly, speaking for the first time since arriving, his hand still gripped firmly around his wand. Draco could feel his eyes lingered on Christa, her eyes were wide once again, however her expression was some what vague, some what puzzled.
"What's going on Darien, do you know these people?" she asked quizzically. Draco stared at her, the sad sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. He knew why these two people from his past had come, to take him back to his punishment. What saddened him the most was he could never tell Christa the entire truth, it'll look like he was the running, he couldn't run again, from nothing nor no one, and not from her for she needed him. He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, all contempt he held for Harry Potter seemed to melt to away as he stared at her, empathizing with her. Imagining how confusing this whole encounter was for her. She had grown to love a kind man named Damien. She had befriended him; she had him for four years. It would be more than strange to be looking at someone you thought you've known for so long, holding a wand and talking to strangers in black trench coat like outfits.
"Darien." Draco could hear Harry snort loudly. "Sorry, " he turns to a baffled Christa, "His name isn't Darien." Harry replied rather cruelly. Draco stared at him, taking mental note of the newfound coolness in his demeanor.
"And yes he knows us." The Weasley, who Draco finally recognized as George, Ron's older brother, piped in. Draco looked back at Christa, who was becoming more than confused. He bowed his head, suddenly feeling ashamed as he loosened his grip around his wand. Was he planning to surrender?
"You're coming with us Draco." Draco could decipher one of them command, not sure of who had sputtered the order. He seemed to be buried up to his neck in quicksand, for everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he drowned.
"Draco?" asks Christa.
"I'm not going anywhere." Draco said tartly, his grip was now tightening around his wand again.
"Why won't you answer me, what's going on?" Christa demanded again, her tone growing loudly as she grew more upset.
"Hear me out, you're not being sent to Azkaban. Albus Dumbledore will see to it that you won't. Trust us." Harry replied, still ignoring the curly headed Muggle before him. George and him were now approaching him. Draco attempted to swallow the frustration in his voice, he couldn't run now, they had him cornered.
"Darien." Christa snapped again, her tone demanding Draco's attention.
"Christa," Draco turns to her, he had to tell her, "These people… they are a part of reason why I left England. I got into a lot of trouble." Draco muttered to her. Christa looked back at him, a strange look of sadness washing over her face, however she remained silent. Draco turned to George and Harry who were exchanging strange smug looks with each other before grabbing the auburn haired man forcefully. Draco attempted to turn his head, to look back at Christa, to call out to her. He needed at least to try to provide her a real explanation. However, as they began to silently drag him through the streets of New York, everything seemed to morph, as his mind lulled, they must of cast some sort of spell on him. Draco could feel a strange feeling replacing the one of pain in the gut of his stomach; it was light and bubbly, lifting him up. He almost felt like he was floating, and his skin felt like a dozen rose petals were silently kissing him all at the same time. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved it. It was mind numbing, he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a sweet dreamland, almost forgetting his destination.
However, Harry Potter and George Weasley were very much alert, and very much worried. Bringing Draco Malfoy back to Britain was like opening a can of worms. Each one of them were equally afraid of the results, but they both had their own distinct reasons. However, it was open now, and both men simply tried to savor the quiet before the storm.