"You've thrown down the gauntlet. You've brought my wrath down upon your house. Now, to prove that I exist I must kill you. As the child outlives the father, so must the character bury the author. If you are, in fact, my continuing author, then killing you will end my existence as well. Small loss. Such a life, as your puppet, is not worth living.
But... If I destroy you and your dreck script, and I still exist... then my existence will be glorious, for I will become my own master."
― Chuck Palahniuk,
Puppet..
Like a puppet he felt, functioning on the strings... No emotions, no hunger... No thirst, just working and working on the never-ending task.
He threw the transfigured dove inside the cabinet and held his breath. The dove fluttered its wings, bobbing its neck, and it flew inside. Draco waited and waited... seconds passed and then it turned into minutes.
Draco held his breath and finally crossed his fingers, he opened the cabinet, then he dropped down on the floor.
Dead...
The dove was dead, just like his hopes of being free. He felt suffocated. His chest burned with the need for oxygen. But he just could not convince himself to breathe. His body was shaking as he stared at the disfigured body of the dove, neck snapped, limbs crushed, eyes burst lying in the pool of its own transfigured blood.
The voice of his mother's cries of pain echoed in his head, and he was tempted to just step into the cabinet and face the same fate as the blasted bird.
At least it will be over... it will be easier than feeling the darkness surrounding him and sucking out each and every bit of happiness from his body like a dementor. At least he would not have to face the dead face of his mother and father due to his failure.
Draco felt the room around him shift, and soon a melody started playing softly in the room, which made Draco feel somewhat calm.
As if everything was going to be alright... as if fate could flip to the other side.
And a blank canvas and two self-inking quills appeared in front of him, and Draco somehow shakily smiled.
"T-Thank- y-you-" he rasped to the room, and as if the room's magic had sensed his words, it visibly brightened in acknowledgment.
Draco wasn't artistically motivated, but he took the quills in his hands and decided to draw in order to distract his mind.
When Draco was a child, he was young and free... free of all the responsibilities, all the restraints, all the chains...
He used to sit in the beautiful gardens surrounding the Manor and sketch and sketch, filling the blank paper with his ideas and things of beauty. Innocent sketches of peacocks, bright flowers, and fairies chasing the butterflies...
But now, growing up, he truly understood the power of art, on every single failure, on every single day after going through the surreal task he had sketched, pouring every ounce of his feelings over the pages, bleeding his emotions behind every single stroke, the depth behind every single art piece. He drew figures of torturing the nose-less Lord. Pages after pages with all his plans and plots to avenge his mother, to free his father from the path his grandfather had forced him to walk.
Days after days, he would just hide his thoughts inside his occlumency shields and his art behind the numerous things in the room of hidden things.
He was even impressed by seeing the pile of his masterpieces, his precious imaginations, and hundreds of papers. He smiled, looking at a particular piece of a bunch of arrows piercing through the Nose-less Lord's arse and blood oozing out of his scaly mouth.
His favourite one was the one with The Nose-less Bastard's prick sliced and, with his impressive imagination, Draco had made the figure being penetrated by a thorny cactus...
He then observed the colours of the quills the room had provided him with today... The room always decides on the colour theme of his works, and Draco just lets the ink bleed on the paper, satisfying himself in his own wicked manner.
Black and... Emerald green.
Draco froze... no... no...
"You are a fucking bastard." Draco cursed and if the room had recognised the insult, the lights flickered on and off as if they were mimicking laughter.
Though hesitating, Draco took the quills in his shaking hands and gulped before starting to sketch, tracing the lines of the chiselled jaw, the messy hair... The hypnotising smile...
The way he stared at him, the way his eyes always followed his each and every single move, the way Draco's heart ached whenever the shining bright eyes narrowed at him... His aura fragile yet strong... His eyes... Salazar his eyes! It almost made him imagine that they begged Draco to strip in front of him so he could get a taste...
Draco wanted him to touch Draco with those slender fingers and just once in his lifetime, call him by his name.
"Draco—" he imagined how his name would roll off his sinful pink pouty lips.
A tingling sensation crawled up Draco's spine, making him shudder.
"You perverted dirty bastard—" he cursed the room again and the laughter blinking of the chandelier was back.
Draco wanted to stop, but he just couldn't. He momentarily closed and then opened his eyes, his breath coming in pants as if he had been running.
Even after three months, the feeling of his hand touching the soft skin of his cheek, breaking the nasal septum, was still fresh in Draco's mind, providing him with an equal feeling of hatred, self-loathing, and desire.
He immediately leaned forwards and started to stroke the lines, trying to capture the vivid image of his mind to pour onto the page. Tracing each and every detail he could recall...
His left hand moved down his body as if he had a mind of his own, and started to go lower and lower on his abdomen.
The detailing of the sketch made Draco moan loudly as he filled the iris with the emerald ink... It took almost forty minutes for Draco to finally accomplish the perfection of the face's details, the emerald eyes shining so brightly gazing at his very soul.
"Oh- Salazar—" Draco said as he touched the sketches' cheek delicately, not wanting to smudge the perfect masterpiece.
As he continued to stare at the art, something burned in him. His body started to heat up, and he looked down to see the bulge peeking out of his robes.
Draco gulped, "It's all your fault—" he spat, referring to the room of requirement, and hesitatingly grabbed his bulge through the silk fabric of his robes, gently massaging it with his fingers. His eyes locked with the emerald ones of the sketch, he moaned.
Without even thinking further, he parted his robes, unzipped his trousers, and pulled out his pulsating penis from his undergarment. The prick was hard and dripping through the pre-cum, dying to be touched, dying to be caressed.
Draco gulped, bells ringing in his mind, but he just could not stop, not in front of the mesmerising sketch gazing at him as if it would come alive, Oh! How much he wished... how much he desired...
Draco kept staring at the sketch, and then bit his lip, grabbing his prick. He started to move his hand up and down, almost hesitatingly at first, and then the sight of the sketch automatically made his hand move faster.
'What would Father think about this?' Draco's thoughts wandered.. .What a sin... to be masturbating over a boy whose nose he had broken a month before...'Was he losing his mind?'
'Maybe he was...' He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore, the sensation of pleasure overwhelming his senses. With his right hand, he softly fondled his balls and then gasped, moaning loudly.
His traitorous mind supplied the imagination of him standing back, his lean seeker-built body pressing back against his own, his sinful lips on Draco's neck, biting the flesh and making his skin burn, then kissing the bite alright again...
He slowed down his pace when he felt a burning sensation crawl down his spine and then gasped again. His eyes rolled back as the sensation was too much to bear. "Agggghh-" he moaned, and then finally he burst, shooting his seed directly over the canvas as he cried in pleasure.
His body was shuddering. He tried to relax his breathing but couldn't. The sketch was completely ruined with a spray of cum, dripping all over the emerald eyes.
Then what had just happened hit Draco. His body was giving up. He felt burning as his eyes stung. He brought his hand up to stare at the evidence of sin and his eyes started to leak.
With his other hand, he grabbed his wand and yelled, "INCENDIO" pointing at the canvas, and it started to burn, the angry flames engulfing the paper, taking away all the evidence of his misery.
"Scourgify—" Draco muttered, and with shaking hands, he zipped his trousers back up after tucking himself in. He felt numb...
He hated... Oh! He loathed himself for being so miserable, for being so weak.
He hated himself for desiring what could never be his. He then raised his left arm and slowly folded his sleeves, staring at the proof that he was not allowed to imagine... It was forbidden to wish...
His entire body was aching... His heart was longing... His breath was shaking, his eyes were stinging... His nose was clogged. He curled himself in the foetal position, his brain went blank, and he was surrounded by pitch darkness. Like in a whirlpool of grief, he was stuck... Nothing was left in his world...
His mind rang with his mother's cries again, even louder than the first time, and the images of his father tortured by Crucio flashed in his mind.
"I- I- am S-S-ory-" His voice broke and he tightened his arms around his knee, trying to make himself as small as possible.
A wrong sort, that he was...
Oh, how much he envies, Oh! How much want-
But he can't... He was the wrong sort, after all.
A maniac laugh escaped his lips, and then he was laughing... laughing at how pathetic he was... how weak he was... He can't save his parents... his friends, or even himself.
He didn't even deserve to imagine that—
He had tried and tried for years, but he couldn't stop his heart from yearning for what he couldn't gain. Not even in hundreds of lives.
Those wishes were meant to be for the red-haired people who are brave... Not a coward like him...
He recalled when those alluring lips were trembling, those emerald eyes leaking with tears, making his heart break... "He is back! He killed Cedric! He is bac-" and with those words Draco's whole world had shattered.
His father was bonded and now he is too... they were trapped... It was over—
Oh! How much he wants to alter things... Oh, how he wants to travel back in time—
He just couldn't stop it... He was addicted... addicted to the attention... Whether it was right or wrong, his heart needed any sort of attention he could get...
Draco's mind supplied the images of him standing behind Umbridge, watching in horror and disgust as his heart stung every time the tip of the blasted quill touched the tanned skin of the fragile arm.
He had cried and cried... For not being able to save him... for not being able to do a fucking thing.
But how was he supposed to save him when he was drowning himself?
He coughed violently when the mucus and tears of his eyes made him struggle for air, then he felt a warming sensation wash over him.
The air of the room started to smell sweet, just like the apple gardens in the manor. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down his breathing. A melody of chirping birds echoed in the room, making the voices inside his head somewhat muffled.
Minutes passed... or maybe hours... He just laid there, beside the burnt canvas, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his mind down.
He then finally raised his body so that he was now sitting on the floor, and smiled wobbly, shaking his head at the room.
"T-Thank you but If you really want to help me, Show me a way to end this... show me a way to make this right..."
Nothing happened, and Draco sighed.
Oh, what an imbecile he was... taking to the room as if it was a fucking person...
'Isolation does this to people...' Draco mused and then snorted.
He was about to stand up and go to work on the fucking cabinet again when the room started to tremble. He screeched an undignifying sound when books around the room started to fly across his head, slamming into each other in mid-air and dropping on the floor.
"The-fuc-" Draco gasped, ducking a thick antique-looking book and closed his eyes...
Fuck ... he panicked.
He had somehow offended the room and he didn't even fucking know what to do to make the fucking situation better.
'Apologise to the room?' he thought and when he was about to, the sounds of swishing and colliding of the books stopped. He took a deep breath and then opened his eyes and gasped...
In front of him was a diadem, floating in the air captured in a blue orb of magic, as if the magic was protecting either the diadem from Draco or Draco from the diadem. Either way, Draco dared not to touch the magical shield and looked down the orb where three black leather-bound books were piled up, but what caught his eyes most was a small brown diary...
The diary was old... that was Draco could tell by the appearance of chapped dragon-hide leather and deckled edge pages... Draco took a deep breath and with shaking hands, Draco grabbed the diary into his hands and opened the first page...
'The Property of Star-Crossed Black-'
~Love-K.D