Note: All characters belong to J. K. Rowling
The way it's done
A Random Glance Through the Looking Glass
The smallest confused idea is always greater than a grand, completely clear one.
Giacomo Leopardi (1798 – 1837)
--That's the way it is, chaos holds infinity within itself
this was what Blaise Zabini added, his laconic two-cents worth beneath the poet's thoughts. It was scribbled in his slanted, nondescript handwriting in his copy of the man's works. He liked to think of this as a sort of correspondence from beyond the grave…or perhaps just as a record of his own thoughts—if he ever happened to cross the road one day, and if a car happened to bump him just a slight bit too hard, his mother would have this to read aloud at the funeral. He liked to have control of all the things that happened to him, he liked the ability a brilliant mind had of dazzling…even after death.
Pansy Parkinson never wasted time—she slept less than five hours a day. She never wasted energy either, not in all her six years at Hogwarts had she ever joined in the school-corridor duels that occurred, in her opinion, all too often; the only reason she could come up with on why they happened was because of Draco's hot-headedness. She had come to this conclusion after being his friend for what must have been more than ten years as well as hours of debate with her other friend, Blaise Pansy was by nature a schemer—she always thought beforehand what she would do in order to achieve her ends—it didn't mean she was wicked or anything though, just survival instinct, it was the only thing she could do in a school where just about everyone held prejudices against her house, even the Headmaster.
Draco Malfoy knew this as well. He was often upset, but as Pansy had once said, what's to be done then? All the misery in the world cannot cure what was doomed to begin with. And she was right, they were doomed…well, in a sort of way. It wasn't like,
"…The abyss, horrid, immense,
Wherein, in falling, he unremembers all.
Such, O virgin moon,
Is this, our mortal life", the way Blaise so often put it, quoting another one of his precious Italian poems, it was more of…unhappiness caused by a little over two thousand three hundred people the whole school minus the Slytherin House, then.
Misery, misery, misery,
Oh misery!
My whole mortal existence
Such is the torment that lies
In the deeps of my tormented heart!
D. M.
This was a parody he had written, The Numerous Griefs of my Bleak, Barren Life by H. P. He had gotten his love of writing naughty parodies from Blaise, no doubt his friend would protest, this isn't anything of the sort I read! But they were all poetry…or at least that's what he thought, it just depended on how good or bad it was.
Another Look
They were walking—again—through the numerous winding corridors in their school. Visits to Nowhere-Land, Blaise had called it. It was a Saturday afternoon and they always spent Saturdays like this, just walking, and sometimes talking as well. They were an odd-looking group. Draco, in the middle, was pale and on the tallish side, he had iridescent grey eyes that always carried a sort of alert wariness-- or was it weariness for want of rest? He never had a true claim to a personal tragedy of sorts, it was just…him. Pansy was a short, thin girl with wavy auburn hair that went all the way down to waist, my only crowning glory, she often declared, her face was--not at all like a pug the way some acquaintances rather unkindly, and clumsily, described it—mild and in some ways charming with her lively wittiness. Blaise was again different; with a slight, delicate frame, dark hair and eyes he was, plainly put, unremarkable-looking with not a trace of his two parts European roots—and it was not only this that was not evident at first glance, no one could tell from looking at him that he was also, as he put it, "two parts genius".
And so they walked, it was more of the buying of oblivion than anything else. It was a different thing to all three of them.
Draco let himself be happy then, it was a sort of reward for himself; he often felt a sort of guilt, not the black, overwhelming sort of despair, it was rather the nibbling sort that caused a constant, complacent melancholy in himself. Blaise, in one of their discussions on his mental health, had put it as la noia—what does it mean? Draco asked, to which his friend replied, it's Italian and untranslatable, there's no English word for it—and gave a very convoluted explanation and so it obviously didn't help.
Ahead of him, Pansy walked with her usual briskness, every once in awhile stopping to let the others catch up with her. Releasing nervous energy, she once said, I'm neurotic. Not looking at anything in particular, she withdrew into herself, inside her head she was playing her usual music,
Be still, the Hanging Gardens were a dream
And then recalled all the images flying about inside her head and then set them free again. They were rather like birds, the way they flew about, and the moment she conceived the notion of a bird, she set a large, white one sailing into the distance in her mind. She could ride with the bird, or watch it go easily, soundlessly, quietly as if it had never been there.
In Blaise's head though, there was nothing…just an interminable void. He had been inspired to create it by a poem,
… But sitting here
And wondering, I fashion in my mind
The endless spaces far beyond, the more
Than human silences, and deepest peace;
Yet, even oblivion has to end; the bell-tower tolled seven times, slowly, steadily, echoing over the lawns, about the surrounding forest and past the castle walls. Draco, Blaise and Pansy had rounded the lake half an hour before and just then, were lying in the grass at the water's edge. The lake was a grey colour, an odd hue; it spoke of forgetfulness, and sleep, and rain at night, yet when the bell rang, Draco raised an arm with startling quickness and looked at his watch, "My god, it's seven already." –Oblivion ended itself and the three started back for the castle.
That night after dinner, they sat in a quiet corner of the common room. "Come on Draco, you told us you'd read another one of your parodies. Come on!" Pansy hurried him, "Don't be so slow, stop shuffling your notes about already—really, why don't you ever organize your things?" To which Draco replied: "I never lose my things unless there's a certain somebody bugging me! ... …Alright, here it is, it's called 'My Anguish'
from My Bleeding Heart by H. P., here goes,
I am like a husk,
Emptied of all stuffing as I am
So much anguish in my heart
It bleeds from dawn to dusk
My head is like a bedlam
Much noise and disquiet darts
About my empty brain
The rain falls and winter comes
The drops loudly drum
Like my tears, I want to die."
"Waaaaaa! Oooh, a real tragedy!" Blaise said.
"Thanks, I would put in more innuendoes but I got tired so I just ended it off with rhyming words, it's something someone as brainless as him would do."
"Say… there's a Quidditch match coming up soon, you remember, that one against Gryffindor in October. Are you giving the team extra training or anything?" Pansy said suddenly.
"Mmm hm, I have." Draco replied.
"Want me to make up a song or anything?" She offered.
"What's to make up a song about? That last time it was only because Weasley really stank, but I've seen them train at the start of the year and much as I hate to say it, he's gotten a lot better." Blaise burst in.
"Ugh, I know—don't remind me, too much pain." Pansy grimaced, "No song then. Guess you'd better train hard Draco."
"I hate this." He buried his head in his hands, "it's really too much for me, the rest of the team refuses to do anything more than the bare minimum and I'm just one person. It's stupid!"
"Scare them, threaten them, you've always had a knack for intimidating people."
"Won't work Blaise, even if I said I'd A. Kedavra them they're too stupid to know what's good for them."
"Want me to try then?"
"It's no good, what could you do? They don't listen to girls, remember?"
"So what'll happen?"
"We'll lose, and I'll lose my place on the team… …not that I care anymore. It's just not worth it… …and maybe it'll teach those boneheads a lesson too, they just don't get it that they can't sit on their bum and twiddle their thumbs and rot and then expect to win a Quidditch match."
"Shit, sounds bad for you."
"It is bad. Everything is bad—heck, I think I should just go to Snape and tell him I quit, saves me the pain of seeing the Gryffies win."
"Maybe you should."
"I can't, Snape'll kill me!"
"At least you'll be dead then." Blaise chortled, "Oh, look, just don't turn up on the day of the match, get into a fight and make sure you're holed up in the Infirmary for the next two weeks."
"Good idea, I'll try it."
"No. Really, I mean it, what'll happen? What'll you do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You're serious?"
"Obviously. Look Pansy, if there was anything I could do, I assure you I would have done it earlier. It's not like I'm eager to lose you know."
"Oh, alright then, I was just worried for you."
In spite of himself, Draco had to smile, it wasn't often that any of his friends expressed concern for him outright and he said, "Thanks… …anyway, how do you suppose I should get my 'injury'?"
"Pick a fight with the Golden trio then, it's sure to get you into trouble."
"And lose us a gazillion House points, that's another certainty." Blaise pointed out.
"Oh, why's it so bloody difficult to do anything?"
"Because."
"Because what?"
"Because that's the way it is."
"F—everything! I wish I'd never been born!"
"Don't worry, happens to the best of us."
"You and your totally warped perception of the world."
"Thank you very much."
"So what'll I do?"
"Well, you know, that trick stairway up the Astrology Tower? Tomorrow we've got Astrology, so you could trip and fall and then go bump bump bumpity bump all the way down—two hundred steps, fifty metres. Sounds appealing?"
"No. Never mind, I'll just arrange another Quidditch practice session on Wednesday and then I'll go sailing about in the air on my broomstick shouting at everybody like I'm going to get a haemorrhage or something and then suddenly I'll just 'black out' and go spiraling all the way down because the entire team is just too stupid to catch me. Then I'll land in the cold, wet mud with a sickening squelchcrack and then they take ten minutes to realize they've got to run to Snape and then another fifteen minutes to realize I need to go to the Infirmary where I'll be wound up for at least a month if I'm not already dead from pneumonia or something."
"And you'll get to ask old Snape in a 'I'm-on-my-deathbed-already-so-don't-refuse-me-anything' voice to let you quit the team. Brilliant!"
"And if you die—touchwood," Pansy added, "we'll both come to your funeral and read $12 for three Funeral poems we ordered off the Wizard Web aloud and then we'll cry and I shall wear my best wide-brimmed hat with a lacy white veil."
"Very nice of you."
"It's always a pleasure to serve you O Dear Lord."
"Humph!"
Notes:
All quotes are from Giacomo Leopardi (who is regarded as one of Italy's greatest poets), except for 'Be still, the Hanging Gardens were a dream' which is the first line of the poem 'Be Still' by Trumbull Stickney, as for the parodies Draco writes and entertains his friends with, they are written by me and you may take them and have a good laugh with your friends too, I am sure they sound exactly like the dreadful sort of teenage angst poetry quite a few adolescents write.