The way it's done
After the fall
The fall had done something to him, it seemed as if the spring-green paradise had gone…or perhaps been left behind like the air as he fell out of it. And where was he?
A strange new place.
And in the confusion, in that darkness the night left him mired in, Draco began thinking.
Lucifer...the fallen angel. His sin was Pride, wasn't it? And for that there's no forgiveness?
Are the faithless then condemned?
Faith…a queer muggle invention really, from the depths of Antiquity. What does Man see when he peers into the abyss?
And Humanity…Is there any certain Good or Bad?
I will admit that virtue—like everything else beautiful and great—is nothing but an illusion. But if it were a shared illusion, if all men believed and wanted to be good, if they were compassionate, generous, high-minded, full of enthusiasm, in a word, if everyone were sensible (for I make no distinction between sensibility and what we call virtue), wouldn't people be happier?
Leopardi again. An answer that came ringing, brilliant as the light glancing off a silver bell.
And as for myself…what is there?
Slowly, he fell asleep.
The next morning, as Draco woke up, the figure lying on the bed next to his caught his eye—Potter. As he settled back into the sheets, he thought about the last night's events, the rush and flurry of nightgowns and stretchers, bandages and sheets; how customary of that idiot to go flying at night, fall off his broom and cause so much havoc. He wondered idly how many points would be deducted from Gryffindor once the professors got wind of it…but wait, what about Blaise? He was caught out as well, and for once, Draco hoped that Pomfrey would go easy on them, the fates of both houses being inextricably entwined with each other—that was a first too, and the irony of it did not escape Draco.
"Oh, I see you're quite alright Mr Malfoy. Waking up just now," she paused and then winked. "Quite the Sleeping Beauty I see, you must have slept for two days!"
"Yeah, I slept quite soundly and not a break between.„work. She was never really too keen on schoolwork or any of that sort of thing, have now, here're your Quidditch robes, the house elves washed them clean too so you pop them on then go back to your dormitory to change."
"Thank you Madam Pomfrey."
He had changed into his school robes and set off for the dining hall with his books under his arm. He was in a rather cheerful mood as it was Friday (Draco never really fancied classes although they were easy for him) and also because the school nurse was willing to keep the night's events a secret, now that was a surprise. The morning light played around the old glass panes of the windows and it seemed as if everything had been remade since the time he fell out of the air. He wondered vaguely about this and then, following the turn of the corridor that led him out to the hall.
"Draco! You're back." Pansy exclaimed as he sidled in to the seat beside her.
"My, I thought you were going to sleep for ages." Blaise commented, widening his eyes sarcastically.
"I should be so lucky." It was good to be back with his friends.
After dinner, Pansy settled at her usual place in the common room and started on her homework. She was never really too keen on schoolwork or any of that sort of thing, her mind (she had come to a conclusion quite a long time ago) was far too active to love it and also, it was a Friday. But still, homework had to be done and she knew that there was really no better time for it— Pansy knew that if she actually made an effort to keep still she would be done in no time at all. What's the drill now? Oh yes, discipline, duty, suffering. And with this in mind she spread her things neatly over the desk and began working.
Thoughts are all inventions of the mind, a sort of construction within the void as we all build palaces in the desert. Emptiness glitters with the reflected light of imagined jewels.
--B. Z.
Blaise was lying in bed on his stomach, propped up with his elbows writing in his notebook again. He never made very long entries, just a few odd sentences whenever he felt like it—enough to show what he thought. He quickly re-read what he'd just written, shut the book and stashed it, along with the quill in it's place under his bed, then rolled over and faced Draco, whom he'd heard entering the room.
Draco walked into the dormitory, it was late, nearing one in the morning he was surprised to find Blaise still awake and writing something in his notebook.
"I didn't see you in the common room, what were you doing out there?"
"Looking up books in the library—you?"
"Writing a little bit, but before that I was observing dear little Vincent and Gregory. They were arguing with Theodore over who had said 'Snap' first—they were playing a card game and were very slow about it."
"Really, they're the only people who can play 'Snap' slowly and then argue over who won."
"Oh, the perils of being an inbred pure-blood!"
"My god," Blaise's remark had caught him by surprise, and somehow, at that moment an invisible thread inside him snapped. "what are you saying?"
"Nothing, nothing at all, why'd you have to get so hyper-sensitive over a harmless remark like that?"
"You sound like you mean all of us are inbred and stupid."
"Why would I ever say that? In fact, I'm most probably the last person who would think that way. Why would you think I meant it that way? It was just some odd remark. Look, I'm very tired, please don't pick at everything I say."
"Alright, I'm very sorry Blaise. It's just that these past days I've been thinking about how all of us, you know," He took a deep breath. "have to become Death-Eaters under Voldemort. I mean, we're obliged to do so since our parents have done it—if we don't then they might be killed."
Blaise took in a deep breath before answering. "Tough isn't it? It almost seems as if our futures are already written out and we're trapped. For me, I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, what about you?"
"I really don't know. My mother's already talking about getting me ordained right after my graduation…since my father isn't around, I know they're playing high-stakes with Voldemort—if I don't go along with them we could all very well be killed…as traitors."
"Yes, don't we all know it, the very thought of it makes my skin crawl. You know what happened to Regulus Black…not many know it, but he didn't really want to become a Death-Eater, he did it for the sake of his parents and wanted to be a member only in name—he wouldn't have the rest of it—and so he was murdered for being a traitor. Now he's branded as a coward…on both sides."
"That's very sad." Draco sighed and stared off into the distance, out of the window. "Either ways we're damned. Potter was born to save the world, no question about it, as for myself…I wish I'd never been born." And the laugh that followed this made Blaise shiver.
The sun had not risen yet, but Pansy was already sitting in the Quidditch stands, high above and over-looking the dark fields. She liked it up there, with the wind in her hair and the quiet, and the distance all around. That morning, she had taken the effort to carry her lute up with her (yes, magic could be used but musical instruments were delicate and liked to be carried instead of being summoned left and right), it was quite a new lute—a fact which often raised eyebrows if eyebrows had not been raised at the fact that she played a lute in the first place—and this encouraged her to keep it that way. Slowly but surely, she settled it on her lap and began to play. The very sound of the instrument seemed to come from far, far away like some vague echo, a vision of something long past, a memory conjured from the dust of glittering palaces in a golden age. Pansy liked it that way, recalling all the right notes and constructing—again—a better resurrection.
Oh, don't cry, it's not forever.
O, no end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
--Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus
And so in despair, such great, brave souls marched on and ended in despair.
Disclaimer: This work is purely fictional, I do not intend to propagate any message whatsoever in here, my only objective is to write a good story.