Pristine white walls. Always pristine.
Trapped here, in this hallway, with no where to go, no where to flee. Only hands, ineffective in keeping out the yells. Often, when the Master of the Manor arrives home, and the resounding slam of the ornate oak doors reverberates across the Manor, the already quiet mansion further descends into an oppressive, suffocating silence.
No where to flee.
No way to drown out the sounds.
Pristine white walls. Virginal against the stark bloody shades of red.
Footsteps. Whimpers. The Master stalks towards his heir, brandishing the wicked whip at his side. Immaculate robes and haughty features contrasting the cowering mess against my pristine white walls. The air cracks and seems to shudder as the snaking whip lash out.
Crimson shades marring my pristine white walls.
I run. The echoes, they follow, haunting me. The pristine white walls clap and laugh, hurling echo after echo towards me.
Trapped. This home of mine, it betrays me. My solitary hallway. Mine, mine, mine. How could you?
No where to flee.
Those voices taunt me, cursing me, my ancestors, my children, cursing me for existing, and for continuing the pure blooded lineage that has been the pride of many, many Malfoy generations.
Those voices cry out to me. Asking 'why, why, why?', and I wonder too, why you, young man? My pride, my legacy, dignified no longer, tainted with murder and blood that splashes against my pristine white walls.
But I have no where to flee.
Then there's the Mistress. So cold, so aloof. And with features so similar to my own.
Her robes are too long for her; that beautiful face gaunt and strained. My delicate mouth pasted on her clear smooth face, never smiling.
Her fine precise footsteps, so different from the Master's, join the echoes of your whimpers in dancing around my hallway. She bends over you, forcing water between your lips, and the echoes cry as the trickles slip past your pointed trademark chin onto your fresh wounds, the echoes dance with your hisses of pain.
In her own twisted way, she cares for you young man. And soon she'll summon the house elf, and you'll flee, flee, flee to your perfect room.
And here I remain, trapped. In this hallway. Staring at my pristine white walls. Mine, mine, mine…
No where to flee.
Those voices that cry…they no longer echo. There is no time in this hallway. Everything is still, silent, except for the dancing echoes that bounce off my pristine white walls.
My young man, you no longer cry. You walk pass me everyday, and only then I can see that time passes outside these pristine white walls. Your eyes, if you had bothered to look at me, would be level to mine now. But I'm invisible now, a shadow in your childhood, and a remnant of your painful past. You don't want to see me, to be reminded, of the hours you spent, staring at me, so alike the Mistress, wishing, wishing, wishing, for her to care more, as you cower there, on the floor, against my pristine white walls.
The echoes are no longer dancing, but skulking along this corridor, this hallway of mine, mine, mine.
You stalk pass me, much like your father did, and flee flee flee from the taunting memories of the dancing echoes.
But me, I am trapped right here, staring at my pristine white walls.
With no where to flee.
Then again, you taint my pristine white walls. Copper red flashes against that beautiful white. Creamy hands tangled in your lovely silver hair. You kiss her right there, propped up against my pristine white walls. And whispers, loving caresses of your name, of her name, bounce along my hallway. The echoes are dancing once more.
I intrude upon your most intimate moments. But you cannot blame me, my young man. You chose my pristine white walls and my hallway.
Me, I have no where to flee.
My pristine white walls are no longer white. Grayish prints adorn my hallway. Handprints, all along the corridor, all along my pristine white walls. Mine, mine, mine no longer. Young man, you found your redemption in her. And now, no echoes shall dance in this hallway. Time, has invaded my home. Laughter, wails, tantrums, cries…Lives blooming before my very eyes. My legacy will continue through you, the new Master of this Manor and the tiny masters that stained the walls . Your dirtied white walls, and your hallway, all yours, yours, yours.
After all, I am naught but a silent painting in your manor, I have been, and always will be. But now, I have no wish to flee.