Black is the Colour
Bitter was the wind as it blew through the leaves of the old yew tree. Marked was the grave, and gray was the sky.
But it couldn't compare to the copper taste of blood as it flowed over his tongue, or the deep purple of the bruises that appeared as rapidly as the potions made them disappear.
"Draco," His mother's voice was soft and buttery as it was muffle by the door. "Let me in sweetheart." Wiping some of the blood away on his sleeve, he walked lamely to the far end of the room, staring out at a sparrow who was singing on the lattice trapping him inside. "He's your father Draco, and he means well. It is just for your character…" It was a lie even she didn't believe. "Draco"
"What do want Mother!" He barked, turning his head away from the window, blood dribbling down his chin.
"Draco…" Her voice sounded so pathetic, weak.
Like mother, like son.
Turning back to the window he looked out, envious of each wing beat. Opening the latch on his window, he extended his hand through, into the air, wishing, desperately, he could fly.