(no subject)
Date: May 22, 2001
Time: 4:15 pm
Location: Flourish & Blotts
Characters Involved: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Paranoia, Draco realised, had become one of his most intimate companions.
He gazed out at the clouds knitting themselves together from the window in Diagon's public owlery long after the small tawny had swooped off with his letter. Tiberius was much displeased with him of late -- Draco could count the days since the start of his distemper (it was a Tuesday, the 23rd of February, to be exact). The horned owl, imperious, self-important, neglected, preferred the outdoors to Draco's company, a master who refused to give him the task for which he was groomed.
Not that Draco needed company. Certainly not.
The letter to his aunt was of some urgency, although he loathed the idea of contacting her at all. A Necessary Evil, was she. As was he, now. Expressing her perplexity (or, more aptly, impatience) at his recent absence in her journal was an ominous sign. Draco had spent far too long involved in his other activities, and in evading the reaching hands of ghosts from his past who were bitterly undesirable to him now. How had they found him? Was he so obvious?
They needed to put an end to their efforts... or he would put an end to them.
Paranoia. Bitterness. Resentment. Fear? No, he must be done with fear; and yet... Regardless, it all led him to chase after anonymity more than usual. If Tiberius was spotted by someone unwelcome he would have worse challenges to face than that of his aunt, or even his father, if such was possible. While his family was this Necessary Evil to him now, while they were potentially useful and thought him the same, he could play the scepter in their hand. His masks now were endless. Contact with them would be bearable for the sake of means to an end. A means to an end, that is all it was, he insisted repeatedly when his brows could knit no tighter than the clouds overhead.
But them. The others. That would be intolerable. That would be weak. They... in particular he... were among those to be first against the wall. There would be no wavering. None.
None.
With his last steel conviction, Draco turned from the quickly darkening sky and left through the unsettled flutter of wings and the sharp glow of eyes. Always eyes. No sanctuary even in the rafters of the sky. When his feet hit the pavement, once more firm upon the earth, the rain began. He exhaled a breath he did not realise he had been holding.
What would it feel like to be cleansed?
Draco stood motionless in the small square opening into the alley, staring at the sky again expectantly. Thunderstorms. He used to love them almost more than anything. But only because someone else had loved them, too. Draco continued to stand: a drowning, silvery statue, half-begging the thunder to come and half-pleading for it to stay away forever.
The loud crack that shook him next he thought at first to be a rib breaking, his body unable to handle the long-dismissed emotion. Worse, he realised, turning his back on the sky and forcing his feet down the alley, ...thunder.
Flourish & Blotts was undoubtedly crowded now due to the sudden downpour, but it was the nearest shop, and Draco suddenly wanted to be anywhere but in the rain. Familiar and forbidding scowl set firmly in place, he shouldered his way through the door and past a tubby little witch who had decided in all her wisdom to block the entrance while she shook out her umbrella. As terse (and as shamefully wet) as he was, he still managed to evade the various bodies huddled inside with a grace he would never be able to shed, no matter how reclusive he had become.
He stood squarely, examining a precariously tilting stack of books with determined focus... so that he might ignore another pair of eyes examining the picture of a dripping Draco Malfoy with equal scrutiny.
Always eyes. They never had their fill.
Time: 4:15 pm
Location: Flourish & Blotts
Characters Involved: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Paranoia, Draco realised, had become one of his most intimate companions.
He gazed out at the clouds knitting themselves together from the window in Diagon's public owlery long after the small tawny had swooped off with his letter. Tiberius was much displeased with him of late -- Draco could count the days since the start of his distemper (it was a Tuesday, the 23rd of February, to be exact). The horned owl, imperious, self-important, neglected, preferred the outdoors to Draco's company, a master who refused to give him the task for which he was groomed.
Not that Draco needed company. Certainly not.
The letter to his aunt was of some urgency, although he loathed the idea of contacting her at all. A Necessary Evil, was she. As was he, now. Expressing her perplexity (or, more aptly, impatience) at his recent absence in her journal was an ominous sign. Draco had spent far too long involved in his other activities, and in evading the reaching hands of ghosts from his past who were bitterly undesirable to him now. How had they found him? Was he so obvious?
They needed to put an end to their efforts... or he would put an end to them.
Paranoia. Bitterness. Resentment. Fear? No, he must be done with fear; and yet... Regardless, it all led him to chase after anonymity more than usual. If Tiberius was spotted by someone unwelcome he would have worse challenges to face than that of his aunt, or even his father, if such was possible. While his family was this Necessary Evil to him now, while they were potentially useful and thought him the same, he could play the scepter in their hand. His masks now were endless. Contact with them would be bearable for the sake of means to an end. A means to an end, that is all it was, he insisted repeatedly when his brows could knit no tighter than the clouds overhead.
But them. The others. That would be intolerable. That would be weak. They... in particular he... were among those to be first against the wall. There would be no wavering. None.
None.
With his last steel conviction, Draco turned from the quickly darkening sky and left through the unsettled flutter of wings and the sharp glow of eyes. Always eyes. No sanctuary even in the rafters of the sky. When his feet hit the pavement, once more firm upon the earth, the rain began. He exhaled a breath he did not realise he had been holding.
What would it feel like to be cleansed?
Draco stood motionless in the small square opening into the alley, staring at the sky again expectantly. Thunderstorms. He used to love them almost more than anything. But only because someone else had loved them, too. Draco continued to stand: a drowning, silvery statue, half-begging the thunder to come and half-pleading for it to stay away forever.
The loud crack that shook him next he thought at first to be a rib breaking, his body unable to handle the long-dismissed emotion. Worse, he realised, turning his back on the sky and forcing his feet down the alley, ...thunder.
Flourish & Blotts was undoubtedly crowded now due to the sudden downpour, but it was the nearest shop, and Draco suddenly wanted to be anywhere but in the rain. Familiar and forbidding scowl set firmly in place, he shouldered his way through the door and past a tubby little witch who had decided in all her wisdom to block the entrance while she shook out her umbrella. As terse (and as shamefully wet) as he was, he still managed to evade the various bodies huddled inside with a grace he would never be able to shed, no matter how reclusive he had become.
He stood squarely, examining a precariously tilting stack of books with determined focus... so that he might ignore another pair of eyes examining the picture of a dripping Draco Malfoy with equal scrutiny.
Always eyes. They never had their fill.