Post OotP drabble...
Which means there's spoilers in it.
Mostly just Draco but a hit of H/D, 504 words.
Echoes
It has been stiflingly hot and humid for so many days that the heat has finally crept into the depths of the Manor, adding the new heaviness of too much water in the air to Draco’s already foul mood. The air, though it fills his room in nearly visible thick damp tendrils and presses heavily upon his chest, does nothing to obscure the overall emptiness he feels.
It feels.
Malfoy Manor has always had a certain aloof charm, it has never been a cozy place to curl up with a book, but even though it’s grand sprawling rooms have only housed three inhabitants during it’s most recent history it has always felt full. And Draco has felt safe. Now with Lucius locked away in Azkaban there seem to be many more strange noises in the night. More discontented mumblings from the portraits. As if the building itself is missing him, a soldier who’s lost an arm in battle but can still feel it when he wakes in the night and reaches for a glass of water to find nothing.
Nothing.
He lies on his back, sprawled across his bed, trying to breath slowly. Sweat blooms on his upper lip, the small of his back, the space behind his knees. He can hear his mother’s wailing cries from the drawing room as they echo through the halls. He wishes she would stop. The echoes only make the Manor feel that much more empty.
Sitting with her the night he’d returned from Hogwarts, after the removal of hexes, thanks to Potter, for the second year in a row, they had just stared across the room at each other. She had refrained from punishing him, the hexes and the humiliation were quite enough, and tried to make small talk. Asking how his O.W.L.s went, had he finally started dating Pansy, how Crabbe and Goyle were getting on. He had nothing to say. Nothing he could say. Watching him sitting there looking so much more like his father everyday the tears had started to roll down her cheeks until they were a torrent, and Draco bolted from the room.
He has not seen much of her in the weeks since. He cannot bear it, and she cannot stop crying. So he lies on his bed and tries not to think too much as he watches the sweat on the permanently chilled glass of water on the bedside table roll down in rivulets, tears that he will not cry. He reaches for the glass, cool and wet, and though he grasps it tightly, it somehow manages to slip from his grip, and find the one space on the stone floor that is not covered with rugs.
The resulting crash and ring of shards on stone seems far too loud against the damp quiet.
And he’s back at Hogwarts. Charms O.W.L. Potter walks by. Draco throws a scathing look at him.
That’s all it takes.
The sound of the glass smashing echoes in his head.
Mostly just Draco but a hit of H/D, 504 words.
Echoes
It has been stiflingly hot and humid for so many days that the heat has finally crept into the depths of the Manor, adding the new heaviness of too much water in the air to Draco’s already foul mood. The air, though it fills his room in nearly visible thick damp tendrils and presses heavily upon his chest, does nothing to obscure the overall emptiness he feels.
It feels.
Malfoy Manor has always had a certain aloof charm, it has never been a cozy place to curl up with a book, but even though it’s grand sprawling rooms have only housed three inhabitants during it’s most recent history it has always felt full. And Draco has felt safe. Now with Lucius locked away in Azkaban there seem to be many more strange noises in the night. More discontented mumblings from the portraits. As if the building itself is missing him, a soldier who’s lost an arm in battle but can still feel it when he wakes in the night and reaches for a glass of water to find nothing.
Nothing.
He lies on his back, sprawled across his bed, trying to breath slowly. Sweat blooms on his upper lip, the small of his back, the space behind his knees. He can hear his mother’s wailing cries from the drawing room as they echo through the halls. He wishes she would stop. The echoes only make the Manor feel that much more empty.
Sitting with her the night he’d returned from Hogwarts, after the removal of hexes, thanks to Potter, for the second year in a row, they had just stared across the room at each other. She had refrained from punishing him, the hexes and the humiliation were quite enough, and tried to make small talk. Asking how his O.W.L.s went, had he finally started dating Pansy, how Crabbe and Goyle were getting on. He had nothing to say. Nothing he could say. Watching him sitting there looking so much more like his father everyday the tears had started to roll down her cheeks until they were a torrent, and Draco bolted from the room.
He has not seen much of her in the weeks since. He cannot bear it, and she cannot stop crying. So he lies on his bed and tries not to think too much as he watches the sweat on the permanently chilled glass of water on the bedside table roll down in rivulets, tears that he will not cry. He reaches for the glass, cool and wet, and though he grasps it tightly, it somehow manages to slip from his grip, and find the one space on the stone floor that is not covered with rugs.
The resulting crash and ring of shards on stone seems far too loud against the damp quiet.
And he’s back at Hogwarts. Charms O.W.L. Potter walks by. Draco throws a scathing look at him.
That’s all it takes.
The sound of the glass smashing echoes in his head.