Gift for celestineangel!
Recipient: celestineangel
Author: elektra30
Title: White Rose
Pairings: Draco/Luna
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild Profanity, Mild Psychological Trauma & Torture, Secondary Character Death
Word Count: 3,136
Summary: An unexpected appearance draws Draco Malfoy back into the memories he wished he could forget.
Notes: Many thanks to “starduchess” for the beta help, I really appreciate it! (: To “celestineangel”, I hope you like this (:
White Rose
It was worse than he had expected.
It wasn’t because of the crying; in fact, nobody was crying. The silence was really what made this whole affair unbearable. The awkward glances and shifts from foot to foot, some random coughs and sneezes - they all shot to him the simple message that not one of them was present of their own will. Not one of them was present for her, those pretentious bastards. Why they even bothered to turn up was a mystery, but no doubt Shacklebolt had been a blabbermouth and informed the whole Wizarding world about what was meant to be a private affair. At least Potter and his entourage had the good sense to send a condolence letter instead of turning up to grace the occasion with crocodile tears; although, really, they had more reason to be here than any of the other attendees who were only here out of pity, duty or pure boredom. He had a good mind to turn his back on the whole thing and stalk out of there, but that would only give them more reason to tarnish his family name further.
Not that there was any left.
He averted his gaze from the solemn, black-clad crowd to the pale marble tombstone on his right. Only he was there for her the way she had been there for him. He wanted to disappear into a vacuum where only the two of them existed, and that would be the only - only - way he could carry on with this screwed-up world.
The last five days had been a blur - he wasn’t even sure how he had managed to get the proceedings done. After all, nobody had bothered to lift a finger. He vaguely remembered climbing into his queen-sized bed, only to push aside the covers and head for her room. There, he would sit in her armchair where she used to sit and drink a cup of tea to relax. He would run his fingers over the armrest, rubbing the soft velvet till his fingers stiffened from the excessive movement. Despite his blurred thoughts, his senses were hyperactive, drinking in every tingling detail that reminded him of her.
The wretched loneliness was tormenting. All he could hear in the manor were the echoes of his breath down the hollowed hallways like a haunting theme.
He would be better off dead than living in that shell of a manor.
Something in the corner of his left eye sucked him back into reality. He blinked.
A figure clad in a flowing, translucent black headscarf was making its way to the front. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the headscarf that made him take a double look; it was the dress. Most of the attendees had chosen full black, but this mysterious person had donned a floaty outfit that was white.
Pure, gleaming white.
“The nerve!” he heard a woman hiss under her breath, righteous indignation coating every word. Like you really care that someone is being disrespectful when you’re no different, masquerading under those tears.
Golden curls peeked out from beneath the headscarf as the figure knelt down.
“Who is that?” Pansy, who was standing behind him, whispered.
He didn’t answer, merely watching with a strange mixture of fascination and disgust as the figure bent her head (it had to be a girl) as if in prayer. The whispers around were growing fiercer, but she remained steady. Then her hand pulled out a wand.
Suddenly, something tore apart inside him.
He lunged forward and yanked the girl away from the tombstone. She fell back in the grass, her wand landing a distance away from her and her headscarf flying back.
“Lovegood? ” Pansy gasped.
He was stunned for a moment too. He had not seen her since the war, and the last he saw her, she had been a grubby prisoner in his manor basement. Now there was not a single spot on her; her white outfit, complemented by piercingly-blue eyes, pink cheeks and golden curls tumbling all over her face, made her look like a startled doll. But in her eyes there wasn’t an ounce of fake pity. It was an innocent, questioning look, and it was so out of place at this occasion that it made him feel extremely discomfited.
“What are you doing here?” he finally managed to speak. The sight of her had struck a painful chord in his numb body, awakening all his senses.
Luna Lovegood narrowed her eyes slightly, an expression that was not often seen on her face. “Can I complete my ritual?”
He was about to protest, but she had already straightened herself up and waved her wand lightly at the tombstone. For an instant, he almost thought the stone would be blown to smithereens, and he would be turned to stone himself from the shock of it all. Instead, a beautiful string of white chrysanthemums and green leaves materialised in mid-air, circled into a wreath, and was placed ever so gently on top of the marble surface.
For all the masquerading that had been going on in front of this stone, this was the first fresh set of flowers to be placed on top. Not even Pansy had brought flowers, because she knew it reminded him of the garden back home, the odd sanctuary of colours painstakingly cultivated with two bare hands despite the convenience of a wand. It had been his refuge when he needed a breather from the dark shades in his life. Now the riot of hues had disintegrated into a gnarled mess of dead vines, leaves and petals, and the fresh blooms that now sat on the marble stone only served to tighten the knots within him.
“Your business is done.” Pansy’s crisp voice rang from the back. “You may leave.”
He stared at Lovegood, willing her to follow Pansy’s instructions, only to have her turn and stare right back at him, sending a chill down his spine. Those blue eyes were a reminder of things he never wanted to think of anymore. Things about himself that he wanted to set aflame within him and be reduced to ashes.
He averted his gaze to the tombstone.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
Her voice was lilting, for Merlin’s sake. How dare she! She didn’t even sound one bit sorry; she just sounded like it happened on a regular basis, people’s mothers dying and her turning up to mock them in the purest of colours.
“I didn’t look like you do now when my mother died, though.”
His head jerked toward her instinctively.
“I sat by her tombstone and sang her songs,” said Lovegood, and she cocked her head to the side. “Then again, I didn’t have so many people watching me. Perhaps I understand.”
The number of letters that had zipped through his windows, fireplaces, under the door ... they had swarmed the floor. Every one of them was stamped with ‘HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL AND URGENT. MASTER DRACO ABRAXAS MALFOY, MALFOY MANOR. FROM THE DESK OF KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT, MINISTER OF MAGIC’, and every one of them he ignored. He didn’t want to have to know the contents. None of the Malfoys had ever been favourably looked upon on either side, and he certainly didn’t need anybody pretending they ever did care for Narcissa Malfoy. They didn’t have to pretend to be morally upright - those bloody pious victors - to offer a grand funeral for her. He was her only kin left, and the least he could do was to take things in his own hands here. Or perhaps the truth was that he had inadvertently caused her death, and this was the least he could do.
His father, the cowardly Lucius, had fled the country once the war memorials were over, leaving both wife and son behind to clear up the mess he had created. The hundreds of appearances he had to make on behalf of his father to apologise to those whose lives had been ripped apart ... it was then that Narcissa must have decided to secretly attend one of these bloody apology rituals, for she knew the horror, pain and sheer humiliation her son had to endure. But she ended up being heavily traumatised by the amount of hate and rage that resonated from one of the affected households. The intelligent, but cruelly hot-headed young daughter (not quite unlike that pompous know-it-all Granger), still mourning the torture and death of her Muggle mother at Lucius’ hands, had taken to such severe verbal and physical abusing that it had wrecked Narcissa’s soul.
One week later, he found her lying on her bed, a faint trickle of red down the side of her mouth. One more glance caught the empty bottle of poison. She was no more.
All the others believed it was her deserved end for believing in an evil cause, but they didn’t realise that everything she had done had been out of pure love.
“You will never understand, Lovegood. Now just -”
“I knew my mother for nine years, and it hurt very much. You knew yours for twice that amount of time. It must hurt twice as much.”
Her logic was hard to argue with, but he wasn’t willing to stand there any longer in front of her and listen to plain logic. Logic didn’t save anybody from Death. If she didn’t want to leave, then fine, he would. He turned on his heels and stalked out of the crowd. Hell to all those who judged the Malfoys. Right now, all he wanted was quiet time with his mother, and he couldn’t even be granted that small wish.
“Don’t you dare follow him!” Pansy hissed. “Now get out of here!”
“You might want to tell that to everyone else here; they seem to be very bored,” came the cool reply.
“You ...!”
He trudged to the very end of the cemetery, away from Pansy’s indignance and Lovegood’s insensitivity. Lovegood may have thought too highly of her empathic skills, but Pansy wasn’t any better. She had come around to the manor regularly to offer condolences, cookies and cocoa, which would have been well appreciated at any other moment of mourning. But he knew better. The way she tried to organise his life around the plans she laid out before him on a platter meant she was charting a future for him that involved her. And right now, he really didn’t need another woman in his life, for nobody could replace the kind of love and solace Narcissa had provided him. Pansy had not understood nor cared to understand what he had gone through, and nobody else would.
“Draco?”
He jumped out of his reverie, stunned to see Luna Lovegood just beside him. So much for quiet time.
“What the hell, Lovegood?!” He glared at her. “How did you get here so fast?”
“We practise magic, don’t we?”
His lip curled. If it had been Potter or Weasley who had said that, he would have socked the cocky bastard in the face immediately.
“My mother’s over there,” she said.
His cutting words were sucked back instantly. He followed her gaze to another stone not too far away. There was no doubt it was the one she was referring to, given that it was covered with colourful cloth and bizarre trinkets hanging from the sides. It was almost shouting ‘Lovegood relic’ with the psychedelic look of it all, but he found himself strangely drawn to it as Lovegood quietly made her way toward it.
He followed her.
The haunting melody she had been humming in front of Narcissa’s tomb escaped her lips once more as they stood before the tombstone. There were few words other than the gilded letters ‘MATHILDA ISABEL LOVEGOOD née WORTHINGTON’, followed by the year of death.
Luna had lost her mother when she was nine.
He wanted to ask her how she had dealt with it, but then he thought it useless. This was Luna Lovegood, the resident loon of Hogwarts. She could escape into fantasy lands as easy as he found himself downing the strongest of Firewhiskys. She had imaginary friends, most likely those that had accompanied her down the hallways of Hogwarts such that she was always looking contentedly to the side. And yes, he had to admit, he had been observing her during their last years at Hogwarts, if only because he was so envious that she was at ease with her solitary presence, while he grappled with loneliness. Her golden hair glimmered in the sun along with her smile, while his blond hair paled so white that it accentuated his dark eye bags. She was the most eccentric, most ridiculous person ever, and yet he was so bloody jealous of her that it infuriated him.
The thoughts that came rushing back to him were making him tremble with rage, so when she reached out to touch his elbow, he flung it out reflexively, almost knocking her in the face. He really couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore, not when she was only looking mildly startled, without a trace of anger or irritation.
“I don’t care, Lovegood,” he whispered, fists clenching at the same time. “And I don’t need you coming here to try and identify with me. Stop. Following. Me!”
He made to leave her behind once again, only to hear her whisper, “Your mother told me something before.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“What are you talking about?”
“Back when I was in the basement of your house. I came today to relay that message to you.”
He turned around and stared at her in disbelief.
“It was just after you had been made to cast the Cruciatus curse on me. Do you remember?”
Remember? How could he not? He had cast the Cruciatus curse before, but when he was ordered to do it to Luna Lovegood, who didn’t even flinch when she heard she was to be subjected to it, his hand shook so badly he could barely point the wand accurately. Then he had heard Narcissa’s whimper and Lucius’s gritted order to do it or they’d die. The Dark - no, Voldemort - had been impatient, and the thought of his family perishing within their basement for defying an order terrified him even more.
Watching her convulse in pain had traumatised him more than anything. The way her mouth was forced opened by the sheer torture, yet she refused to cry out. When the convulsing had stopped, Mr. Ollivander had pleaded on her behalf, only to be kicked aside by Voldemort. Despite all that, she had refused to say anything about Potter and company. All she did after Voldemort and Lucius and Narcissa had left was to ask if she could have a glass of water and to tell him to be careful of the Nargles in his bed.
What the hell? What kind of a girl was she? Was she even human?
Those questions were left unanswered even till the present.
“Draco?”
“Stop calling me like you know me,” he hissed. “What did my mother tell you?”
Luna closed her eyes, her lips breaking into a calm smile. “She told me that you didn’t mean to do it, that you were really corrupted by the Dark side. She thought I saw things differently and begged me to see you differently too.”
A lump came into his throat.
Luna knelt down at her mother’s tombstone and performed the same bizarre ritual of whispering. Then she stood up, pulled out her wand and conjured another wreath. Surprisingly, instead of white, it was a wreath of red roses. It added to the vibrant life surrounding the tombstone, and it hurt him to compare it to that of his mother’s bare one.
“I meant to do it,” he whispered. “I knew what I was doing.”
For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the first trace of imperfection in Luna Lovegood as she looked at him. An expression he hardly thought would appear on her face.
Anger.
Even Saint Lovegood was furious with his cowardice, his imbecility.
Disappointment overtook anger, then she closed her eyes, only to open them looking as calm as ever.
“I don’t need you to pretend to be nice just because I’m alone now,” he gritted his teeth. “I’m not the saint my mother painted me to be, and I don’t need your forgiveness just because you feel bloody
sorry for me!”
“I would feel sorry for you if you continued to push people away.”
Something cool touched his hand. Without warning, her whole hand slipped in and she was clasping his fingers. He tried to pull away, but she held on tightly.
“What ...”
“I had my father hold my hand like this when my mother died,” said Luna, her voice smooth and steady. “It made me feel comforted because there was someone there. There’s no one to hold your hand anymore, Draco, but I hope this makes you feel a little better, if only for a while.”
Her hand was surprisingly warm, but he pulled his hand away two seconds later and turned his head away. His eyes were stinging, and he wasn’t about to let Lovegood see him cry. The last time he had cried, he had been a complete mess over his mother’s body. Thereafter, he had resolved not to shed a single tear, especially not in front of all those hypocrites at the funeral. But somehow listening to the way his mother wanted to protect his future made his heart ache so badly. Worst still, here was Luna trying to be the person he wished could have existed a few years back, the person who could possibly have stopped him from doing all this.
Why, why was he getting himself into this bloody mess of regret again?! He was the one who had caved in under his father’s pressure, succumbed to the temptation of being Voldemort’s right-hand man (what the hell, how could he have been so naive!), chickened out of the moments to stand up for what was right ... and Narcissa had died because of him. It was always because of him. He had deserved this.
His fingers twitched. Then impulsively, he grabbed.
But there was nothing. No one.
He turned.
She was gone.
“Draco? Draco!” An impatient call came from the distance. “Draco, where are you? Everyone’s gone home!”
His eyes scanned around wildly. But all that was left on the grass before the overly-decorated
tombstone was a single stalk of white rose.
“Draco!” Pansy screamed. “Stop hiding from me! Stop hiding from everything!”
He picked up the rose, blooming pure white with forgiveness.
“Oh, I give up! I’m going home! You’re blind and hopeless, that’s what you are! I can’t be bothered with you!”
His breath shuddered as he brought the petals to his lips.
FINE.
Author: elektra30
Title: White Rose
Pairings: Draco/Luna
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild Profanity, Mild Psychological Trauma & Torture, Secondary Character Death
Word Count: 3,136
Summary: An unexpected appearance draws Draco Malfoy back into the memories he wished he could forget.
Notes: Many thanks to “starduchess” for the beta help, I really appreciate it! (: To “celestineangel”, I hope you like this (:
White Rose
It was worse than he had expected.
It wasn’t because of the crying; in fact, nobody was crying. The silence was really what made this whole affair unbearable. The awkward glances and shifts from foot to foot, some random coughs and sneezes - they all shot to him the simple message that not one of them was present of their own will. Not one of them was present for her, those pretentious bastards. Why they even bothered to turn up was a mystery, but no doubt Shacklebolt had been a blabbermouth and informed the whole Wizarding world about what was meant to be a private affair. At least Potter and his entourage had the good sense to send a condolence letter instead of turning up to grace the occasion with crocodile tears; although, really, they had more reason to be here than any of the other attendees who were only here out of pity, duty or pure boredom. He had a good mind to turn his back on the whole thing and stalk out of there, but that would only give them more reason to tarnish his family name further.
Not that there was any left.
He averted his gaze from the solemn, black-clad crowd to the pale marble tombstone on his right. Only he was there for her the way she had been there for him. He wanted to disappear into a vacuum where only the two of them existed, and that would be the only - only - way he could carry on with this screwed-up world.
The last five days had been a blur - he wasn’t even sure how he had managed to get the proceedings done. After all, nobody had bothered to lift a finger. He vaguely remembered climbing into his queen-sized bed, only to push aside the covers and head for her room. There, he would sit in her armchair where she used to sit and drink a cup of tea to relax. He would run his fingers over the armrest, rubbing the soft velvet till his fingers stiffened from the excessive movement. Despite his blurred thoughts, his senses were hyperactive, drinking in every tingling detail that reminded him of her.
The wretched loneliness was tormenting. All he could hear in the manor were the echoes of his breath down the hollowed hallways like a haunting theme.
He would be better off dead than living in that shell of a manor.
Something in the corner of his left eye sucked him back into reality. He blinked.
A figure clad in a flowing, translucent black headscarf was making its way to the front. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the headscarf that made him take a double look; it was the dress. Most of the attendees had chosen full black, but this mysterious person had donned a floaty outfit that was white.
Pure, gleaming white.
“The nerve!” he heard a woman hiss under her breath, righteous indignation coating every word. Like you really care that someone is being disrespectful when you’re no different, masquerading under those tears.
Golden curls peeked out from beneath the headscarf as the figure knelt down.
“Who is that?” Pansy, who was standing behind him, whispered.
He didn’t answer, merely watching with a strange mixture of fascination and disgust as the figure bent her head (it had to be a girl) as if in prayer. The whispers around were growing fiercer, but she remained steady. Then her hand pulled out a wand.
Suddenly, something tore apart inside him.
He lunged forward and yanked the girl away from the tombstone. She fell back in the grass, her wand landing a distance away from her and her headscarf flying back.
“Lovegood? ” Pansy gasped.
He was stunned for a moment too. He had not seen her since the war, and the last he saw her, she had been a grubby prisoner in his manor basement. Now there was not a single spot on her; her white outfit, complemented by piercingly-blue eyes, pink cheeks and golden curls tumbling all over her face, made her look like a startled doll. But in her eyes there wasn’t an ounce of fake pity. It was an innocent, questioning look, and it was so out of place at this occasion that it made him feel extremely discomfited.
“What are you doing here?” he finally managed to speak. The sight of her had struck a painful chord in his numb body, awakening all his senses.
Luna Lovegood narrowed her eyes slightly, an expression that was not often seen on her face. “Can I complete my ritual?”
He was about to protest, but she had already straightened herself up and waved her wand lightly at the tombstone. For an instant, he almost thought the stone would be blown to smithereens, and he would be turned to stone himself from the shock of it all. Instead, a beautiful string of white chrysanthemums and green leaves materialised in mid-air, circled into a wreath, and was placed ever so gently on top of the marble surface.
For all the masquerading that had been going on in front of this stone, this was the first fresh set of flowers to be placed on top. Not even Pansy had brought flowers, because she knew it reminded him of the garden back home, the odd sanctuary of colours painstakingly cultivated with two bare hands despite the convenience of a wand. It had been his refuge when he needed a breather from the dark shades in his life. Now the riot of hues had disintegrated into a gnarled mess of dead vines, leaves and petals, and the fresh blooms that now sat on the marble stone only served to tighten the knots within him.
“Your business is done.” Pansy’s crisp voice rang from the back. “You may leave.”
He stared at Lovegood, willing her to follow Pansy’s instructions, only to have her turn and stare right back at him, sending a chill down his spine. Those blue eyes were a reminder of things he never wanted to think of anymore. Things about himself that he wanted to set aflame within him and be reduced to ashes.
He averted his gaze to the tombstone.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
Her voice was lilting, for Merlin’s sake. How dare she! She didn’t even sound one bit sorry; she just sounded like it happened on a regular basis, people’s mothers dying and her turning up to mock them in the purest of colours.
“I didn’t look like you do now when my mother died, though.”
His head jerked toward her instinctively.
“I sat by her tombstone and sang her songs,” said Lovegood, and she cocked her head to the side. “Then again, I didn’t have so many people watching me. Perhaps I understand.”
The number of letters that had zipped through his windows, fireplaces, under the door ... they had swarmed the floor. Every one of them was stamped with ‘HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL AND URGENT. MASTER DRACO ABRAXAS MALFOY, MALFOY MANOR. FROM THE DESK OF KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT, MINISTER OF MAGIC’, and every one of them he ignored. He didn’t want to have to know the contents. None of the Malfoys had ever been favourably looked upon on either side, and he certainly didn’t need anybody pretending they ever did care for Narcissa Malfoy. They didn’t have to pretend to be morally upright - those bloody pious victors - to offer a grand funeral for her. He was her only kin left, and the least he could do was to take things in his own hands here. Or perhaps the truth was that he had inadvertently caused her death, and this was the least he could do.
His father, the cowardly Lucius, had fled the country once the war memorials were over, leaving both wife and son behind to clear up the mess he had created. The hundreds of appearances he had to make on behalf of his father to apologise to those whose lives had been ripped apart ... it was then that Narcissa must have decided to secretly attend one of these bloody apology rituals, for she knew the horror, pain and sheer humiliation her son had to endure. But she ended up being heavily traumatised by the amount of hate and rage that resonated from one of the affected households. The intelligent, but cruelly hot-headed young daughter (not quite unlike that pompous know-it-all Granger), still mourning the torture and death of her Muggle mother at Lucius’ hands, had taken to such severe verbal and physical abusing that it had wrecked Narcissa’s soul.
One week later, he found her lying on her bed, a faint trickle of red down the side of her mouth. One more glance caught the empty bottle of poison. She was no more.
All the others believed it was her deserved end for believing in an evil cause, but they didn’t realise that everything she had done had been out of pure love.
“You will never understand, Lovegood. Now just -”
“I knew my mother for nine years, and it hurt very much. You knew yours for twice that amount of time. It must hurt twice as much.”
Her logic was hard to argue with, but he wasn’t willing to stand there any longer in front of her and listen to plain logic. Logic didn’t save anybody from Death. If she didn’t want to leave, then fine, he would. He turned on his heels and stalked out of the crowd. Hell to all those who judged the Malfoys. Right now, all he wanted was quiet time with his mother, and he couldn’t even be granted that small wish.
“Don’t you dare follow him!” Pansy hissed. “Now get out of here!”
“You might want to tell that to everyone else here; they seem to be very bored,” came the cool reply.
“You ...!”
He trudged to the very end of the cemetery, away from Pansy’s indignance and Lovegood’s insensitivity. Lovegood may have thought too highly of her empathic skills, but Pansy wasn’t any better. She had come around to the manor regularly to offer condolences, cookies and cocoa, which would have been well appreciated at any other moment of mourning. But he knew better. The way she tried to organise his life around the plans she laid out before him on a platter meant she was charting a future for him that involved her. And right now, he really didn’t need another woman in his life, for nobody could replace the kind of love and solace Narcissa had provided him. Pansy had not understood nor cared to understand what he had gone through, and nobody else would.
“Draco?”
He jumped out of his reverie, stunned to see Luna Lovegood just beside him. So much for quiet time.
“What the hell, Lovegood?!” He glared at her. “How did you get here so fast?”
“We practise magic, don’t we?”
His lip curled. If it had been Potter or Weasley who had said that, he would have socked the cocky bastard in the face immediately.
“My mother’s over there,” she said.
His cutting words were sucked back instantly. He followed her gaze to another stone not too far away. There was no doubt it was the one she was referring to, given that it was covered with colourful cloth and bizarre trinkets hanging from the sides. It was almost shouting ‘Lovegood relic’ with the psychedelic look of it all, but he found himself strangely drawn to it as Lovegood quietly made her way toward it.
He followed her.
The haunting melody she had been humming in front of Narcissa’s tomb escaped her lips once more as they stood before the tombstone. There were few words other than the gilded letters ‘MATHILDA ISABEL LOVEGOOD née WORTHINGTON’, followed by the year of death.
Luna had lost her mother when she was nine.
He wanted to ask her how she had dealt with it, but then he thought it useless. This was Luna Lovegood, the resident loon of Hogwarts. She could escape into fantasy lands as easy as he found himself downing the strongest of Firewhiskys. She had imaginary friends, most likely those that had accompanied her down the hallways of Hogwarts such that she was always looking contentedly to the side. And yes, he had to admit, he had been observing her during their last years at Hogwarts, if only because he was so envious that she was at ease with her solitary presence, while he grappled with loneliness. Her golden hair glimmered in the sun along with her smile, while his blond hair paled so white that it accentuated his dark eye bags. She was the most eccentric, most ridiculous person ever, and yet he was so bloody jealous of her that it infuriated him.
The thoughts that came rushing back to him were making him tremble with rage, so when she reached out to touch his elbow, he flung it out reflexively, almost knocking her in the face. He really couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore, not when she was only looking mildly startled, without a trace of anger or irritation.
“I don’t care, Lovegood,” he whispered, fists clenching at the same time. “And I don’t need you coming here to try and identify with me. Stop. Following. Me!”
He made to leave her behind once again, only to hear her whisper, “Your mother told me something before.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“What are you talking about?”
“Back when I was in the basement of your house. I came today to relay that message to you.”
He turned around and stared at her in disbelief.
“It was just after you had been made to cast the Cruciatus curse on me. Do you remember?”
Remember? How could he not? He had cast the Cruciatus curse before, but when he was ordered to do it to Luna Lovegood, who didn’t even flinch when she heard she was to be subjected to it, his hand shook so badly he could barely point the wand accurately. Then he had heard Narcissa’s whimper and Lucius’s gritted order to do it or they’d die. The Dark - no, Voldemort - had been impatient, and the thought of his family perishing within their basement for defying an order terrified him even more.
Watching her convulse in pain had traumatised him more than anything. The way her mouth was forced opened by the sheer torture, yet she refused to cry out. When the convulsing had stopped, Mr. Ollivander had pleaded on her behalf, only to be kicked aside by Voldemort. Despite all that, she had refused to say anything about Potter and company. All she did after Voldemort and Lucius and Narcissa had left was to ask if she could have a glass of water and to tell him to be careful of the Nargles in his bed.
What the hell? What kind of a girl was she? Was she even human?
Those questions were left unanswered even till the present.
“Draco?”
“Stop calling me like you know me,” he hissed. “What did my mother tell you?”
Luna closed her eyes, her lips breaking into a calm smile. “She told me that you didn’t mean to do it, that you were really corrupted by the Dark side. She thought I saw things differently and begged me to see you differently too.”
A lump came into his throat.
Luna knelt down at her mother’s tombstone and performed the same bizarre ritual of whispering. Then she stood up, pulled out her wand and conjured another wreath. Surprisingly, instead of white, it was a wreath of red roses. It added to the vibrant life surrounding the tombstone, and it hurt him to compare it to that of his mother’s bare one.
“I meant to do it,” he whispered. “I knew what I was doing.”
For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the first trace of imperfection in Luna Lovegood as she looked at him. An expression he hardly thought would appear on her face.
Anger.
Even Saint Lovegood was furious with his cowardice, his imbecility.
Disappointment overtook anger, then she closed her eyes, only to open them looking as calm as ever.
“I don’t need you to pretend to be nice just because I’m alone now,” he gritted his teeth. “I’m not the saint my mother painted me to be, and I don’t need your forgiveness just because you feel bloody
sorry for me!”
“I would feel sorry for you if you continued to push people away.”
Something cool touched his hand. Without warning, her whole hand slipped in and she was clasping his fingers. He tried to pull away, but she held on tightly.
“What ...”
“I had my father hold my hand like this when my mother died,” said Luna, her voice smooth and steady. “It made me feel comforted because there was someone there. There’s no one to hold your hand anymore, Draco, but I hope this makes you feel a little better, if only for a while.”
Her hand was surprisingly warm, but he pulled his hand away two seconds later and turned his head away. His eyes were stinging, and he wasn’t about to let Lovegood see him cry. The last time he had cried, he had been a complete mess over his mother’s body. Thereafter, he had resolved not to shed a single tear, especially not in front of all those hypocrites at the funeral. But somehow listening to the way his mother wanted to protect his future made his heart ache so badly. Worst still, here was Luna trying to be the person he wished could have existed a few years back, the person who could possibly have stopped him from doing all this.
Why, why was he getting himself into this bloody mess of regret again?! He was the one who had caved in under his father’s pressure, succumbed to the temptation of being Voldemort’s right-hand man (what the hell, how could he have been so naive!), chickened out of the moments to stand up for what was right ... and Narcissa had died because of him. It was always because of him. He had deserved this.
His fingers twitched. Then impulsively, he grabbed.
But there was nothing. No one.
He turned.
She was gone.
“Draco? Draco!” An impatient call came from the distance. “Draco, where are you? Everyone’s gone home!”
His eyes scanned around wildly. But all that was left on the grass before the overly-decorated
tombstone was a single stalk of white rose.
“Draco!” Pansy screamed. “Stop hiding from me! Stop hiding from everything!”
He picked up the rose, blooming pure white with forgiveness.
“Oh, I give up! I’m going home! You’re blind and hopeless, that’s what you are! I can’t be bothered with you!”
His breath shuddered as he brought the petals to his lips.
FINE.