RP: What difference does it make to the dead?
Date: June 9th, 1998
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Location: Malfoy Manor
Status: Private
Summary: Draco reads some of the texts that have been provided for him.
Completion: Complete
How must it have felt, reading the news back then, with each passing day bringing worse than before? Draco felt he knew, to a certain degree, how it felt to watch it play out; but the scale was entirely different. The Wizarding World was large; but it didn't include anything near the numbers struck by this Muggle war. Two and a half million children forced to leave their home; and the mandatory conscription forced on both sides. The tensions building for years; and Draco had only just reached the August of 1939; an enormous amount of the book still remained.
Carefully, Draco closed the book, placed his thumb into the middle of it and opened it again. It fell open just over a year later, with a wave of aircraft descending over London. He skipped forwards again. People were still dying... Draco closed the book abruptly and pushed it away from himself, his eyes shutting, and a hand coming up to press at his temple, rubbing at his eyes.
Why? He rose to his feet, leaving the desk and creeping out into the dark house. He descended the stairs as silently as possibly, crossed the room in darkness and stopped by the cabinet, opening it with a tap of his wand. Muggles were insane. Slaughtering each other...and for what? Land? Power? What did any of it matter when so many lives were pointlessly ended? Draco kicked the cabinet, which rattled in consternation at him, and, having taken out a bottle of juice and a glass from amongst the liquors and spirits he left it alone and went to sit in the dark sunroom, squinting up at the full moon where it shone brightly overhead.
Andromeda wanted him to understand Muggles, but at this exact moment, their brutality was all that Draco could see clearly. Sheer bloodymindedness, that made even Voldemort look like a saint. They were dangerous; certainly not to be trifled with. Definitely not marriage material. Perhaps that was where the danger came from; when Muggle and magic mixed, it was like mixing gunpowder and magic together. The results could be incredibly dangerous.
What had their world come to? When had his own brain melted and been replaced with a pumpkin? Nothing made any sense any more. Black was white. Good was bad. Draco poured himself a glass of cranberry juice and sipped it ever so carefully, revelling in the bitter taste, his eyes closing tightly.
He needed to work out who he was, where his morals lie, sort things back into black and white. He needed to know who his friends were, and what his future was. Right now, in this house, under his parents' roof, he was going nowhere; and his parole wouldn't last forever.
Draco opened his eyes again and looked up at the warm summer moon glittering like an eye in the sky above him, watching him without words, white and pale like a Malfoy.
Eighteen years old. Maybe it was time to grow up.
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Location: Malfoy Manor
Status: Private
Summary: Draco reads some of the texts that have been provided for him.
Completion: Complete
How must it have felt, reading the news back then, with each passing day bringing worse than before? Draco felt he knew, to a certain degree, how it felt to watch it play out; but the scale was entirely different. The Wizarding World was large; but it didn't include anything near the numbers struck by this Muggle war. Two and a half million children forced to leave their home; and the mandatory conscription forced on both sides. The tensions building for years; and Draco had only just reached the August of 1939; an enormous amount of the book still remained.
Carefully, Draco closed the book, placed his thumb into the middle of it and opened it again. It fell open just over a year later, with a wave of aircraft descending over London. He skipped forwards again. People were still dying... Draco closed the book abruptly and pushed it away from himself, his eyes shutting, and a hand coming up to press at his temple, rubbing at his eyes.
Why? He rose to his feet, leaving the desk and creeping out into the dark house. He descended the stairs as silently as possibly, crossed the room in darkness and stopped by the cabinet, opening it with a tap of his wand. Muggles were insane. Slaughtering each other...and for what? Land? Power? What did any of it matter when so many lives were pointlessly ended? Draco kicked the cabinet, which rattled in consternation at him, and, having taken out a bottle of juice and a glass from amongst the liquors and spirits he left it alone and went to sit in the dark sunroom, squinting up at the full moon where it shone brightly overhead.
Andromeda wanted him to understand Muggles, but at this exact moment, their brutality was all that Draco could see clearly. Sheer bloodymindedness, that made even Voldemort look like a saint. They were dangerous; certainly not to be trifled with. Definitely not marriage material. Perhaps that was where the danger came from; when Muggle and magic mixed, it was like mixing gunpowder and magic together. The results could be incredibly dangerous.
What had their world come to? When had his own brain melted and been replaced with a pumpkin? Nothing made any sense any more. Black was white. Good was bad. Draco poured himself a glass of cranberry juice and sipped it ever so carefully, revelling in the bitter taste, his eyes closing tightly.
He needed to work out who he was, where his morals lie, sort things back into black and white. He needed to know who his friends were, and what his future was. Right now, in this house, under his parents' roof, he was going nowhere; and his parole wouldn't last forever.
Draco opened his eyes again and looked up at the warm summer moon glittering like an eye in the sky above him, watching him without words, white and pale like a Malfoy.
Eighteen years old. Maybe it was time to grow up.