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midnightdiddleA short one-shot, about Draco. No spoilers.
Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and he's waiting to be Kissed.
The war ended months ago, and when the Dark Lord fell, Draco waited, silent and resigned, for the Aurors to grab him, to snap his wand and shackle his arms, and to drag him before the Wizengot. He never said a word when he was tried - seven counts of Unforgivables - and convicted - Dementor's Kiss.
Now he's sitting in a hard-back chair, his back stiff and straight, his face frozen somewhere between crying and laughing. His shackled hands are lying in his lap, fingertips twisted together in a bad mocking of calm. A door opens behind him and his eyes shut tightly. He can hear his mother screaming, and his father yelling, and curses and hexes and shouts, all jumbled together in his head and in his memory, and oh god, the dementor's close enough to touch him now. The scaly hands reach out to him, slime and scabs and grey skin, cold as ice, and when the long, boney fingers touch his chin, soft as any lover's touch, Draco's heart nearly stops and his eyes fly open.
The dementor's hood has been pushed back, and the face - oh god, what a face, pale and twisted and warped and wrong, so very wrong - is lowering closer and closer, and for a moment, Draco remembers.
He used to kiss Pansy, down by the Quidditch shed. She would always giggle and blush and try to hold his hand, and he would laugh and shake her off him, only to turn around and kiss her again. She had been soft and curves and colors that seemed to suck him to her, and she had still sucked him to her, when she was cold and dead and lying on the Manor's floor, eyes staring up at the ceiling, mouth forming a silent, broken 'o' of surprise. Pansy had kissed him, and he had kissed her, and now he's going to be Kissed, and he doesn't want, doesn't know, doesn't doesn't doesn't-
The touch of the dementor's mouth on his nearly kills Draco. It's freezing, ice to the touch, and he wants nothing more than to stop breathing, because it hurts, deep in his head and his heart, and there's no point, because there's no light anymore. Everything's dark, cold, pointless, and he's sad in a way he's never been sad before. He wants to cry, but somehow, he's too sad for that, just like he's too sad for everything, for even living, and the dementor Kisses him,
and
there
is
nothing-
Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and he has been Kissed.
He's beautiful, resplendant, in his cell. He's like a doll, with pale, yellow hair - he takes after the both of you, Narcissa - that shines under the lights, nearly white. His eyes - such pretty blue eyes, Lucius, just like his mother's! - are like glass, blank and empty. He's gorgeous, delicate and fragile, and entirely gone.
A ministry official takes Draco's thin, slender hands and tugs on them, none-too-gently. Draco rises from the chair, graceful in the way dolls are, and he follows when he's led from the room and down the hall. Each step is quieter and quieter, and his body seems to become lighter and lighter, and Draco's gone, he's not there, but he's not anywhere. He's like a butterfly, pinned to a piece of cardboard,
and
his
wings
won't
fly-
Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and he's waiting to be Kissed.
The war ended months ago, and when the Dark Lord fell, Draco waited, silent and resigned, for the Aurors to grab him, to snap his wand and shackle his arms, and to drag him before the Wizengot. He never said a word when he was tried - seven counts of Unforgivables - and convicted - Dementor's Kiss.
Now he's sitting in a hard-back chair, his back stiff and straight, his face frozen somewhere between crying and laughing. His shackled hands are lying in his lap, fingertips twisted together in a bad mocking of calm. A door opens behind him and his eyes shut tightly. He can hear his mother screaming, and his father yelling, and curses and hexes and shouts, all jumbled together in his head and in his memory, and oh god, the dementor's close enough to touch him now. The scaly hands reach out to him, slime and scabs and grey skin, cold as ice, and when the long, boney fingers touch his chin, soft as any lover's touch, Draco's heart nearly stops and his eyes fly open.
The dementor's hood has been pushed back, and the face - oh god, what a face, pale and twisted and warped and wrong, so very wrong - is lowering closer and closer, and for a moment, Draco remembers.
He used to kiss Pansy, down by the Quidditch shed. She would always giggle and blush and try to hold his hand, and he would laugh and shake her off him, only to turn around and kiss her again. She had been soft and curves and colors that seemed to suck him to her, and she had still sucked him to her, when she was cold and dead and lying on the Manor's floor, eyes staring up at the ceiling, mouth forming a silent, broken 'o' of surprise. Pansy had kissed him, and he had kissed her, and now he's going to be Kissed, and he doesn't want, doesn't know, doesn't doesn't doesn't-
The touch of the dementor's mouth on his nearly kills Draco. It's freezing, ice to the touch, and he wants nothing more than to stop breathing, because it hurts, deep in his head and his heart, and there's no point, because there's no light anymore. Everything's dark, cold, pointless, and he's sad in a way he's never been sad before. He wants to cry, but somehow, he's too sad for that, just like he's too sad for everything, for even living, and the dementor Kisses him,
and
there
is
nothing-
Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and he has been Kissed.
He's beautiful, resplendant, in his cell. He's like a doll, with pale, yellow hair - he takes after the both of you, Narcissa - that shines under the lights, nearly white. His eyes - such pretty blue eyes, Lucius, just like his mother's! - are like glass, blank and empty. He's gorgeous, delicate and fragile, and entirely gone.
A ministry official takes Draco's thin, slender hands and tugs on them, none-too-gently. Draco rises from the chair, graceful in the way dolls are, and he follows when he's led from the room and down the hall. Each step is quieter and quieter, and his body seems to become lighter and lighter, and Draco's gone, he's not there, but he's not anywhere. He's like a butterfly, pinned to a piece of cardboard,
and
his
wings
won't
fly-
no subject
Date: 2005-08-06 11:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-07 04:11 pm (UTC)