Title: Snowflakes
Author: Ria )
Summary: At the very end all one can do is think, after all. Think.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: General spoilers.
Because I am an officer and a gentleman they have given me my notebooks, pen, ink and paper. So I write and wait. -- Jennifer Johnston, How Many Miles to Babylon?
I stare outside at the frozen landscape that stretches for miles. White, endless, dead. Here and there, skinny trees poke up from the thick blanket of snow, their thin, malnourished arms reaching vainly towards the pale sky, as if begging for redemption. Begging to be released from this torment. I stare out at it and feel nothing.
Today is Christmas Eve. Today, I am twenty-three. Today, I will die.
At the beginning, when I was first placed in here, I contemplated sitting down and writing, of putting quill to parchment and writing down my life. But the idea was soon banished, as I quickly realised how boring a tale it would be. No one needs to know my life... no one wants to know. Perhaps one day I will be in the history books, and students will doze as they hear my name in BinnsÔŅĹ wheezing voice, uncaring. After all, who really wants to know the name and life of someone whoÔŅĹs been dead for years?
No, there is no point in writing down my life, for no one would read it. I am a Malfoy. ThatÔŅĹs all that matters. ThatÔŅĹs all thatÔŅĹs ever mattered.
There were four of us here. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and myself. Now there is only me. IÔŅĹm no fool; I know the others are gone. Potter -- I canÔŅĹt bring myself to call him Harry, not anymore -- came for them, his face pale, grim, and angry. I know he hated them, know he thought they deserved what they were about to get. He probably hates me. It wouldnÔŅĹt be surprising.
Pansy went first, arrogant and haughty. We saw the fear anyway, and I know Potter ignored it, instead focusing on the arrogance so he could hate her more. I think less of him for that. Crabbe and Goyle went next, together -- of that IÔŅĹm glad. They could comfort each other a lot better than I could. I hope it was quick. They were afraid, but they refused to hide it, and somehow they seemed more noble than Pansy, as they werenÔŅĹt afraid to let it be known they were afraid.
ItÔŅĹs been five days since they left, and solitude is driving me out of my mind.
I have no visitors -- obviously -- apart from Potter, who brings my meals and leaves in silence. HeÔŅĹs ignoring me deliberately, though IÔŅĹve started chattering when he comes, just to bother him. It works; his eyes flash in annoyance when I open my mouth and start jabbering on about the most obscene topic I can think of. IÔŅĹve made a list, so IÔŅĹm always ready for when he arrives. ItÔŅĹs not like IÔŅĹve anything better to do.
But sometimes I want to scream and catch him by the shoulders. Shake him in the hope that IÔŅĹll get some kind of response from him, other than infinite coldness. But I never succumb to the urge. Potter has no right to demand that kind of reaction from me. No right whatsoever. So I clench my hands and press them to my sides, as I talk and he stays behind walls of oppressive ice. It makes for charming conversation.
ThereÔŅĹs nothing much to do here for the other countless hours Potter isnÔŅĹt here. IÔŅĹve given up walking (IÔŅĹve worn many holes in the carpet, and have no wish to create anymore), and mostly spend my time thinking. Thinking. I never realised just how much of it I did before, and how much it can make one go nearly insane. Constantly working the mind, analysing and reanalysing things until your head positively aches, and you just canÔŅĹt think anymore. Perhaps oneÔŅĹs private hell really is in their mind.
I spend much of my time just looking outside. IÔŅĹve the landscape outside my window memorised completely. I could probably turn away and prattle everything off in minutes. A weak victory, but considering everything else I have to entertain myself, itÔŅĹs a very nice victory indeed. Lately, IÔŅĹve been watching how the snow falls and covers the land. ItÔŅĹs different every day -- something always happens during the night to change it -- and IÔŅĹve become fascinated by it. Winter has always fascinated me, and letÔŅĹs face it, IÔŅĹve nothing better to do. Perhaps I should have asked Potter for a sketch-pad and charcoal (if there was any) to see what I could have come up with.
Of course, thatÔŅĹs all over, now, since I die today. I feel no sadness, no rage at the thought. Merely an empty acceptance. At least I wonÔŅĹt have to put up with being bored out of my mind anymore. But I wonÔŅĹt be able to do anything either, so itÔŅĹs a mixed blessing. Everyone else I knew has died; it only seems natural that IÔŅĹll be next. Apparently itÔŅĹll be a major turning point when IÔŅĹm gone. Hah. Not likely. They wonÔŅĹt listen, no matter how many times I tell them Voldemort had little or no trust in me, and thus never trusted me with anything of any great importance. The war will never have a turning point until Voldemort is done away with, and thatÔŅĹs not going to happen anytime soon.
ThereÔŅĹs no heating in this Godforsaken room, so IÔŅĹm wrapped up in my cloak and robes (ignoring the fact theyÔŅĹre about as warm as ice) when Potter arrives. ThereÔŅĹs no meal in his hands, and I know my time has come. I sit up straighter, meeting his eyes directly. TheyÔŅĹre blank, and I want to hit him for having such a hollow stare. Though thatÔŅĹs stupid. He didnÔŅĹt care when it was PansyÔŅĹs turn, or Crabbe and GoyleÔŅĹs. Why should he care that itÔŅĹs mine? But I want him to, and I hate myself for it.
Father warned me that, should this ever happen, I was never to let the family or the cause down. I was to be aloof, critical, cold, and haughty. I was to be disdainful of those around me, and accept my fate graciously. So thatÔŅĹs what IÔŅĹm doing, even though I donÔŅĹt really give a damn either way.
But there was one very important thing Father never knew. He never knew that, at one time, I knew Potter very, very well. Back when I called him Harry, and didnÔŅĹt consider him an annoying prat that always beat me in everything I considered important. I had the ability to make him shiver and gasp, to shudder as release swept through him. I saw him bite his lip to avoid screaming, as his body trembled. I saw him sigh as his body curled against me, and I watched him while he fell asleep.
And somewhere along the line I fell for him. Fell head over heels for him. I still canÔŅĹt believe it really happened, but it did.
Then the war came in a swirl of rage and chaos, and he forgot that fact as family and honour led me to VoldemortÔŅĹs side, whether I wanted to or not. He began to hate me, and I had no choice but to accept that. And ignore every instinct that was screaming inside me to show him his conclusions were wrong. But I let it be. If I didnÔŅĹt, then Voldemort would find out and he would destroy us both.
Do I have regrets, now that IÔŅĹm about to die? You bet.
HeÔŅĹs impatient, I can see it clearly. His arms are folded tightly, and heÔŅĹs begun to tap a foot against the carpet, his face telling me to move. Now. But before I do, I find my gaze drifting to the window. ItÔŅĹs begun to snow. Snowflakes drift lazily down to the ground, joining with the rest of the frozen whiteness. I watch them, mesmerised, not hearing anything Potter snaps at me. Snowflakes, not one of them like the other. IÔŅĹm talking before I realise it, and Potter stops speaking immediately.
ÔŅĹLook at the snowflakes, Potter. All of them, and not one like the other,ÔŅĹ I whisper, eyes glued to the window. I can feel him watching me. ÔŅĹWeÔŅĹre like them, you know. Snowflakes, both of us. WeÔŅĹre completely unique in this world. When weÔŅĹre gone, theyÔŅĹll never again see any like us again.ÔŅĹ
HeÔŅĹs silent for a moment, but I can still feel his gaze on me. Then he begins to speak. The first time heÔŅĹs actually replied to anything IÔŅĹve said since I came here. ÔŅĹYouÔŅĹre right, though that was just a stupid thing to say.ÔŅĹ I smile faintly; he would think like that.
ÔŅĹTheyÔŅĹd never kill me tomorrow,ÔŅĹ I go on, not focusing on anything except the falling snow, my eyes locked on it. ÔŅĹThe dayÔŅĹs far too special for that. Too special to end Draco MalfoyÔŅĹs life. But they say Christ was born tonight, not tomorrow, so theyÔŅĹre ruining it either way.ÔŅĹ A bitter smile. ÔŅĹBastards. All of them.ÔŅĹ
Silence, and then, ÔŅĹIÔŅĹm sorry. About everything.ÔŅĹ
ÔŅĹThereÔŅĹs no point in saying that, as you donÔŅĹt mean it,ÔŅĹ I reply flatly, my sombre mood quickly dissipating. He would ruin it. ÔŅĹYouÔŅĹre not sorry that IÔŅĹm going to die, or that my friends died. YouÔŅĹre not sorry about any of it, and I know you think I deserve whatÔŅĹs going to happen to me. And neither of us can change the way you think, so donÔŅĹt even bother saying something you donÔŅĹt mean. ItÔŅĹs not worth it.ÔŅĹ I turn to look at him, then, and IÔŅĹm inwardly shocked to see how hurt he appears. How ironic, considering if this war ever ends heÔŅĹll be the hero, while IÔŅĹll be a forgotten name in an unmarked grave. But then, most of my life has been about irony.
He doesnÔŅĹt deserve to be hurt. IÔŅĹm the one whoÔŅĹs going to die. IÔŅĹm the one whoÔŅĹs lost everything. He has no bloody right to be sorry or hurt. No right at all.
My eyes narrow, and I push myself abruptly up to a standing position. ÔŅĹLetÔŅĹs just get this over with, shall we?ÔŅĹ I drawl, shoving my fear and uneasiness to the back of my mind. If he wants forgiveness for whatÔŅĹs heÔŅĹs just realised, heÔŅĹs not going to get it from me. ItÔŅĹs too late for that. Far too late.
ÔŅĹWait. I--ÔŅĹ
ÔŅĹSave it.ÔŅĹ Anger radiates from me in hostile waves. I brush past him, and he has no choice but to follow.
ItÔŅĹs the cold that hits me the moment I step outside, the bitter, numbing cold that causes me to stagger, body hunched as if to protect myself, head bent down. My eyes water, my teeth ache, and my cheeks go promptly insensate. Burrowing my hands into my armpits, I try to ignore the fact that my clothes are too tattered to withstand the cold, and if they donÔŅĹt kill me first, the cold most certainly will. IÔŅĹm shivering and canÔŅĹt stop. I feel Potter's hands grip my shoulders in an attempt to steady me, and I jerk myself away. IÔŅĹll accept no pity from him.
Preparing myself, I take a deep, burning breath and start walking, the wind whipping through my clothes like theyÔŅĹre rags. Which they basically are, when I think about it. If Mother and Father could see me now. Every step takes an effort, but I eventually make my way to a sheltered part of the ruined east side. ItÔŅĹs a crumbling wall, but stops the wind in some way and thatÔŅĹs good enough for me. Crouching against it, I try and stop my teeth from chattering. For my efforts, all I get is a bitten tongue.
He stands before me; I can see his battered boots. No finery for our famed hero, who insists on being like everyone else. Idiot. HeÔŅĹll never be the same. Never. Even he deludes himself by believing it. HeÔŅĹll soon learn. But I wonÔŅĹt be there when he does.
Neither of us say anything immediately, and I canÔŅĹt help but notice heÔŅĹs shivering as well. He breaks the silence first, though itÔŅĹs not really a silence; the wind howls around us and snow whirls, cloaking us in fine, cold white. I canÔŅĹt actually see Potter anymore, since the snowÔŅĹs clogged in my eyelashes, effectively blinding me momentarily. I canÔŅĹt find the energy to wipe it off. Each snowflake is like a cool kiss of death, and I raise my head, eyes closed, feeling every kiss as it lands on my frozen face.
ÔŅĹIÔŅĹm sorry,ÔŅĹ he murmurs, and I frown, ready to snap at him about saying sorry. I never get the chance, however, as he steps forward and kisses me. Lips meet mine, just as cold, just as frozen. TheyÔŅĹre chapped, too, so the kiss is anything but smooth, but neither of us care. IÔŅĹm stunned at first, unable to think or do anything, simply standing there as he kisses me. Our breath warms as we lean against each other, our deadened hands clumsily reaching to each other as we attempt to somehow keep balance.
It hits me in a blur that heÔŅĹs kissing me, and IÔŅĹm responding before I can help it, lips brushing against his, breath gasping in misted clouds. The wind tosses our cloaks around us and the snow swirls, effectively ensuring that we canÔŅĹt completely enjoy this kiss, but we hardly notice. And, oh God, IÔŅĹve missed him. Things may have gone completely wrong for us, but IÔŅĹve never truly forgotten what it was like. But this is the last time.
We break apart and stare at each other, unable to speak. His hands are still around mine, and I realise heÔŅĹs wearing gloves. I, of course, am not. The sentenced can never have the luxury of warm hands, though it seems heÔŅĹs trying to rectify that unspoken law.
ÔŅĹIÔŅĹm sorry,ÔŅĹ he whispers again, one of his hands reaching into his right pocket. I stare blankly as he withdraws his wand, and then comprehension rushes at me almost as fast as the cold did.
I know what heÔŅĹs going to do, and IÔŅĹm willing. ItÔŅĹs better than having to look at them as it happens. I nod. ÔŅĹDo it.ÔŅĹ
Hesitation fills his eyes for a moment, before he nods firmly. His breath quickens, but his grip never falters. Now that the time has come, I find something fluttering in my stomach. I donÔŅĹt know if itÔŅĹs fear, excitement, or anguish. He leans close to me, whispers three words that make me want to weep, before he steps back. I see him gather his composure, visibly pull himself back together. His face is pale -- save for two spots of colour on his cheeks -- and blank, a handsome mask. He raises his wand, pointing it straight at my chest.
TheyÔŅĹll be outraged, when they find out. TheyÔŅĹll tell him he gave me the easy way out, that my death wasnÔŅĹt bad enough for the punishment of my crimes. TheyÔŅĹll think I didnÔŅĹt suffer enough. Either way, IÔŅĹll end up dead, so I donÔŅĹt see the point of raising such a fuss. IÔŅĹll be dead. ThatÔŅĹs all that really matters.
Maybe it could have ended differently. Maybe it couldnÔŅĹt. But, right now, thereÔŅĹs no other way.
Harry speaks it clearly, his voice strong. No hint of the grief I can see in his eyes. And thatÔŅĹs it.
When green storms at me -- not Slytherin green, I find myself thinking -- I am as ready as IÔŅĹll ever be. ThereÔŅĹs no time to smile at him, no time to return three words, no time to move or breathe. When it hits, I stumble and fall backwards, feeling the snow tumble around me, feeling every icy kiss on my cheeks.
I land on a bed of soft, merciless white that cradles my fall.
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