Disclaimer: It's not mine.
The alcohol splashed against the side of his glass, like an ocean on the rocks, overlapping and coming back in waves, relentless in its quest to break through the barrier. He watched intently, his head bent, the untouched liquid seeming to hold the answers to all his problems. A bead of sweat formed on his neck, just below his ear, but he ignored it. The stifling summer heat was welcome, letting him know that he could feel, that his body could still respond to something, anything.
He had been sitting at the darkened booth for hours, at first, just watching the people, listening to the music. There had been a couple sitting at a near by table, whispering intimately, smiling at each other through the candlelight. They had danced some, and he had watched as the man placed a hand on the small of the woman's back and pulled her close while she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling and blushing slightly. Even through the thick smoke in the room, he could make out every move, every loving gesture and glance, and for the better part of the night his observations had fueled his bitter, melancholy thoughts. But the couple was gone now, fading away with the last notes of the piano, and he was left alone with his memories, with his regrets, with himself.
He swirled his glass with more force this time, and a bit of the scotch spilled over, dripping onto his hand. He watched it, disengaging from the clockwise spin of the glass and letting his hand still. The droplet slid down, leaving a shimmering trail across his skin. The feeling created a tension in his muscles as he willed himself not to wipe it away, but to endure it. It almost tickled.
He didn't look up when he heard someone walk over to him. The figure cast a shadow over his booth, obscuring the little light that was already there. A small, feminine hand reached into his view with a napkin, offering it. He took it, not able to stand the feel of the liquid on his skin anymore, despite how it was quickly evaporating, and dabbed at the spot longer than was necessary.
"We're closing up, sir," the figure said finally. He looked up to see the young girl who had been taking orders all night removing her apron and folding it over her arm. "You're going to have to leave." He glanced over at the old man closing up the cash register at the bar, looking like he had done it a million times. Maybe he had. The bell sounded as he slammed it shut carelessly, the keys swinging and jangling together as he locked it. "Sir?" The girl repeated cautiously. She was new, she was young, she was nervous.
"How old are you?" the man finally asked, turning his attention back to her. She took a small step back- it looked unintentional.
"Sir," she repeated, "you need to leave. Now, please." He almost smirked at the way she was trying to sound forceful and polite at the same time. She was doing it miserably.
"What's your name?" he asked. This time she bit her lip, her eyes filled with worry, anger, caution, but mostly just fear.
"You need to leave," she said again, looking like she wanted to run back to the counter and hide behind the old man, who was still fumbling with the register. This time, the man allowed a smirk.
She was too easy, the naïve bint. She was probably just working her way through college, only around 18. In reality, he wasn't that much older than her, but the difference wasn't in years. He doubted she had seen a fraction of what he had; he hated her for it. Something inside him made him want to show her everything, hoping it would destroy her like it had him, hoping it would create that sick call to death in her as it had in him, hoping that she would know the horrors he did. She never would.
The thoughts passed in an instant as she waited for him to respond in some way. He looked back down and finally pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. There was Muggle money inside, mixed with his wizard's. The girl could easily see the strange coins mixed in with the pounds and pence, but he didn't care. She could think of him whatever she wanted. It had most likely been thought before. He chose a Muggle bill with the number twenty on it- he had no idea what the currency conversion was, and he couldn't say he cared- and fingered it disgustedly for a moment. It was colored in faded pastels, two faces on it, one on each side- he didn't know who they were, and again, he didn't care.
He had touched their money. It was soft against his skin, although he couldn't stand the way it rubbed against the curves of his fingerprints. He suddenly threw it at the table, as if the touch burned him, and it fell so part of it was stuck against his glass, sticking to the droplets of condensation on it. The ice in his untouched drink was melting, giving up the fight against the heat and the scotch. In his thoughts, he called the ice a coward. It was bound to the laws of physics. Weak. By farm it was not the most insane thing he had ever thought. He believed it.
He stood abruptly, ignoring when his hip banged painfully against the table, and walked toward the door, only stopping when his hand rested on it, ready to push it open. He looked back to see the waitress, now collecting his money off the table. Her hair was almost falling out of its ponytail. It was blonde, but obviously was dyed. There were strands pulled out to frame her face- he supposed to look alluring, but they irritated him. The hand by his side clenched, and in his mind it was closing around those hideous, dyed strands of hair, pulling them from their dark roots until they came off in his hand.
Instead, he pushed the door open and walked out into the intense night air. He didn't bother to find an alley before he Apperated to his room at the Manor. He didn't care who saw him. Any Muggles? Let them find out, let them learn about wizards from something as trivial as this. It might be better than when they are attacked as a race and forced into extinction. But perhaps not.
His room was meticulous, kept so by the house elves. The matching furniture arranged throughout the sitting area and to the place where he slept, separated by a set of French doors. It was cool inside. There was no sign anyone really lived here.
He stood for a moment, in the middle of his room, his teeth clenched against the swell of emotion building inside him. He fought it- the rage, the hatred, the Goddamn fear- but he could do nothing to stop it. It broke free and in frighteningly steady steps, he strode to his closet, flinging the door open so hard it hit the wall and slammed back shut. He tried it again, refusing to relent in the amount of force he used. Again, it flew back shut. The third time, he grabbed his wand and blasted it to fiery pieces. Walking through the rubble, he reached the very back of his closet and pushed through the strategically placed robes, to reach what he wanted.
The white mask was cool in his hands, soft and bending to his touch. Flexible, yet unbreakable, able to mold to fit the contours of one's face. He hated how it felt, like a second skin. There were black robes underneath it, but he left them, only wanting the mask. He walked in front of his mirror, holding it up so it covered his face, but not putting it on. When he had first gotten it, he had sat in front of the mirror with it on, just in disbelief. It looked mocking against his light hair and skin, not matching at all.
The thing inside him grew even more at the sight and he gripped the mask tightly, his fingers deforming the edges. God, he wanted it ruined; he wanted it mutilated. He wanted it destroyed.
With a snarl, he turned and faced the window, flinging the mask through it. The glass gave a huge relieving shatter, flying out into the night. He could hear the pieces rain down as the mask fell to the garden with a thud, just barely audible. He walked over to the window, placing his hands on the edge where the glass still stood in broken, jagged pieces. They bit into his flesh, drawing his blood and pain out over their clear teeth. He looked down and saw the mask on the ground, half hidden in the brush, but glowing and unable to miss.
His anger was still there, refusing to go away, but he had expected that. It never fully left. It was always there, in some part of him, and he had learned early on how to live with it. But now, in the still moment only broken by his ragged breaths, he cursed himself.
He knew he would turn around and put out the small fire he had started, snuff the glowing embers, repair the places where they had scorched and burned. He would put the door back together, or have the house elves get a new one if it was beyond he was unable to. He would Accio the mask back and set it in its place, on his Death Eater robes, in the very back of his closet. He would fix the window. It wouldn't take long. But it would be just like the last time, and the time before that. He would go back, he would wait until he couldn't take it anymore, and he would do it again.
Slowly, he lifted his bloodied hands from the glass and examined them. They were hideous and painful. But he wouldn't heal them, he would keep the wounds, regardless of the questions or pain they might bring before they healed on their own. He placed his right hand on his left sleeve, over the Mark. He pressed down hard, his blood staining the shirt and his hand burning.
"Coward," he whispered. "Fucking weak."
In case you missed it in the summery, Draco Malfoy was the man. Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear what you think about this fic.
The alcohol splashed against the side of his glass, like an ocean on the rocks, overlapping and coming back in waves, relentless in its quest to break through the barrier. He watched intently, his head bent, the untouched liquid seeming to hold the answers to all his problems. A bead of sweat formed on his neck, just below his ear, but he ignored it. The stifling summer heat was welcome, letting him know that he could feel, that his body could still respond to something, anything.
He had been sitting at the darkened booth for hours, at first, just watching the people, listening to the music. There had been a couple sitting at a near by table, whispering intimately, smiling at each other through the candlelight. They had danced some, and he had watched as the man placed a hand on the small of the woman's back and pulled her close while she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling and blushing slightly. Even through the thick smoke in the room, he could make out every move, every loving gesture and glance, and for the better part of the night his observations had fueled his bitter, melancholy thoughts. But the couple was gone now, fading away with the last notes of the piano, and he was left alone with his memories, with his regrets, with himself.
He swirled his glass with more force this time, and a bit of the scotch spilled over, dripping onto his hand. He watched it, disengaging from the clockwise spin of the glass and letting his hand still. The droplet slid down, leaving a shimmering trail across his skin. The feeling created a tension in his muscles as he willed himself not to wipe it away, but to endure it. It almost tickled.
He didn't look up when he heard someone walk over to him. The figure cast a shadow over his booth, obscuring the little light that was already there. A small, feminine hand reached into his view with a napkin, offering it. He took it, not able to stand the feel of the liquid on his skin anymore, despite how it was quickly evaporating, and dabbed at the spot longer than was necessary.
"We're closing up, sir," the figure said finally. He looked up to see the young girl who had been taking orders all night removing her apron and folding it over her arm. "You're going to have to leave." He glanced over at the old man closing up the cash register at the bar, looking like he had done it a million times. Maybe he had. The bell sounded as he slammed it shut carelessly, the keys swinging and jangling together as he locked it. "Sir?" The girl repeated cautiously. She was new, she was young, she was nervous.
"How old are you?" the man finally asked, turning his attention back to her. She took a small step back- it looked unintentional.
"Sir," she repeated, "you need to leave. Now, please." He almost smirked at the way she was trying to sound forceful and polite at the same time. She was doing it miserably.
"What's your name?" he asked. This time she bit her lip, her eyes filled with worry, anger, caution, but mostly just fear.
"You need to leave," she said again, looking like she wanted to run back to the counter and hide behind the old man, who was still fumbling with the register. This time, the man allowed a smirk.
She was too easy, the naïve bint. She was probably just working her way through college, only around 18. In reality, he wasn't that much older than her, but the difference wasn't in years. He doubted she had seen a fraction of what he had; he hated her for it. Something inside him made him want to show her everything, hoping it would destroy her like it had him, hoping it would create that sick call to death in her as it had in him, hoping that she would know the horrors he did. She never would.
The thoughts passed in an instant as she waited for him to respond in some way. He looked back down and finally pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. There was Muggle money inside, mixed with his wizard's. The girl could easily see the strange coins mixed in with the pounds and pence, but he didn't care. She could think of him whatever she wanted. It had most likely been thought before. He chose a Muggle bill with the number twenty on it- he had no idea what the currency conversion was, and he couldn't say he cared- and fingered it disgustedly for a moment. It was colored in faded pastels, two faces on it, one on each side- he didn't know who they were, and again, he didn't care.
He had touched their money. It was soft against his skin, although he couldn't stand the way it rubbed against the curves of his fingerprints. He suddenly threw it at the table, as if the touch burned him, and it fell so part of it was stuck against his glass, sticking to the droplets of condensation on it. The ice in his untouched drink was melting, giving up the fight against the heat and the scotch. In his thoughts, he called the ice a coward. It was bound to the laws of physics. Weak. By farm it was not the most insane thing he had ever thought. He believed it.
He stood abruptly, ignoring when his hip banged painfully against the table, and walked toward the door, only stopping when his hand rested on it, ready to push it open. He looked back to see the waitress, now collecting his money off the table. Her hair was almost falling out of its ponytail. It was blonde, but obviously was dyed. There were strands pulled out to frame her face- he supposed to look alluring, but they irritated him. The hand by his side clenched, and in his mind it was closing around those hideous, dyed strands of hair, pulling them from their dark roots until they came off in his hand.
Instead, he pushed the door open and walked out into the intense night air. He didn't bother to find an alley before he Apperated to his room at the Manor. He didn't care who saw him. Any Muggles? Let them find out, let them learn about wizards from something as trivial as this. It might be better than when they are attacked as a race and forced into extinction. But perhaps not.
His room was meticulous, kept so by the house elves. The matching furniture arranged throughout the sitting area and to the place where he slept, separated by a set of French doors. It was cool inside. There was no sign anyone really lived here.
He stood for a moment, in the middle of his room, his teeth clenched against the swell of emotion building inside him. He fought it- the rage, the hatred, the Goddamn fear- but he could do nothing to stop it. It broke free and in frighteningly steady steps, he strode to his closet, flinging the door open so hard it hit the wall and slammed back shut. He tried it again, refusing to relent in the amount of force he used. Again, it flew back shut. The third time, he grabbed his wand and blasted it to fiery pieces. Walking through the rubble, he reached the very back of his closet and pushed through the strategically placed robes, to reach what he wanted.
The white mask was cool in his hands, soft and bending to his touch. Flexible, yet unbreakable, able to mold to fit the contours of one's face. He hated how it felt, like a second skin. There were black robes underneath it, but he left them, only wanting the mask. He walked in front of his mirror, holding it up so it covered his face, but not putting it on. When he had first gotten it, he had sat in front of the mirror with it on, just in disbelief. It looked mocking against his light hair and skin, not matching at all.
The thing inside him grew even more at the sight and he gripped the mask tightly, his fingers deforming the edges. God, he wanted it ruined; he wanted it mutilated. He wanted it destroyed.
With a snarl, he turned and faced the window, flinging the mask through it. The glass gave a huge relieving shatter, flying out into the night. He could hear the pieces rain down as the mask fell to the garden with a thud, just barely audible. He walked over to the window, placing his hands on the edge where the glass still stood in broken, jagged pieces. They bit into his flesh, drawing his blood and pain out over their clear teeth. He looked down and saw the mask on the ground, half hidden in the brush, but glowing and unable to miss.
His anger was still there, refusing to go away, but he had expected that. It never fully left. It was always there, in some part of him, and he had learned early on how to live with it. But now, in the still moment only broken by his ragged breaths, he cursed himself.
He knew he would turn around and put out the small fire he had started, snuff the glowing embers, repair the places where they had scorched and burned. He would put the door back together, or have the house elves get a new one if it was beyond he was unable to. He would Accio the mask back and set it in its place, on his Death Eater robes, in the very back of his closet. He would fix the window. It wouldn't take long. But it would be just like the last time, and the time before that. He would go back, he would wait until he couldn't take it anymore, and he would do it again.
Slowly, he lifted his bloodied hands from the glass and examined them. They were hideous and painful. But he wouldn't heal them, he would keep the wounds, regardless of the questions or pain they might bring before they healed on their own. He placed his right hand on his left sleeve, over the Mark. He pressed down hard, his blood staining the shirt and his hand burning.
"Coward," he whispered. "Fucking weak."
In case you missed it in the summery, Draco Malfoy was the man. Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear what you think about this fic.