Hinkypunk
Join Date: Jun 2003 Location: At the close.
Posts: 12,424
Graduated Diagon Alley Employee:
Amadeus Alfred Kipling Owl Post Office Assistant x7
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“Does Mr. Malfoy need-?” The high squeak of Binka’s voice was cut off as Draco tossed his black coat straight at her. He stalked into his seaside mansion, still fuming over his utter failure. Taking the hint, as she had so many times before, Binka folded the large coat over her bony, wrinkled arm and scurried off to put it into a closet. Draco trudged up to his master bedroom, then turned sharply into his vast expanse of a bathroom.
He began to speak to himself, something he had not done for a very long time, “I’ve just got to grit my teeth and do it.” Draco took one look at himself in the glimmering mirror over the sink and vigorously loosened his tie, as if his collar was constricting his breath. He rolled up the sleeves of his white, button-up dress shirt to his elbows and turned the crystal knob on the marble counter to the left, causing a gush of sheer, cool liquid to cascade towards the basin that was the sink. He scooped up a fair amount of water in his cupped hands before rinsing his face with it. Draco looked up towards the mirror again at his reflection, some water droplets clinging to and some water droplets running down his face. “No, no…” His voice spoke in a trembling whisper, his heart beginning to beat faster the longer he looked at himself. A look a horror and disgust filled his face before he sprinted out of the lavatory, through his bedroom, and out onto the balcony overlooking the sea.
Draco firmly brought his palm to his forehead, reprimanding himself. He completely ripped his tie from his neck and flung it to the concrete of the balcony floor. He leaned onto the elegant marble railing, placing his head in his hands before he began to softly weep. After a short moment, he wiped the glistening tears onto his pale, bare forearm. Draco proceeded to undo a few of the top buttons of his white shirt before taking a deep breath, letting the cool, salty sea air fill his lungs.
“Dearest father,” Draco spoke derisively, a sneer on his lips. “Why do you haunt me so? Every time I take a look at myself, a damn good look at myself, I see you.” Ever since Voldemort’s demise, Draco had been plagued with visions, mostly nightmares, of his dark past. He relived, over and over, the scene of Dumbledore’s death, the mad tirades that his Aunt Bella would burst into, the fear that he saw in his mother’s eyes as he was branded with the Dark Mark, and most of all, the emotional and physical abuse that he received from his father. Whether he was being swore at, being beat with his father’s large, black, wooden walking stick, or suffering through the pain of his father’s Cruciatus curse, Draco had experienced a lifetime of what some people might consider ‘tough love.’ “That git never loved me; why I ever was so gullible to believe what mother told me…” He trailed off, his mouth curling into a slight smile as he recalled his youthful naïvety. Draco let his mind wander as he silently continued to watch the waves, black with night, crash against the nearby rocks and allowed the night air to cool him. After that moment, he straightened his form, running his long, thin fingers through his silky hair before returning to his bedroom.
Draco gently sat on his large, canopied king-sized bed. He kicked off his black leather shoes before lying on his back, his head resting on a large, white pillow. He placed his hands behind his head and laced his fingers, his pale blue eyes traveling towards the upper canopy of his bed as his body sunk into the plush, white sheets of Egyptian cotton. Before having his episode, a single thing had been on his mind since he had returned from the Ministry: Agyness. “If only Potter and pals hadn’t returned, if only-“ Draco interrupted his thoughts of disappointment and self-loathing. He spoke, “Like I said before, I’ve just got to grit my teeth and do it.”
A soft knocking pierced his thoughts, and Draco turned his face, now fully composed, towards the oaken door. “Come in,” He spoke, almost in a practiced fashion. Binka opened the door slowly, peeking through before scurrying to the foot of Draco’s bed and making a deep bow. Her scrawny arms were laden with Draco’s night-things: a silken black robe, cotton black slippers, and the like. “Would Mr. Malfoy like some liquor before the night’s end?” Binka offered as she set the items at the foot of his bed, her back still bowed as she hoped that he was in better spirits.
“Not tonight,” Draco looked up towards the ceiling again, a determined smile on his lips. “Not tonight.”
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