Isn't it tragic
He didn’t know where he was, everything was slurred together and yet he knew when day turned to night because they always got more brutal at night. ‘How many days?’ He’d asked Pansy in a slight panic when she brought him food. They didn’t like when he was unconscious so they made sure he wouldn’t die on them, probably to his mothers demands. Draco’s worst fear was that the war was over and that he had won, because that would mean it was all over and that Draco would be stuck here forever.
Pansy never answered, too scared to risk her life for his sanity but then again, she didn’t owe him anything. Draco had never really been a good friend. Always looking for an excuse to get her to leave him alone and treating the closest person to him like absolute rubbish isn’t exactly the standard values to friendship. If Draco had to guess he’d been here no more than a month, but he couldn’t tell, nothing made sense here. Everything was so bleak, there was a table on the far side, empty except for a single knife. Then there were the chains, those dug into his skin until he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, his wrists were fiery red with skin so raw that the blisters around the chains kept him in constant pain. He didn’t understand how he could go through hours and hours of torture and it was the little things who kept him gritting his teeth at the end of the day. None the less, nothing made sense, not those brick walls which made up a room he didn’t even know existed in his own house. Yes, he was at the manor, but nothing had ever felt less like home. It was an understatement to say Voldemort had taken a liking to him, after he’d lied and said ‘that’s not him’ to Bellatrix’s’ face when clearly it was. Draco knew exactly what Harry Potter looked like and the moment he had seen him he had known but lying to the great lord didn’t tend to give you much brownie points since Draco was, well, here and being tortured for it.
A clicking noise snapped Draco out of his thoughts, “not him not him not him-please, oh god.” Draco ushered in a mantra, but it seemed luck wasn’t on his side, as usual.
“Draco, my boy” He walked in, smirk steady and a whip in his hand. Draco always found it weird that someone who hated muggles so much would use all their mundane equipment, “Draco-” a crack resonated before he finished and then all Draco knew was agony and it was everywhere.
/
“What, yes?” Harry tuned in and finally turned his attention to her, it seemed like after the war his patience was so thin, he could barely skate on it and yet everybody was. Not giving a single shit about his need of privacy and for any lord up there who might be listening just an ounce of peace and bloody quite would be well appreciated.
Hermione was waving her hands rapidly, obviously excited about something, her frizzy hair and golden smile reminded him of before the war when everything was so much easier, and everybody was alive. She sat at the table not seeming to notice that every so often there was supposed to be someone else sitting next to their neighbor. ‘Casualties of war’ the daily prophet had said, bloody rubbish in his opinion though. Nobody should have lost a loved one, nobody.
“-I can’t believe it he’s come out with another piece, it’s a great way for people to relate to it though. I just wish there was more hope to it you know. That’s what everybody is lacking and as much as I love his pieces and I can relate to them myself I wish he’d give more than relatability, I don’t know, were recovering and everything looks so different but his paintings are just so sad-” Hermione ranted until Harry finally snapped the newspaper she’d been waving around in her hands for the past five minutes now and gave a look at it.
A few months after the war an anonymous artist started putting out those pieces, most were gruesome but all were relatable, this painter had managed to put everybody’s pain in pictures and in a weird way it helped you breathe to know you weren’t the only in those shoes. The pieces themselves never held any individuals, always just shadows or figures. Sometimes you could make out an expression but not anything to identify the individual. The paint seemed blurred with lines harsh and sad as though the painter themselves was lashing out at the canvas. There was a true talent in those artworks, the last painting was all in pink and still it seemed dark and oppressive. The new painting showed two figures, it was all about being secretive, leaving viewers to ask themselves who are those people? And yet this painting was a first, the first figure was pointing a wand and he was pointing it to a child’s head, obviously defenceless the child could only stare.
“There’s a mark.” Harry looked up to Hermione, “The dark mark is on the child’s arm.”
“I know, but I guess he really wanted to capture the essence of the war, that innocent people were killed on both sides.” Harry looked at the picture of the painting in the daily prophet once again and not for the first time he wished he could see it in person, thinking that the newspaper didn’t give it any justice, it must look a thousand times better in person. In the painting the child was surrounded by the brightest colours, but they seemed to curve inwards letting darkness seep into all the warmth exactly were the wand was pointing and going straight for the child’s chest. That inwards curve let you know one thing; you knew exactly who was winning the battle.
“He died,” Harry looked up to Hermione, “The child died for bearing a mark he had no choice into getting. How could he ever have defended himself against Voldemort?”
Hermione sighed and pointed to a word in the Daily Prophets article ‘Lucas’ it said in bold, “That kid, his name was Lucas, or so they think. He went missing during the war after his parents were killed for not accepting the mark. The name of the piece is Lucas, my guess is that whoever it is out there that’s making those pieces is trying to send a message. He had no choice.” Tears shone in her eyes “He didn’t deserve it.” Harry closed his eyes in disbelief, pinching the bridge of his nose he took a deep breath before opening them. It just wasn’t fair.
Hermione was now in a conversation with Ron who kept saying the word ‘bacon’ and ‘so good’, it was as though they’re conversation hadn’t even happened. Hermione was back to all smiles and giving her full attention to Ron as he shuffled food in his mouth all while eating and it didn’t disgust Hermione one bit. The school spirit seemed to have returned some, students were back to groaning about potions exams and too much homework. Everything seemed perfectly fine, there was even a healthy rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin which was strange as it wasn’t exactly a healthy one before. There was one odd thing though, one person who was always looking over their shoulder, flinching at the slightest sound and jumping in fright every now and then. That person was Draco Malfoy, Malfoy who had been on the opposite side of the war. Draco Malfoy who Harry had an ongoing rivalry since the first day they met and yet nothing had happened since everyone had returned to school. Harry looked over to the Slytherin table and there he was, hunched over his food, shuffling it around but not eating it. Pansy Parkinson seemed to be giving him a hard time about it too, Harry couldn’t hear what she was saying but from her expression it was a good scolding.
“You’ve got to eat Draco.” Pansy took a deep breath, shifting in her seat. Draco just looked up at her and nodded only to return to staring at his food.
“I’m not hungry.” Was his only comment. Draco could see how she was trying to seem fierce and demanding but her eyes were clouding with tears. There was that constant feeling of disappointment, that somehow, he’s the reason for it all. Deep down Draco knew that thought was ridiculous, but if he would have done something when he was younger? Or if he would have told someone? Maybe the war could have been stopped, maybe more people would be here, maybe Lucas would be alive.
“Look-” Pansy tied up her hair- “I don’t care if you’re determined to die, I’m not letting you. You are stuck here whether you want it or not and if you don’t suck it up and eat, the next colour I’m getting you is yellow.”
“Yellow. Do I get peace and quiet if I act like I care?” Draco sneered.
“Lucas would want you to-” She was cut off by Draco slamming his fists on the table. “Don’t you dare. Do not dare bring him up, you have no idea what happened. What I told you was nothing. You know nothing.” Draco fumed finally sitting back down. Down? When the hell had he gotten up? Looking around he noticed he had the full attention of the great hall; everyone was looking at him as though he was going to hurt someone.
“He died.” Pansy stood gathering her things, “I know that, and I know he’d be disappointed in you right now.” And with that she left, leaving Draco to drop his head in his hands. Slowly he heard conversations returning, people talking about their weekends and what classes they shared. Unknowing Draco stood leaving his full plate of food and the whole time a pair of eyes was tracking his every movement.