𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐷𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑂 𝑀𝐴𝐿𝐹𝑂𝑌

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕 - 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚

⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

I sat on the stool and felt exposed and naked. Snape's aggressive eyes were stuck on the back of my head as he was circling me. In the dungeons, one could feel like there was no way out. If he tortured me right now, my screams would be hidden under the layers upon layers of stone that separated us from the busy halls of the school.

In these cases, silence is worse than shouts. I would have preferred it if he screeched at me, hit me or cursed me.

"Before you speak, I want you to know that it was not my fault," I said. "She shouldn't have touched it in the first place. And as you can see, the curse was effective enough to take out a young girl – surely it would have killed the old man instantly. I really tried. I did. I almost succeeded. So, you can tell him that it will be done soon. I have many other options. I have infinite plans in the works and I already have a good poison in mind."

Snape walked to his desk and, as always, leaned over it, touching the wood with closed fists. My father would have smiled at me with an evil, degrading smirk. Even that would be better than Snape's blunt expression, that straight face. He looked down between his hands. Now, I wasn't even worthy of a glance.

"You are a disgrace to all Death Eaters. You are an embarrassment."

Now, this did sound like my father indeed. I had almost started to miss his scornful remarks. Who knows, if I had succeeded, I might have already managed to take him out of Azkaban by now.

"I knew you were going to fail. There isn't something that you can do without failing completely. Tell me, boy. Did you even want to succeed?"

It was a notion that had to be discarded whenever it entered my head. I had been in Hogwarts for two months. At a first glance, it seemed that the mission was taking over my life. It kept me awake at night and forced me into insanity. However, when you looked at the practical side of things, my energy had been used for everything but my mission. Drinking and smoking and tubs and late-night walks; this was all I ever did.

"You were careless. You didn't even use any stealth through it all. Do you know that Potter is suspecting you? He seemed to know at once."

"He can't prove anything!" I snapped.

"This is your excuse? You were supposed to have been tasked with this mission because no one could have guessed that a boy of 16 with no exceptional talent or wit could do something like this."

"We both know that's not true. The Dark Lord chose me to punish my father for failing him. Only a fool wouldn't understand that."

"You dare pass judgement on the Dark Lord's choices?" said Snape slowly. "You... dare form an opinion?" He showed his teeth in disgust. "You are a tool. You are nothing. Nothing at all."

He paused and watched me dropping my eyes to the floor.

"For the last time; I can help you. Let me assist you. You need my experience and you need my aid. Why are you so reluctant?"

He was waiting for an answer – I considered it but never replied.

I stood and instantly felt dizzy as the blood was drained from my head. I had drunk last night and I was stilling the symptoms of a hangover.

Leaving without a word made me feel small, ashamed. It was my silent way of admitting that I was lost, and whether or not Snape understood this as my confession was irrelevant. I was reminded right at that moment of what I'd come to terms with long ago; this mission would be my death.

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I stood behind the threadbare tapestry and closed my eyes.

I want...

I didn't know what I wanted anymore. Something inside me was asking for a way out of this task. Then another part of me wanted to be shown the right way to complete it, for, in reality, it was the one and only way out of this pretence. I had intended to work on the Vanishing Cabinet again tonight.

But let's start with one step at a time.

I want Johnnie Walker... Malboro Red... A comfortable couch...

I paused.

And something that Ophelia would listen to...

I opened my eyes to see the door for the Room of Requirement's door already forming. Stone turned to steel and steel turned to black iron.

I walked inside. The Room knew how to relax me. The room was small and empty, not vast and cluttered as usual. I didn't need anything to remind me of my mission.

The sofa had a few pillows and blankets thrown on it. Next to it, stood a plain coffee table that held the things I needed most. I lit a cig and poured myself a drink. Then I turned to the large gramophone that was laid in the centre of the table.

There was a vinyl disk next to it. Its case looked old and worn out – which made you wonder if the Room deliberately picks things depending on how you preferred them. Something about knowing that this record had been used before made it special and I liked telling myself that it was not just another one of the Room's trick to soothe me.

Maria Callas: Arias & Operas, it wrote.

The woman on the cover was dark, sprinkled with old Mediterranean beauty. She had strong eyebrows and her lips were painted red in a smile that seemed stunning. I put the record in its right place and heard the needle scratch it before the music started playing.

It was a cry for help. It was the song of a widow at a funeral. It was the wail of a mother after losing a child. It was the tears of the lover after the love has died. It was the truth – bare, naked truth.

Why did I want to cry so badly?

I knew the piercing voice was coming from the gramophone but it sounded like it was deriving from everywhere around me – or even within me. The music vibrated in my ears and neck.

My eyelids closed almost unwillingly, spontaneously because I wanted to feel the song with no distraction. It sounded like pain. It tasted like ash. It felt like velvet. It smelled like honey.

It didn't have a face but if it did, it would be my mother's or my grandmother's or my Ophelia's.

In my Van Gogh notebook, I scribbled my pain. I wouldn't tear or burn this one.

You will never understand the emptiness that consumes you until you feel something real. Every slap on a boy's cheek, every bruise on a mother's skin, every thrill, every Sunday game, every wrongful deed, every new cloak, every book, every burst of violence, every song, every romance, every mistake; it all disappears in moments like these.

You will never understand the emptiness that consumes you until you feel something real. In these moments, you will want to cry and weep and wail. And the more you want to, the less you will need to.

You will never understand the emptiness that consumes you until you feel something real. In these moments, your soul will heal.

Of course, the music stops sooner or later.

Beware, for emptiness comes back at once.

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The last two chapters were not very big because you already know what is happening and I don't want to bore you with things you already know. I just focused on Draco's psychology and mindset.

I will make up for it in the next chapter, which will be... interesting?

╰────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────╯