Moonstruck

There's nothing left, nothing, nothing at all, and all Draco can think is, what, no, why- I don't understand, what happened? And all he can do is stare at the wall, the wall that is so white, and why is it so white? What's the point to the whiteness? White is nothing, it's not all the colours together; it's the absence of it- no matter what everyone else might say. White doesn't have black, so how can it have all the colours in it if it doesn't have black? You can't have white without black, can't have good without evil, can't have love without hate-

And Draco stares at the wall, that damn white wall, and he just wants to hit something so much, anything, but he can't, because that would mean that he'd have to move, and Draco doesn't think that he can do that, doesn't think that he can move, doesn't think that he can breathe except, he must be doing that gasping, because gasping would mean that you care about whether you're breathing or not, and Draco doesn't, he doesn't care, so how can he gasp? And then, it hurts more when he exhales, so he knows that he's alive, but really, if all you feel is pain, how is that living? How can you want to be alive if all you feel is pain but even then, he's not feeling pain because he doesn't think that he should be able to feel anything, not after what happened, there's just this cold numbness that's creeping in his skin, his fingers, his mind, and he can't feel anything but the pain, but how can he feel pain if he can't feel anything? Nothing makes sense anymore, and Draco can't stand it, can't understand anything now, and oh god, it hurts, make it stop! But, no, it won't stop, not now, not ever. It will never stop, can never stop, and Draco thinks he may be sick, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't, because nothing matters anymore. And nothing matters because how can anything ever matter ever again if the one thing that mattered is now gone, and there's nothing he can do and he just wants it to stop, please, oh god, let it stop! But it won't, because it will never stop, can never stop, and Draco feels that he is being ripped in two, but that can't be right, because Draco's not supposed to be able to feel anything! And he's blinking now, slowly at first, but faster and faster and faster and- and now he's shaking, and that can't be right. Where is the numbness, the ice that he so desperately needs so he can't feel anything, where is it! He needs it, he can't do this by himself, and now what can he do, because he's shaking, and that damn white wall is staring right back at him, and now he can't look at it, because it's white, and everyone knows that white is the absence of all colour- but no, that's not right.

How can it? When white has everything, and black nothing, and Draco wants to scream, because he gets it now. Now, he understands that the people with their morals and their compassion and their goodness, that they would always win, because white has everything, and black has nothing. And that's the way it has always been.

And Draco is not blinking anymore; he's just sitting there, staring at the white wall with the red on it, the red that is like little drops of wine, drops spilled because someone was too careless. It's on the wall and his mother is yelling at the house-elves to clean it up now, or else, and then the wine would disappear. Only now, the wine drops aren't disappearing, and the red is trickling down the wall, marring the white, that damned white, and the red is nothing like wine, he should have known that, it smells differently. He can see the rest of it on the floor next to him, and it's pooling there, like someone dropped a glass in their carelessness, and Draco thinks that his mother will be angry at the mess, but his mother isn't here, never was, because this isn't his house, and if this isn't his house, what is he doing here? And then, he sees the pool of red again, and the flash of silver that is being stained red, red like wine, but, no, red like blood, because that's what it is, blood, and now Draco is shivering, and shaking, and his eyes are wide open, not blinking at all, just staring at the red pool and the knife that is slowly turning red with blood, not wine, blood, and the black hair that is not being stained with colour because black is the absence of colour, and he should have known that, really, he should have known-

And Draco sits on the floor, next to the pool of blood, and stares at the black hair and green eyes that aren't green anymore, because the red is taking over everything, and everything is coated in blood and red now, and Draco can't do anything but look, look and remember-

"Why did you switch sides?" His green eyes are hard and calculating, and soft too, vulnerable in this one moment, and Draco can't help but be truthful for once, so he says, "Because I can't stand bowing and scraping to someone who wants to eradicate his own blood."

And green eyes narrow before accepting, because that's what heroes do, they accept, they forgive, but they don't forget, and Draco thinks that is fine.

And then later, lifetimes later, but really only a few weeks, Draco understands, and he accepts, and he understands, and it's okay because the green eyes accept too, that's what they do, they accept, and then it's alright and he can feel, even if nothing is stated, even if nothing is returned. At least Draco knows, and the green eyes can accept it and that's all that matters to Draco- and then he's in the raid, and he turns the corner and instinctively slashes with his knife, his silver knife, and then it's alright. He moves on, towards his goal- he must get to the room. He sees green and he stops, and he knows. There's a white wall, and he hates white and-

And Draco looks and stares at the redness, and he thinks that he's numb, but he feels the pain in his chest that is so horribly real when he breathes, but he's not gasping for breath, and he can't feel- he doesn't want to feel, make it stop, please- and his wide, unblinking eyes return to the wall, the white wall now stained with blood, not wine, it's blood, oh god, and he can't move, can't do anything, can't feel-

And he sits there, staring at the wall and the red and thinking of the green that is not green any longer, because the red has swallowed it up, and the silver is red now, and the wall is red now, and his hands, his pale hands, are stained red, and he can't get it off.

And Draco stares at the wall and the red, red blood and thinks: there's nothing left.