A Thousand Words

Chapter 6: Darkness Deep As Hell

Draco couldn't help but sneer at Hermione's back once she had turned around. He didn't know why she had chosen to come up to him, but it was clear that he had gotten on her nerves, and knowing this made him feel slightly better - though not by much.

He'd received another letter from his pen pal asking him, in short, why he had not replied to her earlier one. The problem was, Draco wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't replied yet. He'd had an unusually large amount of free time the past week, and yet he was avoiding sitting down and writing a reply.

Perhaps it was because she had implored him to give her advice. To be frank, Draco didn't know how to. He was not one to dwell on troubled relationships, for he saw no use in it, and thus was unable to think of anything helpful. So, instead of admitting it, he was simply trying to put the challenge out of his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched Hermione look around uncertainly, obviously searching for a friend. He smiled to himself when he saw her hesitate and turn around to glance at him. He made no sign that he had noticed this, and continued to keep up the pretence of being entirely engrossed in the book he had in his hands. In truth, he had not read a word since Hermione had approached him.

After a while, when it seemed that Hermione was not going to move, Draco snapped the book shut and turned around again.

'I don't know where your companion is, if that's why you're waiting for me,' he said, smugly noting how Hermione's cheeks turned pink at his words.

'I wasn't waiting for you,' she said hotly. 'I was just...waiting.'

'You could wait somewhere else,' suggested Draco with the faintest trace of a smirk.

'Well, I chose to wait here,' Hermione retorted. Draco was amused to see that she appeared to be disoriented and anxious rather than her usual composed self.

'Okay,' he said, careful to keep his voice impervious so that the bushy-haired monster wouldn't think she affecting him as much as he was affecting her. 'So how is the interdepartmental challenge going for you?'

Hermione glared suspiciously at Draco. 'Are you feeling okay?'

'Fantastic, thanks,' said Draco lightly, 'but it would be nice if you could try to make a little conversation while you're standing here watching me.'

'I'd rather make conversation with the floor,' she snapped.

The words hit Draco like a burning whip across the face. He had heard them so many times before - grown used to them, even - and yet this time, he was suddenly seething inside. Struggling to keep his sudden and unexplainable irascibility at bay, Draco tightened his lips and said icily, 'Go ahead then.'

Hermione's eyes widened. She, too, seemed surprised that her retaliation had actually penetrated Draco's cool, indifferent facade. Looking down, she fidgeted with the book Draco had gotten for her. Then, after many minutes of uncomfortable silence, she murmured softly, 'Sorry.'

Draco's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't remember the last time someone had said that to him; in fact, he didn't know if anyone had ever apologised to him. Instead of letting his uncharacteristically emotional reaction show, though, Draco simply turned away from Hermione and said stiffly, 'I think your friend is coming to get you.'

Sure enough, the Weasley girl was approaching them. Not wanting to be caught in a position where he would have to say hello to her, Draco quickly snatched his book from the shelf, pushed past Hermione, and made his way over to the register to pay for it.

Draco drummed his fingertips on the cover of his book while he waited for the witch in front of him to finish purchasing her armful of romance novels. He couldn't help but steal a glance over in the direction he had just come from every now and then to see what Hermione and Ginny were doing. They were talking very rapidly, their foreheads so close together that they were nearly touching, and every now and then Hermione would make a frantic hand gesture that would send Ginny into fits of giggles.

Draco narrowed his eyes. They're talking about me, he realised with a scowl as he stepped forward and handed his book over to the clerk.

'2 Galleons and 17 Sickles, sir,' came a bright, cheerful voice, interrupting Draco's thoughts.

Draco reached into his pocket and extracted a handful of coins. Throwing them down on the counter, he said tersely to the young clerk, 'Keep the change,' grabbed his book, and stalked towards the door.

Once Draco was outside, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes and hunched his shoulders against the bitter winter wind. As he passed a large store selling wizardwear, he gazed longingly at the thick, colourful winter cloaks they had on display. Then, shaking his head, he continued on past the shop.

It wasn't that Draco was poor, for he certainly wasn't. However, he was far from rich. His father and mother had been lavish spenders, and when they died in the war, they had left Draco next to nothing. This was partially why he had gotten a job in the Ministry, for he had not had the money to start a business, nor would he have desired to. Nevertheless, though Draco received a fair salary for his work, being a Hit Wizard was not as well-paying as, say, a desk job at Gringotts. This resulted in the denial of certain luxuries - such as winter cloaks - and forced Draco to have to keep his spending in check. Not that he wouldn't have, anyway; unlike his parents, he had experienced the misfortunes of a life where he had nothing except his wand and a few scraps of clothing. Seeing as Draco did not wish to go through the ordeal again, he had no problem disciplining himself when it came to money. And, since he already had a cloak (which he had, unfortunately, forgotten to wear that morning), there was no need for him to buy a second one.

As Draco strolled past a group of Christmas shoppers huddled together against the cold, his mind wandered to Hermione's words. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists as he recalled her biting retort.

I'm not a horrible person to talk to, he thought bitterly. She's never given me a chance, that's all; she doesn't know me; she doesn't have any right to judge my character when all she's done to me is -

Draco thoughts came to a grinding halt there. What had she done to him?

Nothing, came a remorseful little voice from the back of his mind. She's never done anything to you. You're the one who always tried to provoke her; you're the one who called her a -

'Shut up,' said Draco loudly, shaking his head slightly to get the voice out of his mind. An old couple passing by stared at him as if he had grown a second head, and picked up their pace slightly. Draco glared at their retreating backs.

At that point, Draco realised that he had stopped in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium. Usually, he strolled right past the owl shop without so much as a glance; however, as he lazily scanned the cages, his attention was snared by a snowy white owl in a brass cage hanging near the door. Feeling oddly drawn to this owl, Draco pushed open the door to the dark shop and stepped in without thinking.

The moment the door slammed closed behind Draco, an unpleasant, musty odour immediately pervaded his nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he stepped up to the dusty counter and cleared his throat.

An old, stooped wizard with a long, tangled beard looked up. 'What do you want, kid?' he asked in a cracked voice.

'How much is that one?' asked Draco loudly, pointing at the snowy owl.

'14 Galleons and 1 Sickle,' wheezed the old wizard without following Draco's finger. 'You want her?'

Draco hesitated. Did he want the owl? He glanced cautiously at the creature again. Its amber eyes were fixed on him, and as he looked over in its direction, it hooted dolefully as if imploring him to take it home with him.

'Yes.' The words were out of Draco's mouth before he could stop them.

'Give the money then, and you can take her as you leave.'

Grimacing, Draco reached into his pocket and extracted several heavy Galleons and a silver Sickle. He counted the coins to make sure he had enough then handed them over to the clerk.

The clerk took the coins and eyed them beadily before giving Draco a half-bow. 'Her name's Latera,' he said with a toothless grin.

'Right,' said Draco grimly.

With that, he turned around and strode over to the display case. With some difficulty, he unhooked the heavy brass cage from the ceiling. The owl ruffled its white feathers restlessly as Draco lifted the cage down and brought it up to eye level to examine its inhabitant.

Looks healthy enough, he thought, still wondering what had possessed him to, so impulsively, spend so much money on a stupid bird.

'Thank you,' Draco called over his shoulder as he gripped the cage tightly in his hands, pushed the door open with his foot, and walked out onto the snowy streets.

Now unsure as to where he could head with a birdcage - and an owl - in his arms, Draco looked around. His eyes fell on a fairly new inn across the street. A wooden sign with the words 'The Red Dragon' hung above the door, swinging violently in the wind. From what Draco could see, the small bar in front was packed with people seeking protection from the cold.

Though the natural instinct to shy away from large crowds urged Draco to turn away, his common sense refused to let him turn from any kind of warmth. Thus, he crossed the street and entered the tavern.

Once the door had swung shut behind him, Draco was immediately received with many curious looks that quickly turned to fearful ones when they took in his disfigured face.

Bet they've never seen a more bizarre pair, thought Draco wryly as he pushed through the crowd, searching for a table he could sit down at. He nodded curtly at a pretty 20-something witch as he passed, smiling bitterly when she shrunk away in alarm.

When at last Draco found an unoccupied seat at the bar, he heaved a sigh of relief. His arms were aching from having to carry the heavy brass cage, and he was glad to have a solid surface to deposit it onto temporarily.

Once he had seated himself comfortably on the bar stool, Draco dropped his chin onto his hands tiredly and closed his eyes. He felt as though someone else had been playing him as they might play the strings of a marionette the past few hours. First his inability to control his outburst, then his spur-of-the-moment decision to buy an owl...an owl, for God's sake!

'Ahem.'

Draco opened one eye to gaze exhaustedly at the bartender. 'Yes?'

'You plannin' on orderin' anythin', son?'

Draco sat up a little straighter. 'Sorry. I'll have a shot of Ogden's.'

The bartender peered at Draco cautiously over his grizzled beard before saying gruffly, 'Comin' right up.'

As the grumpy-looking man turned around to pour the drink, the sudden urge to try something a little bit stronger swept over Draco. Without thinking, he called out, 'Wait, change that order to a bottle of Hell's Wrath.'

The bartender glared over his shoulder at Draco. Disbelief and suspicion were evident in the lines of his face as his dark eyes took in the bedraggled appearance of his customer. Draco didn't blame him - Hell's Wrath was not only the strongest liquor available in public but also the most expensive.

At long length, the old man seemed to decide that Draco was trustworthy enough. Reaching under the counter, he groped about before pulling out a small bottle filled to the brim with a pale grey liquid. He glanced at it briefly before handing it over the counter to Draco.

'That'll be 3 Galleons,' he barked, reaching out a gnarled old hand.

Draco nodded and scooped out the last of the coins in his pocket. He counted them before dumping them in the bartender's hand. 'That should be enough.'

The bartender nodded. 'Good luck,' he cackled.

Draco raised the bottle in mock toast before placing it back on the counter and popping the cap. For a split second, a shadow of doubt passed across his face; then, he tilted his head back and downed half the bottle.

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Feeling a little more confident, Draco took another gulp of the drink. Half-way through his second gulp, though, his throat seized up, causing him to spit out the remaining liquid in his mouth. Slamming the quarter-full bottle onto the bar table, Draco clapped both his hands over his mouth frantically as his insides writhed and seethed, burning and freezing at the same time. Fire seemed to course through his veins, setting his body aflame.

Sputtering and gasping for breath, Draco clutched his forehead in his hands, digging his fingernails into his flesh. His shoulders shook violently as the effects of the liquor wracked his thin frame, but he hardly noticed, for his vision was blurring, his head was swimming, and voices were echoing and bouncing off the walls of his mind: 'Rather talk to floor'...'still working under Ministry's power'...'welcome to a life of power beyond comprehension, Draco Malfoy...'

Shuddering, Draco inhaled sharply. The cold fire in his blood was beginning to subside, although his throat still burned intensely. His mind, too, was suddenly clearer than ever, and he knew what he had to do to partially lift the darkness that had been hanging over him for so long.

Draco reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and pulled out a quill, a few sheets of parchment, and a crystal ink bottle. Closing his eyes tightly, he counted to ten and willed the haziness distorting his sight to go away.

When Draco opened his eyes, he found to his relief that his vision was significantly less fuzzy. Taking advantage of this, he pulled a sheet of parchment towards him, dipped the point of his quill into his ink bottle, and began to messily write out a letter.

Dear Starlight,

I'm sorry I haven't written you anything for the past week. I've been caught up in work and, admittedly, my own reluctance to write back.

I hate to sound useless, but I don't have much good advice to offer. I would say to spend time away from him or maybe even go your own separate ways, but I don't want you to break off your relationship with him if you love him as much as you insist you do. But perhaps a little space might do the two of you some good. Go out and spend time with your friends rather than him. Also, don't let your frustration over his protective behaviour linger. Try to see it from his perspective. As terribly stereotypical as it sounds, most men feel as if it's their duty to guard their loved ones.

If it still bothers you, though, let him know. Tell him exactly how you feel. It might spur on another argument, but at least he'll have something to think about.

Draco wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still shaking uncontrollably. He could feel the aftermath of drinking the Hell's Heat beginning to fog his mind and mix up his thoughts, yet he still managed to mumble under his breath, 'Granger was wrong...'

Draco glanced helplessly at the remaining Hell's Wrath in the bottle. Though he knew the consequences of consuming the entire bottle, his murky and muddled mind begged him to provide it with the clarity it had known immediately after his first gulps of the drink. Thus, Draco picked up the bottle, raised it to his lips, and poured the remaining pale grey liquid down his throat.

This time, the burning sensation was neither as prolonged nor as intense as it had been the first time around. Once the flames faded away, Draco was rewarded with the lucidity he had been longing for. The moment his head cleared, he picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink bottle, and began to write once more.

Now it's my turn to implore your help. At the moment, my life is - to put it mildly - more chaotic and confusing than I would like. I feel like I've lost the control I've been so tediously establishing ever since I understood the meaning of the word 'power'. The past haunts me more than ever, the sharp words of my peers are beginning to hurt, and I feel as though another force is guiding me through each day and living my life for me.

I...well, I've been told that I'm a difficult person to talk to. I'm not a fool who wears his heart on his sleeve; I believe the weakest thing people can do is let their emotions run away with them. Nevertheless, I find myself susceptible to my temper sometimes, especially when remarks touch upon a sensitive part of me: my past, as you might have guessed. Indeed, this causes me to act rather cruelly towards some people - or at least, it did.

I'm tired of being that person everyone avoids and distrusts, though. I'm tired of having people turn away when they see me and glare when I speak to them. Starlight, tell me...how do you melt a heart of ice?

Sincerely,

Shadow

Unable to write legibly any longer, Draco stuffed the letter and the rest of his writing supplies into his pocket. His eyes blearily searched for the bartender, but the moment he opened his mouth to order another drink, the realisation that he had no more money on him forced him to close it again.

Sighing despondently, Draco picked up the empty bottle of Hell's Wrath, lifted the birdcage - inside which his owl was sleeping - off the table, and trudged out of the inn.

Outside, the icy wind whipped at Draco's robes and stung his cheeks. His owl screeched loudly, having been woken up from her slumber by the blustery weather.

'I'm cold too,' muttered Draco, hating how his words had become slurred and incomprehensible. Then, with a quiet pop, he apparated back home.