Mourning Morning

A woman was walking towards the house, a bag slung over her shoulder. Her long, brown hair shone in the sunshine, highlights of copper gleaming as she slowly made her way onwards. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a matching denim jacket, with a plain white T-shirt underneath.

Her face was solemn, devoid of any expression. He wasn't sure whether it was her dull brown eyes, the thin line of her lips or something else entirely which gave it away, but you could see that she was in mourning.

Upon reaching the barrier set out before the house, she calmly sat cross-legged on the cold, hard pavement and swung her bag listlessly into her lap. What did you call it? A rucksack? A knapsack? He couldn't remember. All he could remember was the way Harry would laugh at him and say television had corrupted his mind.

Draco watched as the strange visitor rummaged around in her bag for a few moments and then closed it up again, turning her attention to whatever was in her hands. He couldn't see properly from such a distance, but it looked familiar, something that he had seen often before. He watched as something fell onto the ground, a few crumbs left lying in a puddle, a blemish on the clinical grey of the pavement.

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and calming himself. His hands still felt chilled, even though he was hugging them close to his sides. Maybe it was the cold seeping through his robes and into his back. It was only the right side of his back, but, still, the window was cold. Draco couldn't find the energy to move, however. The freezing pane of glass was supporting him, even as it sapped the life from him.

Forcing his eyes open again, he looked back down at the street below and noticed that someone else had appeared. An elderly-looking woman was slowly making her way down the road.

Draco watched the old lady's slow progress, his gaze following her as she eventually reached the other woman. They exchanged polite greetings in the form of cordial nods and quiet murmurs, by the looks of things. The newcomer discreetly removed her wand from the sleeve of her cardigan and conjured a modest looking chair, comfortable but small and inconspicuous.

When she was seated beside her new-found companion, she seemingly pulled from thin air a ball of red wool and a pair of knitting needles, a smaller bundle of gold wool sitting on the edge of her lap. As she readied her needles, her new acquaintance offered her the packet, of what looked like biscuits, in a gesture of kindness and comfort. The matronly woman smiled in return and took a biscuit, connecting with her friend in a way she never would have before had it not been for their current circumstances.

Swallowing harshly, Draco focussed his attention on the younger woman, watching as she munched her way through a few more biscuits. Once she was done, she calmly reached for her bag a second time and put the biscuits away, the packet now half-empty. When she removed her hand again, she was holding a pad of paper and two pencils.

She then looked up at the house, her hair falling back and revealing her face in all its pale glory. From where he was standing, her skin looked flawless, yet Draco knew that if he were closer to her he would be able to see the reality, the tiny imperfections that never really mattered. Her head lowered again and she began dragging a pencil across the page, glancing back at his home every now and then to further inspect a certain area, a particular line or a specific shadow.

Draco observed her for a good ten minutes, simply watching the hypnotic movements of her hand as she worked, the motions the same again and again with only minor variations, never tracing an exactly identical pattern twice.

He spotted three or so shadows bobbing along the pavement, growing in length as whoever they belonged to walked reverently towards the two sitting in silence in the middle of the pavement. Soon, the people casting the shadows entered his line of sight: a middle-aged couple and their young son, coats wrapped around each of them snugly.

They cautiously approached the artist and seemed to ask permission to look at the drawing, as she moved her arm aside to let them have a better look at what she was doing. The young boy looked enthralled, running a finger along the paper and looking wide-eyed at the smiling woman before turning to his mother.

The blonde woman grasped her son's other hand and gently tugged him away towards her husband, who had conjured two chairs. With her free hand, the mother rubbed her husband's upper arm and then sat in one of the chairs, lifting the curious child onto her lap and holding him securely. The father took his wand once more and conjured a small, low table with a bag sitting innocently atop it.

Taking his seat, he searched inside the bag and brought out a wide bottle and three cups. Evidently satisfied with what he saw, he removed the lid and poured a steaming concoction of some sort into each cup. It looked like hot chocolate, but Draco couldn't be sure. The youngster was handed the smaller cup, obviously being told by his parents to be careful with it, as he nodded gravely and extravagantly when they paused in giving him the drink.

Just then, someone else arrived. He hung back slightly, leaning against the lamppost, which was positioned a good five feet from where the old lady still sat, steadily knitting. He folded his arms against his chest, his stance one of a guardian preparing to stand for a while and watch, vigilant throughout whatever were to happen.

Draco felt oddly self-conscious of himself and looked away for a few moments, into the shadows haunting the room. He blinked quickly a few times and dragged his eyes back to the window, looking out at the world below him.

There he stayed, watching as more and more people arrived.

A group of five friends, all in their late teens, turned up next, almost huddled together as they surveyed the paltry crowd that was already there. Another family, this time with a young teen and his younger sister. She was clutching her older brother's hand in one of her own tiny hands, the other gripping her mother's coat tightly. Another group of friends, this time smaller, older. Another solitary figure, lonely yet evidently not wanting company. Two friends, arms linked as they joined the growing crowd, keeping close together. Another family. Another couple. An old woman, her hat hiding most of her face.

A group of four young boys ran past on the other side of the road, kicking a ball between them and laughing happily amongst themselves. They paused and contemplated the gathering of people before shrugging at each other and carrying on, unconcerned.

People began trickling in in earnest from then on, the late afternoon air warming the pavement and encouraging some to shed their heavier outer garments. Some welcomed their neighbours, others kept their gaze riveted on the house and were left to themselves. Each understood how the others felt, a common emotion rippling through the crowd and binding them all together as one.

Throughout the afternoon, Draco remained almost completely motionless and regarded them all, studying each new arrival and silently drinking in each face. There were few he actually knew, even fewer he could name, but he felt something inside him shift and twitch each time he noticed someone he hadn't spotted before.

Most of their faces wore the same serious look, with the only exceptions being the infants who didn't fully understand what was happening. A common emotion filled the air, though. Everyone could feel it, a part of that which bound them all together and kept them mainly silent, only ever whispering a few words to friends, family or new acquaintances as they saw fit.

Draco couldn't stand it, but he didn't know what to do about it. He felt restless, a strange nervous energy buzzing within him, a thin line zipping silently through his blood and intoxicating his muscles. He wanted to fling open the window and shout out to those assembled beneath outside, scream at them and make them truly understand. They thought they knew, but they had no idea.

He wanted to curl up in the corner, hide behind the shadows and let them soothe him to sleep, embrace him in the darkness. He wanted to be able to cry and escape from it all, turn his back on everyone and do as he pleased. Fade away and become just another sigh in the air, able to float where he wanted without a care in the world, light and ... free.

Draco had thought often, that day, of running away, of simply disappearing. Off to wherever his fleeing feet would take him. To Hell if that was where he was destined, just away from the cold bleakness blanketing his world. He could feel it crushing him, heavy on his heart and pressing thickly against his throat.

Blinking, Draco found himself staring at the floor. His vision was blurred and strangely light around the edges, a sparkle winking at him in one corner. When his eyes focussed, after blinking a few times, he saw a few dark splotches on the floor, already fading. Turning to the window, he absently noted the dark descending outside and looked at the crowd.

What Draco saw made him ache. He could feel something within him cave in on itself, dragging his tired soul with it. Coats and jackets had been donned again, a few scarves wrapped tightly around vulnerable throats. Hardly anyone at all had abandoned their post. Still sitting there, despite the significant decrease in temperature and light.

Some of the smaller children were curled up asleep in their parents' arms, others craning their necks and trying to take in all that was around them, fascinated by the other people. There were people of all kinds gathered together, no one seeming to care who they were standing or sitting beside. The only thing that physically set them apart from the rest of the world was the candles they held.

They were burning brightly, their numbers ever growing as even more were produced and lit, twinkling and dancing in the gentle evening breeze. No two candles were identical; tall, short, thin, fat, simple, intricately shaped, plain, adorned with decorations of other colours. But they were all white, with the same radiant flame glowing brightly, but failing to chase away the dark entirely.

It all looked so different from that afternoon, when the sun had been smiling down on everyone. The young woman who had been sketching the house was now huddled in her denim jacket, her art hidden from view. Draco could no longer see her face, just a dark wave of hair tumbling over her shoulders.

The old woman was still knitting, bent over her project protectively. She was also wrapped up securely in warm clothing, hardly an inch of flesh bared to the cold weather. He could no longer make out her features in any detail, just the lines of her eyes, nose and mouth through the ghostly shadows flickering over her face and distorting it.

This was probably what was captivating the younger ones' attention so much, the fact that everyone was bathed in shadows. It made everything look different and scary. But they were safe with their families. Safe from any horrors that might be lying in wait.

Suddenly, Draco could hear singing. Tilting his head to the side, he peered more closely down towards the source of the voices. The words weren't too clear, quiet as they were, but the tune was melodic and bewitching. It was melancholic and bordering on bittersweet, a song which fitted the mood perfectly.

Slipping to the floor soundlessly, Draco pressed himself into the corner near the window and fell onto his side, clasping his hands around his wrists and holding his knees tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes forcefully and breathed out harshly, his breath ragged as it was pushed past dry, parted lips.

Outside, more and more voices joined in singing, lifting their voices high into the night. Draco lay where he was, listening to the muffled song as it drifted up towards his window and lulled him to sleep, a whisper echoing the sentiment of the words in his ears and soothing his tired mind.

* * *

When Draco awoke the next morning, he stiffly pushed himself up from the floor, leaning against the wall beneath the windowsill. His robes felt equally unyielding around his skin, slightly chafing and stifling. Rubbing a hand across his face, disgust twisting his expression into one of sleepy distaste, he reached up blindly with his other hand and pulled himself up to lean against the wall and the window frame.

Staring out of the window, he was almost surprised to find the street empty. There were a few lonely pieces of debris lying crumpled in the gutter, occasionally rustling as the wind disturbed them. But all the people from the night before had simply disappeared. Blinking and casting his gaze further out, Draco caught sight of a banner tied to a tree, and squinted, trying to make out the words:

"HARRY POTTER:

OUR GOLDEN GRYFFINDOR HERO FOREVER"

Sucking in a quick breath between chattering teeth, Draco turned abruptly from the innocent tree, with its empty branches undulating in the wind, and slumped heavily against the window, the cold a muted shock to his system.

And that was when he saw it. There on the floor on the other side of the room, propped up against the doorframe, stood a piece of paper and a lumpy package. Seeing as he was on the second floor, he had to assume that someone had used magic to put them where they were.

Frowning, he took a hesitant step forward, pushing everything else from his mind but the mystery before him. When he drew nearer, he could see that it was in fact littered with pencil lines, marks and shadings. The tone was soft, with harsh, sweeping strokes few and far between, as it all blurred and twined together to form a picture.

Draco stood there staring, frozen to the spot. His skin was icy and his breath hardly there, an almost invisible mist. There was his house in sketchy pencil lines, with the dying sun bleeding long shadows onto the pavement and the rising moon bathing the top right corner of the roof in an unearthly glow. And there lay a single body on the pavement. There were no details except for the tiny amount of blood that dribbled down from a mouth slack in death, to form a slight puddle below the young man's cheek, a dark stain on the otherwise pristine concrete.

There was a tiny thought at the back of his mind, correcting the sprawled limbs so that they matched his own memory. Few other people had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed the true scene of devastation that had unfolded the previous day. But it was scarily close. Draco didn't want to change it at all. It was better that way, the small imperfections forever reminding him of the truth.

And there was Draco himself, standing like a ghostly guardian, watching over the street and staring forlornly down at his forever-sleeping love. But just behind him there was someone else, standing close by, though not touching him. The outline of the figure was softer, less defined, and almost glowing like a candle flame in the shadows. Soft, white wings were bent towards and around dark, hunched shoulders, comforting and supporting.

In the bottom right-hand corner, a few words were scribbled, neat and sloping:

I saw him there with you yesterday.

And I don't think he plans on leaving.

P.S. A friend of mine wanted you to have something from her as well;

you'll find it wrapped up safely in tissue paper with this drawing.

Draco numbly sat down cross-legged, overwhelmed. Placing the artwork carefully in his lap, he picked up the neatly wrapped package with unfeeling fingers and turned it over a few times, his mind eerily silent as he gazed unseeing at his hands. Finally, he reached for a corner and neatly ripped it off, revealing red wool beneath, like blood under a thick dusting of snow.

Using his finger to rip the rest of the edge open, Draco tipped the contents into his hand and dropped the wrapping by his knee. Unfolding the small, thick square of material, Draco held the two top corners between his thumbs and forefingers and gingerly opened it out properly, the small blanket's design fully revealed to him.

Choking back a sob, Draco's hands fell against his chest, the red wool crumpled between them. Leaning his elbows at the top of his thighs, mindful of the beautiful sketch still cradled in his lap, he hunched over himself as he rocked back and forth slightly, unsuccessfully trying to hold back the tears as they slid tenderly down his pale cheeks and soaked soundlessly into his new blanket, darkening the red background and turning golden snitches and bolts of brilliant lightning a fiery orange.

And just as the sun began to crawl slowly yet steadily into the room, creeping across the dusty floorboards towards his quivering back, he thought he felt a light wisp of something brushing against his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pictured himself as he was depicted in the picture, wings of a weeping angel surrounding him and never abandoning him.