Stage

Stage

"All the world´s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts..."

~William Shakespeare, As You Like It

He felt like he was always on a stage. Always. The spotlight was always shining down on him, so rivulets of sweat would cascade down his face in response to the constant heat. That´s why his face shone so brightly above the crowd.

There was always an audience watching. Whether it was Dumbledore, McGonagall, or even Ron and Hermione, someone was there. He had to make a star performance in order to make them clap. Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn´t. He had to learn what made them break out into applause and appeasing all is not easy.

He was soiled with makeup. Everything he appeared to be was an entourage. Was it the real him? Perhaps not. Perhaps so. No one in particular could really tell. However, he was always in costume. Always prepared to jump in to say his lines.

And his lines were many. He had to memorize them all.

Sometimes in privacy, he would step off the stage. He would remove the façade. At those times, he would be confused. What was he doing off the stage? You see, the boy had grown used to the attention. He was used to being the star. Then he would cry, bemoaning his misfortune. Why must he always be in disguise?

He despised it all. The theater. He hated plays of all sorts. He believed them too personal, too knowing. He didn´t like people knowing about him. He didn´t want them to figure out who he really was.

And yet, someone discovered who he was.

During the night, he would go to them. And he would cry out his misery. He would run to that cold room, with its shadows lurking in the corner. He would find his light, sitting on the bed, waiting for him, the full moon silhouetted in the window. As always, he would see the glow of his savior.

"It´s all right, Harry," that someone would whisper in his ear. "It´s okay."

The boy would raise his head, tears still swimming in his verdant eyes, "Please...hold me."

"Of course. I love you." They were remarkably tender.

"T-thank you!" He would stutter and crawl into the pale arms.

There, he would be rocked to sleep. Rocked to sleep by the one he loved.

And that someone, with his fair hair falling over his gray eyes, would kiss his forehead lovingly and place him on the pillow to rest and pull the pure sheets over his body.

The someone would watch him.

They would see the jagged cuts on his arms. They would see the weak form, lying on the stainless sheets, with ebon hair and tanned skin. They would see the tension disappear from his face. They would see the tears dry on his cheeks. They would see his breathing go slowly into rest.

He would go one less night in his mask.

He would step down for one night.

And that´s all Draco wanted.

He wanted Harry off the stage.