Not My Eden

Sometimes people are not what they seem. One person can stare at another with deepest of gazes, and never understand what goes on behind the eyes they search. This was something common in both muggle, and magical people found out by one, Draco Malfoy. In fact, it was perhaps found out in that exact manner, a searching gaze into another’s eyes. It was all he needed to do before he understood what it meant to “not be all there”.

Draco’s Mother and Father had never been the loving type, or the caring, or even the remotely give-a-flying-flip type. Most people knew this, too, with only one look at his parents, and they never said anything against it. No one really cared, so why should Draco? The problem was he did care and enough to see further into the depths of his own parents.

It occurred his seventh year, when most of the public outbreaks of War had been happening. It was a known fact that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, that Narcissa was an obedient wife, and Draco, an obedient son. So they thought, but as most judgments are, they did happen to be slightly wrong. Lucius was indeed a Death Dater, and his wife obedient... but Draco was not. Draco, was more interested in the sciences of the human [and wizard brain], to really care about being a Death Eater. Of course how a Death Eater thought did intrigue him, as well as other people’s minds and such things as psychology. It was a rare interest, and a rare job. A Wizarding Psychologist, someone who used magic to help overcome brain diseases, and used magic in therapeutic ways on someone’s stress levels and such.

It was hardly approved by his parents, and why should it be? How would it look if by Draco's profound ‘psychology" he proclaimed Voldemort insane? Lucius would be gone in no time, along with his family. Lucius didn’t care so much about his family, but to die himself, would be a horrible outcome. So it was decided ahead of time what Draco was to do with his life, and how he would enter the ranks of a Death Eater as any respectable son would.

That was something Draco had battled with for years, perhaps all throughout his school life if he gave thought to it. He didn't have time to be a happy, cheerful, or otherwise considerably nice person. Nice people wouldn't go anywhere, as his Father stated. Of course wanting to be nice was always something he thought about, but only to himself in the depths of his complicated mind.

Those feelings reemerged not so far after his graduation of Hogwarts. The War of Voldemort in the wizarding world began to rage with public raids and battles in wizarding communities across Europe. Casualties of War became many in the first few weeks, and his father had become one. It was almost sad to feel so happy about his father dieing, but it was his freedom that lived. Narcissa Malfoy had lived as well, though in her fragile condition she had gone insane with the sudden effects of depression lows and highs.

It was the moment Draco, openly against Voldemort, finally understood that humans had such fragile minds behind their eyes.

A lifeless gaze was all he could get from his Mother at times, a sort of blank glazed peering, directly out the window into the snowy deposits below. St. Mungos was located in the depths of a wizarding area in Ireland. Past a small forest a clearing edged by exquisite gardens financed by the Malfoy money, where patients could walk about in a cam serene setting. Sometimes he would catch his mother with a slight glint, a bit of a lively spark, in her iced blue eyes. Yet it’d go moments, back to the blank insanity she became accustomed to.

St. Mungo’s had become his line of study and work. He would visit his Mother daily in the morning and sometimes for Tea after lunch, and then he would dash off to accompany the wizard nurses and doctors in caring for patients, learning as he went. Of course all the while the war grew immensely in need of more able bodied wizards, but he had refused to go, refused to get him self killed in the war like others.

To die like his father in the war of physical magic. No, he found ways of battling mental Wars in the delicate folds of a patient's mind. Still he'd never be ready for the personal battle that’d he would fight for a certain Red Head.