Permafrost

Loneliness is the cruelest affliction anyone can suffer. All other trials, without loneliness, are survivable, merely because there is someone there to survive with. But nobody survives loneliness with another. That's the point of loneliness - to be alone.

And it's not as if anybody notices how you suffer; again, the whole 'being alone' bit. It's a terrible, cold monster that slowly drains you of your strength until you find yourself hugging your pillow, night after night, wishing for one lousy moment that the pillow would spontaneously grow arms and just hold you. Just hold you and let you know someone is there, someone cares. Let you know you're not alone.

The worst part about loneliness is the injustice of it. Your soul thirsts for something it cannot have, something so stupid and simple as a smile, a hug, a compliment, maybe even a sneer, but something to gain notice. Something to show that you do matter, that your life does mean something. And all the while, your mind yells out against it. "You should be stronger than this!" it says. "Weakling! People have survived worse!"

Yes, but they survived it with love.

It sincerely is one of the cruelest afflictions. Disease and starvation lead to quick deaths. Hardships are survived with family and friends. Debilitation is overcome by aid of sheer will and physical therapy. But loneliness is incurable. Truly, the best way to describe loneliness is in one word: white.

Perhaps an explanation is in order.

White is a very lonely color. In terms of pigment, it pales and thins all other colors, blanching a strong, vibrant red to a mellow pink or dark black to a lighter shade of grey; it is a lack of strength and emotion in color. In terms of light, it reflects, shunning all other beams from itself, living its life devoid of warmth. It is the isolating blizzard, the single cloud on a sunny day, the lonely caps on waves, the now-cold mug that sits on a dresser in the dim of an evening before Christmas Eve as its former user waits patiently for the dawn and the distraction of houseguests and festivities.

Draco Malfoy sat in an armchair that faced a window, keeping his back to the door. The tall back of the chair hid him from view, but it wasn't really necessary; most likely, nobody would come to see him; it was a rare occurrence when someone did, and it usually consisted of a sharp reprimand as to his hair or clothing. Either that, or a "Time for dinner, Master Malfoy." It was in these hours that he could muse on isolation, the only child's cross to bear.

There were so many different kinds of loneliness. One in particular was the loneliness when you're surrounded by people. They talk and laugh and enjoy themselves, and you find yourself slipping out of the grasp of conversation, even more alone than when you started. Or there was that longing sort of loneliness when you were with one person that you wished would care, but knew never would.

And then, there was the kind of loneliness that he felt now. It was the sort that made you realize what your lot in life was, and that loneliness was just a part of it, like combing your hair in the morning, or making sure your shoes are neatly tied and brightly polished. There wasn't any hurt or any anger, just a dull ache of acceptance that this path was the one you were saddled with.

Each form of loneliness had its own texture he mused. They were all white, but they felt different. The loneliness of large groups was very light and airy, almost as if it could be broken, except something just wouldn't let it happen. The loneliness resisted in any way it could, ensnaring its victim further. The loneliness of two was very soft and gentle, and could wrap you up and suffocate you with the tears you had to withhold. But the last loneliness, the loneliness of one, it was a hard loneliness. There was no lightness or softness of it. It was as cold and unfeeling as a block of ice that would never thaw. He recalled hearing the word for that once, but forgot it.

How he wished that his tea hadn't been drained so quickly. A steaming mug would have made a companion for him, as small and cheap as its warmth was. It's a sad thing when inanimate objects make better friends than people do, but they do. A mug will never criticize you for your shortcomings. A mirror will never refuse to love you. An armchair will hold you and comfort you as you cry into your pillow, wishing for just one moment in which you felt that your parents truly loved you.

He had come close to moments like that. It was on an evening much like this, on the verge of a party, when his father had been helping him get ready for the evening. Draco had been fixing his hair and adjusting his collar, smiling ever-so-slightly, when Lucius remarked, "Draco, put your hair back. You look terrible like that."

"But I like it this way."

"Why must you be so unpleasant?" he snapped. "Put it back."

Draco had fumed briefly at the injustice of it, when he realized that he had momentarily stepped out of his place. It hurt to be shoved back into it; this wasn't the first time, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last. He had to take a deep calming breath and hide the tears as he adjusted his hairdo.

That was when being a Malfoy hurt the most.

It wasn't until years later that he slowly began to realize the truth about his family. His parents did love him, on some unconscious level; they were just bad at being parents. His father was always absent, and even when Draco talked to him, he seemed to be in another realm, where Draco's voice was replaced by a gentle but irritating hum. His mother, on the other hand, was too wrapped up in her own affairs to pay much mind to him; and when she did, it was always some hard, exacting remark, which was more often than not supported by Lucius. They were only trying to make him a better person - he did understand this. They were just bad at what they did.

So he sat in his room, thinking, waiting for the moment to arrive when he would be free. He plotted out what he would do, the kind of man he would be when he had children. Draco knew that his son or daughter would be perfect. Even if they had their faults, they would be perfect. They wouldn't be his puppets, but they would have minds of their own and feel free to speak them without reprimand. To suppress a child's free will, he discovered, was a sin in and of itself. No child should be forced to snuff out what they truly believe. He had struggled so many years to maintain a small flame inside of his own heart, but it was slowly dying in the hard-packed ice of his solitary confinement.

He could not let himself become that man, that monster. Someday, he knew, it will end. The ice will melt and he will know love and friendship and all of those things he was too scared to reach for. He merely prayed that when that moment came along, he wouldn't be so fearful as to guard his heart to everything. A deep-seeded feeling told him he would.

Draco had to get around it. He had to escape the permafrost.