Refract

Hello, Draco.

(smoothly) Hello.

I am the Mirror of Sis'ylan'a. Have you been informed of my function?

Yes. (bored) You're supposed to draw out my innermost thoughts and subconscious issues through magically stimulated self-analysis. That's why you speak with my voice and reflect my face. (amused) I've read the brochure.

Do you know why you are here, Draco?

(calmly) Yes. I'm here because everyone thinks I'm insane.

Why do you say that?

Because St. Mungo's is an asylum. (scornfully) Why else would I be here?

Your mother was worried about you. She requested that you spend a session with me. Can you tell me why you think that is?

You know perfectly well why that is. My mother is hysterical. She thinks I'm crazy.

She says you have been behaving differently since your father passed away. Behaving recklessly. Do you think that's true?

(airily) Possibly. But that has nothing to do with why she sent me here.

Why do you think your mother sent you here, Draco?

(pause) She sent me here because of Harry Potter.

---

I fucked a stranger last night and dreamed it was you. Dreamed it was your voice screaming my name, your creamy skin tearing under my fingernails, your thick midnight hair twisted in my hands. When I wrenched his head back and hurled kisses like insults at his bare, vulnerable throat, I imagined that slender neck was yours, and that the hoarse cries that made his larynx vibrate against my mouth were falling from your lips.

I made him beg for forgiveness the way you never would, even though he'd never done anything to me. I ravished him, controlled him, possessed him utterly in ways that were never allowed with you. I hurt him, humiliated him, made it perfectly clear that he meant nothing to me, imagining all the while that it was you on your knees, your body I defiled, your cheeks that flushed with shame, your back that bent at last in defeat.

I loved you more than anything - more than my father, or Voldemort, or anyone else. But I hated you more than them too; wanted to break you into a million pieces; wanted to see you bleed. And I couldn't make you love me, so I fucked a stranger and pretended it was you I controlled, you I battered and destroyed.

But, at the end of it all, he was cowed, overwhelmed, timid as a lamb. I'd broken something inside of him, and I couldn't find you in his eyes any more.

---

Why do you insist that Harry Potter was your lover, Draco?

Because he was.

But he denies that. He says he never touched you. How do you explain that?

(flatly) He's lying.

Why would Harry Potter lie, Draco?

Because he can. Because he knows no one will believe me. Because he knows, if he told the truth, people would hate him, and he couldn't stand that.

But you told your mother that he was in love with you. If he loved you, why would he lie?

(bitterly) Because he's a coward. My father always said Harry's the sort of person who twists the rules to make himself look good. If telling the truth will make people hate him, father says he'll lie, and get away with it.

Tell me a bit about your father, Draco.

(silence)

Draco?

(silence)

You are shaking. Are you cold?

(unsteadily) I'd rather not.

You'd rather not what?

I'd rather not tell you a bit about my father.

I see. And why is that, Draco? Does he frighten you?

(sneering) No, he doesn't frighten me. He's dead. I just don't want to talk about him.

---

I charmed a stranger last night and dreamed it was you. Dreamed it was your voice singing my praises, your admiration smiling on me, your hand shaking mine, congratulating me. When he bowed his head to me in respectful submission, I imagined that slender neck was yours, and that the lavish compliments he bestowed on me fell from your lips.

You always terrified me; I always resented your coldness, but I adored you despite it. Or perhaps because of it. And when you died, it was as if you'd grabbed hold of my life on your way out and taken half of me with you. Even in death you managed to control me. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. And, in death, you took away any hope I had of making you proud, of making you smile at me as if I was actually worthy of your attention, worthy of being your son.

I loved you more than anything - more than Voldemort, or Harry, or anyone else. But I hated you more than them too; wanted to break you into a million pieces; wanted to see you bleed. And I couldn't make you love me, so I charmed a stranger and pretended it was you I manipulated, you I finally did proud.

But, at the end of it all, he was reverent, prostrated, loyal as a dog. I'd broken something inside of him, and I couldn't find you in his eyes any more.

---

I see.

(angrily) No, you don't see. There's nothing special or meaningful in it, I just don't want to talk about him. My father died. He's dead. End of story.

Your father was connected with Voldemort, wasn't he, Draco?

(scathingly) What part of "I don't want to talk about my father" are you having trouble with?

All right, let's not talk about your father.

Thank you. (rolling eyes)

Your mother mentioned a name, one that seemed to upset her a great deal. Perhaps you can tell me why?

(uneasily) What name?

Tom.

(silence)

Who is Tom, Draco?

(quietly) I don't want to talk about Tom either.

Why is that?

(long pause, then reluctantly) He was...an associate of my father's.

A Death Eater?

(wryly) You could say that...

---

I killed a stranger last night and dreamed it was you. I killed him with my bare hands and dreamed it was your voice screaming for me to stop, your skin bruising under my touch, your blood pouring over my fingers. When I wrenched his head sideways and heard his spine snap, I imagined that slender neck was yours, and that the screams that were silenced at last had fallen from your lips.

I knew so many incarnations of you, thanks to my father and that diary, that book he kept and nurtured and lovingly restored just so that you could corrupt me. Neither of you realised that your ghostly kisses, your cold, spectral flesh, the striking likeness you bore to another dark haired boy who conversed with snakes would drive me away from you, rather than binding me to you. But nor did I expect that the memory of those dreams, the taste of them, would make me think of

you whenever I was on my knees in front of him.

I loved you more than anything - more than Harry, or my father, or anyone else. But I hated you more than them too; wanted to break you into a million pieces; wanted to see you bleed. And I couldn't make you love me, so I killed a stranger and pretended it was you I tore apart, you I bludgeoned and shattered.

But, at the end of it all, he was limp, lifeless, fragile as a bird. I'd broken something inside of him, and I couldn't find you in his eyes any more.

---

(shaking) I don't want to talk about Tom.

Why is that?

I just... (softly) I just don't.

Is he a friend?

(snorting) Hardly.

Are you afraid of him?

(suddenly angry) No, I'm not. Why do you assume that just because I don't want to talk about someone I'm afraid? I'm not afraid of anyone.

I see.

(glaring silently)

If you are not afraid of Tom or your father, why do you refuse to talk about them?

Because they're in the past. They're difficult memories I don't want to drag up again. There's no point in talking about them.

Difficult memories, you say. Unpleasant ones?

(frowning slightly) Some. But not entirely.

And your memories of Harry Potter?

(cynically) I thought you didn't believe I had memories of Harry Potter?

This is not about what I believe, Draco.

(triumphant) So you admit that you don't believe me.

I admit nothing. I make no judgements, merely question and observe. My function is not to believe or disbelieve, but rather to encourage your own self-exploration. The important question is what you believe. What do you believe, Draco?

I don't know.

---

I spoke to a stranger last night and dreamed it was you. Dreamed it was your voice asking me questions, your ears taking in my words, your head nodding in silent understanding. When he turned his head to look at me with interest, I imagined that slender neck was yours, and that the words of empathy and compassion he uttered were falling from your lips.

I told him my life story, told him everything that had ever happened to me. I told him everything I knew about myself and more; things I had never realised until I found myself voicing them to him. He drank them in like water and absorbed everything I said with a look of interest and concentration. And when I had finished telling my story, he told me his, and I understood him the same way he understood me, all the while imagining he was you, and that we finally fathomed each other at last.

I loved you more than anything - more than my father, or Voldemort, or Harry, or anyone else. But I hated you more than them too; wanted to break you into a million pieces; wanted to see you bleed. And I couldn't make you love me, so I spoke to a stranger and pretended it was you who understood me, and who I understood, you who knew the way my mind worked and whose mind I knew.

But, at the end of it all, he was not you. He was a stranger, and he knew me better than I knew myself.

---