Twilight's Truce

Twilight's Truce

The sun was banked on the edge of the horizon, not moving within that infinitesimally lazy haze of red light. Hogwarts always had the most spectacular sunsets. It was probably the crisp Scottish air, or some other pure, untouched quality of the countryside in this rushing, polluted world. Although the castle's occupants were rarely mature enough to appreciate this gift of Mother Nature, the lake was quite the spot for watching sunsets. the sky would turn crimson and purple and all the shades in between, while the lake reflected the majestic scene with its own hint of blue darkness. On windy days, it would seem that the wind, jealous of the lavish show in the sky, would try to eradicate all traces of its darker twin on the rippling body of water.

Every story inevitably begins with a change, and this one was no different. One might even go as far as to call it clichéd, for there were, after all, only seven original plots in the world. Change came when life suddenly loses its flavor, becoming stale and meaningless, and one would ponder the meaning of one's existence. Draco Malfoy was having one of those moments.

It was probably unavoidable. A confident, bold teenager such as Draco Malfoy could no more walk through life unscathed than he could defy death. He had come to the time in his life when one acted difficult for the sake of being difficult. But to rebel was dangerous when you were a Malfoy. Malfoys didn't question or stop at moral dilemmas. They stood tall and plunge on, regardless of the cost, as long as the end justified the means. It was just as well, for each and every Malfoy carefully weighed the consequences with the sacrifices before embarking on a journey of madness and profit. And then, as the saying went, "the rest was history." This particular Malfoy was also standing on the brink of war, with his choices affecting his future, the future of the Malfoy clan, and possibly the outcome of said war. A heavy burden for such narrow shoulders. Famous last words, really.

He had managed remarkably well, considering he had two of the world's most fearsome wizards breathing down his neck, waiting for a choice of sides. Of course, he wasn't going to choose. Not now, anyhow. Not while he was in school, only a few months past his sixteenth birthday. It was the excuse he used, for anyone with eyes and attention during class could tell he was fully trained, a child with the instincts and reflexes of an Auror. Maybe even better, because you never knew if a Malfoy was holding back.

So, one lazy Sunday evening, after a day of Quidditch strategies, a grey eyed Slytherin sat by the lake, calmly contemplating the bloody sky. He sighed. Everyone was out to get him these days. Almost everyone in his dormitory was either committed to Voldemort or pretending to. Said Dark Lord still trying to recruit him, despite all the glaringly obvious hints of his contentment to wait a few years and see. Because while he revelled in his regaining of power, the wizarding world was waking up and finding itself stronger than it had thought. Because one certain year mate of his certainly had measured up to the world's expectations of him. It would be interesting to weather the storm to see who won, because this time, the sides were evenly balanced.

It would be a close one.

This was not a shifting of loyalties, for they had never been bestowed in the first place. This young "prince" had yet to find someone worthy of them. Voldemort, perhaps. Dumbledore, certainly never. At this rate though, it wouldn't be surprising if he took his money elsewhere and founded a new empire there. On another continent, for example. He snorted. The idea was tantalizing, but behind it lurked the certain smell of death and downfall. Voldemort would be furious, and the "light" would look upon him as a coward, running away when he was most needed. If ever he was needed.

Sunrises came and sunsets flamed. Years went by in utmost clarity, but what that clarity entailed was locked away for future scrutiny. Astonishing indeed. The war had fallen out so that Draco Malfoy was not forced to do anything drastic to save his life, reputation, or fortune. He was, for the most part, a renegade who did little to contribute and even less to be canonized for. So imagine his surprise when Harry Potter showed up at his hotel suite, holding an old scarf that he had lost long ago. Or so he thought.

And at that moment, all the memories came rushing back. It wasn't a sensory overload, by all means. He knew that most of these things had happened. It was just... like when one opens a chest full of toys and one's childhood flashes by. Only Draco Malfoy hadn't had any childhood memories, just empty halls and echoing chambers, and the occasional flash of blond hair, practiced sneer.

War.

It had been eerie and silent, no sounds of explosions, just the muffled thud of bodies as they fell. There was no mercy and no cruelty, just cold, efficient killing. That hadn't meant it didn't take its toll.

The wizarding world had been torn in pieces, shocked by betrayal and the occasional unconventional ally. Neville Longbottom was taboo. His name brought haunted looks on faces, shaking of heads to get rid of the memory. No one who grew up in that generation could quite forget their own personal kraken. For Malfoy, it was the sight of his mother pouring poison into the camp's water stores, zeal in her eyes and death on her lips. Trust, a cornerstone of foundation, was destroyed.

The whole affair stunk from beginning to end. Originally, it had been his idea, to go seek sanctuary from his father and Voldemort. She had actually agreed. Thinking back on it, he didn't wonder at her willing acceptance. It was the perfect ticket to infiltration. She was willing to kill him along with the rest as long it reassured the Dark Lord's victory. He was frankly shocked and finally realized what he was to her. A means to an end. His father could have another heir and he would be forgotten, a disgrace that was burned off the family tree.

So he poured himself into that feeling of vengeance, giving as good as he got, returning blow for blow, death for hurt, and behaved like a killing machine.

On the penultimate evening, the night before he left the country to bury the hatchets, he witnessed his last Hogwarts sunset. With Harry Potter. Really, he didn't know what came over him. But he had gotten to the point where he didn't care anymore, wanted to throw down his wand and stop everything, ignore his father's depravity and his mother's death and Potter's green eyes--- wait. Green eyes? Since when had the Golden Boy's eyes mattered to him?

But as the landscape froze and the sun refused to be pushed down in that never-ending cycle, he found himself sympathizing with Potter. Calling him Harry, even. Because he had looked just as lost, just as weary, and just as dead as Draco. So they sat together and waited for their dooms as the last vestiges of red faded from the sky.

His whole life had not been a war, but it was spent in preparation for that war. And now that it was gone and over with, he was slightly at a loss. But never for long. For a Malfoy could never be lost. And as he looked into those vibrant eyes, he knew it for certain.

Flaming sunsets indeed.