Beautiful

Draco had always been enamored of beauty. His own, yes, but mostly just beauty in general. And so he had come to find the place that had become his refuge.

In the back of Malfoy Manor, there was a small, dark, rank wood. It was unbearably gloomy and it smelled like moss and urine. Draco could never remember anyone or anything other than himself ever venturing in. He didn't quite know why he went in, that first time. It had been after fourth year, after his father suddenly became more joyful and terrible at the same time. Draco had no idea why, but something had changed, and his father was no longer a man, but a possessed sort of terrible beast, and it was something Draco wanted no part of. He had wandered into the wood, for lack of anywhere better to wander, after all, he knew the rest of the grounds by heart, and in the most hideously rejected place he had found the beauty he had so long been searching for.

Follow a small, heavily worn trail through the wood, past the giant elephant rock, and into what appears to be a cave of trees, and you'll find it. Be careful though, should you not pay attention, you're liable to walk right off the edge. It's really quite sudden where it happens, you step out from the trees, and it'll hit you like a train.

The ground drops straight away, falling into a gentle valley undisturbed by the ignorance of humans, magical or non. In the winter, or early spring, deer and wolves are visible through the trees. The river is just audible, if the air is silent, though it is rarely visible, and sometimes the wind will play an elaborate symphony through the trees that could never be equaled by any human.

When Draco had first ventured out here, on the opposite hillside one could see little muggle children romping in the grass, or helping their mother with the washing, or playing with the little dog in the bits of grass surrounding their quaint, cozy cottage near the edge of another wood.

At the end of fifth year, his father insisted he stay inside and study. No longer would his laziness be tolerated, romping about the grounds was no way to spend one's days. Besides, that stupid mudblood had surpassed him again, and his father could never allow a mudblood to be better than his son. So Draco stayed inside, avoiding and obeying his father at all costs, because something so deranged was something to dread each reunion with.

Sixth year passed, stressful and terrible and Draco had found beauty in only one place, and that had been Harry Potter. He figured it might have possibly surpassed the beauty of anything, anywhere, anytime, in history. And there was no way that his father would allow his son that exquisiteness. So, to pass the two months without it, he had been counting on his escape.

His father insisted on the studying again, but not the same as before. Claiming his schoolwork was no longer of nearing importance, his father gave him books upon books of curses and hexes and horrible, horrible potions. Learn them, he had commanded. There was no need for a threat. It was implied.

Seventh year was a foggy blur. Harry had been there, but not in his entirety, not anymore. Voldemort had turned into the world for him, no longer was it Draco. He might have been a city, or even a country, but not the world to the man who was his universe.

In a 24 hours Draco couldn't even remember, Harry had defeated Voldemort and disappeared. Draco had been there, there were reports of him following Harry out of the castle, and down to the gates. Once there, they had turned, and disappeared with a faint 'pop'.

He had been found in Godric's Hollow, unconscious and with no remembrance of how he had gotten there or what had happened. In fact, the only thing he really remembered had been the cold ground, and then the soft touch of lips on his forehead. Everything else was a mystery.

When he woke up, the world had been turned upside-down. His father was gone, in Azkaban, (now being guarded by dragons under the control of a certain Charlie Weasley) his mother had killed herself, Harry was gone, and the world seemed to love him.

All they had really found of Voldemort was a burning pile of ashes that smoldered endlessly no matter what one did to it, and his wand, snapped in half. There would be no third war.

Draco had retreated to the manor, hiding inside its walls for days. It was a horrible place to hide, really, when all it held were memories best left forgotten. In his room, Draco found his old diary. It was full of drawings of his spot, which had been forgotten along with everything else.

He bolted from the house, tripping over his robes, and throwing them off, snagging clothing on branches and scratching skin from his body. He stumbled out onto the opening, braking hard and barely managing not to plow over the edge.

The valley was still there, but the trees had been savaged by fire, set by the little muggle boy just a year ago. He was currently at a boarding school halfway across the country, because his parents couldn't deal with him anymore. The river ran brown and sooty, clearly visible through the lack of trees, and the aroma of sewage wafted from it, though Draco was to far away to smell it. In the places where deer had grazed, there was a condominium complex, full of screaming children, cars honking, and cold cement. He could just make out through the smog the cottage where the children had played. It had fallen into disrepair, the paint was peeling, the grass was full of weeds, the roof sagged, and the dog lay, skinny and forgotten on the stoop. As he watched, the girl drove up in a loud cloud of dust and exhaust, shoved the dog aside, and stomped into the house.

There was no longer beauty in this place. In any place. Only people.