The Lamentable Last Actions and Thoughts of Draco

Draco fiddled with the blue pills in his palm; there were fifteen. He had counted them one by one, two by two and five by five. He couldn't remember now who had brought them. He thought that whomever it was may have been someone he had once admired, but he couldn't put his finger on the name. It may have been two different people. None of this really mattered, he reminded himself. His mind was (for the first time in thirteen months) absent. He needed someone or something to think about, so he counted the pills again. There were, of course, fifteen. He wanted desperately to be able to uncover the memory of receiving them. He recalled grovelling, begging, crying, showing that person how pathetic he could be, and how cowardly; whomever it had been had been pleased to see that untouched, virginal side of Draco. A shuttered breath escaped him at the thought of someone demeaning him so easily. He swallowed seven circular, blue saviours. Draco stood from his regulation pile of rags and moved toward the dank brick wall. There were decades worth of engravings upon it. Draco traced a long crooked fingernail through some faded tattoo; he couldn't make out what it said. 'R--us,' whatever the middle letters were; he couldn't make them out. His left fist was still clenched firmly around his lovely little pills, and was beginning to sweat. Standing there, in front of that wall, Draco felt anxious. Over the last thirteen months he had felt pain, regret and, grief constantly. He would have killed to have felt anxious. Now here he was, and he would give up any memory he had to go back to feelings that were, at the very least, concrete. He scolded himself for his trademark hypocrisy.

He was suddenly overcome with an overpowering sense of longing. He wanted to see something other than grey; a tree, or even a dark-haired boy with piercing eyes. He smiled; the anxiety was gone. He usually got what he wanted. Draco, realizing that he had grovelled for a reason, opened his fist and took four more pills. There was a blue residue on his filthy hands from his sweaty palms - he licked it off. He marvelled then at the person he was. He was very much Draco, yet hardly a Malfoy at all. A Malfoy would never grovel for cowardice, or lick death off his own hands. It pleased him, however, to be his own person, even if his realization was overdue. He ambled back towards his lumpy pile of rags and lay down. He tried desperately to summon any memory of his scarred once-love. All he got were the arguments, the betrayal, and the petty years that hadn't mattered anyway. When he had first arrived, he had been able to remember the times he had thrown his lovely against a wall and kissed him so passionately he felt that he would never return from his lovely oblivion. Those were gone now. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of himself in sixth year when he realized where his feelings were leading him, and what they might cost him.

He felt tears roll down his perfect skin and smiled. He had needed this gruesome reminder that, after all he had done, he was still human - still Draco. His eyelids began to feel heavy and he smiled at that too. He took the four remaining pills in his hand. Waste not. He wished then that he was religious. He wanted a prayer to say, and a god to hear it. He recalled once having a rampant faith in love. Not anymore. He gave up trying to keep his eyes open. He wanted to spend his last energy thinking about something important, something worthy of his emotion. Draco let escape, a long, melancholy breath. He had decided to think of the people he had killed.

When they checked his cell two days later, his skin had already begun to fester.