Shades of Grey

Shades of Grey

Chapter Six: Scarred

"At least you have your looks!"

Draco let her cruel words splinter in his mind, allowing the emotional wound to fester and infect his psyche. He had been prepared for a verbal assault, a lengthy diatribe on the errors of his ways and how he had allowed himself be led down the path towards sin, but this - this - he had not expected. To brazenly declare who he was at Hogwarts or who he is now - a prisoner - was one thing; to tell him what he has lost and what little he has left was something entirely different. She wasn't reopening a healed wound; she was creating one.

Frustrated, he grabbed the diary that he had hidden underneath the sheets and pitched it against the wall. It bounced back and flipped open, landing just a few feet in front of him. The momentary and fleeting feelings of shock and denial were quickly replaced with anger. He was positively livid. How dare that impudent peasant slander his name? What did she know about him? Nothing!

Why did she say it then? She had spoken the words in anger, in hate, to hurt him. She had done an excellent job for her words were actually able to harm him. In a magical world such as the one he lived in, he should have realised how powerful words are and how devastating the truth can be.

The sanctimonious little She-Weasel had it spot on. Leave it to her to rip out his soul and thoughtlessly toss it onto the ground like a discarded dream. He didn't have anyone. His father was being sentenced to Azkaban and his mother too for all he knew. Crabbe was dead, and Goyle was missing. Zabini and Nott were two men in the clear who both, clearly, would want nothing to do with him, who would refuse any association.

Who did he have then? What did he have to look forward to?

He stood up and went over to the mirror to stare at his own reflection. It was all lies. He was trying to make himself look better in order to hide how he felt on the inside: ugly. He didn't want to admit that the Weasley girl was right. Was she? Was he truly a man beyond redemption? He had not even begun to list the litany of his sins let alone start down the path towards atonement. Could he be forgiven? Did he want to be?

The simple fact of the matter was that everything he had ever done, every malicious deed, was what he had to do to survive. Period. He was no Harry Potter. He wasn't trying to save the world. He was trying to save his family, the ones he loved. Draco could boast no Good Samaritan Award, no Hogwarts' Mister Congenial title, no accolade of any kind. In the back of his mind, he always knew that he was a product of his environment, of breeding and fortune (or misfortune). This, however, did not make him evil; it made him human.

Weasley had no clue, no idea as to what it was like to be forced to live his life. She had the luxury and ignorance of seeing in only black and white. For her there was no middle ground, no shades of grey. There was only good guys against bad guys, good versus evil. When she looked at him, she saw a monster. Fine. He could live with that, but what he couldn't tolerate is what he saw.

Was his reflection in the mirror real or imagined?

Without warning or thought, Draco smashed his fist into the mirror, causing it to shatter into several large, jagged pieces. He drew his hand back and watched as the mirror collapsed onto itself and slid down the wall. The wooden frame splintered and cracked apart, crashing to the floor where it finally settled into a crumpled heap.

He slumped down to his knees before the jagged shards of mockery, his broken image staring back up at him. He brought his hand to his face to brush away his hair when he noted a burning sensation as he flexed his fingers. He looked down at his fist and saw that the knuckles were already blackened and bloody. He had broken his middle two knuckles. A deep gash ran over the back of his fingers and tiny shards of mirror were stuck in his skin like glass splinters.

He frowned as he watched the blood pour down his hand and drip onto the floor, pooling around the edges of the journal that he had thrown haphazardly against the wall. He glanced down at the open book. Drops of his own blood had splattered onto the paper, mixing with a dried brown stain that had previously marred the page.

As the crimson liquid softly plopped down on the open page, like rain gently falling on newspaper, his eyes began to register and focus on the words. The print was large, unlike the tiny compartmentalised scribbling of the previously read entries. Here, there were only two lines on the page:

"If only I could cut out this disease inside me and let my sins be poured out through my blood. I would endure the pain and the disfigurement if it meant that I could be free, if it meant that I would no longer be alone."

Draco let his bloodied hand drop to the floor and hung his head in hopeless defeat. If that was not a sign, he didn't know what was.

He turned his head and glanced down at a broken piece of mirror that was reflecting his image in the dim light. Long, fine strands of white-blond hair hung in his silver eyes, touching down to his angular, pointed nose. His lips were a pale pink, the top one thin, the bottom one full. His alabaster cheekbones were high and sculpted - an almost flawless image if it wasn't for the smear of blood on his right cheek.

He was handsome. He knew it; everyone else said it; he was fairly certain that even the Weasley girl thought it.

He swallowed hard and stared, at length, at his reflection, as though he could bore through it with his mind and set his own image ablaze by sheer strength of will and determination.

Yes, he was handsome. So why did he feel so ugly?

Draco closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head as though this action alone could help rid the disturbing thoughts swimming in his mind. He opened his eyes and looked down to his left, slowly reaching out with his fingertips to touch a jagged shard of glass on the floor. One last time, he stared at his distorted reflection.

"I will not be alone," he whispered.

In the solitude of his cell, the blond sat up and stared blankly, almost hypnotically, into a broken mirror, coming to the realisation that he hadn't inadvertently tumbled down the rabbit hole - he had been thrown down it.

Draco Malfoy: Slytherin, Death Eater.

Pitiful. It was all a joke. Is that who he was, who he is? No.

True clarity, he discovered, came when one realised how worthless of a pawn one truly was in the scheme of things. In the past, what Draco had believed in was power, dominance, and intimidation. Now he had no beliefs, no cause. He was gunslinger without a gun; he was a pilgrim without a journey.

Now, it was more important than ever for him to overcome his feelings of fear and self-doubt. He refused to let the ugliness inside take over. There was more to him than a pretty face and a name earned through birthright alone.

Draco picked up the broken shard and gripped it tightly in his non-injured hand. Ironic, he thought, was that it was in these defining moments that he could shape and recreate himself, carving out a new image.

He brought the shard up, just below the eye. He dug the blade in deep, accepting the wet release, ready to meet the inner man and embrace him.

~*~

Author notes: I'd like to state that I am not endorsing or condoning self-inflicted pain of any kind, including masochism, flogging, cutting, et cetera. I also want to add that writing the last two lines unnerved even me a little.