Further From Heaven

Further From Heaven

A Memoir of Draco Malfoy

I'd like to start with a few quotes that describe my life rather well. Each has their own personal significance that I'll explain as I give them. Then I'll give you what you want, don't worry about that. Might as well get started.

They aren't in any order, so interpret their importance at will...

Compensation by Emerson:

Why should I keep holiday

When other men have none?

Why but because, when these are gay,

I sit and mourn alone?

And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,

Should mine alone be dumb?

Ah! Late I spoke to silent throngs,

And now their hour is come.

Now I'm supposed to explain that. I think that one basically alludes to my need to be different, not part of the crowd, even the Slytherins and the Death Eaters, but that is not what I'm trying to get at right now. Next...

Insight by Emerson:

Power that by obedience grows,

Knowledge which its source not knows,

Wave which severs whom it bears

From the things which he compares,

Adding wings through things to range,

To his own blood harsh and strange.

To tell you exactly why I like this would be impossible. I suppose it's the last line that really captures my interest. The person's blood is harsh and strange, sometimes I feel that way myself. Anyways...

Maia by Emerson:

Illusion works impenetrable,

Weaving webs innumerable,

Her gay pictures never fail,

Crowds each on other, veil on veil,

Charmer who will be believed

By man who thirsts to be deceived.

That's basically my life in a nutshell, granted a very small nutshell, but still. I live a life of illusion. To my parents, to the Dark Lord, to Hogwarts. Hell, basically to life in general. Moving on...

Fire and Ice by Frost:

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to parish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

This is probably my favorite considering I spend most of my time contemplating what the end of my world will be like. With all I've ever done, I hardly wonder whether I'll go to Heaven or Hell. I just wonder whether it'll be fire or ice.

The Road Not Taken by Frost:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing now way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I think of this as the choice I never really had. Although I'm pretty sure I was forced down the "road less traveled by". Well, that train of thought just gets depressing...

Nothing Gold Can Stay by Frost:

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Now this basically is a literal poem. Nothing good can stay and truthfully I quite agree, but then in my ruin of a life, nothing good ever happened so I was spared the misery wrought by this poem.

Untitled Epitaph by Frost:

And were an epitaph to be my story

I'd have a short one ready for my own.

I would have written of me on my stone:

I had a lover's quarrel with the world.

That sums up my feelings during desperate times. Though for hours I have contemplated what I should do for my own epitaph, I want to have one that I wouldn't mind sitting under for eternity, if you know what I mean.

XXI by Joyce:

He who hath glory lost, nor hath

Found any soul to fellow his,

Among his foes in scorn and wrath

Holding to ancient nobleness,

That high unconsortable one--

His love is his companion.

I really don't agree with Joyce here. He says that if you've got nothing, you still have love. Like Hell and a half. I don't have any love, not for myself or anyone else. I don't think I can love...but I do like the idea.

Bahnhofstrasse by Joyce:

The eyes that mock me sign the way

Whereto I pass at eve of day,

Grey way whose violet signals are

The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! star of pain!

Highhearted youth comes not again.

Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know

The signs that mock me as I go.

That's basically how I feel about life. I was never innocent, but I was never really cleared of the path of control by one's parents and then the Dark Lord. I suppose I'm trapped in the middle of the feud.

Okay, enough with the poems. I'm not as flowery as you might think right now. But yes! Draco Malfoy does like poetry. End of floweriness. Actually, end of author's note and beginning of what I promised you way back there in the title. I can't stand to write much in first person, my extreme level of sarcasm starts to detract a little too much, so I'm writing as accurately as I can in the third person. Deal with it.

~_~_~_~_~_~ = Transition, understood?

Draco stared sullenly out his window. The sky outside was a mix of wildly blowing rain and randomly placed strikes of lightning. He glared at the thick glass pane. He only wanted to play Quidditch on the pitch out back, but apparently the weather wasn't going to be nice today. Growling to himself, he flung his body back onto his queen-sized bed and stared at his musty ceiling, all the ceilings at Malfoy Manor were musty. Draco had noticed this when he was five. The house elves seemed to ignore the ceilings; he had never wondered why. The walls of Draco's room were cold gray stone, adding even more gloom to the already gloomy atmosphere. The floor was a cold, slate gray marble that was fancy in its own special way. Once again, he did not pay much mind to these details of his house. They simply had been that way ever since he could remember.

His room comprised of four major objects: a large wardrobe, his bed, a bookcase, and an elegant nightstand. There were no books on the bookcase. His father had a vast library for that sort of thing. Instead, it was filled with numerous objects that would appear strange to the ordinary observer. On the top shelf there was a clear glass ball that glowed red when anyone approached his room. He had to admit it was rather useful. To the right of that was a plain wood box that seemed harmless enough. Despite its appearance, it included many illegal potions ingredients that Draco had actually never used. Next to it was a small mirror propped up on a silver stand. It was what it appeared to be, a mirror given to his by his great aunt when he was eight. The mirror was supposed to bring luck, but he had never noticed any difference in the three years that he had owned it.

The next shelf down, there were five shelves in the bookcase, included a miniature Quidditch Pitch and moving players mounted on small brooms. It had been Draco's source of entertainment from age five to seven. After that, his father had allowed him to start actually playing Quidditch and its appeal had ended. The miniature pitch shared the shelf with three dark boxes. Each contained a Portkey. The Portkeys were his father's, and Draco was not allowed to touch them. Each one led to a different restricted area in the Ministry of Magic. The boxes had been placed in his room to prevent discovery of them by numerous officials that visited the Manor. The rest of the shelves were bare, save the bottom shelf that held Draco's Comet 260 and his wand.

People Draco's age were not supposed to use magic, but the numerous wards his father had set up around the Manor prevented any detection of magic use inside. Draco had been using magic ever since he could fly his broom, which was four years ago. His father had trained him in the Dark Arts, something he insisted would be extremely important to know when the Dark Lord returned, which he was convinced was soon. Draco knew the words and hand movements to all of the Unforgivable Curses and then some. The only thing he had actually killed was a rat that had been annoying him, but he, at age 11, was fully capable of performing the Killing Curse. He also had extensive training about how to be the perfect Death Eater. This was actually something that he wasn't exactly looking forward to. He was an ambitious boy, and spending the rest of his life in the service of the Dark Lord did not sound overly ambitious or interesting to his young mind.

All in all, neither Draco nor the room he lived in was very normal. But then, Draco was a wizard. He was going to be, anyways. If his father got his way, Draco would not only be a wizard, but also a master of the Dark Arts. He had noticed that most of the time, his father did get his way. Lucius Malfoy was not one for compromise of any type. At home, although never overtly cruel to his son, he kept a tight ship. At work, he used his influence in the Ministry of Magic to set about an easier path to return and victory for the Dark Lord. The only person Draco had ever seen him afraid of was Albus Dumbledore and that had been many years ago. Draco did, however, get the impression that his father had a certain degree of fear for the Dark Lord. He had never seen this suspicion substantiated considering he had only been born a few months before the defeat of the Dark Lord. Nevertheless, Draco was sure his father would not be so enthusiastic about providing an easy route of return for the Dark Lord if he did not fear the consequences of no action. There were plenty of other places Lucius could be spreading his influence.

Sighing, Draco flopped onto his stomach and started to closely study his sheets. They were black silk, cool to the touch. If he looked carefully, while closing his right eye, he could see the pattern in which they were woven together. While this was entertaining for about sixty seconds, it did not hold his interest. Draco turned his head sideways to glare at the heavy oak door that stood between him and the expansive East Wing of Malfoy Manor. He stared at it for a second longer and then started to drag himself into a sitting position. Perhaps the house elves would let him have a few sweets before dinner. Actually, the house elves would let him do anything. It was a matter of whether or not his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, was in the area or not. She was a rather dull woman that Draco appreciated for her services but not much else. Narcissa was certainly putty in the hands of his father. Draco got the distinct feeling that his mother had been forced to marry Lucius, but he never pondered the subject further.

Draco placed one foot in front of the other casually as he made his way slowly to the door. As he placed his hand on the knob to exit, a large squawk could be heard from his window. The blonde boy turned swiftly and made his way over to the opening in the wall. His eagle owl stood agitatedly on the sill as he forced the thick pane of glass upwards, "What is it?"

The bird dropped a rectangular letter onto the inside sill and then flew away. Draco stared suspiciously at the piece of paper for a moment before ripping it open.

The envelope said this:

Mr. D. Malfoy

East Wing

Malfoy Manor

Draco pulled out the enclosed sheet of paper and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

Of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grad Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted

at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed

a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later

than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

He sneered slightly as he read over the letter. His father had warned him that it would be coming soon in the owl post. Draco had come to understand that his father detested Albus Dumbldore more than any other wizard alive. That fact might have been because Lucius feared him, Draco reasoned. In any case, Draco had been taught that although he was going to attend Hogwarts, he was not to enjoy the company of any such people. This meant that McGonagall was not to be associated with either. He had been carefully told that as the head of Gryffindor she was not someone to associate with. It seemed the only person at Hogwarts that he was supposed to have any connection with was the head of Slytherin, Professor Snape. That didn't bother Draco; he wasn't exactly a people person anyways. He preferred to spend his time lazing around his room and playing Quidditch. He sighed. He would have to be a good student, his father had told him this, but the prospect of learning from the very people his family detested unnerved him.

He gave the list of supplies a quick glance, but dropped the papers lazily on his bed and continued on his way to the kitchen. He could deal with the Hogwarts letter later.