No Bright Stars

Draco had the world at his fingertips, spilling into his palms. But not anymore. It is rather hard to balance the world in your palms when you cannot balance yourself. But nobody can anymore.

Eight year Hogwarts is bittersweet. Mostly bitter. He is surviving off a Ministry-issued wand and his wits, which are not very useful anymore. The jinxes sent his way are usually mild, like a stick-fast hex or stinging jinx, but usually not serious. Of course, every once in a while, some fools decide to go farther, like physically assault him. Of course it hurts, but Draco focuses on the galaxies spinning in his head, and each time they land a blow, a star explodes, creating a supernova.

He imagines the stars in the Draco constellation erupting one by one until there is nothing left of it, of him.

He never cries out, for that would be a sign of weakness, and Malfoys do not show weakness.

Classes are alright. Most teachers generally ignore him. For once, the lack of attention makes him grateful.

He eats, he sleeps. The schedule never differs.

His dreams are filled with star clouds, burning their image into his eyelids. He dreams of constellations forming the Dark Mark, then one by one the stars etch themselves onto his skin until there is no difference between pain and glory and the surreal reality of dreams.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He casts a Tempus charm. It is still 4 am.

He rises. Dawns his robes and walks slowly out of the Eighth-Year dorms. He walks until he knows where his feet are taking him.

The astronomy tower is especially quiet today. He sits and watches. He watches as the sun rises, casting its unearthly glow across the castle, marked with war. He can feel the sun breathing into him, filling him with its glow until he is full and cannot take anymore.

Today is a weekend. He's done all his homework already. He sits and watches the sun make its slow ascent until it is almost noon. He sits in his thin robes and his silk pajamas looking at the mighty Ra, Helios, Phoebus, Sol climb up the sky in their glorious ascent.

He doesn't leave until lunch time, when everyone is in the Great Hall. He sneaks to his room, using the secret passageways he used in his sixth year.

He showers, changes to his uniform and walks away. Not to eat, but to dream. He walks up the stairs until he reaches the seventh floor. He paces. He says nothing, but the doors still appear for him.

As he walks inside, he is amazed. There is nothing except galaxies in the night sky and stars in their glory and hazy fogs and asteroid belts and cold moons.

He is surprised that it still works, and that he cannot see the burns and the sears of the Fiendfyre curse against the walls.

He does nothing except sit down and marvel the cosmos. He does not need food. He does not need drink. He needs nothing now. His belly is filled with stars and planets. He does not need to breathe, for the universe will sustain him. He needs nothing but the beauty of the heavens and the celestial planets and he can live forever floating with content.

He stays in the Room of Requirement until midnight.

When he leaves, the want of the real world comes crashing down on him. He is famished and parched and stiff from sitting down all day. He staggers down the stairs, until he reaches the basement. He walks slowly until he gets to the kitchens. The elves are not there. Perhaps they retire at night, too.

He walks the whole length of the kitchen. There is still food about. He picks up a steak-and-kidney pie, a bottle of butterbeer and a green apple.

He sits on the kitchen floor, eating in the silence, staring up at the stars he cannot see. He does not flinch when Harry Potter comes in.