Warm But Tainted Blood (Drarry)

chapter twenty-two

Draco Malfoy has always had an empathy problem. It demonstrates itself in selfishness, in determination, in confidence (in arrogance.)  It demonstrates itself in his day to day life.

He rises from his slumber one of these apathy ladden mornings. He raises his arms above his head, choosing to listen to the pop of his back rather than the fighting downstares. He pulls his silky green sheets away from his body, choosing to feel like brush of them against his hand rather than the coldness that dominates his chest (the coldness that has been present ever since his first year at Hogwarts had ended; ever since he parted ways with Harry.)

Draco stands with all the grace of a Pureblood prince. He slips into his bathroom quickly, begining to brush his teeth while absently looking at his hair. It's to his middle neck, now. How long has it been since he's hand a haircut? he thinks, idly. A while. He should get one soon. Maybe later today.

He spits into the sink at the same time someone throws something downstairs. A plate, a glass, a figurine; something made of glass. What's it about this time? He doesn't care to know.

He returns to his bedroom, searching through his dressers for an adequate outfit. Should he get something he can fly in? He could practice with his broom. No, the wind is said to be dreadful today. Draco grabs a loose sage green robe and his comfiest t-shirt. He can keep the trousers he has on, he decides. They're not dirty. Faintly heard, his mother cries.

"Dobby!" calls Draco after slipping into his selected clothes. Dobby arrives with a pop, his eyes wide and demeanor submissive as always.

"Yes, Master Dragon, sir?"

Draco stands in front of his dresser mirror running a hand through his hair, wondering how he should cut it. He could shave the right side, he thinks. Or maybe the left? He would look wonderful either way. More shouting from downstairs. "Is there any word from Harry?" he asks.

Dobby shakes his head no, frantically. "No, sir, sorry, sir. Dobby has no letters for you, even less from he."

Draco sighs. He'd been home a week, now, and the comment that Harry would not be writing to him (and that Draco couldn't write to him, either) was relentlessly playing through his head. He kept allowing himself to hope. It was forever misplaced.

Narcissia calls Lucius something that sounds suspiciously like "cheating bastard," and Draco takes the moment to appreciate the good in the situation. When they fight, they neglect to badger Draco about his friendship with Harry. It's a win-win, really.

"But is there any word from 'N?" he asks, shifting through his drawer for a razor.

Dobby frowns, as if he'd rather not the task exist at all, but says anyway, "No, Master Dragon, sir."

Draco tsks. "There's a second letter I've prepared-- check my safe in the cupboard. Yes, my third one. You know the code. Send it to him. Maybe he'll get the message, then."

Dobby gulps, wincing at Lucius thunders up the stairs. "Will do, Master Dragons," he says quietly. "Will do." He disappers with a pop.

Draco, as he shaves the left side of his head and trims the other side, wonders if his parents will get a divorce. He sweeps the littered hair into his hand, pouring it into the bin afterwards. He doesn't think they'll seperate, really. It's bad for their "happy family" brand, as his father says. Draco tosses his tins of hair gel into the trash, too, because he thinks he's done with that look.

He walks down the stairs, noticing that Lucius is talking to his mother through the door but not caring about it. He ponders the fact that he doesn't have letters from anyone, which in includes his godfather, Severus. It made sense, though, Draco thought as he walked into the kitchen. Severus was mad at him. Something to do with Harry, in all likelihood.

Draco considers calling Dobby to make him breakfast but decides against it. He grabs a cereal bar, the rustling of the wrapper drowning out the now muted sounds of sobbing upstairs. He finishes the bar as he slips on his dragonhide shoes.

He exits the backdoor of the manor, intent on chilling with the peacocks. The wind rustles his freshly cut hair. It was a good call on the robes, he thinks. This is no condition for flying.

He finds a trio of albino peacocks by the entrance to the woods. He pets them gently. He can no longer hear his parents fighting. He wonders if Granger knows as much about the graceful animal as he does. He can have a trivia battle about it with her next time they meet. He thinks the library has a few extra books on them, too.

Jackford, one of the youngest additions to the group, nuzzles his hand. It is Draco's favorite. "Do you think my dad really cheated on my mom?" he asks him, simply because there's no one else to. Jackford simply continues his nuzzling and Draco smiles fondly at him. "That's right. I don't care, either."

He doesn't care because he has always had an empathy problem, and whether or not the unutterable words are true or not does not pertain to him. He'll be in his father's will, either way. He keeps his room, his clothes, his luxuries, his money, what does it matter to Draco if his father is not the faithful Pureblood husband he protrays himself as?

Draco has always had an empathy problem. (This is true in all cases but that of Harry's.)

Draco heads inside after ten or so minutes. The arguing has stopped, now, and has been replaced with a different kind of screaming. Draco wrinkles his nose is disgust, shutting himself away in the manor library. As he works through an essay on the Metamorphical ability, Draco wonders how Harry us doing. (He wonders that a lot nowdays.)