Eyes of Phthalo Green - DRARRY

Chapter 5 - The Descent

Draco had stopped eating breakfast and lunch entirely. He had brewed batches of Dreamless Sleep and Drought of Peace, and used them as chasers for any kind of sedative he could get his hands on. Draco had set up his alarm, but configured his nights to be as short as possible. While his classmates complained about Umbridge's tyranny in the halls, the Slytherin would sit by the Black Lake, barely conscious under the potions' effects. His cronies didn't care. Coldness and impassivity were practically Malfoy's middle name; to them, their leader was unchanged. But behind the closed door of his room, Draco was in crisis. His grades skyrocketed as he tore the drawings from his closet walls. First years parted before him in the hallways as he closed the drawers over his art. Dumbledore raised his goblet in a toast as Draco lowered his fork, meal untouched. His already white hair was streaked with silver, his porcelain complexion took on a ghostly pallor. Draco's figure went from slender to skeletal; he ate only to survive, though even that wish was fading. 

But it didn't help. Even porcupine quills and hellebore couldn't stop his mind from returning to that day. It was a taste of what could have been, sweet despite itself like the coffee he had offered Potter. It was a sip of madness, a taunting dream to drive him off the brink. It had succeeded, too; Draco was falling. And yet that fateful encounter had answered so many questions. He had known who it was he had saved that February morning, but now he had an inkling why. Draco had a secret far worse than a love for acrylic and charcoal that lived in his closet now, one needed only look at the subject of his art to see right through. Of all the curses that could have struck him, Draco had been hit with an insatiable hunger. He could starve himself as much as he wanted, but even if he were to lower his mouth to drink he would, as Tantalus, forever find it dry. His want was a dangerous thing; Draco did not even give utterance to the truth. Denial was familiar, he had practiced it since birth. 

Potter, mercifully, had avoided him as usual. Noting changed for him, and it angered Draco. Was the golden boy just so lucky that he could share a cup of coffee with his sworn enemy and simply return to life as usual? While that enemy was forced to stand, left with the crushed remains of an experience neither of them wanted to accept? Saint Potter may have felt shunned for announcing Voldemort's return, but Draco knew the world could not stay away from their beloved hero for long. He was forever blameless, as though because he bore a scar on his forehead and looked good in red and gold, no evil could touch him. Sometimes, in a haze of  potioned fog, Draco wondered if the universe felt angry at the affectionate skew in Potter's favor. He asked whether it sought to restore balance through some taint to the Gryffindor's perfection. In the moments right before the drugs took him over, Draco debated whether he was the evil sent to dull the saint's shining halo. And the fact that he was then reduced to a metaphor for darkness did not bother him at all. 

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Hallowe'en was fast approaching at Hogwarts, and with it, droves of fear-thirsty Slytherins drinking in the season of darkness. For a school of witchcraft, a surprising number of students practiced Christianity. However, righteous do-gooding was wantonly abandoned mid-fall in favor of decidedly more twisted forms of celebration. For Slytherin house, Hallowe'en was the event of the school year. Since most of them had already been scorned by the other students for being vile and Machiavellian, the Slytherins took it upon themselves to put this reputation to use every October. With the help of the Hogwarts ghosts and Peeves the poltergeist, the school was annually stalked by horrors. Enchanted blood oozed from under classroom doors, and candles flickered and cast unnatural shadows on dark stone walls, reaching their cadaverous fingers along cavern walls. Fierce winds would rack the hallways, sending papers flying as the echo of the Bloody Baron's chains resounded. The Slytherins would traumatize their classmates to the best of their abilities, sometimes going as far as arriving to class headless, the bloodied victims of some mass decapitation. 

The faculty were not freed from these demonstrations, and reactions were varied. Snape turned a blind eye to the disturbing spectacles and was even rumored to award extra credit for "most unsettling costume", though no proof of this contest could be provided. Even Umbridge's cries for order lost their edge; she could not entirely lose her Slytherin loyalty, and seeing yet another generation of snakes parade their morbid skill flattered her house pride. Yet outside the dungeons, acknowledgement was chilly, at best. The Gryffindor rivalry raged as fiercely as ever, and even the best tempered of Hufflepuffs had yet to forgive the house for charming their common room to look like the Shrieking Shack. 

Through such macabre pageantry, Draco's continued decline appeared even more common. If he seemed more corpse-like than usual, it was only the holiday spirit. If he little to nothing, it was only in preparation for the feast to come. If no life was visible from behind his mercury irises, it was only the careful economizing of emotion, surely only the stockpiling of excitement to be released at the end of the month. Draco was not sure whether this clandestine pain was better than visible anguish. This way, Potter had no way of knowing how the encounter had left him, nor did he have a chance to feel guilt at his effect. Draco both knew exactly what he wanted, and simultaneously had no clue. He wanted to act on his theory of astral balance, yet wished to be ejected from the universe entirely as well. So he went through the motions, thoughts clashing violently like the colors on Peeves' cap n' bells. 

The Hallowe'en feast seemed to come quicker that year than previously. Barely keeping track of dates, Draco simply ascended to the Great Hall one evening for his daily meal and been met with a sky of floating Jack O' Lanterns and flashing lightning. He attempted exuberance for his friends, eating more than he had in a single sitting over the entire month. The feast was sumptuous, as always, even to Draco's reluctant eyes. But it was the tray of treacle tart that appeared in front of him, taunting, that held his gaze. Draco turned his head towards the Gryffindor table as discretely as possible. As he had dreaded, or perhaps hoped, two eyes stared back into his. Grey met green in a silent challenge, each daring the other to offer emotion, a wordless assurance that each hated the other with a passion. Draco let Malfoy take the reins, years of hidden feelings were good practice for impassive domination. Yet Potter matched him in stride; the golden glow of fire was but a glaze, his eyes betrayed no light, no meaning. It was infuriating. 

"Drake! At least look at me when I'm talking to you!" Pansy snapped her varnished fingers in the boy's face, breaking his gaze. "What do you want?", Draco cut in his signature mix of boredom and fury. Pansy pouted, "You weren't even listening? I asked why you were staring at Potter's stupid mug, he isn't worth your attention. Frankly, I sometimes wonder if I am." The Bellatrix to my Dark Lord, Draco thought grimly, fishing for meaningless compliments because it makes her less afraid of me. "Petty as it may seem, our great Gryffindor has the audacity to want a challenge, I was just beating him." He hadn't been lying, deceit came naturally to him. Pansy bought the story, nodding solemnly and shooting a filthy look over at Potter's table. Draco took a halfhearted bite of tart, his appetite gone. 

Later that night, just as his potions were beginning to take effect, Draco walked from his bed to the four long windows that stretched along his wall. The glass was cold to the touch, though it was charmed to prevent condensation. The Slytherin pressed his forehead to the pane, a show of surrender. Draco was spent, he needed to let himself feel. In a sigh, he let his emotions fog the glass, obscuring his vision. On the surface he saw the easy realizations: Draco would never love Pansy, he wanted something from someone. Beneath those, he almost dared not go. He was not prepared to drown in his descent. Maybe Draco would never love anyone, maybe he wanted something from someone out of his reach. Maybe he would love only what he could not have, and that would be be his punishment. Draco knew Malfoy was no perfect angel, but why should his heart suffer? Ice could not know pain, only inflict it; if begun, would he survive thawing? Draco's vision clouded, a haze of oblivion turned his somnolent movement into somnambulism. The boy fell backwards against his bedframe, unconscious by his own hand.

An: Hello again my dearest readers! I honestly don't know how to put into words how much I love writing for you all. I may not be that good, and it may take me forever to upload but being able to share what I love with people who love it too is the best feeling in the world. That being said, it gets lonely here (as I'm writing this I haven't gotten any comments on any published chapters) and part of me feels like what I'm doing is worthless and childish. But I will try my best to continue to write for you, my lovelies. As always, remember to eat, stay hydrated, take whatever medication you need to and get some sleep. May Morpheus be kind to you and may you wake to a better world. Love you all, 

-Ophelia