Voldemort is dead.
Dead, really dead, so much so that He cannot be revived. In a year He will not reappear like a stubborn candle that will not be blown out. He is dead, gone, diseased. Just like that. Just like a muggle's magic trick.
It has been months and I still cannot accept this as fact. My mind still cannot comprehend the absolute vacancy of his existence in my life from now on. I still expect to come face to face with his grotesquely horrific features every, single, night. I still am terrified to close my eyes for fear that He will be there, lurking inside of my own mind against my will, stalking me like prey. I still see his cold, blood-red eyes, lighting up the darkness of my mind, staring into mine with the intensity of the Cruciatus Curse.
I cannot get the taste of his name out of my mouth.
Tomorrow is September first. I will start my eighth year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I will be safe. I will not be tortured, or attacked, or cruelly played with by Him. My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy. I am 18 years old. I am a Slytherin. Voldemort is dead.
They do not sound like facts. Nor do they sound like lies. They sound like prayers, carefully crafted to be repeated. They sound like gospel in an empty room, like echoes. Take me to fucking church.
My pillow smells like cologne. It smells like my cologne, which is funny, because before He died, I never used that word. My. I never gave myself the privilege to declare something my own. To have something of my own, means to have something to lose. Something for Him to take.
My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy. I am 18 years old. I am a Slytherin. Voldemort is dead.
Like a prayer.
The darkness of my bedroom is thick like smoke, low-hanging in the room. I cannot make anything out of it, which triggers something in my brain that tells me to be scared. This is what weakness feels like, not being able to see. I do not dare close my eyes. He is now only alive in my head, and I cannot give Him that power over me. I cannot close my eyes.
I eventually do. After a long time of staring into the smoke. When I do close my eyes and lure myself into a light sleep, my head is resting on a tear-soaked pillowcase. Smoke makes my eyes water.
---
I wake up before the alarm goes off. As soon as my eyes open, I stagger out of bed and reach for my wand. I grip the handle so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I hold it out defensively, across my chest, just as my parents taught me. The sun is rising in the distance, leaving the midnight blue sky to fade into a rusty hue that dimly lights my room. Nothing is here.
I lower my wand.
There is a mirror in my bathroom. Sometimes I deeply wish there wasn't, because I have become a living corpse, and that is not appeasing to the eye. I stare at myself with disgust in the mirror, the glass reflection looking like someone else. A ghost.
My eyes are puffy, almost swollen, from crying. I am visibly trembling, as though an earthquake is sending tremors through my limbs. My breathing is unsteady, which is obvious by the way my chest is heaving. The worst of it is my skin, which is a pale so deathly that somehow I can see Him in myself.
Myself. I have to remember that the word is no longer a contradiction. My-self. A self. This self didn't used to belong to me. It belonged to Him.
I have to remember. I am not a self. I am not his self. I am myself. I am Draco Lucius Malfoy. I am 18 years old. I am a Slytherin. Voldemort is dead.
I left for school with one suitcase, and a bag slung over my shoulder. I did what I could to hold up my appearance, but it's hard to hide my hopelessness. I look less like a ghost, but nothing like a living being. At first, nobody noticed me at the station.
And then they did. Eyes found me from what feels like miles away, sizing me up like a snake does a mouse. A few people pointed, some whispered in hushed tones. Some people only stared, their jaws hanging off of their skulls. I want to ask them who the hell they're looking at, because it damn sure isn't me. Then it occurs to me that I do not have that power anymore. I am no longer a threat, just as He is no longer a threat. I am dead to them, just as He is dead to them. For, to them, I am Him.
I could barely feel the humiliation over the numbness that I have submerged myself in. But it was there, like a needle, weeding it's way under my skin until I couldn't take the stares. I nearly jumped in front of the Hogwarts Express when it got here, but my feet wouldn't move from their spots until I was boarding.
I found an empty compartment and didn't bother locking the door. If anybody came in, they would surely walk away. Even Pansy. If she came back at all.
Eighth year is optional, but necessary for anybody who wants to further their education. I'm not sure if I want to further my education, because that sounds like something that requires motivation, which I have been long without. Still, I have nowhere left to go. My parents are in Azkaban, where I probably should be. They managed to get me out of being sentenced, in exchange for their own freedom. I still do not love my father. I watched him destroy our family too many times to love him, no matter how much he sacrifices for me.
I wish my mother would stop trying to save me. I do not deserve it.
The door to the compartment slid open, and I tightened my grip on my wand. The person closed the door with a heavy sigh, not bothering to look at me. I don't suspect he knows I am here. He slumped down across from me, finally opening his eyes.
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
"Potter."
