Weakness Guides The Heart

Chapter six

Muffled words buzzed around his ears, like a million bugs fluttering remorselessly within his brain, blocking his focus; his eyes distorted, a horrid smoke swallowing his vision; the mountains of objects, chairs, books, desks; all turning to dust; eyes transfixed on nothing but a figure before him.

The figure, his component, was strong. His eyes unwavering, ears free; the smoke departing around him, highlighting his lean silhouette; the glasses, the scar; those emerald eyes, like crystals, welcoming the light of destruction, absorbing it; transforming it into power.

"Why didn't you..." words weren't clear; they weren't coherent, sentences mumbling; single words matching with their arch nemesis, creating chaotic paragraphs. "Bellatrix...me, knew...say anything."

"Draco...don't...do." His eyebrows furrowed; pain smouldering his brain; his sense. Was he supposed to, or not? Do, or don't? Words were failing him.

For the briefest of moments, his eyes closed; eyelashes tickling the teardrops threatening to tumble down his icy cheeks; the frost of his heart consuming his body, making him numb; his feelings fading, disappearing.

He felt cold.

Yet it was hot.

Smouldering heat radiated all around him; a fiery blaze consuming the innocence that once owned the room; the books, pages, filled with exciting knowledge; seams securing the bewildered glee of the students who, seven years ago, rested their eyes upon them for the very first time.

All was dying, destroyed.

Harry was gone.

Draco's feet fumbled, eyes trailed upon the glaring mountain before him; his escape bleak, burned by the fire roaring around them. He had no choice but to climb; to plead, for once, to be saved, physically.

Mentally, he was already dead.

Goyle plummeted, Draco felt fear singeing his fingertips; his eyes immediately finding the darkened ceiling creeping towards them. Broomsticks, emerald eyes; they gleamed above him; shimmering hope capturing his heart; a desperate swell.

Harry missed; a frustrated cry echoing, tearing through the fire; his broomstick sweeping through the thunderous smoke once again; a heroic, silver, shimmer igniting his fingertips; an electric spark igniting Draco's body.

He'd been saved by the hero; the wizarding saviour.

His hands tentatively grasped the Gryffindor's waist, a feeling of comfort; of safety, hope, embellishing his skin, tinting his cheeks a rosy pink. He desperately tried to steady his breathing; convince his lungs he was safe, for the briefest of moments; tell his heart to stop beating so loudly, because, even for just a second, all he wanted to do was feel.

Maybe he'd felt too much.

With a startled gasp, Draco awoke; his body stiff, pillaring upwards; arms, fingernails, desperately grasping the sheets; the silky feel so very similar to the jacket he'd grasped that night.

Instinctively, he dropped the sheet; his palms forcing their way between his cheekbones; his fingers timidly trembling, rubbing the sweat from his forehead; his platinum hair contaminated by his dreams; by his memories.

He studied the empty room; the beds his friends once slept in empty; their memories stored within the untouched sheets; their laughter still echoing around the hollow, wooden draws at their bedsides.

He was alone, just as his father wished him to be.

Pushing the bedding aside, Draco stood; his feet tingling, toes curling around the cool concrete of the floor; eyes holding nothing but grief; a scream pushing at the tips of his tongue, pleading; desperate to escape; to tell everyone how he really felt.