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Date Posted: 01:36:43 03/09/02 Sat
Author: Draco Malfoy
Subject: This is me pretending this is all I need
In reply to: Ron Weasley 's message, "-When I Cry, So Too Does the Blackbird-" on 17:39:01 03/08/02 Fri



//Are the sins getting staler
Does every moment move past you
Or does it feel like forever
And shouldn't you be laughing too\\

Somewhere amongst the swarthy shadows and audible creaks of the steadfast sea vessel, a figure sat in a bedecked cabin below the ship's oaken boardings, slender legs curled up tightly against his rising-falling torso, as if to let go would mean the world would slip away. As if it hadn't already. Yes, he sat unmoving in this position for seemingly hours, cerulescent optics glassy in their unreadable depths, as they retraced with fine acuteness the patterns of the walls around him, his otherwise seething mind making mental images as to what these things looked like, and he found that one, ironically, looked like a smiley face. It annoyed him, and by means of response, his first movement in hours, a leg untucked itself before he could register it, coming forth with a sudden, palpable force, and kicking the very spot in which the 'smiley face' resided. A stupid, futile move, yes, but not a soul had to witness it, not a soul had to know that one, Draco Malfoy, felt the certain backlash of the malicious intent that fate had decided to lay upon the youths.

Nothing should be happy. Not even the wood.

//Take a look how they found you
Take a look what they've done to you now
What was it they wanted
Sullen and haunted
If only you saw it coming\\

The hole of a chamber in this mass of floating nothingness had become similar to a place of sanctuary, only leaving when neccessary, and only to return and live in the same state of rage bordering detachment that he was in at this very moment, platinum cranium bowing itself now, as if in rememberance of what was, what could have been, and what shall never be. It was facing reality, which was a step in the direction of healing, as any would say, but he was facing it with the beginnings of an all-consuming bitterness, and one who had not known him before would dash the grasps of the entirity of the turmoil within. Just beneath his skin, he was screaming, the cries echoing in his head with a shattering force, ice breaking from a blow. They would not be satiated.

It was, also, a sadistic way to bring realisation on just how horribly he'd lead his life, just how wrong his future was going to be, and no less encouraged by the man that he now suffered over, the deceased spectre that was him aged. Now decaying, he presumed, in some forgotten tomb, bones cold and hollowed, body tissueless, and all forms of the charismatic being drained from the hollow husk that houses life. If there was an afterlife, a Heaven that so many coveted, he held no hopes on meeting Lucius there, aside from the fact that the man most definitely didn't deserve such a rumouredly prosperous place; more over, he himself didn't deserve it, a fact that stood out more prominently in his mind as he had the time to mull over his every flaw, every barb sunk into another.

Still, he felt no self-disgust, if that would be what one's thoughts of his emotions. He felt a longing of regrets, though, the sort that tugged on one's mental framework and dragged the person down with it, if the victim was weak. A Malfoy wasn't weak. A Malfoy was brooding, calculating, but alive still, as was now apparent. All the ice castles of vainity and fortune couldn't keep this particular situation from melting them, however minutely that breach may've been, enough to be felt. And adhered.

There were no signs of a mental civil war, of rebelling thoughts in his physical appearance, because only someone so deeply enamoured in sympathy would leave themselves that blatantly open. Alabaster flesh was as preened as ever, elevated cheeks and velvety skin stretching over them, coinsiding harmoniously with the rest of his pointed visage; metallic-white locks framing the face of angelicity, stormy, bright blue eyes peering back with a certain disdain that was programmed to be there. Yes, by everyone's unknowing standards, he was heartless. The same as he had been before. But no one could see the landscapeless fury within, so he embraced all generalisations and tossed them aside there after. But it was not fine.

//How far down would you fall
If you never came up again
'Cause you're so sick of it all
And you want to change everything
Just how deep will you go
To see through it all\\

Oh, he recalled the news arriving home plain as day. But it was as ethereal as a novel, something one merely sees in a omniscent range of perception, not a tragedy cast upon such a family's life. What an outrage, for fate to bestow death's wings upon an otherwise pristine setting, and cast it into undiscernible splotches and shades of grey! Because, really, it all became clear-cut; you were born to die, to break down and wither away, your remains to return to the dirt. To be forgotten. As immortal as they hoped they were, it seemed that not even England's most prestigious bloodline could hold out on the beckoning forces of it all, weakened and trivial in the grand scheme of the world's wants.

//If you could consume her
Would you say you were finding your way out?
Is anything coming clearer
Smashing your mirror?
Still you can see you're guilty\\

It all hit the blond boy, like a mass of bricks to the chest, drawing him of breath, when it came. It was abrupt and painless at first, and it seemed no different. Lucius was often times gone from home on 'business,' the very same business that landed himself in death's clutches, and it was easy to simply leave oneself in the state of mind that the Malfoy patriarch would return, with a rare smile that striked his face in the presence of his family, and all would be complete, their circle of uncomprehendable fondness of each other.

And those dreams were broken the day of the funeral.

The normally azure hue of the sky had gone into an inept hibernation that day, saturated droplets of liquid free-falling from the looming, grim clouds overhead, as if they, too, mourned the loss of such an elite person; as if the Gods, as cruel as they proved, were showing some sort of belated sympathy for their actions. It suited the occasion, for no one smiled, even if it was a small throng gathered there.

The thing that stood out the most in the former Slytherin's mind, however, was that no one cried either. Hadn't even thought of it. They didn't know how, had no use for tears. Not even as minister said words of prayer, finality, and the usual clichés that are set to offer condolences. Not even as the casket made its painstakingly slow descent into the caverned hole of the earth. Not even as it touched the bottom of the chasm with...

With an audible sound. Out of his reverie, unfocused optics blinked owlish. Had the ship docked? Had they crashed, meeting the same fate of those before them? There'd be only one way to be sure, and thus, causing him to rouse finally, the slender form set into a fronting graceful motion, carefully practised, almost, as if liquid over rocks, adorning simple, sable slacks, and a snowy-dress shirt. It was time to face whatever this situation offered, and put his best face forward; bitterness, in the upholding of all he'd lost.

//Coming closer my composure turning
inside out in her
Calling home all alone
You can call I won't answer
Any question in my head
Remains until you feel the same
Never telling how I felt is all I ever cared about\\

((OOC: I recently woke up, so I probably slaughtered my own post. heh Anyhow, I left it sort of open-ended instead of doing the whole, 'stepping onto the land of America' thing, since that's going to be done to death. Besides, my eyes hurt. x.x))

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[> [> [> drowning from within.. -- ginny weasley, 10:17:47 03/09/02 Sat

Auburn tresses are pushed away from the pale, tear streaked cheeks of the youthful female who is gradually being shoved into the most important stage of metamorphosis. Change. How she hates the word that spins webs of misery within the abyss of her scarred mentality. Her eyes don't seem to be looking at anyone, just passed them all, as though they are all transparent...as though this is a mere dream that she is forced to haunt. How wonderful it'd be if it were just a bad dream, something that could be deleted from recollection the moment that she awoke. However, it is all real...and one truth stands out in the midst of the rest of memories. Fred is gone for eternity, and he left without her being able to tell him that she did love him. In fact, her last words to him were 'I HATE YOU FRED WEASLEY!' The memory brings fresh tears stinging at the back of her eyeballs, the eyes that itch like crazy because of all of the saltine liquid that she has lost for the ones that no longer exist on earth. An uncontrollable trembling that runs up and down her spine with a ruthless nature harasses her figure, made feeble from lack of food. The soundless tears continue their path down her colorless skin, uninterrupted by her digits; in fact they go entirely unnoticed by the defeated female. With a rickety sigh she gradually meanders the boat's length, traveling to the exit at the back of the line, as though she wishes to escape from identification, but it is actually due to the fact that her lower limbs just don't want to move. The sensation of her stomach lurching, not unfamiliar occurs, but she manages to keep the bile down. A gentle whimper escapes, her appearance now an unhealthy, milky glow because of the nauseous feeling that lingers ruthlessly, as if her very own body is preparing to betray her. She seems to be 'human' enough to mentally curse the boat and the desolate sea, promising that she'll never look at the livid waves the same way again…not after that dreadful expedition from wreckage to the petrifying unknown. She does her best to stay away from everybody, but her gaze wanders the docking area as if she searches for a nonexistent soul. She suddenly notices that the melancholy creatures that seem to drift about in a daze assault her personal space unintentionally. Why can’t they watch where they’re going?' She asks herself in irritation, experiencing the recurring resentment that she has traveled around with ever since that hideous, terrorizing night. Her eyes slither toward the castle in a frightened method, as though timid to the reality that any resemblance shall bring memories swarming her, and they do, only with a severity that she didn’t expect. Caught by surprise, she staggers backward, colliding inelegantly with another student. She doesn't bother with apologies, aware that she is much too lost within herself to vocalize anything but moans and whimpers. She backs away from the castle as though it is contaminated with a lethal malady, almost not willing to enter what shall become her new home.


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