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Date Posted: 15:09:01 06/15/02 Sat
Author: Draco Malfoy
Subject: .:: If we cry, we will rust. ::.

((OOC: I've been pondering, for a few days, exactly where to post; I hate to interfere in others' threads and such like, but I'm feeling mellow [But Dracy-dearest is feeling more than beligerent, as you'll see], and, thus, Draco's going to be in the Library for a bit. Besides, the areas to post are limited. If anyone wants to act as if they spotted him in it at the same time they were attending it and/or speak with him, that works. But, then again, that is sorta the point of roleplaying... O.e ))

They'll never be
Good to you, bad to you
They'll never be anything
Anything at all...

.:: Shelved rows of books were easy to get lost amongst, and that was, perhaps, the haven-like comfort that the rebellious, yet cocky, spirit needed. A chance to submerse himself amongst the works of fantasy and truths, a chance to be anywhere but mentally here, with the weight of the world pressing in on all sides, surely was a change of scenery compared to conflicts and battlescars of recent, and even old. He could feel almost at home here, calloused-cobalt orbs scanning over the tomes as he walked aside them, slender legs carrying him on silently, and extending a sable-robed appendage to allow digits to lightly skim over some of the more intriguing collections.

He had paused, though, in a section about Ancient Egypt, and each gracile movement that had issued from his body seemed to be brought forth with careful precision, even right down to the way his fingers languidly caressed the spines of the volumes in his sights. Apex angled down to better inspect said books, slivers are flowing, pallid blond tendrils formed a shroud upon his profile, hiding the fact that pearly whites were absently inflicting gentle torture upon the flesh of his lower labrum, as if in thought about this pieces of knowledge before him.

However, this just proved how well he could mask away anything. Beneath the expanses of alabaster-hued flesh and caustic airs of beauty, his blood raced and his mind ached. Nothing was going right, and, at every corner, it seemed that something was there to keep the wounds fresh.

Hate. Comtempt. It was what he was beginning to feel for all things on this side of the globe, even those he thought he might've once saw something in it.

//You're just like him,// a voice reverbrated within the hollows of his mind, but it wasn't his own. He recognised it distinctly as a would-be apparition of Lucius Malfoy. The younger Malfoy knew the 'him' that his dead father spoke of had to be Julian, who he'd been in recent conflict with. He winced physically when he bit down on his lip too hard, drawing rivlets of crimson to the otherwise snowy skin, but, still, the mental versing continued.

//I know,// the former Slytherin acknowledged to the disembodied voice, his optics now dazing off on the books, and no longer really seeing anything at all. //That's the problem. Those like me can't be trusted as cohorts, can they?// His retort was bitter, to say the least.

//Not so. They make the best kind of allies. You've been around those of your temperment all your life, and the drastic change is what's eating you, now. So, do something about it.// The voice was always quick to point out his woes but never to give a solution that was easy. That wasn't vague. This angered Draco immensely, and, to express it, the shelf of books felt his wrath, a resounding 'thud' of a punch idly connecting with it. So absorbed within his mental affair, the rippling pain didn't even reach him... at first.

//But do WHAT?! It's your fault! Your bloody fault!//

Of course, he received no answer, and balling his fist up in frustration only finally announced the damage that he'd done, the abused flesh of his knuckles already turning shades that didn't match the rest of the flawless epidermis. He'd just have to get that taken care of later. ::.

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