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Onyx Idols

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The murky shadows of night seep into the dingy room, descending despondently and embracing the unwelcome light in its sinister arms. He is awake now, and has been for the last several hours. His head is propped on one elbow, face bereft of the usual impassive mask. Now he simply stares coldly at the wall, his stale, slate eyes arrested solely by the morbid flickering of a sconce.

He will think of her in a moment, when the splintered walls no longer cradle the secrets of the universe. He will think of the irrational where and how to find her, perhaps moving on to the more important: Will she accept him? Or he may be crude and simply think of her - the sinful scarlet ribbons of her hair, the gentle flutter of her laughter, the muddy gaze of her eyes and the iridescent tears that adorned her lashes as they parted.

The pale light pierces the window and illuminates his inert figure lying on a narrow cot positioned against the wall. His face has all the menace of an angel damned to Hell, flaxen hair coiled and tangled, steel eyes licked with crimson, pallid bones jutting out over too-drawn skin. All of it laboriously thrown together in a sadistic display of lament.

Shafts of moonlight peek through the thin blanket of clouds, and his eyes inexorably drift to the mark on his left arm. His gaze trails over the curves and contours of the serpentine tattoo with flippant detachment. He can remember a world in which this blemish had once meant everything to him, a world where he would stand by his proud father as a new dawn of darkness rose and swathed civilization in its righteous embrace. He can remember it with such pathetic clarity that in the deep recesses of his mind he once again craves that naivety of youth. But there is another thing he craves, and it resides even deeper than the nooks and crannies of his mind. Embedded in his tarnished soul lays a memory so vivid and robust, it is almost tangible. Almost.

The staccato click of her heels echo throughout the desolate church, quickening as they spot his shrouded figure lurking by the front pews. Light filters through the muddled mosaic of glass, casting ascetic colours on the weathered floor. The dusty rafters merge into the darkness, spreading a safe canopy over the scene below. She reaches him in a torrent of colours; red and black and browns all blended together and pulsing with desperate vigour. She launches herself into his arms, and her petite frame quakes from breathlessness and despair. His arms held stiffly by his side, resistant and unyielding to the temptation of once again holding her. The fading light illuminates their entwined silhouettes, and for an instant they are the epitome of forbidden lovers. They stand for a moment, each lost in their own chaotic thoughts.

“This is so wrong.” Her whisper cuts through the draughty silence, the words enveloped in fear, desire and sorrow. He can tell by her laboured breathing and shuddering shoulders how each syllable trembles on her lips.

“Perhaps,” he lies. He can understand that it’s not acceptable, can appreciate that it will not end for the best. But when she tritely labels them ‘wrong’ it galls him to think that something so wretchedly right would deign to befit that word. Outside the walls of this sanctuary, their world contains such depravity and evil that their love is but a mockery of the word ‘wrong’. He knows because he is a part of that depravity, and because he willingly serves that embodiment of evil every day. He knows, but won’t say.

Slowly and reluctantly, he begins to raise his arms to return the embrace. As they rise and encompass her frail form, his mind begins to churn the fell logic of how he can no longer love her. The light draws courage from their embrace and stains them onyx. In that one moment they might have been Roman idols calling upon history, pleading with her to etch their story in her aged pages.

“Let’s leave.” She looks at him with such forlorn longing that he cannot help but plummet back into that perilous pit of love, and during his murky descent he curses himself for being so shallow.

She repeats herself and clutches at his shoulders as if channelling her passion through the crescent moon scars, which will inevitably mar his back. He shakes his head and pulls away from her embrace. There is too much hope in those arms and he cannot afford to hope, indeed cannot even tolerate it.

He strides away from her and stands underneath a colossal cross that spans the height of the room. He notes distastefully its intricate gold filigree and the polished granite, but it is the solemn figure adorning it that makes him wonder for the first time, if there is any profit in prayer. She walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his wiry frame.

“Why?” he whispers and he marvels at the fact that he does not sound as shattered as he feels. Inside, his heart thrums and the charred flesh on his left arm begins to hiss and sing, though his face betrays no sign of discomfort.

“You know exactly why, Draco.”

He turns to face her and is overwhelmed to see what her heart aches for in the light of early dawn, when the sun glides over the haunting images of hacked flesh and bloodied bones. She implores him to see the elegant manor festooned with garlands of tinsel and wreathes of holly, merry sprigs of mistletoe garnishing the tops of doors and the disgusted squeals of children, as they stumble upon an intimate couple. And then the same couple descending a sweeping staircase, hand in hand; their faces alive with delight and bliss. Then as the chink of glasses and roar of applause accompanies a kiss sealing fifty glorious years of marriage, a feeling of complete and utter contentment. But deep down she knows that all he sees is a frigid cell and all he feels are the dulcet tones of doubt, sweeping his mind and carving the bitter and dull imprints of a wistful future.

The fluent shrieks of his neighbours echo around him and he is thrust violently back into reality. The windowpane rattles crassly as the wind snarls outside. He shifts his position and casts his eyes to the jaded bars that line his window. The moon is an ethereal sliver peeking through a shawl of ripped clouds. He knows the same sky hangs over her and the thought brings a fresh wave of bitterness over him, knowing that she is out there and not with him.

Memories begin to sift through him like the gentle unfurling of the tide; thrown up on one of the banks like a discarded bottle, there lies a jaded recollection. He has avoided it until now, desperately keeping it at bay, but it gathers strength from his idleness and rises in a cacophonous torrent that spills relentlessly over his mind’s eye…

His heart thrashes in protest as he flies around the corner. The thumping of his feet will surely give his position away but there is no time to cast a silencing spell. He navigates his way through the labyrinth of corridors and passages until he spots a bulky oak door in the distance, he is close. Adrenaline courses through his capillaries and thrusts him forward. As he wrenches open the door the thoughts of victory inflame him and even trigger the ghost of an old smirk.

The frosted grass crunches ominously beneath his boots, but he dares not slow down. His hurried pace carries him swiftly and without ceremony through the glade. As he nears the perimeter of the Manor’s estate, a sudden violent bang slices through the icy silence. His wand is in his clammy grasp quicker than lightning and he methodically begins to fend off the curses and blows of his enemies. A startling array of reds, blues and greens illuminate the scene, as more and more Aurors circle him like a pack of fiendish predators. He grows weary and knows that the end is near, but he’ll fight until treacherous fatigue gives way. At last he takes a blessed stunner to the chest, and as he falls to his knees he does not notice the frigid chill of the grass below. Instead his eyes are focused on remorseful lips, and before obnoxious oblivion devours him, he thinks he can remember her whispering, “I’m sorry.” He thinks, but is unsure.

************

When he awakes, it is to find himself tightly bound in a rigid chair. He rolls his head and peers blearily around. Droplets of water inch their way down his face and his eyes smart in the glare of the bright light. His surroundings slowly come into focus and he is unsurprised to find himself in the interrogation room of Azkaban prison. A plump guard with a ragged beard sneers at him but he finds he is too weak to respond.

“Enjoy yer beauty sleep, scumbag?” He cringes at the shrill and grating sound of the guard’s voice. There’s a tasteless Yorkshire lilt that should surely call for a retort, but the scathing comment is a tangle of muddled syntax and confused utterances that die in the back of his throat. His head begins to thump dully and he bleakly remembers snatches of curses, shouts and screams. He closes his eyes and drops his head only to have it wrenched viciously up.

“None of that, Malfoy. I said I’ll have none of that, I’ll tell you now.”

The questions come rapidly and without mercy. His lips move of their own accord and he dimly realises they’ve given him Veritaserum. His eyes widen slightly in horror as he gives away information on his father’s whereabouts; his stomach churns as he describes the particulars and extent of the Dark Lord’s threshold. Slowly, but surely as his mind is probed by innumerable Legilimens, he gives away secret upon secret. With each word spoken he feels the harsh contours of his personality ebb away, until all that is left is a waif and an eerie helplessness that echoed his teenage years.

“Who were it tha’ broke Ministry’s defences last October?”

The effects of the truth potion dwindle and he can now think more clearly. His mind falters and instead of answering the question he mulls over a distant memory. He remembers two figures on a jewelled October night. Slowly, it sharpens and he sees them dancing; two faces swirl in front of him and his heart spasms at their look of utter contentment.

“Greengrass,” he murmurs in recognition.

“Wha’ were tha’?” the guard’s voice sharpens as he notices the change in demeanour of his prisoner.

“Greengrass.” He raises his eyes and there is such seething malice and pain in their depths that the guard finds himself instinctively reaching for his wand.

“F-f-full name?” the grating voice stumbles out of apprehension and he visibly cringes at how meek he sounds.

“Daphne Greengrass.” As his old callous drawl moulds itself around the name, he feels a vicious stab of pleasure. Fatigue and logic merge dangerously together and create a cruel web of lies, perfected here and there by impertinent injustice. He tilts his head back and his faced is adorned by a cool maniacal expression the guard clumsily mistakes for arrogance.

The abrasive grinding of the doors echo in the small room and two burly Aurors step in. An exchange passes between them and the guard, prompting him to scuttle out of the room. He eyes the new occupants with suspicion clearly etched into his features. He knows what they are here for because if chance had it and the roles were reversed, he too would have unsheathed his wand in the same deliberate manner. He too would have looked at his victim squarely in the eye, perhaps even gracing him with a smirk. And then with his mind completely focused on the syllables of his spell he would silently utter “Crucio,” and let the undignified shrieks and screams assail his ears. But he would show no mercy, and there lies the only difference.

The room is now completely engulfed in a dense darkness and the trilling silence is at a crescendo. He considers her dreams and sees them crumbling like battered cliffs. He knows that with each tumble of rock and stone her elegant manor and merry mistletoe are lost forever in the fevered swell of time. With them goes the disgusted squeals and chink of glasses, the only roar of applause to grace his ears will be that of Potter’s inevitable victory. There is nothing left for him to build redemption on, even if he sought it. All that remains are the dying embers of memory burning low, until there are only piteous ashes and the dismal plumes of a past he cannot change and a girl he can no longer have.

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Fin

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