index about this archive - biographies verbs and vertebrae by Olympia This is the story ... the story of collapsing gracelessly, soft thud of jeans-covered knees hitting the floor, shiny white floor with strands of hair on it, maybe even scrapping soft skin underneath and waiting for the bruises to appear hours later. And as most stories go, this is also a lie. Some stories don't need justification, they just grow out of boredom and dark rooms, out of slow music bleeding in the background and memories that have to be dredged up from the sea, trailing glossy weeds behind them. And they also exaggerate. The faint glow becomes a sliver of hope, and the glass-stained window an emblem of beauty, static memories that leave cold marks, old bruises that fade slowly. Draco knows all that as he sits down to work on his journal. He knows that if he presses his arms too hard on the table, the marks will be like clear lines, just like the lines he doesn't dare cut into himself. Just like the dots his father leaves on his skin, line after line around his wrists and on his arms and sometimes his neck. He also knows that he's too tired to make up stories at the moment. He'll probably stare at the blank page and wait till his eyelids grow heavy and his gaze starts wandering. He'll pinch himself awake and try to write a word or two about his day but he'll fail. The page will wink at him and Draco will go to bed. If pages were merciful, they'd swallow him. If stories were real, they'd devour him. And that feels less frightening than the world. Silver always made him nervous. From the gleaming cuttlery he had to learn how to use when he was two to the shine of the moon. Everything silver made him cringe, to the degree that he had to be conditioned out of his fear. With silver, of course. Silver goblets filled to the brim with apple juice spelled to shine like silver. Draco thought the cup had no bottom, nor an edge, but it was endless. Endlessly frightening. His food was served in silver trays under silver lids, and it was always white. Hogwarts' food, plebeian though it was, was colourful. The chicken was roasted and golden, the pumpkin juice orange, the peas green. The rice was white, though, and Draco never touched it. Worse than the food, though, was the silver in his clothes. Silver threads that circled his wrists and the hem of his robes, silvery shirts and trousers and delicate silver chains and brooches to fasten them. Draco was trapped in a silver nightmare. A nightmare that continued when his father inspected him to see if he still cringed. Always using the hilt of his cane, a silver extension of his hand that bit into his skin, pushed his hair aside and left a cold impression on his skin. Silver teethmarks biting him where fingers barely touched him. And when Draco finally stopped cringing at the sight of silver, his father pushed him aside and walked out of the room. "This is my son, Draco." The hand falls heavy on Draco's shoulder and squeezes him just enough for him to remember to smile. Draco shakes hands with the other wizard and then is immediately dismissed. His father raps Draco's shin with his cane and then walks away, his coat swirling and whispering. Speaking of power barely contained in his father's frame, of magic and spells and unspeakable things that hide in the dark. And Draco is heir to all these. Or he will be one day. So far, he's Lucius Malfoy's son and his father treats him better than the house-elves. Which doesn't mean a lot. Sometimes, Father makes Draco sit on the carpet and asks him about his day. Father's hand is on his head, resting, massaging his scalp, pulling his hair more often than not. When Draco protests, the tip of the cane nudges his ribs. Once, one was broken but Father fixed it. After Draco had learned his lesson not to say things that could annoy Father. In the end, it's always best not to annoy Father. Because, if he won't, then Father will teach him how to be powerful. And Draco knows that Father tries, and wants to teach him, but it's Draco's fault that he is immature and disobedient. Worthless to bear the power that comes with the Malfoy name. But when he thinks the next logical thought, Draco shuts down, summons a house-elf and slowly wrings his neck. When he was eight, his mother taught him how to dance. How to put one foot next to the other and wait for the music to start, impatient, restless, excited. His mother smelled of roses and sandalwood and she was soft. So soft when he leaned on her flat belly. So warm and smooth beneath her silken gown. Draco doesn't remember what the music was. He remembers her patience, her leading him thought he steps and correcting him with a soft word. Her arm tight around his waist, holding him so close to her that he sometimes couldn't breath, the fabric stealing his breaths and leaving a dry taste in his mouth. Her hand bruising his fist, her nails leaving marks on him, her body saying a different story from her mouth, speaking of urgency that he couldn't understand. Father was away that day and Mother was different. When she bent her head and kissed his forehead, Draco smelled liquor on her breath. And then she called him Lucius and played with his hair for so long that Draco had to run away and shout at her. Draco knows the names of all the house-elves because he has to. Because it is expected of him, as the Malfoy heir and son of Lucius. But if Draco had his way, he'd never use names. He'd call all these sorry, ugly creatures 'You' and order them around, just like his father. Father doesn't have to use names. He just calls and raps his cane on the floor. The air carries the sound in the Manor; the walls tremble and the floors vibrate at the command. Every object seems to move toward his father, tilting, gravitating, obeying -- and then retreating back to their usual place so fast that Draco thinks it's all in his mind, this silent communication between his father and all that is his. Even when he himself stops whatever he is doing, and listens, his body freezing and his blood too loud in his ears, poised between breaths, only to collapse back to his activities a second later. And keep the sounds of his father's displeasure as a shiny object that he dares not touch. Sometimes, when the wind is howling, Draco misses his home. He misses home, where the windows rattle, the floors creak and the stones moan. He misses lying in bed, huddled under the covers and knowing that he is safe. Nothing can hurt him in the Manor. Hogwarts is supposed to be safe, but Draco knows that this isn't so. It may be safe for Harry Bloody Potter and his mudblood friends, the muggle-loving Weasly clan and the stupid Gryffindors. Safe for the quiet Hufflepuffs, who behave just like the plants they so admire. Safe for the Ravenclows, who'd sell their soul to the devil if they could gain more knowledge that way. But Hogwarts is not safe for him. Favouritism aside, Hogwarts is unpredictable; full of elements beyond Draco's control. Full of corridors that lead to dead-ends, corners that vanish and rooms without windows that keep you locked for hours, till your voice is as raw and coarse as the stone walls, your hands as ravaged as the pavement. And worse of all, Hogwarts is full of a pleasant smell. Like grass and flowers and spring turning into summer. Like daybreak and dusk together. Draco can't stand this smell. Nothing that smells so nice can be real. Nothing that seems so pleasant can be real. The Manor... his home... The Manor smells of dust and dried blood, and roses. It smells like all the Malfoys who ever lived and died and were buried undernath the main house. It smells of power and resigantion.It smells real. The Manor is real. Hogwarts is not. And Draco should never believe in false hopes, because the Manor waits for him, and ... And. Draco sits up and watches the trees sway under the strength of the wind till his eyes close without him noticing. Draco was three when he first saw the sea. It was autumn, and the sky was grey. The sea was grey too, silvery, wide, frightening. They were at a rocky beach, and the waves crushed on the stones with a loud smacking and wailing sound. It made Draco think that someone was being punished inside the water and the waves carried the screams to the surface, foam white as tears and just as bitter. The sun was hidden behind shapeless grey clouds and his father was just another shadow among the shadows cast by the rocks, just as tense and solid. The edge of his cane let off a sharp sound when his father walked, and when he stood still, it seemed to hiss, preparing to strike. Draco was three when he first saw the sea. He walked into this strange, silver water that made him shiver and that swallowed his fear. The sea was cold and the rocks cut his feet. He couldn't tell his tears apart from the foam, nor his father's shadow from the rocks. He couldn't even tell when he started to drown, nor how or why they pulled him out. And he couldn't understand why his mother held him so tightly after they returned to the Manor, nor why his father locked himself in his study. Harry bloody Potter bites his lips. His teeth are perfectly even and white and they leave small indentations that fade after two seconds. Draco knows; he counts the time. Harry bloody Potter scratches his nose. He scrunches his eyes and curls his upper lip when he does that. He looks stupid and childish. Obviously, no one ever taught him good manners: how to hold his head high, how not to scratch himself, or Merlin forbid, bite his nails, how to sit straight. No one ever tied him to a chair and placed a collar on his neck that would choke him if he moved. Draco sneers for a second. That, he was allowed to do. Malfoyscan smirk and say scathing remarks and push others aside because they can. But Harry bloody Potter doesn't understand that. He think they're all equal (and the word is so distasteful it makes Draco shiver). He brings the tip of his quill to his mouth and sucks on it, as though that's normal. More outrageous still is the fact that he doesn't look awkward or ridiculous while acting like such a child. So, when Draco stands up to take some more belladonna essence - because that Weasel is too poor to bring enough for both of them, the prat, and Snape paired them for some reason or other - he discreetly drops some powdered horn slugs into Harry bloody Potter's potion. Because, even if all of them are equal, only Harry bloody Potter will have to clean his mess. "There once was a young man who'd never been kissed." Old, muggle song playing in the background; his mother's collection of fans gathering dust behind glass. The music spills through the frail silk and ricochets on the ivory frames. Makes Draco think. Draco doesn't understand who would want to kiss him, though. He looks repulsive when he studies his reflection on the glass. Maybe repulsive is not a good word. But his lips are bitten, and paler in the middle, like someone drew a white line through them. Guideline for an incision. And his eyes are just as pale as his skin. His reflection melts into the glass, and stains it with silver highlights. His expression is empty, identical to his father's. And when he leans on the glass, his skin turns cold too, exactly like his father's touch. Harry bloody Potter thinks it's bad living with his abusive relatives under a staircase. He should try living in a glass house. Without privacy, where everything cuts. Where everything leaves stains and it's cold. His breath fogs the glass. The fans disappear behind this filmsy screen, delicate stems, flowers and tendrils vanishing, withering as he exhales. The music plays on and slides off his skin. Probably disappearing inside Draco's flesh, becoming one with the stains. Draco closes his eyes and pretends to melt. White was not as frightening as silver. White was pure, white was perfect, white had o flickering reflections or shimmering depths, no darkness hiding behind the surface. White was soothing. White also had a scent. Draco could not define itm the same way he could never explain why white made him feel a slight taste of lemon in the back of his tongue. White was forbidden in the Mnaor. Pure white anyway. It was not as shiny as silver, as deceptive as black, as royal as purple, as meaningful as red. White was an aberration, and therefore had no place in the Malfoy world. White was also for the winter, a colour to pain Christmas vacation. It would fall softly on the ground, cover the roofs, conceal the fences and the pathways. It would hide sounds and objects alike. Objects, corpses. Sometimes they were alike. White was also for them, for the dead and the unwanted, those who died in a green flash of light and were left to rot in unartistic piles in the back of the garden. Muggles who prayed and wizzards who cuses, witches that screamed and babies that cried. White covered them all. Draco kicked a pile of snow and tried to cover the begging hand under it. All things considered, even silver was better than white. New Year's Eve and he's ready for his presents. Not the ones in his room, or the ones under the tree, or the ones he's expected to open the next morning. The ones that come with the Malfoy name. That ones that come when you stand still in a darkened room, facing into the red eyes of your Father's Lord. Your Lord from now. When you burn flesh, there is a hissing sound and a retching smell. When you use curses on flesh,the skin wrinkles and the nerve endings send signals of pain to the brain. The brain flutters and closes in on itself. The mark itself doesn't burn. It's even aesthetically pleasing, the outline of a black skull on his pale skin slightly raised. Not bad; not bad at all. But it still hurts and his mind is crumbling. Draco feels layer after layer dissolving, words melting into pain, knowledge dying slowly. The sounds come from far away and his eyes are closing. Black on white. Funny, he would have expected pain to be silver. Verbs and vertebrae. Draco sometimes confuses them. They both form the spine of his existence and he can't separate them. His father doesn't have much respect for either. Words are air and vertebrae break. In the end, there is always silence. There's also sun, warm and golden, light coming though the open windows. It must be spring. Draco knows that the same way he knows he's still alive; through a glass, darkly. He thinks he raises his hands sometimes to grasp the flowers Mama leaves next to him. Their smell teases him. But it's always too much effort, too much trouble to actually move, to reach out, to speak, to tilt his head and speak. Too much trouble. And father can't touch him now. He may want to, he may circle him and taunt him and say things that are hurtful as his curses and painful as his blows, but Draco doesn't care any more. He can't be bothered. It's just... it's just so nice to sit there, by the window, smelling the pretty flowers and letting the sun warm him. So peaceful to look and not see, to hear and not respond, to be safein his body. So nice. index about this archive - biographies