Johnson Normal Johnson 2 67 2003-06-17T17:19:00Z 2003-06-17T17:19:00Z 1 1933 8138 - 173 41 10030 10.2625 Clean Clean MicrosoftInternetExplorer4
Paper Roses
Fragile and unyielding the paper rose crumpled in his hand as his fingers consumed it in an angry clench. Softly it crackled as its life was suffocated by a fist full of white flesh. The delicate petals that had been constructed by a careful hand were screwed up into one tight ball of lost creativity. It may never have had a life but this destruction of it was almost like murder.
To add salt to the wound, the fist released its victim which slowly drifted down to the floor. There it lay forgiving yet changed by the assault upon its beauty. It seemed to smile up at the person, mocking him with its love for him. Quickly a foot was brought down on top of it. It went down again and again. Each stamp tore the tissue of the paper cutting it like a knife.
Glancing back down at it now he could see it for what it really was. Not a rose bearing the mark of care and concern, but a piece of shredded up paper that no longer held any resemblance to the rose he had only seconds ago cradled in his hands. There was nothing left but the shoddy remains of dirtied red paper.
It was ironic really that it had been red. Blood and flowers weren't usually things you linked together. However the paper had joined them by some weak link. He had destroyed the flower and now the bloody remains lay on the changing room floor, staring up at him without a hint of malice.
How could something so small and so insignificant affect his cool exterior so much? After all it had only been paper. It wasn't as if it had cost anyone any money, just time and effort. Things he considered to be worthless but too many not. What was it he had always been told when dissatisfied with presents under the tree? It was the thought that count. Well if the offender who presented the family had really thought about it they would have known that he didn't want this lame excuse for a present.
It had been a long day already. This just made it worse.
Having come in to the changing rooms, Draco had pulled off his robes and balled it up in his fists. With a growl of frustration he had thrown the offending robes against the back wall. It had scored with a thud that reflected off the bare walls, and then it slid to the floor in a discarded pile.
His fists had clenched into what he knew would leave moon shaped marks on the innocent palms of his hands. Then as if propelled by his anger, one round ball of muscle and flesh pounded into the wall. Once and then again it continued. He diminished with a sigh of sadness. This was not the way it was supposed to be. It wasn't him who should be alone in a dingy little room alone. He was above this.
He brought a swift hand up to his face to wipe away the tear that was threatening to break free of his eye. A lump had built up in the back of his throat and nothing seemed to be able to move it. No amount of hitting the wall and throwing things was going to take away the bitter sadness that was coursing through his veins. His face was contorted into an angry sneer that bordered onto sadness.
Furiously he swiped away another tear that threatened to fall. Then ever so slowly, as if in slow motion, he leant sideways against the wall and collapsed to the floor in a subdued wreck. There were unwanted tears flowing down his face, but it was now blank. Nothing that bubbled beneath the surface was visible. Just a blank canvas discarded by the artist.
He had stared at the bench that lined the wall in front of him. It seemed so far away and like him seemed alone. Somehow this normal thing had touched something in him. It was a new feeling for him. Never before had he felt so lonely. He had had no need to. There had always been someone lurking around ready to offer his ego another boost. Not that it needed it of course - he prided himself on his arrogance. Here though, in the changing room with only a bench to comfort him, he finally realised what it must be like to be alone.
Glancing down at his hands he looked at the mud that was stuck to his fingernails. With a sniff to end the tears, he realised how he must look curled up at the foot of the wall. He must look weak covered in mud and smelling of sweat. Weakness would never do though, so he had stood shakily up and took a deep breath. His hands ran over his bare chest. It was so clean and smooth compared to the state of other body parts. He had closed his eyes and hugged himself for a couple of minutes rocking backwards and forwards.
All the anger had gone from him for now.
He was too tired to fight himself.
Walking across the room he had opened his locker and peered into its gloomy depths. After a day like today he didn't want to seem anything but strong. There was no way in hell that Potter would ever know how much he had cut into the youngest Malfoy. He may have appeared to have a heart of stone, but he was pretty sure it wasn't a very hard stone. Some things seemed to penetrate it.
He was taken aback by what he saw though. There nestled in a heap of his uniform, was a single paper rose. It was beautiful and bright against the dull backdrop of his uniform. As red as blood and as beautiful as the real thing, he had at first believed it to be alive. Only on further gazing though had he realised that it was sculpted out of paper. Each petal was peeled back perfectly to reveal the inner bud. All in all it was a work of art.
Yet something about it scared Draco to the core. At first he had been confused about what it was and now he felt fear. He was scared of scooping it up into his hands and accidentally creasing a petal. Beyond that though was a nagging question that with it brought more fear. Who had left this here for him to find? Had it been meant for him at all? What did the person expect from him?
Gingerly his fingers had reached out and grasped the faux flower between finger and thumb. With caution he then raised it to his eyes and let them wander over it. He sidestepped to get a bit more light on it. His heart was thumping in his chest as his eyes unseeingly ravished the paper rose.
Someone had spent time and effort in creating this piece of Eden. Not for Potter or Weasley. Not for some Hufflepuff hunk who played on the team. No, it had been made for him Draco Malfoy. A boy that was both feared and respected by the school. Well he had been before the Quidditch match.
High up in the sky he had felt truly alive. His eyes had darted back and forth seeking out the flash of gold that would win him the game and the House cup for his final year at Hogwarts. Six long years he had spent toiling away like a slave, always being outdone by an orphan, a weasel and a mudblood. None of them even came close to being as powerful as he, yet they commanded great respect. On more them one occasion had they saved the school by being nosy and no one even thought to ask what a bunch of teenagers were doing roaming the castle at night and solving mysteries. It seemed a bit suspicious to him.
From up there he had been able to see the entire pitch. It stretched out in front of him making him almost drool at the mouth with anticipation. Soon he would see the gold, go in for a dive and nothing would stop him.
Nothing that is except the infamous Harry Potter.
Having spotted the snitch, Draco had gone for the kill. Tunnelling downwards through the heated skies he had sped faster then he felt he should. It was all about controlling the broom, he had thought to himself. All he had to do was pull up at the right point, reach out and grab the snitch. Suddenly though something blurred in the corner of his vision and had plucked the snitch from in front of him.
With confusion the control was lost and he tumbled to the ground with a groan. It hadn't been hard enough to break anything as one of the teachers had seen the problem before it even occurred. Looking up from the ground all he could hear was a load buzz followed by a roaring laugh. The whole world was looking down on the fallen man and laughing. Finally he had got what he deserved. Not glory and power, but disrespect and the shame of having lost the House cup for Slytherin.
They had tried to comfort him. It wasn't the end of the world, they said. No one would care tomorrow when the initial buzz had died down. He knew they were wrong though. It would be imprinted into everyones mind. When they looked at him they would see the boy who fell flat on his face while everyone watched. There was no glory with failure. Winning was winning and that was that.
Having screamed at everyone to shut up, for the world just to be quiet, he had finally escaped the snide remarks and pinched looks.
Alone at last, he had realised with short lived relief. Having found solitude, he now wished more then anything else that he wasn't alone. He wanted someone to comfort him with a smile or reassuring word. Revenge would be nice with that too. He may be the villain of the story of their lives, but he was only human.
The paper rose lingered on though. Someone had cared enough to give him this in his time of need. Of course they had been to embarrassed by him to do it in person. They didn't want to be tainted by the same brush as he was. A small of his brain argued back though that maybe there was another reason.
His anger had been overwhelming though. No Slytherin he knew would be able of creating something of such beauty. It had to be someone else with more time and more skill. Whoever had made this had the touch of a fairy unlike the bumbling fools of his house. No one pitied him there though. They hated him for losing them the vital points.
Crumpling the rose into a ball he destroyed it in his anger.
'If you can hear me,' he whispered menacingly, 'I don't want your pity and I don't want your shame.'
In the corner, out of sight, a young girl hung their head as tears spilt from her eyes. Red strands of hair flopped over her face, hiding her shame at her own forwardness. His words slashed into her one at a time, piercing her resolve.
On the floor of the changing room lay the remains of a hope now lost.