Bones ⋆ Draco Malfoy (3)

| PROLOGUE: Overture

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PROLOGUE OVERTURE

AUGUST, 1996

     THE LATE AUGUST WEATHER has the country on its knees — it isn't exactly boiling hot, but it's sticky still, evaporated pool water and sweat filling the atmosphere like pissed off, vengeful particles. The house at the end of the street is still, because only one of the residents are in, and he lost his Walkman ages ago. He's got the window open, though, the one on the side of the house that lets in the breeze and the conversations of the neighbours in their garden, basking in the glory of their blow-up paddling pool.

     He lies on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the bright white ceiling, his hand a couple inches away from a glass of water. His family's all out. His older sister barely lives there anymore, since she finds the tiny apartment above her best friends' new business. His parents are out with his little brother. Doesn't know where. Figures they're at a park or something.

     His sister has some of their things around the house still, watching the house and reminding their parents to not forget about their eldest. Crystal balls, divorced socks, discarded school uniforms that need to get chucked out or recycled. She returns to her bedroom sometimes, usually when her visions get too bad and she's paranoid about keeping her boyfriend awake. Once a week, at the least.

     It's always odd when she comes back, he thinks. She arrives without a word, floats past and bids her hellos. Sometimes, she comes for dinner. Most of the time, she arrives at night without anything but the clothes hanging from her bones and her dog, says hello to whoever's awake (usually just him), and takes the usual trek up the stairs and into her bedroom. The door clicks shut. She can be heard going to the toilet at night, and letting her dog outside early in the morning. She says hello to everyone else at breakfast. One parent frowns and asks about the visions. She sighs, makes something up, and offers to make the first round of tea.

     He's the middle child, the adopted child, the odd one out. He was treated as the small little boy, too young to see the world in all of its corrupted glory, but that flew out of the window the second that he became a tournament champion — his uncle wanted one last stab at his mum. So, he rigged the game so that the "least prepared" of her children could try and win the game. His plan, they assumed, was to chuck the weakest child into the Thunderdome and get himself killed. By a dragon. Or perhaps a mermaid. Or, perhaps an attempt at getting people's support, because no one, at first, wanted to support the Slytherin champion. God forbid!

     But, things have changed since then. He's got friends outside of his house, he's somewhat trusted by those in others houses, and the whole persona of him being a serpent-like gentleman had been demolished the instant that he and his friend returned from the maze, with the corpse of his sister's best friend.

     And he thought that life would get easier, the more he got used to it. Ha!

     He holds a match between two fingers. He doesn't know why — it's odd, really — but he really loves candles. The odd love for them had been realised a couple months ago, when his gaze darted around his bedroom and he realised, well, shit, I own a lot of those wax blocks.

    One time, when he went to get the matchbox from downstairs to light a candle, his mum had been in the kitchen, accompanying his dad while he cooked dinner, and she had mused the entire workings of a match. He wasn't quite sure why his mum burst into that explanation. She was interested in muggles, to the point that she used to teach Muggle Studies. But, he still doesn't know why the interest has spanned to knowledge about the chemicals in a match. A match.