The Wicked One (A Drarry Fanfic)

Chapter 3: Condolences

He was staring at his silver eyes; they were stained with shadows that were dark and somber. To the ordinary observer, his eyes looked hard, cold and emotionless. He knew that was why students didn't like him. It wasn't because of his blood; it was because he always seemed so indifferent to suffering that he barely appeared human. But he knew better. He had looked into those eyes for seven years now. He didn't use to be so good at reading them as he was now. It took him practice, discipline and passion. Even now he couldn't always tell what he was feeling, but at that precise moment he knew. He knew he was bleeding black poison from the painful wounds of death.

He was so focused on the other lad the echo of Professor McGonagall's voice was distant and inaudible. She was giving the Malfoys public condolences in name of Professor Dumbledore, who had been absent from the school almost since the term had started. He did not need to hear that. Actually, he thought it was better if nobody spoke of the dead Mrs. Malfoy because it only made Draco suffer. But it was inevitable, as it seemed, and after McGonagall gave a mournful speech, it appeared like everyone at the Great Hall was staring at the silver-blonde haired Slytherin, but his countenance didn't change. He remained composed, silent and impassive.

He observed some of his fellow Slytherins giving him condolences too, but Draco didn't say a word.

"I feel sorry for him. I wouldn't like to be in his place," he heard Hermione's voice coming from his right, "I'm not even hungry."

"I don't like to admit it, but I feel sorry too. I mean, one thing is to find your mom killed, but that, well, it mustn't feel any good," Ron spoke from Hermione's side, sounding disturbed, "I haven't lost my appetite, though."

"We must offer him our condolences, too," she was looking at Harry; she had realized he was gazing directly at Malfoy.

"Words don't mean much in a moment like this," Harry spoke for the first time since they had known the news of the Malfoys. He knew his friends didn't understand. They didn't understand what death felt like and that no words could repair the damage already done.

"It's still the right thing to do, though," Hermione said with the righteousness that characterized her, as she always did.

"Well, you two are going to do the talk, because I'm terrible at it, and though I do feel sorry about it, it's still Draco Malfoy. It would be weird to tell him something nice," Ron was the most biased from the three; he knew feeling uncomfortable wasn't the same as feeling sorry. Ron didn't actually felt sorry for Malfoy, but he pretended he believed his friend.

Harry didn't eat anything. He was tired due to his sleepless nights and had an intense headache pounding in his temples, but he couldn't care less. He was worried about Malfoy. He wanted to be with him. He wondered why he had been so stupid to reject Draco's friendship to begin with, so stupid to try to despise him, because he had indeed tried. He just wasn't the right kind of guy. Now he was too exhausted to keep classifying things as right or wrong. Things and people were just what they were. He was not afraid of falling for the wrong man anymore, if there was actually such a thing.

They waited until Malfoy stood up from the Slytherin table to leave their sits with the Gryffindors. They followed him discretely to the Great Hall's exit.

"Malfoy," Hermione called, and he turned to his back to meet them. He didn't look surprised.

"Granger, or should I say, the Dynamic Trio?" he glanced at Harry and Ron, who were standing at each of Hermione's sides like bodyguards.

"We are sorry about your loss," the witch spoke whole-heartedly.

"Don't be. People die every day. We must all," his sullen face was as hard and cold as ever as the words left his thin lips.