Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

36 dear granger|| pt.2

Fair warning to errbody. Bit of violence and image ahead. 

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For as far as the eye can see, Draco Malfoy can see nothing but roses. Dews like pearls rolling off their petals, as they were each touched by the first light of morning. He has been waiting here for a while-- for a long while actually and he's about to sue. He doesn't know who or what it is that he is waiting for but he can't move. He's stationary. Expensive shoes rooted firmly on the floor of the marble gazebo with the intricate steel works, making it look like a carriage.

The shadow of the sun was a translucent orange against the lilac sky. He sighed at it's beauty. He will not admit it but he's alright with waiting. Fine by it. He has been for a long time now.

And he has always loved roses.

Small and pink barely bloomed, aged and dark at the last of their days, larger than his palm at the height of their beauty. Each with thorns. So he can only look from afar.

But one captured his attention, it stood alone. In the center of all the others. Unbowing and unbent, proud in it's oddity. It's golden as the others are blood red. It has the biggest and sharpest of thorns. But as it shone and glowed under the light of the first sun, he can't help but walk towards it.

So he abandoned the beautiful gazebo and his expensive shoes and walked in the muddy, prickly path towards it. Barefooted.

He has to have it. So he clung on to the sharp thorns, the thick branches, the razor like leaves-- everything piercing and cutting through his snow white skin, the pain immediate and sharp. It drew blood and it flowed freely into the rich soil, blending ever so perfectly with the darkness of the earth.

But it was nothing if he'll have her.

He'll have her...

If not then at least he managed to hold her, no matter how much blood he spilled. He took heart.

A sharp blow got him across the cheek.

The fields of roses slowly disappeared with every blink of his sleep deprived eyes. Soon all that was left was blood. Cold, dark blood that smeared everywhere. To the tips of his long fair hair, down his naked torso to both his raw wrists tied up above him to his tattered trousers that kneeled on the gray tiled floor of the sodding dungeon. Old blood and new blood, intermixing. Old blood that tasted metallic on his mouth, so many ulcers on such a small place that he doesn't know what wounds have healed and which had been infected and which ones are new. Old blood that was crusted and drying on various parts of his body, splashed with grime and sweat on his skin. Never did he thought that he could bleed so much and keep on living. Well, would you look at that. New blood that dripped down the open wounds from yesterdays tea time (interrogation) and last nights goodnight kisses (torture). New blood that tasted too much like salt that it's comforting that he can still taste. Everyone of the masked bitches and assholes has had a go at Lucius' boy and his coward father did not do anything. Or probably could not do anything. Neither did his mother.

But the pain and the torture did not dull Draco's mind. He knows and he knows and he knows that if one of his parents lift even a finger to help him they're all sentenced to a sure death.

But for all his knowing-- he doesn't know how long his body can withstand all this.

He has taken heart like a fool. This might be her one request that he takes heart-- his mind says no. But it's too late. There's nothing else that could be done. He's too weak to do magic now.