Nightmares and Nocturnes

The Giant Killer

Chapter 5: The Giant Killer

The girl, denied the privilege of the light, saw nothing but the dark, though stars shone in her eyes. The monster spared a care to break her, only long enough to sentence her destruction; to feed the flame by which she burned, but he afforded no witness to her collapse. And so, in his inattention, he did not see that in the cracks, she only shone brighter, a savage beauty amidst the ashes of the night.

In the wretchedness of his ambivalence the monster did not know, then; did not see; that in the girl's careful ventures towards the light she had befriended the creatures in the dark, calling them to her, clutching them to the warmth of her breast. Denied the privilege of the day she had learned to see light in the depths of blackness; and thus, should she catch a shadow, she breathed a hopeful sigh, knowing that near her there was light.

"It is so horribly dark," the boy whispered to her as he lay collapsed in her arms, a lost soul without the splendor of the sun. While he lay in fear, she comforted him, though in the abhorrence of his cowardice, her comfort only added to the insult of his shame. "This darkness creeps into me, seeping into my skin and my thoughts - if only the sun would rise," he sighed. "If only the sun would rise."

But she, who herself had risen triumphant in the slimness of her sight, could still see glory in the dark.

. . . . . . . .

Draco stumbled into the kitchen, trying not to think of the pounding of his head, or the way he'd woken up that morning, curled around her, her hand still lying softly where he'd clutched it to his chest.

Then he stubbed his toe on the corner of the table and promptly forgot, swearing loudly, fumbling about in the darkness for something - anything - to conjure into coffee. Hangover potion could be made quickly enough, if he could simply summon the concentration by which to make it.

She would want breakfast, too.

Inaccurate, actually; she would not want breakfast, she wouldn't want to eat at all, but he would insist on it. He'd had to do the same with Narcissa, and was strangely accustomed to the practice. He no longer had use for a house elf - which was an unexpected blessing in the end, as this house was not paired with one - and preferred, now, to do certain things himself.

He'd taken to preparing the food himself while his mother was sick, as she was wont to refuse it from a servant, or anyone; but she would never deny him a spare ounce of effort. She'd eat out of affection; she lived as long as she did out of love for him.

His heart pounded, or his head; it was all the same after a while, and he grimaced in pain.

He forced himself to swallow the entire volume of a large glass of water and leaned heavily against the sink, feeling the liquid expand into the hollow expanse of his stomach, groaning as it sloshed about.

Her hand was so small in his.

"Draco."

Draco lurched forward, feeling the contents of his stomach gurgle threateningly.

"Father?" he guessed, squinting at the fireplace at the far end of the kitchen.

Lucius's head poked out of the fire, his immaculately groomed head making him look as elegant as Draco, still in the previous evening's clothes, appeared completely disheveled.

"When I said constant updates, was I unclear?" Lucius's head prompted, as Draco dragged a stool to the fireplace and took a seat, feverishly blinking to clear his still-spinning head. "Did a sudden wave of incompetence come over you, or was I simply speaking in tongues?"