The Colour of the Sky

by Lupin
 
 
 

They say that the colour of the sky is blue.

They say ‘like father, like son’. They say that Gryffindors and Slytherins will never be friends, let alone fall in love.

They’re wrong on all counts.

The sky isn’t always blue. It can be the deep velvety indigo of night, or orange-yellow with the sunrise. Even now, as I am
in the common room, unable to feel anything but pained shock, the sun is setting. The sky is tinted with shades of rose.

And he – he wasn’t like his father at all. They never knew that. They never saw past his facade, never really cared to do
so. But I did. I saw how he wanted so much to please his father. Always obeying him, doing what he was taught to do
from young, just hoping to receive something in return – a few words of praise, a brief smile. Concern. Love. I saw how
he followed in his father’s footsteps just to satisfy him. How, underneath his snide remarks and cold exterior, all he
wanted was some warmth.

I don’t think even his father saw that. But I did. And I knew how he felt. It isn’t that my parents don’t love me. But all I
do now, studying and memorising and cramming for the exams – it’s all for them. They never see that. They don’t
understand how terrified I am that if I don’t do well, they won’t love me quite as much anymore.

And so it was on an autumn morning that I made up my mind to confront him. He had received an owl at breakfast and
had opened the envelope once it reached his hands. As he read it, I saw his face go carefully blank, and he slipped the
letter into his pocket.

I finished my dinner as quickly as I could that evening. He left the Slytherin table early, just a minute or so before me.
After a hurried whisper to Harry and Ron, telling them that I had something to do before going up to the common room, I
followed him out of the Great Hall.

He went out the door and into the school grounds. Occasionally he would run his slim fingers through his hair as he
walked. Eventually he reached to the lake and sat down, cross-legged with his back still facing me, by the water’s edge.

As I watched, he drew out a crumpled piece of parchment – the letter, I realised – and began reading it. I waited for
some time, hesitating, before taking a step forward. He turned at the sound, and his gaze met mine.

I realised that he had been silently crying. His eyes were still their usual grey of a storm-torn sky, but some tears had
already traced their salty trails down his cheek. The moment he saw me, his eyes grew cold, and he stood up, wearing his
trademark scowl.

"Why did you follow me here, Mudblood? Did one of your pathetic friends ask you to spy on me?"

He seemed so composed that for a moment I wondered if he hadn’t been crying at all, if he actually enjoyed being the
way he was, indifferent and cruel. But I knew, somehow, with complete certainty, and so I replied.

"Draco, I...I know why you keep acting like this."

"Oh? I’m afraid you don’t get extra credit in any subject for knowing that. And you haven’t answered my question." His
mask was completely in place now – no tears threatened to well, and his voice held no telltale quiver.

"Stop it, Draco. Just – just stop pretending. I know that all you want, all you really want, is for your father to accept you.
You’re doing all this just to please him, to make him proud of you. But can’t you see you have to please yourself first?
That you...that it doesn’t matter what your father thinks, that you’re supposed to live your life the way you want to?"

He waited for me to stop. I did, eventually, tangled up in my own words, looking at him and willing him to just respond,
not to look away or make some cutting remark...

"Nice, Mudblood. You ought to take up psychology. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m perfectly fine. Go analyse Potter or
Weasley. I’m sure they have lots of childhood trauma or some other nonsense." And he stalked away, leaving me both
embarrassed and angry.

He avoided me for the rest of the year, even though I tried to talk to him, many times – I even sent a letter to him once,
anonymously, but he never replied. He continued being the same Draco the school knew. But I just knew that he was hurt
and crying inside. I don’t know how.

And today it’s been about six months after the first confrontation. I just went down to the dungeons, barely an hour ago,
to look for Professor Snape. And he was there.

I had opened the door, and saw him standing in front of the teacher’s table. He heard me coming in, of course, and turned
around briefly as I entered, but didn’t seem surprised or bothered by my interruption. Instead, he ignored me. A small
vial, filled with a liquid as dark as pitch yet strangely tinged with gold, stood on the table.

"Draco! What are you – what’s all this?"

He turned again, slowly, his eyes lit with a disturbing fervour. In a conversational tone he replied, "Well, since nothing will
matter in a while, I suppose I can tell you. But I’d better lock the door first, hadn’t I?" He waved his wand carelessly,
muttering something under his breath. "That’s a Dark charm, by the way, and only lifts at the time I planned it to," he
continued, still speaking in a casual manner. "Just so you don’t cast alohomora and leave. Don’t want you running off for
help and ruining all this. Oh, and so you don’t interrupt" – another gesture, and the air around him shimmered – "I’ll just
put on this temporary shielding spell. Now."

He smiled, and held up a glossy strip of black cloth in one hand. "It’s quite a brilliant plan, really. Father wants me to
prove one last thing for him. He says he’s always been proud of me, and he knows I can do this. Our master needs the
power of three young wizards. And I was one of those chosen. It was an honour! Father is so happy, you know."

He was crazy, I realized then. He was going to...going to what? Give his power to the Dark Lord just so that he could win
his father’s approval? His eyes were filled with the gleaming passion of the insane.

"You were wrong, Mudblood," he continues, that manic grin still on his face. "My father loves me, and I know what I’m
doing. And it’s so simple, can’t you see? All I have to do is drink this and wait!"

"Draco, listen to me. Your father’s using you! He doesn’t care. All he wants is for You-know-who – Voldemort – to rise
to power! If he loved you, if he really did, he wouldn’t ask you to do this."

"No!" He suddenly looked...almost pathetic in his anger. Like a puppy which snarls when beaten. "You’re wrong. You
don’t understand at all. None of you do."

He took a few deep breaths, then continued calmly. "This ribbon is my link to the master. It holds both of our blood and
thoughts and life, but only part of it. It is part of him. It is part of me. Isn’t this just brilliant, Mudblood?" He was almost
laughing now, his entire body trembling with a sort of crazed excitement. "I even met the master a few days ago. He
spoke to me. He said ‘Remember -- that which does not kill us can only make us stronger.’ "

"And that which does kill us leaves us dead! Draco...do you mean that you’ll be killed?" – and now my voice was weak,
trembling with fear and shock and horror – "Draco...oh please, don’t do this, don’t throw your life away. Please."

He ignored me, and continued. It was almost as though he was speaking to himself. "It’s called the Transfundere Charm.
Everything will be transferred, transfused from me to him. I’ll die, but my life will live on. In him. Father will be ever so
pleased."

"It’s not worth it! It’s your life, it’s not his to use! It doesn’t matter if your father’s proud or not, it’s just – it won’t matter,
because you’ll be dead!" I was babbling now, at a loss, too shaken to think clearly. "Please, listen, don’t do it..."

"All I have to do," he said, "is to drink this and say the incantation. The ribbon provides the link for the transference, and
everything will work itself out." With that, he raised the vial to his lips and drank. He paused, then started chanting
underneath his breath. His eyes were filled with tears – of joy? – but he wiped them away with the heel of his hand.

"Draco, he’s not worth it! You can’t – you can’t die just to please your father! Draco!"

But it was too late. It was too late, far too late, and as he finished the incantation he crumpled to the cold dungeon floor,
his eyes shut, a childish smile on his pale face. One thin hand still clutched the shiny twist of fabric, but as I watched the
ribbon faded away, leaving just a small curling wisp of smoke.

The charm broke a minute or so later. And the professors had come, and Professor Dumbledore had taken care of
everything. I told him what Draco said and did, and then I’d asked to go back to the common room. The rest of the
school heard the news.

And now it’s all over. And I’m sitting here in my common room, alone, crying for someone who hated me and whom I
never really knew. They’ll put his death down to some obscure cause – there’s no way they’re telling everyone what
really happened – the school will probably rejoice, and he’ll only be remembered as this smirking, rat-faced boy who
laughed and taunted, who was petty and cruel and childish.

All he needed was someone to show him that he could be what he wanted to be, that he could stop striving to meet his
father’s expectations. I tried, I tried so hard. But he held on to what he believed, died for his cause, no matter how
twisted or wrong it was. He died because of his longing for love, for his father’s praise.

They say, now, that I should move on. That I shouldn’t spend my time moping and mourning for him. After all, it wasn’t
like we ever had anything. He didn’t love me, and nothing about him changed. Even what I felt for him could not be called
love. It was a sort of pity, and this feeling that we two should be together. In another time and place, we could have been
soulmates. In another time and place, we could have loved. But not this time. And so it’s an empty mourning, something
senseless and automatic, without any meaning. And yet, why should I listen to them now? They’ve been wrong for so
long.

The only person I ever connected with is dead. And he died because I couldn’t get him to listen, to see. At least...at least
he died happily. He died with the pathetically hopeful thought that his father would finally be proud of him. And I know
now that no one else will ever understand how I feel. How scarily close I was to sacrificing – to doing what he just did. If
only, if only, and I’m being incoherent again. But seeing him...seeing him crazed so, and that terribly beautiful smile on his
face at the end...

I cannot lie to myself, though. Maybe, just maybe, they’re right this time. He had happiness, something that I must
continue living for, if only to experience it. Perhaps I should accept his death, as they say, for he did. Everyone deserves a
second chance. And so I’ll listen to them this once, and hope that they are right. Even if they’ve been wrong for a long
time. Even if Draco wasn’t like his father. Even if Slytherins and Gyffindors can fall in love, or at least something almost
like love.

And even if the sky isn’t always blue.
 

~finis~
 
 
 

A/N: Right. The ‘something old’ is the all-too-cliché
Draco-and-Hermione-fall-in-love-one-of-them-dies-the-other-has-an-angsty-monologue-including-remembrances
plot. No, don’t laugh, it’s more common than it seems. And I realise it’s not exactly a D/H romance – well, I’m
sorry, but I had no time and no idea how to make it one. But it’s close enough to the cliché, I hope. Oh, and
perhaps a variation of I’m-about-to-succeed-in-my-plan-so-I'll-tell-you-exactly-what-it-is-before-I-do-it thing
could count as a cliche. The ‘something new’ is the entire Draco-dying-powers-transferred thingy, if it counts. Oh
dear. I get the feeling this doesn’t meet the requirements very well, does it? The ‘something borrowed’ is the
quote:

"Remember -- that which does not kill us can only makee us stronger."
"And that which does kill us leaves us dead!"

from Terry Pratchett’s Carpe Jugulum. And of course, the something blue is the colour-of-the-sky thing.