Draco Malfoy (_superb) wrote in iamb_rpg, @ 2009-07-31 19:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !complete, day 5, draco malfoy, kazimir dolohov |
Who: Draco Malfoy and Kazimir Dolohov
When: 5 pm
Where: Second floor, Common room
What: Draco meets Kazimir and wonders what he's gotten himself into.
Rating: PG-13ish
Status: Finished
Draco and his journal were having a face off again. It was just another struggle in a long line of battles against the diary, the Sanctuary, and everything else. He hated it, the book. He hated the way he couldn't keep his nose out of everyone else's business. He would like to maintain that he didn't care about them, about any of them, that he was better than a gossip, that he had matured and had better things to do. The problem being, of course, that he didn't have anything better to do and while he may have liked to believe he'd grown out of that particular phase in his life, he couldn't quite quell his curiosity. He really didn't care about everyone but there were a few people he definitely wanted as much information about as he could get, people who may prove to be useful. And it wasn't just that.
The war had been over for years now and while most of society had moved on, or at least had pretended to, he was still stuck. Before banishing himself here he'd locked himself in his house, away from everyone and everything else. At first it had just been to avoid the angry, pitch-fork and torch wielding crowd he was sure would be out for his blood and then, after that, because wiling himself away had become such an easy to maintain and comfortable habit.
All of the people he'd surrounded himself with in school and during the war he didn't want to associate with anymore and anyone else certainly wouldn't want to spend time with him. Percy had it right the last time they'd talked although Draco would never admit it and the Weasley wasn't making any accusations. Draco wasn't doing anything. He hadn't failed because he hadn't even tried and somehow that made it even worse. Everything he'd boasted about in school he hadn't lived up to and everything he'd believed in and had been taught had been thrown into doubt and question. He wanted answers, came here to find them, but couldn't bring himself to ask anyone anything. It was, of course, because he was a coward, he reminded himself, and that's what cowards did. They hid.
With his journal pushed out in front of him, the quill resting in the spine, the blond dismally surveyed the blank pages waiting for his attention. He had to write something, wanted to write something, wanted nearly anything to remind him he wasn't completely invisible and alone but he just couldn't quite bring himself to put ink to paper. At least, he thought as he pressed the pad of his thumb into the corner pages of his journal, it was a nice time of day when everything outside was still or settling down, and he was alone in a room hardly ever visited by anyone. The only thing that would make it better would be a stiff drink. "At least you have your youth," he told no one because as far as he knew, no one else was there.