c o l l o p o r t u s
{ running in quicksand }

People talk too much, and often the ones that talk too much, are the ones that know little and even that, incorrectly. Being a death eater, Draco had realized, had none of the jazz, none of the mystique projected.

It was just another term for lifelong insomnia.

This, that, that, this. The spells rained down, almost literally. His profile threw one, sharp shadow on the wall, a shadow that had as much briskness, as much cold, cold preciseness as the person that cast it.

Col-lo-por-tus. The latest in the series of spells he had to practice. If things had been better, life easier, Draco might have pointed his throat at Dawlish's throat and told him to get out of the room, that he already knew that spell, child's play. But shadows seemed to accumulate in his already-saturated mind, and Draco felt like he had stepped into a black hole, that life had been torn apart.

So he did not point his throat at Dawlish, let alone that man's throat, and he did not tell him, coldly, that he had known that spell since the age of thirteen. Instead he nodded, made speech unnecessary.


Song credit: Megadeth. <3