Sketch: Shiver

I realize I am taking over the blog.... 

So here's an explanation of this piece and a disclaimer:  I know I said I don't write fan-fiction, and really I haven't.  This could be considered such, but really it's because I found the treatment and usage of this character to be seriously lacking.  I expected so much more out of this character, and I thought it was there.  The author just didn't take him far enough.  This is a small sketch of him, when I liked him best.  (That would be tortured... and muscular.  Cerasi, I know you can appreciate this.)

As for the disclaimer: Cylon, you might not get it.  But that's your own damn fault for not reading.

Shiver

He stood before the doors.  His eyes were raised to take in the original title of the building: “ARMORY” was carved into the stone.  His water-blue eyes took in the menacing finials, also stone, that pointed to the sky which were meant to intimidate the enemy and comfort the soldier. 

He was not comforted.  He noticed his hand shaking and his eyes moved to inspect.  His hands were always shaking now.  He surveyed the door he stood before.  Dark wood.  It matched his wand.

Ah, that’s why his hand was shaking now.  It was not wrapped around the familiar smooth, hawthorn wood.  There was no one else on the street.  But he couldn’t give himself the comfort of holding it.  He was in the middle of the city and some idiot Muggle could come stumbling around the corner at any moment. 

He realized he would have welcomed that idiot.  It would have been a distraction from what he now faced. 

The wind picked up his black coat.  He did not shiver.  His eyes closed against the world before him and wished he could close his mind too.   He was now a pawn, just like the rest of them.  He was still young, and therefore not fully indoctrinated, but he thought he might as well have been.  He was used.  Acting as courier, messenger, assassin, a would-be murderer.  This was what made him shiver.

A church bell in the distance rung.  It was time. 

His hand shook as he reached for the large iron handle.  The oak door heaved and creaked as it was opened.  He only opened it wide enough to squirm inside.  A briefcase materialized in front of him.  Kneeling down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small parcel, an object wrapped in a white cloth.  He  placed the parcel into the briefcase, making sure not to look at the red blot he knew was there.  Closing the briefcase he watched it flicker out of existence.

He shivered again. 

His hands were shaking.  He looked them over like he had an hour before.  Clean.  Turning them over, he could see no blemish.  No blood.  He reached inside his coat and seized his wand.  His hands relaxed.  His eyes closed.  He wished he could apparate somewhere else.  Anywhere.  He wished so hard, when he opened his eyes he half-expected to be somewhere else. 

But he wasn’t.  He was still inside the cold brick building with its stone detailing.  He  stood and waited another minute.  A yellowed piece of parchment sizzled before him.  He grabbed it in midair.  The long strokes spelled out: Good work, D Malfoy.   Await further instructions here.”  The writing was red and glistening, he released the paper letting it float to the concrete floor. 

He wanted to leave.  He wanted to never have to listen to those slips of parchment, that slippery voice again.  He realized that if he were stronger, he would have apparated.   He gazed outside through the large windows with cast iron bars across them.  An idiot Muggle scurried by.  And Malfoy realized how much he wished he was that person instead. 

He heard a crackle.  Another piece of parchment arrived.  It floated down to join the other.  Still facing the window, he shivered.