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I don't know a thing about Wilfred Owen, though I love what I've read of his poetry. No disrespect is meant to his memory.
* * * Seventeen
* * * Draco Malfoy looked in the mirror, and he was old. He was seventeen. At night he slept with green flashes behind his eyes, twitching when the poet touched him. The poet never slept. He was much older than seventeen. "I'm on the wrong side," seventeen whispered, black misery in his voice. "It's war," the poet replied. "There is no right side." The poet was gentle and bitter and beyond pain, and if it wasn't healthy to cling to sepia-toned soldiers who flinched with him at loud noises, who cared? He made Draco feel blasted-out and clean, and when he slept Draco watched him and the words fading on his skin.
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