Disintegration

Disclaimer: I don't own anything and you know it.

WARNING: This fic contains abuse, violence, depression and bloodshedding.

Genre: Major angst and some drama.

Rating: R for violence

Note: English is NOT my mother tongue and the text might be incorrect somewhere in this story, even though I'm considered a fluent English speaker.

I've just finished this piece and I'm not quite sure if I should post it here or not; since many of you users are quite young of age. (To be honest, I never thought I'd write a fic like this one.) But then again; I have warned you.

Please R & R!

It was a cool summer's day. The birds sang in the trees and the wind blew soft and chilling. In the countryside, not far from London, a big, castle-like, white house was situated. Pillars embellished the front door and the windows looked like they could have been on a cathedral. In the backyard of this Malfoy Manor, a thirteen year old boy with a pointy, pale face and silvery blonde hair tried to relax in the soft sun. The sun, however, seemed to show Draco Malfoy no mercy. It peered into his eyes as he sat in a chair next to the huge pool, so he rose and went inside. The quietness struck him as he climbed the stairs to the second floor; he was home alone.

In the bathroom – mostly made of white marble – he stared at his own reflection in the mirror. There was a slight cut under his right eye, but apart from that, he looked like usual. Softly, he took off his shirt and grimaced slightly when the fabric touched a specifically evil cut on his chest. The mirror showed him that his pale body was covered in bruises and long, fine cuts that looked like they had been made by a whip. He couldn't bare looking at himself for more than a few minutes since he found himself utterly repulsive.

Suddenly, he could hear the front door open and the sound of voices; one harsh, male one and a soft, female.

"Draco?" his mother called.

Draco sighed, put on his shirt, gave his mirror reflection a last glare and went downstairs.

He faced his parents; Lucius Malfoy, a tall, strong built man with long, sleek silvery blonde hair and cold, blue eyes – and Narcissa Malfoy, tall and thin with long, soft curls of light hair and eyes that sparkled as ice. They were both dressed in black, and beside them a house-elf stood staring down at the floor.

Draco tried to tell which mood his father was in by looking at his face; but as usual, he couldn't. Lucius' eyes were always cold, no matter if his mouth were curved in a smile, a smirk or just made a thin line.

While his mother hastened into the living room and disappeared, Lucius asked his son to come downwards; and Draco did, as always, as his father told him.

He reached the end of the stairs and looked up in his fathers' pale, serious face. Draco felt a cold shiver down his spine. Something was wrong. Yes, something was definitely wrong.

What had he done this time? He couldn't think of anything in particular; he tried his hardest to be exactly what his father wanted him to be… but it seemed like it was never good enough.

Lucius Malfoy patted his sons shoulder without a smile, and continued talking:

"Do you remember, Draco, how I got you a position in the quidditch team?"

Draco nodded and didn't dare to say anything.

"Do you think", said Lucius and stared into his sons eyes, "that you have shown me gratefulness?"

"I have tried", said Draco in a trembling voice, "I really have…"

Lucius took away his hand and sneered.

"And how, exactly, my son – have you tried? I don't see your grades got any better this term, did they?"

Draco stared at the floor. He was trying in school, he tried to do his very best, it was just so hard to concentrate when all the bruises and cuts seemed to be in his mind and not on his frail, pale body.

Lucius looked out the window, and then he slowly turned to face his son.

"I think you need to learn a lesson", he said.

Draco stared in his fathers cold, empty eyes. Fear rose in him as he stuttered:

"No… please, dad. No. P-please?"

A scornful smile appeared on Lucius' face. He grabbed Draco by the neck and hissed:

"I cannot believe that I have raised such a horrid little creature as you, Draco… can you believe it?"

Draco shook his head; he had never dared standing up to his father. He felt his skin sting as his fathers hand smacked against his left cheek. His body was already shivering, not from the pain but from how scared he was, but Lucius did not stop: he continued beating Draco harder and harder, until he finally grabbed an item from the umbrella stand that Draco knew too well; the whip.

"Take off your shirt", Lucius demanded.

Draco felt tears burn on the inside of his eyelids, but he refused to cry – he couldn't cry, he couldn't let his father see him in such a weakened state, so he obeyed and took off his shirt.

Numbness struck him as his father let the whip hit his back, over and over again, making new, long cuts that shimmered with glittering, dark-red blood.

Draco was soaking in blood and the sticking pain mixed with itching as Lucius swung the whip more furiously over his sons' naked back. Draco started to feel dizzy as the pain took over his senses and made his sight blur. He saw sparkling, golden spots in the darkness that now dwelled upon him, and before he fainted, he thought to himself; this is what it feels like to be dying – this is my relief, this is my death, I will finally surrender…

The first thing Draco saw when he opened his eyes was whiteness. First, he didn't understand where he was or how he had got there, but then his vision cleared and he realised he was in his mothers' and fathers' bedroom; he could now see the velvet furniture and the many dark paintings clearly. The purple curtains were drawn back to let in a glimpse of sunlight. As he slowly woke up, the overwhelming pain in his back took hold of him. Now that he was alone, he let his tears come; they fell down his cheeks quietly and he curled up in bed, not able to fall asleep because of the physical pain he was in.

As the tears fell and the wounds smarted, he felt how sore he was on the inside. He lied there and thought to himself; why?! Why did his father hate him so much?

He knew that Lucius would sit on his bedside a couple of hours later – he always did – asking for forgiveness. And as the victim forgives its executioner, so would Draco forgive his father, for he always did. Draco hated himself for it – he didn't know who he hated the most, his father or himself. And after Draco had forgiven him, he would give Draco all that he wanted; that's how he'd gotten the quidditch position – only to use it as an explanation to torture his son later, for he wasn't "grateful" enough.

Draco lay there on white sheets, injured and alone. No one came to sit by his bedside for hours, not until his father came, and those hours he spent thinking. Growing that layer of ice around his heart even thicker. He must build that wall around his soul to survive; he must torture others to reveal all the torment that is in his wretched soul; for it's the only way to lighten this darkness.

End

You may excuse me while I'll go into hiding under my bed, waiting to be flamed into oblivion.