Draco Malfoy stood absolutely still, his chest and abdomen hurt and unconsciously he rubbed the phantom ache, Potter's Sectumsempra and his father's constant Cruciatus's had made his chest into a map of large scars and un-healable gashes.
He knew his father was only trying to prepare him, was only trying to make his body immune to the Cruciatus but he resented him, hated him even if he was honest.
Draco was tried… so very- very tired, exhaustion had taken over each of his limbs; it poured out of his very pores.
What had his life become, hatred and pain and anger and fear? This was all he knew, this is what he had been turned into and everyday he lived under a shadow of oppression and death. But what was he to do? His family, his beloved mother… his only family as far as he was concerned was trapped in this prison created by his father.
He thought with contempt, father … Lucius Malfoy was undeserving of that term; a term that was supposed to demand respect, a term that held in it all the qualities… love, pride, encouragement. Lucius was a bully, a bully who had in his mad desire for power cut Draco's poor mother of from everything she loved, everything that she deserved. And now she was a mere shadow, who drifted thought the cold halls of Malfoy Manor as nothing but a reflection of her former self. Since she was a child it had been drilled into her; duty to family above all else and she was now paying the price, her 'duty' to her family was to sacrifice her only child, to watch as he slowly became a husk, to feel his fear and his anxiousness, to watch him slowly wither away into nothingness and do nothing about.
Draco hated that word now… duty… it had ruined his life, taken him away from all he loved. He was meant now to be a mindless solider, to kill without remorse, to hurt without feeling the sick churning in his gut, to torture innocents, to create fear and horror without so much as batting an eyelid.
He looked up; the broken mirror in front of him mirrored his expression. All his desperation, his fear, his savage hate. His life had become like this broken mirror, irreparable and beyond all help.
Outside the pitter-patter of small feet indicated the approach of first year children, so young thought Draco. Too young to face the War, too young to be victims of the horrible, heinous caravan of endless death. They deserved lives filled with laughter and not death, lives where they were allowed to be silly, to play pranks and were not forced to fight. They were not meant to die but when war collects it's tragedies it takes the innocents first, the believers, the children, the ones who have faith that the sun will rise again. Death always takes those closest to heaven first.
Everyone had to pay a price and he was still paying his. His hands unbuttoned his white shirt and in the broken mirror he looked at his chest, at each ugly gash and rip, at each bright red cut that dug deep into his skin, at each memory that belong to it, at each piece of burnt, scarred flesh.
Oh yes… he paid his price and he would continue paying if he wanted to keep his mother safe. His finger traced a single long scar right down his chest, a war trophy some would say; he called it a payment. If he had to bare being hated to protect his loved ones he would. He would be hated and sneered at and jeered, called a coward and cursed at if that was what it would take. And he would take it silently.
He continued to look at his pale, waxy face in the mirror, his pale face and his ugly, scarred body. He had become a beast, an ugly creature worthy of the hate and fear he generated.
A single white finger reached out and traced the face in the mirror; the expression on his face was the ugliest, most disgusting thing he had ever seen. It was ugly because of the lack of warmth in his eyes, it was ugly because of fear that was reflected back, it was ugly with hate, it was ugly with lies, it was ugly with darkness, it was ugly with wrath, it was ugly because of the lack of love. It was ugly most of all in its desperation.
What did Potter have to worry about; he would always be the hero of his story, whether he died now or by the hand of Voldemort. Draco would always be the beast, the liar, evil but who knew his side, his story. No one told the story of the beast, for the darkness of his life was not something any one wanted to hear.
No one was there to listen.
It would have been so easy for him to commit suicide, to just pick up his wand and kill himself or to simply give up when Potter's curse had hit him but he fought because he knew that someone… somewhere would someday listen to his story and remember him not as the beast but as a hero in his own right. A hero who was doused in darkness not by his will but for the survival of others.
A lone tear made its way down his pale, bony cheek and fell on the abandoned bathroom's sink, making a loud clinking sound, the only sound other than the giggles of the small children outside.
It was almost enough for Draco, to keep him going… that laughter. The sound of carefree innocence, something he so desired. The beast took his happiness where he got it. Each shriek, giggle and chuckle made his heart lift just a little. Made him believe that maybe despite who he fought for that good might triumph, that maybe… someday a child would laugh like this again. A child who lived in a peaceful world, a child who grew up untouched by darkness, a child who grew up happy.
He hoped and for the first time in years, he sent up an earnest prayer.
"Draco." Came a tentative voice from behind him, "I… I … I came to apologize for what happened with Harry and I know you hate me and you hate my blood and I am filthy and disgusting to you but… but… but please know that I wish you well and I hope that whatever is plaguing you will go away." Said Hermione Granger in a rush, coming out from behind one of the pillars smiling sheepishly.
Little did Draco know….
He was looking at his salvation.
"I don't hate you Gra.. Hermione." He said softly, his back still turned, "Is this what you wanted to see?" he said turning and lifting up his shirt sleeve. He pulled back the white cotton to show her his dark mark, ashamed at the horror in her expression, "This is what you wanted to know isn't it? If I have become a death eater or not."
"I… don't know what to say." She whispered, her voice trembling.
Draco looked at her hurt, "I would never hurt you…" he said softly, "Never…. Not you…"
And suddenly the giggles rose in pitch, right outside the door and Draco looked up and turned to Hermione urgently.
"You must promise me one thing Hermione." He said, his voice gentle yet urgent.
Hermione looked at his face and saw the anxious light reflected back in his strange, emotion filled eyes, "What is it?"
"Don't let us win…" he whispered, looking at the door where he knew the children were.
Hermione stood in a daze, shocked at what he said but before she could reply he had already disappeared.
…..
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