AN: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to J.K Rowling.

Draco sat down on the rooftops of Hogwarts. He had ditched his daytime robes in favour of ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie. His normally pristine hair, though mostly hidden under the black hood, was a mess, strands plastered across his forehead and falling into his eyes. He was even wearing holey blue trainers on his feet. Not that they were his of course, he had pinched them from the room of requirement. His family would perish at the thought that Draco would own a pair of trainers! In short, other than the almost white-blond hair it was impossible to know that he was the heir of the house of Malfoy.

"Where the fuck did I put them?" Draco said aloud rooting though his pockets.

"Not, that, not those," he muttered pulling out a half eaten pack of Bertie Botts and a shrunken bottle of Firewhiskey.

"Finally," Draco sighed brandishing a packet of cigarettes. These were the muggle type of course. The wizarding variety still hadn't managed to get the taste right. Not to mention that the muggle ones had the added benefit of killing you. Slowly sure, but it still gave Draco pleasure, as if he was sticking his middle finger up had his family. Had he asked to be born?

He lay back against the cold slate and after a quick, "Incendio," took a long drag. He gently blew the smoke out and closed his eyes in relief. It had been far too long (last night) since he had had the privacy for a good smoke and nothing did it for him quite like smoking. Nothing legal anyway.

It was his wedding tomorrow. He was so far gone into despair that the very thought made him want to laugh. Over the summer his father had cooked up some marriage contract with the Greengrass family and nothing Draco said or did would make him stop. No matter how many times Draco had tried to say "No," his father had just stared at him coldly and ordered him out of the office.

Draco looked upwards, at the inky blackness of the night sky above, "Mother, please, what would you think?" he whispered in a broken voice. Narcissa had died over the summer of the injuries she had sustained in the battle of Hogwarts. With her death his father had become even more unreasonable.

He knew it was wrong, but Draco wished with all his heart that his father had been sentenced to Azkaban. How he got off was still a mystery to all the wizarding world. Potter, the Hero-who-lived, speaking out in defence of all the Malfoy family had helped. Draco supposed it was out of gratitude to Narcissa.

He shivered as he remembered being tortured after his family had let Potter escape. Voldemort had never been so angry with his family before. Even the summer after the disaster at the Ministry had not been so bad. Draco rubbed his hands and took another pull of the cigarette. The bone-breaking curse had been used to destroy his hands and ankles. Trying to move or touch something, anything caused unbearable agony. Then Voldemort, while torturing Bellatrix, casually threw a Tarlantrella at him, forcing him to dance. Draco hadn't known he could scream so loud. He hadn't the breath or the mental capacity to plead for clemency. All he knew was the pain.

And now his father was forcing him into a different kind of torture, one that would last the rest of his life. Draco hated the Greengrass girl and she returned the feeling twicefold. She had been banned from returning to Hogwarts as an Eighth Year to complete her NEWTs on account of her behaviour under the Carrow's last year. The tales the other students had told about her glee at using the Cruciatus curse of the poor misfortunates in detention, her willingness to test dangerous potions on first years not to mention her traitorous actions during the Battle of Hogwarts had led to a sentence that even Draco had not been subjected to.

All in all she was not the type of person that Draco wished to spend a minute with, never mind the rest of his life. His father seemed to think that a wedding between the two pureblood families would strengthen the Malfoy name and business prospects abroad. Draco thought he was a fool. The news of his families role in the war had been widely broadcast across the globe in wizarding communities. The Malfoy business was going bankrupt whatever they did.

Even his joy of going back to Hogwarts for one final year was dampened. Hogwarts was not the haven it had been to him. With Severus gone Draco didn't ever think it would be again. His Head of House had been the paternal figure, fulfilling the role much better his own father . He had helped Draco out of countless situations both within the school and at home. Lucius had never been physically abusive, Merlin forbid that he would lay hands on his precious son but his cutting words had harmed Draco just as deeply as a beating would.

Draco still had nightmares about the night in the tower. He saw himself holding his wand, Dumbledore on his knees, telling Draco that he could keep his family safe, that he didn't have to do this. The death eaters arrived and still Draco could not find it within himself kill the old man.

Then the dream changed. Instead of Severus coming to save him, Voldemort would appear. Taunting him about his worthlessness, how he should have been born a Squib, how he should have snapped his own wand at eleven as it had been so obvious that he would never amount to anything. By the time Dream-Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at Draco it had been a relief. He would see the unmistakeable green light coming closer and closer to his chest but just before it hit Draco would wake up, sweating and clammy, but still alive.

Draco rapidly blinked away the tears. Well, nobody was coming to save him now. Hands shaking slightly, he angrily stubbed out the end of the cigarette. Getting the muggle ciggies into Hogwarts was a mission in itself so instead of immediately lighting another he un-shrunk the bottle of Firewhiskey and took a glug. Eyes watering at the burn he supressed the urge to choke it all back up again.

"The Dark Lord must have been mad even before he split his soul," Draco thought, taking another swig. "Who wants to live forever anyway?"

"Or at all," the treacherous part of his brain whispered back at him. Draco ignored it.

The alcohol burned down his throat and Draco sighed as he felt the fog rising in his brain. For some reason nothing got him plastered as quickly as whiskey. The taste was horrible, the trail of fire it left down his throat made him want to throw up, but fucking hell did it work fast.

His father was going to have a fit when he came to pick him up tomorrow morning.

"Well, it's either the fucking alcohol or I'm not going to still be here come the morning," thought Draco bitterly. "Anyway, isn't a groom supposed to have a party the day before? Celebrate his last moment of freedom before being trapped for the rest of his life?"

Trapped. That was now Draco felt, come to think of it. He could see the rest of life stretched out before him and nowhere to turn. A straight line across a non-descript landscape heading into a solid grey mist.

Draco started breathing faster. Greengrass would turn him into the perfect pureblood figurine, good to be trotted out at high class social occasions and otherwise invisible. He didn't put the use of the Imperious curse beyond her to be honest. Severus had tried multiple times to train him to throw the curse off, but no matter how many times he tried Draco was unable too. He could recognise that he was underneath its power but fat lot of good that was, without being able to disperse the curse's effect. Shut in his own body with no escape, no voice, no way out, until the long years of his life were finally spent.

As his thoughts turned increasingly morbid Draco's hand ran through his hair, tugging at it, trying to calm himself down. But all that did was remind him of deformity of his hands. Severus had tried his hardest, with potion after potion, and long hours in the library checking and re-checking to see if there was anything he had missed, but it was all in vain. Draco's hands would never heal properly, the Dark Lord had made sure of that. And so ended all Draco's hopes of becoming a Potions Master. How could he make the most precise cuts when he struggled to keep his writing on one line?

Without warning tears started to run down Draco's face. His breath came in huge heaving sobs. In a desperate attempt to stop Draco tried another swig of Firewhiskey. But this time he could control his reaction and it all came back up again, dripping down his chin, only his hoodie.

Draco gave a harsh choked laugh through the tears. The Prince of Slytherin as you have never seen before. He stood up, wobbling slightly on the slanted rooftop, bottle of whiskey in hand. Arms spread out he shouted into the darkness, " Are you not amused by my fucked up life? Go on, have a laugh! Throw something else at me, why don't you?"

He stood there, still for a second, as if expecting an answer. Then, without warning, turned and smashed the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey on the tiles. The glass shattered, a large shard burying itself deep in his palm. Draco drew his hand up to his face, and tilted his head to the side, gazing at the blood running down.

"Pretty."

He dipped his finger in to the trail of blood and brought it to his mouth, slowly licking it clean.

"I shattered the bottle," Draco said, suddenly calm. "Could I shatter me?"

He took a step back, his foot finding the edge. He stared up at the top of the roof and beyond, to the stars above, his eyes unseeing. Then opening his arms he took that final step back into the nothingness.