The rusty creaking of the springs in the bed cut to his ears. Covered with cold sweat and eyes fluttering in anxiety, Draco abruptly bobbed up in his bed. His marble toned hair wetly stuck to his eyes and heart was beating against his ribcage. Bewildered by the dream that had just scrolled itself before his closed eyelids like a horror movie, he buried his face in his hands, suddenly feeling the urge to burst into tears and scream out the deepest wishes of his, that were carefully hidden under a dusty cloth somewhere inside him. That feeling disappeared as quickly as it had popped into his mind, since the harsh and coldly prudent thinking of a Malfoy pressured him from the other side, desperately crying out not to act like a fucking baby. He carried the family name of a Malfoy, for crying out loud. That kind of behaviour was fervently unacceptable.
As he grabbed a towel from the ice-cold floor, he upraised from his bed with a rather dilatory tempo. Tousled his hair once (just to get the damp locks out of the way), Draco walked towards the tiny bathroom (a frequently terrible washing place, as it was quite musty and a solid stamping ground for nasty blackbeetles). Oddly enough, it was a muggle bathroom. In fact, the whole house belonged to muggles, but a few spells and none of the blockheaded powerless people understood that the house in a perfectly normal town was taken over by wizards. Now, why would the Malfoys (one of the most influential and wealthiest families) stay in a quite crappy house when they had (and that was a well-known fact) an enormous manor? Draco was absolutely pissed off, but obviously had to accept the fact that his parents were trusted with a rather important mission given to them by the Dark Lord himself and for that, they had to find a place where no one would recognize them.
The young Malfoy stepped under the shower. No hot water. Again. Bloody hell, what was up with the piping system? As the streams of searingly cold water ran down his body, he closed his eyes and pressed his teeth against each other, torturing himself with the pain caused from the pure pressure. The water became diffused to his hair. Water dribbled down his pallid face, his colorless cheeks, to the corners of his mouth. Finally the shower stopped. Draco gulped. He opened his eyes and perceived the frozen time around him. The bathroom was clammy, made him feel empty and disconsolate inside.
Wrapping the towel around his waist and enjoying how the tiny streams of chill water creep down his back, he smugged cheerless. One quick glance to the fractured and misty mirror and the grin disappeared. His dull grey eyes (that used to be filled with hot pride by himself and dark twisted plans, that were still harmless and reminded of simple pranks, but with sparks and wands) were overall dispiriting. He felt like a scared little boy, filled with aversion to himself and with a gaping gap in his soul. The soul that had been crucially crushed into pieces so many times and then pitifully glued back together. He was nothing but a shell of boy. A broken shadow.
His shirt was coarse. He could physically feel how it was roughly rubbing against his neck, leaving ruddy abrasions on his pale skin. The pathetic part of that matter was that he was supposed to be listening his father's speech about the duties and responsibilities of a freshly marked Death Eater and he didn't a give a shit. Nothing, he had had no feelings, whatsoever about it. He was absorbing the information slowly, but he didn't actually want to accept it. The horrible realization that he was becoming one of the minions of Voldermort (considering the Dark Lord's position, Draco should've been killed just for thinking that Voldemort is nothing but a noseless, lonely man with an obsession to kill a random boy, who had gotten a lousy scar and was now wizard-world-famous) disturbed him, for some reason.
"You can't fail, in any matter, you will be a disgrace for the whole family," his father wrapped up his speech with a dramatic order, probably trying to impress his son with the fact he had enough power to punish him in all the ways possible. Draco forced himself not to yawn. He gulped, exorcizing a fairly terrified look on his face. "Yes, father." Don't yawn, don't yawn, whatever you do, for merlin's sake, just do not yawn, he will fucking lock in the dungeons. Draco gazed at his parent with a glazed eye. Lucius Malfoy wrinkled his nose as if he felt shame bobbling up in him when he had to admit it was his flesh and blood son, sitting there, on the couch of that darned muggle house, not acknowledging a single world of what his father was saying. Just sprawling there, with a sleepy face, probably thinking about unicorns and golden snitches.
"Go to your room, you cursed bloke, we have to go to the Diagon Alley. Unfortunately, you still have to go to Hogwarts. I don't know what kind of magic you will learn there with that old skank of a woman and a headmaster who is clearly round the bend... I'm telling you.." Lucius Malfoy continued to snarl under his nose as he stepped away with a unsatisfied frown.
Madam Malkin's robes. Suddenly a rush of nostalgia gushed through him. He frowned. He could never sort out the sources of his feelings. What kind of melancholia was he experiencing? Hell, the only logical explanation to that matter was, that he missed being eleven. Young and innocent (well, almost, you can count out the mischevious plan he had been plotting against Potter the Rotter), trying on his brand new robe. Feeling the soft fabric's touch against his skin and that overwhelming content, realizing he's starting something new and exciting. Oh, how your views of the world can change over the years. Hogwarts seemed more like a never-ending prison than a fun and gladsome castle (so large and majestic) full of brilliant knowledge, that students were eager to learn and positive teachers always bending the rules for you.
Of course, there was another option, but that would've meant something both disgraceful and loathsome to even think about.
There he was, crouching in the crowdy street, blocking other people's ways and serving many angry comments all embodying severe profanity. But at some point, he had to move and he was planning to do so, when a very rude and completely churlish person stumbled upon him. He furiously turned, instantly thinking of at least a hundred different curses to blurt out, when the person reached to his sight and he rolled his eyes instinctly.
"You know, I sensed today would happen something that'd screw up my day promptly. As I can see, the curse reveals itself in the face of a pathetic little wizard-kindling. How you've been, Potter?" The obvious reluctance in his last word (name, to be exact) would've been crystal clear even for the dimmest person on earth. Harry Potter was standing before him, glasses askew, gawky look all over his face. Malfoy shook his head. "What's the matter? You've lost all your clever responses through the summer? Oh no, you're probably just as oafish as you've always been." Harry finally came to his senses. Halfly.
"Shut up, Malfoy, I don't care about your desperate need to alter your ego through demeaning others. Buzz off," he murmured decisively, like that answer would've been so evidential for like.. forever. Malfoy frowned as he surprised himself (and Potter) by stepping out of the way. He didn't start yelling at his enemy, he didn't get pissed off, he didn't bewitch him with a nasty curse. He just gave Potter the freedom to move along. Which the other boy did. Yes, with a quite shocked look, but still, he had enough brains to just walk away, when given the chance.
Something was rebelling inside of him. Draco gaped at Potter's back. A small part of him knew what had just happened. The other part was crassly baffled.