Something about a Draco Malfoy's life was so cold it made him want to turn his head and never look back. With so many memories already haunting his mind. Pushing harder to hold the whole attention of his mind. Life itself was not enough at this point. Live for hope and hope to live. His motto. Lying to himself was just ridiculous but he had been doing it his entire life. He didn't want to look back; there was no force in it.
But wasn't there force in everything else he did? He was a mindless drown of his own father. Following orders, falling to Voldemort's feet and kissing them, falling to his every whim and beating all others at everything. Perfection. He was brought up to be the way he was. A Malfoy. He had been taught this way since he was a child. Taught the wrong way, that is.
No one would be expecting anything different. And just that was what killed him. He longed for the happiness every other being could feel. He could be silent, stroll down the halls singing to himself. No he couldn't. He was rich, wealthy and selfish. But ridiculously unhappy. Abused, forced against his own ambitions. Why couldn't he have been born a Weasly?
Oh that right, he wasn't kind enough. Ridiculed and locked up in a box so tight, it shut his own feelings out. He was plain. He was rich. He was happy. That's what everyone thought of him. Pompous little Draco Malfoy, with Parkinson to help him every time he had a problem. Draco Malfoy who slept so well every night. No. He didn't. He was insomniac, he was.
Crying himself to sleep like a petty girl. That was no Malfoy!!
But that first day back at Hogworts changed everything for him. He hadn't been at Hogworts for months now. He stood up, pushing his weight off of his silk sheets, with dilated blood-shot eyes. The silver irises screaming from exhaustion. His lips quivered tensely, his bottom lip curling under. 'Come on sneer!' He told himself willingly. It wouldn't-couldn't break through.
He choked down the urge to scream at the black circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept for days. Standing in front of a golden mirror he gasped at his own reflection. He now resented life itself. He was supposed to be beautiful, handsome, smug Draco Malfoy! Who towered above others? But with his shabby height of 5'3" he highly doubted the whole 'towering' thing.
He took a deep breath to calm himself and pushed pale bangs out of his face. His face was dark, sliver eyes piercing with distress, cheekbones high, chin pointed, and eyebrows arched to perfection. Looking briskly at the new scar printed across his left eye, stretching to his cheekbones. It was his first day back. After his father murdered his mother and kept Draco locked away in a prison called his house.
The little shit escaped from jail and now he was after him. "Bloody hell." He whispered softly. Not even Gryfindors got scared but here he was frightened to death. "I'm just here at Hogworts expecting my murder any day now. He growled to himself. 'Wouldn't the Gryfindors be happy? His bastard of a father. But he really couldn't complain could he? For he was nothing short of a bastard himself.
Letting out a sigh he reached over to his draw and pulled out his robes and put them on. Not bothering to deal with his mussed hair. His stomach was thin, chest thin and arms thin. A bit of muscle creaking through. His rib cage could be seen easily from under his skin, poking out here and there. He had no stomach lining. His father had burned it off with acids, shoved down his throat. 'Don't think about that,' He told himself shaking his head warily.
He blinked inexorably, taking a deep breath. His new phobia didn't help either. Black circles anxiety and damn did he know it. He couldn't really see his reflection all that well now, considering he was blind in one eye. His father half blinding him, abusing him. He shuddered. He didn't want to think about it. 'Pretend you're a Weasly.' He told himself.
He tried to smile but nothing came, why? He felt like he was smiling but it wouldn't come. He grew tenser as he gathered his books and walked to his first class silently, ignoring Crabbe and Goyle's pestering. First class: Muggle studies. He was wondering if anyone remembered him and laughed at his own daftness. Who wouldn't remember the bastard Draco Malfoy?
Who could? 'What are you coming to Draco? The Measles, no wait the Weasles!' He tried desperately to snicker at his own joke. No such luck. Pansy greeted him at the door as he remembered her doing every other day. "Oh my!! Draco-love you're finally back. Come, come dahling." She flashed him a cheeky smile. No matter how annoying Parkinson got, Draco always had a soft spot for her.
She was so kind. To him at least. He eyed the trio at a desk. Granger, Potter and damned Weasly. Ron had expected him to smirk smugly at them on his first day back in his wide silk robes. But Draco stood there, Impassive. Ron shot him a glare all the same as if to say 'Back off' as Granger sounded her alarm. Potter looked bored. How unusual was that?
He sighed lowly and grunted to Pansy as he walked to his seat. The fat teacher smiled at him. "Draco Malfoy. How good to have you back and how is one of my best students?" He could have nodded and smirked and said 'Perfectly fine had a great Christmas too many presents to count' or 'Very good thank you.' But that wasn't true and he wasn't in the mood for sarcasm.
"Oh don't act like you don't bloody know. I'm sure every teacher here is just struggling to keep it from the students." The happy look on the fat man's face shattered. He yelped a 'Sorry' and returned to his work. "That was nice of you." Weasly shot, angrily. Draco just slumped his shoulders and continued to block his father out of his mind.
Slytherines' could be friends, evil conniving friends; the Gryfindors got loyal and trustworthy friends, who would listen to you.
All Draco wanted was for someone to listen as images of his father kicking him in the stomach replayed in his mind. The way his mother's eyes never really seemed alive. And the way they looked as she died in front of him, bleeding endlessly. He's even drawn a picture of what his own tombstone would look like, the way he wanted it to. Nothing kept his father from what he wanted. So Draco would wait, until that day.
Miserably.
All he wanted was someone to listen to him. All he wanted was help.
But that didn't seem possible.
For he was a Malfoy, a pureblooded, selfish, slytherine, not a Ronald Weasly.
Envy is not the greatest Passion.