Draco couldn't handle it anymore.
His father and his manic ravings of the Dark Lord, of the promised glory that came with serving him. The task that Bellatrix was certain would only help him. His mother, too, though grudging, thought it might be best for him to do it. It would get his father back, and they both wanted that . . . didn't they?
At first, it had seemed wonderful. Kill Dumbledore and earn back his father from Azkaban. It was stupid, Draco thought bitterly, how even in prison his father could affect his life. But, then, everything was about Lucius, wasn't it? It always had been . . .
"You would have to take the Mark, of course," Draco's aunt had told him briskly, "but it's what your father would've wanted, isn't it?" Her eyes had gleamed madly. That look was absolutely terrifying.
"Now, now, Bella." Draco's mother had pulled him back from her sister gently. "Draco has much to think about. Don't you, Draco?"
Draco had swallowed and given a slight nod before scurrying away, but even hidden away in his magnificent room in the Manor, he could still hear Bellatrix's yell of, "Cissy, think of the opportunities! Draco could do so well!"
Had it been then, Draco wondered now, that he'd decided to get out? He wasn't sure. Maybe he'd made the decision long before and the thought of having the Dark Mark branded onto his forearm had merely amplified the thought.
But it didn't matter. He'd gotten out (taking practically nothing with him, as he was still underage and could do no magic to ease the weight without being caught . . . and that was simply too big of a risk) and he'd left. Where he was going, he'd had no destination in mind. Somehow, though, he'd wound up . . . at a muggle park? He'd been walking for days, armed only with his wand and, embarrassingly enough, a kitchen knife. He'd thought to bring it as a second thought, because, again, he was underage and underage magic would have him found. He would've taken a dagger from his father's collection, but he'd never been allowed to see his father's things without his father there. Old habits die hard, he thought to himself as he sat down and leaned against a tree trunk, and somehow searching through his father's things didn't sit well with Draco.
Draco had gotten himself into this mess, he knew, but he could see no escape. He'd been gone for four days, he'd counted. The food he'd brought was beginning to grow exceedingly scarce, and somehow Draco doubted he would be able to swallow his pride and go find muggles to mooch off of. Besides, he was sixteen years old. What person in their right mind would take in a random sixteen-year-old boy? And even if there were wizards nearby (which Draco somehow doubted), they would immediately recognize him as a Malfoy, and he wouldn't have a chance to explain anything before they slammed the door on him.
He didn't know where he was. It was dark, and half the streetlights were burnt out. But, really, Draco hardly even understood what streetlights were. He'd heard that muggles ran by some kind of fake light source, which was powered by . . . electricity, he thought it was called. This was merely because of the fact that he'd known people in muggle studies in Hogwarts that had been absolutely flabbergasted by the fact that muggles were so resourceful, even without magic.
It was weird, Draco found himself thinking exhaustedly, how he'd always been taught that muggles were vile creatures that would never match up to a wizard in any way, and yet he found himself constantly learning new things about them. He had never before pondered over muggles much, but the more he found himself thinking about it, the more he found himself hating the fact that he'd never bothered to look beyond his father's prejudices. He'd strayed from the arrogant boy who'd worshipped his father. Why else would he have run away from the Dark Lord's requests?
And then it set in.
He'd run away from the Dark Lord's request.
Oh, shit, he thought feebly.
He was probably going to die. Someone would find him. It wasn't as if he was completely untraceable, what with being underage and completely stupid and stubborn—and why had he ran?
Draco felt suddenly dizzy. He'd never been anything but a model Death Eater-to-be. Now, suddenly, he'd turned around and ran away without a second thought. What had he expected, some kind of nice vacation of an escape? It had been four days, which meant that he was probably being followed. Maybe somebody had even started following his trail.
His stomach lurched. No. He would be fine . . . wouldn't he?
Actually, he probably wouldn't be. If the Dark Lord thought he was worth the time, then Draco would probably be dead already. Maybe his mother had talked the Dark Lord out of going after and killing him? He doubted it. It was probably more a matter of how Draco rather lacked a lot of . . . skills. Survival skills. The Dark Lord likely did want to kill him, but why bother if he would be dead soon, anyway?
But that wasn't how Lord Voldemort worked. Draco knew this. He'd witnessed it. Torturing, killing mercilessly . . . if he wanted somebody to pay for something, they would pay for it. Through screams or death.
So . . . why was Draco still alive?
It didn't matter, he told himself. He'd brought this upon himself, hadn't he? He was probably already being stripped of his inheritance as it was, so what was there to look forward to?
His eyelids closed lightly, and he figured if anybody found him, it would be all right. Certainly other people had escaped from home, hadn't they?
Yes, there was Sirius Black, who was Draco's cousin, removed from the family tree for being a blood traitor. He would be next, he supposed. He'd ran to escape the consequences of things and yet he'd been faced with other problems. Bigger problems. Irony seemed to like to have a big laugh at Draco every one and a while, didn't it?
Stifling a yawn, Draco wrapped himself up tighter in his cloak. A few minutes of rest wouldn't hurt . . . and he hadn't slept in a few days . . .
But a few minutes turned out to be an endless abyss of darkness as sleep sucked him in.
It was too bad Draco couldn't sleep with his eyes open. Too bad he lacked survival skills and didn't understand that to sleep meant to alert himself to the enemy. Or the . . . old enemy? The new allies? No, that wasn't right. At this point, they were all enemies. It was the world pressed harshly on Draco's shoulders.
And how can one escape the world when it expands all around him?
There would be no escape for Draco. No escape from the harshness of reality.
No escape.