Chapter One: A Broken Home and Broken Bones
Our story starts like any other. An undeveloped plot line waiting to twist and take shape. There is conflict, there is change. Throw in a little self-discovery and there you have it—our narration in its entirety.
If it sounds typical, it isn't.
Because these events waiting to be described are so much more than that. Though there are some of us that may disagree.
But there are always some of us that disagree.
Draco Malfoy lived in a house which he viewed only as a house, and not as a home. It was unnecessarily furnished with sleek modern coffee tables and priceless statues imported from far away places, all of which he had been strictly forbidden to touch as a child.
And despite the many things his parents had bought to fill up the vast expanse of polished marble floor, the house had always remained very empty.
Draco could hear the echoing of footsteps, even when no one was walking. The constant buzz of silence ringing in his ears would sometimes drive him mad and on occasion, even frighten him. And at these moments Draco Malfoy found himself missing the month of September—the time when school days would arrive, and he would pack his bags and catch a train and find himself sitting, staring out a window of green and blue and brown blur, speeding past him, taking him to Hogwarts.
Though now was not that time.
Now, was even worse than the eerie echoing footsteps or the roaring silence.
Now his father was beginning to completely unravel before him.
It was the heart of August and Draco's father had just arrived from an extensive business to find Draco's most recent report card exposed on the expensive kitchen counter. Months away from his son, Lucius wanted to check up on him, to make sure his Golden Boy was living up to his every expectation.
When he noticed the average mark in his son's transfiguration class, the months of silence between them and feelings of dissatisfaction crashed over him in waves, and acted like a catalyst to fuel a great fire that had now begun to burn within him.
Draco remembered cereal.
He remembered how the bowl he was eating from tipped over when his father's fist collided with the table, slamming it down in rage, cold milk seeping through his pants and splashing him in the face.
"AND……and what is this?"
"What…?" He replied innocently, trying to sound casual and ignore the sudden racing of his own pulse and the heaviness of his breathing.
His father sneered. "Well what the FUCK do you think, boy? An average mark in Transfiguration."
And then the boy before him began to shutter inwardly. He knew the inevitable was coming. He knew it was bound to happen soon.
He called it "The Great Explosion".
Draco and Lucuis could go months without talking. And they did it often. Sure, small talk at the dinner table when Lucius was actually home would happen on occasion, but those were only nothing words exchanged back and forth-- formulaic robotic questions and responses asked and answered only because they were forced to eat together as a family.
A family.
And what a joke that was. The Malfoys were not really a family, Draco thought. They were a group of people related to each other, who happened to live together.
Perhaps it was the high standards set by his father, or the stress of his demanding job.
Regardless, almost every three months in the last two years of Draco's existence, his father would, as if part of some sick cycle, triggered by a small disappointment or insignificant flaw found in Draco, transfigure into abusive, threatening man. He would attack Draco in every way; by wand, by words, by fists, bringing up anything and everything he could think of that Draco had ever done wrong in his entire lifetime.
And he would roar.
And the overpriced china in the cabinets of the kitchen would shutter, almost as if they were as scared as Draco himself.
And his father would back him into a corner and launch at him, shouting obscenities that no one should ever have to hear.
And his mother was never there.
No, like a noiseless shadow she would slip out of the room and travel to the opposite end of the house, away from the violence, away from the shouting. And she would drink. She would drink until she almost drowned.
Hot, searing, pain.
Draco awoke to a world flipped sideways, feeling weak and broken.
His father was gone now, the house was dark and silent. Relief crashed down around him in waves.
Outside, thunder rumbled, echoing in the emptiness around him. A sudden flash of lightning lit up the room he was in, illuminating the house as the wind wrestled wildly with the trees outside.
A storm was brewing, but in Draco's mind, the storm had already come and gone.
Attempting to sit up, he gripped the edge of the dining room table, pain cascading down through his body in ripples, every muscle, every ligament, every bone aching-- especially the back of his head. He took in a breath and shuddered.
The last thing he could remember was…. something beautiful. Gleaming crystal, shining in the afternoon sunlight. A half-emptied bottle of wine. Heavy and expensive. One of his mothers, he presumed. His father had launched it at his head, knocking him out instantly, shards of it scattering everywhere.
Crunch. He was standing up now, the soles of his shoes coming in contact with broken glass.
One. He was taking a step, directing his broken body towards his room. Towards safety.
Two. Second step. We're almost there.
Three. He stumbled.
The pain was intense. Too intense. He'll never make it.
Four. He could almost hear his breaking rib cage.
Five. He could see his bedroom door.
And then it happened. His father materialized in front of him.
"Please." Draco managed. It was hardly a wisper. "Please."
His father laughed cruelly.
"You think we're done here, boy? You were unconscious for nearly half of it. I wont let this go that easily."
Draco himself didn't know how he did it, but during those words, he broke out into a run and managed to shut the door in his father's face. He cast a quick locking charm, and limped over to a bag. He didn't know then, but it was this bag he would be living out of for the next several weeks.
He started to shove socks, boxers, shirts, anything he could find into the expensive leather sack. And Merlin, the pain. It burned inside him all the while, taking over his body, making him pause in his frantic packing.
"What the fuck am I doing," he thought, over the pounding and screaming of disabling charms outside his door. He glanced over at the window and picked up his broomstick, shoving his wallet in his back pocket. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he undid the latch, mounted the broom and flew away-- the occasional flashes of lightning lighting the way to an unknown destination.
Where would you go if you were Draco Malfoy? To Pansy Parkinson's house? No, her family cannot find out about this. They will ask too many questions and probably owl my parents.
How about Blaise's house? Not a chance in hell. Too far away. I need somewhere close. Somewhere safe. Somewhere…
And then he remembered his home away from home—Hogwarts. Draco had never been fond of the old headmaster. But he was desperate. There was no other option at this point.
Can I really trust Dumbledore? What if he won't take me in?
Though the throbbing pain in his body won in the end. He wouldn't last long like this-- he needed to be healed. So in the end, it was this idea that prevailed.
Sheets of rain blanketed Draco's body as he flew onward. The wind howled, making him shiver. But somehow, he knew he had made the right choice, though he also knew he couldn't escape from his father permanently. There would be a price to pay. "There are always consequences for our actions, Draco. Good and bad," his father's own words echoed in his head.
After an hour or so of flying, he saw it. His own haven made of stone. Coming to a halt at the only window with a balcony and large, extravagant curtains, he stumbled off his broom wearily and leaned against the window in exhaustion. He made a feeble knock on the window pane with one shaky hand.
For a moment, nothing happened. Draco felt a familiar panic rising in his chest. But then he saw a bearded figure clad in long, perriwinkle robes approaching, and then calmly opening the window.
"…Mister Malfoy? Please…Please, come in."
He gingerly climbed in with some help from Dumbledore, slightly in a dazed. The look on the proffesor's face was aghast with Draco's disfigured appearance.
He looked him over, taking in the bruises and the blood. His platinum hair was plastered to his face, disheveled. His clothes clung to his body, practically transparent, if it weren't for the crimson blood stains displayed on his sides and his chest. His face was bloody too, a dark bruise forming over his left eye, and others on his arms. His lips were swollen a bleeding, vibrating as his teeth chattered.
"Good evening Professor. I needed….I needed some place to stay, and I thought…" He suddenly felt stupid.
"Of course Draco. You know you can always count on Hogwarts to be a second home. May I ask how this…happened?"
"Well, I'm sorry sir, but…I'm not at liberty to say." That's right. The old Malfoy pride is still intact. There's no way anyone is going to find out about this.
"Well, alright Draco. It's certainly your own decision." But a twinkle in the old man's eyes gave Draco the distinct impression that he somehow knew. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Would you like some tea? It's on the coffee table by the couch. Please sit here by the fire and warm yourself….I do not think you are in a position to walk a long distance, so I shall fetch Poppie at once. Please make yourself comfortable." And just like that, he was gone.
Draco was then swallowed up by the oversized love seat by the harth.
It took only a few minutes of breathing in the scent of chamomile and feeling the warmth of the flames before sleep crashed down on his aching body and he was immersed in dreams he would never remember when he awoke.