Small Harry Potter drabble, may be construed as DM/HG may not.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Feed back is craved, as usual.
He doesn't handle pain well. Third year ( a lifetime ago) showed him that all too well. When he first felt that hippogriffs claws in his arm and later the stinging and bruising from a well aimed punch, both incidents left him testy and annoyed and sore.
Letters home to his parents (while siding with him) never seemed all that sympathetic to his plight.
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For years everyone said that he took after his father. The summer after fifth year (when it all went to hell) left him thinking that the collected body of 'everyone' were bloody idiots.
Lucius Abraxas Malfoy was a commanding character. Voice, dress, lifestyle all perfectly tailored to inspire whatever feeling he wanted you to feel.
Draco sometimes wondered how anyone saw a resemblance between himself and his sire.
He wasn't particularly tall or imposing. A perfect build for a Seeker. Father had been a Keeper. Height and pure muscle.
Behind the bars of Azkaban everyone seemed smaller. Less threatening. It hurt to see him like that. Like himself almost. Small and out of control. He only visited once. That was out of his control too.
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It burned. It twisted and tore and words couldn't describe the thoughts and feelings at all. This wasn't his damn war, not even his damn choice.
Left arm with the sleeve rolled up (it wasn't his life anymore).
When he was younger on incredibly rare occasions he had worn Muggle t-shirts. He remembered liking the freedom and lack of layers the short sleeves gave him. The casualness of it.
Malfoys were not normally casual.
He was never wearing short sleeves again. Pity that, he was only sixteen, it was not fair.
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He didn't enjoy watching others in pain either. Not really anyway… Youthful insults and hexes had once been amusing.
The line of tortured and then murdered teachers, classmates, and associates that had been hell to watch. A braver person would of spoke up or even averted their eyes to give the victims privacy.
He just watched as the all fell one after the other, screams still echoing in his childhood home.
He was just about seventeen and all he wanted was days of Quidditch, Honeydukes chocolate, hidden Firewhisky on weekends and wondering if that pretty Greengrass girl would give him the time of day.
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More screams, nonstop. She used to scream at him. Not like this though. Not pain. Before it had been anger, bossiness and the occasionally hint of exasperation tinged with the slightest of laughs (before the world ended).
He had hurt her before.
But she had done likewise.
Mudblood.
Pureblood.
Who gave a bloody damn?
Now the scream was different. Out of control and pure pain. As she writhed on the floor and in his aunt's grasp Draco realized he had never felt pain before watching this.
And that hurt the most.
He wished she would get up and it would all fade and that she would turn to him all righteous anger and flashing brown eyes and brown hair in the sunlight by the lake and hit him.
Then the pain would stop.