Author's Notes: If you have noticed I have a terrible habit of starting things and not updating them for months...you would be correct. Although with that said, this has been percolating in the back of my mind for a very long time, I just never knew how to start it. I think I do now. Prompted by a submission on hiddenhogwarts, regarding Draco having DID and going through ritual abuse at the hands of the Death Eaters.

So with that in mind, warning for child abuse, torture, rape, self harm, eating disorders, and suicidal ideation throughout this story. I won't go over every gory detail, not in the slightest, but there will definitely be triggering situations and themes throughout this whole story. Also, naturally, this story is extremely AU. So...onward. (The Latin in beginning is taken from The Hunchback of Notre Dame's "Hellfire.")

Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti
Beatae Mariae semper Virgini
Beato Michaeli archangelo
Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis

Church bells clanged and clattered above Malfoy's head, making him jump. His father cuffed him swiftly about the head before the tumultuous crowd of students and parents alike could see.

"Behave," Lucius Malfoy murmured, his face a smooth mask. Malfoy nodded, doing his best to maintain his own serene expression. He would have been fine, if not for the church bells. Dolohov liked the church bells. You wouldn't think a pureblood wizard would have appreciated anything muggle, but religion apparently...

But the thought escaped before he could come to any more conclusions about Dolohov, and instead, his father pushed him roughly forward.

"Remember to write," Narcissa said with a sickly smile. Her hands shook in their thin white gloves. The picture of a doting mother, but the dust on the shelves spoke volumes.

"Of course, Mother," Malfoy replied, as deferentially as he dared. He could feel his father's eyes on him, warning him. In retrospect, it should have been obvious what would happen. But somehow, he hadn't dared think his father would be so daring in a crowd of people-

The torture curse hit him in a wave of pain and he doubled over his cart for a minute, vision blurring. The eagle owl cozily ensconced in his cage looked at him with disdain and hooted.

"Straighten up, Draco," his mother hissed in an undertone. "You're shaming the family name."

"Sorry, Mother," he gritted out through clenched teeth before surrendering to the switch with relief. It was Drake who slipped out next, angry and trying not to show it. He pushed his cart closer and got onto the train, all belongings intact, with a minimum of fuss. He knew he should wave at his erstwhile parents, but he didn't give a damn about them, and punishment would be far off, if it even came.

So instead he found an empty compartment and slouched down in it. There. Peace at last, even if only until his father's lackeys found him. Crabbe and Goyle weren't very bright, but they certainly could understand "stick by Draco," especially when it was burnt and beaten into them. Crabbe still had the scars down his back from the fireplace poker, and Goyle wasn't much better.

"Draco!" It was Pansy who found him first, wearing the same sickly smile as his mother. He scowled at her, which she somehow took as permission to flounce in and sit down across from him.

"Don't you have something else to do? Like fall in a lake?" he asked her with faux sincerity dripping from his voice.

"Oh, it's you," Pansy frowned. She knew that he was different, that he contained more, even if she didn't know the specifics. Drake had never made his dislike of her a secret. "I can't even care right now. We're going to Hogwarts!" Her eyes shone, and despite himself, Drake found himself reluctantly smiling back.

"Bet you're in Hufflepuff," he snarked, but his heart wasn't in it, and she could tell, only turning up her nose at him before rummaging around in her bag for the latest edition of Witch Weekly.

Over the next few hours, others trickled in. Crabbe and Goyle, with only a few noncommittal grunts. Theo Nott, who had a perpetual tic in his left eyebrow that drove Drake mad. Daphne Greengrass, who'd already changed into her robes and altered them. Somehow Drake didn't think that she was going to get away with a hemline at least four inches above regulation, but he wasn't arguing with her. She had a nasty way around hexes already, first year or not.

"Did you hear," Daphne began with a rather important air. "Harry Potter's on the train."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Drake sneered. "He's a first year, too, isn't he?"

"Well, yes, but," Daphne stopped when she saw the laughter in his eyes. "One would think that the heir to the Malfoy name would want to cultivate such an important connection," she finally settled on. Drake shrugged. He'd leave networking to Malfoy. He didn't give a shit. He was there to protect the system, not make friends and 'cultivate connections.'

When the train finally pulled to a stop, Drake was one of the first people off it. So was Harry Potter, he believed. The scruffy-haired boy across the way had brushed his fringe off his forehead, and sure enough, the lightning scar was there, traced in pain across pale, clammy skin.

So he's the boy who saved us all, Drake thought bitterly, examining him. He looked a mess, in robes that dwarfed him and round-framed spectacles mended with tape. A very red-haired boy who could only be a Weasley tagged along at his heels. Granted, there was a particular spark in Potter's bottle-green eyes that suggested there was more to him than met the eye.

"First Years! First Years, come with me!" an enormous, shaggy-haired man shouted, in an accent that made Drake's head feel like it was splitting. Never mind the residual nerve jitters from their father's parting present.

I've got this, Malfoy suggested inside and Drake gladly let himself fall back inside. There was nothing to protect from out here, save perhaps being dunked in the lake by an over-enthusiastic fellow first year.

Malfoy followed docilely in the crowd, keeping his face smooth and his shoulders relaxed. His father would be proud. The journey was bumpy, and his stomach sloshed around, making him feel sick. He could see Potter in the next boat, gazing up at the castle with a rather awestruck expression. It was rather stunning, Malfoy supposed, in a critical sort of way. He'd seen Hogwarts since he could talk. Granted, not from this perspective, the burgeoning student in fresh black robes and uncertainty.

The giant man led them up to the front doors, where Professor McGonagall waited. Not someone Malfoy wanted to cross. He'd not dealt with her before, but he'd heard enough from his family. She looked strict.

By some luck, the Boy Who Lived was standing right next to him, along with the Weasley and a very round-faced boy clutching a fat toad. Time to make an impression, Malfoy thought and turned.

"You're Potter, aren't you? Harry Potter?" he said. The boy jumped a bit, hastening around and staring at him with a very owl-like expression. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

The red-headed boy snickered, and Malfoy glared at him, right before Harry's elbow sank into the Weasley's side. Interesting.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" Malfoy said coolly. "Can tell who you are, I bet. You're a Weasley."

"Ron Weasley," the redhead sneered, an expression that went badly with the freckles spattered across his face.

"Be nice, Ron," Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Erm, thanks. Draco." He sounded out Malfoy's name like it was utterly foreign, but Malfoy supposed it was something.

A nod went a long way, and it wasn't long before the first years were jostling into a ragged line after hearing McGonagall's speech about Houses. Lucius and Narcissa hadn't told their son how precisely one was Sorted, something about preserving the mystery, so Malfoy was as surprised as anyone else to see a raggedy old hat perched on a stool.

All we have to do is try on a hat? Drake snorted inside. What do we have to do to go to class? Sweep?

Should Draco do this? Malfoy asked, tentative. I mean...he's...well, you know.

Nah, you do it, Drake advised. Might as well. Don't want anyone noticing you look funny.

Malfoy couldn't exactly argue with that logic, so he stood in line, fidgeting a bit as "Abbott, Hannah" was Sorted into Hufflepuff, "Granger, Hermione" was Sorted into Ravenclaw, "Longbottom, Neville" was Sorted into Gryffindor...

Until finally, "Malfoy, Draco!" Pretending a confidence he did not feel, Malfoy sauntered up to the stool, perching on it and reluctantly putting the Sorting Hat on his head. Merlin only knew where the bedraggled thing had been.

"Ah, yes, young Master Malfoy," an unfamiliar voice spoke in his head and it was only years of rigorous conditioning that kept Malfoy from shouting or flinging the wretched thing off.

"You can talk?" he demanded, and a chuckle echoed through his skull.

"Of course I can, I'm the Sorting Hat, aren't I?" the Hat snorted. "You heard me sing. What's a little talking in here, in your head?" ...Well, when he put it that way.

"Now where to put you," the Hat contemplated. "You've certainly got a love of learning. Ravenclaw would suit you well in that regard. And a fierce loyalty-Hufflepuff's got more than their fair share of hard workers. And considering the life you've led until now," the Hat's voice was tinged with so much sadness and regret, Malfoy felt acutely uncomfortable. "You're certainly brave enough for Gryffindor..."

"Not Gryffindor," Malfoy hissed. The rest of the Great Hall was starting to murmur, surprised it was taking so long for Slytherin's poster child himself to be Sorted. Even Crabbe and Goyle had made it straight in.

"I fear you are making a grave mistake," the Hat murmured. "But as you wish. Better be...SLYTHERIN!" The shout rang out loud enough for everyone to hear and relief made Malfoy's body sag for just a moment before he strutted over to the Slytherin table, a smirk pinned in place.

It only slipped when "Potter, Harry" was Sorted into Slytherin a few minutes later.