Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, am not the owner or creator of Harry Potter and the wonderful Wizarding world. Everything you recognise in this story belongs to J.K. Rowling. What you don't recognise, however, belongs to me. So... that being said, on with the story!

The Immortal Burden
by Partita

Chapter One
Escaping

He was trapped now. In this never-ending path of life that he had so ignorantly and so cowardly decided to take. He should have ended it when he had the chance. Now he regretted it.

Draco Malfoy glowered at the empty golden plate that sat before him on the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. He felt no inclination to eat and indulge himself as he usually would in the delectable and mouth-watering provisions that Hogwarts was known to offer. His mouth never watered now, nor did he ever hunger for food anymore.

But he reached for the kidney pie and poured himself a half-goblet full of pumpkin juice anyway. He couldn't let anyone know. Not even his closest friends. Picking up a piece of the pie with a fork, he went through the motions of eating, grimacing as he did so. Eating had never been so bland until now. No longer did the taste buds on his tongue savour the sweet and salty and bitter and spicy essence of food. He sighed dejectedly and picked up his goblet, peering into it and trying to remember exactly how pumpkin juice tasted. It had only been exactly fifty-three days and he had forgotten already.

"What's the matter, Draco?" a concerned feminine voice sounded from his left. He looked up to see a worried expression on Pansy Parkinson's face. He frowned at her and turned back to his food.

"Nothing, Pansy," he grumbled, as he lifted the goblet to his lips and took a sip.

The pug-faced girl sent him a skeptical look from the corner of her eyes, and pushed her blonde hair behind her shoulders. Draco merely continued eating, glaring at his plate.

"Something is bothering you, Draco Malfoy," she said, pointing her fork at him. "And I will find out."

He slammed his fork down onto his plate, causing a loud clatter and the girl beside him to start noticeably. A few Slytherins, including both Crabbe and Goyle, who sat on his right, turned their heads in his direction. He wished he could tell her. He wished he could tell anyone. But he was forbidden.

"For the last fucking time, Parkinson," he growled at her, his grey eyes flashing black for a split second, "nothing is wrong with me. Keep your nose out of my business."

With that, he pushed his plate away from him and stood from the table. Sending her a final glare, he turned and walked towards the entrance of the Great Hall, not even caring about McGonagall's post-feast announcements. It was all the same depressing crap anyway... Dumbledore had been the greatest wizard, everyone will miss him, she was the Headmistress of Hogwarts now, etc. etc. He didn't care to listen at all. The blonde-haired girl looked after the irate wizard with a sour expression on her face.

Once in the vicinity and safety of the corridors, Draco sighed and made his way towards the portrait that led to the Heads dormitories. With a frown, he stopped, lifted his hand, and looked at the tone of the skin on the back of his hand. He still couldn't quite grasp the fact that he wasn't the person he had been for the past seventeen years anymore. He turned his hand around and moved his gaze downwards to the skin on his wrist, where his veins ran. Gulping as he imagined the veins under his skin pulsing slightly, he pulled his robe sleeve up to cover the area on his wrist and shook his head. No, he was never going to be the same again. But he was determined to fight it. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He hated who he had become and the needs that he had acquired.

It was especially important now, as Draco was instructed, to not let anybody know. He had an important position in the school and a shiny badge to constantly remind him that he had to go through with this with as much ease and normalcy as possible. It had only been fifty-three days, and he already couldn't stand it. Yet it was too late now; he couldn't do anything about it.

Fifty-three days ago, he had been completely normal. He had been able to taste, to eat regularly, to sleep, to feel alive... Fifty-three days ago, he would never have expected his life to suddenly turn itself around. One never truly knows how much one has until one loses it all, he decided. He was going to stay like this forever, never changing and never really tasting anything but—

He scowled at nothing in particular and, turning towards the cold stone wall on his right suddenly, punched the slab forcefully, gritting his teeth as he felt the skin over his knuckles break. He looked down at his hand again and noticed trickles of fresh red blood making their way down from his knuckles. Feeling the sudden urge to lick the open wound clean, he quickly wiped the back of his hand on his robes and stuffed his right hand into his pocket. Putting the thought of the blood on his hand out of his mind, he hastily made his way down the corridor towards his dormitory.

When he reached the portrait that led to the Heads common room, he realised that he had no idea what the password was. He had left before the feast was over—before he was supposed to meet with McGonagall to retrieve the password. Cursing to himself, he turned towards a jester, the only figure in the portrait, who wore a bright yellow and green motley and a red and green hat with three liliripes of which each had a small golden bell attached. He was attempting to juggle three red balls while balancing a water jug on his head. Draco rolled his eyes as he noticed this, and stuffed his hands further into his pockets.

"I don't know the password to the Heads common room right now, but I'm the Head Boy. Let me in," he said authoritatively.

The jester in the portrait stopped juggling and took the water jug off from his head. He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head defiantly at the blond. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

Glaring at the jester, who had placed the water jug back onto his head and had resumed juggling, Draco reached into his robes and rummaged in his inside pocket for his Head Boy badge. He took it out and held it in front of the jester, sending him an impatient look.

"Here's my badge. Now would you let me in?"

The jester sent him an exasperated look, obviously frustrated at being interrupted in his act, and shook his head again. "Badge or no badge, I still can't let you in."

"Why not?" the blond asked heatedly. The jester sighed.

"Because," the jester said slowly, as if talking to a small child. Draco sensed this and fought the urge to reach for his wand and set the portrait into flames. "How would I know that you didn't swipe the badge off of the real Head Boy and are trying to impersonate him now?"

"I'm the real Head Boy!" Draco exclaimed. He shook the badge in front of the jester's surprised face. "This is my badge! How much more evidence do I need?"

"A password would be nice," the jester grumbled before sending the Slytherin a goaded look and picking up his red balls.

"Well, how would you know that I didn't get the password from the real Head Boy?" he muttered under his breath as he glared at the wall on his right. Fortunately, the jester hadn't heard this statement and had resumed juggling.

Sighing loudly, Draco turned away from the portrait and ran his hands through his hair, before realising suddenly that his right hand was wounded. He took his hand away from his hair quickly and looked down at his hand. A wave of relief washed over his countenance as he noticed the wound had healed completely and quickly. Not a trace of the blood and open skin was left on his knuckles.

"Something the matter?" the jester inquired from behind. Draco frowned and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

"No," he said irritably, before walking away from the portrait that led to his only sanctuary for the time being.

He didn't know what time it was and, therefore, couldn't tell whether or not the feast in the Great Hall had ended. He let out a heavy breath through his nose and walked through the corridors with no particular destination in mind. Whatever, he decided, he would just have to wait for his co-Head to turn up. Stopping suddenly in his tracks, he realised that he had forgotten that the mudblood was Head Girl this year. Scowling once again, he wondered to himself why he deserved any of this. On top of his own personal problems, he now had to deal with sharing a common room and bathroom with Granger, that insufferable know-it-all. Not to mention the fact that he was forced to perform certain Head duties with her.

Where the hell was that stupid mudblood anyway? He glanced around the corridors, wishing nothing more than to be underneath the covers in his four-poster bed, escaping his problems. That was, if he could actually sleep. That was also another aspect of life that wasn't necessary for him anymore. There was no such thing as sleepiness or wakefulness in his life anymore. His daily functions had, when one came right down to it, turned inside out and that left him angry and regretful, and he despised it.

Walking idly through the corridors for some time, with only the sounds of his footsteps bouncing off the stone walls, he came across the passage that led to the Room of Requirement. He stopped, stared at the wall for a moment, and decided that the room was about the closest thing he could get to sanctuary. 'I need a room where I can go back to being the person I was fifty-three days ago,' he thought dismally. Obviously, he knew that that wasn't going to happen. The Room of Requirement couldn't possibly reverse time and prevent any of his problems from happening. So he chose his words carefully, hoping that the room would be able to provide as much resolution for him as possible.

'I need a room where I can sit and be alone for a few hours,' he thought to himself. Looking up at the wall, he shook his head. No, that wasn't right. 'I need a room where I can keep to myself for a few hours and just think.'

Yes, that seemed satisfactory enough. Starting up on his walk again, he thought this line over and over again in his head, and went around the corridor three times. When at last he came upon the same wall, a dark mahogany door with a golden handle appeared, and the Slytherin marched forward and reached for it. He let out a sigh of relief upon entering the Room of Requirement, as he looked about his surroundings.

The room turned out to have a high ceiling and a single window on the east side. Dark green curtains hung from the top of the window and each was tied with a golden rope, which allowed the user to have the choice of looking out. Wooden floors covered the entire area of the room and a soft black and cream traditional Aubusson carpet with fringed edges covered a small area in the center of the room. This was obviously the area for pacing, Draco deduced.

There were also several comfortable-looking armchairs about the room, one in each corner, and two of them accompanied with footrests. The walls were painted white and only one landscape painting of a wheat field hung over the fireplace on the north side of the room. Not much to think about with a painting like that. The room was free of distractions, and for that, Draco was grateful.

Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Draco stepped further into the room and plopped himself down onto a dark green sofa positioned directly in front of the fireplace in which a warm blazing fire was keeping the room cozy. He kicked off his shoes and propped his feet on one of the armrests, shifting himself until he was lying in a comfortable position on the sofa.

'Better than nothing,' he decided, shutting his eyes. Folding his hands on top of his chest, he let out another sigh, and allowed his thoughts to wander.


Author's Note: For those of you who are frustrated and don't like guessing, I'm sorry, but you won't know what's happened to Draco until possibly the third chapter. And for those of you who do know or might have an idea as to what's happened to him, I would appreciate it if you don't spoil it for the rest of the readers! Feedback and any comments are highly encouraged, as I feel more motivated when I know that people like or at least read my story. And last but not least, thanks for reading!