A/N: Written for a writing challenge. Prompt: Task #1: Write about an injury of some kind that leaves permanent physical scars on your character.

Good

Draco was a fool. And a coward, and he knew it. Who was he, a Gryffindor who ran into dire situations recklessly? No, he was a Slytherin, who carefully planned every step of his way. Yet here he was, with a murder waiting on his hands because of his rash decision making.

He had stepped up for the job. He had volunteered himself, like a pig for slaughter. Looking back, he realized what an idiotic thing he had done.

For the longest time, he wanted to be just like his father. He wanted to be who his father wanted him to be. He wanted to live up to everyone's expectations. He wanted to be the person who he was going to be molded into. He wanted to serve the Dark Lord.

He didn't expect it to be so hard, so scary.

True, at first, he took up the job to clear the Malfoy name from the mud his father dragged it through. But then he realized, finally realized, that he had to kill someone in cold blood. And the thought made him sick.

The matter lay heavy in him all through summer. How could he kill someone? How could he betray the students of the school he had attended for five years? He didn't think he was truly a bad person inside - but he didn't think he was a good person either. Conflict. Confusion. Choices.

People would die, and he knew it. At least one person would die this year, and Draco knew who it was. He also knew who did the deed. It would be himself.

On the train to Hogwarts, he had told his trusted classmates - not friends, just trusted Slytherins - about his job. He had tried his best to look like the same, arrogant boy he knew he was. He wanted to impress his friends, all the while lying through his teeth. He was scared.

Draco did not to tell too much information to them. It wasn't that he didn't trust his fellow Slytherins, but it was because of the flash of white sneakers he saw in the air, as well as the cracking sound he heard when Crabbe's trunk swung.

It was Potter, the eavesdropping bastard.

After making sure that Potter had learned his lesson (it only involved a bit of blood and a bit of stomping, no matter,) he had set off to enjoy the feast.

Or maybe not. He did not eat anything that day, the entire day.

It was going to be a long year.

Every night, he'd slip off to the Room of Requirement, trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet. It was a difficult job, and stress piled every night. The guilt gnawed at him from the inside. It felt like a monster was eating up any trace of goodness, innocence he had left.

And there was also the problem of finding a way to kill his headmaster - the less he people he killed along the way, the better.

So far, everything was wrong. The cursed necklace didn't work, the poisoned mead didn't work - they all went to the wrong people. After hours of careful planning, skillfully cast Imperius curses, nothing worked.

He was beginning to lose hope. He was going to die this year, he was sure of it. It was either him, or Albus Dumbledore. And he rathered it be him now. He was going to be forever branded by the ugly mark on his forearm, and forever labeled a death eater. What did it matter? He was already a corrupted person, why not give up everything now?

His grades were slipping. He quit quidditch. He wasn't eating much. He didn't talk much. He tried to mind his own business. Knowing that the Golden Trio would see right through him and his scheming, he kept his head down the time he was in public. He tried to avoid them as much as possible.

Who knew, maybe Potter already suspected him. Knowing him and his absurd luck, Potter already had an inkling of up Draco was up to.

But it wasn't Potter he was worried about. It was Granger. There was dread in his stomach when he thought about the day when she'd realize that it was him who killed someone, him who let the death eaters into Hogwarts.

Ever since fifth year, he had begun to notice her, watching her. She was energetic, happy, smart, pretty - what wasn't there to like? He still threw insults at her, knowing she'd be something he could never have, but even his ears, they sounded pathetic. The remarks had lost its venom.

However, watching was the only thing he did. He never made his way to apologize to her, or talk to her, or anything. Just watched. It wasn't love, it wasn't infatuation, just mild interest in her character. Maybe even a… crush.

Draco was sure that those feelings could've easily led to something more, but he never let them past the barrier. To what, he didn't know, but there was a barrier, and his feelings would never get past it.

He let her off on many occasions that year, like the time he caught her slipping out of the Room of Requirement - definitely about that club Potter made - like the time he pretended he hadn't noticed her fiddling with a fake galleon (he knew it was fake - he was rich after all, and knew what a legitimate galleon looked like).

He knew helping them, at least a little bit, in times like that were worth it, because deep down, in some place inside he refused to probe, he wanted the war over as much as everyone else did.

There wasn't a war yet. But every second, the Dark Lord was growing stronger, the so was the possibility that there would be a war.

And so more stress on the already heaping pile.

It had been the first potions class that Draco had ever smelled Amortentia. The scent was intoxicating, so incredible, so strong, the smell of fresh bread, vanilla, and roses.

He had a flair of hope when Professor Slughorn offered the Felix Felicis to the person with the best Draught of Living Death, but… of course, luck was on Potter's side, and the golden liquid filled vial went to Wonder Boy Potter.

What Draco didn't understand was that how Potter perfected his potion. Potter was never the best a Potions, yet there it was the perfect Draught of Living Death on his desk. But what Draco did understand was that there was no more of the liquid luck.

So he couldn't hope for the luck of the Felix Felicis for his task… but that was strangely alright. As soon as class was dismissed, Draco ducked out of class, cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, and went back into the classroom.

There was a cauldron full of simmering, pink potion with its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen and steam rising in characteristic spirals.

Amortentia. A potion that gave a smell so wonderful that it lifted some weight off his shoulders.

Draco slipped out of the classroom with a vial full of Amortentia.

The potion's scent relieved some tension and anxiety of the thought of murdering someone; it calmed him down.

At times he lay in his bed, wondering what made the smell so special, so delightful. His dreams were often plagued with… something he was never able to reach.

When life got too difficult, he'd breathe in the love potion, and everything would be alright again, even if it was just for a couple of moments.

He didn't know what he'd do without his Amortentia.

Draco was taking a walk one day, trying to shake his disturbing thoughts of what else to try on the headmaster. He stayed in the shadows, not wanting to attract attention.

Suddenly, his path was filled with the sharp scent of his Amortentia.

Vanilla, roses, and fresh bread.

Potter, Weasley, and Granger were sitting in the shade of a tree, talking amiably. Draco felt a twinge of jealousy of how they were such good friends, no matter what happened. He'd kill for those kinds of friends.

No. Not kill. That phrase now held a new meaning. But he still longed for it.

The trio noticed him, lurking in the shadows. They were probably assuming he was up to no good, considering the disgusted looks Potter and Weasley shot at him.

But Granger - she just looked at him with her wide, doe like eyes, looking blissfully innocent.

It was Granger. It was her scent in his Amortentia - damn it. Not - not - this, not now. His life was complicated as it was. He thought he had let go of all feelings he had for her this summer, knowing it would bring danger to her - but... no. No.

Draco turned on his heel and strode quickly back to the castle. He needed time alone to think.

He found himself wandering around Hogwarts, trying to slow his rush of thoughts.

Then just his luck. He had bumped into the Headmaster.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-mooned spectacles. Draco froze, unable to think or do anything. He was going to kill this man, sooner or later. "May I help you with anything?"

Draco tore his gaze from Dumbledore's captivating eyes. He did the first thing that came to mind.

Run. Run, so no one could see his guilt, his shame, his pain.

So he ran. He ran until his breath was stuck, until his sides hurt. He was in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, his feet sloshing in the waterlogged floor. No one would see him. Good. But no, nothing was good. Nothing would ever be good anymore.

An uncharacteristic cry was ripped from his throat, and soon, he couldn't stop it. Tears rolls down his faces, sobs echoing on the bathroom walls. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill his teacher - or anyone, in fact.

Enraged at his weak actions, Draco grabbed the vial of Amortentia from his pocket, and threw it at the wall. The bathroom was instantly filled with his favorite scent, his balm to his broken soul, his Amortentia.

Draco could hear Moaning Myrtle crooning, swooping in the air, but he could only reply with a strangled, "I - I can't," He was angry, ashamed of his unending pour of tears and sobs.

His mind felt blurry. The only clear thing was a pair of blue eyes, in his mind, whose twinkle that would be wiped out forever, by him.

Slowly, the blue eyes merged into brown eyes. Warm, welcoming, chocolate brown eyes. Granger's eyes.

He could feel his own sanity slipping away as he cried his heart out, as his mind was repeating, you can't do it, you can't do it.

You can't do this to all these people.

You can't do this to yourself.

You can't murder someone who didn't do anything to you.

He felt dead, empty, shallow. Despair was clawing at his body, hope and goodness had already shriveled up and died. Everything was just too much.

So when he saw the reflection of his arch nemesis on the mirror, he felt the last shred of sanity he had left fly out the window and heard himself trying to cast an Unforgivable on a very stunned Potter.

"Sectumsempra!" Potter yelled as Draco blocked several of his spells. What was that? It was a spell he had never heard before. Caught off guard, Draco forgot to put up a Shield Charm, and the flash of white light was the last thing he saw before he got blasted off his feet from the impact of the spell.

Something warm spurted from his chest. Blood. His blood.

The pain was as if someone had slashed him with an invisible sword. Unbearable. He felt long, deep slits on his chest, and felt his blood rolling down his body, into the water. Draco saw the scarlet blood swirl and mix with the water. His clothes were wet and he never felt more vulnerable or in pain than now, even compared to the aftermath a session of torture with the Cruciatus Curse.

What was this spell? How could it cause so much pain and blood? How did Potter know this spell?

Through the corner of his eye, he saw Potter looking extremely wild. He was calling for help - sadistic beast, why was Potter yelling for help when he brought this curse upon him?

With a flourish, Professor Snape swept into the bathroom. It was the last person he wanted to see, that needling Snape, who always wanted to help him on his mission. It was his task and no way he was going to risk his pride and cave into the help Snape was offering. Who knew, maybe it was a loyalty test given by the Dark Lord himself. Nothing, no one was to be trusted anymore.

Snape bent over Draco, examining him. Draco saw a flash of recognition in his professor's eyes, but didn't think much of it as Snape murmured in his ear and helped him stand up.

"You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that…. Come…." Snape supported him out of the bathroom to the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey had been horrified when she noticed Draco's condition, but accepted Snape's curt explanation.

"Lay down here," she ordered, guiding Draco toward a hospital bed. "You may leave now, Severus,"

Snape left quickly.

After ten minutes of poking, prodding, and healing, Madam Pomfrey finally straightened and pocketed her wand. "This is the best I can do," she said. "I don't know what type of spell this person cast on you, but I'm afraid this is it,"

Draco looked down, and grimaced at what he saw. Six long gashes ran down his upper body, from his chest to his lower torso. The deep slashes had knitted into narrow white lines, but they were blatantly visible.

"Scars," Madam Pomfrey stated flatly. "It seems like these wounds were inflicted by some Dark Magic,"

"Thank you," Draco said, looking up to her, his voice sounding hoarse.

Madam Pomfrey gave him with a surprised look. The last time he was here, he was in third year over dramatically complaining and whining about an easily cured Hippogriff bite. "You're welcome," she said, and bustled into her office.

Draco looked down at his scars again. He deserved these. Never mind it wasn't fair or right for Potter to cast this ghastly spell on him; he deserved this pain and these scars. He needed reminders of what he was doing. How much hurt he was delivering to the world. Dark. He was a horrible person.

Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office with a potion in her hands. She thrust it at him. "Drink," she said.

Too tired to think anything of it, Draco gulped it down, and soon found himself falling into sleep.

When he awoke, there was a card on his bedside table. It said,

"I'm sorry for what Harry had done to you. I don't think you deserved it. Follow your heart, no matter the consequences. I believe there is something good in you. H.G."

H.G. Hermione Granger.

Warmth flooded through him after reading her note, a fuzzy light slightly melting his rigid heart. He thought he could even catch a scent of his Amortentia on the note.

And so it was then and there he realized he couldn't do it. He couldn't murder someone, wouldn't. He knew murdering was wrong, knew he'd had to face the consequences with the Dark Lord later, but… he'd follow his heart.

He was only human. He wasn't invincible, and he had barely managed to stay sane through his Amortentia. He was definitely not perfect. The Dark Mark on his arm proved that. He should make his own decisions, follow his heart, instead of pretending to be someone who he was not.

But Granger had said she believed there was something good in him. Draco glanced down at his cuts again.

Was there good in him? Him, one who'd soon let death eaters into Hogwarts? Who had volunteered to kill Dumbledore? For a strange reason, he wanted to prove that he did have some good in him. But… did he? Was he good in any way?

No.

But he'd make some good in him.

The end.