Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or any of its characters, spells, objects, locations etc. I'm not making any money off of this story.

Warning: Contains domestic violence.

Author's note: This one-shot is a supplement to my story Inosculation, a multi-chapter Dramione fic which can be found on my profile. What you'll find here will make no sense to you unless you've read the parent fic.

This one-shot, entitled "Pain", is additional material for chapter four ("The Project") of Inosculation. It corresponds to the last scene of that chapter, in which a fight between Draco and Hermione gets out of hand and Draco resorts to violence.

A dull thud and a gasp punctuated the moment Draco pushed his wife against the window sill of her bedroom. Her face scrunched up in an expression of pain, but he didn't register it. Instead, he stepped closer to her so his face was inches from her. "You hypocrite," he spat, leaning in to tower over her. How could she accuse him of being 'high and mighty' when she'd never left any doubt that she considered him beneath her?

Fury coursed through him and clouded his thoughts. It had done so ever since he learned, several days ago, that she hadn't been in the Manor for more than a week. A house-elf had informed him that she'd left last Tuesday. The creature had actually laughed at him – a barely-noticeable snicker when it had learned that Draco was not aware of her departure. How dare Granger (impossible to think of the muggleborn girl as a Malfoy, though he called her that to spite her) make a mockery of him? But he would make her pay, for this as well as for all the frustration she'd caused him in the last months. He hurled angry words at her, shoved the ugly Dark Mark on his forearm toward her face. His voice was sharp and loud. He'd show her he wouldn't be treated this way, not by someone from an inferior background whose life he'd saved.

"… and I thought you'd have a problem with prejudice based on blood status, but apparently, I was wrong!" he finished, still leaning over her with rage in his eyes.

He suddenly noticed her eyes, which were wide with fear. When she responded, her demeanour was incomparable to the usual look of defiance she brought to their fights. "I was at the Burrow. The Weasleys' house. With Harry and Ginny." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and the realisation that she was frightened, actually scared of him, hit him with crippling force.

Draco stepped back and opened his mouth, though he had no idea what he was going to say. It was not necessary, though – Granger ducked around him and was gone.

The image of his mother, fleeing his father's rage in unmistakably similar fashion, rose to his mind. "Fuck," he bit out, grabbing his wand to apparate to his own side of the Manor. Once there, he kicked off his shoes and dropped onto his bed, a sense of failure creeping over him. His cat Socks came up to cuddle with him, and he shoved her to the side unceremoniously. He regretted it at once when she hissed in shock at the harsh treatment. He cursed again.

So many times, he'd told himself he wouldn't turn into his father – he wouldn't become the kind of man who couldn't keep his hands to himself. Too often, he'd witnessed a fight between his parents escalate, until his father could no longer contain his anger and became violent.

It had happened half a dozen times at most, perhaps – at least as far as Draco knew. But that had been often enough to cause nightmares, because he loved his mother dearly and hated to see her in pain. Lucius had never been violent with him, but the way he treated Narcissa had still left Draco vaguely frightened. It was a feeling that had stayed with him until Lucius had ended up in Azkaban for the second time and Draco could see what a wreck he'd become.

Draco was six years old when he first witnessed his father's abuse. It was a Sunday in August, and he'd been practicing his newly acquired swimming skills in the pool under the watchful eye of a house-elf. When his arms and legs felt like jelly from the exertion, he climbed out of the pool, wrapped a towel around himself, and went inside. He wasn't really supposed to go into the Manor while he was still in his wet trunks, but he knew the house-elves would clean up the water that dripped onto the thick carpets.

The grandfather clock in the foyer told Draco it was almost half six. Telling time was another skill he'd recently learned. Dinner, he knew, was in fifteen minutes. He didn't have to remember the time; his parents would send a house-elf to retrieve him if he were late. But last week, he'd shown up in the dining room at a quarter to seven and proudly announced that it was time to eat, and his mother had smiled at him and his father had nodded in satisfaction. It had been very nice. He could be on time again today.

Two flights of stairs brought him to his room, his safe haven in green, white, and brown. It was a bit like a forest, or like the gardens around the Manor. He liked his room.

He threw the towel onto the floor – another thing he wasn't supposed to do, but the house-elves would clean it up. "Dobby," he called, trying to keep his voice low. Dobby would hear it regardless, because of house-elf magic, and if Draco kept his voice down, he sounded less shrill and more like his father.

A crack announced the arrival of the house-elf. Draco turned around to face him. "I want my robes," he said. "And you have to clean up my towel."

Dobby nodded obediently, picked up the towel, and disappeared with another pop to go fetch Draco's robes. Draco didn't like Dobby very much. The creature had been his house-elf for as long as Draco could remember, but he wasn't as good as the other house-elves. The other house-elves always did what they were told, Draco thought to himself. And really, Dobby did too, but it wasn't the same as with the others. He looked… what was that word his tutor had taught him? Reluctant, that was it. He looked reluctant, and none of the others ever did. They just did their work.

Maybe he should ask for another house-elf. His birthday was ten months from now, though. He'd have to wait a long time. Or maybe it could be a Christmas present? But that was still a long way away too. He'd have to wait for winter.

Dobby returned with Draco's robes, and he dressed quickly and ran to the dining room on the ground floor. He was about to go inside, when he heard angry voices through the half-open door.

Father had told him it was impolite to eavesdrop. Then again, Father had also told him a story once about Hogwarts in which he himself had eavesdropped. "Never give up a chance to gather information, Draco," his father had said. So he halted and listened.

"…destroy it, and then we'll be rid of that ghastly thing," Mum was saying. She sounded angry, and she talked much faster than she normally did. It was strange to hear her like that. "It's dangerous to have it lying around! The Ministry could raid us any day, Lucius, you know they don't trust us."

"I've taken precautions," Father responded, irritation in his tone. "They wouldn't find it, even if they did raid the Manor. It's well-protected, virtually undetectable. I won't destroy something that may be of value to us merely because you don't have the nerve to handle a minor Ministry threat."

"This isn't about me," Mum insisted, her voice growing in volume. "What about Draco? Are you willing to put him in danger, if the Ministry came? Besides, what's the use in having it around?"

"Do you call yourself a Slytherin?" Draco could imagine the expression that came with his Father's sneer: he'd look a bit angry and also a bit like you weren't worth his time. It was one of Draco's least favourite expressions. "If it isn't of use to us now, it might still be of use to us later. The Dark Lord told me what would happen if this artefact ever found its way to Hogwarts. Perhaps, in future…"

"Lucius!" Mum sounded even more upset now, and Draco no longer liked this whole eavesdropping thing. Maybe Father had been right and it really was a bad idea. "Don't tell me you're planning to involve Draco in this! He's just a child!"

At the sound of his name, Draco stepped closer to the door and peeked around it. His mother was sitting on her chair at the other end of the table, looking up at Father, who was pacing up and down near her. They were both too involved in their argument to see Draco's grey eyes peering into the room.

"Don't tell me what to do," his father began, but his mother abruptly stood up, anger in her eyes.

"I'll sure as hell tell you what to do if you plan to make Draco–"

Draco never learned what the end of that sentence would be, because Father stepped up to Mum and then a number of things happened almost simultaneously. Father towered over her, and Mum stepped back, grabbing her wand from its hiding place beneath her robe. He batted her hand away with his wrist, sending her wand flying. A moment later, he grabbed her upper arms and shook her violently. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he spat, and all of a sudden Mum looked very scared.

"Let go of me," she begged, her voice a squeak. Father's expression twisted into an even angrier sneer, and he shoved her away forcefully, sending her flying into the chair she'd just vacated. Mum let out a cry of pain as her back hit the wood, and she collapsed to the floor.

Father turned toward the door. Draco whipped his head away, suddenly conscious that he wasn't meant to see or hear any of what had just happened. He sprinted through the corridor, footsteps silenced by the thick rugs on the floor. He turned around the first corner and leaned against the wall, panting from the shock and the exertion.

His father didn't pass by him. He must've gone the other way. Draco breathed slowly in and out until he was calm, like Mum had taught him to do after a nightmare. Then he walked back to the dining room.

Mum had already fetched her wand. She was fixing her hairdo when he came in, spelling the strands back where they'd been before Father had shaken them loose. She was pale, but her voice sounded just as calm as always when she said, "Draco! You remembered the time." With a smile, she gestured toward his chair, the one next to hers. "Well, we might as well get started. I don't think Father will be dining with us today."

Draco didn't like his wife. He never had. Back at Hogwarts, she had been a nuisance and a constant source of frustration, the mudblood girl who bested him at every turn. Later, he'd had to admit she was a hero, and he'd discovered that her lack of pure blood didn't make her inferior, as Lucius had always taught him. But none of that had warmed Draco to her, because she was still an annoying know-it-all who bothered him whenever he ran into her.

However, he knew very well that that did not excuse his behaviour. Nothing Granger said or did, no matter how annoying, gave him the right to turn into his father. "Damn you," he spat, as if Lucius could hear him.

He couldn't get Granger's frightened look out of his mind, and the cold shame in his gut wouldn't disappear. The worst of it was that she was a Gryffindor, and a war heroine to boot, and yet he'd still managed to bring fear to her eyes. Like his mother, the fiercest woman he knew, who never backed down from a challenge, cowering in front of Lucius when he snatched her wand away from her and used brute force to get his way.

He couldn't be like this. He wouldn't.

Socks tried again to curl up against him, and this time he didn't stop her. She purred as she pressed her white fur against his leg, and he smiled ruefully. At least his cat wasn't afraid of him.

Seven months ago, he'd promised to be faithful to Granger 'till death do them part, and she'd done the same in return. Neither of them had meant it – they'd spent the previous day negotiating extramarital partnerships – but they were married even so. Marriage might not mean much in the pureblood world, but Draco was well aware that he was still obligated to keep his wife safe. He was certainly not supposed to hurt her, as he clearly had this afternoon. He wondered if she still felt it now, if it would still hurt tomorrow or next week. His imagination supplied the image of bruises on her skin, and he felt disgusted at the thought that he'd put them there.

He knew why he continued to pick fights with her, though he tried hard not to think about it. The truth was that he was lonely, and fights equalled human contact. But that would have to stop, because he would not turn into his father.

"I'll stay away from her," he whispered to Socks, who looked at him with her yellow-green eyes as if she understood his every word. "I'll stick to my side of the Manor. I won't go to the library. No more fights, even if she's an annoying…" He couldn't finish the sentence, because it felt unfair to call her names after what had just happened.

Socks shifted closer to him, and he sighed. After a moment, he reluctantly got up to finish his shrinking potion, trying very hard to forget what he'd done.

Author's note: So, what did you think? Please let me know by reviewing!

I realise that this kind of behaviour from Lucius doesn't really seem to be canon, but I'm taking liberties with his character anyway. This story fits with my backstory for Draco – I've thought a lot about what has made him into the person he is as a young adult in this story and in Inosculation, and this is what I came up with. So yeah.

I'll upload another one-shot in a week or so. And I might write more, in which case I'll also upload them here.