The Fingertips in the Fireplace.
Note: This was written in early 2007, in the middle of the night. This means that it isn't exactly the best piece of writing... I have had to edit it for plot holes and just because I couldn't make out some of the words on the page :| I don't have the most legible handwriting… :P SO! Don't hurt me- I wrote it when I was 13! -*cower*- I know this has tense issues. Sorry again! :P
Anyhow- on with the show.
They shouted, unaware of him outside the door. From inside, he could hear low whimpering and the knuckle cracks of flexing fingers. He peered, almost eagerly, through the slightly open door- managing to make out his mother cowering in the corner. Above her stood his father; platinum hair plastered to his face by sweat.
He's grinning at her like it's some kind of sick game.
The still hasn't spotted him, when he hit her- hard. The loud crack of a bone being broken resounded through the lower levels of the house. Blood gushed from his mother's nose- it was bent drastically left.
The woman dares not to show the pain- that radiates from her in waves- on her face. She dares not give him that satisfaction.
He's been here before, at this door, though he's never seen it this bad.
In the man's hands, now, twirls a wand- more menacing than any knife. It was just when he was about to advance toward her, that his mother spotted him.
"Go to bed Draco- now!"
His father didn't even turn around, he didn't care.
Draco retreated, slowly making his way into the shadows. He wished desperately to be older, stronger- to be able to help.
They'd tell the mediwizard she'd fallen or some other made up story.
How could the room be called a 'family room' anymore- it was a boxing ring, worse, hunter's range.
He can still see her through the door. He can still see what he's doing to her.
Her screams penetrate the very walls of the house.
Then, silence.
She lies limp, discarded in the corner- dead at his hands.
His father stood by the mantle, smiling.
Uncontrollable rage filled his veins- the walls started to shake. The ornaments on the mantle began to shake, though more subtly, as his father turns toward the door- and to him.
"Draco." he acknowledges with a curt nod of the head, ignoring the horror that he has prayed witness to.
Draco's rage grows- the floor shakes, matching his anger. He doesn't notice. Drunken fool.
If he's had a wand, he would've killed him. Daddy always said he liked green.
The pair of antique knives that had once taken pride of place over the mantle rips free, shooting out towards Lucius, god damn him, Malfoy.
He heard the noise- and that's what killed him.
Lucius Malfoy dropped onto the hearth, gleaming hilts of the knives sticking from his chest. His hands catch the fire. His blond hair was spread on the stone of the fireplace, though it was stained red with the seeping blood, now.
This was the last he saw of his father- Dobby had come to take him away.
His father, cold fingertips burning in the fire.
She was just a woman- never again.