Silver Blood
"You can get addicted to a certain kind of pain."1. Mendacity
Draco had no thought in his mind where things could have gone wrong. He continually had searched for some trigger to set him on this path of self-hatred and destruction. There was week of his life Draco continually tried to remember, but could never quite grasp even a sliver of a hint. His parents acted like that week had been non-existant and if he were to bring it up, his parents would divert their eyes, say something incoherent, would turn and walk briskly away. It's like someone obliviated my thoughts for one week... but gave me everything back the very next... Something important must of happened in that strange week.
And all of it seemed to lead back to Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor girl in Draco's year with mid-length slightly bushy, curly hair and dark brown eyes. She was good friends with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, two people Draco had never quite gotten along with. He and Harry had become enemies ever since Harry turned his serious offer to help him get into the right crowd- the Purebloods. Rather, he had taken the opposite path and became best friends with a Mudblood and a Pureblood whose family can only afford handy-me-down robes and rags. It was absolutely repulsive his refusal to make a good decision for once in his life. He turned down my offer of friendship for a damn Weasley! And Granger... she was never worth my time unless I was taunting her.
She seems to be the only I enjoy taunting anymore... She is the only person who can match my intelligence and wit. She has some sort of smart alec response for every name or remark I throw at her. Granger actually is impressive sometimes... No. She is a filthy mudblood; they can't be impressive. Mudbloods are mudbloods: worthless, pathetic excuses for wizards. Granger is meaningless and has nothing to do with my problems or my condition. Draco readjusted himself in his chair. It was half past nine, an hour and a half before he was supposed to get on a train and return to Hogwarts for his sixth year. He was dreading going back since he had changed so much in such little time. His coronation to be enlisted as a Death Eater had taken place just a few weeks earlier and her could feel the veins on left forearm throb beneath it as he thought of it.
"Draco, are you packed? Have you eaten?" Narcissa asked as she peered around the open bedroom door. A concerned, almost frightened, look flashed across her face; there one second, gone the next. Draco wasn't sure if he had actually seen it or if he was imagining it, but when his mother cleared her throat, he pushed the thought away. "Yes, Mum, I am fully packed and I have eaten the substantially large breakfast our elves made for me. I am ready to leave when you are." He attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Narcissa walked into the room and sat in the chair parellel to her son. She placed a hand over his and asked, "What's wrong, Draco? Is there anything I can do to help you?"
Draco thought it over for a moment as he stared into the fire. He finally said, "Yes, there is. You can tell me about the week of July 9th." Narcissa went pale. Her hands began to fidget, playing with the hem of her jacket and the few loose strands of string on the chair. Well, this is quite... odd. She hasn't run away yet... "Mum, is everything alright? You look as though you have seen a ghost." His mother was conspicuously taking deep breathes to calm herself down. "I'm fine, dear. Draco, I don't think you are ready to know about that week. Come on; it is time to leave." Narcissa got up and began to walk to towards the door.
"But Mum, I feel it is dire that I know what happened!"
She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at her son, speaking in a solemn tone. "All will reveal itself in time."
Narcissa turned away and scurried out of the room. Draco sat there just staring at the spot she had just stood in moments earlier. Everything about that week was becoming more and more vague as he searched for answers. The mark on his left arm throbbed slightly and a thin line of pain erupted in his right forearm. He rolled up his sleeve to find it was the faint lines of where he had cut himself with glass just the week prior. It had been somewhat intentional, somewhat on accident. Draco had stolen a bottle of Firewhiskey from his father's cupboard the week after his coronation. He felt strange an out of place, but just kept on drinking. Upon his seventh swig he started to have little flashbacks of something. It was one of the days he couldn't remember and he used all of his power to hold to the memory.
But quickly, it vanished.
Out of rage he picked the bottle beside him up and smashed it straight down into his right arm. There he sat, blood pouring from the gashes he had just made. Draco didn't feel the pain; all he felt was the great relief that he had made up for losing the memory. He left himself bleed a little longer, but soon got up to get bandages. In this moment, he touched the bandages, seeing when the blood had stained and stared at them once more. They made me feel a strange type of... confidence. Confident that I won't make the mistake of almost remembering again, but more confident that I can withstand such pain. It's just such a... rush. And I love it even if it possible this addiction may kill me.
"Draco, it's time to go. Don't want to be late for the train." Narcissa called from downstairs.
"Coming, Mother!"