These characters do not belong to me. But I promise they're not doing anything they didn't want already ;)

It's almost as if there's an invisible stopwatch, slowly ticking, measuring every heartbeat, counting down the days until I'll be another corpse—one of those unfortunate casualties of war. Nobody ever says anything about it. I just get occasional pity glances.

Poor dear. Father in prison, the Mark on your arm. Dead meat's the correct phrase, init?

Still, I look into the mirror every morning. I see that same, apathetic expression I've always had. I comb my hair, and I brush my teeth, and I feel like my brain is slowly imploding, ripping away from the sides of my skull, cannibalizing itself in some vague sort of survival reflex.

I don't talk anymore, because nobody would understand. What kind of sixteen-year-old gets shouldered with this kind of responsibility? Go on, Draco, be a good lad and off the second most powerful wizard alive. Just kill Albus Dumbledore. That's all.

I walk through the hallways, with impeccable posture, and I sneer, and I threaten curses, and I slowly go numb. I'm not even a person anymore. I'm just an empty shell with a fast approaching expiration date.

"Is everything all right, Draco?" Pansy's sitting across the table from me.

I'm slowly pushing the food around my plate, not actually eating it. Just cutting the potatoes and sausage into smaller and smaller pieces, mashing them together so it looks like they're disappearing.

"I'm fine." The words are flat.

"You just… you look a little pale, that's all."

"And you look a little whorish. I don't comment on that, do I?"

Her cheeks flush slightly, even though the insult was only halfhearted. She's gotten into loosening her tie, and leaving her robes open, with low-cut sweaters. Not to mention the ungodly amounts of makeup. Someone should really teach her how to cast those Glamours more subtly. It won't be me.

"Excuse me for worrying about my own boyfriend," she huffs.

I stare through her. I want to say something, but the words just won't come. It's too late to take it all back. Two years is a long time to suffer through a loveless pseudo-relationship. I can't exactly cut and run now. Then I'd have no excuse, no lie to tell myself to continue the denial. It's always been her. She's the only thing holding my image together.

Better to struggle in silence than to spread your problems onto anybody else. It's practically the Malfoy Motto. Stuff it down, pretend it's not there, put on a good face, and suffer through it.

My eyes close, just for a moment. It's disturbing how often I fantasize about jumping off the astronomy tower. But I just imagine a nice tranquil evening, not too warm, not too cold, no breeze. The view from up there, the inky black lake, the dark, jagged treetops of the forest, and the peacefulness of it all. If I could just step off that stone ledge… sweet release. No more family, or responsibilities, or war to worry about. I could just disappear into the void.

The people around me are starting to stand. I hear the rustling book bags and footsteps echoing around the Great Hall. Soon everybody will be drifting back to the common rooms, studying, hitting the firewhisky, and going to bed. I gather myself, sparing a small, forced smile for Pansy.

"I'll see you later. I'm going to the library for a while."

Then I wander off, letting my feet guide me on the familiar path towards the dungeons. Take a left, and a right, and another left, I walk for maybe twenty minutes before winding up in an obscure little empty classroom.

Blaise is already waiting for me. Leaning against a teacher's desk. He's charmed a few candles to float around the room. The soft light reflects faintly off his velvety, dark skin. I don't have time for pretty words or romance. I cast a Locking Charm on the door, and then I advance. I tangle my fingers into his hair and pull his mouth towards mine in a savage kiss.

I unbuckle his belt. This is not love. I pull down his trousers. This is fucking. I push him back onto the desk, and climb on top of him. This is what animals do. My clothes are on the ground with a quick flick of his wand. So use me. I slide down onto his dick—the pain is the only real thing I've felt in days. Please abuse me. And I move.

Slowly at first, I start to ride his big, black dick. I fuck myself on it, searching for that sweet spot. I hit it by accident, and shudder slightly.

If only Daddy could see me now.

Naked, shaking, getting quite literally fucked in the ass. But it's not long before I can't even think anymore. I'm just slamming myself down on Blaise, blissful in the twisted, visceral pleasure.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, tightening his grip on my hips.

I slap him across the face. "No talking."

In the corner of the room, there's a faint sound, like a desk creaking. I freeze instantly, and turn towards the source of the noise. I don't see anything.

Blaise is still trying to fuck me. He's holding me steady while he starts to thrust up into me. It's hard to focus.

"Did you hear that?" I grunt.

"What?"

"I dunno…"

And then I'm making nonsensical little noises, involuntary moans. It's like he's trying to split me in half, and all I can do it hold onto the edges of the desk. In the last few seconds, he grabs onto my dick and pumps furiously. I cry out, and them it's a tiny volcano exploding all over his stomach. All my pent up teen-angst. Shiny, cream colored cum on his ebony skin.

I slowly lift myself off him. His dick makes its final exit with a wet popping noise. I stand on unsteady feet, and quickly pull my clothes back on. A few simple cleaning spells, and I know I look exactly how I did when I walked in.

"I won't be able to do this again till Thursday." I look down at Blaise with cold eyes. He's still sprawled out on the desk, breathing heavily. Half the girls in our year are after him. It's an odd sort of satisfaction, knowing I got something they'll never be able to have.

"OK. Just let me know." He smiles at me.

And I walk out briskly. The paranoia is already creeping in over the post-orgasmic fuzziness. There's no escape. I feel the sickness boiling in my stomach. I hurry along the corridor, not running, but taking brisk strides. I barley mutter the password and clamber through the portrait hole. Luckily nobody stops me in the common room.

I make it to the toilet before I start puking. Self-hatred. My intestines are trying to force their way up my throat. Such a filthy slut. I almost collapse, faint right there, hugging the cold porcelain. But after a few minutes, I manage to pull it together enough to stumble into my room and fall into bed.

I reach for a vial full of sleeping potion and down it. My consciousness fades into the big, sweet, empty—sleep without dreams.

I wake up feeling like a lead suit. Going through the motions, I walk to breakfast with Crabbe. He's caveman grunting about something, but I don't listen. I just look straight ahead.

I drink coffee, and eat a piece of toast. My stomach twists a little, but the food it stays down. There's noise all around me: laughing, and talking, and open-mouthed chewing.

Loneliness is other people.

If I were the last one left on earth, I wouldn't mind it. I'd hardly notice. But constantly being surrounded by vibrant life is torture.

Blaise is sitting halfway down the table, talking to Pansy like she's the most interesting girl in the world. He thinks it's funny to flirt with her. It's really a good thing I made him take a magically enforced oath not to tell anybody. If he does, he'll immediately burst into flames. Liar lair. Still, sometimes I worry it might not be enough of a deterrent.

I glance down at my watch disinterestedly. Twenty minutes till double Potions. I used to enjoy those classes. Anymore, I can barely focus. Slughorn is an idiot. Listening to him talk for more than about five minutes makes my brain go numb.

I wait until Crabbe is finished eating, and we walk out together. I'm on autopilot. Down to the same classroom I've been in for six years. Same table I've always sat at. I'm just staring into space waiting for the clock to run down.

Nobody needs to tell me when the three fucking musketeers enter, a few minutes late as usual. They make such a racket. It's a wonder they've ever been able to sneak anywhere. I can hear weasel breathing from practically a mile away, and he smells of unwashed socks so strongly I want to faint.

The skin on the back of my neck is suddenly stiff, gooseflesh. Somebody's staring at me.

Slughorn writes on the board, I go gather the ingredients. Salamander, hemlock, wormwood, and skullcap—the draught of blistering boils. I finish chopping up my salamander tail before I "stretch" and give the room a once over.

Potter is staring at me like I've got a second head growing out of my shoulder. The second he realizes I see him watching, he ducks his head down and pretends like he was working or something. That's a new one.

Of course, I'm done about thirty minutes before everybody else is. I drum my fingers on the table, and stir the potion occasionally. I try not to think about how the gooseflesh feeling is already back.

Potter. Potter the fucking golden boy. The pride of Hogwarts—even though he breaks every rule and barely passes his classes. Everybody loves him. He's so goddamn special, and wonderful, and talented, it makes me want to hex somebody. Preferably him, actually.

What does it mean to have dreams about throttling him, and then wake up with an erection? Do I hate him so much that I'm aroused by thoughts of hurting him? I've stopped trying to figure it out.

It doesn't matter, because I'm never actually going to kill him. I should have done it first year, when I had the chance. I should have Stunned him when we were in the forbidden forest and left him for the beasts. When I really want to wallow in my own misery, I just think about all the chances I've had to do away with him. Somehow I always seem to fuck it up.

Slughorn is talking. Bottle your potions, clean your cauldrons, blah, blah, blah. I hand in my vial, vanish the leftover potion, and I just want to leave.

I'm walking through the row of desks on my way out the door, when there's a loud commotion right next to me. It's like slow-motion replay happening in real time. Longbottom trips over his own feet and knocks into his cauldron. It spills and splashes onto me. I double over, falling onto my hands and knees, barely containing the scream. Blisters the size of walnuts are rapidly popping up all over my skin. It's chaos. The potion splashed on a few other people.

Everyone is yelling, and crying. I can't focus. There are white hot flashes, every blisters is pulsing in unison.

"Quickly, get them to the hospital wing!" Slughorn's voice is distant.

I pass out.

Madam Pomfrey is pouring potions into my mouth. I taste dead fish, and rotted mushrooms, but I swallow. The pain is considerably less than it was. I can see the blisters on my hands beginning to fade.

I carefully look around me. Crabbe is still passed out in the bed next to me. Across from us is Longbottom, and Potter. They're both awake. I stare daggers at them until Pomfrey leaves the room.

"Congratulations, Longbottom, I didn't think you could possibly become a more useless waste of human flesh, but I was obviously wrong. Not only are you a fat, blathering idiot, now we can add 'unable to walk three feet without stumbling' to the ever-growing list of your prize attributes."

Longbottom squeaks, and looks to Potter for help.

"Lay off, it was an accident," Potter grunts.

"Oh, an accident? I'm sorry. I thought it was the boy's purposeful goal to appear as idiotic as possible. That's my mistake. Let's add pathetic to the list too, shall we? Half-witted, clumsy, pathetic, sniveling, git. The whole package." I cross my arms, waiting for retaliation.

But for some odd reason, it doesn't come. Potter just shakes his head and looks away mumbling something along the lines of "Don't worry about it, Neville. He's not worth it."

I want wrath. I want fire and brimstone. I want to see that green flash of anger deep within Potter's eyes that only comes from me insulting his little crew of urchins. Maybe I'm losing my touch. Maybe they know the old venom just isn't there anymore. I'm too tired to really be that upset. I'm just putting on a show for old time's sake. Then there's that small part of me that wishes nobody had tried to help me. Maybe if they'd just left me on the dungeon floor, I would have died from internal bleeding, and exploded blisters inside my lungs.

I pretend to fall asleep again, just so I'm spared having to look across the room. Potter and Longbottom begin to talk in hushed voices. Soon I hear Potter cast a Silencing Charm. I slowly mutter the counter curse. The idiots don't even notice.

"Are you sure?" Longbottom sounds distressed.

"Well yeah. I saw it."

"When?"

"Um… you know I've been keeping tabs on Malfoy."

Joy of joys. They're talking about me.

"Ron mentioned it, kind of." Longbottom's voice is so damn annoying.

"He's up to something. I know it. And well, I followed him with my invisibility cloak on last night… and I, um… I saw him show it to Blaise Zabini."

My blood runs cold.

"Really? So he's Marked?"

"Yeah. I don't know when it happened. But he's officially a Death Eater."

"Christ."

I knew I heard something. Potter saw the Mark, means Potter saw me naked. Potter saw me naked and fucking Blaise Zabini. My heart is pounding on overdrive. Everywhere is cold sweat. I feel dizzy.

Why the fuck was he following me? Why did he stay and watch? I mean, he did stalk me on the train this year, eavesdropping with his stupid cloak. But this… I'm ruined if he tells anyone. I'm disowned.

OK. He didn't tell Longbottom. Maybe it won't be long, but I do have time. What kind of threat do you use on Harry Potter to keep him quiet? Do I torture him? Bribery? Doesn't seem like either would be very effective. He's Mr. Fucking Morality.

Wait, why didn't he tell Longbottom?

To tell anyone, he'd have to admit that he watched. He'd have to say, I saw. Hmm. Now the lie makes perfect sense. Because why on earth would Harry Potter stay to watch Draco Malfoy get fucked up the ass?

Actually that's a good question.

My head hurts.

Pomfrey walks in again and starts pouring more potions. I sputter as I "wake up" and put on a show of stretching out from my short sleep. This time Crabbe wakes up too.

"You're all free to go." This is the verbal push out the door.

I wait as Crabbe dresses, and I watch the other two leave. Part of me wants to run after them. But then there would be questions as to why. No, I need Potter alone. If he's really been following me around, it shouldn't be too hard to achieve.

I spend all night walking around the castle. For a while, I go into the Room of Hidden Things and tinker around with the vanishing cupboard. The apple I put in there the other day hasn't come back yet. They didn't see it on the other end either.

Two large things on my mind. How to corner Potter, and how the fuck do I fix this cupboard? At least dear old Dad is locked up. If I fail at the first thing, he probably won't be able to kill me from in there.

Everyone knows the point of being pureblood is to create more pureblood brats. Gays don't do that, and are therefore pretty much on the same level as Muggles in his book.

I cast a few half-hearted charms into the old cupboard and put a random book in it. When I open and close the door, the book is gone at least. Probably to that same limbo as all those rotting apples.

This is a story I wrote it a while ago. I've got six chapters done. I'll post the rest if anybody seems interested.