Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling, I own nothing and make no profit from this story.

Author's Note: This story strays from the direct plot of the book, feel free to place it anywhere in the series prior to HBP events. The epilogue and HBP is ignored in general—some other events that don't necessarily fit in also are barred. That said, the plot is twisted and this can be considered and AU-in-universe story.

Floored

The lint and dust that passed through the light—he always wondered where they'd come from. He never used to think about that. Or if he did, those thoughts were fleeting. Sometimes he wondered how many of those little bits of dust he'd breathed in over the years. Not that it mattered. Things like that weren't really of any great importance anymore. The meaning of life, the meaning of the world, none of that mattered. He was, in essence, numb to the reality around him these days.

And he wasn't sure how or when that had happened.

Draco Malfoy had never been known for moping. If anything, the closest he had ever come to that label was being told he was pouting. But pouting and moping were two different things. And besides, Malfoys did not mope. It was undignified and unbefitting of someone from pure-blood stock.

But these days, Draco Malfoy found that he had transcended the fine line between pouting and moping and, according to his parents, was failing miserably at snapping out of whatever slump he'd fallen into.

The numb feeling had started some time during the middle of July. It had started as just a ghost—a tickle at the back of his mind that lingered for about a week after he'd been pulled into another spat between his mother and father. Not that such a thing was uncommon in the Malfoy manor but…the shadowy feelings of general sadness, those were uncommon.

Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd been sad about a tiff between his parents. Maybe when he was five they had disturbed him but in the past few years he hadn't really given them much attention aside from the casual contemplation on who he would prefer to live with should divorce ever become a topic for discussion.

Not that it would. Malfoys were above such disgraceful shows of defeat.

Still, and Draco felt the very thought roll him over onto his stomach, admitting defeat sounded pretty good right now. If only because saying that he'd lost whatever twisted match he was playing with his mind would end the strange sense of emptiness in his head.

This was the third week in a row that he'd taken refuge in the upper drafty rooms of the manor. It was the second time in those three weeks that he'd found himself on the ground, ear pressed to the dust and staring into space while the light from the windows hit him square in the face. His parents didn't know much about his sudden fascination with the upstairs rooms and frankly he wasn't about to tell them. The house elves would be wise to keep their mouths shut too.

So what if the elves knew that he was going through something? It wasn't any of their business and Draco flatly refused to let them get involved. He would solve this little problem on his own. He was merely in a rut. A stage of ennui. He would snap out of it when he got back to school and was back around the people he could tolerate in large doses.

Dragging his fingers through the dust, Draco felt the ridges and valleys of the sanded wood. It sparked a little something—if only briefly. It felt…solid.

"Not that solid's really a feeling." Blond hairs were blown out of grey eyes in a puff of air. Tucking his knees, Draco pushed himself to his feet and scanned the storage room he'd claimed as his own. A mouse was building a nest in the corner it seemed. His mother's old mink coat was tossed onto a rack by the window. Furniture from last season was covered in white sheets.

Two feet in from the door, he could see the spot where he had first settled down on his knees to crawl forward towards the center of the room.

Not that he enjoyed crawling. It had just seemed logical at the time. After all, he had suggested it. 'He' meaning the git who was visiting on and off these days. 'The git' meaning Dee Jacobs, a fellow pure-blood who had bumped into him two weeks ago after the emptiness started and instantly declared himself the young Malfoy's new friend.

Dee. He was Draco's age and even now when he thought about it, Draco couldn't quite remember what he looked like. Then again, Dee wasn't very striking to begin with. A rather plain looking boy with messy brown hair and eyes to match, he was freckled like a Weasley—something Draco took every opportunity to rib him about.

They'd met during one of Draco's afternoon wanderings. He'd combed over the gardens in the back of the house for the forth time when he'd turned a corner and bumped heads with the unremarkable allegedly new neighbor.

Proper formalities had been used. Draco had trussed the boy up in the air and dangled him there while he waited for an explanation as to why he was in the Malfoy gardens. Dee had stared at him like a deer in the headlights for a solid minute before chattering on without pause.

He had just been passing through, he said, and gotten a little turned around until he'd ended up crossing into the Malfoy's back yard. He'd gotten lost in the hedge maze and was sorry for having intruded but could he please have a glass of water because he was about ready to fall over?

Draco had reluctantly summoned an elf for the water. Five minutes later he and Dee were exchanging pedigrees out in the garden. Dee, it seemed, came from old pure-blood stock. He'd gone to Durmstrang up until five weeks ago when his family had moved down to England. The family inheritance kept his father from having to work and his mother was dead now for three years.

However, all that aside, Dee still wasn't very memorable as a person. His looks made him bland—his pointed face forgettable and his voice just that droning timber that drove most people to boredom in a matter of seconds. With 'gifts' such as those it wasn't surprising that Dee could slip in and out of the manor like a ghost. Draco had gotten used to the other teen's rather hasty departures. Still…it irked him…especially at times like these.

"Bloody git," Draco mumbled. "One day my father will catch you slipping off like that. I won't be the one helping you then."

"Young M-Master, sir?"

The squeaking floorboards by the door drew Draco's attention. It was a house elf, her ratty, stringy hair piled high on her head as she nervously fidgeted with her hands.

"Y-Young Master, the Mistress is w-waiting to take you to—to the station. All your t-things have been p-packed."

"I told you not to bother me while I was up here."

"I-I'm sorry young ma-master, sir, but the Mistress s—"

Draco clenched his hands at his side on reflex. But that was all. There was no anger. He was just too…too tired to be angry. He brushed by the shaking house elf. Two flights of stairs and several minutes later he and Narcissa were carefully keeping their space from other witches and wizards on Platform 9 ¾.

"Now Draco, please," Narcissa sighed wearily, gesturing to her son's clothing. "Fix your robes. And you hair—you need to get a proper part in it. You look like a little ruffian."

Pale fingers carefully carded through blond hair until it fell very nearly in place. He hadn't even bothered to look in the mirror before they left, in all honesty. Looking around he felt that strange stirring start in his gut again. He wanted to sit down. He was tired and the platform was loud and everyone was so close that he felt like he was choking and he couldn't—he couldn't breath. Shaking fingers tugged at the top of his robe and his heart gave a lurch in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? Did teenagers even have heart attacks? But all these people—they people! There were so many of them and Draco knew they were all looking at him. At his clothes, at his hair—why hadn't he fixed his hair before leaving the house? And why was the numbness gone now? Now when he could have used it…

A shout caught his attention. Above the bobbing and weaving mass of students preparing to go off to Hogwarts he spotted a familiar head of dark brown hair.

Dee.

Pushing his way though the crowd, Draco left his mother to deal with his luggage so he could follow that slimy coward that had snuck away after tricking him into actually lying on the floor—he had some choice words for him.

The train was hardly filled and people milled about in the aisles trying to settle seating arrangements. Tucking around warm bodies and sliding along walls, Draco pushed his way through the crowd, following that brown head. Twice he thought Dee actually turned to look at him but it was hard to tell from a distance.

He reached the end of one car.

"Malfoy! S'that you? What the hell's happened to you?"

Draco froze as a hand came down on his shoulder. The numbness started to come back then. He knew that voice. But he wasn't repulsed by it like he normally was.

"Pansy."

"You look like you've just gone through a wind tunnel. What are you doing down here anyways?" Pansy craned her neck to look over Draco's shoulder. She had seen him as he walked by the seats she'd claimed for them and followed him half the car-length. It had looked like he was trying to get to someone…

Draco felt his shoulders move in a small shrug. The last thing he wanted to do was unleash Pansy on his new…friend. No matter how much Dee's antics bothered him he wouldn't wish Pansy on anyone. The girl had a way about her that made even the most patient people want to test out an Unforgivable or three on her.

Or maybe that was just Draco.

"You should come sit with me," she was saying, "I want to hear about your summer. How did it go?"

"Fine."

"Fine? Well what did you do? You didn't just stay home the whole time, did you?"

"No," the blond sighed. Reaching up with a hand that was surprisingly boney—he had been eating properly, hadn't he?—he rubbed the back of his neck.

Pansy continued to chatter on and almost instantly Draco was blocking her out and nodding when he sensed a pause. They made it to their seats just as the train let out a shrill whistle, announcing its departure.

Sitting in his seat, Draco felt that strange feeling start up again in his chest. He couldn't really describe it. 'Melancholy' might be the only word he could use for it if he went by the dictionary. Moping, maybe.

He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.

Grey eyes fixed themselves on the shafts of light slipping in through the window. There were those little specks of lint and dust again.

And strangely, they were fascinating. And everything else…it just didn't matter.

There it was again. He was feeling numb.

He was starting to like it.

TBC…?

And that's it for chapter one. A bit on the short side I suppose but I hope it was good. I know it was really, really boring but this story is going to be a bit like a steam roller. It will take a bit because I'm going by the book when it comes to the psychological parts of this.

Can anyone guess what's wrong with Draco?

I'll give you a hint. It's not just one thing.