DOUBLE WARNING – IN YOUR BEST INTEREST TO READ

Ok, you got me. I catalogued this story under 'Draco M.'…but Malfoy's not THE main character, he's just A main character. I figured I'd have enough trouble getting people to read this without making it impossible to find the stupid story as well… my apologies, and if you're SO prejudiced that you don't want to read about anybody but Draco right now, turn back. Though I'd hate to see you go.

Disclaimer: I don't own this. If I did, I'd have angry HP fans at my door by tomorrow morning demanding to know why I spent time writing something like this. And I'd be hiding in the bathroom, because I really don't have a proper answer.

Summary: A little something to shake those firm foundations of belief we all have when concerning our dearest conniving Slytherins. Embark on a dark adventure that will include things you always wanted to know about as well as things you probably never cared to ponder.

Warnings: Spoilers, Slytherin-sympathy, and some twisted and not-so-twisted ships.

Just a Note: I promise that if you read something and think, "No way! OOC!" it's purposely done, and explanations will be provided sooner or later. Confused? Read on.

Challenge: Who can figure out whose POV this is from before it is revealed?

Anything but Indifference

Prologue

They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.

I'm about to find out.

It's amazing, really, this feeling that everything has slowly but surely built to an unbelievable climax that's finally, at long last, about to explode out of the dark container of confinement that's kept it under control for so long.

Crabbe always had this notion that I should have been a poet, and I used to ask him what kind of good being able to write a couple of pretty verses was supposed to do anyone.

Not that it matters in my current situation.

Right now, I'm expecting to re-watch my life story at any given second, because with each moment that passes, my belief in my impending death grows stronger.

For one, it feels like all my senses have been sharpened to a deadly (no pun intended) point, and I can practically see each individual droplet of rain as water splashes down, drowning me in torrents of mud and blood that are mixing together to create this sickening russet color.

The smell of my damp sweat is heavy, like incense, sweet and hazy with a bitter tinge of regret and helplessness, and I can taste the smoke that's causing me to retch onto the wet grass in front of my face.

It's the smoke from the burning of the dead bodies – the Dark Lord never did like messes, and he's firm in his belief that others should clean them up for him, including getting rid of those that collapsed before his ruthlessness.

But the subtle point that makes me positive that I personally am about to join those burning bodies is the sad fact that I can already hear my heart thudding in my ears from the adrenaline still rushing through my body, beat. by. beat. by. beat, and the pain in my gut is so cutting I feel like I've been stabbed by several sharp needles rather than just slashed down with a solitary knife.

Lucius Malfoy's knife, in fact – the one that's fixated to the end of that damn cane of his. I still have no clue how he escaped from prison.

I nearly choke as someone suddenly rolls me out of my cramped kneeling position onto my back, so I'm now lying down and peering up into gray eyes.

I don't care if Pansy swoons in public that they're the silver eyes of a lonely wolf – they've always been this drab gray to me, like the color of rain clouds on a gloomy day.

I manage to crack a smile. It feels more like a disgusting grimace.

"Malfoy."

He and I both wince at how breathless my voice sounds.

"Don't talk," he warns me. "You've lost a lot of blood –"

"Thanks to father dearest," I interrupt, feeling like I need to make the circumstances of my death perfectly and indisputably clear.

Malfoy closes his eyes, and his face crumples into this pathetic thing that doesn't mark him to be the son of a haughty aristocrat. He puts one arm over his eyes and says, "I'm - sorry. That you're – you're -"

"Dying?" I helpfully croak out.

He gives this violent start that would've been amusing had it been any other situation. "No! I was going to say 'hurt.'"

Right. I hope I manage to look incredulous.

After a moment's awkward silence, I take a shallow breath and calmly ask, "Question: Is the great Final Battle over?"

He laughs from behind his arm – a short, barking noise. "What do you think?" he gestures for me to listen to the yells and cracks of magic ringing through the misty air this cold morning. Missed the sarcasm, then.

"Shut up. That was just prep. Here's the follow-up: Why the hell are you still here, you bloody bastard?" I glare at him, though considering I'm on the ground, it's a weak move. "I thought I was supposed to help you get away, even though I still don't agree with your bloody principles."

"I – " he puts down his arm, looking seriously at me.

I let my eyes slide shut to avoid his stare. "Don't tell me you changed your mind at the last moment. That would make the pain I'm going through now rather pointless."

As if to prove my point, I'm suddenly attacked with more intense sharp, stabbing pains around the area I believe my stomach is. It feels a bit like the Crucio the Dark Lord used to test us newbies' endurance, except this sucks all the more because nobody's actually attacking me.

This is just the aftermath.

When the fit is over, I'm left gasping for air, unmanly as it is. I also realize another disconcerting thing.

"Malfoy? I can't see you."

"What're you talking about, I'm right here in front of you, you git…"

I blink hard several times, and his face swims into view. As if somebody's adjusting the focus on a camera, the image continues to blur until it's clear as crystal. But rather than seeing the Malfoy I know as of today – sickly-looking, with gaunt, sunk-in cheeks, I'm staring at a 6-year old image of Draco Malfoy, exactly as he looked when I first met him at a dinner party over 10 years ago.

Thoroughly confused, I try raising my arm to rub my eyes, only to find that I'm incapable of moving. My hand's being weighed down by something that feels awfully like lead. The weight spreads over my body as well, so now it feels like a gigantic boulder has settled on my chest, effectively pinning me to the ground.

Shit, I mumble.

Young Malfoy opens his mouth, and I hear a faint voice yelling, "Goyle! Dammit, stay with me! Goyle!"

But I know it's too late when simultaneously, I hear the echo of a child's haughty tone in my head, commanding, "Father says you're to be my new friends."

Act I, Scene I, the estate Malfoy Manor, an unplottable palace in the middle of nowhere.

My horror movie has begun.

A/N: So who saw that coming? For those of you currently vehemently complaining, "That's not how Goyle thinks!" well, we really have no clue how Goyle thinks, and there must be a reason the Sorting Hat put him in a House renowned for its ambition and cunning…

Still don't like it? Future chapters will leave nothing to question, rest assured. I'm going to do my best and finish this ASAP, since the long awaited 7th book is about to make its debut, so please help with production by reviewing in generous amounts!