*DRACO*

We could have stayed. We could have fought – brandished our bloody sticks about at the very least. We could have done something more, something good, and something to atone for our past sins.

But what did we do? Walk away.

I'm beginning to learn that about my family. In Mother, I had expected it. The woman stunk of cowardice and her eyes always shone with fear: of her husband, of her allegiance with the Dark Lord, even of me when he was in one of my (rather reasonable) moods. But in Father, in the proud and all-powerful Lucius Malfoy, I had never expected such a pathetic show of…of what exactly? Could it be called loyalty that, once Pothead and his Muggle-loving twats had won the day (ONCE AGAIN), Father backed out? Copped-out in the commotion? What were they thinking as they hurried me away, tails between their legs? That they'd stay alive longer if they ran while they still had the chance?

Idiots – my survival skills are more astute. We should have switched sides the minute we saw the writing the wall – done something sickeningly self-sacrificing. Earned the trust of Potter and the gang and we would have saved our reputations as well as our genetically attractive hides. The Malfoy name would remain unsullied. But now? The hierarchy was such: so-called "Good" Pure-bloods; Mudbloods (shudder); Squibs; House-Elves; Muggles; The Floor; Death-Eaters and, FINALLY, the Malfoys. Motherfucking MUGGLES ranked higher! All because Lucius didn't have the balls to admit he was wrong, apologise and grovel to keep his place – OUR place! – on the magical food chain. The money: gone. The power: gone. And it was only a matter of time before Malfoy Manor was the hands of the Ministry.

But I suppose there's a blessing in here somehow, if one tilts one's head, bangs it against the pavement a few times. I suppose needn't worry about how I act anymore and I'm no longer bound to Father's will by trust funds and inheritance. And I suppose not having to blindly serve that nose-less paedophile is a large step in the right direction.

Which is why I am in my room, packing what little belongings I have into a small bag. I used to have such beautiful things; such expensive paraphernalia that oozed dark power. But of course, Muggle-loving, backstabbing Ministry made sure the Manor was the first house to raid. It didn't even feel like my room anymore, just some place where I'd brood and plot. Plot how to get myself out of the mess my parents put us in. And the stunt I was going to pull would soon see to that.

Clunking down the stairs in a rather undignified manner, missing the lack of house-elves at my beck and call. Damn Ministry. Damn karma. Damn that coward Lucius.

Father is in (what is left of) our private lounge, sitting stiffly in a worn armchair that is placed opposite my mother's recliner. Neither of them talks, or for that matter, moves and their eyes seem unfocused. It is almost as if they are staring, not at the empty darkness that envelops the room, but on the past glories: the parties, the meetings and the whippings of both house-elves and prisoners. Ah, such happy times.

Neither seems to hear me enter the room, my booted feet forcing dust to rise from the floorboards. It doesn't seem like they are going to notice my presence either, but I'm not ready to do what has to be done. I study their faces, trying to commit them to memory.

Mother is looking worse for wear. Her robes are tattered at the ends and almost as dusty as the floor itself. Her jewellery hangs limply off her, as if they were wilting flowers. Watching her lay there, hand rested lightly across her stomach, I am able to catch a bit of her former self. Under all her wrinkles and sagging flesh, that is. I wonder if she is still breathing.

And Father…our fall from grace hit him the hardest. His silver hair has dulled to a musty grey and I have never seen so much hair on his face – granted I have never seen hair on his face EVER, but now I can't even tell where his mouth is. His appearance is dishevelled and dirty; his once regal manner has dissolved as he slouches in the chair, one leg hovering over its arm. In his hand he has a tumbler of Firewhiskey. His body and aura reek of the shit. Why was I afraid of this man again? Why did he have such a hold over my life when he can hardly see past his next glass?

And dear God could they at least bother to wash? The whole room smells like mould and armpits – a bit like what I'd expect the Weasel's little hovel to smell like.

I clear my throat loudly. Very loudly. Accompanied by my boots stomping and banging on the door. Damned if they ignore me now. The pair both jump out of their skins. Pathetic. I'm really beginning to think I am adopted. I lower my bag and broom to the floor as gently and elegantly as I can because, quite frankly, I still have some shred of dignity left.

Mother is the first to react. "Draco?" she rasps as she cranes her head to look through me with her glassy eyes. I can hear her neck cracking and stifle the urge to wince at how she says my name. Almost as if she forgot she had a son. Great. Shan't be missed by her then.

"For God's sake boy, must you make yourself a constant nuisance in my life!?" Lucius snaps from his chair. He won't even look at me because he knows he's lost whatever control he had – he knows his voice no longer sends tremors through my body. Although I do feel something dangerous swirling in myself today; slithering and twisting around my very being. I'm going to do it, finally!

"Father, Mother, there's something I have to tell you," I hate the way my voice is shaking slightly. Dammit I practiced this speech incessantly for THREE days! How DARE my voice betray me now? I think self-empowering thoughts about my eyes being icy pools of everlasting beauty as I steady my breathing.

It's almost as if I haven't spoken, the way Father keeps staring into space and Mother gapes at the wall directly behind me. I take this silence as consent to continue, and do so before I lose my nerve.

"…Well, I've known this for a while and, now that we haven't a thing to our name and this won't affect anything meaningful, I'm gay."

Father's looking at me now. Directly at me as if I've sprouted a prick on my nose and am performing a belly dance wearing the family silver as jewellery. His jaw is tightening and the colour is coming back to his face.

Be calm, Draco. He has no hold over you! He can't hurt as much as a silvery smooth, sinfully soft follicle of hair perfectly placed on your beautifully coiffed, deliciously smelling, silky ….

"You WHAT!?" that is the most energy Lucius has used in months, that is. I'm a little proud that I managed to wrangle such a reaction from my dead-alive father. So the bastard's still got it in him, glad to know…

"I. Am. Gay. A homosexual. Boy on boy. Do try to keep up, Lucius," I'm a little excited that I'm back chatting my father – normally I'd reduce myself to mumbling and skulk away. Not this time.

Father's face is getting redder and Mother looks like she's refocusing again. I want to skip, and jump, and laugh at this situation. But that would not be graceful or attractive in any way, so I decide on a lip twitch to best express my elation. I decide on a snort instead of a laugh as Lucius shakily rises from his seat.

"How dare you enter my lounge – "

"What's left of it," I counter.

"– confess yourself a FAGGOT – "

"How eloquent."

"And have the nerve to insult me!?" his hand reaches around him for his cane which doubles as a wand holder. I haven't the heart to tell him I used it as firewood the night before to symbolically cut ties to my past fears. I had the reigns now, and Lucius was beginning to realise it.

"Get out," he whispered in a deathly voice, sparks of his old self returning. For a split-second I want to blubber, to apologise, but I keep my face neutral, "You're no son of mine, you little fairy. You disgust me."

"And you disgust me, you little coward," I sneer at him, "And I'd rather suck cock than live in your house! You're both so pathetic," I turn on my heel and grab my things and before I know it, Lucius is across the room and on top of me.

I give a strangled cry and kick at him, which forces him off me. Unfortunately he seems determined on gay bashing the living daylights out of me. He gives a howl which catches me temporarily off guard – enough time for him to land one in my face. My beautiful, angular face. I'm knocked onto the floor and he is on top of me in the physical sense, landing another perfect hook. I can already feel my eye closing up and my nose bleeding.

Oh, he's going to pay for this.

I fumble into my robes and pull out my wand. I really want this git to hurt. "Crucio!" I scream and suddenly the assault on my gorgeous visage is over. I stand up, watching Lucius squirm. The git had it coming. For years. I add a few hexes just for good measure.

I hear a shuddering breath and look up at Mother, quite forgetting that she is there. Her eyes leave her tortured husband and lock with mine. Her mouth trembles.

I push my hair out of my face, stiffly spit a "Goodbye, Mother", and I'm flying out of the Manor before Lucius has time to get up.