WARNING: This will be/is SLASH in the next chapters. So if you don't like
that for whatever reason, you should LEAVE.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I may here and there steal from various tv-shows, books and songs without even noticing it. My head is so stuffed with pop culture references, please forgive me.
Then I come in, they go mad,
hit my nose and hit my back,
break me every single bone,
throw me out just like a stone.
It's the corner, it's the dress,
small the town and big the mess,
that I cause with every step,
but still I walk, nonetheless.
They're skipping backwards,
they're the trashing days,
is that all they're believing in?
Smash my head to make it spin.
It won't change, so come with me
just with your eyes I will see.
Just with your arms I can hold,
and keep away the dump and cold.
- The Notwist: Trashing Days -
*
Prologue
*
He pressed his body firmly against the cold stones, panting heavily. He had no idea where his persecutors were; if their were still after him, or not, if they had already caught a glimpse of his silver-blond hair, meaning that these were the last seconds of his life.
Draco Malfoy had no idea.
He wouldn't mind being on flight otherwise; but this not-knowing in his new life, the adrenalin rush he immediately felt if he stepped on the street or into *another* motel room, was wrecking him. He could've done without.
Without this life, *his* life, without his bloody existence. Without his history. In the muggle world he was just a normal twenty-something, with a strange look in his eyes, maybe, but, nevertheless, normal.
Of course, muggles didn't know about wizards, they didn't know about The Dark Site. And they most surely didn't know what it was like when one had joined this certain Dark Site and then decided to quit it.
You didn't just *quit* being a death eater. It was more an existential question: either you are it, or you ain't. Nothing in between. No wishy- washy. Certainly nothing anywhere near what Draco had been, or more precisely, done.
Being son of a death eater had always been just a vague term for being death eater yourself.
But while on the outside and to a great majority in his inside, Draco had wanted to be a death eater, his sub-conscience told him otherwise.
It was easy to blend it out of course, even his nightmares about Voldemort, his father and stuff Draco didn't like to think about, could be ignored. While being in Hogwarts.
Fate is nothing you can run away from; and while nowadays, Draco knew another destiny was his, with seventeen he strongly believed that joining his father would be the only way for him - even when he knew deep inside, that he didn't like this way very much; that he feared its crossroads and small sidewalks – so there was no question for him what to do after graduation.
If there had ever been questions asked...
"Sorry, sir."
He snapped himself out of his gloomy thoughts and back into reality. It seemed that this time, he had escaped, and Draco noticed with growing embarrassment that he was still standing pressed against the red-brick building in a small alley in south-west London; and that some passant had just bumped into him and apologized for doing so. Not without casting him an odd look, of course.
He sighed, looked up and down the street and walked on, reminding himself to focus a little more on what he was doing. No good to get more attention than needed.
Another surprising twist in his personality: while the student Draco was always in the middle of everything, practically addicted with getting all the looks, the older Draco had learned to adapt. Learned to be unobtrusive.
He wasn't the same anymore. Where he lived now, the muggle world, the name 'Malfoy' meant nothing. It wasn't his roots he was valued for, only what he did meant something in this weird world he felt so strangely related to, after years of living in it, and in the same time didn't. He would always be a foreigner, a strange experience indeed, being looked at because of his extraordinary name for example, ironically the same name that had always guaranteed him respect in the wizarding world.
Trying to keep his thoughts away from the old times he strolled through the city, towards the old, shabby motel he currently lived in. Maybe he could afford better establishments, but Draco didn't really know how long he would live like this, how long his fortune had to last.
And, better than nothing, he mused, as he opened the door to his little room. He could be glad that he lived.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I may here and there steal from various tv-shows, books and songs without even noticing it. My head is so stuffed with pop culture references, please forgive me.
Then I come in, they go mad,
hit my nose and hit my back,
break me every single bone,
throw me out just like a stone.
It's the corner, it's the dress,
small the town and big the mess,
that I cause with every step,
but still I walk, nonetheless.
They're skipping backwards,
they're the trashing days,
is that all they're believing in?
Smash my head to make it spin.
It won't change, so come with me
just with your eyes I will see.
Just with your arms I can hold,
and keep away the dump and cold.
- The Notwist: Trashing Days -
*
Prologue
*
He pressed his body firmly against the cold stones, panting heavily. He had no idea where his persecutors were; if their were still after him, or not, if they had already caught a glimpse of his silver-blond hair, meaning that these were the last seconds of his life.
Draco Malfoy had no idea.
He wouldn't mind being on flight otherwise; but this not-knowing in his new life, the adrenalin rush he immediately felt if he stepped on the street or into *another* motel room, was wrecking him. He could've done without.
Without this life, *his* life, without his bloody existence. Without his history. In the muggle world he was just a normal twenty-something, with a strange look in his eyes, maybe, but, nevertheless, normal.
Of course, muggles didn't know about wizards, they didn't know about The Dark Site. And they most surely didn't know what it was like when one had joined this certain Dark Site and then decided to quit it.
You didn't just *quit* being a death eater. It was more an existential question: either you are it, or you ain't. Nothing in between. No wishy- washy. Certainly nothing anywhere near what Draco had been, or more precisely, done.
Being son of a death eater had always been just a vague term for being death eater yourself.
But while on the outside and to a great majority in his inside, Draco had wanted to be a death eater, his sub-conscience told him otherwise.
It was easy to blend it out of course, even his nightmares about Voldemort, his father and stuff Draco didn't like to think about, could be ignored. While being in Hogwarts.
Fate is nothing you can run away from; and while nowadays, Draco knew another destiny was his, with seventeen he strongly believed that joining his father would be the only way for him - even when he knew deep inside, that he didn't like this way very much; that he feared its crossroads and small sidewalks – so there was no question for him what to do after graduation.
If there had ever been questions asked...
"Sorry, sir."
He snapped himself out of his gloomy thoughts and back into reality. It seemed that this time, he had escaped, and Draco noticed with growing embarrassment that he was still standing pressed against the red-brick building in a small alley in south-west London; and that some passant had just bumped into him and apologized for doing so. Not without casting him an odd look, of course.
He sighed, looked up and down the street and walked on, reminding himself to focus a little more on what he was doing. No good to get more attention than needed.
Another surprising twist in his personality: while the student Draco was always in the middle of everything, practically addicted with getting all the looks, the older Draco had learned to adapt. Learned to be unobtrusive.
He wasn't the same anymore. Where he lived now, the muggle world, the name 'Malfoy' meant nothing. It wasn't his roots he was valued for, only what he did meant something in this weird world he felt so strangely related to, after years of living in it, and in the same time didn't. He would always be a foreigner, a strange experience indeed, being looked at because of his extraordinary name for example, ironically the same name that had always guaranteed him respect in the wizarding world.
Trying to keep his thoughts away from the old times he strolled through the city, towards the old, shabby motel he currently lived in. Maybe he could afford better establishments, but Draco didn't really know how long he would live like this, how long his fortune had to last.
And, better than nothing, he mused, as he opened the door to his little room. He could be glad that he lived.