Draco kept his back to the wall, trying not to make any movement or sound. His mother and father were fighting again, though this time they had reached a higher octave than usual. Slowly, he peaked around the corner. His mom's usually pale face was flushed with red and the vein on his father's head was throbbing wildly. He listened closely, trying to figure out what they were fighting about this time.
" — Think of what you're doing to Draco!"
His stomach lurched. They were arguing about him.
"What's wrong with the boy?" came his father's voice. "He's the splitting image of his old man."
"Exactly!" shrieked his mom's. He could hear her beginning to sob. "I don't want this life for Draco! I don't want him to turn out like... like us! This life we live... Under that-that-that... thing!"
Draco nearly jumped at the sudden sound of a slap.
"Never speak ill of our lord again," ordered his father. More sobbing came from his mom. He slid down the wall, no longer caring if he made noise. His own father his hit mom. Just because she didn't want Draco to turn out like them.
He went to bed that night, not entirely sure how he got from the hallway to his bedroom. His mind was aching, his heart was pounding, and his breathing was quick and hard. He felt angry. He felt sad. He felt like throwing up. But he knew that while it was a good way to get rid of his dinner, his thoughts and problems would still be there.
He rolled over in his bed, hearing the sounds of his mom's weeping and her voices echoing. He remembered one day, when he was about 13, she had told him he was getting more like his father everyday. All that time he had considered it a compliment. He never noticed the worry in her voice.
The next morning was a particularly cold one. His mom and father weren't talking, apparently still angry with each other about the last argument, and Sonny, their new house elf, had scorch marks down its' arms which — Draco figured his father had given it.
He was very glad indeed that is was September 1st, and felt great desire to get back inside the walls of Hogwarts.
"Write to me," his mom whispered in his ear as she gave him one final hug.
"Take care," he whispered back.
She held him at arms length and looked him straight in the eye, which wasn't so hard since he was practically the same height as her, if not taller. "Be good," she said, looking at him intently.
Draco's stomach gave a funny jolt. Draco Malfoy? Be good? The idea was laughable, downright impossible. But the look on his mom's eyes killed him. He found himself nodding slowly, promising to her he'd try.
"I know you'll make me proud," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Good going Draco, he told himself. Promising a thing like that to your own mom. He started feeling sick again. Now he actually had to try.
He spotted his Slytherin gang in one of the compartments but — to his great surprise — hid from them. He really didn't feel like talking to them just then. It was particularly hard for him to avoid Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl also in her fifth year, as she kept turning up everywhere he went. He could've sworn she had his scent locked down or something.
Narrowly escaping her and her friends for the fifth time, he turned a corner and hit something with an enormous THUD. He quickly got up, not pausing to see who it was, muttered a "Sorry", and ran down the corridor, hoping Pansy hadn't heard.
"You alright Harry?" Ron bent down and grabbed an arm while Hermione grabbed the other.
"Yeah I think so," said Harry, fixing his glasses that had nearly fallen off. "Was that Malfoy?"
"Wouldn't miss that greasy hair by a mile," said Hermione, glaring down the corridor where Malfoy had gone. "Why?"
"Well, was it me or... did he just say 'Sorry'?"
" — Think of what you're doing to Draco!"
His stomach lurched. They were arguing about him.
"What's wrong with the boy?" came his father's voice. "He's the splitting image of his old man."
"Exactly!" shrieked his mom's. He could hear her beginning to sob. "I don't want this life for Draco! I don't want him to turn out like... like us! This life we live... Under that-that-that... thing!"
Draco nearly jumped at the sudden sound of a slap.
"Never speak ill of our lord again," ordered his father. More sobbing came from his mom. He slid down the wall, no longer caring if he made noise. His own father his hit mom. Just because she didn't want Draco to turn out like them.
He went to bed that night, not entirely sure how he got from the hallway to his bedroom. His mind was aching, his heart was pounding, and his breathing was quick and hard. He felt angry. He felt sad. He felt like throwing up. But he knew that while it was a good way to get rid of his dinner, his thoughts and problems would still be there.
He rolled over in his bed, hearing the sounds of his mom's weeping and her voices echoing. He remembered one day, when he was about 13, she had told him he was getting more like his father everyday. All that time he had considered it a compliment. He never noticed the worry in her voice.
The next morning was a particularly cold one. His mom and father weren't talking, apparently still angry with each other about the last argument, and Sonny, their new house elf, had scorch marks down its' arms which — Draco figured his father had given it.
He was very glad indeed that is was September 1st, and felt great desire to get back inside the walls of Hogwarts.
"Write to me," his mom whispered in his ear as she gave him one final hug.
"Take care," he whispered back.
She held him at arms length and looked him straight in the eye, which wasn't so hard since he was practically the same height as her, if not taller. "Be good," she said, looking at him intently.
Draco's stomach gave a funny jolt. Draco Malfoy? Be good? The idea was laughable, downright impossible. But the look on his mom's eyes killed him. He found himself nodding slowly, promising to her he'd try.
"I know you'll make me proud," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Good going Draco, he told himself. Promising a thing like that to your own mom. He started feeling sick again. Now he actually had to try.
He spotted his Slytherin gang in one of the compartments but — to his great surprise — hid from them. He really didn't feel like talking to them just then. It was particularly hard for him to avoid Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl also in her fifth year, as she kept turning up everywhere he went. He could've sworn she had his scent locked down or something.
Narrowly escaping her and her friends for the fifth time, he turned a corner and hit something with an enormous THUD. He quickly got up, not pausing to see who it was, muttered a "Sorry", and ran down the corridor, hoping Pansy hadn't heard.
"You alright Harry?" Ron bent down and grabbed an arm while Hermione grabbed the other.
"Yeah I think so," said Harry, fixing his glasses that had nearly fallen off. "Was that Malfoy?"
"Wouldn't miss that greasy hair by a mile," said Hermione, glaring down the corridor where Malfoy had gone. "Why?"
"Well, was it me or... did he just say 'Sorry'?"
__________________
A/N: Author here. I realize that I've made Draco seem somewhat... not himself. And I'm sorry to all those hardcore Draco fans for that. But I actually believe that Draco is good at heart. Er, deep down. And this is actually just a far-fetched dream of some teenage girl who's had too much time on her hands. That'll explain Draco's behavior in the next chapters. He will get more unlike himself with every word. *shrugs* Color me weird, color me crazy — but I'm actually quite proud of it. Heh. Comments, flames (not too harsh though, I am human), and suggestions are begged for. I'd really like to see how people would react to my Draco. Also, the title will make sense in the later chapters.
