A/N- Hey lovelies! So this a story I've been trying to get together for a long time now and I actually have a few chapters already done, so I'd like to upload them within the hour. I've posted this story before, but I took it down, and now, I think I'm ready to keep it up (it's been majorly improved and I'm actually kind of okay with it now) and keep it going. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I loved writing it! PLEASE REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW, it'll keep me motivated to update faster, I promise. :)) xxxxx

Steady breaths. Deep steady breaths. Draco Malfoy found himself looking at what seemed to be his reflection in the mirror. But he didn't see himself. He saw someone weak. Pathetic. This wasn't him. No, Draco Malfoy was not weak... he was never weak. It made him sick to think that the person staring back at him was indeed him. The bags under his eyes were hard to miss; he hadn't kept count of the number of days he had gone without sleep. He was thinner than usual, much thinner. He lacked all signs of being healthy.

But could one be healthy when his manor held home to the most notorious, most wanted criminals on the planet? Nothing about his situation was butterflies and rainbows. He should have had the right to look like shit when his whole life was spiraling. But if it was one thing his father had taught him, it was to not look weak. He couldn't. His whole life he had been taught, trained, urged to put on this act, simple in theory, not so much in reality. He had to make it seem like he had no emotions. That was supposed to be power. Looking into that mirror, he didn't see power. Frustrated, he punched the glass, shattering the mirror and his knuckles.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

The words echoed in his head over and over. The Dark Lord was clear on what is task was.

"If you don't kill him, I'll kill you."

Draco had no problem sending hexes at undesirable people like Potter and his friends, but could he really kill a human being? This wasn't going to put the old man in a hospital bed. This was going to put him in a hole in the ground. And what would become of him? What would become of Draco? Would he make the headlines next morning? 16 Year Old Draco Malfoy, Responsible for Murder of one of the Most Beloved Wizards in the Wizarding Community.

Sighing, he looked down at his dresser where a family picture was sitting. Draco was merely a child and his dad had gotten him his first broom for Christmas. His mother's eyes were happy, lively. Something they had lacked recently. His dad had his usual smirk on his face, but there was something different about his expression. It was his eyes. They were soft. And Draco. Draco was happy; laughing even, when his little chubby hands claimed the broomstick that was cleverly wrapped in what seemed millions of layers of wrapping paper.

What had happened?

The end of fourth year and the rest of fifth year and now sixth year had happened. The Dark Lord had finally come back, and surprise, his father was a loyal follower. The summer after fifth year had been hell, simply put. His house became the sort of "safe haven" for the death eaters and the Dark Lord himself. He had learned the three unforgivables. He was forced to practice on house elves. Although never really fond of Dobby, he was glad the house elf had escaped when he did... the elf used to sneak him cookies when he was around five years old. It was a nice thing to do.

Sighing, he pulled up his sleeve. There it was. The Dark Mark. The loss of his innocence, the beginning of the downward spiral. He did something in that moment that would get him killed if he weren't in his room. He looked at the Dark Mark in disgust. He never wanted it... but his father had.

He tore his gaze from the tinted forearm to the family photo and exhaled.

It was because of them that he was doing this, and only for them. Draco knew that his whole family had a death sentence looming over their heads, and he knew that the only way to keep that at bay was to do as he was told. And that was the very reason he was going to try. If he knew one thing for certain in the midst of the mess, it was that he had to protect his family. Blood was thicker than water after all, wasn't it? But sometimes, he couldn't help but think it was because of his family that he was in this mess in the first place.

It was beyond him as to why his father chose this. He was angry, furious even, at his father for making him do this. For him being involved with the Dark Lord and bringing that into his life. Was he ever going to be happy? Draco scoffed.

No Draco, emotions are for the weak. You don't want to be fucking happy. Happy doesn't exist in this world.

He hated himself for it, but no matter how many times he fed that line to his mind, it always came back to contradict itself. What was happiness in the first place? How did he know it didn't exist? Why did all the magical tales that his mom read him say "And they lived happily ever after." at the end? He wanted answers. He wanted to feel this... happy.

Maybe that's why he found his legs carrying him to his desk, and maybe that's why he began to write. Write a letter. To whom? Who knew? Would they read it? Maybe, maybe not.

There was a barrier between his emotions and what he made himself out to be in others' minds. That barrier had been strong for a while. His father taught him to keep it strong. But at that moment, he wrote. The barrier was forgotten, and for once, he wrote exactly what he felt. All the emotions that had been brewing inside of him turned into a full blown storm as ink made contact with parchment.

To whoever receives this letter,

I don't know who you are; I don't know what your life story is. I don't know what you have done in your life or who you have become or what people perceive you to be. You don't know who I am. You don't know about the things I've done. You don't know what my situation is like. I think that might be for the best. If you knew who I was, you would probably burn this letter as soon as you got it. Not that I blame you. It's not anyone's fault but mine. I know I am probably deranged for sending this letter, but to be completely honest with you, I am past the point of caring. The thing is... I am assuming you know what happiness is. I don't know what it is... or at least I don't think I do. Is it all true? Does it really exist? I have a task to fulfill... it's not one you would normally get. But it must be done for the good of the people... for the well being of my family. You see... I am someone who shouldn't care about these types of things. I shouldn't feel. I shouldn't be sympathizing. That's not what power is... and yet... I do it. I don't know what I am going to do; I don't know how I'm going to do it. All I know is that I have something to do. I wasn't instructed on how to do it. I just have to do it. But what if I don't want to do it? I'm not supposed to care. To be completely honest, I don't even know why I am sending this letter...perhaps it is because I know I will go mad if I don't put these thoughts somewhere.

Sincerely,

Somebody.

With that, Draco rolled up the parchment and tied it up. He then proceeded to attach the letter of his owl and opened the window.

"Take it to whoever it should go to."

He had no idea that the owl would be taking that letter to a certain studious muggleborn witch.