Disclaimer: I'm saying this only once. I don't own. Song is Disney, world is Rowling's.

In this story, Lucius Malfoy is OOC. This affects everyone else in different ways. Set in the summer after Voldemort's rising.


When you wish upon a star,
Makes no difference who you are,
When you wish upon a star,
Your dreams come true.

Chapter 1
Be Careful What You Wish For

The day started like any of the other countless, hot, stuffy ones at Malfoy Manor that summer. When the sun was just barely over the horizon, and the sky was streaked with pinks and oranges, Draco woke. He was the only human being awake in the house. It was peaceful. It wouldn't be so in several hours when the house elves woke everyone to administer the hangover reliever.

Everyone wasn't just his mother and father- no, everyone else included all the Death Eaters in the upper circle, and quite a few others besides.

So, to make things quite clear, a lot of people who enjoyed causing pain, who were very sadistic, and armed to the teeth were getting pissed every night, and to top it all off, staying at the manor. This did not bode well for Draco.

But oh, the cause for celebration, isn't it just grand, Draco thought, somewhat angrily, before stopping himself and looking around in fear. He had learned last year that he wasn't even safe in his own mind anymore. That scared him more than anything the Death Cronies would get up to while drunk.

The Dark Lord had finally returned in all his dark glory, and there had been almost non-stop feasting ever since. The Dark Lord had been tolerant of it at first, but Draco knew it wouldn't be long now before he demanded something meaningful of his followers, some test of loyalty, some pain.

With a shudder and a wince, Draco carefully eased himself out of his lavish king sized bed and hobbled over to the floor-length mirror. Despite the fact it was summer, Draco was shivering as he looked himself over critically. He had a black eye. That was new. And surprisingly visible. It probably wasn't from his father, his father was more careful than that. No, Lucius Malfoy liked to hit where it wouldn't show.

Sure enough, as he lifted his shirt, a sunrise of mottled, half-healed bruises appeared. He winced and poked himself, to see how bad it was. He clenched his teeth, and hissed in pain, but nothing was broken, so he wouldn't risk stealing potions from the stories. Or rather, he couldn't risk ordering a house elf to nick it without telling his father.

Maneuvering carefully, so as not to jar anything, he limped over to his bureau and pulled out some fresh robes to wear. When he was dressed, she snapped his fingers and called imperiously, "Dribble. Dribble, get in here this instant."

As usual, Draco had time to think what a ridiculous name that was before there was a soft pop and a short, slightly greenish coloured house elf in a dark green dishtowel popped into view.

"The master is wanting Dribble?" the creature piped in a high, reedy voice, understandably nervous.

"I'll be taking breakfast in the library. Make my favorites." It didn't matter that he had no appetite.

The thing twisted his fingers. "But little master, big master is saying-"

"I don't care what my father said!" he snapped. "Just do it!" He aimed a weak, half-hearted kick at the poor creature. It yelped and disappeared in a terrified pop.

Good, he thought grimly, it's about time I got a little respect around here.

Still, the whole encounter put him in a foul mood, instead of causing the elation it so clearly elicited in his father whenever people looked at him fearfully. Yet by the time he got to the library, his foul mood evaporated at the sight of food. There were scrambled eggs and bangers and mash and chocolate crêpes, waffles and rich syrup. It smelled so appetizing. The elves, as usual, had outdone themselves.

Even unwatched, he was the model of decorum as he crossed to the lounge chairs and temporary table erected for him. It was only once he was seated that he fell upon his food like a starving wolf. It was only after he stuffed the last crêpe into his mouth that he remembered that he hadn't been hungry in the first place. In fact, he was feeling slightly ill.

Sure enough, not even ten minutes later, Draco could be seen racing the halls for a water closet to puke his guts out in. He barely made it, and every time stomach acids came up his throat, and his food was regurgitated, every time his stomach clenched, fresh waves of dizzying pain washed over him. He kept dry heaving long after his body was void of anything to vomit.

Distantly he was aware of a soft pop and then there was a soft, cool washcloth pressed to his forehead and making him feel a little better.

"Poor master Draco," a raspy, yet identifiable voice crooned. "Master should not be out of bed, oh no, not when master is having a fever." The speaker was a small wrinkled house elf.

Draco paused and gulped down a dry heave long enough to snap, "I can take care of myself Fina," but there was no real venom in his voice. Fina had been his nursemaid when he was little, had always taken care of him when he was ill, and was the only house elf he couldn't intimidate.

"Come now, little master," she murmured, rubbing circles on his back. "Fina will take poor master to bed, and Fina will be fetching potions, yes Fina will."

Carefully, the old elf assisted the boy up the stairs and to his room. To anyone else, this would have been a comical sight, but to Draco it was humiliation, and to his father and Death Eater friends, it would have been a deadly insult. Still, Draco did nothing to stop the elf, and allowed himself to be tucked into his bed.

"Rest here little master," Fina commanded, her long, bony fingers sweeping his hair out of his eyes. She popped away, but was back in moments clutching several vials of disgusting looking potions. "Here master," she said, taking out the stopper on a green potion and holding it so Draco could drink it. He was shivering as she poured the vile potion down his raw, inflamed throat. He coughed and spluttered, but managed to keep most of it down. He slowly became aware of Fina muttering furiously to herself.

"-must punish Fina like a good house elf, oh yes, Fina is a good house elf. But Fina is bad for disobeying big master so-"

Draco reached out a hand to her. "No, stop. I order you not to punish yourself."

"But master-"

"No," he said as firmly as he could, trying to sound commanding like his father, and not like the poser he usually was. "Your punishment will be that you can't punish yourself." He began to feel lightheaded from exhaustion and the potion. Despite the night of sleep before, he was already drifting off. He must've been sicker than he thought.

* * *

When he came to, he felt much better, but with absolutely no appetite whatsoever, despite it being three in the afternoon. What woke him became apparent when someone banged on his door.

Oh great, he thought, pulling himself upright. The sods are awake. As he went to open the door, he wondered who would knock, certainly not his father or the house elves. As he yanked open the door, he saw that his answer went by the name of Severus Snape, Illustrious potion master, and Draco's head of house.

"What do you want?" It came out more rudely than intended, but no matter.

The potions master looked at the boy in front of him and felt a surge of pity. But there was nothing he could do, and the boy clearly did not want any help.

"The Dark Lord is coming, tonight," he uttered stiffly, and turned to go, thereby missing the look of utter horror, or was that terror? On the boy's face. And then the potions master was gone, cloak billowing ominously behind him as he went down the staircase.

Draco shut the door and fought to calm the racing of his heart. Still, he didn't have total control and in a moment adrenaline was running through his veins and he was now resisting his fight-or-flight instincts.

He forced himself to calmly go to his water closet and examine his reflection critically. While he didn't look like hell, it was still a close call.

A simple cleaning charm cleared up his teeth, and a comb did wonders for his hair. Yet, as he looked again, he realized that he was going to have to shower to get the remains of sweat and vomit off of himself.

After the shower, Draco found his best dress robes and donned them. He knew he should be resting, but if he didn't appear before the Dark Lord now, there'd be hell to pay later.

Gingerly, he put on a waist holster under his outer robes and tightened it until it was snug, but not uncomfortable. Finally, he put on his public face and descended the stairs into chaos.

House elves were everywhere trying to clean to Lucius's satisfaction. Narcissa was directing two thugs with wands where to levitate tables and chairs out in the garden. Draco made himself inconspicuous, sticking around long enough to learn the Dark Lord planned to arrive around seven before running off to the abandoned wing of the house, careful not to get anything on his robes. He reached a dead end hallway and then paused, checking for anyone watching him. Then, he pulled on a wall sconce and a section of paneling clicked. Draco pushed it aside and closed it behind him once he'd climbed through.

He fumbled for his wand a moment in the dark, but then a quick Lumos illuminated the passage quite nicely.

The passage was clean, thanks to Fina, and while a little cramped, not that uncomfortable. There were stairs to climb and then suddenly he emerged in a little room, one that was all his own, his safe haven.

He had found it as a young boy, skipping his etiquette lessons in favor of exploring his mansion. Even young as he was, he knew his family name and history well enough to know that they had things they wanted hidden from the rest of the world.

So he explored. He found passages and rooms, but little interested him until this one, it just called to him. Excited, he had looked for more, and stumbled upon his father's cache of dark objects. Needless to say he'd been punished quite severely and discouraged from exploring any more.

But he had here. It had probably been a secret rendezvous point, or the room for one of his great grandfather's paramours, but whatever it'd been, it had long since been forgotten. Draco had wasted no time getting Fina and her crazy son Dobby to fix up the place. They were the only elves he could trust not to tattle. They were very odd elves, with absurd notions.

So he threw himself in a puffy blue armchair by the window. Blue, his real favourite colour dominated the room, and it was such a relief from the ostentatious green opulence everywhere.

He watched the winds in the fields for awhile, practiced some occlumency techniques, and did some summer homework. It was such a nice day, the only thing stopping him from going out and flying for a bit was the fact that he needed to stay presentable looking.

He emerged from his sanctuary around six, because he guessed the Dark Lord might arrive a little bit early, just to catch them all off guard, and then punish them for it. It was a game his father liked to play as well. And, as it turned out, he was right. Not even ten minutes after he came down, the temperature dripped by twenty degrees, and with a crack like thunder, the king snake himself appeared.

His followers, all wearing the dark robes and holding their masks, prostrated themselves on the ground. Feeling out of place, Draco followed suit. They all sat there, not daring to look up or even move a muscle. As much as fifteen minutes passed while the Dark Lord arranged himself on the couch and surveyed his followers.

"Rise," he commanded silkily, at last.

Draco looked at him surreptitiously as he straightened, curious. The Dark Lord's pale, bloodless snake face, and red eye slits were much scarier up close, yet he arranged himself gracefully, lounging while his followers remained stiff and uncomfortable. He simply radiated power, just like people radiated heat. It was incredible and terrifying, all at once.

A hissing, manic noise was emanating from the Dark Lord's throat, and it took Draco a second to realize the… thing… was laughing. At them. And they were supposed to just roll over and take it, to laugh along, he realized a second too late.

Then they were all looking at him, and the room was eerily silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the ornate fireplace.

The Dark Lord broke the silence. "My, my, Lucius, this is your protégé, I presume." His spindly fingers were twirling his wand carelessly, but yet somehow managed to be menacing at the same time.

"Yes milord," Draco's father replied, bowing low again and not rising.

Lord Voldemort beckoned with one finger and suddenly Draco was being pulled along by invisible strings. It was very disconcerting. Draco stopped just shy of the chair the Dark Lord was using as his throne, and with another flick, his arms went up, and he rotated slowly like a prized vegetable on display.

Draco felt the crimson blush of humiliation spread over his pale features. Everything was silent and still, even the fire seemed to have stopped its talking. The only movement was that of Narcissa, going to stand behind her husband.

Lord Voldemort was taking his time, he was toying with Draco. But at last it seemed the Dark Lord had seen all he needed to see, and with a final flick of the fingers, Draco was dropped unceremoniously. Not expecting it, he crumpled on the carpet.

Ignoring this, the Dark Lord addressed Lucius. "He is a fine pureblood specimen. In time, he might be a valuable addition to my ranks." He licked his lips, tongue darting fast, like a snake. "Or not."

With a slightly manic expression of pain that must've been a grin, the Dark Lord conjured up a silver mask identical to the ones the other Death Eaters all grasped, and held it out to the blond boy, who had by now climbed back to his feet.

"Do you want this, child?"

Draco, not trusting himself to speak, just nodded curtly, and glanced side-long at his father, who for once in his life had something akin to approval on his face. Lord Voldemort held out the mask, and Draco accepted it hesitantly. This was everything he had wanted and more… wasn't it? To be powerful, skilled, and respected. To inflict upon others what had been inflicted upon him. To instill fear in his enemies eyes. Then why was he feeling such dread? Why didn't it make him happy?

The moment his trembling fingers touched the silver, his eyes snapped up to meet the Dark Lord's. The red eyes bore into his own, searching his soul, and then suddenly the monster was in his mind. Weakly, he tried to call up his defenses, but it was too late. Voldemort was rifling through his memories and intentions. It hurt. Merlin, it hurt!

All Draco's fears, all his hopes, triumphs, and failures were exposed in a blinding haze of pain. He knew he was probably screaming, but he didn't care. He just wanted it to end, oh Merlin how he wanted it to end. He wanted to be dead, he wanted the mind rape to stop. But it just kept going, and going.

Hazily, because things stopped being clear when he first felt the Dark Lord in his mind, he felt the snake pause a moment to examine a particular memory. For a moment, it felt like he was reliving it, and the ghost of pain blossomed on his face where the mudblood had punched him third year.

The Dark Lord went back to searching, but for what, Draco didn't know, or care. He just wanted him out. The Dark Lord paused again, this time it was a memory of a Gryffindor v. Slytherin quidditch match. He had lost to Potter. The feel of defeat was a strong as it was on that day, the sting not eased a whit.

There were more memories, mostly of defeat and shame, as well as some triumphs. Despite the pain, Draco had a moment of brief lucidity and realized that all his memories that were being examined were about the Golden Trio, mostly Potter, in one way or another. He felt disgust, jealously. Of course, he should've known. Everything was about stupid Potter.

Suddenly, with no warning, he was free, and the Dark Lord was laughing harshly, contemptuously. "I see you are not quite mature enough for my ranks yet." He suddenly turned so very serious, and brought his face right down to where Draco was sprawled on the floor. "I know what's in your head. I see what you think, and I require complete loyalty. Or, at least complete fear," he whispered chillingly. His face contorted and he made some hissing noises. Draco bit back a yell as a real snake came sliding around the chair and over his legs. The Dark Lord laughed, taking pleasure from others' pain and fear.

Draco scrambled to his feet and backed away. The Dark Lord, done with his displays of emotion, turned stone again. "Now, I have business to conduct, and little, insecure boys can be no part of that. Leave."

Draco didn't need to be told twice. He was just lucky to get away without being tortured more. Already, as he rounded a corner three hallways away, he could hear the screams of some unlucky fool. He shuddered and thought, Why would anyone sign up for that?

So Draco, once again utterly humiliated and jealous and hurt, feeling inadequate, though he couldn't articulate that he was feeling all of those, did what he did best. Threw a tantrum.

He was too dignified- no, too well trained to scream or crying, as much as he wanted to. No, instead he went off to another unused wing of the house, to an empty bedroom, and grabbed a very ugly, expensive looking green vase. With one smooth motion, he threw it as hard as he could against the opposite wall. It shattered into a million billion tiny pieces that sprinkled down and abated some of Draco's anger.

"Lully!" he shouted, and a small, quivering house elf appeared. "Clean that up now!" he snarled, pointing to the shards on the ground, and then kicked her to get her moving.

He could have just waved his want and then poof, everything would've been fixed. (His father bribed ministry officials to let him practice magic over the summer.) Yet he didn't. When he was hurting, he felt that others should be hurting as well. And besides that, he didn't think he would work magic with such a splitting headache. He sat on the bed, just for a moment, to rest his eyes, and ease his throbbing head.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, Darkness had truly fallen and Lully was gone. So was the mess.

With all the shut-eye I've been getting, it's doubtful I'll be able to sleep tonight, he thought grimly. Too bad.

It was going to be a bad evening for him, when he saw his father. It would be worse if he tried to avoid it. He sighed, might as well get it over with. His knew father was probably in the garden, drinking. He also knew the Dark Lord was gone. The manor, usually oppressive and sad, had taken on a distinctly malicious feel when the Dark Lord had been on the grounds.

As he wandered the halls, slowly delaying the inevitable, he thought. Why don't I fight my father? I'm was big enough now, I could take him. Why don't I run?

The little, cynical voice in his head responded. Because I'm a Malfoy. Because I'm terrified. Because I have nowhere to go. Because it'd be worse if I did.

Utterly ashamed of himself (this seemed to be a constant state for him in the summer), knowing Potter would've done something, anything, Draco slunk down to the garden party.

The first person he saw was Yaxley, who leering at him menacingly, so he quickly moved on to greet his mother. She sat stiffly, the only hint of any inebriation were two high spots on her face. He kissed her cheek and murmured a greeting, as well as apologized for missing the party.

He had just straightened when he felt a cane come down on his shoulder, and it pulled him backwards. It was his father's snake cane, he knew, and now he was going to have puncture wounds to heal the next morning.

"So Draco," his father said silkily, and the trembling blond just wished his father would shout at him. Shouting meant he wasn't actually that angry—it was only when Lucius used that quiet tone that Draco knew he was truly in for it.

"You shamed the Malfoy name tonight, boy," his father whispered, lowering his head so as to do so in his son's ear.

While there was alcohol on his father's breath, it wasn't as much as usual, meaning, Draco realized with a gulp, the beating would be much more… accurate than usual. Draco tensed, his fingers curling into fists, and he felt his father laugh.

"What? Going to fight me?" his tone was mocking, and it pained Draco to know that his father was right in doubting him. Draco wasn't going to do anything. "You're weak, boy, soft. You'd never last in the Dark Lord's service." He paused, to make this last statement emphasized. "You're pathetic."

Draco cringed, and knew his father would take pleasure from hitting a nerve. Draco had tried to do everything to please his father, to make his father love him, but it just wasn't enough.

Lucius pulled out a wand covertly and pointed it at Draco, who looked around nervously. Is he going to do this right here in public, is he? he thought wildly before a feeling of total bliss washed over him. He gazed around happily, doing nothing until a voice told him to go to the drawing room and stay there. It was such a nice voice, so of course Draco complied.

The happy feeling lasted for around half an hour more, until a pale blond man entered and locked the doors behind him.

He muttered something, and all Draco's feelings came crashing back, along with the clench of dread in his stomach. He now realized what had happened. His father had cast an unforgivable on him. On him!

Emotions chased each other across Draco's brain. Anger, shame, sadness, and a random stab of jealousy. Stupid Potter would have been able to resist the imperious. But stupid Potter didn't have parents who would cast it on him. Then again, scar-head didn't have parents at all. That made Draco feel a little better. No matter that Potter had friends who cared, destiny, and fame, Draco had parents, and that made all the difference.

No matter that one of the parents in question was looking at him like a hawk might look at his prey, and no matter Draco was tensing to run. In his mind, this, this relationship with his father was better than being parent-less like Potter.

Then Lucius came at him. He was so lost in thought that it took him a second too long to react. Lucius's cane came down as he turned, catching Draco in the legs making him fall. The glint in his father's eyes made him very afraid, and he hated himself for it.

His face was pressed into the plush green carpet, and he felt, rather than saw his father looming over him with his wand out.

"How did I get such a weakling son? No ambition, no intelligence, no worth," he spat. "You need to be stronger." And before Draco had time to ponder what his father meant, he was hit by the cruciatus.

In the small corner of his mind that wasn't busy being ripped apart in pain, he realized that he was screaming once again. He was blind with pain, oh it hurt so much more than the earlier invasion of his mind-

And then it stopped. The teenage lay lying, shivering on the carpet, too exhausted to move.

His own father, in one night had used two unforgivables on him, and now he wished his father would perform the third. But he wouldn't. No matter how much he despises his son, Lucius would never kill his scion. He wanted the Malfoy name to continue over all else.

"Get up Draco," his father commanded.

Draco tried, he really did, but his arms just didn't seem to be working right. All the stress of the day was settling in, and he was fairly certain the fever reducing potion was wearing off. It took a lot of willpower not to upchuck right there.

"Pathetic," his father sneered. "Even Potter could deal with a simple crucio, and the Dark Lord was the one who cast it on him. Believe me, you have never felt pain until you've felt the wrath of Lord Voldemort." With a kick to Draco's midsection, Lucius left, slamming the door behind him.

Draco lay trembling for a long time.

* * *

He must've passed out, because when he awoke, all the candles had burned out. All was quiet except for the ticking of magical clocks.

Using only wand light, Draco guided himself through the halls to his sanctuary, taking the extra-long route so as not to run into any midnight wanderers.

He didn't remember the trip to the room, all he could recall was a blur, and then he was sitting in his plush chair, staring out the window at the night sky. He pressed his forehead against the glass, the cool pane easing the warmth of his skin. Only now, totally alone did he let a single tear fall from his eye.

An old childhood question rose to his mind. "Why?" he had asked his mother. "Why doesn't father love me?"

She had said nothing except, "Such displays of emotion are unseemly, Draco," before handing him off to a house elf to put to bed. But he had seen the occasional handprint, and heard her crying sometimes when she thought no one was around. His father didn't care about them, no. All his father cared about were the Dark Lord and Potty-head. It had always been Potter-this and Potter-that. Spy on Potter, blame this on Potter, discredit Potter, do better than Potter. It was enough to cause a severe inferiority complex in anyone, but more particularly in someone who wore a mask of arrogance and went by the name of Draco Malfoy.

He sank back into the chair, looking out at the stars. He was about to get up when movement caught his eye. It was a shooting star!

Make a wish Draco, he told himself, recalling the muggle superstition of wishing on stars. Sure, why not.

Slowly, softly, as if it pained him to say these words, he whispered, "I wish I could trade places with Harry Potter."

Surely he had lots of people who loved and admired him.

Draco sighed softly, and with his head in his arms, the sad, broken boy drifted off to sleep.


Please review(:

I'd appreciate it, even if you just say 'This was great,' or 'This was horrible.'