Sunsets

Author's Note: Some disturbing stuff here. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Draco hated having to be within ten miles of Lucius Malfoy. The man was a lunatic; a powerful, vindictive lunatic who would go to any extreme for revenge or leisure. He was a sick person, even Draco had to admit; the very man he had looked up to as a young boy: his hero, his role model, his father. This same man had so quickly morphed into some one Draco wished he had never ever set eyes on; a man who felt nothing at beating his only son senseless, for absolutely no reason--a man whose anger was all-consuming, and a man who expressed his lustful vengeance in ways that only an insanely demented person could.

Ever since Lucius and Narcissa had begin having problems; small issues with each other, issues that could have been so easily resolved...Lucius had begun his abusive rampage. First, it was only Narcissa that received his punishments--to him, she had been the only one at fault... Eventually, Lucius had become more irritable, easier to enrage, and in Draco had seen unwelcome reflections of his cursed wife. "You're just like your ungrateful bitch of a mother!" Lucius would shriek in some frightful terror, before bringing his heavy, bruising hands down on his young son. The beatings had started when Draco was four; he took them as part of his discipline, at first, and was glad that most of the time he passed out before his father reached the pinnacle of his violent surges--but when he was not so lucky, he began to realize that his father's behaviour towards him and his mother was much more than common juvenile discipline.

Lucius took some sort of sick pleasure in it; watching the tears pour down his helpless son's cheeks, hearing the yelps of pain and the sobs of anguish. He liked watching the blood ooze from tender skin, the red welts swelling and the finger marks bruising into blue black kisses. "You deserve it, little son of a bitch," he would sneer insanely, as Draco whimpered and cowered away from the looming figure, "This is what you were made for."

Draco was a proud boy, and regardless of his father's violent disposition, always managed to cover up once he started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He would brag about his riches and his father's Death Eater connections, smirking in much the same way Lucius did, carrying himself in a similar fashion and causing what sorrow his young self could. He tried to be as much as Lucius as possible, hoping that maybe his father would finally approve of something and love him the way he had before, before Draco had become too much like his mother for Lucius to bear. Internally, Draco would wince at everything he did that could be associated with Lucius; did he really want to become like this man? This man who would shower him with blows of clenched fists, or slaps of leather belts across his back?

Draco learned to ignore everything; his father's ministrations and insults, the slaps and the blows. Eventually, though he still hated the outbursts with a fiery passion, he became used to them--the crack of the whip on his back became familiar, and through this Draco became empty. It was as if every hit sucked the vigor out of him, making him only a mere shell of what he once was--his mind was blank, he didn't know himself, and because of this detatchment, Draco was no longer pained.

This summer had been particularly bad; Narcissa had finally escaped from the Manor to a place where she could neither return nor be troubled again.

When Lucius had found the body of his dead wife, her slender form strewn over the bed and the charm of self-release upon her lips, he hadn't cried--at least, not immediately. He had exploded into a rage, bellowing for Draco to get himself down to the bedroom. As soon as Draco's eyes fell on the scene, he could feel the tears pricking at his eyelashes, but he refused to allow them to fall. They wouldn't, they would never. He was empty, he was not of this world...

The first blow came abruptly, to his temple knocking him down onto the carpeted floor. Lucius punched and kicked, a severe smile on his face as the tears began to stream down his cheeks, "Your mother is dead, asshole. Now who am I going to fuck?" Draco was already broken, his lip bleeding, eye blueing and one of his ribs, yet again broken. "Answer me!" Lucius screamed, his eyes glinting maniacal intent, "Who am I going to fuck? You?" The beating had progressed, until Draco's clothes were in tatters around him; then Lucius stopped, "Narcissa, you bitch, you cunt, you whore..." muttering obscenities, he had retired to a corner of the room. He rocked back and forth, "You had to go and fucking kill yourself. Who am I going to fuck? Who am I going to fuck?" Draco lay in a crumpled heap, unable to move. Usually his father would have left by now, and one of the house elves would have arrived to heal his wounds and escort him to his room. His father continued his raving in the corner, until his eyes once again grew enraged.

"This is your fault, you jackass! Your fault!" He rose, stepping towards Draco, his eyes glinting horrifically in the light. Draco was limp, helpless, and though no tears fell from his eyes, he was afraid. Lucius kneeled, his hands hooking about Draco's hips, Draco's pants coming down around his ankles before he could protest. "No, no, father, no," Draco, for once, began to plead--this was too much, too far. Lucius looked ravenous as he eyed his son's half-naked body. Cruel fingers descended in places they should never have gone, not now, not ever.

Draco lay there, through it all, helpless as his father fondled him, screaming at him curses and insults, humiliating him. His father did not do much more than this, as Draco had feared would happen; he just did what he would until he became bored and left. The house elves had helped him, healing him and soothing him; but nothing could ease his pride, his sense of defeat and degradation.

It hadn't happened again, the fondling, but the bruises left from his father's crude fingers were a nasty reminder. Draco received several more beatings throughout that summer, each seemingly worse than the last--he didn't try to stop them, just lay there and prayed so hard that the murmurs choked his throat.

Yet all through this torture, he'd had one friend, one aspect of his life that would never leave him, ever; never betray him, never hurt him like everything else had. His father had proved himself deranged, and his mother had deserted him for some otherworldly place; even his friends were store-bought and backstabbing, and Draco knew it. Everything about Draco, and about Draco's life seemed fake, and Draco watched it all as if through a veil from where he was isolated. He made no move to improve his condition; if anything he made it worse, refusing to eat or talk, just sipping water randomly and sitting out on the roof every day in wait of his friend...

His friend; his true haven, his one and only sanctuary: the sunset.

The peace of mind Draco got from the sunset was something he could never explain. It never took away the feeling of dirtiness that lingered with him after the fondling, that even a shower couldn't remove, and it never made anything in his life better or worse than it already was--but it made all of emotions, all of the inner torment, just a little bit easier to bear.

It was a childish memoir, something that had stayed with him for twelve years, since he'd discovered it at the age of four; but it was something that remained a source of consolement and almost-comfort to him. It was as if it were a reminder of better days, days when Draco still possessed the naive innocene of childhood and thought the good things and the bad things in life equal and distinguishable as red from blue.

Draco had almost forgotten that soon he would be returning to his true home...Hogwarts.

Ginny Weasley was a generally happy child. She had her fair share of tears and critisizm, smiles and praise; but this year, the latter was more in tuned with her song. She was going into her fifth year at Hogwarts, and had been awarded the option of taking sixth year subjects...if she grabbed at the chance, she could graduate a year earlier than the other fifth years--with her brother, Ron, and his friends. The thought was embraced by her family, especially Mrs. Weasley who had never hugged her daughter so long and so hard.

Ginny, of course, ever the ambition of the family, grabbed at the chance almost soon as it had emerged; she had never had any true friends among the fifth years; acquaintances, people she laughed with and the sort, but not any one she would miss. She was a bit of a social butterfly; she spoke to every one, but at the same time was the girl that you knew, but did not really know.

Mr. Weasley, balding and joyous at his daughter's achievement, dipped his head into his hands, letting a few stray tears gather before brushing them away and reading the letter from Hogwarts again, then repeating the process. The whole Weasley household was in an uproar; the only one bitter about Ginny's artful accomplishment her sour-faced brother Ron.

The kitchen table was the ideal place to confront such matters, especially on the morning before they were to head of the Diagon Alley to buy their goods, two days before they were expected at Kings Cross Station.

"Oh, Ronnie-poo," Ginny cooed, soppily, "Don't hold a grudge against your dear old sister..."

Harry snickered, and Ron nudged him hard in the rib. "I'm not holding a grudge," he muttered, very much grudgingly.

"That's lovely, dears," said Mrs. Weasley, absently, dishing more pancakes and toast into both Harry and Ginny's plates, "Eat up, we have to be at Diagon Alley early!"

They flooed to their destination, landing within the dusty hearth of the Leaky Cauldron and being greeted warmly by Tom, their grinningly toothless host. "Drinks, for ye?" he asked, kindly, and Mrs. Weasley explained that they were in a hurry, but perhaps...just perhaps...

After gratefully downing their butterbeers, the Weasleys, along with the added company of Harry and Hermione, began their shopping. Diagon Alley was crowded with witches and wizards, wearing clothes of all different colors, shapes and sizes; some were short and stocky with nasty warts growing proudly on their noses, others tall and lanky with wispy hair set on bald heads; then there were those who war ridiculously large purple hats, dotted with tiny purring cats, and others who wore laughingly massive green boots that were furry and barked if you got too close.

In all, Diagon Alley was as busy as a bee hive, bustling and buzzing about with people and sounds and creatures that Ginny's curious mind reveled at. Ginny was very observant; she enjoyed watching things, just randomly absorbing interesting details and pouring mindlessly over them afterwards. She flowed along the channels of the street, being carried along by the surrounding Weasleys and their two guests, just as much as by people; I dare say a few creatures, too, that she didn't recognize.

The day was sunny and humid; Ginny's baggy T-shirt, once upon a time Charlie's, sticking uncomfortably to her back after just a few minutes, her hair becoming slightly matted near her forehead. "God, Mum!" she said, loudly to be heard over the hubbub, "It's darned hot today!"

Mrs. Weasley, who was dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief nodded in agreement, stopping abruptly and toppling several other people who had been behind her, "Okay, the boys can go on their way; Ginny, me, you and Hermione can stay together and do our shopping. I say, we'd better dip into Flourish and Blotts, first. Buy you all some new books. No, no, don't worry Ronald, we'll pick up your books, too. Yours, too, Harry. Now shoo!" She ushered the males of the company off, leaving her with the two females. She smiled tiredly, "This way, girls."

Flourish and Blotts was still slightly empty, judging from the hour, so they managed to pick all their books up in about a half hour; they emerged from the air-conditioned store, laden with packages and looking refreshed. They were just about to cross into another stream leading up towards Gringotts Bank when Ginny, ever keen, saw him.

Pushing defiantly against the flow of one 'lane' were the two Malfoy males; Lucius looking tall, powerful and ever menacing; beaded blue eyes flitting about nervously, as if looking for some one or something, or attempting to avoid some one or something...not that he would have been doing a very good job, seeing as how he had one long arm outstretched and was pushing any one in his way aside, to a chaotic result. His eyebrows were narrowed as if in concentration, and his whole demeanor seemed, to Ginny, to be very angry.

She shivered, but this was not what caught her; it was the boy--or young man, he was dragging along behind him. One white hand was clenched around the boy's upper arm, holding him tightly and roughly; not caringly in the way a father should. Draco Malfoy walked, his head bowed, his hair in his face and his cheeks gaunt. She was startled, for it looked nothing like the Malfoy she was used to at school. Her fleeting observation piqued a type of interest, and her eyes followed the Malfoys and then...Draco's eyes, an uexplainable color, from this distance, flitted up to meet hers before quickly moving back down, and in them she saw something that quite unsettled her.

She couldn't place what it was, and as the elder Malfoy dragged the younger along, they were soon out of her sight, and she realized that she had been, in her reverie, separated from her mother and Hermione. 'Great,' she thought, almost angry at Malfoy for distracting her, 'Now I'm lost.' Her mind was quickly removed from the memory of the two Malfoys, and she spent no more time on it.

Now, she just had to concentrate on finding her mother...

Author's Note: Any good? Working on next chapter, rather diligently. Gave up on trying to make Pricinpal's List or win anything this year, seeing as how my math has been a notorious disaster (I got a C!) Oh well. Hope you enjoyed, REVIEW PURDY PLEASE!