AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! I wrote this to match both the tone and the tempo of the song prompt by Woodkid, as well as the literal interpretation of trying to outrun something (namely, an abusive familial relationship).

Story Title: Outrun Your Love

School and Theme: Mahoutokoro - Trackleshanks Locksmiths: Look at those trapped in a situation due to doing evil deeds or the evil deeds of another.

Main Prompt: [Song] Run Boy Run - Woodkid

Additional Prompts: [Genre] Horror, [Quote] "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." Nicholos Machiavelli

Year: Two

Wordcount: 2885

Thud.

It was supposed to be just a jog. Quidditch practice had been cancelled for the week and he'd just wanted a way to burn off some adrenaline. It wasn't like he was out of shape, and the path he'd chosen that looped through the Forbidden Forest wasn't unfamiliar, but he still found himself out of breath.

Thud.

The collision between the sole of his foot and the ground shook him to his core. Over and over again, each impact felt like a curse being hurled at him. They might as well have been.

Thud.

He'd started his jog at a fairly relaxed pace, going for distance, more than for speed. As soon as he'd lost sight of the castle, though, he'd felt the damp air of the forest seep into his lungs and he'd begun running in time with his heartbeat. It kept getting faster and faster—as though life itself was running away from him.

Thud.

Glancing around, he noticed—without surprise—that he was unfamiliar with his surroundings. The path's start and end never changed, but the students who used it swore up and down that the trees would rearrange themselves when no one was watching. Every time, it was different. An old, childish part of him balked at the idea of going deeper into unknown territory, but he laughed at his own fear and kept running. Turning back now would only anger the forest and make his run even longer.

He was past the point of no return.

The trees around him twisted and gnarled at all the wrong angles. They looked like cloaked figures if he squinted, and his pulse jumped in his throat. He knew he was alone and that the solitary nature of this path was why he'd chosen it, but his mind helpfully conjured the memories he usually associated with that phrase.

Past the point of no return. That was the one thought that had managed to surface in his mind the first time Lucius had hit him. Draco had been young and stupid back then, and he'd tried to intervene when he'd found his father throwing hexes at a house elf. Lucius had smacked him across the side of the face with his cane, not even an ounce of remorse in his expression. That had been the moment that Draco had first realized he was in too deep.

It was his father, after all. His father, who loved him, who provided for him, and who had amassed so much political power over the years that even Fudge feared him. He loved his father—what child wouldn't? But the threats and the fear had become a part of their dynamic long before Draco had had the strength to stop it, and it was far too ingrained to ever be filtered out now.

In too deep.

Fear was a form of love, right? His father had always said that it was better to be feared than loved, but the petrified awe he'd seen in Lucius' face the first time he'd faced the Dark Lord was a mix of both. That mix, he thought, was what his father had always strove to get from him. A blend of loyal devotion and terrified obedience.

Beneath his feet, he registered the squish of mud, but it felt like decaying flesh. He knew exactly how it would feel to step on a rotting body—the way the skin would be slick against his bare feet, the way the muscle would resist in rigor mortis but then give way to the sludge of rotten internal organs. It was a recurring nightmare of his, but he had no way to stop it.

His heart thudded maniacally in his chest like the beat of a war drum and he struggled to match it with his own aching legs. The air felt cold and unforgiving now, like the plants themselves had sized him up and knew exactly what he'd done. What he was about to do.

This was ridiculous. He knew—he knew—that the trees were not sentient and that, even if they were, they wouldn't give a single knut what he'd done in the human world. To them, the political and social balance of society was nothing. But he felt their threat regardless, and he wondered just how much the forest knew about him or if it knew what he was.

Fucking stuck was what he was. He knew there were at least ten letters sitting in his nightstand back in his dorm, all signed in his mother's perfect script. Always his mother's. They were orders from his father, wrapped in a mother's love so that he might actually open them and read them. Signed 'love you, Mother,' so that he would remember exactly what he stood to lose if he made a mistake.

The path was narrowing. Draco was certain that he didn't remember this part of the trail, but he wasn't shocked that it had rearranged itself again. He narrowed his eyes and kept running, keeping to the rhythm of his heart even when it drove him nearly into a sprint. Trees were closing in on either side, reaching for him like the pale, deadly hands that had held his face when he'd taken the mark. Cold and clammy, with the power to snap his neck if he struggled too hard against the pain.

A branch caught his shoulder, then his side, but he kept going. Overhead, the cover of leaves thickened to the point that it drowned out most of the light, casting shadows and darkness where there should have been sun. It looked… menacing. Still, he pushed on. Draco Malfoy was many things, but he was not afraid of the dark.

That was a bloody lie. He was terrified of the Manor—of his home—and the people that lurked in its shadows now. He was scared of the Death Eaters—or rather, the other Death Eaters, now that he was one of them—and he was more than scared of the Dark Lord. Everyone in their right mind was scared of him and what he could do, but no one seemed to be wound up as tightly in that power as Lucius Malfoy.

The ground turned to gravel, and it should have come as a relief, but it didn't. The jagged little rocks felt like teeth. His mind offered the image of mass graves and of huge fields of bones with paths made of human molars pulled from dying skulls. Shuddering, he pushed that thought out, but another replaced it. The idea of the earth itself opening its jaws and tearing him apart, limb from limb. He wasn't sure which was more disturbing.

When had it become Lucius instead of Father? Probably around the time he'd taken the mark, he thought, though it was hard to say. They'd lost a little bit of that closeness, even if it was formal closeness, in the turmoil that had led up to that night. Draco could still remember protesting it and arguing alongside his mother that it was too soon or that it wasn't practical for him to take it while he was still at Hogwarts.

His father would have none of it, though. He'd pulled Draco aside into his office and locked the door, gently reminding him that his mother's life was at stake. He reminded Draco of the power that the Dark Lord possessed—though his eyes gleamed at the mention of nonverbal killing curses, while Draco's closed in a grimace—and he reminded him of how indebted they were to their Master.

Their Master. Lucius had already started lumping Draco in with the rest of the Dark Lord's followers. He shivered, half at the cold and half at the memory, but couldn't outrun it. His father's words were still there, sitting on the edge of his consciousness, like his mind was a lake that could be fished in for sport.

If you loved me, you would accept the gift that's been offered.

I love you, but I would love you more if you stopped acting like a petulant child about this.

You understand that you're putting both your mother and I at risk by even arguing with me.

Imagine what would happen if He heard about your reluctance.

Do you want me to be killed? Do you want to be an orphan with the responsibility of two deaths hanging over your head? Is that what you want, Draco?

That wasn't what he wanted. He wasn't sure what he wanted, honestly, but he knew that that wasn't it. His mother would not die, and he would not be the reason that she died. What kind of son willingly chose the option that put his parents in mortal danger? He'd had no choice, and yet… And yet, it had been a choice as far as anyone else was concerned.

Even in his most childish dreams, he didn't imagine being a turncoat—for either side. The Light would take one look at the mark burned into his forearm and cast him out. None of his information, if he even had any, would be trusted. And that was assuming he could get his parents out. Even if he did somehow manage to get them to safety, the Ministry would come for his father like a pack of rabid wolves. Lucius had done so much… It would be easy for them to get him a life sentence in Azkaban.

And for the Dark side, well, he was kind of already a turncoat. He didn't want to be, though, and he knew he hadn't been fully accepted into their twisted little group, even if he had the mark, because they all thought he was weak. He didn't have the stomach for murder and his fear at the reality of war looked like cowardice through their eyes. He was Dark, but he wasn't Dark enough.

Ahead, he caught sight of something familiar, finally. It was a dam, built by Hollywags or some other forest creature, but long abandoned now. He breathed a small sigh of relief at the sight of something he recognized, even if it was just an ugly heap of sticks, but as he got closer, he saw it start to move.

They were snakes, he realized, and the shock of it was enough to stop him in his tracks. His body heaved and throbbed as it finally had a chance to register the insane half-sprint Draco had been pushing himself through for the last kilometer at least. He couldn't look away from the dam, though.

It was writhing and hissing in all the wrong ways. The noises were a couple octaves too low and they felt disingenuine, like it was a group of humans doing impressions of snakes rather than the snakes themselves. He wondered idly why they were all massed there or what they could possibly be doing.

Slowly, they began to disband. Draco felt like he was watching a sacred sort of ritual that the human world never got to see until he realized what they'd been covering.

It was a body.

He grimaced as the smell hit him, just as potent and nauseating as the first tortured Muggle corpse he'd had to 'take care of'. It was rotting and full of holes where the snakes had burrowed into the flesh, making caves and laying eggs between the body's ribs. A leg was missing from one side, cut in the middle of the shin bone, but it wasn't the limb itself that caught his attention.

The cut was clean. It hadn't been made by an animal or a creature and even a centaur's weapon would have left marks. A wizard had done this, he realized, and he choked on the thought. Someone had done this to another human being and clearly hadn't felt any guilt about it.

Would Lucius have been able to do that?

Would Draco?

Considering the way his body was trembling and dry heaving at the sight, he thought not. The mark on his arm said otherwise, though, and he shuddered at the realization that this might be where one of the Dark Lord's minions had decided to 'take care of' a Muggle's body.

Suddenly, the forest didn't feel nearly as empty as it should have.

Draco left the body, certain beyond belief that the path would rearrange itself before he could get anyone else out there and that telling a Professor would only draw more attention to him than his father wanted. They would question him, and they would find the mark. Instead, he willed his body back into a run and told himself over and over again that he had to be nearing the end of the trail. He had to, didn't he?

There were eyes on him. Logically, he knew that he was being ridiculous and that the forest was full of creatures that were probably quite interested in whatever had disturbed their peace. But physically, he knew it wasn't the forest creatures. The eyes were human, and they knew.

He ran for his life.

Voices called to him through the trees, echoing off the branches and curling around Draco's legs. They sounded like parents—not his, but somebody's. He pushed himself faster, sprinting now and ignoring the way every muscle in his body burned at the pace. The whole forest was reaching for him now, grabbing at his clothes with twisting vines and trying to trip him with boulders or fallen trees.

He ran, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if Lucius would be sad if he died. It seemed like such an odd thing to focus on, but his mind demanded something other than the terror that was behind him. Would his father even care? Fear and love were so innately intertwined and his father certainly didn't fear him…

Death felt like a reality, at that point. He wasn't sure when his own body had begun to reek of decay the way the corpse had back at the stream but he gagged on the smell of it now. He ran, feeling the stiffness in his limbs and wondering if it was rigor mortis setting in.

He caught sight of the castle at last, but it strangely didn't bring any comfort. His legs kept sprinting, convinced he was in mortal danger, but even once he'd cleared the tree line and the branches seemed to go back to their original places, he didn't feel relieved.

He stopped, actually, halfway between the castle and the forest. Halfway… He was always halfway something or other—halfway dark, halfway evil… just once, he wanted to be halfway decent.

Against his better judgement, his eyes turned back to the forest. It didn't look threatening anymore, but he knew better. And yet, a part of him still considered going back into it. It would end his struggle, maybe.

But even as he looked, he knew he wouldn't. He was a coward, first of all, and he was in too deep to back out of whatever plans Lucius and the Dark Lord had in store for him now. Besides, his mother's life was still on the line and he loved her. And he feared his father, which was kind of the same thing.

He shivered, feeling the chill from the sweat clinging to his skin. Corpses felt clammy and wet to the touch too. Raising a finger, he pressed just beneath his ribcage and waited for the telltale resistance and give of decaying flesh.

The pain grounded him. His body was alive, even if he didn't feel like he was, and that was something at least. Breathing hard, he tore his gaze away from the forest and caught sight of someone sitting beneath one of the larger trees. Green eyes, dark hair, and that bloody familiar scar…

Of course it had to be Potter. The Gryffindor didn't look up or even seem to know that he was there, but Draco still reached reflexively for his left forearm. Even through his sleeve, he felt the mark's presence. A low, buzzing ache that never left him even in his happiest moments.

For a split second, Potter had looked like salvation. Draco had actually considered walking up to the boy and trying to explain himself, trying to beg for forgiveness or for acceptance into the Light side. His forearm burned, though, and he knew it was too late.

In too deep.

He was stuck—bound, in part, by the actions of his parents but also by his own horrible choices. Draco may not have dug this hole for himself, but he'd certainly jumped into it feet-first. The mark was proof of that.

Gritting his teeth, Draco schooled his expression into his typical glare and passed Potter without a word of acknowledgement. Tomorrow was another day and maybe then, he would know what to do, but for right now, he could smell the stench of decay on his clothes and there were small tears in his clothes where the branches had grabbed at him.

For now, he could only shower the sweat away and pray that the orders from his father that were still hiding in his nightstand would be merciful. For now, he felt that twist of fear in his stomach at the thought of his father, and he called it love.

For now, he was stuck.