I have been working on this story for a good long time, now, and I thought I'd start getting some chapters up. Finally. It all started when my friends and I were talking about the inconsistencies of what makes a "mudblood"... and then this epic-length story ensued. I hope you enjoy.

Title: Monster

Setting: AU after fifth book; Hogwarts, Sixth Year

Summary: On his deathbed, Lucius Malfoy reveals a horrifying truth to his son. Its effects are far-reaching, damaging Draco's relationships, status, and even his mentality. Then, when Draco becomes an unwilling witness to murder, he is suddenly dropped in between the infamous Gryffindor Trio and the newest plan of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — a plan that will result in the destruction of everything he'd ever known. Or, perhaps, the resurrection of a part of him he'd never bothered to search for.

Disclaimer: Even though I'm really proud of this story, the characters, setting, and so on are not my creation. All credit goes to J.K. Rowling.

m.o.n.s.t.e.r

Prologue

Draco was gaping. He knew he looked foolish, but that was the last thing on his mind. "Father, you're not serious," he stuttered.

His father, however, did not answer. He was dead.

"Father," the boy said, a little more harshly. "Father, wake up! This had better be a joke!" Lucius did not stir. Narcissa, on the opposite side of the bed, silently began to cry. Draco did not notice this. His vision had narrowed until he could only see his father's face, down to its infinitesimal details: slightly sallow cheeks, indigo underneath his partially-closed eyes, and pale, creased lips. Gritting his teeth, he shoved Lucius' shoulder hard as he shouted, "It's a joke! Ha bloody ha, right?" Draco abruptly focused on his mother, though he remained oblivious to her sniffling. "Mother, he didn't mean it, did he," he demanded, rather than asked. "He was joshing."

She, however, turned away and began to sob louder, shaking her head no.

No.

No, it was not a joke.

Lucius' last words replayed in Draco's head, and he remained still for what seemed to be a very long time. An entire lifetime, in reality. He thought about it all. The time he'd stubbed his toe when he was four, the first time he'd caught a frog in the marsh behind the house, the time he chipped his tooth when he'd flown higher than his father had wanted him to and he'd been grounded for a week. Then, for a blissful, fleeting moment of time, he wondered if he also would die. Isn't that what happened when your life flashed before your eyes?

In spite of himself, his lips turned upwards and he chuckled. It was most likely from shock. After all, this was the first time Draco could remember being shocked. Utterly and completely bloody shocked. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a rush of air when his shoulders hit the cushion. His body was still shaking.

"I can't believe it," he said with an odd mixture of humour and depression. Tears began to leak out of his eyes and he stared up at the ceiling with a silly, sad smile. "I simply can't believe it."

He assumed this is what it felt like when your father told you on his death bed that your real name was Meriwether. Or that you were adopted. Or that you were some kind of monster that he had found on the street and raised as his own son. Except Draco may have preferred any of the three to this. Hell, he'd have preferred them all. Meriwether wasn't too bad, all things considered.

Narcissa coughed and sobbed harder.

Draco convulsed with incredulity. His name wasn't really Meriwether, of course, nor was he technically adopted. But he was seriously debating if he was a monster. A dictionary would say no, but Draco never was much for reading. He rather thought he was.

"Mother," he chortled, "Mother, I'm a monster." Narcissa hiccupped, blew her nose in her handkerchief, and said nothing. He, however, laughed wildly at the thought, and his tears came thick and fast, and he dropped his head in his hands, absolutely hysterical.

Above this scene hovered a QuickQuotes quill and a piece of parchment, charmed to take down Lucius' will and last testament. The very last words on the page read,

Draco, your mother is not your real mother . . . your mother's name was Margaret Baker . . . and . . . she was a Muggle . . . .

The first thing he had done, of course, was go directly to bed. He slept for sixteen hours straight, and when he woke up the next day, he found he was still merry, almost reckless. He wasn't himself, really. Draco saw no reason to bathe, to dress immaculately as he was always expected to. He shuffled to breakfast wearing a ratty set of pyjamas and mismatched slippers. His mother noticed, but said nothing, and she remained silent when he refused to study, and when he ignored summons to greet guests. Draco even pranked her one day — he had streaked mud all over his face and chest, and then jumped out of a closet as she was walking by, roaring as if he were possessed. It was the last straw when Narcissa found him on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood, both of his wrists nicely sliced up. It took her a couple of days to revive him, and when she pressed Draco for a reason, he said that he was trying to bleed all of the filth away. His eerily calm manner frightened her the most. She knew something was wrong with him, but she dreaded calling in a doctor for fear of the press. Consequently, she placed him under house arrest and constant surveillance, whether by ordering the house elves to do it or by simply watching him herself.

After about a week of this treatment, Draco began to act a bit more like himself; that is to say, he began to grow more sullen with the constant attention. When he threatened to take the life of one of the house elves by smothering him with a washrag (Draco had been bathing at the time), Narcissa decided he was well enough to be left alone.

Still, neither mentioned Lucius' last words until almost a month after his death.

It was dinner, and Draco and his mother were eating in silence. The boy finished a bite of duck, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and slammed his fist on the table. "No one told me! No one bloody told me!" he shouted. Narcissa started at his outburst, and then turned her cold eyes on him.

"Of course we didn't tell you," she sniffed at him. "We didn't tell anyone."

They didn't say another word on the subject for an additional fortnight. In fact, they started to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if Lucius were simply out on business. Draco, for one, would've been content if they never spoke of it again and he could just pretend it had never happened.

Except he had school.

He remembered that with a jolt ten days into the silence, a full month before classes began. It was to be his sixth year at Hogwarts. Had everyone found out this secret? What would his year mates think? His house? The entire school? Draco didn't even know anything about his birth mother, except her name (Margaret Baker) and her blood status (Muggle). That was all he really cared to know for the month and a half following his father's death. Once, he did note rather nastily that his mother wasn't even a mudblood, but he spared her no thoughts otherwise.

That month before school, though, he grew more curious. For instance, he wondered how his father fell in with her sort. And why did Draco's father — Merlin help him — shag her? He was a pureblood; what about his duties and upbringing? Finally, and most importantly in Draco's mind, when did he get placed with Lucius and Narcissa? Did he spend any amount of time in the muggle world? The thought made him feel nauseous.

First, he went to Narcissa to get the story. She told it very succinctly:

"Your father, during his bachelor party, indulged a bit too much and spent the evening with a woman that he met at the establishment. When he woke up the next morning, he found out she was a Muggle, so he Apparated back as fast as he could. He didn't remember to check if she was pregnant. We were married the same day."

"But how did I get here? And when?" Draco pressed.

"The muggle's younger cousin was graduating Hogwarts at the time, so she was celebrating with her family at a magical bar at the same time your father had his party. Her cousin later heard about her predicament and the rather . . . odd circumstances surrounding it. Apparently your father had sent her a letter by owl telling her he couldn't see her again, the fool. In any case, he was able to send an owl to us, relaying your existence. The muggle woman, it turns out, died shortly after she gave birth to you, and the cousin convinced her parents that it would be beneficial for you to be raised in Wizarding society. He then handed you over to us so that we could raise you properly." That last word, with a special emphasis, told Draco she wanted to say no more on the subject, so he left.

The next person he turned to . . . was no one. He didn't know who else he could ask. His father was dead and, well, so was his birth mother. Not like he would've ever searched for her.

A few days before school started, Draco became more apprehensive. He received his list of school supplies, but refused to leave the Manor to get them. Resigned and apathetic, Narcissa ordered a house elf to get the necessities while Draco stayed in bed, mindlessly playing with his Prefect badge. Funny, it didn't seem to matter to him anymore if he was a Prefect or not. He'd much rather have been himself.

Draco didn't once leave his room until the day school began. He took his meals in bed and divided the remainder of his time between napping and studying. The night before school was to start, he didn't even sleep — he just packed, unpacked, and repacked, over and over, trying to make up his mind about where he wanted to be. He didn't want to leave the security of solitude. But he didn't want to be this afraid of the world, either. The next morning, his mother left him with no decision. She blasted the door open with a simple spell and he was forced to vacate.

Reality met him at the station.

You can probably guess that school isn't going to be too fun for him, haha. Anyways, please review!