He pinched the bridge of his nose out of frustration as he stared down the unintelligible mass of words on his parchment. For fuck's sake, he was far too old for doing homework! He hadn't been in the two last years, why should take this habit up yet again?

Very annoyed, Draco Malfoy crumpled his assignment to toss it in trash bin. It was a game he liked – trying to throw thing after thing in the bin was better than doing his damned Transfiguration homework. McGonagall – the old wench, unaltered –, still liked to make her students suffer. They survived a damned war! Sure as heck they didn't need the knowledge of transfigurating a chair to a settee! They can live their life through without that lesson!

And they most certainly shouldn't need to write an essay of fifteen inches of the whole process!

He sighed and leaned back to the backrest of his cushioned, ocean green armchair, dropping his head back.

However, he resisted the urge of closing his eyes, instead, he rolled them. Yes, Draco Malfoy was fucking afraid of closing his eyes. Heck, he was terrified from closing his eyes!

Clap clap! Sometimes even he can do the 'honesty-thing.'

Not interested in self-irony, he concentrated on the grey of their low ceiling, seeking quirked cracks on it. Better than seeing a madman's red eyes in front of himself, thank you very much!

Draco shuddered, even just the memory of those eyes – which he remembered vividly. He would most probably never be able to forget them and their bearer, and the horror he – it? – caused in his life, to family and classmates.

He remembered when in the tender year of fifteen he boldly looked into those fireballs, right before his father pushed his head down only to mutter in his ear: 'show some respect'. Show some respect, right, show some respect to the sick bastard sitting in our dining room like a king on his thrones, little Draco. That's your obligation to the Malfoy name!

He snorted at his thoughts – but his rebellion meant nothing now.

It was the night when he received the Dark Mark and learned a special lesson: his father was right... He was to respect His Snakeness or otherwise. Of course, the or otherwise meant a right load of Cruciatus. He still shuddered whenever the dreams made him relive those moments of pure agony.

He sucked in breath through the tight lock of his teeth as he massaged his forehead, trying hard not to see that kind of hell yet again, even when he was awake.

He learned things in their company, beside the most feared Death Eaters – control of his terrible temper, humiliation and some more dark spells, not to mention, he'd perfected Legilimency. That was the only good in the mass of bad.

At first he used it with more caution than anything he was in possession of, then – after the war – he dared to sneak a peek in his mother's mind. It was the day of Lucius' trial, in the morning and Narcissa bore a stoic face throughout the morning. Draco saw the fine china tremble in her hands and counted her calming breaths, but he was sure she was on the verge of cracking.

So he checked it in her mind. Tenderly and untraceably, he let the magic flow as they locked eyes.

He saw an intense picture of his parents – one that he'd never dared to imagine. He always thought his father was heartless and ice cold; well, until seeing the moment with Lucius sobbing himself to oblivion on his mother's lap.

He immediately looked away, but he didn't know if it was shame or in embarrassment that he felt, and after that didn't try Legilimency on his mother in the next two months. Lucius still had trials, even nowadays as a lot of things were unclear to the Ministry and they took their time with observing his case, media and politic involved in the process. He was a public figure even if his shine had been tainted and even if he was a right bastard – but even know, he held control in his hands thanks to the infamous Malfoy galleons.

So he tried Legillimency once more on his mother before leaving her at home – but what he saw was enough to make him think. His father couldn't be that bad if all those were true, right?

There were pictures of tender embraces, fond, warning touches, tiny snippets that he had not noticed in the flow of the years between his parents. And he found that his father's sobbing sessions were... still in practice, whenever Lucius was allowed to go home for a mere of twenty-four hours.

Draco even found the very first memory of this in his mother's head after a little of prying. Narcissa – that time – was still bearing him under her heart, and his father – not minding her massive belly – hugged his heavily pregnant wife, with big tears rolling down on his cheeks as he muttered to the little, unborn baby Draco. His mother – being all so hormonal – cried with him out of mirth that her husband was finally back at home.

It happened on the night when his father became a Death Eater. And Lucius knew he was mistaken. Immediately.

Draco got hold of himself as he shook his thoughts out of his head. He glanced down at his engraved, gold pocket watch. It was well over midnight. Great. One more wasted time of doing nothing. Not even homework.

He snorted as he climbed in his bed, getting rid of his clothes during his stumbling to the craved bed. He tried to shut out how he was afraid to see the bloodied eyes as he got comfortable under the thick duvet of emerald green.

He didn't manage.