*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
As Draco stumbled out of the dungeons in a delirium; bruised, battered, and bleeding, his mind wandered. Why did he let his father effect him like that? Was he just weak? Was he wrong to not want to go over to the Dark Arts? Was he just going out of his mind? But there was one question that stood out in his blurry thoughts like a diamond in a coal bin: *What did he do to deserve this?*
His father's words came back to him, loud and clear as if Lucius was standing right next to him, yelling the taunts and stinging insults in his ear:
* You won't be a man? Well, at least you're not trying to be something you aren't for once.*
*You are just a pathetic boy. Get out of my sight.*
He then jumped to hear the study door, two floors, below him, slam. Draco panicked---what if it was his father?---, and then heard a small voice in his head say,
*Run.now, while he can't hurt you!*
So, Draco took off, not really knowing where he was going; his white-blonde hair had combined with the blood from the cut on his forehead when he had probably hit the wall or desk or something, making it look red, like that girl's---Ginny's, was it?---hair. He then saw a whir of light, and suddenly found himself kissing the marble floor in the parlor. He stood again, and ran to the blazing fireplace where he threw some Floo powder into the fireplace, but didn't specify a location.
He saw many fireplaces go by, but finally found a dark alleyway of some kind. He launched himself out and fell by a brick wall, gasping. He brought his knees to his battered chest and shivered, despite the heat in the alleyway in which he was sitting while he tried to clear his head, which was screaming in protest and threatened to black out if he did anymore traveling.
"Are you all right?"
Draco's head flew up to see a young woman standing in front of him.
He gave her a cold, furious glare that spoke for itself; it seemed to say, "Does it *look* like I'm alright?"
She stepped back. "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you up---"
She reached out towards him. Even though Draco looked and felt like hell, his reflexes were still lightening-sharp. After the years of being abused by his father, he didn't trust anyone, which explained why he quickly stood and moved away from the woman. He then doubled over in pain from his side; it felt like he had broken at least two of his ribs.
The woman's eyes took in his bloodied white muggle t-shirt he was wearing, the bruises on his back that were apparent through the thin shirt, the dried blood that made a angry, dark line from the crook of his arm to his palm where he had cut himself when he knocked over the wineglass, and his gaunt, pale features that were darkened by the bruises that were starting to form on his face.
Instead of being shocked, the woman said, in a voice that one would use to calm a frightened animal, "It's alright. No one's going to hurt you now."
Draco suddenly thought of his mother, who was still trapped in the confines of the Malfoy Manor, miles away. How in the hell was he going to get back to her before his father did?
He started to ask to use her fireplace, but thought of a better question somewhere between his brain and his vocal chords: "Where am I?"
"You're in West Hogsmede. Do you know how you got here?" She asked in the same voice as before.
"Floo Powder," Draco muttered.
"Ah. Well, the least I can do is clean that cut for you and see how badly you're hurt. I'm not about to let a hurt boy wander around the streets of West Hogsmede by himself."
Draco was longing to argue that he wasn't a boy anymore, that he was turning seventeen in a few months, but it came out as a cough.
"Come on. My house is just over there. My name's Megan Woodsworth, by the way, but please call me Meg. What's your name?"
"Draco Malfoy. I guess you can call me Draco," he said, and allowed himself to be led a few doors down to a small muggle-style townhouse.
She unlocked the door and let him into the small house. It was sparsely furnished, and the few pieces of furniture that were there seemed to have been bought second-hand, but Draco didn't seem to mind this at all.
She suddenly turned to him and whispered, "My two sons are light sleepers, please do try and not make too much noise."
He nodded to show he understood, and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, where Meg gestured to the small wooden table.
"Go sit while I find my first-aid kit. I'll be with you in a minute."
Draco sat and looked around the small room. The fireplace seemed to take up most of the room, but there were still a few cabinets for plates and such.
A mix of bright colors caught his eye, and he saw on one of the walls some pieces of parchment with bright colors resembling different scenes. It wasn't high-class work or anything, so Draco decided that her two sons had drawn them. He went over to the wall and examined the parchments.
A few were large scribbles that slightly resembled a house, a broomstick, and a woman, and had the name 'Billy' written neatly in red ink on the bottom corner of each one. The others were pretty much the same depictions, but had slightly more form to them, and even had a dark-haired man in a few of them. Those were marked 'Dante' in the same neat, red handwriting.
"My two sons drew those."
Draco jumped and spun around to see Meg standing there with a white box in one hand and her wand in another. She set both down and joined Draco at the other end of the kitchen. She gestured to the portraits.
"Dante's my oldest, he's nearly eight. Billy is five. How old are you?" She suddenly asked.
"Almost seventeen."
She smiled, and then had a faraway look in her eyes. "I remember what it was like to be almost seventeen."
She then shook herself loose from the clutching reverie and looked at him. "Come back to the table so I can fix your arm."
Draco obediently complied, and stuck out his arm. Meg put a stinging substance on it, and prodded it with her wand. It stopped bleeding, and the wound already looked a week old. Draco just absent-mindedly looked at the short, deep gash on his bicep. It would help greatly if everything would stop spinning. A big bottle of Brandywine would be nice. Maybe two. He shook the thought out of his head. He was not going to take to the bottle. His father had, and it had destroyed him.
"Are your ribs broken, is that why you were favoring your side earlier?" She asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Draco shrugged. *Wouldn't be the first time, and after this escapade, it definitely won't be the last.* "Might be."
"Lift up your shirt," Meg commanded. Draco did so, thinking that if their conversation were taken out of context, it would be so wrong on so many levels.
Meg gently traced the outline of one of his ribs and said, "Yep. Just as I thought. Draco, you broke a rib."
*Damn it. That'll take a long time to heal, even with magic. Time I don't have. Father will surely be taking my departure out on Mum now. I have to stop him.*
He hastily pulled down his shirt and said, "Well, Meg, it was nice meeting you, but I really must be going now."
Meg didn't get up, but said, "Where are you going to go?"
He said, "Back to where I came from."
"Where someone's hurting you?" Meg said, more as a statement than a question.
Draco's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about me."
"That's right, I don't. But I do know I can't let you go back to somewhere where someone is beating the shit out of you for no reason."
"You don't understand! He'll kill my mother---"
"Who will? Who will kill your mother?" Meg said quietly.
Draco backed up against the wall, breathing heavily. This wasn't happening. He was not sitting in some stranger's house, answering extremely personal questions that he did not want to answer! He'd rush out the door, if the goddamned room would stop spinning. He felt the walls of this woman's kitchen start closing in on him, and he felt claustrophobic.
Meanwhile, Meg had gone back to her 'calming the animals' voice.
"Draco, you're sick and delusional. I'm only trying to help you, but you need to sit down. You're in what the muggle doctors call shock. If you don't calm down, you're going to pass out."
Suddenly, Draco resented this woman who could sit at her own table and tell him what was going on inside *his* head. *She* didn't have to face her abusive father so her father would lay off her mother. *She* didn't have to worry about being shut up in one of the dungeon cells in the very bottom of the basement one day when she was least expecting it.
"You don't understand.You don't understand." he kept murmuring. The walls shut him inside them and floor rose to meet him very suddenly.
*~*~*~*~*~*
As Draco stumbled out of the dungeons in a delirium; bruised, battered, and bleeding, his mind wandered. Why did he let his father effect him like that? Was he just weak? Was he wrong to not want to go over to the Dark Arts? Was he just going out of his mind? But there was one question that stood out in his blurry thoughts like a diamond in a coal bin: *What did he do to deserve this?*
His father's words came back to him, loud and clear as if Lucius was standing right next to him, yelling the taunts and stinging insults in his ear:
* You won't be a man? Well, at least you're not trying to be something you aren't for once.*
*You are just a pathetic boy. Get out of my sight.*
He then jumped to hear the study door, two floors, below him, slam. Draco panicked---what if it was his father?---, and then heard a small voice in his head say,
*Run.now, while he can't hurt you!*
So, Draco took off, not really knowing where he was going; his white-blonde hair had combined with the blood from the cut on his forehead when he had probably hit the wall or desk or something, making it look red, like that girl's---Ginny's, was it?---hair. He then saw a whir of light, and suddenly found himself kissing the marble floor in the parlor. He stood again, and ran to the blazing fireplace where he threw some Floo powder into the fireplace, but didn't specify a location.
He saw many fireplaces go by, but finally found a dark alleyway of some kind. He launched himself out and fell by a brick wall, gasping. He brought his knees to his battered chest and shivered, despite the heat in the alleyway in which he was sitting while he tried to clear his head, which was screaming in protest and threatened to black out if he did anymore traveling.
"Are you all right?"
Draco's head flew up to see a young woman standing in front of him.
He gave her a cold, furious glare that spoke for itself; it seemed to say, "Does it *look* like I'm alright?"
She stepped back. "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you up---"
She reached out towards him. Even though Draco looked and felt like hell, his reflexes were still lightening-sharp. After the years of being abused by his father, he didn't trust anyone, which explained why he quickly stood and moved away from the woman. He then doubled over in pain from his side; it felt like he had broken at least two of his ribs.
The woman's eyes took in his bloodied white muggle t-shirt he was wearing, the bruises on his back that were apparent through the thin shirt, the dried blood that made a angry, dark line from the crook of his arm to his palm where he had cut himself when he knocked over the wineglass, and his gaunt, pale features that were darkened by the bruises that were starting to form on his face.
Instead of being shocked, the woman said, in a voice that one would use to calm a frightened animal, "It's alright. No one's going to hurt you now."
Draco suddenly thought of his mother, who was still trapped in the confines of the Malfoy Manor, miles away. How in the hell was he going to get back to her before his father did?
He started to ask to use her fireplace, but thought of a better question somewhere between his brain and his vocal chords: "Where am I?"
"You're in West Hogsmede. Do you know how you got here?" She asked in the same voice as before.
"Floo Powder," Draco muttered.
"Ah. Well, the least I can do is clean that cut for you and see how badly you're hurt. I'm not about to let a hurt boy wander around the streets of West Hogsmede by himself."
Draco was longing to argue that he wasn't a boy anymore, that he was turning seventeen in a few months, but it came out as a cough.
"Come on. My house is just over there. My name's Megan Woodsworth, by the way, but please call me Meg. What's your name?"
"Draco Malfoy. I guess you can call me Draco," he said, and allowed himself to be led a few doors down to a small muggle-style townhouse.
She unlocked the door and let him into the small house. It was sparsely furnished, and the few pieces of furniture that were there seemed to have been bought second-hand, but Draco didn't seem to mind this at all.
She suddenly turned to him and whispered, "My two sons are light sleepers, please do try and not make too much noise."
He nodded to show he understood, and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, where Meg gestured to the small wooden table.
"Go sit while I find my first-aid kit. I'll be with you in a minute."
Draco sat and looked around the small room. The fireplace seemed to take up most of the room, but there were still a few cabinets for plates and such.
A mix of bright colors caught his eye, and he saw on one of the walls some pieces of parchment with bright colors resembling different scenes. It wasn't high-class work or anything, so Draco decided that her two sons had drawn them. He went over to the wall and examined the parchments.
A few were large scribbles that slightly resembled a house, a broomstick, and a woman, and had the name 'Billy' written neatly in red ink on the bottom corner of each one. The others were pretty much the same depictions, but had slightly more form to them, and even had a dark-haired man in a few of them. Those were marked 'Dante' in the same neat, red handwriting.
"My two sons drew those."
Draco jumped and spun around to see Meg standing there with a white box in one hand and her wand in another. She set both down and joined Draco at the other end of the kitchen. She gestured to the portraits.
"Dante's my oldest, he's nearly eight. Billy is five. How old are you?" She suddenly asked.
"Almost seventeen."
She smiled, and then had a faraway look in her eyes. "I remember what it was like to be almost seventeen."
She then shook herself loose from the clutching reverie and looked at him. "Come back to the table so I can fix your arm."
Draco obediently complied, and stuck out his arm. Meg put a stinging substance on it, and prodded it with her wand. It stopped bleeding, and the wound already looked a week old. Draco just absent-mindedly looked at the short, deep gash on his bicep. It would help greatly if everything would stop spinning. A big bottle of Brandywine would be nice. Maybe two. He shook the thought out of his head. He was not going to take to the bottle. His father had, and it had destroyed him.
"Are your ribs broken, is that why you were favoring your side earlier?" She asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Draco shrugged. *Wouldn't be the first time, and after this escapade, it definitely won't be the last.* "Might be."
"Lift up your shirt," Meg commanded. Draco did so, thinking that if their conversation were taken out of context, it would be so wrong on so many levels.
Meg gently traced the outline of one of his ribs and said, "Yep. Just as I thought. Draco, you broke a rib."
*Damn it. That'll take a long time to heal, even with magic. Time I don't have. Father will surely be taking my departure out on Mum now. I have to stop him.*
He hastily pulled down his shirt and said, "Well, Meg, it was nice meeting you, but I really must be going now."
Meg didn't get up, but said, "Where are you going to go?"
He said, "Back to where I came from."
"Where someone's hurting you?" Meg said, more as a statement than a question.
Draco's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about me."
"That's right, I don't. But I do know I can't let you go back to somewhere where someone is beating the shit out of you for no reason."
"You don't understand! He'll kill my mother---"
"Who will? Who will kill your mother?" Meg said quietly.
Draco backed up against the wall, breathing heavily. This wasn't happening. He was not sitting in some stranger's house, answering extremely personal questions that he did not want to answer! He'd rush out the door, if the goddamned room would stop spinning. He felt the walls of this woman's kitchen start closing in on him, and he felt claustrophobic.
Meanwhile, Meg had gone back to her 'calming the animals' voice.
"Draco, you're sick and delusional. I'm only trying to help you, but you need to sit down. You're in what the muggle doctors call shock. If you don't calm down, you're going to pass out."
Suddenly, Draco resented this woman who could sit at her own table and tell him what was going on inside *his* head. *She* didn't have to face her abusive father so her father would lay off her mother. *She* didn't have to worry about being shut up in one of the dungeon cells in the very bottom of the basement one day when she was least expecting it.
"You don't understand.You don't understand." he kept murmuring. The walls shut him inside them and floor rose to meet him very suddenly.
*~*~*~*~*~*