Draco Malfoy was currently moping in his bedroom, experimenting with changes of hair color. He sighed. Only blond looked good on him. And it was such a pale color, too.

It was times like this when he thought he was an albino.

Aren't you the shallow little ass, he told himself. Worrying about your hair color while Voldemort's is on the rise. While Harry Fucking Potter and Ronald Fucking Weasely and Hermione Fucking Mudblood Granger are out waiting for you so they can be heroes again, and so you can be the villian. Again. Then again, he reasoned, the Dream Team was not important compared to the rising of Voldemort.

A spasm of fear passed over his usually icy face. His father was increasingly tense; he didn't mind using his heir as a punching bag he was angry, or scared. He didn't mind hurting him at all. Out of memory, his slender fingers traced lightly the blood-rimmed scar on his thigh. His father, to put it simply, scared the shit out of him. He remembered, dimly, when he cried on the day of Grandmama's death. To see her, so white, so pale, so fragile in a box scared the nine year old Malfoy heir like nothing else. His father, though, just looked at him scathingly, and said,

Malfoys don't cry, Draco. Don't you be the weakling who destroys our proud lineage. Well, that had shut him up. He had never, never, cried again. He swallowed the tears. Like a Malfoy.

But he didn't want to be a Malfoy. Or a Death Eater.

Draco, the Dark Lord doesn't share it's power. Those words had shook Draco out of his happy little world full of Crucio and Imperio like nothing else had. Words, of course, uttered by Dumbledore. But he had slowly realized it was true.
Don't you be the weakling... Every single cruel word his father had thrown at him before, every scar mark, every bruise, came whipping back at him with such force from the memory, that he staggered back to his bed. He had tried. Tried nearly everything, to gain his father's approval. He laboured long in the libraries until he could perform the Imperius, and numerous other Dark Magic Spells. But to no avail. Only that blasted Voldemort caught the elder Malfoy's attention.

He... Father didn't mean it when he said I was a failure, he didn't, he thought, gritting his teeth. What? A taunting little reply emerged. So Father didn't mean anything? The bruises from losing to Potter, the scars from the Cruciatus, the words... the words....

This was utterly stupid. He was talking to himself.

It wasn't good being at home, he realized. His father had been so furious over the hex-marks Potter and his gang had left on him, on the first day home, he spent his return in the Malfoy basement (once the dungeon), slumped and bruised from the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Wish Potter could see me now, he had thought savagely, and the smirks on Potter and his friends's faces made him ache more.

Not like it was good being at school, either. Eating with the every Gryffindor's death glare on the back of his head, and having to stare down McGonagall's imitation Dumbledore-look wadn't exactly paradise either.

Still, it was better than what he got here.

Does master Malfoy want breakfast? The timid voice of the new house-elf, Blingy, broke through his clouded thoughts.
No, it's okay. Go away, please, he said absentmindedly.
Master Malfoy, your father wants you, said Blingy, plainly terrified.

If it was at all possible, Draco turned paler.

I guess it could be worse, he reflected. His father, not realizing that it was only the middle of Christmas Break, and that he was not going to face Potter for a while, had decided to rant about how he would bring failure to the family. Blah, blah, blah.

It used to hurt him like hell. The cruel, lashing words that exited his father's voice like frip, and the spells that shot out of his wand. But Draco had developed a bit of a shield- nothing hurt a Malfoy, his father told him, and now hardly anything did, including his father. He smirked, but inside he trembled from the hate, but he withstood the insults, expletives, and snaps. He was a Malfoy. Not voluntarily, but a Malfoy. And Malfoys didn't get hurt easily. His father paused. He was unfortunately very intuitive, and Lucius stared Draco down. I see you have not been paying attention, he breathed. Draco swallowed.
I've been listening. He countered, raising a pale eybrow.
But not adhering, Draco. If you keep this rebellious teenager' act, you will be-
Be what? Draco thought. Be tortured? Be hurt? Be burned with the Dark Mark? Father, you've thrown every thing you've had against me. You destroyed my broomstick at eleven, and locked me up in my bedroom during the summer. You started cursing me when I was twelve- when you were mad at Mum, you used me. You put the Cruciatus Curse on me when I was fourteen, Christmas Vacation when Potter was a Triwizard Champion and I was not. You locked me up in the when I was fifteen, and you haven't stopped since. So now what? What can you do to me now?
You've been naught but a failure to me since the beginning. I've caught you reading Muggle books, Draco, you know that. You've never excelled in academics, or sports. You've been a useless second-placer behind Harry Potter, and since you've came to Hogwarts, Slytherin has never won the House Cup, or the Quidditch Cup. You disappoint me. And I don't like being disappointed.
Draco couldn't help but flinch.
Draco Malfoy, pay attention! Lucius barked, losing his temper. Listen! You've been useless, a shame to the Malfoy crest, ever since you entered Hogwarts. I should take you out of school, and serve you right up to the Dark Lord-
No, he thought desperately. He couldn't, he wouldn't take him out of Hogwarts. That was nearly his only haven, where he knew that an Unforgivable wouldn'tcome cracking past the wall, hitting him-

But, Draco, I won't. Since you're not academically adept at all, you need all your seven years. Down to the last couple of months. Follow me! Draco followed his father, swallowing deeply and trying to control himself. The basement. Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. Draco, though, was right about his destination. As if that was any consolation.

The heavy door of iron clanged shut, as Lucius used all of his six feet, two inches to cower his son, using the five inches he had to all his power. A little reminder, Draco. You need those desperately, don't you?

On the outside, Lucius's son looked calm, composed, dispassionate. But inwardly, he was shaking, shaking with fear, hurt and anger. Crucio Rompaer! Lucius commanded, adding on the last word from ancient Dark-Art rune books, making the curse more powerful. Too powerful.

To the dissatisfaction of Lucius, his son did not cry out in pain, pain that Lucius loved to inflict upon him... dispassionately, he watched, as his only heir struggled silently, teeth gritted, with the curse he had inflicted. Lucius tired of his heir being as icy and invincible as he wished to be- the only one that should be powerful in the Malfoy House was him. Lucius Malfoy only. He smiled a bit, though, betraying the Malfoy poker face. His son was beautiful, just like him. But he worried- he should have never adhered to Narcissa's insisting on keeping the boy at Hogwarts, for he felt that Draco was turning against him. But no, he listened and obeyed, because he was god-damned desperate to keep Narcissa with him. But she was slipping away- he could see through Narcissa's plots to drift away from the Dark Side, and betray him. He saw the revulsion in her eyes when she saw the Dark Mark on his arm.

Yes, indeed, all his attempts to please that goddamn woman had been to no avail. It was like in school- lor, he still winced at how he would beg, beg, Narcissa van Buren to come with him to the Three Broomsticks- the little pale Slytherin trying everything possible to make the popular Hufflepuff fall in love with him. But everything failed, and whenever he was angry, he saw the Narcissa part in Draco, and knew Draco would leave him too. Tenderness, love, listening didn't keep Narcissa to him. Maybe the fear and the pain would hold Lucius and Draco together. Oh, yes, it would. He saw the suffering in Draco's face, but he still did not cry out loud. God, was his son beautiful, beautiful as his mother, too perfect. He longed to sully it, to destroy it, but Draco was in a way too much like him. He wouldn't crack. So Lucius lifted his wand.

Draco went limp, blood snaking down his forehead to drip like dew over his pale eylashes, as he lay sprawled, helpless, defeated. Lucius loved the sight. His son would be to afraid to leave him, to abandon him, and he relished that. He strode away, and carefully shut the huge iron door of the basement.

Draco tried to open his eyes. But they were caked with his blood, dark read sealings. He almost gave up, before he heard Malfoys don't give up, in a tiny little voice in his head. He bolted up, before his weakness caved in on him, and the yell of anger he tried to let out dwindled to a weak moan. He collected himself as best as he could, breathing deeply.
He muttered, as bandages whipped out of his wands to cover his numerous bleeding injuries. He managed to sit up, breathing a bit to hard, to examine himself. Not too bad, he thought dispassionately. It had been worse before. But this time, Draco thought, a flickering smile on his ashen face, he had a plan.

He had gone to the basement a while back, carefully placing his Nimbus and his Invisiblity Cloak in a dark corner of the basement. He crawled, since he couldn't stand, to there, and carefully rolled on to his broom. While slipping his Invisiblity Cloak, he carefully swerved into the open window that had once fed cold, unwavering blasts of wind on to his salted wounds. Now it freed him.

Once he had escaped the basement, he swayed lightly on it, being buffeted about on the wind, before smirking, if not a bit wanly. So, Father, I'm gone. And I'm never, ever, ever coming back again. Because Malfoys don't forgive, or forget. Remember that little lesson you taught me?

He leaned forward, his Invisibility Cloak fluttering in the wind. He steered, blindly, stupidly, through the cloudy night, far away as he could. He felt old, tired, clinging stupidly to his thin stick of a broom, not even knowing where he was going. At last, though, sheer exhaustion took hold of him. So he brought his broomstick down, down, until he crashed into sweet, soft, pale snow, still covered by the Invisibility Cloak. And so he slept.