A/N: This is my first fic so if you flame me bad enough I might crawl into a dark corner and hide, doomed never to write again. Or, if the worst comes to the worst, I may actually write another chapter, so be careful.
Disclaimer: I guess, considering I am not JK Rowling, that I don't own the world of Harry Potter, any characters or situations depicted in the books. I do however probably own my own story. Probably.
Conflict of Self
Chapter 1-Contemplation
Life. What was it worth? Draco honestly couldn't answer. Fighting away the tears, he stared at the roof of his bed, comforted only by the fact that it would all, someday, end. He was sick of the pressure, sick of the lies, sick of the Malfoy legacy. All his father ever talked about was what it meant to be a Malfoy. Respect this, learn to hate that, destroy the other. He couldn't take it. Requirements, standards, promises.
Work. What was the point? Again, the answer eluding him, he bit his lip in an attempt to avoid screaming out in his frustration. This was a lost battle. All that anyone wanted for him was success. Didn't they think he had thoughts, emotions or ideals of his own? All anyone worried about was results. Take Snape. All he ever said was asphodel this, boomslang skin that and his various condescending observations about the work of the Sytherins and, more often than not, the Gryffindors who they shared classes with.
School, grades, success.
Love. Did it even exist? This was tiring. Draco couldn't think anymore. Drifting off to sleep, he let his subconscious mull over the situation. He needed support. Not to say that he wasn't mentally stable. Not even that he was emotionally frail. It wasn't, in fact, as he had earlier thought, a requirement. Requirements were things that his father enforced, not things that he wanted. And Draco did want. Not just wanted, he lusted. After what, he did not know, but he felt the tugging at his heart. The cold-hearted slytherin, death warmed up, spoilt brat Malfoy, had emotions. Strong emotions.
"Don't be stupid Draco," he thought to himself "Love is the undoing of men. Love is the bane of the powerful. Love does not exist," That was what Lucius, his all-knowing, all-powerful father, had told him.
Do you really believe him? Him for crying out loud! He doesn't even call you by name, Draco. Draco is your name. Boy, son, ingrate? No. Draco. He doesn't deserve your respect.
"No!" he yelled, suddenly jolted from the world of unconscious bliss, breaking out in a cold sweat. He couldn't let himself think that. Lucius was his father. Draco was his only begotten son.
Father? Does he deserve that title? That brat that pretended to raise you from birth. Look at the way he's treated you and Narcissa.
"Shut Up!"
Draco was losing the battle with his mind. He wanted to just forget, to stop playing host to this insanity. That wasn't going to happen. His subconscious kept hammering away at him, throwing everything it had at him.
What has he ever done for you? He'd sell you to Voldemort if he had to.
"No!"
I suppose your right on that one. No, He wouldn't sell you to Voldemort. He'd give you. Your adoring, loving "father" would feed you to Voldemort given half an ounce of chance.
By this time, most of the Dormitory had been woken by the shouting. Drawing the curtains violently, he snarled at those around him. What were they looking at?
A shell of a man Draco. And you know whose fault that is don't you?
"I've had enough," he muttered in frustration, "I don't need this!"
I know you don't. You know you don't. I understand you Draco.
Draco. How good it was to hear his name. The voice, soothing, comforting, almost, he dared to contemplate, loving.
"Who are you?"
The voice in his head just laughed. One part of him wanted out of this argument, the other part was promoting it.
I thought you'd know. I thought you'd understand. I am you. You are me. We are one.
We? Draco was loving it. Someone felt for him. Even if it was himself, it was a start. A small step in the right direction, but a step, nonetheless. He was stuck at a crossing of roads. Dare he immerse himself in the self-loving Malfoy that was his daily façade? Or should he turn and run, like the broken little Draco that inhabited this shell? He was lost. The quest to find himself was going nowhere. Poor boy. If he didn't understand his own feelings then it would be one up-hill struggle to force them upon someone else.
Disclaimer: I guess, considering I am not JK Rowling, that I don't own the world of Harry Potter, any characters or situations depicted in the books. I do however probably own my own story. Probably.
Conflict of Self
Chapter 1-Contemplation
Life. What was it worth? Draco honestly couldn't answer. Fighting away the tears, he stared at the roof of his bed, comforted only by the fact that it would all, someday, end. He was sick of the pressure, sick of the lies, sick of the Malfoy legacy. All his father ever talked about was what it meant to be a Malfoy. Respect this, learn to hate that, destroy the other. He couldn't take it. Requirements, standards, promises.
Work. What was the point? Again, the answer eluding him, he bit his lip in an attempt to avoid screaming out in his frustration. This was a lost battle. All that anyone wanted for him was success. Didn't they think he had thoughts, emotions or ideals of his own? All anyone worried about was results. Take Snape. All he ever said was asphodel this, boomslang skin that and his various condescending observations about the work of the Sytherins and, more often than not, the Gryffindors who they shared classes with.
School, grades, success.
Love. Did it even exist? This was tiring. Draco couldn't think anymore. Drifting off to sleep, he let his subconscious mull over the situation. He needed support. Not to say that he wasn't mentally stable. Not even that he was emotionally frail. It wasn't, in fact, as he had earlier thought, a requirement. Requirements were things that his father enforced, not things that he wanted. And Draco did want. Not just wanted, he lusted. After what, he did not know, but he felt the tugging at his heart. The cold-hearted slytherin, death warmed up, spoilt brat Malfoy, had emotions. Strong emotions.
"Don't be stupid Draco," he thought to himself "Love is the undoing of men. Love is the bane of the powerful. Love does not exist," That was what Lucius, his all-knowing, all-powerful father, had told him.
Do you really believe him? Him for crying out loud! He doesn't even call you by name, Draco. Draco is your name. Boy, son, ingrate? No. Draco. He doesn't deserve your respect.
"No!" he yelled, suddenly jolted from the world of unconscious bliss, breaking out in a cold sweat. He couldn't let himself think that. Lucius was his father. Draco was his only begotten son.
Father? Does he deserve that title? That brat that pretended to raise you from birth. Look at the way he's treated you and Narcissa.
"Shut Up!"
Draco was losing the battle with his mind. He wanted to just forget, to stop playing host to this insanity. That wasn't going to happen. His subconscious kept hammering away at him, throwing everything it had at him.
What has he ever done for you? He'd sell you to Voldemort if he had to.
"No!"
I suppose your right on that one. No, He wouldn't sell you to Voldemort. He'd give you. Your adoring, loving "father" would feed you to Voldemort given half an ounce of chance.
By this time, most of the Dormitory had been woken by the shouting. Drawing the curtains violently, he snarled at those around him. What were they looking at?
A shell of a man Draco. And you know whose fault that is don't you?
"I've had enough," he muttered in frustration, "I don't need this!"
I know you don't. You know you don't. I understand you Draco.
Draco. How good it was to hear his name. The voice, soothing, comforting, almost, he dared to contemplate, loving.
"Who are you?"
The voice in his head just laughed. One part of him wanted out of this argument, the other part was promoting it.
I thought you'd know. I thought you'd understand. I am you. You are me. We are one.
We? Draco was loving it. Someone felt for him. Even if it was himself, it was a start. A small step in the right direction, but a step, nonetheless. He was stuck at a crossing of roads. Dare he immerse himself in the self-loving Malfoy that was his daily façade? Or should he turn and run, like the broken little Draco that inhabited this shell? He was lost. The quest to find himself was going nowhere. Poor boy. If he didn't understand his own feelings then it would be one up-hill struggle to force them upon someone else.