Broken
By Angel Of Music
Author's Note: The following story is not, by any means, my interpretation of what will occur in JK Rowling's books. I am simply writing this piece of the sheer interest in the couple, and the idea is nothing I believe will be affiliated with the books. This story is SLASH. If you do not like slash, please do not read this, because you will not like it. If you are exploring the world of slash as a rookie, please feel free to read ahead. I was more focused on the plot then on the actual couple of Snape/Draco, and I feel that the following story is one of passion, desire, hatred, fear, savagery, and so on. I reiterate, if you are not partial to slash PLEASE don't read on, for your benefit. Thank you for your cooperation! I hope you enjoy it.
-Angel Of Music
Chapter One: Distortion from the Average
He ran his fingers down the abridged pane of the algid window, following the shallow drops of rain with his breathtakingly pale knuckles. The perpetual showers of autumn had begun to irk at him, causing him brainless enmity. He was now rather bothered by the once-amusing storms, for it seemed that it had poured all summer and now it was creeping into the fall. He frowned as his vision was blocked by a proportional splatter, and took the moment to run a hand through his glassy, silver blonde hair. He bit his lip as he traced the streaking droplet with his eyes. Muttering softly to himself, he gave up on attempting to stare thoughtlessly into oblivion, and threw himself onto his four poster. Up heaving a great sigh, Draco Malfoy set his head on his pillow and shut his bright chrome eyes.
After a moment, without the intention of doing so, he stood sharply, allowing the thin, woven quilt to fall soundlessly from his lap. He pressed his trembling palm against his warm forehead, swiping the glittering perspiration from his brow. He deftly shook his head as he strode listlessly past a pewter-framed mirror, scoffing as his reflection hit the glass. As he slowly put a hand to the stout doorknob before him, he inclined backwards, catching his profile in the dreary reflector for a second time. He had to give himself some credit, he considered. After all, he hadn't slept in a few days, and dreariness was beginning to shine dutifully in his grim pupils. On the other hand, he rendered, he looked pretty damn good for a sleepless lug, and a small smirk tugged at his thin, ashen lips. His normal sleek, stiff hair had worn down from lack of preparation, and now thick, sterling locks rained down across his face like branches from trees. He narrowed his eyes and drew himself reluctantly from the mirror image.
It was a rather boring day in his seventeenth year, and perhaps due to his lack of sleep, a very languid day. He shook off a pang of fatigue as he sluggishly made his way down into the Slytherin common room, cursing as he tripped down the last few stairs. He blinked roughly, engaging in an attempt to speculate the morning scene; Slytherins were naturally not morning people. Well, in all fairness, Slytherins were not truly anything people. Especially Draco Malfoy.
Draco barked hellos to a few stray greeters, and pushed his way through the thick, bustling crowd. He really wasn't in the mood for social interaction; then again, was he ever? He bowed his head and shivered away the foreboding feeling that was creeping through his blood. He exited the common room roughly.
He hadn't made it very far down the dank, sparsely lit corridors when two gruff, extremely irritating voices called forth, penetrating the nearly-soothing silence with their annoying tones.
"Oy, Draco!" Draco frowned, cringing slightly.
"Ah, my two very ardent followers." Draco muttered to himself, tapping his dragon-hide boot against the cold stone floor.
"Want to wait up, then?" Questioned one of the voices again, sending another chill through Draco's bones.
"Not particularly!" He called after his disciples, stifling an enormously shrewd eye-roll. "But I'm guessing I haven't a choice?" He asked, his wit taking the better of him. Two great oafs of human beings waddled up to the sleek blonde boy in potent disarray.
"What are you talking about?" Groaned one, namely Vincent Crabbe. Draco raised his eyebrows.
"It'll do no good explaining to you." He retorted irritably. The other, Gregory Goyle, shook his head.
"So you're going for breakfast, then?" He wondered aloud, once again provoking Draco's annoyance.
"Yes," He sighed curtly, met with the familiar glutinous smirks of his large partisans. He let out a very audible exhale and continued to follow the hallway in which led to the great hall. His brief encounter with his makeshift friends could have cost him an entire day of being followed and inspected. He groaned as he thought of this. It wasn't as if Crabbe and Goyle weren't perfectly kind to him, it was simply that their kindness was more of a worship then anything. It was as if, though Draco was smaller, a few months younger, and much weaker than they, Draco was their leader; their monarch. They fed upon his very happiness, and this was what bothered the small Slytherin immensely. Sure, they were useful in frightening small first-years, but beyond that, they were simply a great nuisance. He beat his thoughts from his mind as he entered the humongous room; his destination, and proceeded to make his way towards the Slytherin table, suddenly extremely famished.
He sat as Crabbe and Goyle took their places on either side of him. He pretended to ignore this, building up his usual, visible facade of emotionless, stoic attitudes. Then, sneering at a passing Gryffindor, he watched as a barricade of swooping owls showered over the great hall, once again allowing for scattered gasps of awe. Draco was used to this action by now, yet he was uncharacteristically startled by a rather attractive one landing gracefully before him. He inhaled shortly and unfolded a small piece of parchment that had been wound with string about the owl's talon.
Mr. Malfoy,
Your detention will take place tomorrow evening at nine o'clock in the dungeons with Professor Snape. You will be assisting him in his annual cleaning of the cabinets, and should be prepared for a rather long night of wandless polishing. Please do not bring anything but a rag and a bit of elbow grease.
Sincerely,
Professor M. McGonagall.
Draco, nearly forgetting about his untimely fist fight the previous week with Ron Weasley, let out a sincerely bothered groan. He cursed out the Transfiguration teacher for giving him such a pesky punishment. Though, perhaps, he considered, it would not be so bad, for Snape seemed to go quite easy on Draco when reprimanding him. He bit his lip and stuck a stout fork into a large pile of hash browns that had most suddenly appeared on his plate.
Breakfast lately had been rather unusual. Dumbledore, whom usually accompanied the students to dine in the morning, had taken leave for a while. Ever since the war had begun, however, this was quite common, but more recently the headmaster was even more busy then he had ever been. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, required timeless assistance, and Dumbledore happened to be his favorite source of help.
The fighting had been brutal, to say the very least. Thousands of muggle-born wizards and witches had perished, and not yet had a single ally of Voldemort passed. Those whom remained neutral had also fallen, for the Dark Lord demolished nearly everything in his path. The deaths were beginning to become redundant; it was the same news every day. It was either a relative, friend, or enemy of someone or another in Hogwarts that had died. Draco was beginning to become rather sick of it.
He sighed and returned to his breakfast.
* * *
He was damp. His whole body was frigid. Something was wrong. He tried to stand, but found he could not. Darkness reigned overhead, a blanket of shadow over his trembling torso. Was it rain that made his skin so wet?
His eyes fluttered open, and he desperately searched for the source of the moisture. A placid figure stood before him, just above him, out of reach. And the character was weeping. Tears fell from his black eyes and onto Draco. The figure was enthralling. Finally finding the power within himself, Draco got to his feet.
He felt much heavier; like his legs were composed of stone. He blinked rapidly a few times, clearing the droplets of water from them, and was suddenly compelled to embrace the figure. When he had done so, he felt the person's arms wrap needingly around his waist.
It was then it began to rain heavily. Thunder clapped overhead like a sudden burst of applause, startling both Draco and the dark man. They both looked skyward, their expressions twisted into one's of remorse, then glanced back at one another. The moonlit sky was hidden beneath the seemingly sudden sheets of rain, and it was nearly impossible to see through the opaque, aphotic air. A lock of hair fell into the boy's eyes, but he did not bother to brush it aside. He was more interested in the character, whom had just turned his back to him. He put a hand upon the figure's shoulder to show his curiosity. When the strange person pivoted back, Draco took his hand.
"Who are you?" He asked, nearly inaudibly. The response did not come. Instead, the figure leaned forward and brought his lips to the boy's. Instead of crying out, or struggling to free himself, Draco pulled into the kiss, both beings struggling for control. The vivid thrashing of tongue and trading of saliva aroused the blonde boy, and a low moan escaped his throat. Wrapping his arms tighter around the figure's neck, he managed to mumble, "Please, who-what- are you?" As the character open his mouth to reply, a streak of lightening illuminated the massacre in the sky, and Draco jumped. "What?" He cried softly. He was suddenly not under the stormy horizon anymore, but perched thoughtfully on top of the highest astronomy tower in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. "An illusion..." he muttered, shutting his eyes solemnly. "It was all an illusion..." He peered out into the black evening, briefly pondering what time it was.
Draco most always came to the astronomy tower at night. Not to think, but to clear his mind of thought completely. It was the only possible thing he could do now, for since the war had begun, there had been nothing but death, hatred, prejudice, chaos and deluge. Out in the darkness, he could erase subconscious thought and focus on the placid and serene sounds of the evening. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket buzzed it's nightly song, and above, an owl hooted mournfully. A grim smile played upon Draco's lips momentarily, and he inhaled deeply, lying down.
The sky itself was enough to wipe out thought. The stars near Hogwarts were amazingly clear when the candles had died, and they reminded Draco of himself: mysterious, dark, unappreciated, lonely, imperfect, yet beautiful in their own way. The way they shone breathlessly upon the castle reminded the boy of the life he once knew, before all of the warring had begun. The days when insults were his biggest entertainment. Yet now, even bothering the Gryffindors had lost it's charm.
All he knew was that he was slowly withering into worthlessness. He had no one he could trust anymore, no one whom even cared. All of that was gone. Diminished. Lost. Hidden now amongst the stars. He just wanted to die, to end the misery, to tell the world he had given up! It would be so simple, just a quick swipe of a dagger, or an unforgivable curse to the chest...but it wasn't all as easy as it seemed. His death would mark the commencement of a series of rather unearthly, wild, and horrifying circumstances. At the moment, thinking of them was even a horrible thing. All that he knew was, if he killed himself, things would become worse. Much worse. And though he certainly would not be around to witness it, he felt sorry for all the people who would. And Draco Malfoy never felt sorry. That was simply how awful things would get. Exhaling, he turned onto his side, suddenly not very interested in the stars anymore.
"Comfortable, Mister Malfoy?" Came an icy voice. Draco's head shot forward violently, aware he was being watched.
"How long have you been there?" He asked quickly, throwing his robes over his shoulder and standing.
"I don't think you should be concerned with that, Draco, the question is, how long have you been here?"
"Since dinner." He confessed, brushing a tendril of hair from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Professor." Professor Severus Snape glared at his student sulkily. "How, if I may ask, did you know I was up here?"
"I didn't." Admitted the teacher, narrowing his eyes. "I was doing my nightly drills." He paused and looked upward. "Mister Malfoy, I believe you are already serving a detention with me tomorrow evening, is that correct?"
"Yes sir."
"Well, we wouldn't want to add an extra, now would we? Please, don't let me catch you up here again at these hours, do you hear?"
"Yes sir, thank you, sir."
"I advise you get back to your common room at once. I will assist you." Draco followed the man to the stairwell and watched as the man picked up a lit candle from the ground. Looping his index finger through the handle, Snape began, "You come here often, don't you, Mister Malfoy?" It was no use lying, Draco thought. They began to stroll soundlessly.
"Sometimes. It's an, er, enlightening area." Snape nodded, as is silently agreeing, but said nothing for a moment. They passed a portrait of a tiny man in a top hat, snoozing quietly, then a suit of Armour. They were completely speechless for a long while, but it was peaceful, not uncomfortable.
"It's the war, isn't it?" Asked Snape slowly, his cold, cruel voice still overly present. It was almost as if the professor was mocking Draco's words.
"Somewhat." Draco promised as they slowly made their way down a flight of steps. After a few turns, Snape coughed,
"I'll leave you here." And he departed. Draco entered the common room and lethargically went up to the boy's dormitory.
He sat upon his four poster, lost in apparent thought, and peered over to his dresser. Perched upon the prepossessing cherry surface was an even more attractive pewter dagger, adorned in emeralds and intertwining snakes. He idolized it for a moment, then picked it up. Rolling up his sleeve inaudibly, he brought the thin blade to his wrist and swiped.
* * *
Draco's foot was tapping, though he didn't seem to notice. It was already late afternoon, and he was itching to complete potions so that he could once again retreat to the astronomy tower. After all, it wasn't completely illegal during day time. There were only a few moments left of the class, and Snape was proposing something about gillyweed.
"I want you all to write a 3 foot essay on the potions gillyweed can be used in, due Monday." The class groaned as the bell chimed it's signature jingle. "Mister Malfoy, I'd like to see you after class, please." The entirety of the remaining students in the classroom let out stout, muffled laughter and mocking moans. Draco frowned, knowing it was not possible that he was in any sort of trouble. His thoughts drifted to the realization that it could be about his detention later that evening. Curious, he shoved "1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi" into his bag and retreated to the front of the classroom.
"Professor?"
"Mister Malfoy, I never want you up in that tower again. You must promise me you will never go there." The boy felt his jaw drop, for that place was seemingly his only refuge from the painful atrocity of life.
"Sir, but why?"
"It's a dangerous place. That's all I can say." It was true that there were no railings about the tower, but by the tone in his voice, Draco did not seem to think that Snape was speaking of heights. Not wishing to push his professor much further, he began shakily,
"Spare me, professor, you must realize that the astronomy tower is my only-"
"Yes, yes, I know that! I myself once lost myself in thought there! But if you're wise, you won't return. It's a personal matter, Mister Malfoy, and if you would please stop prying-"
"I never intended to pry, sir." He interrupted quickly. "I just mean to say that, I'm not sure there'd be any other place I could go to clear my mind." He didn't know what his teacher was playing at, but whatever it happened to be, it was pestering him. "I apologize if you thought I was being nosy."
"Well, you can't help that if you're anything like your father."
"I'm nothing like my father." He responded darkly, his eyebrows lowered and his eyes filled with malice. "Absolutely nothing."
"I beg to differ, Draco. Much like your father, you are stoic. Emotionless. It is plain."
"I'm sorry, professor, how is this relevant?"
"I'm not sure. It's simply that you and he need to find your likenesses." Pausing, he turned and began to neaten a shelf of small cauldrons behind his desk. "Have you ever seen your fathers wrists?" He pondered aloud after a moment. Contemplating this, Draco came to the realization that he could not think of a single time when he had.
"You know something, I don't really think so..." he started, disbelievingly. "No, I don't think I have- he's either wearing sleeves or cuffs, it's very peculiar if you ask me. What could be beneath the attire?"
"Scars." Snape whispered, asphyxiating a shudder. The boy stood completely rigid, attempting to take in what his professor was telling him.
"Scars?" He repeated, narrowing his eyes. The man nodded and proceeded.
"Your father and I happened to be, er, acquainted back in school. I know his habits. I followed his flaws. I tried to stop him but..." He trailed off, a look of sheer terror upon his face. Draco had never seen Snape look frightened. Bringing a palm to his forehead, he sighed, "He too was taught to avoid pain, just like you. But that doesn't mean his habits were justified, do you understand that, Mister Malfoy?" He cried, a bit more frantically then Draco thought he intended.
"Yes, sir."
"I therefore want to you roll your sleeves up and show me what is beneath them." He hesitated for a moment, but then did as he was told. Snape stared down upon the massive amount of scars that littered Draco's wrists. He shook his head. "That is very bad for you, you know?"
"I do." He replied, nodding.
"You also know that there's a potion that will quicken the healing process?" He added as he noted the dried blood covering a few of the slices.
"I did not." Draco answered, trying to look very interested, but not succeeding.
"If you wish, I will brew some for you. It will be ready by this evening's detention." The boy glanced upward, for anything to partially hide his cuts from his father would most certainly help him. His father would probably go semi-insane, really, if he had known. Anything to shorten the boy's life expectancy would truly make the man mad, for as stated earlier, the death of Draco would begin to cause anarchy.
"That would be great." He responded with a sneer.
* * *
"Good Evening, Mister Malfoy." The signature cold voice of the potions Professor came. "I've got the potion ready, if you wish." The chrome-haired boy entered the classroom sullenly. "Come." Following his teacher's voice, he blindly trailed after Snape, who led him into the private quarters, which were just beyond the classroom wall. "We cannot let anyone know that I am medically treating you. Mind, the only reason why I am defying Dumbledore is simply because I know how your father is."
"Thank you." Draco muttered, pulling his sleeves upward. Snape too rolled the sleeves of his robes up and dunked a woven cotton cloth into a sizzling cauldron of an acid green substance. He shuttered, but waited for the man to proceed.
After a moment, Snape brought the cloth to Draco's skin. "This may sting a bit." He slowly put the saturated rag upon the boys wrist as he hissed. "I told you." He silently dabbed for a moment, his gentle touch somewhat surprising the blonde. After all, his teacher was rather surly, and played his part well. But somehow, the way he was so lightly running the cloth over the boy's wrist was breathtaking. Astounding, almost. Draco inhaled shakily and watched Snape as he carefully massaged the liquid into his wounds. "How's your mother doing? Well, I trust?" The boy's bold platinum eyes widened.
"And so you haven't heard, then?"
"What, is...is she ill?" He asked softly, a distant tone of uplift in his voice.
"No, sir." The tensed muscles in Snape's jaw fell.
"I see." There was a rather uncomfortable moment of complete silence, and then Snape began coldly, "You may take the rest of this potion with you back to the dormitory. I've got a flask you can pour it in. As for the cabinets, I've cleaned them already." If Draco was astounded before, it was nothing to the surprise he felt now.
"You have?"
"Mmm." He nodded. "I just brought you here to privately speak to you about your habits, which by the way, I suggest you halt." Draco's head bobbed. "Minerva never realizes I clean the cabinets the second week of September, not the third. Here's the flask." He added, standing. For a moment, both the boy and the man stood placid. Snape began to pour the potion into the small metal bottle when Draco said nothing. "You may go now, Mister Malfoy, I think you need your sleep." Draco nodded and thanked his professor. "Draco, don't end up like your father, really."
"Why is that, sir?"
"It is a story that will be told when you are older, at a later date."
"In all do respect, professor, I am seventeen." Snape mirthlessly chuckled. The familiarity of the cackling was haunting.
"I bid you a good evening, Mister Malfoy." Draco slowly turned to depart, but suddenly recalled something.
"Professor?" Snape looked up quickly from the spot upon the floor he'd been concentrating on. "She's dead."
"Excuse me, Draco, who is?"
"My mother."
* * *
By Angel Of Music
Author's Note: The following story is not, by any means, my interpretation of what will occur in JK Rowling's books. I am simply writing this piece of the sheer interest in the couple, and the idea is nothing I believe will be affiliated with the books. This story is SLASH. If you do not like slash, please do not read this, because you will not like it. If you are exploring the world of slash as a rookie, please feel free to read ahead. I was more focused on the plot then on the actual couple of Snape/Draco, and I feel that the following story is one of passion, desire, hatred, fear, savagery, and so on. I reiterate, if you are not partial to slash PLEASE don't read on, for your benefit. Thank you for your cooperation! I hope you enjoy it.
-Angel Of Music
Chapter One: Distortion from the Average
He ran his fingers down the abridged pane of the algid window, following the shallow drops of rain with his breathtakingly pale knuckles. The perpetual showers of autumn had begun to irk at him, causing him brainless enmity. He was now rather bothered by the once-amusing storms, for it seemed that it had poured all summer and now it was creeping into the fall. He frowned as his vision was blocked by a proportional splatter, and took the moment to run a hand through his glassy, silver blonde hair. He bit his lip as he traced the streaking droplet with his eyes. Muttering softly to himself, he gave up on attempting to stare thoughtlessly into oblivion, and threw himself onto his four poster. Up heaving a great sigh, Draco Malfoy set his head on his pillow and shut his bright chrome eyes.
After a moment, without the intention of doing so, he stood sharply, allowing the thin, woven quilt to fall soundlessly from his lap. He pressed his trembling palm against his warm forehead, swiping the glittering perspiration from his brow. He deftly shook his head as he strode listlessly past a pewter-framed mirror, scoffing as his reflection hit the glass. As he slowly put a hand to the stout doorknob before him, he inclined backwards, catching his profile in the dreary reflector for a second time. He had to give himself some credit, he considered. After all, he hadn't slept in a few days, and dreariness was beginning to shine dutifully in his grim pupils. On the other hand, he rendered, he looked pretty damn good for a sleepless lug, and a small smirk tugged at his thin, ashen lips. His normal sleek, stiff hair had worn down from lack of preparation, and now thick, sterling locks rained down across his face like branches from trees. He narrowed his eyes and drew himself reluctantly from the mirror image.
It was a rather boring day in his seventeenth year, and perhaps due to his lack of sleep, a very languid day. He shook off a pang of fatigue as he sluggishly made his way down into the Slytherin common room, cursing as he tripped down the last few stairs. He blinked roughly, engaging in an attempt to speculate the morning scene; Slytherins were naturally not morning people. Well, in all fairness, Slytherins were not truly anything people. Especially Draco Malfoy.
Draco barked hellos to a few stray greeters, and pushed his way through the thick, bustling crowd. He really wasn't in the mood for social interaction; then again, was he ever? He bowed his head and shivered away the foreboding feeling that was creeping through his blood. He exited the common room roughly.
He hadn't made it very far down the dank, sparsely lit corridors when two gruff, extremely irritating voices called forth, penetrating the nearly-soothing silence with their annoying tones.
"Oy, Draco!" Draco frowned, cringing slightly.
"Ah, my two very ardent followers." Draco muttered to himself, tapping his dragon-hide boot against the cold stone floor.
"Want to wait up, then?" Questioned one of the voices again, sending another chill through Draco's bones.
"Not particularly!" He called after his disciples, stifling an enormously shrewd eye-roll. "But I'm guessing I haven't a choice?" He asked, his wit taking the better of him. Two great oafs of human beings waddled up to the sleek blonde boy in potent disarray.
"What are you talking about?" Groaned one, namely Vincent Crabbe. Draco raised his eyebrows.
"It'll do no good explaining to you." He retorted irritably. The other, Gregory Goyle, shook his head.
"So you're going for breakfast, then?" He wondered aloud, once again provoking Draco's annoyance.
"Yes," He sighed curtly, met with the familiar glutinous smirks of his large partisans. He let out a very audible exhale and continued to follow the hallway in which led to the great hall. His brief encounter with his makeshift friends could have cost him an entire day of being followed and inspected. He groaned as he thought of this. It wasn't as if Crabbe and Goyle weren't perfectly kind to him, it was simply that their kindness was more of a worship then anything. It was as if, though Draco was smaller, a few months younger, and much weaker than they, Draco was their leader; their monarch. They fed upon his very happiness, and this was what bothered the small Slytherin immensely. Sure, they were useful in frightening small first-years, but beyond that, they were simply a great nuisance. He beat his thoughts from his mind as he entered the humongous room; his destination, and proceeded to make his way towards the Slytherin table, suddenly extremely famished.
He sat as Crabbe and Goyle took their places on either side of him. He pretended to ignore this, building up his usual, visible facade of emotionless, stoic attitudes. Then, sneering at a passing Gryffindor, he watched as a barricade of swooping owls showered over the great hall, once again allowing for scattered gasps of awe. Draco was used to this action by now, yet he was uncharacteristically startled by a rather attractive one landing gracefully before him. He inhaled shortly and unfolded a small piece of parchment that had been wound with string about the owl's talon.
Mr. Malfoy,
Your detention will take place tomorrow evening at nine o'clock in the dungeons with Professor Snape. You will be assisting him in his annual cleaning of the cabinets, and should be prepared for a rather long night of wandless polishing. Please do not bring anything but a rag and a bit of elbow grease.
Sincerely,
Professor M. McGonagall.
Draco, nearly forgetting about his untimely fist fight the previous week with Ron Weasley, let out a sincerely bothered groan. He cursed out the Transfiguration teacher for giving him such a pesky punishment. Though, perhaps, he considered, it would not be so bad, for Snape seemed to go quite easy on Draco when reprimanding him. He bit his lip and stuck a stout fork into a large pile of hash browns that had most suddenly appeared on his plate.
Breakfast lately had been rather unusual. Dumbledore, whom usually accompanied the students to dine in the morning, had taken leave for a while. Ever since the war had begun, however, this was quite common, but more recently the headmaster was even more busy then he had ever been. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, required timeless assistance, and Dumbledore happened to be his favorite source of help.
The fighting had been brutal, to say the very least. Thousands of muggle-born wizards and witches had perished, and not yet had a single ally of Voldemort passed. Those whom remained neutral had also fallen, for the Dark Lord demolished nearly everything in his path. The deaths were beginning to become redundant; it was the same news every day. It was either a relative, friend, or enemy of someone or another in Hogwarts that had died. Draco was beginning to become rather sick of it.
He sighed and returned to his breakfast.
* * *
He was damp. His whole body was frigid. Something was wrong. He tried to stand, but found he could not. Darkness reigned overhead, a blanket of shadow over his trembling torso. Was it rain that made his skin so wet?
His eyes fluttered open, and he desperately searched for the source of the moisture. A placid figure stood before him, just above him, out of reach. And the character was weeping. Tears fell from his black eyes and onto Draco. The figure was enthralling. Finally finding the power within himself, Draco got to his feet.
He felt much heavier; like his legs were composed of stone. He blinked rapidly a few times, clearing the droplets of water from them, and was suddenly compelled to embrace the figure. When he had done so, he felt the person's arms wrap needingly around his waist.
It was then it began to rain heavily. Thunder clapped overhead like a sudden burst of applause, startling both Draco and the dark man. They both looked skyward, their expressions twisted into one's of remorse, then glanced back at one another. The moonlit sky was hidden beneath the seemingly sudden sheets of rain, and it was nearly impossible to see through the opaque, aphotic air. A lock of hair fell into the boy's eyes, but he did not bother to brush it aside. He was more interested in the character, whom had just turned his back to him. He put a hand upon the figure's shoulder to show his curiosity. When the strange person pivoted back, Draco took his hand.
"Who are you?" He asked, nearly inaudibly. The response did not come. Instead, the figure leaned forward and brought his lips to the boy's. Instead of crying out, or struggling to free himself, Draco pulled into the kiss, both beings struggling for control. The vivid thrashing of tongue and trading of saliva aroused the blonde boy, and a low moan escaped his throat. Wrapping his arms tighter around the figure's neck, he managed to mumble, "Please, who-what- are you?" As the character open his mouth to reply, a streak of lightening illuminated the massacre in the sky, and Draco jumped. "What?" He cried softly. He was suddenly not under the stormy horizon anymore, but perched thoughtfully on top of the highest astronomy tower in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. "An illusion..." he muttered, shutting his eyes solemnly. "It was all an illusion..." He peered out into the black evening, briefly pondering what time it was.
Draco most always came to the astronomy tower at night. Not to think, but to clear his mind of thought completely. It was the only possible thing he could do now, for since the war had begun, there had been nothing but death, hatred, prejudice, chaos and deluge. Out in the darkness, he could erase subconscious thought and focus on the placid and serene sounds of the evening. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket buzzed it's nightly song, and above, an owl hooted mournfully. A grim smile played upon Draco's lips momentarily, and he inhaled deeply, lying down.
The sky itself was enough to wipe out thought. The stars near Hogwarts were amazingly clear when the candles had died, and they reminded Draco of himself: mysterious, dark, unappreciated, lonely, imperfect, yet beautiful in their own way. The way they shone breathlessly upon the castle reminded the boy of the life he once knew, before all of the warring had begun. The days when insults were his biggest entertainment. Yet now, even bothering the Gryffindors had lost it's charm.
All he knew was that he was slowly withering into worthlessness. He had no one he could trust anymore, no one whom even cared. All of that was gone. Diminished. Lost. Hidden now amongst the stars. He just wanted to die, to end the misery, to tell the world he had given up! It would be so simple, just a quick swipe of a dagger, or an unforgivable curse to the chest...but it wasn't all as easy as it seemed. His death would mark the commencement of a series of rather unearthly, wild, and horrifying circumstances. At the moment, thinking of them was even a horrible thing. All that he knew was, if he killed himself, things would become worse. Much worse. And though he certainly would not be around to witness it, he felt sorry for all the people who would. And Draco Malfoy never felt sorry. That was simply how awful things would get. Exhaling, he turned onto his side, suddenly not very interested in the stars anymore.
"Comfortable, Mister Malfoy?" Came an icy voice. Draco's head shot forward violently, aware he was being watched.
"How long have you been there?" He asked quickly, throwing his robes over his shoulder and standing.
"I don't think you should be concerned with that, Draco, the question is, how long have you been here?"
"Since dinner." He confessed, brushing a tendril of hair from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Professor." Professor Severus Snape glared at his student sulkily. "How, if I may ask, did you know I was up here?"
"I didn't." Admitted the teacher, narrowing his eyes. "I was doing my nightly drills." He paused and looked upward. "Mister Malfoy, I believe you are already serving a detention with me tomorrow evening, is that correct?"
"Yes sir."
"Well, we wouldn't want to add an extra, now would we? Please, don't let me catch you up here again at these hours, do you hear?"
"Yes sir, thank you, sir."
"I advise you get back to your common room at once. I will assist you." Draco followed the man to the stairwell and watched as the man picked up a lit candle from the ground. Looping his index finger through the handle, Snape began, "You come here often, don't you, Mister Malfoy?" It was no use lying, Draco thought. They began to stroll soundlessly.
"Sometimes. It's an, er, enlightening area." Snape nodded, as is silently agreeing, but said nothing for a moment. They passed a portrait of a tiny man in a top hat, snoozing quietly, then a suit of Armour. They were completely speechless for a long while, but it was peaceful, not uncomfortable.
"It's the war, isn't it?" Asked Snape slowly, his cold, cruel voice still overly present. It was almost as if the professor was mocking Draco's words.
"Somewhat." Draco promised as they slowly made their way down a flight of steps. After a few turns, Snape coughed,
"I'll leave you here." And he departed. Draco entered the common room and lethargically went up to the boy's dormitory.
He sat upon his four poster, lost in apparent thought, and peered over to his dresser. Perched upon the prepossessing cherry surface was an even more attractive pewter dagger, adorned in emeralds and intertwining snakes. He idolized it for a moment, then picked it up. Rolling up his sleeve inaudibly, he brought the thin blade to his wrist and swiped.
* * *
Draco's foot was tapping, though he didn't seem to notice. It was already late afternoon, and he was itching to complete potions so that he could once again retreat to the astronomy tower. After all, it wasn't completely illegal during day time. There were only a few moments left of the class, and Snape was proposing something about gillyweed.
"I want you all to write a 3 foot essay on the potions gillyweed can be used in, due Monday." The class groaned as the bell chimed it's signature jingle. "Mister Malfoy, I'd like to see you after class, please." The entirety of the remaining students in the classroom let out stout, muffled laughter and mocking moans. Draco frowned, knowing it was not possible that he was in any sort of trouble. His thoughts drifted to the realization that it could be about his detention later that evening. Curious, he shoved "1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi" into his bag and retreated to the front of the classroom.
"Professor?"
"Mister Malfoy, I never want you up in that tower again. You must promise me you will never go there." The boy felt his jaw drop, for that place was seemingly his only refuge from the painful atrocity of life.
"Sir, but why?"
"It's a dangerous place. That's all I can say." It was true that there were no railings about the tower, but by the tone in his voice, Draco did not seem to think that Snape was speaking of heights. Not wishing to push his professor much further, he began shakily,
"Spare me, professor, you must realize that the astronomy tower is my only-"
"Yes, yes, I know that! I myself once lost myself in thought there! But if you're wise, you won't return. It's a personal matter, Mister Malfoy, and if you would please stop prying-"
"I never intended to pry, sir." He interrupted quickly. "I just mean to say that, I'm not sure there'd be any other place I could go to clear my mind." He didn't know what his teacher was playing at, but whatever it happened to be, it was pestering him. "I apologize if you thought I was being nosy."
"Well, you can't help that if you're anything like your father."
"I'm nothing like my father." He responded darkly, his eyebrows lowered and his eyes filled with malice. "Absolutely nothing."
"I beg to differ, Draco. Much like your father, you are stoic. Emotionless. It is plain."
"I'm sorry, professor, how is this relevant?"
"I'm not sure. It's simply that you and he need to find your likenesses." Pausing, he turned and began to neaten a shelf of small cauldrons behind his desk. "Have you ever seen your fathers wrists?" He pondered aloud after a moment. Contemplating this, Draco came to the realization that he could not think of a single time when he had.
"You know something, I don't really think so..." he started, disbelievingly. "No, I don't think I have- he's either wearing sleeves or cuffs, it's very peculiar if you ask me. What could be beneath the attire?"
"Scars." Snape whispered, asphyxiating a shudder. The boy stood completely rigid, attempting to take in what his professor was telling him.
"Scars?" He repeated, narrowing his eyes. The man nodded and proceeded.
"Your father and I happened to be, er, acquainted back in school. I know his habits. I followed his flaws. I tried to stop him but..." He trailed off, a look of sheer terror upon his face. Draco had never seen Snape look frightened. Bringing a palm to his forehead, he sighed, "He too was taught to avoid pain, just like you. But that doesn't mean his habits were justified, do you understand that, Mister Malfoy?" He cried, a bit more frantically then Draco thought he intended.
"Yes, sir."
"I therefore want to you roll your sleeves up and show me what is beneath them." He hesitated for a moment, but then did as he was told. Snape stared down upon the massive amount of scars that littered Draco's wrists. He shook his head. "That is very bad for you, you know?"
"I do." He replied, nodding.
"You also know that there's a potion that will quicken the healing process?" He added as he noted the dried blood covering a few of the slices.
"I did not." Draco answered, trying to look very interested, but not succeeding.
"If you wish, I will brew some for you. It will be ready by this evening's detention." The boy glanced upward, for anything to partially hide his cuts from his father would most certainly help him. His father would probably go semi-insane, really, if he had known. Anything to shorten the boy's life expectancy would truly make the man mad, for as stated earlier, the death of Draco would begin to cause anarchy.
"That would be great." He responded with a sneer.
* * *
"Good Evening, Mister Malfoy." The signature cold voice of the potions Professor came. "I've got the potion ready, if you wish." The chrome-haired boy entered the classroom sullenly. "Come." Following his teacher's voice, he blindly trailed after Snape, who led him into the private quarters, which were just beyond the classroom wall. "We cannot let anyone know that I am medically treating you. Mind, the only reason why I am defying Dumbledore is simply because I know how your father is."
"Thank you." Draco muttered, pulling his sleeves upward. Snape too rolled the sleeves of his robes up and dunked a woven cotton cloth into a sizzling cauldron of an acid green substance. He shuttered, but waited for the man to proceed.
After a moment, Snape brought the cloth to Draco's skin. "This may sting a bit." He slowly put the saturated rag upon the boys wrist as he hissed. "I told you." He silently dabbed for a moment, his gentle touch somewhat surprising the blonde. After all, his teacher was rather surly, and played his part well. But somehow, the way he was so lightly running the cloth over the boy's wrist was breathtaking. Astounding, almost. Draco inhaled shakily and watched Snape as he carefully massaged the liquid into his wounds. "How's your mother doing? Well, I trust?" The boy's bold platinum eyes widened.
"And so you haven't heard, then?"
"What, is...is she ill?" He asked softly, a distant tone of uplift in his voice.
"No, sir." The tensed muscles in Snape's jaw fell.
"I see." There was a rather uncomfortable moment of complete silence, and then Snape began coldly, "You may take the rest of this potion with you back to the dormitory. I've got a flask you can pour it in. As for the cabinets, I've cleaned them already." If Draco was astounded before, it was nothing to the surprise he felt now.
"You have?"
"Mmm." He nodded. "I just brought you here to privately speak to you about your habits, which by the way, I suggest you halt." Draco's head bobbed. "Minerva never realizes I clean the cabinets the second week of September, not the third. Here's the flask." He added, standing. For a moment, both the boy and the man stood placid. Snape began to pour the potion into the small metal bottle when Draco said nothing. "You may go now, Mister Malfoy, I think you need your sleep." Draco nodded and thanked his professor. "Draco, don't end up like your father, really."
"Why is that, sir?"
"It is a story that will be told when you are older, at a later date."
"In all do respect, professor, I am seventeen." Snape mirthlessly chuckled. The familiarity of the cackling was haunting.
"I bid you a good evening, Mister Malfoy." Draco slowly turned to depart, but suddenly recalled something.
"Professor?" Snape looked up quickly from the spot upon the floor he'd been concentrating on. "She's dead."
"Excuse me, Draco, who is?"
"My mother."
* * *