A Dragon's Blood
A/n: Lots of violence and swearing, just to let you know.
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For once in my lifetime, Father is unkempt and dirty. It seems to go against his natural image, his long whitish blond hair sticky and streaked with grime, his used-to-be-elegant robes frayed. He is serious, oh yes, very serious. My mother is fawning over him, but we do not have much time. The conviction came hard, the condemnation permanent. With the old Mudblood-Lover running the show, what should we have expected? He has irreparably tarnished our name, and some of Father's valuable connections have dissolved. Money is not a problem, at the moment, but respect will surely come in limited quantities.
"What are we to do, Lucius?" My mother, her low voice tense, scared. She depends on my father, a possession of him, if you will. Always beside him, looking pristine and beautiful, like an idol.
"Stay at the manor." Father, demanding, that part of him hasn't changed. "Act as everything's normal." I make an impatient noise, for nothing is normal, why can't he fucking see that? Bad move on my part. He is short-tempered, quick to rise to anger.
"Do you think this is funny, Draco?" Softly said. "A damn joke? Do you not understand? We're—this family—we're stuck with literally no options open to us. I don't know what I should've expected. Nothing can penetrate through to your brain." His voice is rising to a crescendo, dripping with concealed venom.
"Do you think I can just wave my wand and restore things to the way they were? I hate to tell you, to ruin your dreams, but things will not be the same as before." It's the same as always, right? The belittling, the insulting. Then why am I so damn mad?
And before I can restrain myself, I explode. "I KNOW THAT, GODDAMN YOU! I AM NOT A CHILD ANYMORE!" He turns red.
"YOU ACT LIKE ONE!" he roars. I should've known better. He does not take kindly to impertinence, and he definitely hates being sworn at. The irrationality, however, continues to control.
"FUCK YOU!" Out of nowhere, he hits me square in the face. The force is enough to drive me into a bookshelf, which in turn knocks me to my knees. A few heavy books on hexes fall, one clipping me painfully on the shoulder. I touch two fingers gingerly to my nose. They are red with the blood that is trailing down my face. Scarlet droplets swell at the curve of my chin and drip to the carpet. Another thin line of blood flows from a cut on my forehead. Father doesn't care, doesn't acknowledge his only son on the floor.
"Until you learn to respect me, I will make sure that you are indeed fucked over. Get out of my sight and think, if that isn't too hard for you." His tone is clipped, his stance powerful. Mother has taken his side, as always. One more look and I rise, leaving the room. My hands are clenching into fists, and the pain doesn't bother me. I stride to the kitchen without reason, sending the house elf away with a few choice words. Now that I am here, I am drawn to the knife the filthy elf had been using. Picking it up, I leave the room on an inexplicable impulse. Up the stairs and to my room. I am still enraged as I sit on my bed, the knife still held tightly in my right hand.
I bring it to eye level, examining the curve of the blade with interest. I lightly touch the edge, and the skin on my finger splits without resistance. Sharp, the best quality. Ignoring the biting pain in my index finger, I gaze at the steel part of the blade. I am reflected in the surface, looking slightly insane with my furrowed eyes and bloodied face. My father's voice swells to a higher volume downstairs, yelling about his shame to have me as a son. The anger, which had lessened slightly, ignites again. And the knife catches my eye. With one deft swing, I embed it in my bedpost. It goes in deep, and I yank it out again, carelessly cutting another finger. As I watch the blood emerge from the slice, something calms me. And I realize that I'm so tired of this shit.
I'm sick of my dad and his damn rules and regulations. Of my mother and her spinelessness. Of my own weaknesses, which I've always realized but never acted upon. Of Harry Potter and the things that come so easily to him. Of Weasley and his family that doesn't scold and hit. That was why I always attacked his poverty. Not only did it fit with my required actions, but I was able to find fault in the family that I secretly wanted.
I want to take this blade and run it across my flesh, bleed until I cannot feel. Would they care then? Would they give a flying fuck for their dead son, and not the image that a suicide would project? I doubt it and I am tempted. I've thought about it, yes, but never considered attempting it. And now the possibilities are endless. I'm on the third floor. The fall could do it, just out the window and through the air. Yes, I have the knife, but Father has poisons downstairs.
Do I want to do it? Can I? I look at the knife and can't think of a reason to live. Death is looming in its appeal… No, why give them the fucking satisfaction? But I still pick up the knife and drive it through the whiteness of the flesh on my arm. Not my wrist, mind, but the forearm. I welcome the pain, the throbbing, wonderful pain. I don't think of the times Father has hit me or cursed, or of the occasions when Mother defends him. I only know that it's wonderful, a release. I don't want to stop… it's been building, thriving for years, this frustration. Another cut, deeper. Two more, intersecting with the first one. After that, I don't know how much longer it goes on. My arm has been disfigured and the blade is slick with my blood. My bed comforted is soaked red. I'm dizzy… tired. The room swims. Someone's coming.
"Draco, your father… DRACO?!"
Faint. The blackness is coming… Overwhelming me. Will it end now? Will it finally end, culminate in this violent display? I hope. My blood will tarnish their name, accentuate their imperfections. Let go—it feels so good.
Let go and embrace the pain.
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End
A/n: Reviews are nice… I don't know why I bother asking—no one ever reviews my one-shots anyway.