It all started innocently enough.
It was the beginning of my fifth year. I had new robes, a new owl, a new hair style, and a new attitude.
Over the summer I had been abused by my father. Every time I disobeyed him, which was often, considering disobeying to him was not finishing my dinner; he would throw me down the stairs to the dungeons below our home. He would whip me; whip my back until I fainted from pain. Then he would undress me, ignoring the deep gashes on my back, and rape me. On the cold stone floors, he would re-open old wounds; delight in hearing my cries of pain. He would taunt me whenever he heard a word out of my mouth.
"Draco," he would ask, casually, as if it was nothing in the world to be having a conversation going with your son as you were bleeding his soul.
When I didn't reply, or couldn't, he would ask me if I was weak. "Draco, do you know what your name means? Dragon. Dragon's cannot be weak, and yet, you are certainly acting like it, aren't you? Poor, pitiful little dragon, can't take the slightest pain. What shite you will be for Lord Voldemort." He would laugh at that, then throw me on the floor, leaving my bruised body on the stones for as long as it took for me to get back up.
I would ease myself up, crying out in pain at the long red scars all over my frail body. I didn't care if he heard me, I didn't care if that crying out meant I was weak, I didn't care about anything. I would dress, and then trudge up stairs, emotionless. Devoid of all feelings, numb with pain and shock.
The welts on my back remain, memories to haunt me every night.
The days of my summer were hell. I was confined in the Manor, with no communication with my so-called "friends." My father wanted no one to find out what had happened over the summer. I had to keep up a cool, calm façade that everyone expected of me.
I knew Father wanted to build me up for receiving the Dark Mark on my 16th birthday. I knew it, and that's why I wanted to die. I didn't want to join the greatest wizard in the world in killing off Muggles. I was raised to hate Muggles, and I did, but the prospect of having a mark burned into my flesh, serving someone willingly, sacrificing my life for their homicidal pleasures did not appeal to me. I, who was beaten daily, did not enjoy the thought of answering to a master who would kill you if you failed. Take grim pleasure in your pain.
I snuck into the kitchen one night. I stole a knife, headed up to my bedroom, and slit my wrist. Drew the knife slowly across my veins, opening them with ease, as my skin was paper-thin. I wrote a note to my father, blaming him for my death. I signed it with three drops of my smeared blood. I sat on my floor, on the rich Oriental rug, not noticing the blood seeping into it. Everything was hazy, it was getting dark.
Father found me a minute later, had a house-elf bandage me, then whipped me for disobeying him and disrupting his plans for my future.
At the end of the summer, Father took me to get a hair cut, a whole new look. He whispered to me to never, ever let anyone see the scars and bruises on my body. To never tell anyone about that summer. Only his Lord and master, Voldemort, was to know of how I dealt with maltreatment. "Soon," he whispered, "very soon, my son, you will join us. You do want to, don't you Draco? The feeling of serving the Dark Lord is unimaginable, indescribable. You will soon feel it."
I arrived at King's Cross, Platform 9 ¾, on September 1st. I didn't speak to anyone. I walked away from a fight the Weasel wanted to start.
I noticed Harry then. He certainly had changed over the summer. His muscles were toned, his skin tan, presumably from labor. He looked in all ways opposite of me, except for his eyes. He looked at me.....with this look. His eyes, they were like mine. Dead. He may have been smiling, but he understood. Understood the pain I was going through.
"Leave him alone, Ron."
It all started innocently enough...
It was the beginning of my fifth year. I had new robes, a new owl, a new hair style, and a new attitude.
Over the summer I had been abused by my father. Every time I disobeyed him, which was often, considering disobeying to him was not finishing my dinner; he would throw me down the stairs to the dungeons below our home. He would whip me; whip my back until I fainted from pain. Then he would undress me, ignoring the deep gashes on my back, and rape me. On the cold stone floors, he would re-open old wounds; delight in hearing my cries of pain. He would taunt me whenever he heard a word out of my mouth.
"Draco," he would ask, casually, as if it was nothing in the world to be having a conversation going with your son as you were bleeding his soul.
When I didn't reply, or couldn't, he would ask me if I was weak. "Draco, do you know what your name means? Dragon. Dragon's cannot be weak, and yet, you are certainly acting like it, aren't you? Poor, pitiful little dragon, can't take the slightest pain. What shite you will be for Lord Voldemort." He would laugh at that, then throw me on the floor, leaving my bruised body on the stones for as long as it took for me to get back up.
I would ease myself up, crying out in pain at the long red scars all over my frail body. I didn't care if he heard me, I didn't care if that crying out meant I was weak, I didn't care about anything. I would dress, and then trudge up stairs, emotionless. Devoid of all feelings, numb with pain and shock.
The welts on my back remain, memories to haunt me every night.
The days of my summer were hell. I was confined in the Manor, with no communication with my so-called "friends." My father wanted no one to find out what had happened over the summer. I had to keep up a cool, calm façade that everyone expected of me.
I knew Father wanted to build me up for receiving the Dark Mark on my 16th birthday. I knew it, and that's why I wanted to die. I didn't want to join the greatest wizard in the world in killing off Muggles. I was raised to hate Muggles, and I did, but the prospect of having a mark burned into my flesh, serving someone willingly, sacrificing my life for their homicidal pleasures did not appeal to me. I, who was beaten daily, did not enjoy the thought of answering to a master who would kill you if you failed. Take grim pleasure in your pain.
I snuck into the kitchen one night. I stole a knife, headed up to my bedroom, and slit my wrist. Drew the knife slowly across my veins, opening them with ease, as my skin was paper-thin. I wrote a note to my father, blaming him for my death. I signed it with three drops of my smeared blood. I sat on my floor, on the rich Oriental rug, not noticing the blood seeping into it. Everything was hazy, it was getting dark.
Father found me a minute later, had a house-elf bandage me, then whipped me for disobeying him and disrupting his plans for my future.
At the end of the summer, Father took me to get a hair cut, a whole new look. He whispered to me to never, ever let anyone see the scars and bruises on my body. To never tell anyone about that summer. Only his Lord and master, Voldemort, was to know of how I dealt with maltreatment. "Soon," he whispered, "very soon, my son, you will join us. You do want to, don't you Draco? The feeling of serving the Dark Lord is unimaginable, indescribable. You will soon feel it."
I arrived at King's Cross, Platform 9 ¾, on September 1st. I didn't speak to anyone. I walked away from a fight the Weasel wanted to start.
I noticed Harry then. He certainly had changed over the summer. His muscles were toned, his skin tan, presumably from labor. He looked in all ways opposite of me, except for his eyes. He looked at me.....with this look. His eyes, they were like mine. Dead. He may have been smiling, but he understood. Understood the pain I was going through.
"Leave him alone, Ron."
It all started innocently enough...