Disclaimer: I'm truly sorry, but you must be a sheer idiot if you think I
came up with the characters. Thank the lady who lives in Britain who
actually WROTE the books for these great characters (you know, J.K.
Rowling). But I, thank you very much, owe the plot to me.
Chapter 2: Drawn Blood
"Draco, it came last night," she whispered. But then she moved behind the velvet that was behind her in the picture. One couldn't see much besides her small wrist and the beginnings of her arm. She was wearing a beautiful strapless dress and had a drape around her arms. But as he looked closely, he could have sworn there were little marks about her arm.
What the in the hell was she talking about? What came, for Christ's sake? Why was every painting and picture whispering as he came down the hall? The picture of his mother absorbed him, for he was trying to see if she would tell him anything, when Trudy came out of his room and ushered him along. She was only about four feet shorter than he was, but she could sure push him where she wanted him to go. "Draco, sir, your mother will be waiting downstairs, sir. Sir, you might want to go now before she gets mad, sir. Draco, sir, go." He noticed the sternness in her voice and went down the stairs. He looked back at her, but she was gone, off to do his laundry, possibly. But no matter, breakfast was the important thing. He quickly rushed down the stairs, skipping every few steps, and dashed into the dining room where his mother was eating her breakfast.
She looked up at him, but said nothing. She kept her stern lips shut tightly; she had an intent stare as she was looking in his eyes; he had no choice but to remain silent in his mother's wake. She looked more elegant that day than he'd seen her all summer. She wore a simple dress: a black, sheer almost-sundress, but in its simplicity it was gorgeous. Black was one of the few colours she could wear because of her electric blond hair and pale skin; otherwise she'd be a ghost. Her eyes had been accented by a pale grey shadow, which made her look alive when near the colour of her blue eyes.
Mother didn't stay long during breakfast. After Draco had finished but half of his meal, his mother got up from her seat and walked over to him. She kissed the top of his head in a motherly fashion, which surprised Draco, and kept walking. She said in a soft voice, "Mrs. Rukenbacher's having a tea at her house. I'll be home around three." She was gone at the end of the word 'three.' Now, he was alone.
He sat in his chair, his hands out on the table as though he had to support himself. He looked up for one second and saw a girl sitting where his mother had just been only moments before. He blinked, shook his head and saw that there was nothing there. "Shit. I need sleep." With this, he got up, proceeded to unbutton his shirt and took it off, and returned to his room to change into something more comfortable. He grabbed a pair of long, cut-off jeans and a deep blue T-shirt from his immense bureau. He looked like a street thug with horrible taste, but he changed for comfort not style in the comfort of his own home; there was no need to impress anyone now, since no one was even around besides him and the house-elves that worked behind closed doors. He sat down heavily on the side of his bed, his eyes slowly drifting towards his bedside drawer. He wanted to take its contents and mutilate his arm until it didn't even resemble its original state anymore. He had a sudden impulse to open the drawer, and before his mind even thought twice about it, his fingers were on the brass. It was so cold; his room always seemed to be a bit cooler, if even only by a few degrees, than the rest of the bloody hot house. He ran his fingers over the ornate design. It must have been designed and crafted in the 1700's, for his mother was a big enthusiast of that era and had decorated his room in mostly that period's décor. But again, before he was able to think about what he was going to do, he opened the drawer, though his memory told him it was locked, or that was what Trudy had said earlier. Maybe... no. He removed the knife and looked at it. Never before had he actually looked at the hilt. It was only a carving in rosewood, maybe, which his father had paid lots of money for some muggle to hand-carve, but it was still quite a piece.
He finally took the knife and brought it to his skin. He pushed it hard against his skin, harder than most times he had ever before, and drew blood almost instantly. He cut threw the scabs, the raw skin, the sting causing his brain to temporarily numb. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. He had always been a bit of a coward to some types of pain; that was one of his week points. In particular was his arm and wrist. The reason in third year he was in so much pain when the hippogriff clawed his arm was that that year, he began his self-destructive habit, and the previous night he had made fresh cuts that stung like hell that day. Thank the lord Madame Pomfrey hadn't seen them as she mended his arm. They blended right in with the deep gash on his arm; it was the perfect cover-up.
But now he had made big cuts on his arm. The ones he knew would leave scars. He began to feel tired as he cut deeper. There was lots of blood; as he began to loose focus, the cuts were beginning to fuse together. He saw the dark velvet envelop his pale arm. The last thing he remembered as his cuts became extremely deep and lots of blood was coming forth from his wounds, was dropping the knife onto the floor and falling back onto his bed in a mixture of unconsciousness and sleep. Minutes later, Trudy walked in with a handful of laundry in a wicker basket to see her unconscious master laid out on his bed, his legs hanging off the edge. There were little drops of blood of the tops of his feet, the drops that had hit his foot en route to the floor. She sighed. She went up to the side of the bed and scaled the bed so she was next to him. She muttered a soft spell used by house-elves and his arm stopped bleeding, then closed her eyes and whispered another spell to clean it. She went to the top of his body and dragged his body fully onto the bed, now with his feet hauled on the sheets as well. She mustered up some of her inner-strength and moved him so his body was now lying properly. She lightly kissed his cheek, a big taboo in the eyes of both house-elves and wizards.
When Draco finally awoke, it was a week before school was due to start. His mind must have slipped and he was in a numb from that day forward until now, when his conscious returned. He had no recollection of the times between then, but that didn't matter; who really wanted to remember days filled with solitude? He certainly didn't. He wanted to leave the bloody house. When he thought he could fill this new day by packing for school, he found his trunk already packed. He suddenly felt eyes on him and turned to see Trudy standing with a small box. "Draco, sir, it's already packed, sir. Sir, since this morning, Draco, sir." She pushed her arms towards him, the box now inches away from his hand. He took the box; it was just a normal wooden box, possibly once holding an heirloom piece of silverware or necklace. "Draco, sir, don't open it, sir. Sir, just put it in your trunk, Draco, sir." With that he put it in his trunk with out a word. He wondered what it was, why she told him not open it. But he didn't question her; she had her reasons, he was sure.
Chapter 2: Drawn Blood
"Draco, it came last night," she whispered. But then she moved behind the velvet that was behind her in the picture. One couldn't see much besides her small wrist and the beginnings of her arm. She was wearing a beautiful strapless dress and had a drape around her arms. But as he looked closely, he could have sworn there were little marks about her arm.
What the in the hell was she talking about? What came, for Christ's sake? Why was every painting and picture whispering as he came down the hall? The picture of his mother absorbed him, for he was trying to see if she would tell him anything, when Trudy came out of his room and ushered him along. She was only about four feet shorter than he was, but she could sure push him where she wanted him to go. "Draco, sir, your mother will be waiting downstairs, sir. Sir, you might want to go now before she gets mad, sir. Draco, sir, go." He noticed the sternness in her voice and went down the stairs. He looked back at her, but she was gone, off to do his laundry, possibly. But no matter, breakfast was the important thing. He quickly rushed down the stairs, skipping every few steps, and dashed into the dining room where his mother was eating her breakfast.
She looked up at him, but said nothing. She kept her stern lips shut tightly; she had an intent stare as she was looking in his eyes; he had no choice but to remain silent in his mother's wake. She looked more elegant that day than he'd seen her all summer. She wore a simple dress: a black, sheer almost-sundress, but in its simplicity it was gorgeous. Black was one of the few colours she could wear because of her electric blond hair and pale skin; otherwise she'd be a ghost. Her eyes had been accented by a pale grey shadow, which made her look alive when near the colour of her blue eyes.
Mother didn't stay long during breakfast. After Draco had finished but half of his meal, his mother got up from her seat and walked over to him. She kissed the top of his head in a motherly fashion, which surprised Draco, and kept walking. She said in a soft voice, "Mrs. Rukenbacher's having a tea at her house. I'll be home around three." She was gone at the end of the word 'three.' Now, he was alone.
He sat in his chair, his hands out on the table as though he had to support himself. He looked up for one second and saw a girl sitting where his mother had just been only moments before. He blinked, shook his head and saw that there was nothing there. "Shit. I need sleep." With this, he got up, proceeded to unbutton his shirt and took it off, and returned to his room to change into something more comfortable. He grabbed a pair of long, cut-off jeans and a deep blue T-shirt from his immense bureau. He looked like a street thug with horrible taste, but he changed for comfort not style in the comfort of his own home; there was no need to impress anyone now, since no one was even around besides him and the house-elves that worked behind closed doors. He sat down heavily on the side of his bed, his eyes slowly drifting towards his bedside drawer. He wanted to take its contents and mutilate his arm until it didn't even resemble its original state anymore. He had a sudden impulse to open the drawer, and before his mind even thought twice about it, his fingers were on the brass. It was so cold; his room always seemed to be a bit cooler, if even only by a few degrees, than the rest of the bloody hot house. He ran his fingers over the ornate design. It must have been designed and crafted in the 1700's, for his mother was a big enthusiast of that era and had decorated his room in mostly that period's décor. But again, before he was able to think about what he was going to do, he opened the drawer, though his memory told him it was locked, or that was what Trudy had said earlier. Maybe... no. He removed the knife and looked at it. Never before had he actually looked at the hilt. It was only a carving in rosewood, maybe, which his father had paid lots of money for some muggle to hand-carve, but it was still quite a piece.
He finally took the knife and brought it to his skin. He pushed it hard against his skin, harder than most times he had ever before, and drew blood almost instantly. He cut threw the scabs, the raw skin, the sting causing his brain to temporarily numb. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. He had always been a bit of a coward to some types of pain; that was one of his week points. In particular was his arm and wrist. The reason in third year he was in so much pain when the hippogriff clawed his arm was that that year, he began his self-destructive habit, and the previous night he had made fresh cuts that stung like hell that day. Thank the lord Madame Pomfrey hadn't seen them as she mended his arm. They blended right in with the deep gash on his arm; it was the perfect cover-up.
But now he had made big cuts on his arm. The ones he knew would leave scars. He began to feel tired as he cut deeper. There was lots of blood; as he began to loose focus, the cuts were beginning to fuse together. He saw the dark velvet envelop his pale arm. The last thing he remembered as his cuts became extremely deep and lots of blood was coming forth from his wounds, was dropping the knife onto the floor and falling back onto his bed in a mixture of unconsciousness and sleep. Minutes later, Trudy walked in with a handful of laundry in a wicker basket to see her unconscious master laid out on his bed, his legs hanging off the edge. There were little drops of blood of the tops of his feet, the drops that had hit his foot en route to the floor. She sighed. She went up to the side of the bed and scaled the bed so she was next to him. She muttered a soft spell used by house-elves and his arm stopped bleeding, then closed her eyes and whispered another spell to clean it. She went to the top of his body and dragged his body fully onto the bed, now with his feet hauled on the sheets as well. She mustered up some of her inner-strength and moved him so his body was now lying properly. She lightly kissed his cheek, a big taboo in the eyes of both house-elves and wizards.
When Draco finally awoke, it was a week before school was due to start. His mind must have slipped and he was in a numb from that day forward until now, when his conscious returned. He had no recollection of the times between then, but that didn't matter; who really wanted to remember days filled with solitude? He certainly didn't. He wanted to leave the bloody house. When he thought he could fill this new day by packing for school, he found his trunk already packed. He suddenly felt eyes on him and turned to see Trudy standing with a small box. "Draco, sir, it's already packed, sir. Sir, since this morning, Draco, sir." She pushed her arms towards him, the box now inches away from his hand. He took the box; it was just a normal wooden box, possibly once holding an heirloom piece of silverware or necklace. "Draco, sir, don't open it, sir. Sir, just put it in your trunk, Draco, sir." With that he put it in his trunk with out a word. He wondered what it was, why she told him not open it. But he didn't question her; she had her reasons, he was sure.