Dear all, I am flattered that so many of you have requested that the story be continued, some of you emailing me at my personal email address for a request of continuation. To all of the reviews, thank you for your support. I am so sorry about leaving the story hanging but I hadn't much time to start on anything. Even now during summer I am taking classes and have a midterm on Monday morning, so am unable to do more than a short update. I will try my best to keep the story going.

Draco's POV

This was it. It was final and he did not have a say in it. The conclusiveness of the flourish of Father's signature on the bottom of the creamy parchment paper which had been embossed with the Malfoy seal. He traced the familiar design of the stamp with the tips of his manicured fingers, feeling the indentations and grooves of the leaves of the camellia, for money, and the snake, for renewal and eternity, a falcon for nobility, prophetic knowledge and also a representation of the human soul. It was this last observation that stuck him, he mused, not only do they require my compliance they will also demand my soul. The very essence of my being is entwined in this name; I am unable to escape the implications of being a Malfoy.

He did not have to look at the exact wording, certain phrases leapt out at him, "my pleasure to inform... accepted... distinguished... from a vast selection... do not disappoint... heritage... this establishment... concur...immediately...honor...I expect nothing less..."making it obvious what his parents required of him. Of course it was not so direct as a mention of the true intent of the letter, nothing so crude. Or dangerous. However elegantly worded and prolonged, the message itself was unambiguous and succinct in its purpose, he was to join soon after graduating. They had refused him even the year of freedom he proposed under the ruse of wanting to see the world. Apparently their obligation to their Dark Lord was greater than that they had as parents.

He knew he should not resent it of them; he had not expected to be humored in any sense of the word. Especially now that You-know-who had just returned and was being particularly vindictive of those that had strayed from him. He was lucky to have given this opportunity, many half-bloods waited for years in vain to gain such a position by You-know-who's side. Didn't they know that they would never be promoted to such a rank; it was reserved for those who have the longest and unadulterated lineage. In a sick twisted way, Draco knew that the only reason this was so was because it gave You-know-who his sense of supremacy: 'look at the wizards originating from the most powerful backgrounds bow before me and grovel'. The suggestion of access to absolute power was alluring and Draco could definitely comprehend what he could achieve if he were to be granted an ear from this insane madman.

He knew, with a certain sort of relief, he had no sense of loyalty to this absurd figure, only to that of what You-know-who was capable of. Surely, he thought, he would be able to manipulate You-know-who, so he would be able to do as he pleased as freely as he weren't under tyrannical rule.

Yet there seemed an odd sort of foreboding that he carried with him when he pictured his future as a servant to this insanity. It was something he was not sure he was ready to commit to, no matter how richly rewarded he became. If it came down to money and power, he had enough of both already and the quest for more seemed futile and foolish in the face of what he would have to perform to be granted the corresponding increase. What worried him, however, was that his Father would take away his inheritance and disown him if he refused to abide by his wishes. He shuddered at the consequences of such an action, he would be left with nothing and would have to endure humiliation and contempt from his peers who were pureblooded and had previously put up with him only because of his birthright. If that were taken away from him, they would surely turn against him in revenge for the ill treatment and tantrums he had subjected them to. He pressed his forehead against the window pain, relishing the sensation of the coolness against his skin, tingling and abrupt to his senses.

"Draco?"

A voice, unwanted, familiar, acute pierced the silence like a shard of light in the encompassing and unthreatening darkness he had previously immersed himself in. His eyes fluttered open and though he showed no other sign of having heard her, Pansy continued in her blunt and unsubtle way, assuming he had acknowledged her presence.

"You said that you would tutor me in Potions, you know how I am falling behind, Professor Snape says..."

Draco watched as his breath fogged the glass, misting it so he could barely make out the figure he had previously been unconsciously watching. The dark figure formed a solitary black smudge against the freshly fallen snow. A trail of softly trodden footsteps lingered in his wake, you could barely make out the outline of the treaded snow; it was obscured by more snowfall, masking the fact that someone had passed. Soon no trace would remain that a person had walked across this field. It was as if the universe were conspiring to protect this person, to shield him from the eyes of curious strangers and wickedness. He felt a sense of raw envy as he reflected upon this, wishing that he had the same anonymity and insignificance, which that one student displayed, when moving across the field, unaware and insensible of someone watching him. For why would anyone watch him when he had nothing to live up to? Draco felt the unwonted and unwelcome desire to be a Nobody: to escape the constant scrutiny.

(and what if I don't make it; I am just on the passing range for Potions...)

He let Pansy's voice pass by unfiltered and unprocessed, too exhausted to maintain the sham of attention required of his upbringing. He indulged himself in the consideration of going outside to mark the snow just as the person he was watching was doing. He could step into the previously trodden snow, placing his feet exactly where the other had gone, and pretend for a moment that he was someone else: that he could actually make his own decisions or better still, did not have any decisions to make except what to eat for dinner. When was the last time he had dinner? Surely today was the day to make his way to the Great Hall and face the student population, not like anyone would notice he had been absent. He would simply pretend nothing had occurred and he was just another student.

But for some reason he suspected that it would not be so easy, surely he would be rejected. His feet, false and cunning would mark the snow harshly with the hard ridges of the soles of his expensively made boots. The wind would howl its condemnation and seek gaps in his ermine to chill his body out of spite. He could not bear the knowing and inquisitive gaze of the headmaster. Dumbledore knows, he was certain, why doesn't he stop this madness? Am I so evil that I can have no hope of redemption? His mind told him that he could bear another day of starvation and perhaps make a trip to the kitchens later. However, since Dobby had arrived at Hogswart, he was forbidden from making contact with the house elf. It came down to Potter again, he complicated things, Draco reflected, unable to summon enough energy to resent him. He would just have to go hungry again, his pride simply not allowing him to ask his housemates the favor of bringing him food, and Merlin knows they would probably poison it. No, they wouldn't, they were too afraid of his Father. It is depressing and frightening to think of what inspired the loyalty of his friends. He needed to find a way to ingrate them to him; such manipulation and cunning was second nature to him. Though such thoughts, so ingrained in him, often caused him to pause, he was unable to resist their coming.

(then he wrote a letter to my parents saying that he cannot allow for such 'carelessness' to take place! Do you think I'm careless? It's not my fault the ingredients are in such small amounts...)

Look how the trees bend to shield him from the harsh wind and how the sun shrouds itself in clouds to spare his eyes the glare reflected from the blindingly white snow. The snows continued to systematically and tenderly cover the trail the boy left behind. Who was this figure that would inspire such affection? Draco mused. He belonged to all that was good and virtuous and natural. See how the world greets him and welcomes him into its bosom.

He made himself stop: he was romanticizing the figure in the snow too much. For all he knew it could be Weasely out there on a secret rendezvous. He shuddered at the thought. As much as he would just like to dismiss the feeling as mere idealism and impracticality, he knew something rang true in that feeling, a need for something he could neither express nor accurately pinpoint. It was undeniable and exact, something he knew he had to find before he would dedicate his life to something as mundane and unfulfilling as servitude to the Dark Lord. He realized and appreciated this feeling of certainty that he obtained from both the realization of another possible path his life could take and also the absolute but surprising conviction that the person he just saw was not Weasely. He was not sure how he knew but something in the person's stride convinced him.

He had not the strength to analyze how he discerned this.

(draco? are you even listening to me? because if you aren't...)

Draco lifted his hand to the glass, pressing the palm of it against the bitter chill, ignoring the icy fingers that migrated up his arm. Perhaps unaware of them as his body felt already as cold as the window. He let his body soak in the chill, taking odd comfort in the sensation. Visualizing ice crystals slowly but progressively growing in his blood stream, they pierced the walls of his capillaries, his arteries and veins giving way to the sharp edges of the ice splinters. Blood would flow into the cracks of this building, and when nothing remained except that red pool, his clothes would disintegrate. There was something so unethical, so vulgar to leave behind a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It would mark your passing; make people aware of you having existed. The blood would dissipate into a million droplets, forming a mist like his breath was on this pane at this instant. Maybe when he is so dispersed would he be free from these damning thoughts that haunted his every waking moment. He would form a mist, and simply... disappear.

The figure withdrew to the doors of the castle and Draco was suddenly keenly aware of the silence behind him. He drew his robes around him, automatically reaching down to smooth them with one hand. As he turned to address Pansy, he caught only a glance of her horrified face for an instant before registering that the letter had ignited itself in his hands. Flames licking his sleeves were the only thing he remembered before the floor rushed up to meet him and darkness once again embraced him.

A/N: Before any of you begin to think that Draco is in any way weak just think how we would react if we were under situations of identical strain. I know I would go mad if I had no control over what I was to become.