Important: There is going to be a flashback to "the night before" at the end of every chapter, and, by the end, hopefully, you will all understand what unfolded that night. The message is going to appear at the beginning of each too, since I'm sure this will be a little confusing for everyone (sorry). I'll stop chattering on now and get to the good (snort) stuff.

The Phoenix and Turtle

By Taelyn

Chapter: 4: That Old Clich

"To be or not to be—that is the question."

                                                       W.S

Draco had hardly ever had to run in the hallways of Hogwarts. He had never had the gall to do anything that might have gotten him expelled or put him in a place where he would have had to flee quickly.

But now, with blood streaming down the side of his face and thoughts of what had happened moments ago still swirling in his mind, he didn't slow down from a run as he made his way to the Slytherin commons.

The hallway in front of him seemed to stretch out longer and his own feet seemed ready to give up at the slightest chance. With every step it felt that he would fall onto his knees--he had never been so tired. The sound of his footsteps on the marble resounded in his head, making it pulse with every beat of his heart. This alone was irritating enough to make him grind his teeth and wish that he was alone and able to scream without being carted off to some loony bin.

And it didn't help at all that every student that he passed stopped and stared at him in fascination. A group of first years (probably from Hufflepuff, he thought with disgust) actually had the nerve to stand in front of him and point straight at him.

"Idiots," he muttered as he mentally convinced himself not to turn around and hit every single person who had been rude enough to look at him with some hex or curse. The little voice in his head that he not heard in a very long time whispered "Bad idea," and "can you really blame them?"

"Yes," he answered out loud—probably a little louder than he would have wanted, as he was trying to appear sane. Yet, even as he contradicted his conscience, he understood how strange he must really look.

To any passer-by, a calm and normal Draco was intriguing, if not terrifying. He was rather tall and well built, and his presence was only added to by the swirling black robes and cloaks that he favored.

But, as any first or second year would explain to you, it was his eyes that would send them backing into corners to let him pass. Slate gray, storm gray—call them what you like: they held power and a certain contempt for everything that sent many into cold sweats with just a glance.

And as he walked down the hall that morning? It was those same eyes—filled with an anger visible to each that looked in them—that bored into each and every person that he passed. His cheek was dripping with blood, and the three scratches curved in eerily only adding to the fury in his visage.

Who wouldn't stare?

But Draco didn't care. The boy who usually kept every emotion under the surface was almost gasping from the anger that coursed through him. With every heart beat, he could feel his blood pumping through his chest, to his face, to the cuts. With every heartbeat, he couldn't help but think to himself "she hurt me."

Hermione Granger—the stupid girl that was every teacher's pet. Who was best friends with the asshole Potter and the dumbfuck Weasley. Who could never do anything wrong.

("Though she can't say the same for 'anyone', anymore, can she?'" he thought, almost bitterly)

And it was Granger who didn't ever respond to his glares with fear, who never shied away from him in the hallway, but instead matched him look for look.

He had reached the entrance to the Slytherin dorms. "Asgarth," he mumbled thoughtlessly to the bare stone wall, which slid open to reveal the Slytherin common room.

He hurried in, ignoring the shadows from the fireplace that jumped and danced ominously on the walls in surrounding him. The room was empty and relief flooded into him. He wouldn't have to explain his disappearance or the three scratches down the side of his face. Having one less thing to worry about, his mind shifted again, back to her--

--And she had hit him--not just a slap as she had done before. She had drawn his blood.

A girl.

A Gryffindor.

A mudblood.

And perhaps he shouldn't have been so angry. Perhaps he would have been indifferent if not for--

"No," he said, refusing to think about it, about her, anymore.

Quickly, before any of the Slytherins had the chance to wander into the common room, Draco headed into his room.

And thanked Merlin that it was his alone. After spending all of his first and second year in close proximity to a sleeping Crabbe and Goyle, he had begged his father to pull a few strings. It, unsurprisingly, had produced results. He was now alone. Dumbledore hadn't been happy but he had had to agree—poor Draco was ill and needed his solitude.

Which was true. Draco suffered from insomnia and the groans and grumbles of his past roommates had done nothing to help it.

Of course, it wasn't as if he got any sleep in his own bedchambers anyway.

But his father had said that every Malfoy deserved a place of his own--his own silence.

Draco sat on his bed. He reached down and fingered the heavily embroidered silk duvet, tracing his lines along the emerald snakes that he had asked for. The fire at the other end of the room hissed and spit sparks up into the air and he watched the flames flicker up and down hypnotically.

His father.

Memories of pain, of disappointment, of worry and yearning and lost hopes suddenly flooded him.

He remembered--that summer, the witch who had remarked how like his father he really was, the look on Lucius's face--hardly pride. His own feelings--the simultaneous hope and fear that the witch was right.

For Lucius was proud, strong. He kept his emotions hidden well. He was powerful and rich. But above all, he was Draco's father, and, in every boy, there is a deep desire to not only please his father, but to be him.

Yet, this was also the Lucius that had lied and bribed his way out of Azkaban when he should have stood up for his beliefs. The Lucius Malfoy who had laughed countless times when Draco had tried to explain to him his hopes of being the best Quidditch player in all of England. The Lucius Malfoy who drank, who became angry, who lashed out.

The Lucius Malfoy that had hit his wife.

And Draco suddenly knew how much he was so like and yet so unlike his father.

When Hermione had struck him, it had taken every ounce of self-restraint that he had not to back-hand her, throw her against a wall--he knew how little strength you really needed to have to hurt someone of you knew how.

"Draco, please leave," his mother told him quietly, looking at him, her eyes pleading with him

But Draco, a five year old Draco, would not leave his seat at the dinner table, as hard as he tried to obey his mother. He seemed almost glued to his chair and, instead of moving (which seemed impossible) just stared fearfully at the dark figure of his father--that sat across from him.

Lucius Malfoy, his hand gripping his wine cup tensely, stared mercilessly at his wife and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

"Will you please explain to me Narcissa," he began, his voice low and dangerous, "how in the hell you managed to accidentally set free one of our house elves?"

Narcissa didn't reply or even look at her husband. All hints of her usual proud air had disappeared as she looked down and sank lower into her chair

"Please, Draco, please leave," she whispered.

"Do not dare ignore me!" Lucius yelled, his arm flinging suddenly from his cup and reaching over to grasp Narcissa by the hair. He pulled her closer, forcing her to stand up out of her chair and limp until she reached him. Her eyes were filled with tears. "You will answer me now, you bitch!"

But instead of complying, she only looked up from her tears and pleaded with him.

"Please, not in front of Draco."

With a flick of his wrist, Lucius sent his wife sprawling against the hard wooden floor. She lay there, crying softly into her sleeve, never even attempting to get up. Lucius stood up from the table, took once last gulp from his drink and walked silently out of the dining hall.

Draco just sat in his chair, staring at his cold and uneaten dinner.

Draco shook himself out of his daze and tore his eyes away from the fireplace. With quick movements, he walked over to his armoire and placed his hands on the top to steady himself.

He hated it. To be so like him and so unlike him. To, with every sinew of his body, wish to be his father, and, in the same moment, loathe that very thought.

"My curse," he whispered, looking in the mirror at his white-blond hair, his pointed chin, his gray eyes.

And suddenly, violently, he smashed his fist through the mirror, sending glass shards flying like leaves to the ground.

He looked at his now shredded hand, glinting with tiny pieces of glass in the now fresh wounds.

He watched as the blood slowly began to well up.

"My curse."

"What about them?" she whispered, her eyes suddenly filled with worry. "What about her?"

"They won't know, they don't have to," he murmured, dismissing it and leaning down to kiss her.

She jerked away, suddenly cold.

"Of course not," she snapped. "I'm nothing important that they should know about. I'm nothing, right?" She stared at him as if she had never seen him before.

He sat up, pushed his hair out of his eyes.

"That's not what I meant." He said quietly, looking down and twisting his fingers in the sheets beneath him.

"Then how did you mean it?" her voice, though tired and hoarse, rose in pitch and volume to a shriek.

Author's Note: So? How is it? Review please! I have more chapters, but it's taking me a while to type them (I wrote them in a spiral notebook, sorry!) and I don't want to post them all if I don't know what you think of the last two! Please Review! (pretty pretty please, with sugar on top??)