Author's Note/ Disclaimer

So, where did this come from? To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I really never read angsty Draco fics. Let alone angsty Draco fics that involve cutting. I guess it was just my mood. (so this is what my stories are like that aren't slash! gasp) Well, this I suppose should be a PG-15, due to the situations. Draco intentionally hurting himself, and he also sort of has an Opedius Rex complex. (you know, where you're in love with your mother..) Oh, and a presumed character death.

Anyway, I don't own Draco, or Narcissa or Lucius. They're all J.K.R.'s. Reviews please!

Ace of Spades

Where do you go when you're already at the top? When there's nothing to move on to, nothing to conquer? There was nothing else left for him.

He was their Ace of Spades. He was the king. He was the definition of Slytherin, a perfect poster boy. And they loved him for it. He'd bought their loyalty and trust, all with petty, school-yard tastes of power and ideas of being feared.

He was too charming for his own good. And much too clever for any of them.

Potter called him evil, among other things. And Potter was probably right. He unfortunately usually turned out to be right about most things, even if he was a bit mad. "...if you know what I mean."

But people feared Draco Malfoy. And fear, he knew, was the key to power.

He'd learned that long ago. Long when he'd truly come to fear his father, when worse had come to worse and bad things had happened, things his mother refused to talk about now, that she said were an accident, a mistake, and Draco had cried for fear and loathing for the first time in his life.

She had come to him afterwards, her long silver blond hair swept across her kelly green clad shoulders, eyes of grey that held concern. She'd kneeled before her only son, his hand clasped in hers, and told him things would be better, that his father was regretful, and that no harm would come to them.

And he wanted nothing more for himself than her, from that moment on. And so she was what remained.

There was nothing else for him in all his glory that he'd built up around himself like a fortress. There was nothing.

And that was the whole point.

He sat at the foot of the marble staircase, his father's silver blade in his hand, remembering things that he had strived to forget. The feel of the harsh knives he had stolen from the school kitchens, an image of the white tiled bathroom floor, the blood pooling around his bare feet. He drew the blade down the inside of his arm, the blood blossoming from the surface.

Pureblood.

He watched it for a moment, the thick liquid forming streams that trailed off of his wrist and arm, a small pool forming on the cold marble floor.

He thought of his mother. She shouldn't have to find him here. He shouldn't do this. Of course, she would blame herself. She would turn over theories in her head without end, counting the ways. It wasn't fair.

But then again, life was not fair.

He drew the blade down the length of his arm again. Cutting deeper into his warm skin. Deep enough to make himself feel the pain. Deep enough to prove himself.

Draco leant back against the stairs, his arm stretched out in front of him, his face flushed, watching the warm blood fall in thick drops onto the white marble, and the moonlight poured in through the tall windows.

He brushed his hair out of his before making a last laceration to add to the two others, the pool on the bottom step spilt over, onto the floor.

He let the knife fall, and closed his eyes.

"And so this is what it has come to."