Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or its characters, no matter how much I wish I did.

Note: Yes, this story is Slash, meaning a love relationship between two males. There are inappropriate topics for young ones covered in this story such as cutting, perhaps rape or murder, and of course male on male action. I did warn you of all these things so do not flame me for that.

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--Green Years--

Volume One

If I told you of my life, would you believe me? If I told you that never did a day pass where I didn't mentally struggle with the emotions of fear, sadness, and loneliness, would you believe me? Would you change your ways around me? Would your eyes begin to reflect feelings of compassion, or sympathy? The fact is I'm not willing to take that chance. I've become custom to living this life, my problems have become a part of me.

Its one year after the defeat of Lord Voldemort, one year after the death of my parents, one year of being on my own. Because I've no one to look after me from my family, I've been shuffled between members of the Order's houses for the past few months. But for the past month, I've been living in Hogwarts with my godfather, Professor Severus Snape.

Sure, one could ask, you have a whole bloody castle to yourself, life can't be that bad. The only thing I can say to those of you, who act out that view, is you have obviously never experience feelings of being alone. The empty corridors and rooms only seem to reflect the empty spaces in my heart. I'm also sure that you are probably thinking, a Malfoy doesn't have a heart, but you're wrong. Perhaps my father didn't have a heart, not that I didn't try to push my love to flow through him and try to get the feelings returned, but I do. I can feel emotions just as intensely, if not even more so, then any person out there.

I loved my father and mother despite their attitudes or wants of me, and to have lost both of them in the war makes things even harder. In a way I am even jealous of Potter. Yeah, I kind of feel bad that he lost his grandfather and really last remaining relative, but he still has his friends. I never knew what having a real friend would have felt like. I suppose now, now that I am alone, I regret my friend encounter with him. I believe that we could have been good friends. If I would have been nice he would have been sorted into Slytherin with me.

Not that I would ever utter the words aloud, but I do with I was friends with Harry Potter. I just wish I had someone to turn to, someone who would care about me as much as I could care about them.

--Draco Malfoy

Draco got up and stuffed his journal into his bag. No one could ever see that collection of written works. If it ever got out that he wanted to be friends with Harry Potter, he would become the laughing stock of Slytherin.

He crossed his private common room and entered his bedroom, his whole suite was provided by Dumbledore. Setting down his bag on his bed, he dug around the bottom of his bag, shifting through its continents. After a few moments of searching, his fingers grasped around a cold piece of plastic. The plastic merely served as a barrier, a barrier keeping him farther physically from his pain reliever. When he pulled the plastic from his bag he tried to calm his hurried steps as he walked into the bathroom.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Did he really want to start this up? He had never cut before. But now, with school starting the following day he didn't think he would be able to bear locking everything inside of himself. Setting the pocket knife on the bathroom counter, he looked down at his flawlessly skinned wrist, the skin that he would be about to mar. He placed his fingers upon the most prominent vein. He could feel the pulsating of blood just beyond the thin layer of skin. He brushed his finger against his skin; he wouldn't cut the vein, not today anyways.

Grasping the now opened blade, his hand begun to shake ever so slightly. 'Don't shake. This is what I want. This is what will relieve all of the mental pains. I just need to…' He pressed the blade down against his skin, bringing droplets of blood rushing to greet the metal. He winced slightly, the physically pain was slowly overwhelming his body, the mental pain forgotten. Loving the effects, he pressed the blade down harder waiting until a pool of blood had gathered before dragging the blade a short distance across his forearm.

He watched in amazement as his own source of life bleed out of his body. 'Why had I not thought of this earlier?' He thought. The effect was what he had always wanted. He had found something that could take the pain out of his life for a short period of time. Physical pain he could deal with, it was something one could get used to. Emotional pain never lessened, it was something you could never get used to no matter how hard you tried.

As the vision of his reflection in the mirror blurred, he pulled the blade off his skin and set it on the counter. Applying pressure on the fresh wound with his hand he allowed his body to slide down the wall of the bathroom. Knowing that he needed to clean his arm off before blood could drop to the floor, he forced himself to get off of the floor and put his arm under the faucet. Not knowing of how intense the pain would be when the water hit his arm, he turned the water on full blast.

As the water hit his arm, fresh waves of pain made their way through his body. While he mentally could accept the pain, physically he could not. Within seconds, he could feel bile making its way up his throat. He quickly ran over to the toilet and bent over it, just in time to feel the contents of his stomach emptying out into the white basin.

Not having much in his stomach in the first place, he was quickly emptied of all fluid and dry heaves just continued to rack his body. 'What did I do to deserve this?' He thought. 'Why me?' After the feelings of nausea passed, he returned to the sink to continue cleaning up his sinful act. Being a bit more careful with the water this time, he managed to finish washing the blood off before new waves of nausea hit.

After grabbing the blade, he exited out of the bathroom and threw the blade in his bag before collapsing on his bed. He was emotionally and physically tried and could barely lift his head. 'Everything will be alright,' he thought, 'it has to be.' But he could never be so positive, so he ended his last sentence with 'why bother living?'

Not wanted to admit to his own physical weakness, he pushed his upper body up into a sitting position. He then slid off the bed and tried to stand. After trying to take his first steps to make it across the room, his knees gave way and he dropped to the floor. Cringing in pain, he continued to make the way across to the dresser to grab his night clothes. 'I will beat this.' He barely managed to change into a loose fitting tee shirt and boxers, before collapsing on the floor.

While his body told him to stop pushing it past its limits, his mind told him keep going, don't let this beat you. Because of what was left of his pride he forced himself to make it up onto the bed. By now, beads of sweat had formed on his face and were dripping down his chin. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had lost a severe amount of blood and needed rest to regain it.

He managed to curl up under the blankets pulled on his bed and turn out the bedside table light. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness all he could feel was the throbbing of pain in his wrist, and the burning of his throat. His mind slowly began to shut down and he could feel himself being carried out into the land of dreams, or for him at least, nightmares. The last thing he could whisper before drifting off into a much needed rest was, 'I love you mum and father.'