Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox for a little while. I'll put them all back clean-promise!
A/N: This is my very very first shared story. I'm nervous as hell so please review and let me know what you think. Oh yeah and in case you missed the summary and warnings—Note that this story is HPDM SLASH! So if that squicks you don't read. There's a reason for the Back button. One more thing-each chapter is written in a different style or perspective, I'm not sure if it works so if you think I don't manage to pull it off let me know that too.
A/N 2: Thanks to whirlybird, who so graciously agreed to beta this for me. You rock!
1.
I looked in the mirror and saw two of me. The boy the world sees, the façade I have so carefully built and maintained over the years and the other me, the real me, the one who is tainted and dirty, and so very, very tired. The real me knows the image is perfect—flawless skin, lovely golden hair, steely eyes that hold authority and intelligence—that is who they see, who they want. But it's not what I want. Not anymore. I'm so tired of being dirty and hiding my thoughts and feelings behind taunting sneers, bigoted slander and moneyed arrogance. No one sees me and that's as it should be. I have been groomed to show only what is appropriate, to be the consummate presentation of pureblood elegance, and stature. I have been a good boy all my life, though being a good boy has come at such a price.
I became Uncle Mathias' good boy when I was 4. I was so good. He showered me with praise, which pleased my father greatly and I was encouraged to spend as much time with him as possible when he would come for his visits at Christmas and the summer social season. He augmented the teachings of my poise and etiquette tutors and he taught me the importance of soft hands. He said my hands were sweet and baby soft and should always be so, that I was such a good boy when I used my little soft hands on his fat ugly penis. When I was 6 he taught me that my mouth was sweet too.
When I was 8 Mr. Jonathan Ashton, Chief Advisor to the Minister of Magic and one of my father's most utilized business associates, began to frequent our home. He too had things for me to learn, though most of the lessons were review work from Uncle Mathias' teachings. I was his good boy too and my father was so proud and pleased with my gentleman-like manners, my utter acquiescence to the rules of decorum. I was well versed in the language of coercion and its dialects of threats and intimidation, praise and reward. I was fluent in Silence and was a very good boy.
I inherited quite a substantial amount from Uncle Mathias who died when I was 9. "To Draconis Lucien Alexander Malfoy, my dearest nephew, my sweet boy, to you I leave the sum of 250,000 galleons with the wish that you will use it well and wisely, bring honour to our family and continue to hold yourself with the utmost comportment and poise. Yours are capable hands." I remember being mortified during the reading of his will and so very frightened that someone would work out his coded language. But if they did no one said anything. My father commented later that Uncle had always been quite taken with me and though he was sure I'd miss him dearly I mustn't let my grief show outwardly. Malfoys after all do not cry. We are a stoic lot. I, of course, agreed with my father; I suppose Uncle Mathias felt 250,000 galleons was adequate compensation for my innocence, though I'd wanted to laugh. Grieve for that son-of-a-bitch, I don't think so. The only grieving I'd done was for the good boy who really didn't want to be a good boy anymore, who felt dirty and used.
Mr. Ashton was replaced at the Ministry of Magic when I was 10, though in our last meetings he made sure I had plenty to remember him by. The sweet hands and mouth of the good boy were no longer enough. In those last months of his acquaintance with my family I learned that my arse was sweet too.
And so it has continued with several of my father's associates. There have always been one or two who favour young male flesh and I was served up on a golden platter of power and silence. And in the meanwhile I mimicked the behaviours of my elders and parroted their words, earning their approval and validation. But underneath it all I knew.
I knew I was nothing more than a plaything to them. Despite the respect my surname garners I was—I am—a whore. I learned, though, that this is what the politics of pureblooded families was all about—you trade on your name or your looks for more money, more power, more prestige, and coupled with skill, intelligence, or ability to scheme it was a sure-fire way to guarantee success. In the pureblood circles we are all whores. Only I'm tired of trading my arse for my family's alliances and allegiances.
In that house—in Malfoy Manor—I am filth. I am filth everywhere, but especially there. I wanted to come to someplace that was clean and wholesome and good for this, at least for most people it is. I dirty this place with my presence, but not after tonight.
It is the second day back from the Christmas holiday and I have already made my preparations. I went through the motions today and yesterday so no one suspects anything, and by owl I've been drafting documents with a small solicitor's office in Diagon Alley, not Keyes, Sloan and Maurs, the firm that attends to legal matters for the Malfoy family, just a small firm. Richard Byrd and Associates (which is really just Richard Byrd and his secretary Leslie) has served me well and it is through them I have filed my will with the Ministry Office of Magical Records and Documentation. My parents will be shocked, but I've included several clauses that make my will ironclad. It's important these last things be done; I will have the last laugh with my final say. It won't just be my family that's shocked either. No, all who know me, or think they did are in for a surprise, one that I hope will give them an inkling of who I was behind the façade and let them know how sorry I am that the public face hid any trace of kindness or understanding in me.
I've left the majority of my estate—well my accounts at Gringotts in any case—to Hogwarts, with the stipulation that the monies be used to for scholarships: The Lily Evans Award and The Hermione Granger Award, which will assist Muggle-born students in need of financial assistance. The transition from the Muggle world to Wizarding society is, I am sure, an expensive one. The rest, and I really wish I could see my father's face for this, I've left to Ronald Weasley, "in restitution for battering his pride over the years and in acknowledgement that in his family and friends he is wealthier than I have ever been. And that love and acceptance are the true riches." I really hope he'll understand what I'm trying to say. I can't ever make up for the things I've said to embarrass him in the past but I really want him to understand that not having money is nothing to be ashamed of, that money is only a tool and that despite my upbringing I knew who was the truly wealthy one between us.
I don't have anything to call my own besides what I've brought back with me and of those things there are few things that are worth giving away. I only really have one friend so I've left my grandfather's pocket watch to Blaise because he has always admired it and he is always late no matter how hard he tries. I figure if he's got a nice watch he might actually pay attention to the time. He has been the closest thing to a brother that I have ever had. We might not ever say it--that pureblood stoic thing again--but we love each other and I'm going to miss him, even though I've kept secrets from him too.
There are two other trinkets I'm leaving behind, a pendant of onyx and platinum in the shape of a mighty dragon and a platinum ring that bears the same cast. I had the ring engraved over the holiday and I am leaving these to my secret love. The one with whom I could only share glimpses of my true being and the one to whom I could never offer myself as I am a filthy whore and he is all that his bright and beautiful. I hope he will keep them, though I doubt he will ever wear them and in a way I'm glad of that because though I purchased them for myself years ago, they were bought with tainted money and have lain against my filthy skin.
The two of us smile in the mirror—a real one, and those have not made an appearance for a while. But it comforts me and fills me with happiness I thought long forgotten that I will carry my love for him with me to someplace eternal. In the note I place in the packet with the pendant and ring I said that…'You will always have love.' I admit I backed out at the last moment for I was tempted to write 'You will always have my love,' but what does it really matter. My love, his parents' love, his godfather's, the Weasley's, the Granger girl's, or that of the Wizarding world it is true. He will always have love. I hope he remembers that.
This morning I placed the packets for Harry, Blaise and the letter for Richard Byrd in the day delay box in the owlery. They'll be delivered tomorrow morning before too much gossip can spread and before my parents get their hands on my stuff.
I'm really glad this classroom has such a nice view of the sunset, as it is my last. Dinner is well under way and everyone should be in the Great Hall so I know there's not the slightest chance I'll be found; besides this classroom is in an unused section of the castle. I've transfigured a teacup into a tub of warm bath water. I've applied numbing salve to my arms and taken a phial of numbing potion and another of blood thinner that I've been saving for just this occasion. I've left a note naming names….in death I will NOT be a good boy. I will not keep silent. And I am as ready as this used up whore is going to get.
I slipped into the tub and grimaced at the feel of the water soaking my black robe. I'm certainly not going to die naked! I'd like to spare myself a little dignity at least, plus I love these robes. I saw them at Madam Malkin's when I was shopping for Christmas presents for my parents and family and knew right away they were for me. Black with a high neck and embroidered with a silver dragon down the left side. They'll be ruined in the water and the lovely embroidery will probably turn pink or something, but as this is my funeral I get to say what I'm going to wear. They can make all the decisions they want to about my body when I'm no longer here to care.
I stole the knife from my father's study. It's beautiful and deadly just like him. Cold and unfeeling just like him. I dragged the blade down my left forearm from elbow to wrist fascinated by the look of my parting flesh and the flow of blood. I transfer the knife and do the same to my right arm. I've cut deep and the blood rushes out. It's really frightening and gruesome actually. But it means something beautiful. It means I will be free and maybe wherever I end up I will be purged and once again be clean. Clean and wholesome in a way I have never been in life no matter how hard I've scrubbed or how long I've soaked. But this way….in this bath of blood the filth will come away and I will be clean again. I close my eyes and wait. It won't be long now, already I feel weak and my eyes are heavy. Soon the whore will die and I will be free...soon…soon…soon…