It was below freezing the following morning and drifts of snow were piled in the castle grounds. The stone floors of the castle were cold to touch as students milled around waiting to go home for the Christmas holidays.

It was late in the morning before Draco woke. He glanced wildly around. Confused and disorientated as he lay wrapped up in the sheets. He leant back on his pillow as he remembered the night before. Desperation. Pain. Weak. Pathetic. All the thoughts that had stayed in his head all night before he'd finally sunk into a restless sleep. Pulling up the sheets a little, he chanced a look at his arm. It was messy and battered looking.

He mumbled to himself, "Scourgify." Watching, hebit back a shriek as the rough cleaning spell hit the lacerations on his skin.

Fuck. What time is it?

He checked the clock. The coach was coming in an hour and a half. He bit back the urge to shriek again. Would this ever get any easier?


After a quick shower to clean himself up, Draco returned to his bed and started frantically going through spell books. There had to be a solution in there somewhere.

Disillusionment was no good. He didn't want a chameleon for an arm… he just wanted the stuff on it to go away.

After half an hour of desperately scrabbling through spell books, Draco eventually settled for a long sleeve shirt. He glanced around at his packed up belongings. Only an hour left now and he was anxious as all hell.

Breathing in and out heavily, Draco willed himself not to become too panicked.


Draco stalked through the halls. It was midmorning and it was absolutely freezing.

"Bloody Britain," he mumbled to himself as he buried his fingers in his robes. He was walking briskly into the Great Hall when he ran straight into someone else who was walking veryquicklyout of the Great Hall.

"Watch where you're going," he snarled, not really caring at this point who he was talking to.

"I'm not the one who goes running around head butting people," retorted a voice.

Not just a voice; an aggravatingly familiar voice.

"Well, Potter. Just because…" Draco desperately tried to think of a reply. His brain wasn't working. Its usual ability to supply him with biting sarcasm appeared to have been cut off.

"Yes Malfoy?"

Now it wasn't just the biting sarcasm that had gone. It was everything. All rational thought had totally disappeared. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. Was this love?

This strange thought stayed with Draco as a slumped to the floor for the second time in two days.

Crap.


There were shadows across a background image of grey. Someone hovered overhead saying something. The words were indistinguishable from each other.

"Malfoy? Malfoy?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"You're awake then?"

"Think so. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Draco forced himself up and glared at Harry.

"Tell anyone and you punched me. More specifically, I'll tell Snape. You'll never have a week without detention again." Draco gasped manically.

It would have been more effective had it not sounded like he was about to die, he thought morosely to himself.

With this in mind he carefully half-staggered his way out of the near empty entrance hall leaving Harry Potter standing alone in the room.


"Draco? The family carriage has arrived. Your father is waiting"

As the house elf bowed and left the room (presumeably to go get the luggage) Draco was left shocked. The ramifications of these words hit him like a lead weight and he felt like he was about to fall over (again). His father'sreturn had come all too soon for his liking. He was left standing in the hall by himself waiting for his luggage to arrive. Upon further consideration, he decided it would be more intelligent to walk down to meet his father. Punctuality was interchangeable in the Malfoy family. You were punctual to the powerful, fashionably late for your equals and never associated with anyone else. One of the few people that a Malfoy was early for was his own. It was probably something to do with the genetic temperament. No one with any vestige of intelligence would irritate someone with that kind of temper.

With this thought, Draco morosely picked his way down the stairs and to the ancient (yet wonderfully stylish and shiny) carriage.

"Draco," came a warning voice, "Do not slouch."

"Yes Father."

It was a fairly clinical greeting, but nothing out of the ordinary. Considering the alternatives, Draco was relieved. Actually, upon further consideration of the alternatives, Draco was ecstatic. Coldly returning his father's smirk he stepped up into the carriage. It would have been perfect. But he couldn't stop shivering. Curse this infernal weather, he thought to himself. He nearly groaned out loud. His father's way of thinking was catching.


After several minutes of uncomfortable silence between them, Draco was already starting to feel the pressures of home life.

"So, Draco," began his father.

Draco began to wonder where this conversation was going to go. They surely couldn't have a civilized conversation about Azkaban. ('So what did you do over the term, father?' 'I ate putrid meat and dwelled on my own discrepancies! How about you, Draco?')

Instead Draco reasoned that he would refer back to the situation before the 'Azkaban incident.' Therefore (as per usual) Draco would be forced to sit through questions about his school work, friends and his love life. He also was wondering when his father would start questioning him on his participation in evil activities. In previous interrogations, he'd often wondered about his father's sanity. He often wondered whether his father actually had a life of his own.

Draco's thoughts were interrupted.

"When are you going to start going out with that Parkinson girl?"

Banal small talk seemed the way to go. Pity. Azkaban could have been an interesting conversation topic.

Time to reply in true Malfoy fashion with a witty and yet cuttingly sarcastic remark.

"Father, do you really want me commit bestiality? The girl's basically a breed of dog. Goyle can have her."

"Draco, we've discussed this. You must date her."

"But father, she and Goyle are much more compatible. They're both sub-human in both intelligence and looks."

"You must."

"No."

"You will not?"

"No."

"Then suffer my wrath."

Suffer my wrath? Honestly, who says that in real life?

Draco pouted to himself and faced the window. Yes, coming home, was an experience in itself.

"Draco?"

Not again.

"Yes father?"

"You appear to be looking a little frail for my liking… small wonder the Parkinson girl won't have you!"

Hypocrite. Draco took in his father's thin face and grey pallor. Scathing comebacks crossed his mind. Most involved an expletive somewhere. What did it really matter what he said? He knew something bad was going to happen anyway, with the previous argument. He settled for rolling his eyes. His father didn't notice and the remainder of the trip was spent in an icy silence.


Draco rolled reflectively over on his four poster bed. Even if the company at home was bad the standards of living had definitely increased. He'd already been offered three meals and it wasn't even half past one. The new house elf certainly was taking this obsession with food thing to a whole new level. It was quite disconcerting. However, Draco hadn't eaten any of it. He had vowed to go on a hunger strike until he was no longer going to be forced to go out with Pansy. The mere thought of it was sick making. In fact, considering how sick it made him feel, he probably wouldn't have been able to eat the food anyway. So the hunger strike was no big thing. It had only been a couple of hours anyway.

Draco heard a familiar pounding on the stairs. Evidently, his father had not taken the same blasé attitude to the hunger strike. In fact, Draco thought to himself as he rolled lethargically over, his footsteps seemed even louder than normal. Flipping his legs off the side of the bed, he savoured the few moments he had left of peace.

The door swung open and a livid Lucius Malfoy entered the room. Draco turned slowly to look at him.

"Draco." He said, his calm voice barely covering the inane anger beneath it. "Why is it that all three meals that kitchen has sent up since this morning have all been rejected?"

"I'm protesting," replied Draco languidly. "No food until I am no longer forced to 'associate' with that Pansy girl."

"So, not only do you have to be such a pitiful specimen…" His voice spat violently over the words, spit flying in a most undignified fashion, "but you force yourself to become more so?"

"Well, that wasn't really the plan, but you may choose to interpret it however you want." "I WILL NOT ARGUE WITH YOU DRACO."

His fathers face was becoming increasingly flushed. His forehead pulsed and Draco could feel the anger emanating from him. Azkaban seemed to have removed the vestiges of his father's sanity that remained. It would be safer to finish the argument now; he would suffer less damage if he just conceded. If he just gave in.

Standing up he faced his father. He would not surrender to this form of intimidation. Who the hell did this bastard think he was?

"Father, how undignified; to lose your temper like a common muggle," he retorted, savouring the feeling of reckless abandon.

"Draco, how undignified wanting to lose weight like a common muggle girl." His father spat back at him.

"Hypocrite."

He remembered who this bastard was, as he saw the fist coming towards him. It was his father: a father who didn't usually bother with physical violence but preferred magical curses and hexes. Azkaban truly had changed him.

The blow hit. A very good shot with the fist actually as it made direct contact with the left side of his forehead. Must be slightly out of practice, Draco thought to himself as pain reverberated around his head and he fell backwards.

"I expect you to be at dinner Draco. No excuses. The house elf will be around shortly to clean you up."

In contrast with his loud entrance, Lucius Malfoy swept out of his son's bedroom without another word.


He'd been able to get out of dinner in the end, forcing the house elf to give him a potion to make him violently ill. It was a good potion for getting out of social functions but unfortunately had many unpleasant side effects.

He was once again, reclining on his bed. However, this time, he was fighting uncontrollable waves of nausea. Bloody house elf. When he said he'd wanted a potion to make him sick, he didn't mean permanently.

Lucius had taken this event to heart and had commented many times on Draco's weak constitution. However, Lucius also had a rather weak stomach so he was unable to spend too much time in Draco's company without looking rather green himself.

Leaning back against the feather pillows again, Draco wondered briefly about his mother. He had not seen her all holidays. In his younger years she had been affectionate, but apparently the lure of the dark arts had taken over. Their conversations grew forced and stilted and lately they hadn't talked at all.

Holding back another pang of nausea he rolled over and stared sadly into the plush green pillows. Sometimes, he'd gladly trade all the riches for a bit more affection.

His Slytherin side kicked in at this point and he quickly amended that thought. Not all of his riches – how could one enjoy life without them – but a small percentage of his fortune, at least, for a bit more affection. Sighing, he considered it again. It sounded a lot like he was on the market for a prostitute.