Hello, everyone! Time for another chapter! School is finally out for the holidays, so I can at last get back to writing this thing. It's almost done. I hope you guys enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Twenty-one

A few weeks later, I was startled awake by yet another nightmare about Dumbledore's death and was on my way to the front door for some fresh air when I noticed a lamp flickering in one of our study rooms. I peeked through the crack between the double doors and spotted my father slouching in a chair with his head in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and a half empty bottle of liquor resting on the small table beside him.

I gently pushed one of the doors open and softly called, "Father?"

He jumped and looked up at me through squinted and unfocused eyes. "Draco. What're you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," I answered, inching closer to him.

"Neither could I."

"So you're drinking again," I countered, leaning against the table that supported the bottle of wine.

I had my wand with me. I could make the bottle disappear before he could pour himself another glass. I still had the Trace on me, but the Ministry wouldn't be able to detect the magic because of the Dark Arts shield placed on our property. No one could detect the magic used here.

"You turn seventeen tomorrow, don't you?" my father slurred looking up at me with a forced smile.

I nodded in answer.

"Anything you want?"

"Not really." In all honesty, the only thing I wanted for my birthday was to be left alone. I wanted a day to be forgotten.

Ever since I failed to kill Dumbledore, I've been the center of attention, and it wasn't in a good way. The other Death Eaters around the house would mock me both behind my back and to my face, but that wasn't a problem. The Gryffindors at school laughed at me constantly, so it was easy to tune out the Death Eaters. What got to me was the torture. Some of them would throw painful spells and curses in my direction when I wasn't paying attention. They laughed when I cried out in pain or was tripped up.

To most of them, it was a game. A sort of prank they used to get back at me, but to others, it was revenge for my weakness. Those Death Eaters would hold a Cruciatus Curse on me for minutes at a time. They would spit at my feet and leave me lying on the floor.

My father was no help. He was always drinking, and I hardly ever saw him. I had no idea where mother was, but I always knew where my father was: in a private room with some type of alcohol to keep him company. Every time I would enter the room he asked me the same questions: how I was doing there, and what I was doing. I tried to take the alcohol away from him several times, but he always stopped me. He used magic against me and held be by the neck more times than I could count, but I still had some hope that tonight would be different.

"Well, you let me know if you think of anything you want for tomorrow," my father suggested after another sip of his drink.

His glass was almost finished. I had to move the wine bottle now.

I straightened my posture, slipped my hand into my large pockets and fingered the handle of my wand. I didn't have to make the bottle vanish, just the wine inside of it. A little spell to the leg of the table would throw the bottle to the ground and break it, doing away with the wine.

I flicked my wand inside of my pocket and made the table wobble. The bottle tilted, and I grew hopeful that this would work, but when the bottle was about to slip off of the small table entirely, Father noticed and quickly grabbed it.

He lifted the bottle and waited for the table to stop shaking before putting it back down. He glanced at me with anger and demanded, "Did you do this? Did you try to break it?"

"No," I lied, pleading that he wouldn't see through me.

"Let me see your hand, Draco."

I backed away from him, growing nervous at his rising volume. Father hardly ever rose his voice with me when I was a child, but lately, when he has, it always came with pain.

"Draco, let me see what's in your pocket," he ordered, his voice barely below a shout.

I gulped down the lump in my throat and pulled my wand out of my pocket.

"So you did try to take my drink from me."

I flipped my wand around in my hand so that I was holding the tip instead of the handle and held my hands up. "You've had enough of it. I'm just trying to help you."

Father scoffed and rose from his chair, his glass cup still in his hand. "You know how you could have helped me? By doing what you were supposed to. Why didn't you?"

"I-I-"

"I am tired of your excuses!" he shouted, reaching behind him and drawing his wand from his chair.

He leveled the instrument at my chest, and I dropped my wand. I was too afraid of what he might do if I opened my mouth again, but I had to do something to get him to stop. Before he hurt me again.

I slowly got to my knees in front of him, keeping my hands up, and stared at his face, pleading that he would put his wand down. But instead, my father bent down to my level and got close enough for me to be overpowered by the stench of alcohol radiating off of his breath.

"You're a pathetic excuse for a Malfoy," he hissed.

My heart jumped. He couldn't mean that. I was his son, and he cared for me, right? "Y-you don't-"

He smashed the glass he held into the side of my head, making it shatter. The force of his blow sent me to the floor, stinging pain spreading across my cheek.

"You're not supposed to talk back to your father," he breathed, a threat ringing in his voice as he stood back to his full height.

I looked up at him as he towered over me, too afraid to move. My heart pounded, and I reached up to my stinging cheek and cautiously prodded the injury. I inspected my trembling hand and found hot, red blood smeared across my fingertips.

"What? Afraid of a little blood?" my father mocked as he aimed his wand at me again. "You really are pathetic."

I opened my mouth to apologize and beg him to let me leave, but I was cut off by the worst spell I've ever been subject to.

"Crucio!" he shouted, instantly spreading poison-like pain through my veins.

I screamed and writhed on the floor in a desperate attempt to break free of the pain, but I knew it was of no use. The Torture Curse made terrible pain come from your own heart, and the only way to get rid of it was to lose consciousness, but I couldn't force myself to.

I didn't know how long had passed, but the pain eventually ended, and something clattered to the floor.

"D-D-Draco?" my father's voice gently called.

I dragged my eyes open, and I found my father kneeling close to me, looking terrified. He looked like himself. For the first time this summer, he looked like the father I used to know.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," he stuttered, raising a trembling hand towards me.

My heart jumped at his action, and I forced my aching limbs to push away from him, my hands stinging as my skin was pierced by the shattered glass on the floor.

"No, no, no," my father repeated, quickly catching up to me. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He took me into his arms and gripped me in a tight embrace.

I wanted to return it. I wanted to believe for a moment that there was hope for my father, but there wasn't. He wouldn't do this if he was sober, no, but it's clear to me, now, that he would never get that way.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into my hair, his arms tightening around my like a coiling snake.

I glanced around wildly for my wand and found that it was close enough for me to grasp. I carefully reached out with my shaking hand and slowly took hold of the handle. I waited for a few moments to see if my father had noticed my movement, but he gave no indication that he had. He only whispered apologies again and again.

I quickly brought my wand up and threw a stunning spell at him, not caring if it hit him or not. He let me go, and I scrambled to stand and ran from the study room.

"Draco!" Lucius shouted as I ran.

I didn't look back, and I didn't stop until I had gotten to my room, closed the door and bolted it shut.

I instantly released my wand and dropped to the floor. I curled my knees up to my chest and held myself as my fear gave way to grief.

My father was gone. He was here physically, but he hated me, now.

Maybe I should have refused Voldemort's request to help him a few years ago. He would have probably killed me for refusing, and if not for that, for knowing too much about his plans. I didn't want to die, but dying was starting to look better than this.

But though my father hated me, I still had my mother. And we are at war. Maybe I could do my part and take it down from the inside, but how could I do that? I'm surrounded by the enemy, and technically, I am the enemy.

How could I help Harry Potter from here?

Until next week! Until then, happy holidays, Merry Christmas, and happy Hanukkah! Remember to take time to focus on what matters this season!