Title: Never Enough

by: Ember

Summary: Ever since the end of Sixth year, things had been going downhill for Draco. The entire Dark Forces hunting him down, a werewolf bite and a lifedebt to Harry Potter were almost predictible.

A/N: I'm a fangirl. () How I despise this part of myself. Heheh. (I also hate Crossfade, but I like this one part of So Cold. Most of that song, I'm notsomuch in love with. But yeah. Lyrics down there by them. That's all I wanted to say.)

And so here we are.

Warning and Disclaimer-y things: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't be bothering with this. Hell, I'm rich! I can hire the queen of England to write my fanfics for me!

This story contains slash, and a pairing that has always made me sorta wince a little bit. Apart from Rhyssen, InferiorBeing and a couple of really good fics, I never found one in this pairing that I really liked. But that's alright, 'cause I'm a hypocrite. And... I don't really like this fic, either; I like the plot idea, but I don't like the prologue. I like the first chapter; the prologue is WAY too short and doesn't have enough periods.

Reviews are always appreciated. If I get enough I'll prolly even actually continue this. XD (Can you tell I'm not stoked to be doing a HP fic?)

†¤¤†

What I really meant to say
Is I'm sorry for the way I am
I never meant to be so cold
To you I'm sorry about all the lies
Maybe in a different light
You could see me stand on my own again

†¤¤†

It was seven-oh-eight, as the muggles said it- according to the weathered muggle watch on his wrist- and, after a long, warm, beautiful summer day, the light was just starting the dwindle, the sun just starting to sink down the to edge of the earth. Spears of color struck the sky, and Draco Malfoy, watching it from his position on the grass, a large glass vial on his lap, his hand spread over it as if protecting it at all cost, watched the light and color show with a growing sense of dread and hatred for the uncompromising beauty.

There had been a time when he would never have touched a muggle watch, but wizard watches weren't much good for telling time (although they were good for pretty much everything else; from political power swings to the position of Jupiter's four largest moons), and time of day had become very important as of late. Time of day meant everything, at least once the day of the month was set.

Draco pushed one lock of hair out of his face, and glanced back down at the vial, then at the watch. Sunset was at eight-thirty four. He had one hour and forty-odd minutes left to decide.

It wouldn't have been so bad- it wouldn't have been nearly so bad, it couldn't have been nearly so bad- if he had kept his nerve up, if he'd had the balls to go through with it. His father, the man he'd known all his life, the man he'd always looked up to, the man he'd indirectly bragged to his school friends about, had always said he was a natural-born Death Eater, and perhaps intellectually he was. Dumbledore, who had seen him in the Great Hall three times daily for six years, had told him he wasn't a killer, and Dumbledore had been right. He had been tortured within an inch of his sanity for needing Snape to back him up at the end of sixth year, and throughout it all the old man's eyes stared lifelessly and reproachfully at him through wrinkled and half-mast eyelids, providing an extra bite to the pain. Worse- far worse- was embodied in the white scar on his shoulder, a half-ring of little punctures, with Fenris Greyback had taken great delight the next full moon in giving him. And three pointless but rousing outings afterward, Draco Malfoy, officially tainted with the blood of two muggle women, fled the gaggle of Death Eaters he was travelling with.

It would have been fine if he'd had the strength to stay with them. He laughed, just slightly, half-mocking, to think about it. Such a fine, upstanding man, the teachers had always said it, though they hinted to one another that maybe there was something about him they didn't quite trust, couldn't quite put their fingers on. One would think that eventually, the good side would get better at putting their fingers on the deviant trait. There he was, his father's splitting image, proud and strong and clever. But too afraid to stay on one side, too afraid to make up his mind. It had killed his headmaster, after all, hadn't it?

Not him, but his indecision. His inherent idiocy.

One hour and twenty-nine minutes, until the full moon just barely looked over the trees, and once again, as he did every month, Draco lost what little pride he had left, clinging in tatters to the dirtied lanks of his hair, the stained veneer of his robes. Runaways were always dirty; where would he stop to get a shower, or a change of clothes? In a world where even the person you most trust can always betray you, sometimes without even knowing what they're doing, where the person you most trust could very well be your worst enemy in another skin.

One hour and eleven minutes left. The potion might take forty minutes for full effect, so he didn't have long. Hesitating for just one second, he slowly twisted off the crystal cap and looked down at the clear liquid inside.

They had killed his mother, they had, in cold blood, to 'teach him a lesson about what hesitation costs.' He had watched them do it. Snape told him that when his life was at risk, Narcissa had screamed, wailed, cried, but when it was her turn, all the woman had done was snarl wordlessly and take the pain with more anger than fear or despair. He could do the same. He had to do the same; he was a Malfoy, even if he was a dirty and broken one in the end. He was still a Malfoy and would do it with the pride and style that name dictated.

He raised the vial to his mouth, pulled the cork out with his teeth,toasted to nothingness with a wry and painful grin, and poured it all down his throat with one long, unflinching swallow. Then he looked around him, vision already starting to blur, trying to take in as much as possible; it was suddenly very important that he remember the earth, that he remember the last things he saw. The street sign right over his head said, "Grimmauld Place."

He couldn't for the life of him figure out why a little voice inside his head was telling him that was significant.

†¤¤†

Too shooooort. It burns me. Chapter One goes up tomorrow if all goes well.