Disclaimer: They're not ours, they belong to J.K. Rowling.

Warnings: Rape, but non-graphic, abuse, some language, slash, disturbing themes and such.

Pairing: Draco/Harry

A/N: this is a story written byAllaloneandIncomplete (me, Charlotte, a.k.a. Mutant) and Katie. The mental hospital is based off of my own experience at one. Oh, and this is probably disturbing at some points. Sadly, my crazy buddy is in NY right now. Note: We love flames although nice reviews are welcomed, too. Huggles to everyone!

Summary: Draco's father abuses him to the point where Draco cannot return and develops Multiple Personality Disorder. Harry is tortured from his battle with Voldemort (not physically) and gets all suicidal and depressed and there are other dark things that have happened that have yet to be revealed. He's also OCD (like me! yay!)

"You liked that didn't you?" Lucius sneered, looking down at his bleeding son.

"No," Draco whispered, voice hoarse from screaming.

"What did you say?" Lucius snarled. His son was such a failure. Getting worse grades than a bleeding mudblood, he didn't want the dark mark, and now, here he was, defying his own father. The father that had given him all money could buy, given him only the best in life. Stupid brat.

"No."

Lucius grasped Draco around the neck, turning his ragged breath to choked sobs. "Oh, stop crying. You're not a little boy anymore, Draco," Lucius snapped irritably. "Now repeat to me what you said, I didn't quite catch it."

"Yes," Draco rasped, one small tear running down his bloodstained face. He was so weak, so useless. Why couldn't he stand up to his father, just once?

"Whore," smirked Lucius, and threw Draco to the floor. "I knew you liked it." Draco gave a barely audible whimper of pain. Not that he was any stranger to pain. But today had been the worst he had ever endured. He had the quietly spoken word, "Crucio," echoing through his head it had been said so many times. His back was lost in old scars and new from his father's whip. His ass had blood and a slightly thicker substance running out of it and hurt like someone had stuck a dagger up it. His chest, legs, and arms were covered in cuts, some of them his own, some from his father's dagger.

Draco raised his eyes to the door, only able to see out of his good eye. The other had a black ring around it and was swelling rapidly. His father had left, but Draco had no relief that it was over. He only had the knowledge that this was not the first time he had been raped and tortured by his father, and it would not be the last.

Harry sat on his bed. He was clad only in Westwood hospital's johnny, as they had stolen his clothes again, lest he try to strangle himself with his jeans. You'd be surprised how much damage could be done to oneself with jeans.

It had started out very simple. He had woken up when the nurses came around for checks, at 3:15 a.m., and hadn't been able to fall asleep again. The sweat he had gained during the course of his nightmare dripped down his cheeks, mingling with the tears. He could still reply the whole reality scene by scene.

Voldemort lay on the ground beside Harry. Harry's arm was ten feet away from them and Voldemort had a large dark stain on his black robes. Both of them had lost their wands long ago.

"Look at the mess you've made of your life, Harry," Voldemort whispered, his harsh voice echoing in Harry's ears, and gestured towards Hermione.

Her hand was shaking, thrown in front of her eyes to ward off the light of all the conflicting spells. As Harry's eyes traveled up her arm, he noticed the way the deep cuts and bruises stood out against the pale of her skin. The moonlight seemed to edge everything with silver and she looked ethereal in that moment, dark curls cascading down her back, even darker eyes wide with fear. She was dying- even a fool could see that. She kept choking and spitting out blood and her leg was twisted into a strange position.

"Harry, kill him." She coughed, spaying the dark ground with blood. "Please, Harry, please finish this." Then her eyes had rolled back in her head and she had died. The brave, clever, bossy, strength Harry had loved for seven years, dead in less than ten minutes.

A few feet away from her lay Ron, the freckles on his face standing out on his pale, dead skin. Next to him was Ginny, staring up at the sky, lips parted with words that would never be said.

Just as quickly as his best friend had died, so had the light in Harry's eyes. The only light in them now was the glimmer of tears.

"Bastard!" Harry screamed, swinging blindly at Voldemort with his fist. It was insane, it was ridiculous. Some of the most powerful wizards had tried to kill Voldemort and failed, and Harry Potter, the only one who had lived, wanted a fist fight. He couldn't even see, tears were swimming in his eyes and pouring from his eyes. Everywhere he turned there were corpses. Oliver Wood, Dumbledore, Cho Chang, even the bitchy old man, Filch and his cat, Mrs. Norris.

Voldemort laughed coldly and held up a hand to block the blow. Harry's blurry eyes caught a moonlit dagger, lying in Fred Weasley's outstretched hand. By now he was half-mad with grief and rage. Had he been thinking, he would have picked up the wand lying right next to the dagger.

Harry stabbed madly at the laughing Voldemort, his only goal to make the horrible sound stop. Harry cut holes in The Dark Lord's stomach, slashed at his face, and even managed to put a hole in his heart.

It was just him and Voldemort now. Everyone else had either fled or died.

There was blood, so much blood, and an excruciating pain to his scar as Voldemort died, finally died. Harry screamed and clutched at the burning scar, then blacked out from the pain.

Harry began to cry, really cry. He screamed in agony, face streaked with tears. "I'm so sorry! I couldn't save you, I couldn't even save you," he screamed. He slammed his head into the wall as hard as he could. He wouldn't stop until his blood dripped down the white walls, until his body was still as Hermione's had been.

Then the nurses came running in. "Harry!" shouted one of them, trying to be heard above his shrieking. One held his head as he tried once again to ram it into the wall, two grabbed his kicking feet, and one ran for help.

Someone forced his mouth open and a thick liquid was poured down his throat. Out of reflex, he swallowed the bitter liquid. It was pure chaos now. The other patients were awake by now, some sobbing, some muttering, some just staring. It was all very surreal for Harry. Things started to slow down as the medicine hit him and the world spun, darkened, then went still.

When he woke, the world was almost as hazy as it had been when he was fighting Voldemort. His head throbbed nastily and he felt empty and hopeless. His arms and chest were held down by three thick straps, his legs held down by four more of them. He was on a white cot in a room with padded white walls and nurses bustling around, along with a doctor checking his pulse for any sign of agitation.

Welcome to The-Boy-Who-Wants-To-Die's life.