A/N: Title comes from (surprise surprise) 'Gossip', the film. Remembered the title, thought 'hmm, good title, let's make myself a little L/D story out of it …', wrote it, and now am hoping you all enjoy it. And review. Or flame. Or whatever.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Same as usual in my stories. Slash, bad language, incest, blood, yadda yadda yadda. And rumours.

gossip

whisper whisper "Draco Malfoy gets raped by his dad!" whisper whisper

The first time Draco heard this ludicrous rubbish being whispered in the corridor as he was passing a huge gaggle of fifth years along with practically half of his house, he had grabbed his wand, hexed all the non-Slytherins on sight, and had got one hundred points off Slytherin and two weeks of detentions.

People hadn't said anything about him for the next week.

But then he heard a moronic, wide-eyed Hufflepuff telling his friends secretly that, "Draco Malfoy's chest is covered in scars from all the times his dad beat him."

Now that was just silly.

Draco had pretended to have a coughing fit right over the third year's head, thus scaring him practically half to death, and had proceeded to threaten the group of Hufflepuffs with grievous bodily harm if they thought of spreading that ridiculous rumour around.

But it didn't stop.

There was another one, one that went, "Draco Malfoy's dad makes him practise the Unforgivables on his mother."

Draco had almost laughed at the sheer hilarity of this statement, but had stopped himself in time and had merely hexed the perpetrator's hair lime green.

And then there was, "Draco Malfoy's already a Death Eater, and his dad wants him to be the next Dark Lord."

Honestly. The shit people came up with these days. They seemed to find his family oddly fascinating.

That time Draco had merely smirked, rolled his eyes and hexed their shoelaces to tie together.

Soon he had members of his own house approaching him and saying tentatively, "Malfoy, is it . . . is it true that . . . that your dad hangs you from the ceiling on chains naked during dinner because he likes to watch you pass out as he consumes his desert?"

Draco had come so close to bursting into laughter after that statement . . . as it was, he had instead raised his eyebrows and given the person a most unimpressed look.

He had become used to it, one could say. Become used to hearing his name thrown about the halls randomly, with something gruesome or other to do with him and his family.

But then he heard that one rumour. That one rumour that really made his blood boil.

"Merlin's beard, Lucius Malfoy is one sick fuck. All the shit he pulls . . . Merlin, he must be a freaking psycho not to love his kid!"

Potter had been the one to say it.

Potter who didn't even have a father, who didn't even know what love was, who had no fucking idea about life or Draco's life or his family's life or about any fucking thing at all!

Draco had been so angry that he had slammed his way into the ordinary bathrooms, having been in too much of a rage to get to the Prefects' ones, and had smashed every single mirror in their with his fists.

It felt good to pound his anger out into that fucking reflective glass, mocking him and reminding of his father and the rumours, all the fucking gossip that went on in Hogwarts.

He sank to the floor (they have no idea, do they? They really have no idea. Fucking fucking Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers and blood traitors the lot of them, have no idea, no fucking clue they don't know they can't even begin to imagine those fucking cross-bred gossip folk have no FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT).

The gossips had got it wrong, wrong, all so wrong.

For one thing, Draco didn't have a 'Dad' – what he had was a 'Father', a 'Sir', a 'yes okay I'll do it I'll agree I'll do anything if you would love me-wanting man'.

And for another, Draco was not a Death Eater; he was going to be one when he was eighteen. And of course Father didn't want him to be the next Dark Lord! What sort of preposterous idea was this? He wanted to be the Dark Lord himself, and if that was not possible, he wanted Draco to overthrow the current Dark Lord.

Draco looks at his hands and digs his nails into already-bloody palms. It hurts slightly, but Draco doesn't stop. Ridiculous rumours.

For instance, Draco's father forcing him to practise the Unforgiveables on his mother? The idea of it is simply absurd.

'Forcing', my arse, and on his mother? No way.

Draco practises the Unforgiveables on the house elves, and no one forces him to do anything. He does it of his own accord (although, of course, his father – the brilliant man – had suggested it in the first place) – after all, Draco needs to prepare for being a Death Eater.

And that rumour that little Hufflepuff heard! HA! As if Draco's chest would be covered in scars from his father beating him . . .

Draco almost laughs at the sheer stupidity of the idea, but instead digs his nails into his palms harder, ignoring the pain. The idea of Lucius Malfoy, getting his soft, smooth, lean, perfect hands dirty or scraped by beating his child? No way.

Lucius Malfoy used all the curses you could ever imagine. Dark spells, Light spells, anything and everything was acceptable as long as they taught his son a lesson (the skin on his palms rips, but Draco doesn't notice).

And scars? On his chest? Pf.

Draco doesn't know why, but he feels the need to prove to himself the Hufflepuff is wrong. So he throws off his robes and throws off his shirt. They are covered in the blood still leaking slightly from his hands now, but he doesn't care. He can get new ones; he has the money.

He stands up and looks down at his pale, skinny torso. Not a scar in sight. Not one. No big ones, small ones, obvious ones or semi-invisible ones, because his chest is not scarred. Draco smiles down at himself triumphantly, but his smile fades away once he catches a glimpse of the deformed skin on his back in the many pieces of the broken mirrors lying on the floor.

His back is covered in dark pink welts, blue-black bruises, and pale yellowish scars. He grabs his shirt and shrugs it on harshly. There. Can't see anything now. Can't see any signs of how much he displeased his father in the summer (Draco shudders), and can't see how ugly he looks from the back (although Father's always told him he'd be beautiful).

He doesn't bother to do up the front of his shirt, because, hey! No scars! So everybody could go fuck themselves 'cos Father never laid a harsh hand on him.

And Father didn't hang him from the ceiling on chains naked during dinner, thank you very much, and he most certainly did not like to watch him pass out as he consumed his desert.

Father chained him up to the wall naked after dinner, and then made sure to teach Draco some very valuable lessons indeed.

Draco is rubbing his hands on his shirt hurriedly, unconsciously, as though his hands are dirty. They leave bloody trails down the white, expensive silk, but he doesn't notice.

And Father didn't fucking rape him! What was that word, anyway, what did it even mean? Draco had never even heard it until he was thirteen years old, and by then his father had been doing what was normally classified as 'rape' so often that he didn't-

No. No, no, no, "NO!" Draco yelled at himself. What was wrong with him? Father didn't rape him. The rumours were false, the gossip was complete and utter shit. What Lucius did was love him. He never said it, but Draco knew. His father showed him how much he loved him (no matter how much it hurt).

Draco ran his hands through his hair, dry blood flaking off, some that was still sticky getting matted into his hair.

Potter was wrong. Potter was a liar. Potter was a fucking gossip and knew nothing that he was talking about, nothing! (Father loves me he does he does Potter is a dickless bastard who has no fucking clue what he's talking about he doesn't know true family value family meaning family life he doesn't know how Father loves me Father loves me he loves me so much he always shows me he cares he loves me he loves me he lovesmehelovesmehelovesmehelovesmePotterdoesn'tknowwhathe'stalkingaboutFATHERLOVESME)

Draco lets out a feral, angry scream and rips at his hair and rips off his shirt and yells himself hoarse and hits the walls until his hands are bleeding like rivers again.

Once he cannot yell anymore, he sits down slowly amongst all those deceptive reflective pieces of mirror, flashing him a perfect picture of his perfectly repulsive, worthless back, and breathes in and out through his nose slowly.

After twenty or so minutes he can still feel the anger pulsing through his veins, but it's lessened slightly, it's slightly more dulled, he feels slightly more hollow, and he knows that he hates everyone in the whole wide world apart from his amazing, loving father (who did not force him to practise Unforgiveables, who did not leave scars on his chest through beatings, wholovedhimsomuch).

How dare Potter say that about him! How dare those other brats speak such words of disrespect about his father! How dare they! The anger slams back into him full force, and he swears he can kill them all right now for their fucking disrespectful rumours about shit that wasn't even true and-

But then Draco smirks suddenly, gets up, dusts off his trousers, and walks out of the bathroom, passing a horrified Harry Potter that double-takes at the sight of Draco's half-naked body, scarred back, bloody hands and hair and the mess he left in the bathroom with the open door, but Draco doesn't care (and he'll show the whole damn world – well, Hogwarts at last) because the rumours are stupid and pathetic and fake and untrue, and no one can see his father's touches slowly burning a hole through his soul and his father doesn't make him do anything he doesn't want to do and his father doesn't beat him and there are no scars on his chest and his father loves him loves him loveshimsodamnmuchhetoldmeso.

ouch

(gossip hurts)

End.