Hello, all.

Well, I started working on this a few weeks ago, thinking it would be a one shot. I've had the idea for a while about a story with a much darker take on Draco's childhood, and started this work just to get the scene to stop pounding at my skull, screaming to be let out.

Now, a few weeks later, it's grown out of control and has become something that's definitely turning out to me a multi-chaptered story with a lot more depth than I was planning. I've got at least the first four to five chapters already written, and the ideas just keep coming. I debated posting it before all the chapters are finished (I tend to be a bit bad when it comes to finishing stories), but I was very happy with the response I got to my Halloween fiction, and I can't resist the urge to start posting this one.

So, away we go. On with the show.

I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from the writing of sharing of this work of fiction. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.

THIS IS A LINE BREAK.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place reminds Draco entirely too much of the disused basement rooms of the manor. Sometimes, when he wakes screaming from nightmares, he's convinced, for a moment, that the last few weeks have been a hallucination and he's locked in the manor again, unable to live and unable to die. Afterward, he's never able to get back to sleep, the dark corners and musty smell of the house locking his mind firmly on the memories of locked doors and screamed pleas and the dog-shit taste of nutrient potions.

Tonight is no different. He awakes screaming, rambling nonsense - some strange mixture of obscenities and his mother's name and please someone help me. His eyes dart wildly around the room and he screams louder, finger's grasping at blonde hair, words melting into random syllables that he can no longer understand. He's back there, back in his childhood home, and these four walls are laughing at him again and any moment, through the door, he knows he'll hear the disgusted, calm, even voice say "You are worthless".

He begins to sob through his screams. He brings his knees up to his chest and lays his forehead against them and sobs into his own curled up body. He wails his despair into the space between his chest and his thighs and thinks to himself 'I am worthless'.

The voice doesn't come. His screams lose power as his voice loses strength. The walls stop laughing. His tears slow and he realizes that the room is very still and very quiet, and he remembers that this isn't Malfoy Manor. He remembers that this is number twelve Grimmauld Place and this is his room and Dumbledore has sworn to him that he is safe here from the voice.

He feels stupid. He swipes his arms angrily across his cheeks to rid himself of his tears. He feels weak. He grabs his wand from the bedside table and double checks the silencing charms he put on the room before he went to bed. They're still there, still secure. He listens hard for a moment, but doesn't hear frantic footsteps coming his way. He breathes a sigh of relief. For another night, no one has heard his weakness.

His relief, however, is short-lived, because even if no one else knows, Draco knows, and it pisses him off. He knows this isn't the manor, knows that the only locks here are the ones on the doors and windows to keep away the danger. But he forgets. His nightmares act like an obliviate and when he wakes, the memories so fresh he can very nearly feel his stomach grumbling, he forgets everything else except the voice and he knows this is stupid. He is old enough, he thinks, to be able to control his own mind, night terrors or not. He has survived worse things than nightmares.

He's so angry with himself that he can barely breathe. He wants to destroy something. He wants to humiliate something as much as he's been humiliated. He wants to make something scar. He's a second away from sending a reducto at his wardrobe or splintering the wood of his bed. He wants to rage through the room until there's nothing beautiful left in it, and then fling open his door destroy every wonderful thing in this house, in this country, in the entire world. He's so angry that the plaster behind his head begins to crack with the magic that's swirling, unbidden, around him.

This serves to make him even angrier. Only children can't control their own bleeding magic, he thinks to himself, but the thought only makes him want to lash out more. He can feel his hold on his magic slipping. His mattress begins to vibrate.

He shuts his eyes tight. "You're a Malfoy," he says to himself, but to his own ears it's the voice, "You will control yourself." He takes three deep breaths and counts backwards from ten and by the time he reaches zero the plaster has stopped cracking and his mattress lies still and he can think straight again (barely).

But the inky, black mass of anger is still squirming in his chest. It's a monster, clawing to get out. He still wants to destroy something. Something that is to be marveled at. Something beautiful. "My beautiful, beautiful Draco," his mother's voice whispers gently in his ear, a memory from when he was younger and she repeated the words to him everyday before bed, "My beautiful heart, you are my most precious."

He almost laughs.

Almost.

He is beautiful. He knows this. He wishes he didn't, because then his urge to mar something wouldn't be satisfied by what he is about to do. He is a beautiful monster, and sooner or later the monster always gets what's coming to him.

He raises his wand again and murmurs "Secare." Nothing appears to happen, but he's unfazed. He settles himself into a cross legged position, slides his left sleeve upward, over his elbow, and casts a soft lumos to inspect his arm.

It's a spiderweb of raised pink lines atop sunken white. He switches his wand to his left hand to lift his right sleeve. The right arm is no better. He studies both intently, grey eyes looking languidly over the rough terrain. The scars are random, but they spell out, for him, an entire lifetime. Written here is the story of how god or fate or karma or whoever forgot to love Draco Malfoy.

He considers, for a moment longer, before seeming to make up his mind. He slides his right sleeve back down and holds his wand with his right hand. Gently, he guides the tip to a spot just beneath his elbow and pushes gently. Holding his breath, he slides his wand horizontally and hisses. Nothing seems to happen for a moment, and then a red line appears and he begins to bleed, his Secare charm (a convenient spell of his own invention) having turned the tip of his wand razor sharp.

It isn't too deep - they never are - but it's enough for a thin line of scarlet to run down the side of his arm and drip two tiny drops onto the bedspread. He watches as he bleeds, and feels the blackness in his chest begin to ebb away with the crimson. He raises his wand again, hovers for a moment, and then he moves swiftly and he's bleeding from two lines and his breathing is coming faster and he feels grounded.

He feels alive. He knows where he is as long as he knows where he bleeds. He knows who he is as long as he knows who's flesh he's cutting. He's floating in a place where the voice can't reach him and there are no cobwebs and no laughing walls and he's warm and safe and loved. He's hanging suspended where no one can tell him "You are worthless and you are a disgrace and there is no one left to love you and it's all your fault".

He's destroying his perfect, pale Malfoy body one cut at a time, and it satisfies him more than destroying anything else ever could.

He brings his wand down again when the first two wounds clot, and again when the third does the same. Time stands still for him as he finally feels in (and, somehow, simultaneously out of) control of his whole life. By the time the blackness is gone and he's finally bled the monster dry, there are seven angry red cuts staring up at him.

He feels very still and very calm.

Methodically, without thinking, he whispers "Finite Incantatem" and his wand returns to normal. He cleans the bedpread with a quick "Scourgify" and then does the same for his arm, wincing only slightly at the rough sensation of the spell against his wounds. He lies back and mutters "Nox," and is left to stare into the sudden darkness. He knows he won't sleep tonight. But at least his mind is clearer. He's numb. The entire world is pushing against him, but he's curled up insde himself where nothing can find him. The residual, slow, pulsing pain in his arm will keep him there, at least for a little while.

Everything goes silent and Draco stares upward, eyes unseeing, waiting for the dawn.

THIS IS A LINE BREAK

He looks like hell and he knows it.

There are dark circles under his eyes, a stark contrast to the pale, almost sickly tone of his skin. His hair hangs limply around his too-thin face. His cheeks are starting to hollow and his grey eyes stare back at him, hard and flat and cold. The wonderful numbness from the night before is gone. His arm has crusted over with ugly brown scabs and once again he's not okay.

But he's always been a good actor. He prides himself on it. It's the one useful thing being a Malfoy has taught him. He straightens his back, spells his hair into its usual perfect sheen, and paints an expression on his face that screams haughty indifference. He looks like the portraits in the front hallway of the Manor - paintings hundreds of years old tracing the Malfoy bloodline, each man standing exactly the same way, staring out with dead eyes. He looks exactly the way a Malfoy should look and it makes him slightly nauseous but he's been doing it for so long that he barely even notices anymore.

He walks with a long, confident stride. It's not a strut, per se, but it's very bourgeois. He locks his bedroom door behind him with a whispered spell thrown over his shoulder and pockets his wand. He tries his best not to be seen with his wand in the house. They allow him to keep it, but he gets the feeling they feel more threatened by him when they see it in his hands. He knows enough simple wandless magic to get by when he has to summon something or light a candle in one of the other residents' presence.

Weasley always says he's showing off. Draco never bothers to argue with him.

The stairs creak under his weight and he passes Kreacher on his way down, who glares daggers at him and mutters something about "blood-traitor scum" under his breath. The elf hadn't been fond of him ever since Draco told him, in no uncertain terms, that he didn't agree with pureblood ideals and Kreacher was not welcome to confide in him any sort of disgust at the "dirty, filthy, muggle-loving scum" in his mistress' house. The elf had assumed he shared the same ideals as everyone else who had his last name. He'd hated him with a passion ever since he found out otherwise.

The windows are open in the kitchen, letting in the crisp, morning breeze. It'll be muggy by afternoon, the whole of London boiling in the recent overly humid July heat, but at the moment the breeze is cool and it feels lovely against Draco's face.

He strides into the room. There are six people at the table. The mood suddenly becomes very awkward and it's the type of awkwardness that's only possible when everyone stops in the middle of a great conversation because someone they definitely don't like has just walked in. Draco pretends it doesn't hurt and heads straight for the counter where the kettle sits, charmed to stay full and hot. He pours himself a cuppa, leaning against the counter, letting that delicious breeze lift his hair just slightly off his forehead.

"Good morning," he drawls as he replaces the kettle and takes a long sip from his mug.

There are a few scattered "Moring, Malfoy"s, but most of the people just nod to him and go back to their breakfasts. The twins are there, he notices, and they're two of the three people to say anything to him. They don't seem to mind him as much as the others, and Draco doesn't know why. Most likely they're too busy with their joke shop and their family and each other to bother hating him as fervently as everyone else. Granger is the only other to vocalize a greeting and she even offers a little smile (which Draco, out of habit, doesn't return). Draco doesn't know why she bothers. She suspects something, he thinks. She's itching to find out what can possibly put bags under a Malfoy's eyes besides a plot to bring death and destruction.

Weasley nods and continues stuffing bacon and sausages and eggs down his throat. He doesn't look up. Weasley hardly ever makes eye-contact with Draco unless he fancies a row. The Weaselette looks at him briefly and then goes back to her copy of the Daily Prophet and her slice of toast. Draco knows she still hasn't forgiven his family for what happened in second year (and somewhere deep inside, he doesn't blame her).

Potter just looks at him, green eyes all fire and brimstone, and nods once. Then he seems to decide to ignore Draco all together and tucks in to his pancakes.

Draco doesn't expect anything more. He drains his cup of tea standing at the sink, looking out into the garden, and then grabs an apple from the bowl on the counter. He wandlessly spells his cup clean with a muttered "Scourgify", ignoring the scoff this garners from Weasley, and then leaves without saying a word and without looking back. Even so, he can hear Weasley's voice faintly from the kitchen:

"Bloody git."

He considers going back up to his room, but the thought of spending any more time alone inside those four walls makes him shudder, so he heads, instead, to the sitting room. It's one of the only rooms in the house that doesn't remind him of home, mostly because the Order has managed to lift the heavy spells and change the room's decor. It's a light cream with a bright white marble fireplace and large, comfortable chocolate coloured furniture. It looks out onto the street through sheer curtains that ruffle in the breeze. It's been spelled larger and houses several bookshelves and lamps and end tables with vases of flowers.

It's what Draco always imagined a real home would look like, and he finds that when he's there, he isn't as inclined to remember the voice.

He chooses a book at random off the shelves and settles into a plush chair by the window. He eats his apple as he reads, slowly and decadently, savouring each sweet morsel. Even now, weeks later, he doesn't eat much, but he enjoys every mouthful. He lets flavours linger on his tongue as long as he can and he knows it's just a by-product of months without food but he can't stop himself. After escaping the basement of the manor, everything Draco ever eats is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.

He takes his time, vanishing the core when he's finished. Draco realizes, after the first page or two, that he's read this book before, but he shrugs it off and continues to read anyway. It's not a happy story, but it's the right type, just cmplex enough to keep his focus without tiring him out. These days, Draco finds that he can't read anything too heavy or his mind, slowed by insomnia and stress, slurs the words together and five pages in he gets completely lost and frustrated.

There are footsteps, but he doesn't bother to look up. Most of the Order is gone today, doing whatever top secret things the Order does when they disappear, so it can only be a handful of people, and Draco doubts any of said people would be looking for him. The footsteps shuffle in (he realizes that there's definitely more than one set of them) and then there's the tell-tale poof of several people collapsing onto one of the couches.

It's quiet, for a moment, and one of them clears their throat.

"Plath?"

It takes Draco a moment to realize they're talking to him. He marks his spot with one long finger and then looks up. The golden trio is looking back at him and it's Granger who has the curious look on her face, so he assumes it was her who asked.

"Yes."

"I didn't know you read muggle literature."

Draco rolls his eyes. "They could write a book with all the things you don't know about me, Granger."

It's all automatic. Draco doesn't even have to think about it anymore. He oozes cool indifference and cutting remarks. It flies from his mouth without thought, his last name doing most of the work and years of practice living his lie for him. He could be nice, he knows, if he tried very hard. If he concentrated on the fact that he didn't hate these people. These people had saved his life and he was on their side and he didn't want to be so cruel, really. If he just digs deep down and says the things his Malfoy instincts tell him not to say (things like "How are you?" and "Thank you" and "Fancy a cuppa and a chat?") and finds the Draco no one has ever seen but that he knows, somehow, exists, he could be rather pleasant to be around, he thinks.

But he isn't nice. He isn't because he knows it wouldn't change a goddamn thing.

He's stopped saying mudblood, blood-traitor, and anything else remotely pureblood. But that's the extent. He doesn't make any attempt at befriending anyone. He makes sure that every time he speaks they can think only of the Malfoy they've hated all along, because even if he tried to be nice they wouldn't see it. He has been so successful over the last seven years at being seen as a name rather than a person that he could do a complete one eighty and be more jolly than Chris fucking Kringle and they'd see it as some sort of trick. A trap. Something. A Malfoy is always up to something. It would always be him against everyone else, and Draco sees no need to kill himself trying to change the inevitable.

Besides, he doesn't want anyone near him. The monster that lives inside him...the things he's seen and done...the things that have been done to him...

Draco knows he's better off alone, because if anyone saw how ugly he was inside, they'd turn him out into the street like the dirty ferret he was.

So he calls no one by their given name, to make them easier to pretend to loathe, and he does simply what he's been doing all his life: he fakes everything and does it magnificently.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, she was just asking you a simple question."

"I'm sorry, was my answer too complicated to understand? Would you like me to rephrase it with smaller words?"

Weasley begins to turn red.

"You're a stupid bloody ponce, Malfoy."

Malfoy raises one fine eyebrow with practiced ease. "Careful, Weasley, or you'll burst a blood vessel. And then we won't be able to tell where your hair ends and your face begins."

Weasley stands and manages to take two steps toward Draco before Potter catches his arm.

"He's not worth it, Ron."

"You are worthless."

Draco only flinches the tiniest bit, a faint crack in his aristocratic mask. Potter and Weasley don't seem to notice and Granger is giving him the same curious look she's been giving him the entire time.

"Come on, Harry. He deserves it. He started it."

"It's all your fault, Draco."

Draco snaps the book closed, uses the sharp noise to keep himself here, in the room, in this reality. He purposely clamps a bit of skin on his right index finger in the pages and squeezes tight. The pain helps to keep his out of the basement, keep his mind firmly outside of the laughing walls.

"You know, Weasley, if you just fucked Granger already instead of jumping to protect her delicate, feminine sensibilities, maybe you'd be less uptight."

Weasley almost succeeds in pulling out of Potter's grasp, only held there because the golden boy's reflexes are so sharp. His right hand twitches and Draco knows he's itching to grab his wand. His face is nearly purple with rage, his breathing ragged through flared nostrils. Draco knows the situation doesn't warrant this amount of anger, but something about him pushes all Weasley's buttons and in a way Draco thinks he likes the lanky boy more than anyone because he's the easiest to keep at arm's length.

It's a long few moments before Ron puts his hands up in front of him and closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

"You know what, Malfoy? No one cares what you think. I don't know what Dumbledore was thinking when he agreed to protect you, as if you mattered to anyone. You could disappear tomorrow and no one would even notice."

"There is no one left to love you. You are going to die alone and I'm going to hang you up for all to see and no one is going to care. No one will cry, no one will mourn you. You will die alone, pathetic, and unloved."

The voice is whispering in his ear and for a split second he wonders why no one is asking where it's coming from before he remembers that it's only him who gets the pleasure of the voice's company. He's losing himself again, and it's happening fast.

He's never been this affected by Weasley. He's managed to not lose his composure in front of anyone for the last six weeks. The voice has never been this insistent, never been so jubilant at the taunts of a red-haired youth.

Draco's hands are beginning to shake. He can't feel his finger pressed in the book anymore. He's slipping back into the thick darkness, the musky smell, the feel of his stomach aching for food. He tries to think of a retort but he can't focus enough. He's too far into the basement, the voice is too loud in his ears. He drops the book with a clatter on the hardwood floor and turns on his heel and can only hope that it looks like a dramatic, suitably haughty exit.

He takes the stairs two at a time and hastily unlocks his door with a shakey hand, using the key he keeps stashed in his poscket because he doesn't trust himself to perform any kind of magic properly. He tumbles into his room and locks the door behind him. Collapsing onto his knees on the floor, he slaps one hand over his mouth to keep in the scream that's lying bitter and heavy on his tongue because he can't even cast an unlocking spell, let alone a silencing charm. He's breathing hard, so hard he feels light headed, and he makes a horrible keening groan behind his hand.

"Worthless, alone, unloved."

"I know," he whispers as he falls to the side onto his rump, beginning to rock back and forth, back and forth, anything to keep reminding him where he was.

"Unworthy, useless, filthy."

"I know, I know, I know," he pleads softly, fingers running over and over through his hair, grasping at the fine, blonde strands. His voice is strangled with the strain of keeping in the scream that's tearing at his throat to get out. "I know, I know, please stop it."

"Pathetic, cowardly, sniveling creature."

He can feel his magic begin to slip out of his control. A cologne bottle on his dresser shakes and dances over the edge, smashing on the floor. A picture on the wall behind him jumps off its hook and goes flying to the opposite end of the room. His bed is beginning to wobble back and forth, pushed by some invisible force.

He tries to breathe more depply and slowly before he passes out, tries to count backwards from ten to get a hold of his rampant magic, but it doesn't work. His wardrobe falls abruptly onto its side and clothes spill out onto the floor. The voice is too loud. He can't get his concentration back. "Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone..."

"Who am I?"

Tears begin to slip down Draco's cheeks. "I won't play this game again. I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't."

"Who am I?"

"Don't make me, don't make me!"

"Who am I?"

The door is rattling in its hinges. Draco realizes he's in serious danger of alerting the people downstairs, if he hasn't already. He's trembling horribly, his nails digging painfully into his scalp, and he chokes out, "You're my father."

Lucius laughs, low and smooth. "Worthless, pathetic cretin, you are no son of mine."

Draco wails, unable to stifle it any longer, and falls forward onto his hands and knees. He pulls his hand back to expose his wrist and brings it with as much force as he can muster down onto the floor. The pain is dull but startling, and he does it again and again and again. It hurts worse every time and he welcomes it, focusing his mind on the thump thump thump-ing ache that's building.

Thump.

He remembers where he is.

Thump.

He remembers that Lucius is far, far away from him.

Thump.

The door stops rattling and his bed lies still and the picture stops whirring through the room and his clothes stop slithernig across the ground.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He stops sobbing. He breathes more slowly. He falls quiet.

He raises his arm again, but stops mid swing.

Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

Someone is knocking on his door.

He scrambles to his feet. His wrist whines in protest, an angry red bruise blossoming on the pale flesh. He tugs his sleeve down over his hand and does his best to flatten his hair.

The door is still thud, thud, thud-ing and a muffled voice is yelling, "Malfoy! Malfoy what the hell is going on in there? Malfoy, open the door, or I'll unlock it myself."

Draco clears his throat and hastily swipes a hand across his cheeks. "Go away!" he calls, kicking clothes in the direction of his overturned wardrobe, "I'm busy!"

The knocking stops. "Bullshit, Malfoy. I don't know what the fuck you're doing in there, but you 'd better open this door right now."

He tries to figure out who it is. The voice is definitely male and definitely older than any of the teenage occupants of the house. He wishes he'd asked this morning who from the Order had stayed behind to guard the house.

"Go away!" he tries again, sweeping the broken glass of his picture into a little pile as best he can with his hands.

"Malfoy, I have no choice. Alohamora."

"No, don't - !"

Draco flings himself at the door, but he's a second too late and Black has already pushed his way in.

It's hard for Draco to remember, sometimes, that Black is related to him. He's so completely different from every pureblood in the Black-Malfoy line that often it seems impossible for him to have a single drop of Black blood in him. The way he stands now, mouth agape and hair loose and falling messily about his shoulders, Draco wonders if maybe Black is lying and he's really more closely related to the Potters.

"Malfoy, what the hell happened in here?"

Draco instinctively straightens his back. "Bit of an accident with a spell, if you must know."

Black narrows his eyes. "What kind of spell?"

Draco only hesitates for a split second. "A cleaning spell. I was trying to tidy up."

He can tell by the look Black gives him that he doesn't believe a word of it. "I heard you yell. It sounded like you were crying."

Draco hopes the mightier-than-thou look he paints on his face is at least half as convincing as it usually is. He tilts his head back and looks down his nose for good measure. "Yes, well, the spell, Black. It rebounded and apparently had a few unfortunate side effects."

The man's eyes harden. "You're lying. You couldn't louse up a cleaning spell that badly. You're a Malfoy. You must've known every spell for cleaning, primping and grooming since you were ten years old."

Draco narrows his eyes and performs with perfect detail the patented Malfoy glare. "I'm glad to hear you have so much faith in me. But if you think I'm lying, why don't you prove it?"

He knows the instant he says it that Potter has told him of what his father said in second year, and the uncanny impression seems to make Black think that a dirty-enough look will make Draco's hair burst into flames.

Black stares at him a moment longer, as if looking hard enough will let him see through Draco's lie, and then lets out a frustrated breath. "Clean up this mess, Malfoy, and don't think Dumbledore and your godfather won't hear about this." He turns on his heel and walks away. Draco listens to his footfalls all the way down the stairs and then hears Weasley exclaim, distantly, Well? What was he doing?

He slams his door shut before he can hear the answer. His wrist is throbbing. His head hurts. He feels like he's run a marathon. He tiredly retrieves his wand from his pocket and begins to levitate his things back into position and repair the damage he's done. By the time he finishes, he has only enough energy left to crawl into bed and fall instantly to sleep.

THIS IS A LINE BREAK

I apologize for having to use those terrible line breaks. Stupid website tends to mess with anything else I try to use.

Please forgive/point out to me any mistakes there may be. I've been forced to type this at my office, which doesn't have Microsoft Word, and WordPad has no spellcheck or autocorrect. I have very good spelling...but when I type fast I tend to make stupid mistakes. I've read through it and tried to catch everything, but if I missed one or two, I'm very sorry.

Let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Cheers.