Chapter One
Draco stared at the envelope in his lap, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. He counted himself lucky that he had only had to spend a month in Azkaban, and would have been happy to continue on with his life on house arrest... but this... this letter could only mean one thing.
'Mr Malfoy,
We are writing to offer you a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Students may return for an Eighth Year to sit their NEWTs. We recommend you attend this final year of education, but the decision lies with you. Please owl us your response by July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress'
Draco's lips parted slightly in disbelief. That was it? No angry footnote, detailing McGonagalls distrust in him? No terms from the Ministry? He tossed the envelope aside, and fell back against his pilows, exhaling deeply. What the fuck was he supposed to do?
On the one hand, Hogwarts was the last place he wanted to be. In a sense it was his own personal hell. The thought of having to come face to face with those he had opposed, those who had been injured, those who had lost friends and family, all because of him... thinking about it made him nauseous. One the other hand, being alone with his thoughts all day everyday was starting to scare him. He was drowning, sinking, suffocating...
With a jolt, Draco rushed to his feet, scrambling towards his desk. He hastily scrawled a reply, rolling it up and tying it to the leg of his sleeping owl before picking her up, rushing her over to the window and dropping her out. He watched as she plummeted to the ground, stretching out her wings at the last second and flying back up towards the window and giving an indigcant hoot, and then flying away. He watched as she got smaller and smaller, eventually becoming just another pinprick in the sky.
Perhaps acting on impulse wasn't the best way to handle the situation, but what else was he to do? Thinking, thinking, thinking, he had to STOP THINKING.
Draco didn't feel his knees give way, but he was on the floor, absently scratching his left forearm, where he could feel the jagged lines, secrets he kept so well guarded.
It had started out okay, it really had! The first week in the mannor had been fine. He visited the house elves in the kitchen, visited his mother in the garden, visited the potraits on the wall. Keeping busy, keeping occupied, never standing still for too long, But after a while it got boring, and he moved on.
The second week he decided to take up a hobby. Painting first. He painted the smile on Pansy's face that night at the Yule Ball, he painted his mother sitting on a bench surrounded by roses and white peacocks, he painted he sun peeking over the hills in the early hour of the morning. But the bright yellows and blues and greens slowly morphed into dark blacks, dull greys, bloody reds. Dementors, demons, dark marks all found their way into his paintings. He wanted to stop, stop, stop painting, stop it, STOP IT, but he couldn't, he couldn't stop because if he stopped he would think and he couldn't think, shouldn't think. Something else, a new distraction, a new game...
The third week, Draco took up music. It was something he had enjoyed as a child, before his father had announced that he wasn't to indulge in Those Kind Of Things anymore. But father wasn't here, and Draco could do what he wanted. He picked up his violin and played the first tune that came to mind. It was so natural, so easy, so beautiful. So beautiful it bought tears to his eyes, and he weeped as he played. Draco weeped and the violin weeped and they weeped and they weeped and it wouldn't. Fucking. Stop.
The violins neck snapped. Just like fathers.
The fourth week, Draco tried his hand at cooking. Cooking was easy, no negative thoughts would come from cooking. This is okay, he told himself, its all okay. The house elves were surpirised at first, but they soon eased up and taught Draco everything they knew. Dish after dish was served, first a crumble, then a cake, then a pie, all baked to perfection. The dishes piled up, overtaking the kitchen. Draco had his cake, but there was no one left to eat it. 'Mr Malfoy sir, Sooty is thinking you should eat the food.' No, Draco thinks, no no, the food isn't for me. I don't deserve it.
So he resists, he resists the food, the taste, the smell, the texture, until he barely remembers what its like to be hungry. But it hits him one night, and hes shaking and crying and hes so. Fucking. Hungry. The kitchens are silent, and Draco eats his cake.
The fifth week, Draco dances. He needs to find a way to shed all that weight he put on, doesn't he? Dancing was another thing he enjoyed as a child, though his father always made him lead. Now, with no one to dance with (mother doesn't get out of bed these days) Draco dances how he wants. He flings himself across the ballroom floor, elegantly, dramatically and he loves it. The rush of endorphines, the way he floats like an angel, who would want to give this up? Draco dances, and dances, and when the room goes black and he finds himself on the floor, he gets up and dances again. The world is getting blurry, by tears or sweat he does not know, but he has to keep dancing, because dancing is keeping him happy, right? Draco is happy. Draco is happy. Draco is happy.
Week six. Draco crashes. How can he keep moving when he's drained of everything he was? How can he stop thinking when their shrieks wont leave his head? How can he be?
He looks down. Theres blood dripping down his arm, covering his hideous deformity, his Mark. Its week ten. His owl just carried off his reply, accepting his place at Hogwarts, because who is he kidding? These walls are stained with blood, and he can't take it anymore. Its Hogwarts, or Death.