Take It in Stride

The Beginning, Again

Draco sat on a scratchy, smelly cot. His head in his hands, his glossy white-blond locks falling through his fingers. He breathed sharply, choking back sobs. Why? Why was he crying? He was being given the chance to start again. To make a new life. Yet he was sad.

"Malfoy?" He looked over. The gentle call had come from the cot next to his. "Are you okay?" The voice was a girl's, not completely concerned, but it held a faint trace of pity.

"I'm fine," he whispered, not daring to raise his voice for fear he would awake the huddled forms on the other two cots. The source of the voice rolled over and faded off to sleep again. "I think," Draco added to no one in particular. He lay down on his cot and wrinkled his nose at the odorous mass. It smelled of sour milk and raw eggs. He turned over on his back, trying to escape the stench, but it was to no avail. He glanced over at the large clock. One o'clock in the morning and he was still wide awake.

He resented the clock for displaying the awful truth, he resented this place, whatever it was, he resented the world for placing him in such a predicament, and he resented the girl on the flimsy bed next to him for discovering his vulnerability.

"There you go again," he told himself. "Hating because it's something to do. Because it's easy." Draco was disgusted with himself. Ever since he was seven he had been bitter and mean, cold and heartless. His father had always encouraged his negativity, claiming it made him stronger, and Draco had believed him. He knew now though, that it had only made him weaker, less of a person, more of a machine. He went around, swearing and hating because it was easier to him than feeling anything. The truth was, Draco had never known love.

He had never been loved by anyone. His father and mother doted on him, buying him things and providing for him, but he was only their puppet. An instrument that could be played to their advantages, and then sold to the dark side. He had never even had friends who liked him for who he really was. Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson had been his minions, not his peers. Pansy had always had a crush on him, but it because of his power and his money, not him, himself. He often wondered, "Does anybody know the real me?" But recently, more and more often he found himself thinking, "Do I know the real me? Is there even, or was there ever a real Draco Malfoy?"

Never being loved was only half of his problem, because Draco had never had anyone to love either. There was never anybody he had really cared for, and over time, he had forgotten how to care. He had tried, so hard, to just once in his life tell his mother he loved her. But he could not lie, and he could not love.

He had tried to go back to the beginning, and that was how he found himself here. He had chosen to disappear from England, leave his past, create a new life in the United States among witched and wizards who had never known him. But he failed. He couldn't support himself, he couldn't find work, and his Dark Mark began to throb, day and night, calling him home.

He ended up on the street, sad and lonely. He had no other choices, not a galleon to his name, no where to go. Draco Malfoy became a criminal. At first he only stole things from muggle shops, using the "five-finger discount." But as time passed by, things got worse. He had tried to start a new life, a better life, full of love and happiness, and now he was worse off than he was before. Stealing to survive was one thing, but Draco had become more than that. He had become a killer.

When a shady character told him that he could make money as a hit man, Draco had seized the opportunity. He was desperate. Nearly eighteen years old, homeless, and poorer than a mouse, he had to do something.

That was how he became Dragon, the magician. Politicians hired him to kill their opposition, businessmen hired him to persuade customers, and Draco amazed his clients every time. There was never any traces of assault in the post-mortem examinations. It looked like a natural death. Victims were tested for poison, there wasn't a trace. It seemed nothing could go wrong, then one day, it did.

Draco was in the apartment he had managed to rent, preparing for a job. He slipped his wand inside his black trench coat and donned a black fedora and sunglasses. Suddenly the door was busted open and officials from the Ministry of Magic stormed in, wands drawn and robes flying. Within seconds the highly trained hit-wizards had stunned Draco, tied him, and gagged him. In stepped Rufus Scrimgeor, Minister of Magic, with a warrant for the arrest of Draco Malfoy.

That's how Draco found himself where he was now, Alpinloch Juvenile Wizarding Detention Center. AJWDC. After his arrest he had been brought to the President of Magic and the rest of the magical cabinet in the United States. The Ministry wanted Malfoy to be brought back to England and sent to Azkaban for "unspeakable crimes against muggles." The President would not here of it, and ordered that as he was a resident of the United States and under the age of eighteen, he would be sent to an American wizarding detention center.

"But, Sir!" the minister had argued. "Surely you agree he is more than your average juvenile delinquent."

"Which why we will send him to Alpinloch. It is maximum security and he will find that he is not the most deeply troubled wizard there."

Reflecting on his actions Draco began to cry again. What had driven him to such measures? Now he was here, and it was up to him to start again, well, again. He was offered a chance at another new beginning and he wasn't going to screw things up this time around. He pressed his face into his now soggy pillow.

Draco Malfoy was going to make something of himself, and he had a feeling the witch in the cot beside might be able to help him.