Retribution

His mind still reeled from the events of one hour ago. He staggered along a narrow, cobbled street without any sense of direction. All he knew was to keep walking, and get as far away from that place as possible.

Draco raised a hand, unsteadily, to his cheek. Tenderly, he ran his fingers across and found three long, ragged gashes. When he had finished, he brought his hand to eye-level, and gave a look of mild surprise at the blood dripping down, vaguely wondering how it had got there.

Of course, he knew how it had got there, though he did not want to think about it. He never wanted to think about it again, but he knew he would. In his dreams, his thoughts would come back, haunting and torturing like the plague.

Through his confusion, his dry sense of humour noted the pure irony of the situation. If ever he had thought, rather sadistically, that something like this would ever had happened to him, he would have believed it would be at the hands of someone completely different...

Draco laughed bitterly, before wincing at the pain it caused to the bruises that covered his face.

As he continued his agonising journey, Draco caught sight of himself in a dusty window. He looked a complete and utter mess. His face beaten and bloody, with at least two of his teeth knocked out. His once-perfect blonde hair now hung around his face, matted together with blood.

Draco turned away, retching, thankful that he was wearing robes, which covered the worst. But it was the sight of himself, pathetic and helpless, that brought the full effect of what had happened to heart. For only the second time in his life, Draco let out a great sob. As he sank to the floor, his macho image, and his desire to be feared, and become one of the darkest wizards of the age were now forgotten. All he felt was hurt, both physically and emotionally.

Salty tears lapped at his open wounds, stinging, causing Draco yet more pain.

How long he sat crying, slumped against the terraced houses, he never knew. He did not care whether anyone had seen him, even if it had been Potter.

As the tears dried up, slowly but surely, Draco turned his thoughts to his plan of action, namely what he would do next. Knees bent, and head in hands, he realised he was completely alone. He had no one to turn to, and nowhere to go.

She had seen to that.

Narcissa.

Formerly know as Mother.

Feeling the tears well up inside him once more, he cast desperately around for a new train of thought, which he found as he lifted his head.

Draco Malfoy was lost, and what was worse, he was lost in an area that could not have been more openly muggle, if it had been fitted with a flashing sign proclaiming 'Welcome to Muggleville'.

Draco sighed, realising he would have to find somewhere to spend the night. He rose carefully, taking care not to cause himself further pain and to avoid catching sight of himself in the window once more.

**********

As he settled himself down in an alley next to a pub called 'The Rampant Pony' (promising himself that he would never let anyone ever find out about this), a newspaper blew across his path. Draco was amazed to see it was a copy of 'The Evening Prophet', cleverly disguised as a sleazy muggle tabloid.

However, it was as he caught sight of the story on the front that his heart leapt, before it landed somewhere near his ankle.

Draco did not know whether his life could take any more upheaval that day...

Turning and snuggling up amongst some old crisp-packets, Draco forced himself to recite The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6, his way of blocking out the memories.

**********

Draco awoke the next morning due to the fact of a vagrant cat licking his face. Feeling extremely stiff- and repulsed- due to sleeping on the hard outdoor floor, coupled with the lasting effects of his beating the previous night, he rose, wearily rubbing his eyes in the early morning sunshine.

Steadily at first, but then with the speed similar to a freight train, the memories came flooding back. Flayed, ostracised, abandoned, homeless, alone: Draco still had no idea as to what he was going to do.

Then, the final and most terrorising memory returned.

As his hands scrambled around his person, Draco could not believe it were possible. Moreover, if it were, would it be for better or for worse? Finally, his hands closed around that for which he had been searching. Slowly he lifted the transfigured copy of 'The Evening Prophet', and stared. There it was, as clear as day:

AZKABAN EMPTY! PRISONERS WALK FREE!

It is with fear in my heart that I bring my loyal readers this terrible news, writes Rita Skeeter, freshly reinstated Daily Prophet reporter.

It transpires that early this morning, the Azkaban guards, known as Dementors (see our special article on page5 for Dementor defence and protection), mysteriously vanished. The cause of this vanishing act is as-yet unclear, however the terrifying sight of the Dark Mark leaves few to realise what has happened.

Horrendously, this is not the worst of today's shocking news. For, until approximately 8.30 a.m. today, Azkaban held some of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's most fearsome and fanatical supporters, including Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov and Lucius Malfoy...

The article continued, but Draco did not need to read on. Both his worst nightmare and dream had come true.

As he stared at the sneering photograph of his father that the Prophet had thoughtfully included, he knew that Lucius was the cause and solution to his problems. It all boiled down to Lucius. As usual.

It was after the fateful incident at the Ministry of Magic, a tale every witch and wizard in the land now knew, although it had only been two months since the occurrence, and the shipping of his father to Azkaban- without trial- that it had begun.

It started with a raised voice now and again, a sharp slap occasionally. However, that was at the start. Rapidly it progressed to a punch or kick, perhaps a caning or burning. However, when the alcohol began to flow, things took a serious turn for the worst. The Cruciatus Curse became a regular.

Draco had realised that she was terrified. It was all she thought about : the day of Lucius' release, and the revenge she knew she would suffer. Narcissa felt it was her fault, and to an extent, it was.

Lucius Malfoy did not forgive, nor did he forget.

Ever since the return of the Dark Lord, both he and Narcissa had drastically changed. Draco, not used to the effects of Voldemort, no longer recognised his parents. Before they had been loving and caring, to the extent that a Death Eater and his wife could be; now they were cold, cruel and heartless. On many occasions before the previous night, he found himself fearing his parents.

It was the events of the night before which had proved too much for Draco. High on what he was sure had been Pure Polish Spirit, his father's favourite beverage, Narcissa had burst into his room, shrieking like a banshee and hissing like a wildcat.

As he lay on his bed, Draco had been subject to his most prolonged bout of the Cruciatus Curse yet. She had also thrown any object that she could lay her hands on, beaten her only son black and blue, and tortured him with hideous-looking metal objects. Nevertheless, it was when she crept towards him, seemingly on another plane, as she was screaming no longer. She now had a curious look in her eye; and was mumbling to herself. It was here that Draco knew the worst was yet to come.

The mother abused the son.

Emotionally. Physically. Sexually.

Somehow, in his darkest moment, Draco managed to throw his mother aside, and he stumbled out of the room, amazingly managing to grab his wand on the way. He fumbled along the hall, before leaving the house. He walked on, falling repeatedly, all the while knowing that he had to put as much distance between himself and Malfoy Manor as possible. All the while knowing that she could be following.

Draco blundered through open countryside, in the dead of night, aware that at any moment he might collapse and never wake. He no longer cared.

**********

As he relived the events, the fresh memories pretending they were happening all over again, and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying once again.

'I will not cry over that bitch', he spat aloud. He meant it; for all Draco cared, Narcissa could rot in hell for all eternity. He was no son of hers any more. Draco knew he was made from strong material, and told himself he had dealt with worse. He raised his head high, and was promptly sick.

**********

Draco cast a healing spell and a replenishing charm over himself. Although he was not a healer, the pain did subside well enough, though without aid of a mirror he could not be sure of the replenishing charm's effects.

Sighing, Draco knew it was the best he could do, given the situation. He got up, and left his temporary home without a backward glance.

As he emerged onto a Georgian-style street, Draco noticed a sign reading 'Devizes Pets' above a shop doorway. Devizes, he thought with a shudder. He was excessively close to Malfoy Manor, less than five miles in fact

Walking tall and proud in his slightly healed state, Draco walked on, ignoring the shocked and appalled stares he was attracting. Let them stare, he thought as he walked away from his life of old.