Shatter Like Glass

* * *


Was he dreaming? It seemed so real in places.

His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the dull wall of his prison and yet he wasn't really seeing it. He never did. All he ever saw now was his father towering over him, cold eyes flashing that predatory gleam as he prepared to inflict even more shame on him. His back started to throb in memory of all the beatings, old wounds reopening to gush hot blood out over his clammy skin, his father raising the whip over his head, the magical whip that had been specifically enchanted to amplify the victim's pain to thousands of times what would normally be felt...it came crashing down on his back, ripping open flesh already raw and bloody. He couldn't help it; he opened his mouth and screamed in agony, screamed and screamed and screamed....

But then the images shifted and blurredand he was alone again, curled up into a ball and feeling the pain run through every nerve in his body, drowning in his own misery. He was oblivious to everything around him, not caring about anything and yet...even in his dreamlike state he felt a curious prickling run down his spine, as if something was watching him. He cautiously lifted his head and saw a dark shape crouched opposite him, it's only visible feature a pair of brightly glowing violet eyes.

Interestingly enough, after the initial shock of finding something in the cell with him he felt no fear. It was almost as if he knew this entity, had known it for a very long time and was only now being granted awareness of this fact. In some strange way he felt that it was just an extension of himself. No, there was nothing to fear.

It crept close, closer, until it's thin, reedy voice was right beside Draco's ear.

"How much longer do you think you'll last, little dragon?" And then there was a burst of high, cruel laughter.

Draco opened his mouth to reply...

And sat bolt upright, his silver eyes flying open to take in the familiar walls of his cell. The radiance coming in through the tiny window was no longer that of the moon but a murky, grayish daylight and a thin stream of water of trickling down onto the stone floor; it was raining. He stood up, wincing at the stiffness of his body, and walked over to it, pressing his lips to the cool moisture and lapping it up with his tongue. It tasted good - but then again, the only nourishment he'd had in the past week was a small chunk of moldy bread and a scant cup of stale water in the evenings. At this point, just about anything would taste better than that.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, swaying slightly as his head started to pound with sudden dizziness. He could feel the soreness everywhere in his body both inside and out, the sense of being defiled returning in full force and flooding him the most intense feeling of shame that he had ever experienced, making him sick to his stomach. He keeled over and retched, emptying his stomach of all it's contents until at last all he was bringing up was a putrid green bile. But even then he kept convulsing, bringing up more and more bile and blood until he finally just collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily and giving the occasional feeble twitch. He felt lightheaded and hollow, his head throbbing painfully. He clutched his head in his hands and moaned quietly, not even noticing when the door opened.

He felt a sharp kick in his ribs and rolled slowly over, blinking up into the face of his father. He felt a cold wave of dread wash over him - but all Lucius did was throw a clean set of robes at him and say curtly, "Be upstairs in five minutes." Then he was gone.

Draco peeled his ripped, soiled robes off with distaste and pulled the new set gratefully over his head, allowing himself a tiny squirm of pleasure at the softness of the fabric. it didn't hurt his back quite so much, somewhat to his surprise; it was rare for Lucius to concern himself over something as trivial as his son's comfort. Oh, well. Best to appreciate it while it was there...he splashed some water onto his face and hands and left the dingy cell in relief, moving up the stairs out of the dungeons with as much grace as he could muster in his current condition - which was that every muscle necessary for movement was stiff, sore, and generally uncooperative.

He stumbled into the long central corridor that ran the entire length of Malfoy Manor, it's cold stone floor covered with a heavy blood-red silk carpet while the ebony paneling of it's walls was hung with portraits of Malfoy ancestors - all having the trademark gray-silver eyes, pale skin, and arrogant sneer. Draco always felt uneasy passing under their menacing stares; he felt as if they were judging him and finding him to be horribly lacking, unworthy of the Malfoy blood running through his veins. Which was how he felt most of the time even when he was free from their accusing eyes. His father had seen to that.

Draco stood there dumbly, wondering what he was supposed to do now when he heard the distinct rapid footfalls of a house elf coming his way. The tiny creature drew up short in front of him with a deep bow, then told him in it's squeaky little voice that he was to go to the kitchen. Draco nodded a brief acknowledgement and set off, moving past the portraits as quickly as he could.

The kitchen was very different from the rest of the manor. While every other room was designed to be as grand, imposing, and intimidating as possible in blatant tribute to the Malfoy wealth, the kitchen could really only be described by the word cozy. It was large without being disconcertingly so, having just enough room to comfortably hold the many wooden tables and chairs, their sharp edges worn away by time and the many bodies and hands that had made use of them, allowing someone to relax on them and work on them, unlike the too-perfect furniture that graced every other area. Warm, cheerful fires blazed in the stone ovens lining the walls, giving off an inviting warmth and rather cheerful light; the delicious smells coming from them only adding to the overall charm and enchantment that seemed to float through the air. The kitchen was the one place in the whole manor that actually felt homelike and happy - the one place where you could actually let your guard down and be at ease.

His mother was sitting at the large central table looking pale and wan, a silver tea tray in front of her. When she heard her son's light step on the floor she managed a rather tired, strained smile for him and pointed wordlessly to the teapot and plate of scones on the tray. Draco managed to murmur a rather unclear, "Thank you," and quickly buttered a scone, feeling awkward and embarrassed.

It was always this way when he was with his mother. His father had made it abundantly clear that he held no love for his wife and expected Draco to follow his example, punishing him harshly if he dared to show the woman who bore him anything that might be considered close to kindness or even tolerance. But Draco had memories of a time when he and Narcissa had been happy together, far happier than he had ever been with Lucius, smiling and laughing together in the sunshine as opposed to practicing curses in the dank darkness of the dungeons. So he always felt ill at ease with his mother, feeling that he had betrayed her somehow, never quite sure how to act or what to say, resulting in the tense, stressful silences that characterized their meetings. He wished he knew how to mend the rift between them but deep down inside he knew that that was impossible, just a dream - they had drifted too far apart to ever regain their closeness of once upon a time.

Draco reached for the teapot, catching a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Holding his breath, he moved his head slowly, carefully, and there it was againa flicker of black scuttling away out of his line of vision. Nerves stretched taut, he drew in his breath and waited, letting the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness...suddenly there was a pair of glowing violet eyes staring out at him from the shadows of the corner, narrowed with malice.

His hand gave an abrupt jerk and scalding hot tea spilled everywhere. The hot liquid spattering on his hand forced his attention away from that unnerving gaze and he gasped as the first throbs of pain reached through his shock. Narcissa grabbed his hand and quickly conjured a towel soaked in ice water, wrapping it firmly around the angry red skin and tapping itwith her wand to keep the coldness in the cloth. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then reached out and touched Draco's cheek, turning his face to hers.

"Draco? What did you see?"

He stared at her wildly for a moment and then stepped back quickly, breaking the contact.

"Nothing, mother." And he turned and ran from her, out into the hall, not seeing the single tear that splashed silently down her cheek.

* * *

Draco's heart was thumping wildly as he raced out of the warm security of the kitchen and slid into a darkened side corridor, struggling to return his breathing to normal. Those eyes...they had been the very same ones he'd seen in his dream? vision?, inhuman and glowing that unearthly violet. But while in his unconscious state he had accepted it all so calmly, feeling no alarm or fear whatsoever, in the actual waking world he had felt a bolt of pureterror run through him as his eyes met that strange and yet familiar gaze - as if something dark and evil was happening to him, something he couldn't control...

How much longer do you think you'll last, little dragon?

He turned around and pressed his forehead against the cold stone, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms. It's nothing. It means nothing. You're just tired and that makes you vulnerable. It's probably just some spell of father's to distract and confuse me. That's all... It became a mantra, running steadily through his brain until his muscles relaxed and his heartbeat slowed down.

Draco ran a hand through his slightly damp hair,shaking his head as though to clear it. With one last uneasy glance at his surroundings he pushed off from the wall and walked back toward the main corridor.

Lucius was waiting for him, regarding his son like he was a particularly loathsome insect that he would love to crush under his gleaming leather boot, effectively robbing it of life. Draco let his eyes fall to the floor on the pretense of studying the intricate designs of the carpet rather than meet that calculating, unloving stare but his father reached out and seized his chin, forcing his head up so that their identical storm-colored eyes could meet.

"You're due back in school in one week - today we're going to Diagon Alley for your school supplies.Come."

He gestured for Draco to precede him into the drawing room where a fire was already blazing in the massive stone fireplace. Draco reached into the tiny stone jar of glittering powder on the mantel, cast his pinch of Floo powder into the flames in one quick motion, watched them roar up and turn emerald green. He stepped into them, yelled, "Diagon Alley!" and was off.

He'd never really enjoyed this particular method of travel; all the spinning combined with the fires's roaring and swirling of ashes made him feel somewhat nauseated. However, as he couldn't (legally) Apparate it was the most convenient - meaning fastest - mode of travel for him to use, so he really didn't have much of a choice except to reluctantly accept it. He watched the fireplaces go flickering by, faster and faster, blurring before his eyes - and then with a bump he stumbled out of the Official Arrival Point in Diagon Alley for Witches and Wizards Traveling via Floo Powder, a white marble fireplace about twenty feet long, ten feet deep, and twelve feet high, housed in it's own special building a little to the east of Gringotts. A staircase off to the left led down into an underground cavern full of smaller fireplaces to be used in departing when one had completed all necessary shopping; all in all it had an atmosphere reminiscent of a bustling train station or airport.

He pushed his way through the crowds and out into the gray daylight, a fine drizzle of rain coming down on his face and hair, quickly spotting his father standing off to one side, his face a cool, disdainful mask. Draco made his way over to him, trying to ignore the scornful way that Lucius was looking at him, like he was some kind of disgrace that shouldn't be allowed out in public - he fought back the urge to turn red in humiliation and waited.

Lucius passed him a small leather bag jingling softly from the wizard money in it.

"Go and get what you need; I have business to attend to."

He walked away, leaving Draco standing alone on the cobbled street, looking suddenly like a very lonely eleven-year-old lost in the rain instead of the seventeen-year-old man he'd become. He sighed dejectedly and wandered off to the shops, pulling out the list of course books that he'd need for his seventh year as he came to Flourish and Blotts.

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 by Miranda Goshawk
From Furnunculus to Avada Kedavra, the Complete Guide to Curses by Kira Dinas
Advanced Transfiguration
A Guide to the Brewing of Complex Potions
The Mysteries of Magical Numbers by Evin Karsam

He paid for the lot at the counter and went on, replenishing his basic potion ingredients at the Apothecary while adding a couple of more obscure ingredients to the mix, purchased more parchment and ink and wandered over to Quality Quidditch Supplies for a few moments of gawking, then made his way over to Madame Malkin's for new robes, his old ones having gotten a few inches too short at the wrists and ankles. He hopped onto a stool and let the witch take his measurements in silence, gazing moodily out the window, not really seeing anything.

Or was he?

They were there, the three of them, laughing and talking animatedly regardless of the dismal weather, faces glowing with happiness at each other's company. Potter, Weasley, and Granger; the Gryffindor trio who consistently got into heaps of trouble throughout the year only to save the entire school from some great and terrible danger at its end, securing the House Cup for Gryffindor and thoroughly trouncing Slytherin. You hardly ever saw one without at least one of the others in attendance; they seemed to share a deep bond of friendship foreign to anything that Draco had ever known. Slytherins didn't have friendships; they had alliances, agreements, some sort of mutual unspoken understanding that they would be more powerful and feared if they stood together rather than separately. They were too cold, too calculating, too distrustful to from any actual bond with another human being. They were a lonely lot when it came down to it, having only themselves to rely on. Draco had always wished deep inside his heart that he could have a friend, a real friend that he could talk to, could trust without worrying if he was making a mistake, if one day his words would be turned against him. But that was, of course, impossible. Just wishful thinking.

Because not only was he a Slytherin, he was a Malfoy.

His eyes remained fixed on Potter, on that unruly mop of black hair, vivid green eyes, thin lightning-bolt scar, envying him as he envied no one else; not because he was famous, not because he was special, but because he had people who genuinely cared for him. Because he was loved.

He has friends who have risked their lives for him every time he's been in trouble. I don't. His parents loved him enough to die to protect him from Lord Voldemort while I was raised to become a Death Eater regardless of how I feel. And my mother, the one person who might just love me; she can't help me because my father would kill her and I don't even know her because it's forbidden. I have no one.

Suddenly Harry looked up, as if sensing the intense silver-gray gaze focused on him like a laser. For one split second those impossibly green emeralds met and locked with Draco's stormy eyes and he felt a deep shudder run down his spine - then the witch who had been pinning his robes gave his arm a light touch and told him he was done. Draco looked down, his concentration shattered, and when he came out onto the street Harry and his friends were vanishing into Flourish and Blotts, their attention exclusively on each other once more. The moment was gone.

Draco stood there, feeling somewhat at a loss as to what he should be doing when a hand caught his shoulder in an iron grasp, spinning him around roughly. His father was there, his face expressing it's usual displeasure at the sight of his son and he was being steered back to the Floo Station without a chance to get a word in edgewise. Just as he was going inside Draco turned his head back to survey the alley, hoping for another glimpse of green eyes but all he saw was a streak of violet leering out at him from the shadows under a doorway. He recoiled in a brief flare of panic and when he looked again, more closely, it was gone.