Best Kept Secrets

Draco

When Draco was seven, his father came into his room for the first time.

He told him how proud he was, how Draco was turning out exactly as he had planned.

He ran his hand along his son’s face, through his fine blonde hair.

And then, the gentleness disappearing from his face as though it had never been there at all, he tore off Draco’s pajama pants and pushed him onto his stomach.

Draco barely had time to ask him what he was doing before he had a painful sense of fullness and pressure.

His father had thrust himself into him, and he felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams.

When he was done, Lucius left without a word.

And Draco laid down and went to sleep, like nothing had happened.

~*~

When he was twelve, he lost his first Quidditch match to Harry Potter.

He was so mad he couldn’t speak. He simply threw his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One to the floor of his private room and pouted like a little boy.

And then, to his horror, Lucius Malfoy walked through the door.

He tried to arrange his features into the perfect expression of cold apathy, but he wasn’t fast enough, and Lucius saw the disappointment in his face.

"Stop pouting, boy," he barked. "What reason do you have to be disappointed? I’m the one who was humiliated. My son. A Malfoy. Losing to a half-blooded fool! I will never hear the end of it."

He raised his cane and Draco flinched, involuntarily.

"Are you afraid, Draco?"

Draco looked at the floor, but did not speak.

"You should be. You have seen your poor mother after I am through with her. And she has never embarrassed me as you have today."

Draco couldn’t hide the anger from his face.

"Does that make you angry? Do you think I am wrong, to beat some sense into that foolish woman?"

Draco bit the inside of his jaw. A second before Lucius smashed his fist against it.

"Answer me when I ask you a question."

"Yes, sir," Draco ground out.

"Does it make you angry when I hit your mother?"

Draco nodded..

"Answer me!"

"YES!"

A smirk spread. across Lucius’s face. "Well, now that you have spoken your mind . . ."

And with that, his fist began to rain down on Draco like water. Again, and again, and again he hit him. Until he heard something crack, and Draco felt excruciating pain in his side.

His father had broken his ribs.

Finally, he was satisfied. And like the first night he had raped him, Lucius disappeared without a word.

That was the last time he ever cried.

~*~ 

When he was sixteen, he took Pansy Parkinson’s virginity on the leather couch in the Slytherin common room.

She screamed like nothing he had ever heard, and it was hard to believe it was all out of pleasure. Although, maybe he was being a bit rough. But she didn’t complain. She didn’t even seem to mind the fact that everyone in the whole house could probably hear her cries and moans.

She was good in bed, and her body was magnificent, especially glistening with sweat and rocking with his.

But when it was over, he could hardly bear to look into her eyes, so brightly blue it still amazed him. And when she whispered that she loved him, he swallowed vomit and buttoned up his trousers.

He walked away without another word, reminding him far too much of his father.

That same year, he found Ginny Weasley crying in an empty classroom. Her robes were laying beside her on the floor, and she looked – though he would never admit it – stunning in a simple white, silk nightgown. It clung to her slim curves, and showed more skin than she was probably aware of.

Her characteristic red hair was tangled and wild, hanging around her tear-stained face. She was shaking, but he couldn’t tell whether it was from the cold or from her sobs or both.

When he was standing in front of her, she looked up at him, and her eyes were wide with fear and surprise.

"Malfoy?"

Her voice was shaky through the tears, and if she had been trying to make it sound angry, she had failed miserably.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice soft with concern, although he didn’t know where it was coming from.

She opened her mouth to answer and her crying became more violent. Through the hiccups and sobs, he made out the name "Ron."

He spent a moment in silence, trying to figure out just what the hell her pathetic brother had to do with anything. And then he looked her over, and felt his stomach twist.

She was bruised, from head to toe. There was dried blood under her nose, and the way her legs were drawn up tightly to her chest . . .

"Oh, gods," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "What the fuck has that sick bastard done?"

She closed her eyes tightly, her fingernails beginning to dig into the skin of her arms as she continued to cry. She had drawn blood before he thought to stop her. He held her hands tightly in his own, trying desperately to warm them. They felt like ice.

Without asking her permission, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stayed tense for the longest time, but finally her crying subsided and she relaxed – almost collapsed – into his arms. A few minutes later, he felt her returning the embrace, her hands clutching the fabric of his robes.

That was the night Draco Malfoy fell in love.

~*~

When he was eighteen, he proposed.

He got down on one knee and slid a ring onto the hand he had held so many times.

The war was over, Voldemort was dead. She had finally escaped the nightmare that was Ron Weasley. She was lightly scarred from that bastard’s hands, but she was finally free.

Or so they thought.

Three days before the wedding, he walked into the house to find it deadly silent.

He called her name, several times. When there was no response, he began to panic. Death Eaters were still on the loose, his own father among them. And they would love to kill a deserter’s only love. 

But he was never prepared for what he found when he entered their bedroom.

She was spread eagled on their King sized bed. The satin sheets were thrown over her, but not neatly enough to cover the gaping stab wound in her chest.

He felt his heart wrench inside his chest, but he had lost his ability to cry long ago. He simply dropped onto the bed beside her and traced his fingers over her cold lips.

He didn’t see the red-haired figure raising his wand behind his back.

And by the time he heard the curse spoken, it was too late.