Growing Up Malfoy

It had been a week since the figure huddled in the corner of the tiny room had been brought in. It had also been that long since he had anything to eat. The figure occasionally drank from a muddy, stank water puddle on the floor of the room; the ceiling had a leak. The figure was none other than a boy. Maybe six years old and rather small for his age. His usually bright emerald green eyes were now dull and lifeless. A pair of broken, oval shaped, glasses sat perched on his nose. He really didn't understand what was going on. One minute he was sitting in the kitchen with his Aunt, Uncle and cousin, then the next he was waking up inside the cold, dark room. He had cried the first few days but stopped when his throat began to show signs of rawness. He then gave up. No one was coming anyways. So why bother? The boy looked around the dark, cold room and shivered. He was wearing a pair of grey sweat pants, a black tee-shirt, that made his already small frame look even smaller, and a pair of ragged tennis shoes; all hand-me-downs from his cousin, Dudley, who out grew clothes at an astounding rate. The pants had a large hole in the leg, Dudley had ripped them going after a neighborhood boy, and the shirt was ripped at the collar. The shoes were holey and barely holding together. His black hair was matted to his head from a mixture of blood and dirt. He had a gash on the side of his head about the size of a silver dollar; it had bled freely for quiet sometime. He couldn't remember how he got it. He had made several, failed, attempts to stand until finally he managed to get to his feet on his final attempt. But he was swaying dangerously. A yelp of pain escaped from his cracked lips as he stepped down on his right foot; clearly it was either broken or severely sprained. He had to lean against the wall for support so he didn't fall.

The room was pitch black except for several, small, streams of light that filtered through one of the boarded up windows. At night the room was completely dark.

He managed, awkwardly, to make his way over to what appeared to be a door. "H...Hello" He stammered out, throat raw and parched. Maybe someone would hear him this time. He licked his badly cracked lips, feeling weak. The lack of food and proper water was starting to effect him. And the gash on his head was swollen with infection. Slowly, he made his way over to one of the small beams of light and held out his hand. From what he could make out in the poor light, it was filthy and he could only imagined what his other hand, nay his whole body, looked like. He slowly lowered himself to the floor and pulled the leg of his pants up where he carefully slipped his shoe off his right foot. A hiss, of pain, escaped through clenched teeth as he began to survey the damage. His foot was dark purple and horribly swollen. A small whimper escaped from his throat before he slipped his other shoe off. Then he just sat there for a while, staring off into the darkness.

-0-

He wasn't a stupid boy. He knew that his family didn't care for him. They were always saying how he was strange and abnormal. His Uncle even told him, once, that his parents were bums and alcoholics, whatever that meant. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that he was an unwanted addition to the Dursley family. They practically told him that everyday. But he never talked back. He never once tried to get them to accept him. He just did what he was told; which was everything. He cooked his Aunt, Uncle and whale of a cousin breakfast, lunch and dinner every day, this had gone on since he tall enough to reach the stove. He mowed the lawn without a single complaint And as reward for his hard work he was given a place to sleep; a bed in the cupboard under the stairs, which used to be an old supply cupboard until he arrived. So you see, he knew for as long as he could remember, that he was unwanted.

He was five when he asked the dreaded question. The one that got him a months worth of punishment. It had happened one night at dinner, which consisted of a salad. It just slipped out. "What happened to my mummy and daddy?" His Uncle had turned an ugly shade of purple before hauling the boy away from the dinner table and throwing him in to the cupboard and slamming the door. His Uncle only stayed long enough to push the small vent open and hiss. "Your parents were killed in a car crash. That's why we got stuck with you, boy!" The vent was snapped shut and he didn't see the light of day for weeks, only allowed out, at night, to use the loo. They had occasionally slid in a glass of water and a piece of stale bread. So after the month was over, he never mentioned his parents again.

-0-

He let out a small sigh and curled up on his side with his back to the door. Even though it had only been a week, it felt longer to the small child. He slowly let his eyes close, never hearing the door being pulled open or seeing the people, wearing black cloaks and white masks, that began to filter in. He didn't even notice when one of the men, with blonde hair and steal grey eyes, had picked him up. He was too tired to even care. All he wanted to do was sleep. And that is exactly what he did.