Dirt

Know me broken by my master

The ceiling had a crack in it. He was positive that the crack was mocking him. It just stayed there, motionless, belligerently staring down at him as he tried to stare back up at it with equal disgust. It just refused to fucking change.

If he'd been more like his father, the crack would have damn well changed at the slightest sign of his displeasure. Of course, had he been like his father there wouldn't have been a crack anywhere near the ceiling of his dwelling. For that matter, had he been his father, he certainly wouldn't have wasted time looking at the ceiling trying to show his disgust for the nonexistent crack because he would have people paid to do that sort of thing.

Of course, had he been his father he would be on his knees right now pretending to like it as he took orders from that monstrosity that had the entire wizarding world running scared. At least he had enough of his dignity left that he refused to become some soldier boy in a war over ideals and unattainable goals. That only had two outcomes, and neither one was something that he wished. He did not wish for death, despite the way others around him always seemed to treat him as though he had a death wish. He did not wish for valour, either, and he knew that the veterans of this war would undoubtedly be treated as though they were the second coming of Merlin. He only wished to be left alone, and to be allowed to lead his existence without labels or preconceptions haunting his every movement.

He rolled off the sofa that had come with the apartment, wincing as he managed jab himself in the side with the spring that poked through the browning stuffing and torn fabric. The sofa was greenish brown and smelled of cat piss and mould, but Draco thought it was still perfectly serviceable. Better than sitting on the floor, at any rate. He kept hoping that someone on the street would throw out a sofa in better condition so that he could upgrade, but knew that was unlikely. Everyone else was as bad off as he was in this neighbourhood.

He had been slowly learning the art of thrift over these past few years, as the money he had run with, a sack filled with gleaming galleons that had seemed at the time a huge amount, had dwindled to nothing, leaving him with only himself to rely upon.

As it seemed, he really was as unreliable as everyone had claimed.

He stumbled into the kitchen area just off the living room, and opened the fridge, glaring at its contents blearily. There was mayonnaise and an empty jar of olives and something brown that might have once been a carrot and a carton of milk that looked more like cottage cheese when he tried to pour some.

"Goddamn it!" he yelled, and threw the carton against the wall. It hit the wall with a quiet thud, then began to leak from a dented side as it fell to the ground. He stared at the carton, which had a goofy cartoon cow smiling merrily from one bashed side, leaking spoiled milk like brains onto the gritty once-white floor.

He slung open the cabinet doors, and finally unearthed a crushed package of crackers, which he sat on the counter and ate with the unabashed glee of the ravenous, licking his fingers and scooping up the crumbs, wasting not a single morsel. Draco tried to remember the last time he had eaten, and couldn't come up with a definite answer. Within the past four days, for sure. Beyond that, it was hard to tell.

He searched for a clean cup, and found none. He turned on the tap, let the rusty water pass, and then scooped a handful of cold water up, and drank thirstily. His mouth felt even more parched with the cracker crumbs clinging to every crevice, and the water felt amazing against the desert dryness.

He left the kitchen, not bothering to clean up the spilled milk. There was really no point to cleaning, everything just got dirty again after all. He supposed that if he could use magic he might wave his wand and watch the room tidy itself, but he refused to scrub at it himself. He did still have some pride left, after all.

He hadn't used magic in too long. He missed it deeply, but knew that it would be his folly to attempt a spell. He refused to trade his life for a clean apartment. After all, they had tracers on his wand, and if it were used they would be on him quicker than a hobo on a ham sandwich.

He was never going back to them. Not willingly, not unwillingly. He would sooner die than to return there, to the dark masks and cold faces, to the bouts of agony and the periods of servitude. To the slow death that awaited all of them. To Lord Voldemort and his following of broken men.

He touched his left arm without thinking, and automatically sought out the one permanent mark marring the moon-paled skin. All the other tracks, scratches, bruises, and scars paled around the vivid skull and snake that was branded there, a permanent binding of the tattered remains of his soul to the devil, permanent proof of his supposed loyalties to those who would claim to be good, a mark that made him pariah and hunted, despised and sought.

He had jabbed that goddamn skull in the eye more times than he could remember, but he had been the one to feel the needle sharp pain. The first time, it had sent a thrill through his body that he had been trying to achieve ever since. He had seen things clearly, then. Everything had just been so fucking clear.

He kept hoping for that clarity to return to him, even as things became more and more blurred.

He decided that he needed to leave the apartment, and go find some food, replenish his supplies. He was running low, there was hardly enough left for this morning. He picked his way across the items that had somehow found themselves on the hall floor (where the hell had that book come from?) and entered the bathroom. He looked in the mirror, and decided that a shower wasn't really necessary. Neither was shaving. There was nothing wrong with looking a mite scruffy every once in a while. He did attempt to comb his hair, but soon decided that was more trouble than it was worth. He splashed some cold water on his face, and went into his bedroom.

Stripping off the shirt he had been wearing for the past two days, he found a less rumpled one shoved under the bedside table. A ragged sweater that looked sickeningly like the ones he had made fun of those Weasley kids for wearing was pulled over his head. It was cold out there. A pair of trousers and his heavily lined winter coat later, he stepped out of the apartment.

He pressed his hand against his coat, feeling the comforting flatness of the Altoids tin hidden deep within the lining. Curiously strong, indeed. He refused to leave the house without it in his possession, hidden deep away from the pickpocket riffraff that would steal it from him in a heartbeat. He made his way out of the building and out onto the street.

The riffraff seemed to crowd around him. Grateful to see such aristocracy within their midst, most likely. Never mind that he looked the same as them now. He knew that he was above them, and there was no need for him to try and dress or look any different to impress them.

He passed a group of girls showing as much of their pale gaunt bodies as possible, who beckoned him and called out to him. They wanted him, wanted his money, but he kept walking, eyes glued on the skinny man standing half in an alley, who occasionally yelled out an order for one of the girls.

He handed the man money, more money than he really had to spend, and in return the man gave him salvation, life, and sanity all pounded into a grainy white powder. He glanced around furtively as he stowed it in the most secure pocket in his outfit, waiting until he was in private to transfer it to his Altoids tin.

He continued down the street, and ended up at the market, where he bought milk and stole food. He kept an eye on the people he saw, looking at everyone closely, trying to spot any recognition in the strangers' eyes. He was being hunted, after all. And who knew what his pursuers looked like, after spells and potions and time.

He returned to his apartment, felt depressed because he didn't get to ride the lift since he lived on the ground floor, and ate for a minute before feeling full. He then cooked a spoonful of the truest medicine he had ever had, and with a casual jab he fixed his soul.

Drifting body it's sole desertion

He ended up back on the couch, holding the book from the hall in his hand loosely. He had begun to read several times, but had grown bored a few words in each time. He finally just dropped it on the floor, letting his knuckles rest against the cheap beige carpet, and stared at the window, watching parts of people pass through the gap between the blinds and the windowsill.

He feared discovery more than anything. It had been years, but he just knew that the wizarding world was still searching for him. The Death Eaters still ached to have his head on a platter. The Ministry still wanted to serve him a dish of justice. Dumbledore's minions still wanted to either show him the way to good or show him the way to the grave. And so he would rather remain here, in this life he'd created away from all that.

He still remembered how it had eaten at him, lurking in the dark wearing masks, stealing into houses in the dead of night like a thief. He wasn't suited to the life of a common criminal, and Voldemort hadn't taken pride as a serious reason to refuse to be a common criminal for the sake of his crusade. That last night had been horrific enough to make him abandon everything and run.

Things had been intensifying, with Voldemort's followers being sought out and more and more people beginning to fight, die, and acknowledge the situation. Draco had been suspected just as much as his father, even though he was only one year out of Hogwarts. His father- his father had revelled in the death and violence and secrecy, but Draco just hadn't been cut out for it. Too much of his mother, too much of his grandfather, too much of himself within him. He was too straightforward, and lacked the bloodlust that would make him flourish under Voldemort.

One night, he had snuck into a wildly dilapidated and rather whimsical house with a dozen other Death Eaters. He had climbed the stairs, and found a room to enter, one that looked empty so he wouldn't have to kill anyone. He hated these people, but not to the point that he wanted to kill them coldly in the dead of night.

After pushing open the door, he realized his mistake as he found himself looking at an occupied bed. Hair darkened by the shadows of night covered the pillow, and a light coloured blanket was pulled up to her chin. He wanted to flee, but was stuck there, staring, as she shifted, wakening. She pushed herself up, and he backed up against the door as she looked around until she finally saw him.

"Who-what are you doing here?" she said, voice shaky. He didn't respond.

The door banged open, and a Death Eater stepped inside and growled, "Kill her. At least we'll get one out of the way tonight."

"Okay," he said with the instilled confidence of the aristocratic, and stepped towards the shivering girl in a show of bravado.

"Please- whoever you are, just don't... don't... please!" she cried, sobbing and shivering and scrambling out from under her blanket.

Then he did.

As he stared at the limp body, he felt a twinge of guilt deep within himself, and a stab of something like disappointment. He wanted to flee, to rip off this damned mask and these horrid robes and to just run into the dark, deep night. He wanted to scream at his father, and tell him all the things that he'd kept bottled up these long years, about servitude to monsters and sinking below the level of the Mudbloods and shaming the family name.

This entire bloody crusade was nothing more than a sham. None of the higher ideals Voldemort preached about meant jack shit. All this was about was Voldemort getting more power, and Draco had had enough. He refused to play the expendable soldier to a would-be god. He refused.

And so he refused, and was given a lesson in how futile resistance was. And so he cried and wailed and screamed, but to no avail. And so he lay, broken and powerless in a cold dank basement of his own home, and he gave up. And so he left as soon as his body had healed enough to move, and he defied his heritage.

He lived amongst the rats to hide from the snakes.

He was now solely a part of the Muggle world. His wand was hidden and his robes thrown away. No gold currency remained in his possession, only the faded filthy bills of Muggle currency. The only magic in his life was bought with stacks of Muggle money, and a syringe had replaced his wand as the controlling force in his universe, the conductor in his symphony.

He shook his arm, realizing it had fallen asleep. No one was passing his window, and he felt anger at their absence. They were betraying him, passing other people's windows, not delighting him but being ignored by others. They could rot in hell. They could just go to hell, and then he would be able to watch them when he took up corporeal residence there, rather than just emotional like now.

He realized that his fix had faded, and the lines of reality had blurred back to their regrettable normal state.

Into the flood again
Same old trip it was back then

He scowled impatiently at the blackened spoon, and then was forced to search his right arm for a lifeline after his left arm screamed with abuse when he tried it, and then finally had felt the crystalline beauty of the universe set straight. He did notice that the universe wasn't as satisfying as it had been before. Nothing had ever matched that first time, that orgasmic brilliance, that one moment of absolute certainty in his life.

He had been huddling in a cold alleyway, hiding from the rain and crowds and pure foreignness of the Muggle world he had taken refuge in. It had been forever since he'd left home and his life- perhaps even a full week. He just hadn't realized, when he'd run, how difficult things would be. A stupid thing to think, really, but true.

He'd never have imagined that taunts about eating out of the garbage and sleeping in the streets were grounded in reality. He especially never would have imagined that it would become his reality. After all, despite not having money, he was rich, and the wealthy never had to try and survive. It was guaranteed. Already bought and paid for.

Except now it wasn't, and he was forced to try and survive on his own.

And then there had been others, shadows in dark clothing and pale faces, stringy hair and emancipated forms. He had been frightened, at first, that they were the Death Eaters, that he had been found already. He soon realized that these people were the furthest thing from Death Eaters possible. He soon learned what made them gaunt and shaky and above all happy.

The idea of plunging something sharp into his flesh had been terribly exciting at first. It was so wickedly barbaric that he had wanted to try immediately. The waif-like shadow who had explained things to him grinned, and offered to do it for him.

After that first time, Draco knew he had found something much better than anything he had left behind. He existed, and was content.

He had become one of them, for a while. Roaming the streets, doing what he could to get by, doing anything and anyone for something to fill his spoon. His gold was useless, and it only occurred to him later to pawn it off for the kind of money he could spend.

Times changed, and he found a real place to live, instead of a park bench, and he appreciated the cracked ceiling over his head more than he had ever appreciated the marble floors beneath his feet at home. He coveted his mistress, his heroine, the lovely substance that had kept him from fleeing back home to the uninviting arms of his father and the cold glances of his mother and the painful death at the whim of his master.

So I made a big mistake
Try to see it once my way

He hadn't even known that the craving he felt was addiction for a long time.

After all, how could something so wonderful, so lovely, so pure be bad? How could it destroy lives and induce such desperation in people? How could he have fallen under its spell so easily, so much more easily than the Imperious had ever thought about being? After all, it was all done voluntarily, and not at odds with his will in the least.

But that first time that he had slipped from the heights he had been swept to, the first time he bought food instead of his drug, the first time he had really come down from his high, he understood.

Oh, how he understood.

He was loyal to his new mistress in a way that he had never been to anyone or anything in his life. Not his family, his master, his whims or his dreams. He was hers, in body and spirit, in sickness and in health, for better and usually for worse.

He almost wished that he could regret it.

Am I wrong?
Have I run too far to get home?

Draco jumped as someone banged on his door.

"Hey! You in there! Open up!" they yelled.

He tried to ignore them, tried to return to the blissful retreat of his mind, where he roamed his childhood home without worry, and he had returned to being unaware of what misery was, and where he no longer had any knowledge of squalor or thrift. He was happy without dealing with reality, even when it came knocking on his front door.

He ignored reality.

Reality, on the other hand, seemed rather insistent. "Open the damn door now!"

He stared out the window, momentarily considering opening the blinds more. A figure in black passed, and he decided that the blinds were open enough. He huddled into the couch, and hoped he hadn't been seen. The pounding on the door continued.

"Open up!" the voice on the other side of the door was yelling, impatient and hateful.

Draco couldn't get up. He couldn't face his fate like that.

"Fine. I'm going upstairs to get the master keys. I sent that eviction notice weeks ago!" Draco could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.

He couldn't manage a sigh of relief. It wasn't his past coming to destroy him, it was the present. And the present had abated for the moment, though it would return. He only had a moment to try and fix himself before the present came knocking on his door again.

Have I gone?

He moved quickly, well aware of time ticking away precious seconds as he found his supplies and began to cook the only meal that mattered anymore. He couldn't hear any clomping feet on the stairs, and worried that the landlord had decided to take the much quieter lift instead.

He quickly filled the syringe, and found a vein.

He had already pressed the plunger before remembering he hadn't cleared the air bubble out.

He sank back against the kitchen cabinet, feeling the creeping cold of the linoleum floor, and fretted.

And then he fretted no more.

And left you here alone?

Steve pounded against the faded, chipped door one last time before snapping, "Fine. I'm going upstairs to get the master keys. I sent that eviction notice weeks ago!"

He stomped up the stairs, too flustered to remember to use the lift. That damn kid in number three had been nothing but trouble since he had first moved in two years ago. The rent always came late, and when he saw the kid he just sneered at him, like he was so much better than he was! Yeah, right. Steve knew street trash when he saw it. And that kid, with his ratty hair and blemished face and missing tooth, was first class street trash. Steve reckoned that he had to whore himself to pay the rent and keep up with his habit, though he wondered at the people who would be willing to pick that kid up.

He was just waiting on the day that the kid would be arrested, which he knew would come sooner or later. The kid had no sense when it came to hiding the track marks that covered his scrawny arms, or hell, even shutting the blinds all the way.

Steve snarled in frustration at the door to his apartment stuck. He shoved at it a few good times before it gave, nearly sending him sprawling across the living room.

"Where'd I leave those master keys?" he muttered, cursing himself for not taking them in the first place. Like the kid was just going to open the door to allow himself to be shoved out on the street. He finally found the keys sitting on the bathroom sink, and shoved them in his pocket as he made his way out of the apartment.

He stood, waiting for the lift, and he thought about why he had rented to the kid in the first place. The kid had enough money at the time, and had paid a few months in advance, but had still looked like shit. There had been no doubt in his mind that the kid was an addict, no doubt of the worst kind, but there had been something confident about him, almost dignified, that had allowed Steve to accept his money and give him the keys to the apartment.

The dignity he had seen had faded away quickly after that. Apparently having a home was all the ambition the kid had, and once he had achieved it, nothing else had mattered. Maybe he had sold his soul for the apartment, and handing over the keys had finished the deal. Either way, the kid was just a shell.

He stepped out of the lift, and walked up to Number Three again. He knocked once more, again to no answer. "I'm coming in!" he warned, and unlocked the door.

He almost recoiled at the smell. It was the sickening pungent stench of spoiled milk overlaid with the sour smell of unwashed things. He stepped inside, and looked around. Just a broken couch in the living room, and an open door to a bedroom where he could see a mattress lying on the floor.

He moved towards the kitchen, wondering where the kid was, when he found out. Slumped against the cabinet was the kid, syringe still loosely held in one hand. He almost looked like he was asleep.

Steve made his was across the garbage littered floor until he knelt beside the kid, and felt for a pulse. None. But the kid's skin was still warm, still felt alive. He tried for a pulse at the neck, at the wrist again, opened his eyes.

He was dead, but hadn't been so for long.

Minutes, maybe.

Steve wondered if the kid had been alive when he had pounded on the door, then wondered if he had brought the master key the first time, would the kid still be alive?

Was he responsible? Could he have prevented this?

Then Steve shook his head. It was sad, since the kid looked no older than twenty-five, but there wasn't really anything unexpected about it. Most junkies ended up like this.

At least he wasn't going to be a drain on society anymore.

Steve left the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him. He returned to his own apartment, and called the police. "I'd like to report a death..."

He then took the remaining contents of the Altoids tin he had found next to the body, and told himself that he was just getting the last month's rent compensated. Then the landlord gave in to the sweet temptation.

If I would, could you?