Searching for Souls

Draco Malfoy sat in a green leather armchair in the Slytherin common room, staring gloomily into the fire and occasionally sipping from the glass of Firewhisky next to him.

He had always been a drinker, since he realised he could take it; since he realised he needed it. He drank a lot at home, because his parents didn't care if he did. It was harder at school, all the stupid rules and teachers everywhere, big lectures about the dangers of alcohol. Like he cared about that.

Draco took a long swig and adjusted himself on the chair so that he was sitting cross-legged. It was 2:20 in the morning and the common room was empty. Draco liked it this way. Nobody else to talk to, nobody to sneer at, nobody to even look at.

But Draco had always liked it that way. He never liked to have to communicate with other people. It wasn't because he thought he was better than them- that was just a façade he put on to make it more believable, to reinforce his reputation as a Malfoy.

He was awkward around other people. He didn't know how to communicate, how to talk, how to hold a normal conversation free of malice and sarcasm. He'd never had a heart-to-heart in his whole life. He didn't have any real friends.

That was part of what made him so bitter to other people, even the Slytherins, his own house. He was thoroughly miserable and very, very lonely.

Draco wanted someone to talk to, someone to be nice to him for a change, someone he could treat as an equal because he had respect for them. He didn't have respect for anybody he knew, except Snape and, grudgingly, Dumbledore.

Any respect Draco may have had for his family was long-gone too. His father beat him. His mother didn't care about him. They were both Death Eaters, followers of Voldemort, cowardly and unworthy of respect. Draco hated his father with a passion. He was indifferent toward his mother. She didn't care about him; neither did he care about her. He acted offended and angry if anybody said things about his family, but inwardly he was cheering them on.

'I'm pathetic. I have no life. I'm an alcoholic at the age of 16 and I hate my parents. I have no friends and I hate myself. I cut myself. I punish myself. My father beats me. Nobody cares about me. Nobody should care about me. I'm going to be made into a Death Eater when I get home this summer and I'm going to hate it. I'm sitting in the common room right now talking to myself and going utterly mad. I'm pathetic,' Draco finished, and threw his glass onto the floor to emphasise his bad mood. It shattered and shards of glass flew everywhere.

Draco stared at it for a few seconds, then without thinking, picked up one of the sharper pieces and dragged it, hard, across his palm. An ugly cut appeared immediately, blood welling out and trickling down onto his wrist. Draco stared at it for some minutes, mesmerised by the body's reaction to the broken skin. Then he was disgusted with himself. He pulled his wand out of his sleeve, conjured a bandage and wrapped it around his hand. He pointed his wand at the shattered glass on the floor and muttered

'Reparo.' He stood up, stretched and walked up the stairs to his dormitory, climbing into his bed without even bothering to get undressed.

As he lay there in the dark, waiting for sleep to come to him, Draco found himself thinking about what had happened at dinner that night, and what had happened with Ginny.

He knew her name, Virginia Weasley, although he didn't know how he knew it. He wondered what had happened between them. He had felt a connection, such a powerful connection, and he had suddenly felt happy, complete and accepted all at the same time.

As he had looked into her eyes, he had known she was seeing him for who he really was- seeing past the mask. He had looked into her, too, and been surprised by what he had seen. She was so small but so strong, so full of love but so full of hate. She was different than she seemed to other people.

Ginny was special and he knew it, he felt it. She was beautiful, strong and independent on the outside- that was how she appeared to everyone else. But inside she was sad, she was empty. Even though she was relatively popular and well liked, her family was also popular and well liked, she was associated with Harry Potter and all the 'greatness' that came with that, Ginny was lonely. She wanted somebody to understand her.

Draco felt a strange sensation in his stomach as he realised, in a split second, that he was The One. Then he felt stupid. His emotions were getting too much for him. New emotions, ones he hadn't felt before. He felt a special connection with Ginny, he accepted her, and he respected her, he was in awe of her, he was... in love with her?

Draco was completely confused.

He had a brief conversation with the sarcastic little voice in his head (A/N everyone's gotta have one).

'I only notice her because she's so beautiful,' Draco told the voice crossly.

'No you don't. You notice her because she makes you feel safe. She gives off an Aura of kindness, of gentleness. She's full of love, not like anyone else you know. She calms you down. She reassures you. She's beautiful too, of course. And why are you talking like that? You never think that people are beautiful, even all the girls who are prettier than Ginny. I'll tell you why- because you see her inner beauty too'.

'Oh, sod off. What do you know about it?'

'I live in your head, you idiot, I know everything about you.'

'Tell me why I don't have any friends, then,'

'Because you are sour, bitter and cynical and you never give anybody reason to be your friend.'

'Ah. I was afraid you would say that.'

'I knew you were.'

'How did you know?'

'I just told you, I live in your head.'

'Is it very comfortable in there?'

Draco suddenly realised he was having a conversation with himself about living conditions inside his head.

'I need a life,' he muttered, and fell asleep.

The next morning was a Saturday. Draco woke at midday, pulled himself groggily out of bed and headed into the dorm's bathroom for a shower, shedding clothes along the way, grabbing a pair of plain black jeans, a loose black jumper and underwear.

When he arrived at the bathroom, Draco glared at his reflection in the mirror. His white-blond hair was mussed up, falling in all directions over his head. He had stopped gelling it over the summer, when he had reached a fit of depression so bad he didn't care what it looked like. Now he decided it was better falling free, and it was getting longer, covering his ears and neck. His face, apart from its fine features, strong structure and natural good looks, looked awful.

His eyes were red and bloodshot from lack of sleep, and large black bags underneath them made him look slightly like a panda. The rest of his body had changed since last year. His shoulders were broader; he was taller and more imposing.

Draco looked a lot like his father had when he was younger. He was disgusted when this thought hit him. He spat in the mirror, yanked off his t-shirt and stepped into the shower.

He looked at his arms while reaching for the shampoo. They were covered in scars. Some deep, some shallow. Some were self-inflicted; others were results of the punishments Draco received from his father- imprints of the chains that bound him to the dungeon walls of Malfoy Manor were forever engraved into the skin around his wrists. Draco felt sick as he looked at his slashed forearms.

'Look at me,' he said out loud. 'Look at what I've become.'