Non Time, O Parve Mage

The next four weeks passed much like that night. He would try to hide away in a more clandestine part of the manor, but

Voldemort always had a way of finding him—he always had his way. After his forced interludes with the dark lord, things tended to

progress in the same manner. He would run to his room, scrub away the man’s touch until his skin was raw red. Then, as

punishment for his transgressions, and solace as well; he would cut himself. He was always disgusted with himself after he cut, even

more so than before. He knew he was weak for doing it; for not being able to cope with the pain any other way…but still he drew

pictures of his misery upon his once flawless skin.

After yet another scarlet shower, he sat upon his bed, carving words of his self-loathing into his thigh:

YOU ARE WEAK

YOU ARE USELESS

As he stared at the ominous encryptions he left imprinted on his skin, the tears began to fall. He never cried—he didn’t

openly sob; he didn’t know how. Just a few silent, unheard tears, gently rolled down his satin cheek, to splash onto the wounds he

had just left—making the words fade into pools of scarlet. He sighed to himself and closed his eyes. How could he go on like this?

Every night, in is bed, he held the silver knife in his hands—considering the possibilities: to never have to be touched like that

again.

He opened his eyes and determinedly halted the tears that flowed down his face. He grabbed a pair of black slacks, a

scarlet wife0-beater, and black button-up long-sleeved shirt. His parents were supposed to come home today. He was supposed to

go to school today. With another sigh, he began to pack his black leather trunk; he absentmindedly flung in his clothes, books, his

journal, some pens and parchment, and his school robes. When satisfied with its contents, he reached for his silver knife, and

wrapped it lovingly in a length of scarlet velvet. He gently laid it underneath his robes, and locked the trunk.

“Master Malfoy, sirs?” came a squeaky voice from the doorway. Startled, Draco turned to the doorway to see several

house elves. Timidly, the elf continued, “sirs…the masters of the house are home sirs…they tolds us to bring your trunks to the

floos, sirs.”

“the floo?” he asked disappointedly, “they’re not coming…with me?”

“No, sirs.” The elves stepped forward, and lifted the trunk together, and carried it to the hall.

Should he really have expected anything different from them?

~*~


Draco stood amidst billowing smoke and a throng of teenagers and their families, kissing and waving goodbye. It

seemed as though he was the only one without a fan club to see him onto the scarlet engine. He heaved a dejected sigh, and

boarded the train. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry Potter being hugged in turn by a dozen people—he appeared less that

thrilled. Draco scoffed. “Typical wonder boy.”

With effort, he dragged his huge trunk behind him without assistance, until he reached the last compartment at the very

end of the train. He sighed in relief to find it was empty. He heaved his trunk under his seat, grabbed his journal from his bag,

along with a Flourish and Blot’s ink-full (Never dip again!) Pen. He began absentmindedly scratching words onto the parchment

leaves; his thoughts, feelings—whatever struck his fancy. He winced in pain, when he moved his arm such that the thin skin

covering his wound began to rip. He rolled his eyes and muttered a quick healing charm to close up the wound once again. He

continued to write:

Whipped, bleeding, in chains

As he begs for forgiveness

Flesh all burnt away

His soul in tatters.

He closes his eyes in pain as he mumbles a prayer

To whoever is listening:

Please take me away…take me away from here….

His eyes closed as he shut his journal, and reclined his head against the wall of the compartment. He opened a steely

eye when he heard the door open. Harry Potter was framed in the doorway—he looked as though he had just been crying—either

that, or he was about to. He looked around the compartment and his eyes landed on Draco. “Oh,” he frowned, “it’s you.” Draco

gave him a dejected look, and went back to his nap.

Harry was befuddled at the lack of insults…and the lack of friends. Draco was easily the most popular boy of their year; it

wasn’t like him to be alone. He walked closer to Draco’s lounging form and crossed his arms, “What’s got your knickers in a twist,

Malfoy?” when he received no response, he nudged his side with his foot. “Hello! I’m talking to you!” Draco rolled over

impatiently. “Don’t touch me, Potter.” He blinked, clearing his eyes, and yawned. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”

“I was looking for an empty compartment. What’s up with you? You haven’t said an insulting or degrading thing since

I’ve been here.”

Draco pulled himself up straight so that he was facing Harry. “What’s it to you?” Harry shrugged his

shoulders. “Curiosity, I guess—seriously though, you should see the nurse when we get to school—you don’t look so hot.”

Draco scoffed. “As compared to when?” Harry straightened himself indignantly, “I was just trying to be civil.”

“Yea, well you’re a little late. Go save someone else, wonder-boy—you’re wasting your time here.”

Harry rolled his eyes and left, slamming the door behind him. Draco leaned back in his seat, grabbed his pen and

journal and began to write again:

…. Hit me with your words.

Punch me if you think it’d hurt.

Cut me, make me bleed

As long as it’s you who’s touching me….


Before he could finish, he fell asleep to the thunder of the engines.

~*~

He awoke to Blaise Zabini’s insistent voice. “Get-up, Drake, we’re at Hogwarts! Get up, you lazy—” He just groaned

and rolled over. “Ten more minutes….” Blaise sighed, and began shaking him—“ten minutes, and we won’t be at school anymore.”

“Fine…” Draco winced as he raised himself. He wasn’t going to bother getting changed. He was shocked to see that no

one else had, either. He was about to ask Blaise why no one was in their uniforms, but decided it would have been too much effort.

He lazily followed the throng to the school. He let his feet carry him to the great oak doors that led to the enormous hall. He felt

someone dragging him, most likely Pansy, and allowed his body, limp with exhaustion, to be led to the Slytherin table. He plopped

himself down at the table, and immediately, folded his arms, and rested his blonde head upon them.

He recognized the deep bellowing of the hat sing something about unity…bla…bla…bla…then McGonagall’s shrill voice

began crying out the names of the various students. Instead of assigning houses, however, the hat went in order, designating each

child with a 1, 2, 3, or 4. Draco looked up in confusion. He was told by a boy next to him to tap his plate with his wand. He did so,

and a roman numeral II appeared before him. Apparently, he had slept through Dumbledore’s speech about unity, and abolishing

the houses. Each person was assigned a number—that would be the number of the dorm he would be sleeping in. They were called

caucuses. That must be why no one was wearing uniforms, he thought to himself—some sad attempt at unifying the school.

“Now,” continued Dumbledore in his resonating voice, “ if those in the first caucus would please follow Miss. Granger—

second follow Mr. Boot—third follow Miss Patil…Padma Patil” He smiled at the twins affectionately, “and fourth please follow Miss

Parkinson.”

Okay, now he was really confused. He stood up to look for Blaise, but he was already beside him. “come on, Drake,” he

wrapped his arm around his waist (to make sure he didn’t pass out) and said warmly, “We’re both second—I think we’re still in the

Slytherin rooms, and there are an abnormal amount of prefects…I think—you’re one, so’s Terry. And the other is…I’m not sure, but

it might be Hanna Abbot.” He looked to Draco in concern, “you look like you’ve gone to shit; what the hell happened to you?” Draco

merely responded, “Mrrrrrmmmmm.” Blaise turned to Millicent, and the both shrugged at each other.

They reached the door, and watched as Terry Boot stated the password: “Duce—“ the crowd around the three ex-

Slytherins turned to Draco when he burst out laughing, uncontrollably. “Duce?” he continued to laugh. “Oh—yea—no one will EVER

guess that one—“he wiped a tear from his eye and walked in first, everyone staring after him bemusedly. They looked to Blaise for

an explanation, but he just shrugged his shoulders, “He does have a point.”

Draco sat down at his favorite chair. Except, now, instead of emerald, it was purple. He rolled his eyes at the

ridiculousness of it all. He heard Blaise call him, “Hey! Drake! Get over here and see what they’ve done to our room!”

Draco stood with his mouth agape, horrified at the purple everything. Apparently, purple was their color. He walked to his

bed and sat down, his mouth still open. “What have they done to it?” he fingered the tassels on his bed curtain when he heard


Harry Potter’s voice. “Oh goody—pricks one and two.” He said with mock-excitement. Blaise scoffed and sat next to Draco. “Shut p

Potter, it’s not as though we want you here either.”

“whatever,” Harry said as he commenced unpacking his trunk. A few moments later, Terry Boot and Ernie Macmillan

entered together. Ernie stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “What do you know: one Griff, one Huff, One Raven, and

two Slytherins? Hey—if we gang up on them, we might just have a chance.” Draco was still lying on his back, his eyes closed, trying

to get some peace. It was rather difficult, seeing as how Blaise started beating up Ernie, then Harry tried to stop them, then so did

Terry, then Terry and Harry took to fighting—it was a disaster. When the incessant ringing in his ears became unbearable, he stood

up, fire blazing (literally) from his eyes. “SHUT-UP!” he shouted as a burst of black flames swept out from his feet. The foursome

froze—Harry had Terry in a half-nelson, while he was being strangled by Ernie, who was about to be punched by Blaise. Draco sighed

impatiently. Well—we are all going to be spending the next ten months together whether you like it or not! I suggest whatever petty

issues you have, you shove up your asses and deal with it, because I am tired and I just want to get some bloody sleep! Got it?”

He was met by silence. “good.” With that, he sat down on his bed, pulled the bed curtains around him, and went to

sleep, just as he was.

Terry, Ernie, Blaise, and Harry were still in a heap on the floor. Terry coughed and stuttered, “Was I—was I the only one

that saw fire spout out of his feet?”

They shook there heads in unison, untangled their limbs, and went to bed.