In the land of Gods and Monsters

He lay on his back, his pain diluted by the numbing reprieve only alcohol could provide.

Unfortunately his actions had cost him.  He spent the last three days of his freedom laying in a drunken stupor, refusing any and all visitors.  Anyone foolish enough to poke their head into his set of rooms received more than just a tongue lashing.

He nearly killed half a dozen servants before his mother finally accepted that he wished to be alone.

He knew she sent them out of a selfish need to appease her own sense of guilt and satisfy that idea within her that she must ‘be a good mother’.  It was almost as funny as a father who masqueraded as a redeemed villain. 

Both sought to satisfy their own needs, like hungry children. Devouring their own child.  He was used to it, had experienced it his entire life.

He stared up at his ceiling, still and unmoving.  The spidery lines denoting wear and tear on the ancient manor no different than the webs we all seemed to keep weaving.

Same old fucking shit.  Tomorrow was a new day, a new school year.  Only he would be returning as Draco Malfoy, the outcast.  He wished Potter had let him die.  He had wanted to die. 

His future lay before him, as stark and unappealing as it was the last time, only this time there was the newly added humiliating.  He could refuse to return to school, where he was expected—and this had to be the greatest cosmic irony—to prove himself a humble young man devoted to the peace and prosperity of wizard-muggle relationship. 

The previous headmaster left specific instructions that Draco be given a muggle roommate.  It was a voluntary position, but no one volunteered.  He was that repugnant. 

However.

The headmistress informed him that Hermione Granger graciously volunteered after being approached.

It was a bleak future indeed.

Hermione-the cunt-Granger or Lucius Malfoy.  The latter would certainly kill him.  The former would certainly die at Draco’s own hands, the consequences of which would have him begging for death.

He should care.  He should be angry and railing.

But all Draco cared about was lighting a cigarette before getting ready to leave.

He gave no fucks.

The world could end tomorrow and he would greet it with a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand, cigarette firmly grasped between his fingers and his right hand up, flipping god off.

He sighed, letting the smoke out.  And proceeded to give the situation the same consideration he gave everything.  Very little.

Hermione Granger would always be mudblood trash.  That would never change.  But she would be returning minus two.

He blew out smoke and watched it drift upwards.

It was really too bad.  Because she was still alive.  And he thought, with a lopsided grin, that he wasn’t going to be a very good roommate.