: Gen Draco, Hermione
: mention of non-con-- nothing graphic at all
: Why did Draco do it? Well, why not?
: Thanks so much to rubytuesday5681 for the beta! This is something I've wanted to write for a long time, exploring Draco's psychology. I was nervous but I'm glad I finally did it. I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
She had her wand pointed at his chest and--
He didn't mind.
There wasn't much left inside his heart now, no emotion that he hadn't compartmentalized up into little boxes to stay sane. All he had to flash back on were the many times in his life when he thought he had things figured out. But he couldn't have been more wrong.
The moment he started school-finally, he would be able to make his parents happy, to make his dad happy, to be the son that fully lived up to his father's expectations-he could feel the intense pressure kick in. It was about blood and family and not much about love at all. But back then, things had been easy.
The retching and nightmares were something his naive mind couldn't comprehend. Had he known then how warped he would be now, he probably would have run pleading to Potter for redemption right there on the spot. Atoning for the things he hadn't yet done.
After his father had been sent to Azkaban was his first experience with true vengeance. Things were starting to fall apart and he needed someone to blame. Potter was that someone but he was always so lucky, so well protected, so bloody loved and admired. Draco cursed the treacherous name on his lips.
Vengeance and Potter. That's what he had thought about that entire cool summer at the manor. While his mum looked distant and broken like a piece of china that was placed back together with spellotape. That's when the tiniest bit of resentment for his father started to spread. Of course, he didn't notice it because he was too busy with honor and revenge and obedience.
When he was given his task- that was his true moment. He would show his father he was capable of doing what Lucius never could, pleasing the Dark Lord. He cursed his eagerness to be controlled and told what to do by...everyone. His thoughts only his own thanks to his Aunt Bellatrix's occlumency lessons but even she was warping him with indoctrination.
He thought about proudly allowing them to brand him. About vomiting up blood in the boy's lavatory. About touching the mark The Dark Lord forever left on him with reverence and importance but most of all fear. But he didn't know what fear was then and it felt like power so he ignored it.
When he was coming undone--failing-- he could no longer control anything. The little control that he never really had to begin with flickered out like a flame. He grinded his teeth down to the gums at night because it wasn't like sleep was an option anyway.
His hope was fading and he was being drawn to high towers and sharp edges until...somehow he'd figured out how to work the cabinet.
It wasn't worth it like he thought it would be and now he'd seen true horrors. Child's play was far behind and he was forced to watch torture and take part in torture and follow rules, just like he'd always wanted.
The disturbing images of his own parents screaming: his father, whom he always respected so much, screaming out in true unimaginable pain. And he knew-- if his father could be broken-- he would be ripped apart from the inside out.
He followed the rules when they told him to strip and not to say a word, his father only nodded to him and his mother stared stiffly ahead-not standing up for Draco until it was practically too late.
If he'd been buried alive, it wouldn't be quite as bad as the affliction going on in his head and it was all imposed upon him by the sociopath he was supposed to claim as his master.
This was a bad dream, a nightmare. A sick, unending nightmare.
So he kept quiet and waited, waited to die, to implode and lose his mind.
Whichever came first.
His one chance, his one hope was in a boy he had loathed and despised for so long. He didn't want to be broken, but he was in beyond recognizable pieces when Potter came around saving the day. That didn't mean Draco would bow down.
It didn't matter anyway; his hell still went on.
He cursed himself again for the lack of foresight. His father would be laughing of course. "After all these years, you are still a foolish, impatient child," the voice in his head was so perfectly Lucius.
One night he'd attempted to rid himself of the possessive mark. His wrist burned from the spells and hexes he tried. Until finally he carved into his flesh with a dagger he found in his father's closet. When he scraped off the first layer of skin and blood oozed, he stopped.
Potter and his righteous friends couldn't cure Draco and he wouldn't want them to. Instead, he wanted to take something back. Which is probably why he dragged the mudblood into the alley to begin with. It seemed like a good idea at the time because...well, why not?
What more did he have to lose by defiling himself? He wasn't going to be the only one to feel helplessness. He needed someone else to be marked forever. 'It wasn't fair, what did he do to deserve this?' played in his mind like a broken record.
His life was so worry free at the start and it just. wasn't. fair.
So he dragged her into the alley and there was no finesse to it, no grace. He hadn't conjured that. All his mind games were spiraling down to the point where his own head was so tangled with his lies that he couldn't take them any more.
He could do nothing but act and react. He wasn't used to this. Everything used to be so carefully planned. So neatly and easily constructed. Now everything was haphazard and out of control and he hated it as much as he lived for it.
Threats and bribes were useless now because he was so demonized-- but worse than that was the pity. He wanted to leave the twisted pity behind. He wanted some one else to take control again because it was the only way he felt in control.
He didn't know what he meant to do.
He swore he was going to make her hurt. Then she'd given him that damn pitiful look and he was wrecked with fury. He wanted it gone. He didn't want the mudblood-- seemed like such an empty word now--to look at him like that. He was sick of people looking at him like that.
He was never pitied once before.
He wanted the reverence, the worship. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at Weasley and Potter, her saviors.
So he threw her wrists up against the wall and pressed against her. He was hard from the adrenaline. He bruised her with a kiss like it was the key to living --or dying-- either was better than this. She tried to push him away with all her strength but she was no match for him.
And he laughed just because it was so bizarre, sick and wrong that he had the mudblood trapped here beneath him. He tasted her fear in the air as she began to shake, just imagining her fate.
Draco felt somehow lighter like he'd left his body for a moment and he just grinned and grinned, feeling strangely childlike but still completely empty.
That's when she pushed him away in one fell swoop. He was on the ground against the opposite wall of the alley. She pointed her wand at his chest ---shaking and crying-- and
He didn't mind.
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