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A Father Should Be	By : HauntedDreams Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1060 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Father Should Be
- 1
Title: A Father Should Be
Author: HauntedDreams
Rating: R (see "warnings" for details)
Pairing: Draco (/Lucius, implied)
Warnings: Implied incest, imp. rape, imp. slash, cutting/self-mut., blood, imp. ED
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never will. I wrote this to get a message across about real-life events and scenarios.
Feedback: Yes, please. TheCrew@slashtheplanet.com
Dedication: To my husband, who's deployed (Kuwait/Iraq). I miss and love you.

This is un-beta'd. If you find *huge* mistakes, let me know.
Addtl. Author's Notes at the end.
It is raining outside. I can hear the sharp yet faint pattering of the water against the window pane. The wind howls violently, followed by a rumble of thunder. It would be a lot louder, but the heavy black drapes muffle most of the noise. Sometimes I think that it was supposed to be that way, for when I was younger. So I would sleep the whole night and not bother my parents with pointless nightmares during a rainstorm. 'Nightmares are signs of weakness,' my father once told me, 'and a Malfoy is never weak.' I didnt understand him then, I was too young yet. How could a dream, even a violent one, be a weakness when we have no control over them?

What possessed me to rise, leaving the warmth and comfort of my blankets and bed to face the bitter cold of winter, to stalk over to said window, I cannot say. I find my way blindly, for the candles have long since blown out. I reach my intended destination within a few feet, and I run my hands down the smooth, black silk. My hands fumble with the fastens and undo them, leaving them to part in the middle, splitting from one drape into two.

The first assault on my delicate senses is the sound of the insistent rain, as I pull one of the drapes towards the edge of the pane, which glides about effortlessly, and begin to tie it off on the side. Then spn splatters helplessly in small,sharp drops against the window, the storm outside hurling them as though trying to pierce the glass to gain entrance to my room.

I move a few strands of my silver-blonde hair away from my eyes, and decide to abandon tying the other drape off. I walk back to the middle of the room and take a moment to watch the storm in wonder, reveling in the display of strength that nature provides for my eyes, though my expression would never show it. Even here in my own room, at an ungodly hour, facing away from the door, I must keep that trademark stoic expression. After all, what if someone were to come in and see my reflection? Not likely, but one cannot take anything for granted. One cannot take risks.

Water sustains life. Life is a miracle. My eyes momentarily downcast, but I catch my falter and right it. I thought that I had already come to terms with the fact that having a child was beyond my reach. Unless, of course, I use a potion or spell. Even then, I would still feel a bit cheated. Knowing that I had no one to blame but myself, for it was I who lost my ability to reproduce. It was my choices that led to this outcome. I feel that it was a high price to pay for such an illness. But the past is just that. I cannot change anything I have done, but must accept the consequences.

I catch my blunder once again. I cannot allow my thoughts to travel that route. I have spent too much time healing both mind and body, as close to death as I was, to fail again. Not that I've healed completely. My body is still weak, still scarred from everything I've done to it. From everything this *thing* has done to me. My doctor says that I will never fully heal. I will always have *that* part of me struggling to break lose. Struggling to take control once more. *It* wants to claim *me*.

I wrap my arms around myself, giving in to a shiver. No, these thoughts will not do. Not tonight. Not ever.

I tread back to my bed and sit on the edge. I look about the room, but I don't see the countless trophies, certificates, and other innumerable awards. At first, I believe that the room is too dark to notice these objects, but then the thought comes to me that even then, I would still catch a glimpse of the reflecting glass that some of them have been encased in. I curse myself for not realizing that I have begun to submit to memories. Memories that I have valiantly tried to overcome and seal within the darkest places in my soul. According to the doctor, this is a part of the healing process, and that I am to confront my past in order to revive any hope I had for the future. But how can you open your arms to a past that is filled with pain, humiliation, shame, and ultimately, regret?

The memories begin to play in my mind, taunting me. Showing me my mistakes. Flaunting themselves, knowing that I can't change them. He wanted me to be perfect, nothing less. We are, Malfoy, after all. A Malfoy is nothing if not perfect. I wanted so badly to please him, because if he was pleased, he didn't hurt me.

That is when I remember why I did what I did. The feelings I felt during that year, the exact words I remember thinking, come flooding back to me.

I remember his heated touch all over my unwilling body. The stolen kisses. The searing pain of unprepared penetration...The crying, screaming, *begging* him to stop...All he did was take me harder...And more frequently.

I don't even realize I'm crying until I reach the adjoining bathroom and whisper the lighting spell for large areas. The reflection I see horrifies me. My hair is disheveled (from where I had put my head in my hands, running my fingers through it in some odd attempt at comfort). My eyes are bloodshot (from the fierce crying I had been doing), I still have tears leaking down my face. My face is blood red, a very unfitting color for me. My head is beginning to hurt as all this catches up with me. I did the worst thing in the world, I began to heave into the sink, not risking movement to the close-by toilet (lest I throw up the contents of my dinner), and my dull headache becomes a full blown migraine. It is at that time that I do begin to actually vomit, but not food. I look into the sink as I turn on the faucet and notice blood, it is hard to miss in the white marble sink.

My heaving subsides as more memories begin to surface. Blood. *My* blood. My pure blood being spilt from the thin wounds on my chest, wrists, back, and thighs. I had been in a rage, not feeling the pain at all. I was in 'shock', they said. I remember how beautifully I bled all over the bathroom floor, countertop, and rug, and even the silver blade covered in the crimson fluid with the faintest trace of the last time I had spilled my own blood weeks before.

I look around the countertop. There are assorted bottles and tubes of toiletry items. And there they are. The stains from which I had bled on the pure white marble. Funny that they didn't replace it. Must have been too expensive, even for my family. I fumble through the matching marble drawers and I laugh dully when I realize that it would have been stupid for them to not confiscate the knife. But what they didn't know, much to my momentary pleasure, is that I had hidden another.

I tear the second drawer in the set straight off the hinges, not being careful whatsoever (like I had been when I had made this secret compartment) and reach inside the gaping shadowed hole. My fingers brush the box, good, it's still there. My fingers close along the long thin box and I pull it out.

I set it on the counter, disregarding the spilled contents of the drawer which now rests on the floor, and release the breath that I didn't know I had been holding. I take a moment to stroke the black velvet. My hidden love, my secret obsession.

I open the box and inside, on the dark green silk, lay a knife, or dagger to be correct. Pure silver, in every sense, from the handle to the tip of the blade. Ironically, my father had this specially made for me when I had turned thirteen. It had a sole dragon, embossed into the blade, and my name etched in dark green on the handle. My name was the only color on the entire piece. How fitting. Green and silver, the Slytherin House colors. I can almost smile at that. Almost.

I didn't begin by cutting myself. I began on a much different path. One that consisted of weight-watching, food-forfeiting, and weight-concealment charms. It's funny, how a person can find different ways of dealing with emotional pain.

*End Chapter 01*

Author's Notes: To continue, or not to continue? That is the question, as of late. You can either review it here, or send me comments at: TheCrew@slashtheplanet.com. *PLEASE* review! Let me know if this is crap, or if I should get off my arse and continue this!
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A Father Should Be