Title: And when it hurts too bad, I run until no one can find me.
Disclaimer: I can only take credit for this particular story; the rest belongs to J.K.R.
Summery: Draco just can't take it anymore: the pressure, the agendas, the cruelty. He's never had a life of his own. But now he has a secret, and for those few moments, all the pain will go away.
Author's note:I wrote this a number of years ago when I was going through a rather similar situation for slightly different reasons. Written as a sort of one-off therapy session, I suppose; I wanted to get into words how it felt: what sort of feelings led to, and came from, Self-Injury. I'd done my best at editing it for here. Warning: Do not read if you are battling SI. However, definitely do read if you want some insight into one person's personal experience, or if you are already intimately familiar with S-I, and want to know someone else out there understands.
i.
Draco Malfoy was confused, angry, and altogether wretched.
On one hand he was a Malfoy, and very close to his father's image of a perfect son. Not quite there, but close enough that Draco was no longer beaten for not living up to the Slytherin standards. (Lucius had not raised fist or cane against his son since long before the boy started going to Hogwarts. After all, there were far better ways to mould a young child to be cruel; ones that wouldn't leave him potentially rebellious.)
Lucius had done a fair job of creating a perfect Slytherin, and Malfoy; but he had overlooked one thing: Draco had a mind of his own. True, it had been twisted and shaped to suit his father's purpose, but it was still his.
And so on the other hand there was that little part of him that felt wretched and horrible every time he uttered an insult or was deliberately cruel. One small bit that longed to be alone, free of Crabb and Goyle, free of his father, free of Slytherin.
It was that part of him which scratched and scrapped at his skin until it bled every night, trying to make the tangled ache of guilt and confusion go away, and failing every time. It was a snake twisting in his gut; it was a lead stone that refused to be moved.
He scratched at his stomach and upper arms and legs, trying get at it, or to just fine a little relief from the ache, replace it with physical pain. Sometimes it worked for a while, but the snake always returned.
He'd soon come to ignore the sting of pain that lingered the next couple of days from the untreated wounds; they never hurt when he made them. And he never treated them, hoping they would turn into scars. He wanted the scars because he wanted to be reminded, but he didn't know of what. He wasn't sure about a lot of things, lately, but he knew this was important.
For a long time, the wounds would heal without much of a scar after about a week, if left to themselves. But that wasn't good enough, and he kept scratching at the same ones, trying to make them deeper, trying to keep them open long enough to get infected so they would heal badly. He relished the exquisite pain it caused him, morbidly happy something was at last taking his mind off the snake in his gut.
Sometimes he thought of it as Slytherin's snake, and wondered if everyone in his house felt it, and only he was bothered by it.
No one knew about what he was doing to himself every night; he made sure of that. He never made a sound, not when his own nails dug into his flesh, not when someone bumped against a cut in the corridor sending a sting of white-hot pain through his body. He made sure he scratched in places that would be well covered up by his robes.
Sometimes it scared him, what he was doing to himself. But he didn't want to give up his only comfort, so he forced himself not to think about it.
He put on a good show of nothing being wrong, of the everyday pretending, of the perfect Slytherin, the perfect Malfoy, that everyone thought he was. Only he knew better.
When he allowed himself to consider the possibility of being discovered, fear of what his father would do to him drowned out any other worry.
Once, before he started his nightly scratching, he tried to bury his 'weakness' by being even crueller to everyone than before, but it had only made him feel worse. The following summer was unbearable; Lucius had been so proud of him, so full of praise. It sickened Draco and he had nearly killed himself just to get away from it all. It was almost a relief to board the train to Hogwarts. Almost.
It'd been that term that he'd started to scratch. He hadn't even realized what he was doing at first.
He had been half asleep, and the twisted ache in his gut became too much. He'd been rubbing, pushing, finally clawing, at his stomach, trying to make it go away.
It wasn't until he noticed the wet skin and blood under his nails that he realized he'd scrapped open his own flesh.
He was most surprised that he didn't feel any pain. He became curious and slowly scratched open his upper arm, right above his elbow, watching as each layer of skin was torn away until slowly it became redder and then suddenly it was bloody.
The next morning, he woke up earlier than the others. His belly and arm burned with pain, but he held back his whimpers and rose swiftly and silently to wash off the blood. The cold water soothed the burning cuts, and he let it pour over them for so long he was numb by the time he dressed.
He went through the day fighting back tears and moans of pain, trying hard not to grimace every time he moved or something touched his cuts, desperate to act normal. He knew that if anyone found out they would stop him from doing it again, and he didn't want that. He had discovered that the physical pain masked the twisted ache in his guts, and he vastly preferred the pain to the ache.
So when the pain started to fade away several days later, he did it again. This time he savoured every moment of it. Anything that hid the ache, anything that let him have a brief moment of respite from his tormented soul, anything to take his mind off how seriously fucked his life was.
If the house-elf that changed his bedding noticed that there was always blood on Draco's sheets, it hadn't reported it. No one, in fact, seemed to notice a change in Draco, and he worked hard to keep it that way, particularly around his father.
Summers became something to be dreaded. Because when he was in his father's home Draco couldn't run the risk of getting caught, so he was forced to struggle through the long nights without the one relief he had found. It became a time of intense self-control and pretending that nothing was wrong: hiding his twitching hands that longed to dig nails into flesh, hiding the fact he was sleep deprived, and hiding that he had no appetite.
He was as bad as a drug addicted Muggle, craving that one forbidden desire to the exclusion of all else. Life was a misery and irritation to be born until he could get his next 'fix'.
He started looking forward to the next school year, though Hogwarts was hardly sanctuary for him: especially since he was in Slytherin and therefore had fair three-quarters of the students and most of the teachers as his enemies. But only there did he have, however briefly, the freedom of night and the twisted ability to escape his soul's aching.
He didn't know what he would do when he graduated Hogwarts. Frankly, he was trying hard not to think about it. His father only hinted at the plans he had in store, but it was enough for Draco to know he wanted no part of it. Lucius may have been a role-model for his son, and maybe was exactly what Draco thought a Malfoy should be, but he also terrified Draco sometimes, and he knew enough about his father's ways to be sure that the only really escape from him was death.
ii.
He idly picked open a scab; the cut began to trickle blood. By now, Draco's pain threshold was so high he didn't even notice the physical sting this act caused him.
"What's that from?" came a very recognizable voice from behind him, its tone full of horror at the sight of Draco's scared and bleeding arm.
"What business is it of yours, Potter?" he replied coldly. Draco's heart beat faster, his stomach sinking. He quickly pulled his sleeve back down, silently cursing himself for letting his guard down in the Library.
"Who did that to you, Malfoy?" Potter insisted. To his credit, his voice barely shook.
Draco didn't answer; his mind was dizzy with panic as he tried to think of a way out, any good excuse…
"Who did that to you?" Harry repeated. His natural dislike of Malfoy was temporarily overruled with concern, though Harry wasn't really sure why.
"I did, ok?" Malfoy finally burst out angrily. "Are you happy now, knowing I'm a freak?"
Harry froze in shock. Of everything he had thought of, Malfoy hurting himself, and admitting it to his worse enemy, had not been one of the possibilities.
"Why?" he managed to ask.
Malfoy finally turned around to face him. Harry flinched involuntarily at the raw emotion; he hadn't expected that much pain. He had never seen someone so damaged.
Draco considered tossing off a casual 'sod off' and leaving, but for some reason he didn't. "Why do you care?" he finally asked, his tone accusatory. He was genuinely curious despite himself, but would be damned if he showed it.
"Malfoy, if you're hurting yourself--"
"What's it to you if I am?"
"It's not ok!"
"Why not? It's not like anybody really cares about me anyway, Potter, or they would have noticed I've been doing this for years. Who's really going to care if I keep doing this to myself or not? It's the only comfort I have."
Draco could barely keep from shouting, but he knew better than to let his voice be more than a hissed whisper; they were still in the Library, after all.
"What do you mean?" Potter asked, obviously shocked by the outburst.
Draco tensed. His eyes were dull and fearful, but when he spoke his voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
"It means that there are far worse things in my life than this. You least among them, Potter."
"Draco, you need help--"
"No! I'm not some lost cause for you to save."
"Yes, but you need help. If you just tell someone--"
"What, you think I should trot off and tell Snape, or my father, or Dumbledore? You think that would change anything? You're the lost cause here, Potter, if that's the case. Don't you realize what it means to be a Slytherin? Or a Malfoy?"
"What does it means, Draco?" Potter asked softly.
Draco paused, caught off guard again. Then he whispered slowly, deliberately: "It means that
Snape would tell me he's disappointed and leave it at that. It means my father would probably take me out of school and 'educate' me at home. It means that all the staff is just waiting for me to slip up so they can expel me. It means I have to be perfect and flawless and that my life is not of my own choosing. It never has been and it never will be. This is the one thing that's my own. Most of all, it means that I am the son of Lucius, and he will use me to his own ends, and I will have no choice in the matter. You will never understand me, or why I do what I do."
Draco fell silent, and looked away.
After a pause, Potter said: "But if you don't like being that way, why do you act like it at school? Your father isn't here."
Draco looked back with a scoff, his features arranged in a familiar haughty arrogance. "Do you think it makes a difference if he's physically here or not? He knows what goes on. Why do you think Crabb and Goyle never leave my side?"
"What, they report to him?" joked Potter.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," replied Draco, in a 'you're-such-an-idiot' kind of tone. "Snape also keeps an eye on me. And so does almost everyone in Slytherin, for various reasons. Certain people would love to find out that Lucius Malfoy's son hasn't been the very model of a pureblood. Some just like to curry favour with the Malfoy family. After all, what else would you expect of a House whose trait it is to be scheming and underhanded?" He added bitterly, "So you see how I would be forced to keep up appearances even here."
"Isn't there anything you can do? Or that I can do for you?" Despite his animosity towards Malfoy, Harry pitied him. And he thought that perhaps if he could help, Malfoy wouldn't be so cruel anymore.
"Just leave me alone, Potter. There isn't anything you can do without making things worse, and there certainly isn't anything I can do. Besides, what makes you think I want your help? I can't stand you, remember? And if you breathe one word of this to anyone, I'll make your life hell, and then I'll kill you." Malfoy spoke the treat so flatly that he left no doubt he meant every word.
Malfoy stood up, but as he turned to go Harry grabbed his sleeve. "Draco--" he started to say, but couldn't think of the right words.
"What?" growled Malfoy, glaring at the offending hand, then raising his stare to Harry's face.
"Just…don't give up, ok? Whatever happens, don't give up. And if you need help, with anything, let me know. You don't have to be ruled by your father forever, you know. I'll help you get away from him, if you want me to. You just have to ask, ok? Remember that." He wasn't sure how Malfoy would respond, but Harry felt that it was the right thing to do, that it needed to be said.
Draco held very still, unsure of what to do or say. He hadn't expected Potter to care so much, and he was wary of accepting an offer of help. Draco lived in a world of hidden agendas and secret motives; this sort of thing was totally unfamiliar to him. He was trying to think of what could possibility be in it for Potter, but he couldn't. He considered refusing again, but he was tired of being alone, tired of secrets and wearing masks, tired of pretending. It would be so easy to just give in, to stop fighting. It would be as easy as killing himself would have been that one summer…
"I'll try," he said finally, his voice dull with defeat. He was so tired of it all. He didn't have the strength to fight anymore.