Lucius backhanded his fifteen-year-old son into the wall. The teenager crumpled to a heap on the marble floor. Draco lay still, his head limp. Maybe if he stayed still, if he didn't breathe his father would leave him alone.

'Get up!' Lucius prodded the boy's ribs sharply. No, not this time, he sobbed to himself silently. Draco bit his thin, pale lip and stood up stiffly.

'Draco, Draco.' Mr Malfoy shook his head and sighed. 'Why do you make me do these things to you? Why do you insist on making me hurt you?'

'What…?' Draco began, completely taken back with his father's words. With a spine-chilling glare, Lucius threw his son into the wall adjacent from the one he was leaning against and pinned him there using his wand.

'Did I say speak? Children should be seen and not heard, have I not told you this before?'

Draco remained quiet, only his raspy coughs escaped his blood-filled mouth. Raising his black cane, he hit his son on the side of his head.

'Answer me, damn it!' Lucius spat.

'Yes, father.' He choked, blinking furiously to stop the warm tears swell up in his cool, crystal blue eyes. The blood pounded violently in Draco's ears as his bruised face started to swell.

'When we are finished here put some ice on that face. We don't want you to look scruffy now, do we?' Lucius would have healed it himself, but he liked to see his son suffer more and use foolish mudblood methods of reducing swelling.

'No, father.' He whispered. His eyes full of pure hatred looked up into his next of kin's face. He didn't look that different. They had the same brilliant blonde hair, only Lucius' was long and had faded a little due to his age. He had grey, haunting eyes that burnt through his son, drilling nightmares into his sleep. Draco's fingers tingled and his rich blood turned inky black as he tried desperately to take control of his body. His anger towards his father was enraged further as Lucius released a soft chuckle.

'There really is no point trying to break free of my paralysis spell. I am in control of you now.' He smirked. 'Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You hate being a Malfoy, do you? I think you have been spending too much time with that Potter brat.' He shook his head slowly, as if trying to pretend he wasn't going to enjoy what he would do next.

'Crucio.'

'Ah….' Draco gasped and his eyes widened suddenly as every nerve in his long, lean body exploded in searing pain. He clenched his teeth so tightly, he knew they would soon shatter, but he would absolutely not give his father the satisfaction of him screaming.

His vision went blurry, his ears squeaked, his fingertips turned white. The pain was impossible. It twisted his veins, his skin shuddered uncontrollably as he wriggled and shook on the wall. He was being tortured, being thrown through hell and back. His hairs on his skin were standing tall and his bones ached. As Lucius lowered his wand, his son's lifeless body flopped to the cold, cream floor.

Draco's lungs cried out for air, but the boy just couldn't open his airway. He was frozen in pain, frozen in ultimate terror. Suddenly, a thousand knives cut over his trembling body, tearing at his black, loose fitting jumper.

The boy couldn't remain silent anymore. He screamed and cried repetitively, yelping like a helpless puppy, whimpering like a cold, lost kitten.

'Please….' He gasped, between shots of hot, fiery pain pounding through his beaten body.

'Please what!' Lucius raised an eyebrow. He stared at the teenager wriggling and howling at his feet. 'Have you had enough? Already?' He sneered and almost looked disappointed. 'No stamina in young people today.' He sighed and after a short pause, which Draco felt like a lifetime, he withdrew the curse. The curse withdrew, the pain eased ever so slightly. The cuts and bruises still throbbed, still blinded his empty mind with excruciating pain.

'Dinner will be ready in one hour, Draco. Oh! And remember the ice.' He smiled and with a swish of his cloak, vanished from the room.

Draco lay on his front; his breathing hoarse as blood bubbled in his lungs. A single tear rolled from his eye, over his thin nose and dropped to the floor, mixing in with the shallow pool of blood that outlined the boy's body.

He was a machine. A mindless machine. He had no friends – Crabbe and Goyle clung to his wealth and popularity, he had no mother, she was away on some expensive trip, not daring to care about her only child who was being abused by her sick husband. The boy had no one; he was alone in a world where survival of the fittest and power became more important than love. Love meant nothing to him, he had never felt it and he never returned it. His barely beating heart once more turned stone and the mask of hate covered his pale face for yet another endless, pointless day.