Lost in Familiarity

A /N: A oneshot about Malfoy, pretty short. Recently I've started thinking about just how hard it would be to be him, this story is the result. R&R please.

Draco was used to the Manor; he had spent his entire life there. It was cold, and often dark. Paneled in the dark wood with a hint of red, and walls of deep green, the color of the forest, of a snake, it was his home. If he was presented a choice, he would live there forever. But recently it had become dark…in a different sense.

He had no problems with the cold, even frigid air, nor did he have a problem with the almost constant lack of light. In fact, he considered the cold welcoming, and the dark wasn't dangerous, it was comforting. It would swell up to surround him when he was tired, it was there when he closed his eyes; it was a constant. And for Draco, constants were few and far between.

Looking around him now, he noted the dusty look Malfoy Manor had taken since…he had come. The Dark Lord. A shiver ran down Draco's back of its own volition. He looked down at his forearm and saw the Dark Lord's mark there, as it had been for the past few months. The skull, ominous and dark, with its mouth open in a grimace of silent pain, the snake flowing from its mouth. And now, even calm and unmoving, the snake seemed to slither across his skin. Draco controlled the shiver this time.

He got up and walked out of his musty bed chamber. The door to the fairly large room connected to the outer chamber, the one holding his many art pieces, and his piano. Smiling, he admired his fondest possession. It was custom made by the original company, Baldwin & Sons, to be a stunning silver masterpiece. The paint was a light grey, with a hint of metallic shine, the metal fixtures made of sterling silver, the keys a polished white and black. It was the only muggle object that he owned.

It had been a long time since he had played. On a whim he walked over to it. He slid back the key covering, inscribed with his name, and stroked the keys. The beautiful sound that emanated from it almost brought him to his knees. Playing had been the only thing that could distract him from his bouts of loneliness. He sighed. He couldn't play it now. Not with them downstairs…The Death Eaters. And, to his deepest regret, he was one of them. He slammed down the covering, tears falling freely, and told himself, over and over again, I am weak. This is weakness. My parents depend on me, and I waste my time playing a stupid muggle contraption. But as much as he told himself, he couldn't be as convincing as he wanted to be.