Disclaimer: Shockingly enough, I don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I own anyone or anything associated with the franchise. If I did I would be sitting in the Maldives trying to upgrade my 'tan' to white, rather than its current pale blue. As it is, I'm sitting huddled inside with broken central heating, about eighty-seven jumpers on, and enough rain outside to make me ever-so-slightly compelled to build an Ark. I'm fairly certain you can join the dots.
Author's Note: The following account is intended to be Draco Malfoy's own interpretation of the events surrounding his current (non-canon) situation. As such, very little of it is factual, absolutely all of it is skewed, and at least fifty percent of it is downright libellous. You have been warned.
The Night Before Day One:
In almost every violent conflict throughout history, there have been certain poor, unfortunate souls unlucky enough to be forced into hiding. They do not do so for their own benefit, but rather for the benefit of others.
I, Draco Malfoy, am one such soul.
Over the years I have done many things to help fight the wanton favouritism and bias displayed within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, attempting to knock the glorified Gryffindors from their pedestal. I have made vast contributions to the Quidditch world, and brought new insight to every subject in which I deigned to participate. I have brought joy and humour to hundreds. But now, all that is at an end.
Now, through circumstances completely outside my control, I live in a cupboard.
It was a most unlikely series of events which brought me here. My father, one of the most honourable wizards of recent history, somehow became involved with a homicidal lunatic. Well… maybe that's is a little unfair of me.
Years ago, before my birth, he was involved with Lord Voldemort's forces. In this time, Lord Voldemort stood for the protection of our ways and the continuation of our noble lineage. My father dedicated years to this cause, and when Voldemort fell he was understandably downtrodden. I like to think that it was his undeniable love for me which pulled him through those tough few years after the Dark Lord's diminution. Mother helped a little as well, I suppose. Eventually, Father learned to make the most of things. Yes, life was a bit harder now that he only had his oceans of money and incomparable influence to fall back on, but he made do.
But then, thanks to the very same goggly-eyed little git that killed the him in the first place, the Dark Lord rose again. Like a phoenix from the flames. Only not literally, because that would have far too many associations with a certain headmaster for Lord "I have daddy issues!" Voldemort's liking. And so he rose like a snake from the cauldron. Even though that sounds mind-numbingly trite and just a little perverse in my humble opinion.
This time around, the Dark Lord had lost any semblance of sanity. He was cruel, bitter, hell-bent on revenge, and far more concerned with elaborate plots to show up Dumbledore and Harry Potter than he was with world domination. Call me simplistic, but I would have rather assumed that taking over the world and killing Dumbledore and Harry Potter would have shown them who was boss a great deal more effectively than giving Harry Potter nightmares. But apparently my logic means nothing.
Still, my father was loyal to him. He hoped that the Dark Lord would return to his former glory soon enough and that his petty and insolent behaviour was simply an unpleasant side-effect of his revivification. As a result, my undyingly loyal Father went on a dangerous mission at the behest of the Dark Lord. Most regrettably, he was caught. He was therefore arrested and locked away in living nightmare that is Azkaban Prison.
While it is fortunate that he had to spend only a few short days in Azkaban with the Dementors, he was still facing unending torment within its walls. They don't even have mattresses for pity's sake, let alone indoor plumbing. It must have been nothing short of horrific.
Once my father was brutally carried away, I, in my position as Head of the Household, volunteered to take his place among the ranks of the Death Eaters in an effort to clear his name and hold our family together. Granted, Voldemort's wand at my throat was something of a motivator as well, but mostly it was the altruistic sense of family loyalty that did it.
However, the Dark Lord asked something of me which I could not bring myself to do - he asked me to kill Albus Dumbledore.
Now I loathe that doddering old fool just as much as the next, but killing him seemed a bit much to me. Perhaps paying someone to kill him, or arranging a scenario where in he would happen to die - that I could tolerate. But actually killing him? With my own hands? I couldn't do it. Even if I had wanted to, I would not have been able to go through with it.
And so I came clean.
…Well, all right, I tried to manoeuvre the situation to permit other Death Eaters to enter the castle and kill him, thereby saving me some trouble.
And, also true, it is somewhat unfortunate that Harry Potter confronted me on the issue just after I had killed Pansy's cat and quipped that, after killing such a foul beast, Dumbledore would be easy.
But ultimately it was my unfailing sense of morality which prevented me from doing it, rather than Harry Potter's heartfelt death threats.
Either way, I was brought before Dumbledore himself. Far from being terrified of his future killer, he seemed rather amused. Within minutes he was making arrangements to have my mother taken to some sort of safe house (in Russia, somewhere, I think), and for my father to be taken out of Azkaban and sent to join her, for his own safety. That first one was legal, that second one wasn't, and so my father became the second person in all of history to 'single-handedly' break out of Azkaban. This fact would currently be doing wonders for my reputation, were I somewhere where my reputation was worth a damn.
Now that I think back on it, I can't help but suspect that the old git made some of these arrangements before I even went to see him. I mean, if he didn't then how could he possibly explain the entire situation to his Russian 'contacts' in five words? He couldn't. So he arranged everything beforehand. Git.
In return for protecting me, my family, and everything I held dear, Dumbledore expected quite a bit.
Firstly, he wanted the location of Voldemort's current Headquarters. This required a lot of guesswork/deductive reasoning from me, since I was Apparated there by Aunt Bellatrix who was simply obeying her Dark Mark when she Apparated there herself. That I only saw outdoors for two seconds before being ushered inside and then mere glimpses from windows also complicated my geographical assessment, somewhat. I don't mind telling you, however, that Dumbledore was fairly impressed with the amount of information I was able to retain, seeing as how the meeting had occurred nearly a year earlier. I suppose bone-deep fear for one's life makes them pay a bit more attention to the position of the stars and all that claptrap, which helped us to determine that Voldemort had been hiding in Yorkshire.
Frankly, the lunatic deserves to be killed by some goody-goody Gryffindor if he's prepared to stay in Yorkshire, but I digress.
Dumbledore also expected me to sign a document which gave the Order of the Phoenix (a horrendously polluted group of people, in my opinion. Potter's probably the least horrific of the lot, and that's saying something) the right to use Veritaserum on me. He said he would not normally require written ascent but "Since I was a Malfoy and all". I then proceeded to spend approximately three days being questioned by the Order on the most ridiculous subjects imaginable.
This, of course, brings me to the most disturbing part. The part where I, myself, was placed under the "protection" of Dumbledore.
After the Ministry's attack on Voldemort's headquarters, and the Order's attack on Voldemort's actual supporters (since the idiot Ministry knocked first and ended up attacking an empty building, the morons), it was fairly obvious that I was a traitor. So I disappeared. Or, rather, I spent a month living in Dumbledore's office, attempting to do my schoolwork with that damned bird of his glowering at me from across the room.
Then came the holidays. During said Holidays, Harry Potter and his merry men are off on some quest or another. Shortly after they went off on this idiotic mission of theirs, Dumbledore informed me that I was not permitted to stay at Hogwarts any longer due to the various 'unsavoury occurrences which might take place there'.
So where did they decide to put me?
No, not just Surrey. Muggle Surrey.
With some relatives of Harry Potter's, no less.
I can only assume that he's related to the pointy, high-pitched, female one, since any genetic connection between him and the blubber-balls seems unlikely, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that I have to spend an indeterminate amount of time with these people, in their hideous little hovel of a house. Which brings me to another point.
These muggles, they have an entire house at their disposal. All right, it's a rather tiny house, but it is still a house. A house with four bedrooms no less. Four bloody bedrooms, and where did they put me? Where are these primates stuffing me away?
IN A SODDING CUPBOARD! That's where. Under the stairs, at that, so that I am almost constantly distracted by the sound of that acne-ridden lump of lard waddling his way up and down stairs at all hours.
Well, all right, I've only been here an hour, but he's been up and down at least three times already.
It's cramped and dark and I'm absolutely positive there are spiders in here. The 'bed' (if you could call it that. My Grandfather Abraxas had more commodious torture devices) takes up almost all of the floor space, and there's a faint musty smell which doesn't seem particularly inclined to go away. The only source of light I have is some preposterous little device which they call a "torch". This is absurd, since everyone knows torches are wall mounted, flaming things, not small glowing metal sticks.
To make matters worse, Dumbledore informed me that I could not leave the house for at least fourteen days, and added that he didn't recommend I leave the cupboard if I could avoid it.
AND he took my wand.
However, I will not surrender. That's what they want me to do. Those Weasleys would have a right laugh if I cracked under the pressure, and I would sooner die than grant them that pleasure. And so I will see my way through this ordeal in the same manner used by so many poor, unfortunate souls before me; I shall keep a journal. They may take my house, they make take my school, they may take my wand, they may even take away real torches - but they have not taken my quill (yet). And so it will be my lifeline.
I, Draco Malfoy, am a survivor.