Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, there'd be more yaoi goodness. :3

Warnings: Cross-dressing, mentions of child-abuse, yaoi (boyxboy st00fs), other stuff.
.

.

Maybe Tomorrow Will Be A Better Day

Chapter 1

It was as if sometimes he never even existed. He could stand in front of his father; his mother; his friends; his foes; everyone, and scream and yell and cry about how broken he felt and they'd never even notice. They'd look right through him and he'd blend into the background of their lives, left alone in the spotlight of his mind, left to be the only one to hear his own cries. They'd walk right through him, see right past him, and he would eventually cease to exist. He assumed that would be the best for everyone because that's obviously what they wanted. Maybe if he willed himself enough he could disappear. Maybe if he tried hard enough he could do what everyone wanted. He just wanted to be convenient. In the sixteen years he'd been alive, he'd been everything but. He'd been constantly talked down to by his father, neglected by his mother, and left in the care of his psychotic aunt Bellatrix Lestrange. Too many times had he tried to please his demon of a Father. Too many times had he dressed up in overpriced clothing and expensive makeup and gone to parties with people whom he'd rather drown with his cup of tea rather than drink it. Too many times had he… No, those thoughts were best left un-thought. The times with his Aunt were the worst. Always the worst. He had been a mere child; had his aunt not realized the fragility of his young mind? Had she not realized that everything she'd made him do, everything she'd done to him, everything her boyfriends had done to him would scar him, damage him, break him? What angered him the most was that his mother would ignore his bruises, his abrasions, his tears, and cover everything up with her perfect little lies and her perfect applications of makeup. Whereas his father would remind him over and over about how absolutely un-perfect he was. About how he'd never live up to the infamous Malfoy name. He'd bring shame to it, of course, because he couldn't kill a helpless old man at the young age of sixteen. He wished everyone would understand that he was under so much pressure, being forced to take in so much hate. Didn't they understand it's completely mad to try to raise a child to hate the world? To try to force a child to hate everything that was supposed to bring peace, salvation, everything that was supposed to bring hope and faith and joy? They were monsters, the people who tried to say enslaving everyone below your social status was the proper thing to do. The people who insisted that it was okay to make their nephews dress up in the frilliest dresses from the days of their youth just to please their guests. The mothers who ignored their children and only wore them as a social status badge. The fathers who claimed that discipline was a good 'crucio' and a swift kick to the ribs. All monsters. All of them.

But he himself was a monster for allowing it, wasn't he? He shook his head sharply, willing all of his thoughts to just go away and leave him in peace. But then again, it was his fault in the first place for smart-mouthing his Aunt. He should have known not to, especially since she had a guest. If he would have never opened his big, rude, intolerable mouth he wouldn't be locked up in the broom closet, which, in turn, allowed his thoughts to drift to things he didn't like to think about. Like how the walls seemed to close in on him if he looked at them for too long, or how the shadows looked frighteningly similar to the shade of the Death Eaters' cloaks. He silently sobbed into his hands and slid back against the door. Wiping his face on his skirt, he hugged his knees to his chest and laid his forehead against his knees. It didn't take long for him to drift into a nightmare-filled sleep.

He awoke in a cold sweat with a cramp in his leg. He was still in the cramped broom closet. Yawning, he stood up and stretched to the best of his ability. As he finally became fully awake, he could hear commotion coming from the room down the hall. Pressing his ear to the thick oak door, he listened as best as he could. He could only distinguish a few curses, which had to have meant something big was happening. Maybe someone was here to take away his crazed aunt. No, he thought to himself darkly, of course they wouldn't, because it was something he wanted to happen, which meant that it never would. His vision became blurry, and he berated himself relentlessly as he rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hands. Deciding to try his luck, he hesitantly grasped the brass doorknob with his right hand. He was afraid to go out; he didn't have permission, after all. And if his aunt was busy doing something, he'd be in even more trouble.

Oh, to hell with it, he thought. He turned the knob in his sweat-slick and shaking hand.

He stumbled out into the hallway, completely thrown off. To be honest, he expected the door to still have the charm his aunt cast on it, and to be stuck in the room for a few more hours. He didn't expect to be released so easily. Not letting down his guard, he looked around him, preparing for some kind of surprise attack, for some kind of spell to be thrown at him. But there was nothing. No spells, no muggle weapons, no screaming. Nothing. He could still faintly hear the commotion from the room down the hall, now which he assumed to be the den, except it wasn't muffled by the door. He slowly inched his way down the hallway, always flinching when he passed by an open door, expecting to be ambushed. As he neared the den, he passed by a full-length mirror, and he had to pause to take in his appearance.

He was getting a little bit taller, about 6'2" he assumed. His blonde hair was down to his shoulders now, except it looked ragged and unkempt. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he had a black left eye from when his aunt's boyfriend decided he wasn't being a polite little boy. Traveling down further, his cheeks grew hot as he took in his clothing, ashamed. He was still in the pink and light blue colored dress his aunt had made him dress up in from a few days before. It was sleeveless, and it had lilac bows adorning the frilly skirt in rows. His arms were covered in bruises and scars, and he couldn't look at the poor pale skin for long without feeling even more ashamed. Taking in his lower half, he stared with saddened silver eyes at his legs. He was wearing a pair of black nylon thigh-highs with frilly lace at the top, and the delicate fabric had little tears all over them. He wiggled his toes and smiled sadly at his reflection as he looked at his feet. On his right ankle there were severe rope burns from previous nights, and they were starting to look infected, he noticed, as he squinted to try to see better through the thin black fabric. Sighing inaudibly, he turned away from the mirror and continued down the hall.

Peeking around the corner into the den, he saw a bedraggled Minerva McGonagall standing with a hand on her forehead and the other at her side clenching her wand. Across the room stood his aunt, teeth clenched, glaring daggers at his new Headmistress.

"I'd like it if you were to leavenow, Mrs. McGonagall, and make it hasty," Bellatrix hissed, holding her left arm with her right one, her wand at her feet.

"Mrs. Lestrange, I will say it one more time and I will say it as slowly and clearly as possible, so you had better listen. I will notbe leaving without Mr. Malfoy, and you can pout all you want, but I am here on the Minister of Magic's direct orders, and it would be wise to stop going against our wishes. Now, if you'd please point me in the direction of Mr. Malfoy's sleeping quarters, I will make hasteand be on my way," the Headmistress spoke strongly and confidently, and the small blonde boy couldn't help but be amazed at her bravery.

Stepping out into the den, Draco swallowed the lump of nervousness in his throat and spoke.

"P-Professor?" his voice sounded small, even to his own ears.

At the sound of his voice, both women turned to face him. One face was full of pity and sorrow, while the other was filled with a rage he feared more than anything. McGonagall quickly rushed to his side and put a hand to his forehead, causing him to flinch and shrink away.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't—" he was quickly cut off by the Headmistress' soft hushing noises.

She quickly looked him over, and his face quickly turned scarlet as he remembered he was still in his aunt Bella's dress. Draco heard the woman make slight 'tsk' noises as she inspected his battered form.

Before he had a chance to interrupt her, Bellatrix did it for him.

"Crucio!" she roared, and a red light shot towards him. Staying with their routine, he didn't move, and he fell to the floor with an agonizing scream as pain tore through his body. He could faintly hear McGonagall screaming, and he shuddered as the spell released him. Looking up, he saw the Headmistress scramble over to him with two wands in her hand. Behind her on the floor was an unconscious Bellatrix Lestrange. She grasped his arm tightly, and he could feel a familiar tug at his navel, but it didn't last long because he fell unconscious before they reached their destination.