Draco lay in his bed. Alone. Dying. His grey eyes gaze blankly at the decorated ceiling above his bed bearing the Malfoy and Slytherin crests. He hated that ceiling, among other things: his ex-wife, his father, the Dark Lord. Everything that turned him into the man he currently was.
It was a rather embarrassing way to die and not in the least bit dignified. What was worse was that he suffered alone, with only his house elves to keep him company. Even the healers would not visit him anymore. He was too contagious at this point.
He had needed to pee for over an hour, but he lacked the strength to stand, or even call for a house elf. So, he wet himself, and unfortunately, it wasn't the first time since his illness had hit the final phase of the disease.
He wished for his son, Scoripus, his only child. He had turned out better than his father, at least in some regards. Draco had raised his son in much the same way his father raised him, with one exception: he refused to allow his son to grow up a bigot. He may have been a pampered, spoiled brat, and at times a bit of a bully, but he was not a blood purist. His boy had gone into Magical Law, and was currently the head of the department, replacing Granger after she retired. He married a beautiful, refined, muggleborn French girl, and together they have twin sons, Andre and Louis, neither of which Draco had met.
A lone tear rolled down his cheek at the thought of his short life, of his mistakes, his regrets. He had so many, too many in fact. He wished for his mother. She had been the only one who cared, who at least tried to let him be the boy and then the man he truly wanted to be. She had died of breast cancer just after Draco married. His father had called her weak for succumbing to a Muggle illness.
He truly hated his father.
He could smell the urine now, the warm liquid still running down his leg. His eyes turned to the clock on his bedside table. It read 4:15; an elf would be in at 4:30 to give him his potions, potions that did nothing but delay the inevitable.
When Draco Malfoy pictured himself dying, it was not from an advanced case of Dragon Pox.
How utterly humiliating.
Closing his eyes another silent tear fell. He knew he did not have long. He would most likely be gone by nightfall, and finally he could put his regrets behind him. He would see his mother, and the baby girl Astoria aborted, and even Severus, and finally he would be at peace.
At four thirty precisely, Dobby the Second, so named by Draco, entered into his Master's bedroom to give him his potions. After several failed attempts to wake him, the elf felt for a pulse. There was none.
There was a light. It was dim at first, but slowly it began to brighten, and then, a form appeared, a woman. "Draco," the woman said, "It's time to get up lazy bones."
A gasp escaped Draco's lips as his mother suddenly came into view. "Come on," she said pulling her wand from her pocket, "You wouldn't want to miss the train for your first day at Hogwarts." With a swish of her wrist, the green duvet pulled from Draco, folding and neatly placing itself on the end of the bed.
Her words hadn't really registered, simply the fact that she was there. His wonderful, loving, amazing, mother, who looked nothing like the woman who had been taken by cancer, stood in front of him. Her long blond hair hung in lose curls down her back, her bright blue eyes shown a look of proud elegance that he had not seen from her in many years. She was adorned in a set of white robes with cream and gold trim, and Draco thought she looked at least twenty years younger than when she passed.
"Mother, wh…what happened?"
She turned to her son, he looked distressed. Had he had a nightmare, was he ill?
"What do you mean?" She sat down on the edge of her son's bed, and her hand instinctively went to rest on his forehead. There was no sign of a fever, she then checked his glands, they were normal.
Draco's eyes moved to the ceiling above his bed, only the Malfoy crest adorned it. The Slytherin emblem had been added after his sorting.
"Draco, are you feeling okay. Should I summon a healer?"
Draco's eyes turned back to his mother, her worry very much apparent. "No, I'm…okay, just…confused."
Yes. Confused. His mother was dead. He was dying. Alone. He was alone. Perhaps he was delusional. That was a symptom in the end stages. Well, if it all was a delusion, it was a rather nice one. He was with his mother and he was…young, only eleven apparently.
"I guess I'm just not…fully awake."
Narcissa gave a small chuckle as she rose from the bed, "Well, you best hurry up about it. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes and then we will apparate to Kings Cross."
As his mother left his room, Draco slowly rose from bed. He found himself able to walk, and felt no pain in his bones as he took step after step on the hard wood floor. Yes, he was definitely delusional.
He had almost forgotten how small he was at eleven, how small all eleven year olds were. Making his way into the bathroom, he quickly pulled off his pajamas, changed into fresh pair of underwear, washed his face, and ran a comb through his hair, parting it to the left. He then dressed himself casually in a pair of grey trousers and black T-shirt, as well as a pair of black sandals. He knew his father would say he was underdressed for the occasion, but Draco could care less what his father thought. With any luck he wouldn't be in his delusion anyway. He grabbed a cloak from the hook on the back of his door, clasping it around his neck, and then his wand from atop his dresser which he placed in his pocket. He then headed downstairs for breakfast.
To his dismay his father was indeed there, sitting at the far end of the table, reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. Ignoring him, Draco smiled as he sat beside his mother.
"May I remind you, Draco," Lucius spoke up, lowering the paper to the table, his cold grey eyes boring into his son, "that you will not have your mother to wake you at Hogwarts."
Draco opened his mouth prepared to give a rather flippant remark, fearing no repercussions. It was his delusional after all. However his mother spared him the task.
"Really, Lucius, there is no need for that. We all sleep in from time to time. He's up now and as soon as he finishes eating, we'll be off."
"Not wearing that," he sneered taking in his son's sloppy appearance.
"I'm comfortable," Draco said plainly.
"I don't give a damn how comfortable you are. After you eat, you will go back up stairs and put on what Dobby picked out for you."
"No!" Draco yelled jumping from his seat. He had never raised his voice to his father, not even as an adult.
"I beg your pardon?" Lucius was quite shocked, as was Narcissa. Draco never disobeyed his father. Never.
"This is my late stage, Dragon Pox-induced delusion, and I will not have you be a part of it. I hate you! I hate everything you stand for, you sick, twisted, bigoted, inbred, good for nothing wanker."
Oh that felt good; years of bottled up hostility had just exploded from his mouth. Though looking at his father's reddening face, he was suddenly starting to regret it.
Without a word Lucius rose from the table, made his way over to his son, clamped a hold onto his shoulder and drug him into his study.
Narcissa had no idea what had gotten into Draco. He was normally so respectful of Lucius. She was starting to think her son truly was ill. She could hear her son screams echo into the hall. Lucius did not hold back when he disciplined. She had no doubt Draco would be standing most of his ride to Hogwarts.
By the time it was over, tears were streaming down Draco's face, his eyes puffy and swollen, and his throat sore from crying. Adult mind or no; pain was pain and he was still very much able to feel it.
Perhaps it wasn't all a delusion at all. Perhaps he had died, and this was hell. Maybe, living though another lifetime of his father's demented, sadistic idea of discipline was his punishment for a lifetime of evil. He now stood in the corner of his room; it had been warded so he couldn't leave until his father came to retrieve him. Though, he supposed, at this point, it was better than sitting. He had used his cane. His bum really stung; Draco was sure that he had left welts and that he would, no doubt, be sore for a very long time.
He turned just slightly to see Dobby standing nearby. He was ringing his left ear with hand, a habit he had gotten into when he was worried or nervous.
"Are you, okay?"
Draco gave a small smile and patted the elf on the head, "I'll live. It was my own fault for…defying Father."
"I think what you did was very brave, Master Draco. I mean, to stand up for what you believe in."
"Maybe, though I don't think I'll be doing it again anytime soon," Draco gave a snorted laugh and then a sniffle. Reaching for the tissue box on his dresser, something shiny and gold caught his eye. "My pocket watch," he all but whispered as he gently picked it up.
It had been Severus', and he had given it to Draco on his eleventh birthday. It wasn't new, or fancy, or even magical, but a plain gold watch with an eagle, a sword in his talons, engraved into the front cover. It had belonged to his muggle grandfather, who had left it to him when he died. When he was young and foolish, Draco thought of it as nothing more than muggle rubbish, and it wasn't until after his godfather's death that he saw the true value in it.
He had eventually realized that Severus had given the watch to him because… he saw the boy as his own son.
Snapping the clip onto his belt loop, he placed the watch in his pants pocket, and the gold chain hung loosely from it.
"Would Master Draco like Dobby to pack his rucksack for the trip?"
"Oh, yes Dobby, thank you."
The small elf's face lit up in a grin. The young master had said thank you. Maybe he would be a better, kinder man than his father.
Fifteen minutes later, Lucius re-entered the room and instructed him to change. Lucius warned him that if he ever talked to him that way again, the next punishment would make the Dark Lord look like a saint.
Draco simply nodded in agreement. He supposed the best thing to do was to simply keep his mouth shut, at least until his child-like body was strong and powerful enough to defend himself.
He pulled on a vest over his shirt and changed his shoes, though Dobby had taken the young masters favorite sandals and placed them in his rucksack so that if he desired to change back into them on the train he could. He also packed a jar of cream to help with Draco's bottom, as well as a bottle of pain reliever.
Draco kept his eyes on the floor as he made his way downstairs. Narcissa put a gentle arm around her son, before bending down and whispering in his ear, "Are you okay?" Draco gave a small nod. "Good, now please refrain from such foolishness in the future, especially around your father.
A/N: Next up Draco makes an unlikely friend. Please let me know what you think, if I should continue or any other suggestions you may have. Thanks