Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-six: in excelsis (early August 1995.)

Draco made his way into the parlour, and wrinkled his nose at both the smell and what he saw. His mother, it seemed, had had a busy night. She lay limp on the couch, still breathing, but in a heavy sleep, and more than a few bottles of alcohol lay fallen next to the couch. One had spilled onto the carpet, leaving an ugly red stain, like blood. Draco tried to mop it up with his wand, but he was never very good with household spells: that kind of thing was for house elves. He could, however, gather the bottles and dispose of them in the kitchen, once he'd told the house elves to be quiet and not disturb the lady of the house from her sleep. There were used to the routine many times over, from when Lucius had ordered them, and from when he'd stopped bothering, and Draco had taken over.

He looked down at her, lying on the couch, her face drawn with premature lines, a few grey hairs poking out from the golden blonde here and there, although it was difficult to tell. She rarely went outside these days, to society functions or the like without so many make-up charms on her face she scarcely looked real. Draco sank to his knees besides her, gently petting her hair. How many mornings had he found her during the holidays? He'd first become aware of his mother's drinking problem from a very early age, and watched as his father did little to help, and then cast the responsibility onto Draco by absenting himself even more than usual.

Where was Lucius, now? Oh, yes. Draco had been told he needed to visit the base of the Dark Lord, to confer with Him and bathe in His glory. He had been brought up to believe that Voldemort's triumph was inevitable, and just, for all the whinging of bleeding hearts such as Dumbledore and his pet, Potter. Who was still a pet and inferior, no matter what Draco may have thought of him in his weaker moments.

This triumph would bring about a glorious new world, he had been told - except for those on the losing side. Yet where was the place for family in such a world? The place for his mother? His mother had started drinking even more this last month since Voldemort's return had been confirmed, and there was barely a day in which Draco didn't wake up and see her like this.

He knew, too, from house gossip, that he had been brought up harshly compared to some, and although he didn't regret it - it made him stronger, tougher, more adult - his father's lack of compassion towards him had always been reflected in his treatment of the woman lying in front of him now. Couldn't he see how his absences affected her? Couldn't his father see how much he was needed? If Father had been here, perhaps he might have been able to stop this drinking! he told himself, only to hear a part of him play devil's advocate. He has been here for nearly fifteen years, and he has not stopped it yet.

Stroking her cheek - she still did not wake - Draco curled an arm under her neck, another beneath her knees and hefted her gently into the air, making his way through the Manor to her rooms, and placed her gently on the bed, removing her outer robe so she could rest in her slip. All this was done with consideration, and a certain grace, as having practised it many times before, he was used to such things by now.

Tucking her into the covers, he spoke quietly to the house elf on the landing, admonishing them to quickly clean the carpet ion the parlour - or else. The elf got the hint and scarpered quickly. With his father away - and when had his father ever been here, a little voice inside him asked, as he should be? - Draco was man of the house, and he would not fail in his duties to himself, or to those he loved.

Taking a book from his mother's shelf, Draco settled in a seat to watch over her, and when she woke he would be there with a smile, and a ready explanation, to smooth over her disposition. There was a ready list of excuses in his mind, from times before. She could have been ill. Eaten something that disagreed with her. Found the air inside too stuffy. Had a mild fainting spell. There were, after all, so many to choose from.

But above all he had, all his status and wealth and arrogance and pride and promises of power yet to come, Draco would have given it all up in that second to be just a normal son, not knowing the things he did, not having seen the things he had; just another son, with a mother who did not to find salvation in a bottle.