Thoughts From the Dragon

Draco let out a long pent-up breath as he stared out of the long arched window. Everything seemed blurred by the pouring rain. It trickled down the window causing a faint mist to form on the inside. He reached out a hand and wiped some of the moisture off. The garden was being soaked by the rain, which made a pleasant drumming noise on the roof of the manor.

He had always loved watching the rain fall. There was something so beautiful, yet so bleak about the water that fell and obliterated everything. When standing in the rain, Draco felt clean.

Lifting one hand, Draco stared at it. It didn't seem like his hand. His hand was supposed to be young and firm. After all, it had maimed and killed. How could this old, wrinkled hand with its fine lines tracing to the end of his sleeve ever hurt anybody. Where were the blood stains? Shouldn't they be there?

He wanted to lift his hand and slam it down on the table, but the energy didn't seem to be there any more. The best Draco could do was flatten out his palm and even that sent tendrils of pain shooting up his arm.

So this is what imminent death feels like, he thought bitterly as he looked around the over-furnished room. Sitting here all alone in an empty house. Surrounded by nothing but what was bought using blood-money.

The faces from the wars still haunted him. Their questions still echoed in his mind. Why? They seemed to always ask. Why? Why? Why did you kill us?

I don't know, Draco wanted to scream at them, but he couldn't find the voice. I don't know...

And it was true. He didn't know. He had simply been following orders. Always the excuse of the pathetic foot-soldier. And after all, wasn't that what he was? His father, Lucius, had always been the general. Lucius had been the Dark Lord's right-hand man during the wars. Draco had merely been a normal follower. An ordinary Death Eater. He'd followed blindly and watched as the wars had destroyed the wizarding world.

The years after the war had been hard for everyone. Draco knew exactly why he was still here, still alive enough to contemplate the past. They had needed him. They had needed the Malfoy name. The Malfoy prestige. But most of all the Malfoy gold. After all, who else but the heir of the Malfoy fortune would be able to access the Gringotts vault? The goblins wouldn't open it to anybody else - even Ministry representatives. And they needed the gold to rebuild the world that had been torn apart by two consecutive wars.

But still, the concessions didn't go far.

Draco was essentially under house arrest. Even his wife - when she was still alive - wasn't allowed in public places without a Ministry escort.

So much for the leniency of the Light side.

Sometimes Draco wished his side had won the war. Sure all the Mudbloods would now be either dead or living a life of slavery. Sure the Dark Lord would have probably destroyed the world thrice over by now. But at least he wouldn't be sitting here drowning in memories of what could have been.

Perhaps he could have had a happy life? A Draco Malfoy working for the Light? It was possible, wasn't it?

Draco wasn't sure.

Just when had things gone so wrong?

Probably at birth.

He let out a bitter laugh that sounded far more like a croak.

Immediately his butler materialised at his side. "Sir?"

"Go away, John," Draco said wearily. The butler bowed and left, face impassive. After all, he wasn't being paid to ask questions. Or even to care.

If I had any courage, I would have killed myself years ago, Draco mused. It would have been so easy then. Just a simple Avada Kedavra. Fingering his wand, Draco wondered if he could even produce a summoning charm now. Over the years, his magical powers had slowly disappeared with his physical strength. There was only the tiniest bit left now and when that was gone, he would die.

With conscious effort, he willed the last part of his magic to disappear, but nothing happened.

Lifting his gaze again, he resumed staring out the window once more. Perhaps if he stood out there then all his worries would be washed away. Maybe even he would be washed away, turned to liquid and just disappear.

Perhaps then he could be happy.