The Nature of Forgiveness

Chapter 1: Tragedy of Sorts

"For there's nothing in this world as sweet as love, and the next sweetest thing is hate." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

He's your Daddy's mate, isn't he? Not scared of him, are you?

Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now...

Draco opened his eyes and sat up straight in bed, the pristine sheets pooling around his naked waist. His eyes flitted wildly around the room, landing on the furnishings that were familiar, recognizing it as his own room.

Not him again...

He shook his head and ran long finger over his flaxen hair. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up, jumping slightly as his bare feet met the cold floor. After quickly donning his robes and pulling his slippers on, he padded softly toward the wooden study desk on the far side of the room.

With relative ease, he lit the lamp atop the desk. Soon, the room was bathed in a warm amber glow that chased the shadows away.

His eyes surveyed the variety of things piled on the desk, lingering on the parchment rolled neatly on the side. His countenance darkened visibly under the scant lighting of the room.

Three weeks, he thought grimly. He still can't stop pestering me.

Draco rummaged through one of the drawers and brought a small book- his journal. The cover was wrinkled and torn in some places, belying its frequent use. Lately, he had found writing a convenient way of venting all his bottled-up emotions.

He opened a page intended for a new entry, gripping the quill a bit tightly with his fingers.

He began writing on the paper stretched out before him with furious strokes that left holes on the pages.

Draco had written over and over again: 'I hate you.'

I hate you Potter, for ruining things for me...

It was not enough; he couldn't satiate the anger he felt towards the other boy. He wanted to hurt, to break something. He wanted...

A small sound brought him out of his stupor. Looking down, he realized that the quill had snapped in two.

With a weary sigh, he stood up, picked the parchment and left the room.

Clouds hung low and dreary on the latter part of the month, often causing icy heaps of rain to fall and sometimes to snow.

But on that particular night, it didn't rain or snow. Moonlight peeked through the leafy canopy of trees, forming patterns on the ground before vanishing as the moon disappeared under the thick clouds once more. A chilly breeze ran through the trees, scattering dead leaves and making the branches sing.

Draco watched as a dried leaf fell onto the glassy surface of a nearby pond, concentric circles gleaming around it. Little dots of light reflected on the water as fireflies hovered and danced along with the night breeze.

He was totally at loss. After his father was sent to Azkaban, things had taken a difficult turn. He had been so dependent on his father, living under his shadow, that now he couldn't decide what to do.

It had never occurred to him that he could choose. Not until now.

As soon as he had heard of his father's landing in Azkaban, he had sent an owl in frantic hopes that everything was indeed under control. He had been so assured, so smug back then that with the Dementors under Voldemort's control, his father would be out in no time.

And so he waited, with patience drawing thin as the days passed by. His studies provided the much-needed distraction to allow him to drop his worries for the meanwhile. Besides, it's beyond his dignity as a Malfoy to mope around while eagerly waiting for news.

But what confidence he had slowly dwindled as the month came to a close. Draco had not received a word from his mother at least enlighten him regarding his father's whereabouts. She never made an effort to contact him, which irked him even more than being left in the dark. Too add to his mounting frustration, even the Daily Prophet was of no use; it made the situation appear as though nothing was wrong, that there was no threat, not even after Fudge's reluctant admittance of the Dark Lord's return.

If You-Know-Who had freed the Death Eaters, then surely it would be on the news.

Still, nothing came. It only led to another bout of enforced waiting until he could go home and ask his mother personally. And the remaining days seemed awfully long for his liking.

No, he didn't like any of this at all. Not even for one bit.

For once in his life, he felt unsure and... scared. Scared because this time he knew his family didn't have the control over the situation. Now that the Ministry of Magic took the matters in their own hands, his father's fate was undetermined. His father wouldn't be so lucky this time, especially now that the Wizarding world knew whom he supported loyally.

It was the sense of the inevitable that constantly chewed upon his thought. Everything could lead to a terrible chain of events, one that could lead to his family's undoing.

He couldn't let that happen. If there was one thing that he valued more than anything else, it would be his family. True, he may not have a perfect one, but he couldn't have it any other way, could he? His loyalty would always be with them, no matter what the costs. Because that's the way it had to be.

But still...

Too many questions plagued his mind. Questions he dared not entertain, give meaning to. Because to question meant to doubt and doing so went against the meaning of loyalty.

He wanted to protect his family and his pride, yet a small part of him kept telling him: are they even worth protecting?

For some inexplicable reason, he refused to answer that question.

The day he had been waiting for finally came. He packed his things with much enthusiasm and fervor borne from long dread weeks of waiting. Finally, he would get the answers he needed.

Oddly enough, Dumbledore's parting words just before he had left the castle were a whispered, "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy."

Whatever that meant, Draco had no time to ponder as he headed back to the Manor.

He should have known that the words meant that his fears were finally being realized-- in full and vivid detail.

What a sudden punch in a tender gut, to have learned the news of his father's demise shortly after returning home.

Lucius was given the Dementor's Kiss the day prior to Draco's arrival.

He had spent weeks of waiting--with all the patience and optimism that he had-- only to hear such dire news upon his return. He had sent an owl almost everyday for any word, and now he'd receive this? Such welcoming news, indeed.

He couldn't have asked for more.

Mixed reactions greeted the discovery: shock, such that he could only stare at his mother for what seemed like eternity. Then, denial, clouding his judgment into believing that his father's death was nothing more than a lie. Maybe his father was just hiding and biding his time somewhere else. Maybe Voldemort had something in plan. Maybe... He could go on and on with various explanations that he could take as substitute for the truth. Anything but the dreaded truth.

He gave an almost manic laugh as he murmured in amused tones, "Surely, you jest?"

That comment earned him a slap from his mother. It's not that painful, but a slap nonetheless. Never in his life did anyone from his family hit him. He wanted to say something to cover his indignation, but couldn't bring himself as he saw the look in her eyes. It was after recoiling from the blow did the painful acceptance that it was true came. Lucius Malfoy is dead.

Where was Voldemort when you needed him? Why didn't he let the Death Eaters out of Azkaban? Why?

The truth couldn't have stung more.

Pawns, Draco thought bitterly, his father was just another pawn for the Cause. Years of loyal service and even after being a member of the Inner Circle, he was expendable like everyone else. He should be treated with value, with reverence, not like the mongrels from the lower ranks.

In the end, he was treated no better than the dreaded muggles. Just like that.

The Dark Lord was never keen on failure, so his father was left to be disposed.

He would never forget the indignity of it all.

There had been no trial. Perhaps the Ministry was in such rush to prove to the public that they have control over the Dementors that they wanted to draw little attention; the Death Eaters simply must go. It was an overly rash act to alleviate fears and to cease farfetched speculations regarding Voldemort's return.

Lucius was the first one executed.

His mother told him that his father took the punishment with every bit of pride he could muster. Lucius never cried, never begged, and certainly never pleaded for his life-- not even when the Dementor's lips were a hair's breadth from his own. He even died with a superior look still plastered on his face. He was a Malfoy to the very end.

Draco couldn't decide whether to be proud or to burst into frustrated tears after hearing that.

His father, born from the laps of wealth and luxury, dying in Azkaban and to be buried on some plebeian cemetery with other criminals? Abominable!

But he couldn't argue that it was unjust. His father could never plead for innocence; he never had that to begin with.

The Ministry agreed to withhold any information from the press, a small consolation to 'preserve' the Malfoy dignity. They didn't realize that it was rather too late; the damage had already been done.

It had been another slap in his face when he learned that they offered money in exchange of his mother's silence. As if they'd go around telling everyone that Lucius Malfoy was executed.

The lot of them were such fools; Malfoys never needed money. Ever. But Narcissa was given no choice in the matter; she feared that she may also be arrested for being a suspected Death Eater. And she was definitely not fool enough to realize that the Ministry would not treat her any better than they did her husband.

Funny, Draco thought in dark humor. They were betrayed by people after getting what they need, deserted for being useless. First, Voldemort. And now, the Ministry.

That was the first time Draco had come to learn the true meaning of hate. Stemming from his fear of not being in control, everything roiled into a tight bundle of events that fueled the bitter emotion. The sheer helplessness and resentment he felt towards the situation threatened to overwhelm him.

He expected for grief, but nothing came. He tried to search for even a grain of forlorn feeling, but to his amazement, there was none. Instead, there was hatred and anger.

Narcissa never shed a tear. Typical of her. But Draco could tell that she was obviously shaken by Lucius' death. Her chilly blue eyes wavered from time to time, adopting that haunted gleam, especially when he looked at him. Draco didn't even need to ask the question; he knew he resembled his father in many ways.

Sometimes, when he looked at the mirror, he could almost see his father staring back at him and not his own reflection. They had a lot in common; he couldn't deny that fact.

But would he share the same fate?

Maybe. Perhaps not.

"Lumos," Draco whispered, illuminating the small piece of parchment he held in his hand.

Lucius had left him a letter-- one that he had written right before his death. It was the last form of communication he had with Draco. He'd never receive letters from his father again.

For a brief and agonizing moment, he began to read the letter's contents once again.

Draco,

Immediately after his name, there was a large spot of ink on the parchment, as though his father had left the quill resting on the parchment for long moments as he struggled to think of what to say.

There are things that I ought to have said to you, things that I should have done long ago. But then, I've come to a realization that I don't have the time to do any of that now.

I'd always hoped that I would be a better father to you than mine was to me, but it didn't work that way. It will never work that way.

Some words were hastily written, but they were barely legible. It occurred to Draco that Lucius had perhaps written the letter just a few moments before being subjected to the Kiss.

Sometimes, I wonder if things would have been different if I had made a different choice; maybe then, you would have enjoyed life- you would have lived more.

But it's already too late; the choice is already made. I left no room for regrets. I've served You-Know-Who all my life; to fear is nonsense.

A part of me has always known that things might end up like this.

Hold your head up high, my son, and never shed tears for me. You are a Malfoy, my son and my heir. You are strong and intelligent; you have every characteristic you need to be a success in this world.

Take the path you deem best for you; don't make the same mistakes that I did.

I've always been proud of you. Never doubt that for even one second.

There was another splotch of ink on the parchment, as though Lucius had paused once again.

Take care of your mother for me. And tell her that I am sorry.

You have been my pride,

Lucius

"Take the path you deem best for you," Draco repeated, rolling the parchment and stuffing it inside his robe.

What path was supposed to be his, now that all has been taken away? What side was he supposed to choose, when both could betray him like they did to his father?

He never used his expressions the way he should, which was why it was enough to deceive everyone that it didn't hurt at all. What happens within him is always hidden from scrutiny. He had followed his father down to his last wish- he had never shed even a single tear for him.

A small piece of stone glided across the surface of the water, creating ripples in its wake. Draco whirled his head, a flicker of surprise passing over his face.

"I figured you'd be here," Blaise said, his eyes fixed to the horizon as he sat cross-legged a few feet from Draco. He threw another stone toward the pond. "Can't sleep?"

Draco nodded. "How did you know I'd be here exactly?"

"I saw the light from your wand," Blaise said as he turned to face him. "But you were so deep in thought that you didn't hear me."

Blaise's father was also one of the Death Eaters who had received the Dementor's Kiss. Perhaps it was the loss that brought the two of them together.

"So... what are you thinking about?"

Draco's brow almost rose and he bit a rude, it's none of your business back. Instead, he replied, "Nothing in particular. Just... things."

There was a thoughtful silence as that spread around them. Fireflies blinked here and there across the pond, slowly going about their business, oblivious to the two young men who watched them.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," said Blaise suddenly, his voice reminiscent. "Say, do you have any fond memories of your father?" His face was devoid of emotion as though he was merely asking about the weather.

"Blaise..." There was a warning in his voice that told not to press the issue deeper. He was still disconcerted over his father's death and conversing on that topic seemed... painful.

"I've been thinking about mine," Blaise continued, undeterred. "But I can't come up with anything. I guess I don't have any good memories of him."

There was a slight catch in his voice that made Draco wonder if he had only imagined it. They were only human after all--capable of feeling and getting hurt.

"I only have a few." Draco replied.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how true it was. He had very few fond memories with his father. Whatever interest Lucius had had in his son was only reflected in gifts and material possessions. He was never the demonstrative type of father.

Such moments made him think that maybe his father did feel for him even for a tiny bit.

And the letter... surely, his father cared about him! Even though he had never showed any form of affection for his son, the letter had said it all. His father cared for him.

Draco realized that everything about his father would be remembered in the past tense. "You know," Blaise bit his lip. "I sometimes wonder if we--our parents--made the wrong choice. Maybe we were on the wrong side after all."

Take the path you deem best for you...

"Maybe," Draco stared at him. What answer can he possibly offer when he can't decide for himself the path to choose? "Or maybe not."

"I guess," said Blaise. "Ready for Hogwarts?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure some people already know what happened, no matter how hard the Ministry tries to cover it up. Potter and his cronies are probably jumping around in joy over the news."

Potter. The name brought a strange surge of feeling deep inside him.

He's your Daddy's mate, isn't he? Not scared of him, are you?

The smug look on Potter's face in his dream kept taunting him endlessly, mercilessly. Gloating over his victory... again.

How he wished he could wipe that look off his face.

Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now...

He hated him.

Bet Daddy's having a good time in Azkaban...

He didn't want to be bitter; he never wanted all this resentment and anger and torrents of feelings to consume him.

But years of loathing and bitterness he felt towards the other boy could no longer be controlled.

He had tried so hard to match Potter, to better him, but he could not, because...

He gritted his teeth, the admission crushing him.

Because Potter was better. He was stronger. He always would be.

Potter was fated to win. Even now, when Draco had lost everything, he could hear Potter saying back the words he had said a year ago.

He had chosen the wrong side. His father was just the first one to go.

"Draco?" Blaise asked, a hint of worry tingeing his voice.

"I hate him."

"What?" Blaise asked, bewildered.

Draco glanced up and appeared as though he was surprised that Blaise was there. "Nothing."

Blaise looked at him for a long moment, unconvinced. He gracefully stood up and brushed some grass off his bottom. "It's too cold out here," he said, offering a hand. "Let's go back inside."

Draco only gave a faint nod and allowed himself be hauled to his feet.

The sky was now a pale blue, with a few flecks of yellow peeking over the horizon. A few hours from now and he'd be going back to Hogwarts.