One Last Cry

She had been far from the perfect mother, but she was all he ever had. Draco gazed at the slim slender figure by the tall windows, her silver nightgown blowing in the wind. Maybe he felt a pinch of affection, but he was not sure. In between all the spiteful disciplining on behalf of his father, he rarely ever got to see Narcissa.

"Draco," she murmured, turning from the windows and walking in the direction of her one and only son, "what's going to happen now?"

Draco tore his silver eyes away from her figure and buried his face in his hands. Into them he started sobbing, only quietly. If his father knew he was crying... but Lucius was not there. Not to frown displeasingly at his girlish act, nor to comfort him. Not that he ever could comfort Draco.

Narcissa bent down and enveloped Draco in an almost-warm embrace. And even the omni potent cold in the room left his soul and being for one moment, and for one moment he felt at peace. And that one fleeting moment was over too soon as Narcissa pulled away, too fast, too harsh. She turned her face from her son, and Draco knew that she was embarrassed of him.

And they would be shunned.

Draco closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. It was very comfortable, and h e savored the feeling. How it felt when he turned his head just the slightest bit, felt the cool breeze on his face. Because he knew, all too soon, it would all be different, and everything would change. It felt so heavy to smile or to laugh, too painful to raise his eyes. His own laugh reminded him of his father, and he hated himself for it. How spiteful the sound was, arrogant and unreachable.

That was how Lucius Malfoy was. That was how Lucius Malfoy wanted his one and only son, Draco, to be: arrogant, unreachable, and cold.

Draco allowed himself to shiver a little. That was the man he used to look up to.

He felt a soft finger stroke his cheekbone lightly, and his eyelids

fluttered. That was the woman who used to send him sweets every week, who worried about him, and who did not allow him to go to Durmstrang, even though that sounded preferable had he known what type of mess he would get them all in.

He opened his eyes, and his gaze wandered over to the voluminous Dark books and novels that his father had inherited. Never had Lucius touched them; he never read. Narcissa used to; she never did after Lucius found her reading one day and threw the hardcover book at her face. In front of Draco--though he was young he remembered it clearly. And he was reminded of it every time he looked at his mother's face, and the scar she tried desperately to hide right above her right eye.

"Mother," Draco started suddenly, coarsely. His voice was hoarse and the syllables seemed to trip in confusion even before they left his mouth. It was as if he had not spoken in years, and the dryness around his lips made him think that thought. "Tell me a story?"

"A story, dear?" he heard her ask timidly.

"Yes, Mother, a story, please." Draco sighed tiredly. He heard his mother move; he had grown attuned to her quiet noises. Her slippers made no noise as they touched the ground, nor did any other body part. She was like a ghost.

Only speaking when spoken to, she had become a puppet that Lucius played with and broke often. Even now, after spending a large fraction of his life at school, he could still hear the shrill screams of his mother which often woke him from his restless sleep at night.

He still remembered the way his room door would slide open and Narcissa, in her nightdress and a short melting candle in her hand, would come into his room each and every night. The candle would create shadows on the walls, and shadows on her face, and that was the time Narcissa was the prettiest, her porcelain face reflecting the small flame, and lighting her dead blue eyes; it was endless.

Draco often wondered where to put his feelings.

It was wrong, but he could not help it. Narcissa would lull him in her arms, whispering sacred songs of kings and fools. And always Draco wanted to believe her. The feel of her satin nightdress, cool and smooth, and the warmth of her body. The way she always wrapped him a little too tightly inside the Egyptian cotton sheets. He sweats all night, and he won't be able to sleep when the beautiful woman in satin clothes moves back to her husband, but still he does not move. His flesh burned, and so did his eyes, and in his mind the kings play with the fools.

His youth was so wrong.

"Once upon a time," Narcissa started, seating herself on the footstool which Draco was not using, "there lived a handsome prince who ruled his kingdom with a kind heart."

Draco, as much as he wanted to, could no longer be fooled by his mother's fancies. All the stories of long ago were stories of him.

"And this prince, he had the face of an angel." For the second time that evening, Draco felt cool fingers stroke his cheek. All he could do was try not to turn away or show his repulsion. When he was younger he always thought that his father was evil to Narcissa, and therefore it would be his job to protect her. The older he got, the more he questioned the reason she did not stand up for herself, and concluded that she was afraid.

And he was not standing up for someone who was afraid.

He knew of someone who would though. Someone who had grown to earn his respect. But he was irrelevant, or so Draco liked to think. It was quite unhealthy to have such thoughts.

Draco's eyelids fluttered.

"And the king of that land -- the prince's dear father -- was a man who was imprisoned for doing something that went against the people. Even though he did it out of fear for his family."

His father too, was afraid. And that was why Draco would never again stand up for his father.

"But this young prince was not afraid."

Draco was afraid. And so were Narcissa and Lucius. Draco once again turned his face from his mother, so she would not see how he felt about himself. In truth, he felt no more love for himself. He was afraid, how could he when he too was afraid? They were all just the same.

Maybe his pride would be his downfall.

"And?" he asked, seeing his mother had stopped. He spat the word out.

Narcissa was choking back on air, her quiet dry sobs filling up the room with echoes. Draco would reach out to her and comfort her, but he didn't know how to. He had never been shown how.

So it was Narcissa who pulled him to her, and pressed his burning body against her cool skin. Draco sighed contentedly as he once again felt the thin sheets against his flesh; he could even hear her heart beating.

"What's going to happen, mother?"

Stripped of whatever pride he had remaining, Draco buried himself in

Narcissa. No open doors had presented themselves even after their short talk, and he was all but ready to give up. The ending was unclear and hazy, but he was not going to do it. Not until the very last moment.

Narcissa was the first to break apart. "They're going to come soon."

Draco nodded. They who were going to look for him. Harry would have told the authorities everything, and they were going to be after him. But they wouldn't find him, they would not be able to find him. Draco stood up awkwardly.

"So, I suppose this is the last goodbye, then."

Narcissa was not crying; her eyes were clear and she was smiling. Sadly, but she was smiling nonetheless. She touched him lightly on the arm.

"My boy," she said quietly, "take care."

Draco smiled grimly for one moment, and left with long strides out the backdoor into the night. He sorely regretted not standing up for his mother; no, she was not perfect, but she was all he had. And he had been the one who was afraid, not Narcissa.

Narcissa had been strong when he was too proud to see.

And before he disappeared into the night, Draco Malfoy looked back over his shoulder one last time, and gave one last cry.