Family Portrait

Family Portrait

I sat up in bed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms tightly around them, my face buried in my knees. I could hear the familiar sound of my Mother sobbing a few rooms away from my own. It was strange, I thought, that Mother never cried like that when Father was away. I pushed the bedsheets away and stood up, my feet almost sinking into the soft, velvety carpet. The carpet was a rich green colour; in fact, almost everything in my room was either green or silver. It had been even before I went to Hogwarts, even before I was accepted into Slytherin.

My name's Draco Malfoy, I'm sixteen years old, and I'm one of a long line of Malfoys to become a Slytherin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My Mother and Father are called Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Everything used to be fine between them - and when I say fine, what I mean is that they didn't argue nearly all the time and that my Mother didn't cry most nights. I don't like to hear my Mother crying; I don't suppose many children do. I don't think anyone at school knows what it's like for me at home; I had to carry on the Malfoy tradition, of course, so usually I just strut around with my 'friends' Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle like I own the place. It's not fun and it's most definitely not funny. I don't enjoy mocking other people, especially not Harry Potter and his friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. To tell the truth, I envy them. I've never had real friends, never had anybody I could confide in. I do well in my schoolwork without really trying - I get the second highest grades in the year - and most of my time at home is spent trying to ease the growing rift between my parents. It's not an easy job, but no one else is going to do it. I flinch as I hear a loud crashing noise; my Mother has knocked her glass of water to the floor. It's not the first time she's done that; actually, it's the third time this week. I kneel on the floor and place my head under the bedsheets, leaning my weight against the frame of the bed, and I sing to myself.

Momma, please stop crying, I can't stand the sound.

Your pain is painful and it's tearing me down.

I hear glasses breaking as I sit up in my bed,

I told dad* you didn't mean those nasty things you said.

I sing to my self a lot. Don't get me wrong; I'm not some kind of lunatic. It's just a thing I do sometimes. The lyrics come easily to me for some reason. I shake my head to clear the thoughts and stand up, turning to my wardrobe. I open the door and pull out a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt, both made especially for me by a wizard designer my Father knows. I take some underwear from a drawer and hurriedly dress, not bothering to put robes on. I clasp a thin silver chain with a silver locket around my throat and move back towards my bed. Fingering the locket gently, I reach under my pillow and remove a photograph in a silver frame.

The photograph is of a blond-haired boy of about twelve. My brother, Eric Malfoy. There aren't many people that know about Eric. He died not long after the photo was taken. As I gaze at the photo, Eric smiles and waves up at me. I wave back. He's dressed in the Slytherin Quidditch uniform and holds his broomstick in his right hand. Like me, Eric was left-handed. Eric isn't his real name, of course; no Malfoy would simply call his son Eric. His full name was Octavian Epsilon Aurigae Eric Malfoy. Eric had decided, when he was five and I was three, that he would prefer it if everyone just called him Eric. From then on, that was his name for all intents and purposes. I missed Eric more than anything. He had died when I was ten years old, killed in a tragic accident after getting caught between my Father and the Dark Lord Voldemort in an argument of sorts. I remember there was something my Father hadn't done that the Dark Lord had requested, and Voldemort had punished him by taking Eric's life. I had blamed my Father and hadn't spoken to him for ten months. When I got into Hogwarts my Father had considered having me transferred to Durmstrang, just so that memories of Eric wouldn't plague the house. I have the only picture of him because the memories were so painful; that's why my Father bought the whole team new Nimbus 2001 broomsticks when I made the house Quidditch team, just as Eric had done at the same age. Hermione Granger and all the others thought I'd bought my way onto the team, but I was chosen two months before my Father donated the brooms. As I thought about Eric more, my hands began to shake. I pressed a gentle kiss to my brother's forehead before replacing the picture under my pillow and began to sing quietly again, a continuation of the lyrics I had sung previously.

You fight about money, about me and my brother,

And this I come home to, this is my shelter.

It ain't easy growing up in World War Three,

Never knowing what love could be, you'll see,

I don't want love to destroy me like it has done my family.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile onto my face; it turned out to be just in time because one of our house-elves, Shiny, turned up to make my bed and polish the room. The house-elves knew about Eric's picture, but they never said anything about it. That was one of the few things I liked about house-elves; they were so loyal. The sunlight streaming through the window reflected off of Shiny's incredibly shiny head, the same incredibly shiny head that had resulted in her name, and I couldn't help but laugh. Shiny blinked, her giant blue eyes showing her astonishment. I don't think she'd ever heard me laugh before, except the laugh I put on for humiliating people. My real laugh's a lot nicer than that, kind of like music. Eric had the same laugh. We inherited it from our Mother. The mocking laugh came from my Father. Eric had never been able to laugh like that, never been able to put people down. He had always looked on the bright side of life, endlessly optimistic, forever seeing the good in people and things, times and situations. Even just before he died, Eric had been smiling; the kind of smile that told me he knew what was going to happen and it was alright because things would, as he so often reminded me, come out all right in the end.

Eric had been wrong; I thought angrily, nothing came out right in the end. He died and he never came back and I didn't know what had happened to him afterwards, I never knew whether he was ok or not. Was there an afterlife? If so, was it good? I thought that if there was any truth in the Muggles' idea of Heaven and Hell, Eric would have gone to Heaven. He was a good person, not like my Father, not like me. If there was any truth in it, I was going to Hell. Or maybe he was with Merlin, I thought, smiling, maybe Eric found Merlin after he died and one day they're both going to come back and save us all from whatever there is left for us to face. Maybe they'll bring the legendary King Arthur with them and all his knights of the round table and they'd take us all somewhere everyone would be happy, and maybe Eric would come live with us again and Mother and Father would stop fighting and, most importantly, we'd be happy. I gave a wan smile and kicked my wardrobe door as hard as I could, hurting my foot quite a lot in the process. Eric used to dream things like that. He used to say that there was a place somewhere that would be so happy we wouldn't believe it, and he told me to never give up trying to find it. Sitting on the floor, one hand on my injured foot, the other holding my locket, I began to sing some more of my song again.

Can we work it out? Can we be a family?

I promise I'll be better, Mommy I'll do anything.

Can we work it out? Can we be a family?

I promise I'll be better, Daddy please don't leave.

I sat quietly on the floor for about fifteen minutes before I heard the telltale slam of our front door that told me quite plainly that my Father had left. He had probably gone to the Ministry of Magic. I don't think anyone knows what he actually does there; I don't, anyway, and Mother says she doesn't know. Eric knew, I thought, frowning. Eric knew what Father did. He had tried to tell me about it one night, I remembered; it had been around two thirty in the morning and I had been half asleep. Eric had been nine years old then, and I had been seven. I hadn't really listened to him. He had said whatever it was he wanted to tell me and left, whilst I had pretended to listen and promptly gone straight to sleep. Eric was like that - he'd talk for hours and hours if you argued with him, but if he was just left to have his say he'd be quick about it and go away. I smiled and crossed to the window, which overlooked the garden. There was a small monument in the midst of the rose garden, built in honour of Eric, but nobody visited it except the gardener and that was only when he was tending to the roses. I had certainly never visited since the first day it had been erected.

I spent the next four hours of the day in my bedroom, doing whatever homework I could find. Homework was not something I enjoyed, but it occupied the time without resulting in my having to leave the comfort and safety of my room, and it kept any thoughts out of my mind. I had already skipped breakfast and missed the customary Malfoy brunch and I was hungry, but I didn't fancy going down for lunch. There would be too many questions that my Mother and I avoided asking. Up until Eric died, my Mother and I were really close. In fact, we were all really close as a family unit. We used to have these days where we'd just all go out somewhere together and eat out or have fun. After Eric, I was forgotten unless it was something that required me to play the part of the Malfoy heir. My parents loved me, I knew, because it was customary to love your child and because they didn't really have a choice in the matter; they were my parents, first and foremost, and as my parents they had the responsibility of having to love me. However, the other thing I knew was that neither my Mother nor my Father actually liked me. It had been that way for the past three years and I had come to accept that fact. I finally decided to ask Shiny if she would bring me up some food, having let my hunger get the better of me, and was half-way through consuming it, when my Father returned. He was extremely drunk and immediately sought out my Mother and began to shout at her. Trying to block the sound, I began to sing again, with my hands over my ears.

Daddy, please stop yelling, I can't stand the sound.

Make Mama stop crying, 'cos I need you around.

My Mama she loves you, no matter what she says it's true.

I know that she hurt you, but remember I love you, too.

As it turned out, that didn't block the noise, because, naturally, she shouted back. It was mainly about how he was self-obsessed and didn't think about how she might be feeling, to which he replied that she was his wife and she ought to love him as much as she did herself and basically how she was a slut and a lot of other things that I didn't like to hear, and that kind of thing, and I assumed it would be as it usually was; they'd fight for a while, a couple of hours at most, and then my Mother would start crying and go to one of the spare bedrooms - usually the one a few rooms down the corridor from mine - and then my Father would yell something incoherent at the house-elves and storm through the house, slamming various doors as he went, before finally retiring to his study. I didn't know what he did there. Anyway, that was the way it should have gone, that was the way it always went. Not this time. This time, when Mother began to cry and stormed off to the spare room, my Father went after her. This time he kicked the door open with such force that the topmost hinge broke and part of the door splintered against the wall. This time he demanded a divorce. Then he walked out, heading in the direction of his study. I fell back against my wardrobe, completely shocked.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'd heard of divorce, of course; who hadn't? It just didn't happen to my parents, that was all. I'd also heard of people being so shocked they forgot how to speak, and I had always thought that nobody could possibly ever believe those stories because they were just so, well, stupid. The thing is, suddenly, I found that I was so shocked I'd forgotten how to speak. I angrily blinked back the tears that sprung to my eyes, mainly from the shock than from anything else. Malfoy's didn't cry. I knew that, even if I didn't know everything else. Almost blindly - notice that I say almost, and not completely, because I could see - I stumbled towards the cupboard behind my bed and pulled out a large bag. I hastily stuffed some books into it, along with spare clothes and some other things I thought I'd rather not leave behind. It didn't take long. Once I had the bag ready I pulled on a red jacket that I particularly liked - although it was one of those warm summers, I knew it wouldn't be quite so warm at night - and some comfortable white trainers, hurriedly remembering to stuff a decent robe into my bag. I slipped out of my room, past the room my Mother was in - she didn't see me because she was too busy crying into the satin pillows on the bed - and practically flew down the stairs. I pulled open the heavy front door and sprinted out through the garden. I reached the huge black gates decorated with snakes and lots of variations on the letter 'M' after about half an hour and slid the bolts back, pulling the heavy gates wide with great difficulty. They grated across the pathway rather too loudly for my liking, and I squeezed through the gap I had made before setting off for the nearest wizarding train station as fast as I could. I hadn't forgotten money, obviously. I had been on the platform roughly twenty minutes when the gardener arrived, along with Shiny. Forty-five minutes later I was back in my bedroom, neither my Mother nor my Father ever knowing that I had left them. Closing my eyes as I lay on the bed, still clothed in what I now thought of as my 'runaway' clothes, I started singing my song again.

I ran away today, ran from the noise, ran away.

Don't wanna go back to that place, but don't have no choice, no way.

It ain't easy growing up in World War Three,

Never knowing what love could be, well I've seen.

I don't want love to destroy me like it did my family.

Malfoys are like Gods in the wizarding world. It's a fact. The point I'm trying to make is that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy couldn't split up. It would cause utter chaos among society. The more I thought that, the more I wondered whom I was trying to convince. Malfoys make the rules and Malfoys are the only people who can break the rules. That's what my Father used to tell Eric and me. Actually, that was one of only a few things he ever taught us himself. We were taught how to fence by a wizard friend of his, and we were taught how to duel by the same man. It wasn't until later that I realized who that man had actually been - I hadn't much cared who my parents friends were when I was little - and I had personally thanked Severus Snape, Potions Master and head of Slytherin house at Hogwarts, for teaching us. I didn't know whether Eric had before his death. Eric's death is an unresolved issue of mine, and I'd like it to stay an unresolved issue. I don't want closure or anything like that; I just want Eric alive again. That's not going to happen any time soon, so for now I'll settle with what many Medi-Wizards have called my 'obsession'. My parents, unsurprisingly, had disagreed, saying it was just a phase and that I'd grow out of it. Actually, they originally said it would probably only last until I'd outlived him, but that was two months ago; my thirteenth birthday had been on June 8^th. I was now older than my big brother. I shook my head erratically from side to side. That didn't even make sense.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I reached under my pillow again and, moving my hand past the photo of Eric, withdrew another photograph. This photo wasn't in a frame of any kind. It had been at one time, but my parents had either destroyed or hidden any photo with Eric in it. This one was a picture of my Mother and Father standing with their arms around Eric and me, who were standing in front of them. This one had been taken when I was nine and Eric had been eleven. Our cousin, Melissa, had been seven at the time of the photograph, and we had recently heard that she had been accepted to Hogwarts and would be there the following year. During the time of that photo Melissa's parents had gone on holiday and we had been taking care of Melissa. When I say 'we', what I really mean is my Mother and Father. Melissa was our cousin on Mother's side; her Mother was our Mother's sister. She was an only child, and her parents had thought it would be nice if they had a holiday alone for a change, so Melissa had come to live with us for three months. Nearing the end of her stay, Eric had gone to Hogwarts, but we had all had a great time together before he left. Melissa and I had had a good time without him, too. The thing I loved most about this picture, though, was that we were all happy. I mean all of us were actually happy in a way I don't think any of us have been for years. It was probably one of the last photographs taken of us all together as a family, being happy. I held the picture to my chest and sung some more.

Can we work it out? Can we be a family?

I promise I'll be better, Mommy I'll do anything.

Can we work it out? Can we be a family?

I promise I'll be better, Daddy please don't leave.

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I shoved the picture haphazardly under my pillow again and began to pound the bed with all my might. Realizing that this was completely stupid and rendered me to a state not unlike that of Neville Longbottom, I abruptly ceased. The main thing, I decided, was that I didn't want my parents to re-marry after the divorce, if there was one, and I especially did not want a stepbrother or sister. I didn't want anybody to ever take Eric's place. I also didn't want to have to move, depending on whether I lived with Mother or Father. It stood to reason that Father would keep the house. I, as his heir, would probably be expected to stay, but I wasn't sure if that was what I wanted. If Mother didn't have a choice with the divorce, though, would I have a choice where I lived? What would happen if Mother went to live abroad? I liked Hogwarts, and I was looking forward to seeing Melissa again - I hadn't seen her since she had stayed with us that time and in the four years that had passed I was sure she would have changed. Another thing about Hogwarts was that it was the place Severus Snape taught. I'd never told anybody before, but since I was eleven and a half, I'd been dreaming about him, and they were the kinds of dreams you hoped your parents never found out about, especially not your Mother. I liked him as more than just a Professor, as more than just a friend. I liked him in a way I'd never liked anyone before, not even Pansy Parkinson, the girl I'd been semi-dating last year. I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks and my body taking the inevitable reaction it always did whenever I remembered those dreams. Resultantly, I decided to do something else.

My Father had given me a model aeroplane set for my birthday, set with a special charm to make it fly around the room once it was completed, and I took it from the cupboard it had been in since I'd got it. I emptied the pieces onto the floor and set about assembling them. Once I'd started, I discovered I couldn't stop; I didn't want to stop. Like my homework, the model aeroplane kept my mind free from unwanted thoughts. I finished it after a little longer than an hour and laughed delightedly as it flew around my bedroom, pushing all superfluous thoughts even further from my mind, at least for the moment. I noticed that it was getting dark and the wind was picking up. The tree outside my window began to scratch against the glass and the glow of moonlight was flickering across my bedroom. It gave the plane quite a dramatic effect, and I liked it. Then I remembered that if my parents got divorced I wouldn't have this, and everything just kind of simmered out. I thought that maybe the divorce would be a good thing - you heard all the time about people whose parents split up and turned out to be really good friends. Then the plane crashed into the wall, and that ruined any aspirations I may have had of anything good coming out of the divorce. With nothing else left to do, I began to sing my newfound song once more.

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

Let's play pretend; let's act like it comes naturally.

I don't wanna have to split the holidays,

I don't want two addresses.

I don't want a stepbrother anyways,

And I don't want my Mom to have to change her last name.

I opened my door and made my way along the corridor and towards the room in which my Mother was still weeping. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my hand gently on her head, telling her everything would be ok. She looked up at me through tear-stained eyes and nodded. Then I asked the big question; why there had to be a divorce. She made a fruitless attempt at a smile and held my hands gently. Then she told me that my Father had only been joking, that he hadn't meant it and he was just drunk. I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. My Mother had always been like this, I reminded myself. She always managed to talk things round so that they seemed a lot better than they actually were. For the first time since Eric died, she cradled me against her chest and stroked my hair, muttering my name over and over and over. This continued for about twenty minutes before I pulled away. As much as I like my name, it's very irritating to hear it repeated so many times. It seemed to have lost all meaning, and the word 'Draco' meant nothing to me for the next few moments. Finally, I snapped out of it. I told my Mother I'd see her later, and left the room, heading for my Father's study.

My Father, I saw as I pushed open the door, was sitting in his black leather chair with his head and arms draped across his big desk. Of course, my Father was never one to do things by halves, and the desk was made of black obsidian, decorated with silvery-green swirls. The handles of the drawers were shaped like the letter 'M', and they too were silver. At first, seeing my Father like this, I thought he was dead, or that he'd passed out in some kind of drunken stupor. As it turned out, he had in fact sobered up. I frowned and crossed the room. I pressed two fingers against the back of his neck and he looked up, anger and hatred gleaming in his eyes. When he saw it was me, however, he calmed. He called me his dragon and lifted me into his lap. I asked him why they were getting divorced, but he shook his head and told me that some things couldn't be helped. He said that the divorce probably wouldn't go through, as there would be so much hassle tied in with it, but that he would try his utmost to get my Mother out of our lives. If the divorce didn't work, he told me, there was always the Dark Lord to go to for help. I managed to force a smile, made my excuses, and went back to my room. I spent a lot of time in my room, I suddenly realized. Closing my eyes and sinking to the ground, my back against the wall, I continued my song.

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

We look pretty normal; let's go back to that.

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

Let's play pretend, act like it goes naturally.

It wasn't as though my parents had never been this way before, I thought. There had been that time my Father had left us alone. He had just packed his bags and left. The thing that bothered me most about that was that he had taken with him my star. Eric had given me my star for my ninth birthday. It was the size of my hand and he had told me that as long as I had it, he'd be with me. When my Father had left, not long after Eric's death, and taken the star with him, it had been like he had taken the one thing I had left that was really part of Eric. He hadn't known how I'd felt, obviously, but he had given it back a month later, when he returned home. I stood up and walked to the window, leaning on the ledge beneath it. I gazed out of the window and wondered whether anyone else ever felt so alone. I involuntarily drew in a deep breath when I realized that Harry Potter probably felt this way all the time, or at least all the time he was away from Hogwarts. Then I mentally chastised myself for feeling sorry for Potter. I had no one left to talk to at home, and I needed somebody in a way I'd never needed anybody. I was Draco Malfoy; there was no reason for me to ever need anything or anyone that I couldn't or didn't have already. I decided to write to Severus Snape.

I crossed to one of my drawers, the one that contained my ink, quill and parchment, sat down at my desk, and began to write. I told Snape all about how I'd heard my parents arguing for what seemed like the millionth time and how, for a change, it hadn't just blown over. I told him how my Father said he wanted a divorce and how I'd been informed that Lord Voldemort might be called in to 'take care' of my Mother. I told Snape all about every single one of the worries and fears that I'd been holding in all day, and I told him that I didn't know what to do. I said that he didn't have to reply if he didn't want to or if he was busy, but it would be nice to hear from him, and then I ended the letter with the words 'yours, Draco Malfoy'. It had a nice ring to it, I decided; the idea that I belonged to Severus Snape. I felt my cheeks grow red and hot and I pressed the cool backs of my hands against them. I let my eagle owl, named Hades, out of his cage and gave him the letter, telling him to take it to Snape. Hades flew away and I sat on the window seat and waited, singing softly.

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

(Can we work it out? Can we be a family?)

We look pretty normal; let's go back to that.

(I promise I'll be better, Mommy I'll do anything.)

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

(Can we work it out? Can we be a family?)

Let's play pretend, act like it comes so naturally.

(I promise I'll be better, Daddy please don't leave.)

In our family portrait we look pretty happy,

(Can we work it out? Can we be a family?)

We look pretty normal; let's go back to that.

(I promise I'll be better, Daddy please don't leave.)

When I'd almost given up waiting, Hades returned with a reply. Snape told me not to worry and that he'd be here as soon as possible. He offered me words of comfort and advice and, as I read it, I felt a strange kind of warmth spread through me. He said that he'd try to talk Father round, and that if he failed I could come to stay with him for a while until everything calmed down at home. I felt a smile cross my lips. I might be going to stay with him. The excitement was too much and I jumped up and flapped my hands around a bit before forcing myself to relax and finish reading the letter. He ended it by saying that he probably shouldn't tell me this but that he really cared about me, and he wrote 'love S'.

I waited for him, of course. As I was waiting, my mind drifted back to the time Father had taken my star. Eric's star, really. Our star. I hadn't been speaking to him, otherwise I would have told him to return it immediately, but as it was I left it with him. I still had the star. It was attached by magic to the inside of my wardrobe door. I opened the door gently and gazed at it. Faces flickered over its surface, Eric's face and my own intermittently. I smiled and placed my hand over it. There was a strange sort of heat emanating from it, and I decided that the heat was Eric. I kissed the star gently, knowing that if anybody at school ever found out what really went on inside my head and what I was like outside of Hogwarts, I'd be labelled an outcast, a freak. I also knew that there were not many people in the world I would risk my school status for, but that Eric and Snape were two of those people. I let myself sink down onto my bed, and sang again.

Daddy, don't leave,

Daddy, don't leave,

Daddy, don't leave.

Turn around please.

Remember that the night you left you took my shining star?

Daddy, don't leave,

Daddy, don't leave,

Daddy, don't leave.

Don't leave us here alone.

I was startled out of my trance by a hand on my shoulder. I blinked my way back to reality and looked up into the face of Severus Snape. His dark eyes burned into mine and I felt a certain bond between us strengthen. There's a kind of want, a kind of need, a kind of desire, in his face as he looks down at me, and I look back at him, hope adding to the emotions I reflect back to him, and maybe just a little fear. He tells me he's really sorry, and that Father wouldn't listen to him. He tells me my parents inevitably will get divorced unless circumstances change between now and then. I nod and hear myself say that it's ok. It sounds like I'm speaking from a great distance. I nod again, several times, and swallow hard, and then I was crying. The tears ran down my face, and I was unable to stem the flow. He sat beside me and pulled me tenderly into his arms, holding me to his chest. I clutched at his shirt, sobs racking through my body uncontrollably. He stroked my hair and held me, neither of us speaking, and I let myself cry.

Afterwards he took me back to his house. He told my parents it would be better all around if I wasn't there to hear their arguments, and they agreed I could go. Ironically, I had on the same clothes I was wearing when I ran away and I took the same bag with me. At his house, he showed me to the room I would be using and left me to get on with unpacking and getting settled in. I felt comfortable in his house, at ease. I'd brought Eric's picture with me, and the family photograph, and the star. Snape helped me hang them up in the room, so they were on the walls where I could see them instead of hidden away under my pillow or in my wardrobe. He kissed me gently, and then went to make something for dinner. I told him I'd be down in a little while. I stood by the window, looking out over the garden and inhaled the late summer air. I thought of a way to make everything better at home; be a better son. With this thought in mind, I decided to finish my song.

Mom will be nicer,

I'll be so much better, I'll tell my brother.

Oh, I won't spill the milk at dinner.

I'll be so much better, I'll do everything right.

I'll be your little boy* forever,

I'll go to sleep at night.