When Worlds Collide

Christmas morning, 1997, dawned cold and clear over the icy Thames River. A bitter wind blew across the water, whistling as it went and stirring up miniature waves wherever it passed. The sun's wintry light reflected in shards from the water, sending jagged bursts of light onto nearby buildings and people. It was a normally frigid winter morning, and the temperature was well below freezing at sunrise; only the bravest and hardiest of people could be seen walking along the streets, bundled up with puffy coats and woolen scarves as they headed about their early morning routines.

Given the time and the day, the normal traffic on London Bridge was almost non-existent. In fact, one could have described the bridge as entirely deserted--if it weren't for the lone figure sitting precariously on the railing and hanging on for dear life. A young man with matted blonde hair and strange, tattered black robes was contemplating the dark expanse of water that stretched out beneath him. Two dirty bare feet dangled listlessly over the railing. His thin arm, the grimy skin just visible through the many rips in his clothing, trembled dangerously as he leaned forward an inch or two, looking as if he was calculating the distance between himself and certain death in the unforgiving Thames.

Draco Malfoy had been sitting on London Bridge for at least an hour, and by now he was completely frozen to the bone. He didn't care, though--he didn't feel the chill all that much; more to the point, though, nothing really mattered to him anymore. He didn't care that he had been forced to roam Muggle London for the past seven months as a homeless bum, his parents murdered by the Dark Lord and his rightful estate seized by the same. He didn't care that he'd had to fight with other Muggle street urchins to find something to eat every day and somewhere to sleep each night; for the past few days, he had been too exhausted to succeed at even that. The last substance he could remember eating was the stale bread crust he had dug up from some garbage can on Fleet Street two days ago--the gutter water he'd been forced to drink since then didn't count as food.

Draco had already weighed his two most obvious options for the future while he lay curled up in various alleyways, trying in vain to find sleep and warmth where none would come. The first choice was that he could turn himself into the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix and hope for the best. But considering how Professor Snape had just "betrayed" them--Draco knew better; the man didn't really have a choice after the Unbreakable Vow his mother and aunt had forced him to take--Draco didn't want to imagine the wrath that would be poured onto his head as the only available scapegoat. Besides, it really wasn't in him to humble himself before a pack of Dumbledore-worshipping fools who had hated him and his family almost as much as they did the Dark Lord--especially to Potter and his gaggle of Muggle-loving friends. Only Merlin knew how much he hated them! If there was any breath left in him, Draco swore that he would never force himself to that low of a level in front of that arrogant half-blood who had humiliated him all these years.

The other possibility, the one that Draco was welcoming with open arms, was death. No more pain, no more humiliation would he have to endure once he was gone from the face of this earth. It wasn't like anyone would be missing him if he disappeared. And even though he wasn't sure if he believed in an afterlife, there was always the chance that his mother and father would be waiting to meet him on the other side. Not to mention the fact that he was slowly dying of starvation and exposure as it was; both his physical and magical strength were fading day by day, and he'd had to stop every minute or so to rest when he'd made the mile-long journey to the bridge that morning. There was no question about it: Draco was tired of living and ready to die.

Well, almost ready. The one regret that Draco had, as he peered over the edge of the bridge again, was that he had never found the love of his life. His parents had loved him as much as they could, certainly, and his clique at school had worshipped the ground beneath his feet; but Draco had never been successful at finding the one girl of his dreams who could make him happy. Perhaps it had never been meant for him to be in love; but whenever he had seen Potter strutting around school with that know-it-all Muggle-born or with that Weasley girl, Draco had always felt the serpent of jealousy gnawing at his heart, or whatever was left of it.

Draco sighed. Such thoughts were getting him nowhere. He was sick and tired of his miserable existence, period. It was time to act. He took a deep breath and heaved himself into a standing position on the edge of the railing. He swayed dangerously, but he somehow managed to hang on to one of the many cables supporting the bridge. He wanted to do this nobly and on his own time, like a true Malfoy, not just fall over the edge like some clumsy Muggle. His free hand instinctively went to the pocket of his robes, and he was comforted by the warm wood of his wand at his fingertips. It was encouraging to him that his trusty wand, which had served him faithfully for as long as he could remember, would follow him wherever he went, even into death.

As Draco prepared to step off into oblivion, a sudden blackness in the river caught his eye, and he paused. Something wide and dark, a gaping hole of sorts, was opening up in the river directly beneath him. What in the world could it be? Curious, he leaned over farther to get a closer look.

He leaned over a bit too far. Draco lost his balance, and his weakened grip slipped from the cable as he toppled forward. He cried out as he tumbled directly into the black hole beneath him--but his voice was abruptly cut off when he was swallowed up by the darkness there. After he disappeared, the hole closed itself up without a trace, leaving the Thames to crawl slowly along as if nothing had happened.

Back on the bridge, a grey, balding rat with a silvery paw had hidden itself behind a cable and had been watching the entire scene. He was a nearsighted rat, however, and so he had not noticed the hole in the river--he merely assumed that Draco had fallen into the Thames as would normally be expected. The lack of a splash did surprise Peter Pettigrew; but then, he caught himself missing so many things these days. Ah, the wonders of aging.

The rat shook itself and turned away from the Thames, scampering back to the end of the bridge. It was time to report to his master of his findings. The Dark Lord would be pleased to hear that the last of the Malfoy line was finally dead.