'Mother, please, come away from the edge.'
'I won't! You can't tell me what to do. I - I'm your mother!'
'Well start acting like it!' They went through this every time. The wind blew in his white-blonde hair. November always brought around a chilly wind, so the rooftop of Malfoy Manor wasn't the best of places to be. But night after night found him there, worn and oh so tired, coaxing his mother down into the warmth.
God knows he should hate her. But he didn't. He couldn't. It wasn't her fault. Not really. She couldn't help it. Other nights, when she wasn't threatening to throw herself off the roof, she stumbled into his room and sobbed in his arms, telling him how sorry she was. How it wasn't her, it was the drink. How it called to her. And he always smiled and said he didn't mind. Not really. But he did.
He was scared; scared for her, scared for himself. One day, he wouldn't be there to stop her.
He should've gone to St Mungo's as soon as he'd noticed her drinking more. But he hadn't, because there had been no reason why she was. They wouldn't have been able to do anything so he'd done nothing.
And now she was an alcoholic. He had no heart to make her stop. When she wasn't drunk, she was a shell of a person. No emotion, no feelings, nothing. Draco hated seeing her like that; it hurt him deep inside. So he let her drink, because it made her better.
So now, as the wind blew harshly against his skin, carrying away his tears into the night, Draco held out his hand to his mother, wishing everything could be back to the way it was. Wishing she could understand how much she was hurting him.
"Please," he croaked, his voice trembling. "Mother, please."
