People had always been envious of him. Of his immense wealth, of his cunning charm which had helped him to finagle his way in and out of any situation he cared to poke his aristocratic nose into, of his not inconsiderably striking looks.
Well, there was a lot to be envious about—he mused, smirking. Or perhaps he was to be pitied, for he was one who had everything and nothing. His best friend and beloved companion was no more, his only son had left him after bitter recriminations, his reputation was not what it used to be, his wealth was lining the pockets of corrupt Ministry officials, his looks were...
Well, one had to keep up appearances so his hair still shone like platinum threads, his nose was still like a sharp blade he could and did use to look down on the riff-raff, his lips still quirked like he knew something you didn't, his grey eyes still looked cold.
Only no one noticed that the coldness in his eyes was the cold feeling of misery, of loneliness; no one saw that the grey was that of an ongoing storm.
.
.
.
He sighed and told himself to stop waxing poetic and get on with it.
Taking a deep breath and contemplating what might have beens if he had met the one meant for him, he went to his private study and opened the hidden compartment in the chest of drawers.
The metal gleamed a pale gold, writhing and twisting like an ouroboros... no beginning, no end.
One twist, two, three ... for the decades he regretted, for Narcissa, for Draco, for Scorpius.
He was chanting the last verse when Draco broke in the door. Opening his eyes to see the frantic look on his son's face, he found himself fading away.