It was raining. Small drippy raindrops from thin grey clouds that covered the entire sky. It wasn't a tempest, with winds at 50 kilometres per hour tearing trees from their roots, lightning that tore at your heart and floods falling from the sky. It wasn't a sun-drenched, blue-skied flowery day. It wasn't an extraordinary day. According to the weather, it was a very extra ordinary day. It could have been yesterday and it could have been tomorrow.

But it was a very extraordinary day. It was extraordinary because Draco Malfoy would soon find himself alone. Not alone in the way every child wishes to be from their surroundings, with no cares and only their thoughts. Not alone in the way one feels when focusing intently on the task at hand, mindless of the world. Not alone in the way one is when trying to fall asleep after hearing a frightening story, fear twisting your heart like one twists a sodden rag. Draco Malfoy would soon be alone because he had no mother and would soon have no father.

As a little boy spoiled with love, affection and presents, Draco Malfoy had not grown up. He did not know how to take care of himself, emotionally or practically. He had never been on his own, and had never developed the maturity that most children gain when their parents raise them properly. At eighteen, Draco Malfoy was not a mature young man, but a frightened little boy who had forgotten his left from his right.

A week ago, his mother had died. Two months ago, his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban for being a Death Eater. A week ago, his father had been sentenced to execution, and he had found his mother beneath a window. He didn't know which one- a high one. One high enough to kill.

Too hurt to shed any tears, Draco Malfoy entered his father's cell and pushed his mother's funeral out of his thoughts. Tomorrow Lucius Malfoy would be dead; it would take all Draco's strength to present a brave face and he wanted his father's last moments with him to be as happy as possible.

Leonhard Raskin, director for Azkaban's Department of High Security for Most Dangerous Criminals spoke to Draco reassuredly: "Now, Mr Malfoy, there will be a guard at all times. You needn't worry about your safety. You're very safe here. If you feel in danger at any time, do not hesitate-"

"Raskin!—He knows how to act around me! I'm his father. I'm no monster. Unlike your slut of a Mudblood mother, I raised my son properly. He has no reason to be afraid of me, I'm his father damn you, and I'd like a private audience!" Lucius protested.

Ignoring him pointedly, Mr Raskin continued: "You have ten minutes. When you are ready to leave, a guard will escort you out. Should you have any inquiries, please leave a message at the reception desk and I will get back to you as soon as possible." With that, Mr Raskin walked out, leaving a burly figure in a too tight robe to hover by the entrance.

"Father—", Draco started.

"I'll be dead tomorrow and I can't even spend my final moments in private with my own son. How was the funeral?"

"If you're wondering whether the Zabinis came, they didn't. Neither did Aunt Bellatrix. Nobody came. I was alone with the vicar. He read a prayer I didn't know, blessed us and buried Mother. Then I left. There was nothing to it. Just a hole in the ground."

Lucius sighed and rubbed his forehead. Draco tried not to look. It was unreal. How do you prepare yourself for death? How do you talk to someone who is about to die so certainly? How can you accept such a burden so unflinchingly? What do you do when it isn't someone, it isn't somebody; what do you do to prepare your father for death? For worse than death? And even if you can, how do you do it all in ten minutes?

"I made a grave mistake getting caught. Bella always said I would die at the mercy of a Dementor, by the very Ministry I spent years licking every boot of every mother's son. Do not make the same mistake Draco. When I married your mother, death would bring us apart for only a very brief moment until we met again afterwards... but I am not dying. I am losing—" Here Draco looked up. He loved his father very much, but had never seen him express any emotion save for joy or disdain. Now, his face was contorted, ugly. His thick skin wrinkled on his forehead, deep indents running from side to side. His wide blue eyes squinted until they were two lines at the top of his face; his thin lips were a gash like an open wound. Lines, lines all over his face. It looked hardly human. Lucius looked up, opening his eyes, relaxing his features.

"I ask of you one thing—not to come tomorrow. Let me be buried here. Everything falls to you. Make something of yourself. Make yourself something more than I made myself."

A new guard, less burly and more surly appeared to escort Draco out. "When you have a family, think of me. Think of your mother. Don't make the same mistakes. Don't let your ambition blind you. Love them as we have loved you, but take care of them as we have failed to." And like the little boy he used to be and still was, Draco threw himself into his father's arms as he had not done for years. He let himself cry and let his heart soar with love, and grief and fear and loneliness. He pretended to be six again, falling off his first broom and holding his father to magic the pain away. He pretended and pretended, but couldn't fight the aching thought that was forming in his head.

He was alone and helpless and vulnerable; he was a target.