Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They all belong to JK Rowling and a whole slew of other people I'm too lazy to look up and type.
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There was a storm raging outside.
Rain was pouring from the clouds as lightning littered the sky and thunder interrupted them with loud bangs.
It was beautiful.
A sixteen year old boy sat in the window seat of his lavish bedroom and watched
it, taking in the way the storm seemed to be able to express itself, so angry,
so bitter.
It was perfect.
He watched with fascination as the rain pounded down, splattering in huge splashes of water as it hit the pavement.
Perhaps he would join it.
What would it be like, he wondered, to fall so heavily from so high and hit the
ground, his blood splattering the pavement and staining the white roses beneath
his window? Would anyone care?
No, it would just be one more mess to clean up, both literally and figuratively.
Still, though, the image was inviting.
He would like nothing more than to be able to view his body, mangled and bloody, as it lay lifeless on the ground and showered by the rain. He wondered if it was possible to see your body if you were dead.
Perhaps he would try it.
If he did, though, it would have to be at a later time. At the present time, there would be no one around to witness the event, and what was the point of doing anything without an audience? He would like to see their faces if he really did choose to experiment.
What would his mother say? Would she be upset that her child was dead? Would shy cry over his body and demand to know why the Fates had ripped him from her? Would she buy a new frock for his funeral or find a new hairstyle? Would she perhaps use his death as a way to gain attention for herself?
There was the chance, he supposed, that she would be happy. After all, dealing with the death of a child would certainly warrant the prescription of more drugs, wouldn't it? And then she could land herself in the hospital again, and all of the sympathy would be for her.
He couldn't remember a time when his mother hadn't been sick. When he was younger, he'd worried and had the desire to look out for her, protect her from whatever was making her ill. The bottles of unfamiliar potions in the medicine cabinet were certainly nothing for a child to be concerned with. It didn't bother him that she needed to drink a shot or two of them to even go to sleep at night and another three or four to make it through the day.
She was his mother.
That was her life.
And what of his father?
What would he do if his son's dead body was discovered outside of his huge manor?
Would he be upset that his son had died before he'd really gotten the chance to live? Would he be angry with whatever had forced his son to take such drastic action? Would he blame the school his child attended and its worthless authority figures? Would he try to cover it all up and pretend that it had simply been an accident, which took a terribly tragic wrong turn? Would he curse his son's memory for disgracing the family? Would he hate himself for being the cause of it all?
Of course not.
His father was not one to blame himself for anything, least of anything that his stupid, worthless, ignorant son did.
What had been his father's exact words the summer that his son was twelve and had just returned from his first year of school?
Oh yes, "Idiot boy! Mudbloods are smarter than you! Piece of shit, not even worth the family name!"
Ah, the family name.
Dare not to disgrace the respected and most ancient name of Malfoy.
He had learned long before he ever reached this point that disgracing the family name warranted consequences. In fact, he'd learned that lesson at a very young and tender age, and it was one that he would never likely forget.
Of course, the family name was already being disgraced, to an extent. The reasons being exactly those that would inevitably prevent him from having the desired audience at his jumping.
His parents were away. Both of them.
His mother was ill, in the hospital for the fourth time that year. The family members and close friends had been told the same story that minor acquaintances and the rest of the public had been given- that she was having stomach problems. He considered this story and decided that it wasn't exactly a lie; it had, after all, been he who had come across her in the first moments of her sickness.
He'd been having a bit of a lie in with no plans to do anything at all for the entire day when his bedroom door flew open, and the house-elf, Mortig, rushed in all in a panick. His first instinct had been to hex the wretched little thing, but when he heard the words, his mind had to move onto far more important things.
"Mistress is sick, young master! Mistress won't wake!"
The next few minutes were a blur. He'd rushed to his mother's chambers and found that she was, indeed, sick. Her skin was the color of the white roses outside, and her blonde hair was fanning out beside her in a mess she would normally have never kept it. Her eyes were closed and her breathing slow, as he spied the empty bottle on her bedside table. It was a sleeping potion, one she'd been taking for many years; however, two shots at the most were the recommended dosage; she'd emptied the contents, enough for a month of sleep.
He'd cursed under his breath and shaken his mother, mad that she could possibly be selfish enough to try and leave him to deal with everything. She was supposed to be the fucking adult, and she'd tried to leave. He was so angry that he debated for a split-second if he should just leave her alone, serve her right after all. But that would be letting her get off easy, so he shook her harder, yelling for her to wake up.
After a moment, she opened her eyes slightly and stared at him as if she had no idea who he was. He opened his mouth to tell her exactly who he was, that he was her child and that she should rot in hell for trying to do what she did. He never got the chance, though, because a second later, she retched all over him and all over herself, the stench of vomit now littering her flowery perfumed chambers. He'd cursed her openly then, yelling every swear word and foul name that he could think of and knowing that she deserved each and every one.
Her eyes closed back, and he knew she hadn't heard him.
After the Healer had arrived, he'd given a diagnosis that she had mistaken her sleeping potion for water and taken it by accident. Everyone knew that this was complete bullshit, as water would have been drawn from the well by the house-elf and would certainly not be in a potion vile in the medicine cabinet.
Of course, no one said anything.
Her friends visited her, all fawning over her only child and offering him all sorts of things, from a place to stay to a freshly-cooked meal. He'd politely declined; he could stay in his own home, and his house-elf could cook as usual. He knew that none of them were being sincere anyway; they were simply trying to up their importance with his father.
Not that his father was in much of a position to be concerned with anyone but
himself at the moment.
He was in prison.
The trial had yet to come, though the charges had been brought.
Conspiring with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to Commit Acts of Defiance Against the Ministry of Magic.
It was a serious charge and could easily land him in Azkaban for the rest of his naturally born life if he were to be convicted. Of course, the chances of Lucius Malfoy being convicted were slim to none. The Ministry could be bought; the judge could be bribed.
Everyone and everything had a price.
Lucius would spend the summer in prison and then be acquitted when traces of the Imperius Curse were found on his cloak. He would then publicly denounce the system for even daring to charge him when they knew he was easily susceptible to the Curse, having been a victim of it two decades before.
And then, of course, the public would want to see the family's reactions. His wife and child, surely, would have suffered greatly with the loss of the patriarch figure. Narcissa would make an easy and quick recovery just in time for the cameras to start showing up; she'd never been one to shy from media attention. Reporters from every wizarding newspaper in Europe would be swarming their manor, hoping for a glimpse at their family in its time of anger and unfair charges.
It would be fake and sickening, and he would be forced to endure it all. He would be forced to pretend as though he cared about anything, or that he was happy that his father was home.
Perhaps he should join the pavement before it ever came to that.
The storm started to slow, and soon it had completely passed.
The sun came out, and a sixteen year old boy watched from his window and wondered why his mother had ever chosen white roses.
Red would be so much more attractive.
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Ah, the angst...
I would adore some feedback!!!