A/N:
I have had this idea for a while, and finally decided to do it.. So here is a little preview of what I am working on at the moment! I would love to know your opinion, and whether you would like for me to continue or not?
Chapter one – the task
Fog. That is all his eye can spy through the dusty glass window. It covers the ground like snow. Maybe fog is even jealous of snow, he thinks to himself. He would understand if it was, because fog is always in the way. Nobody really wakes up in the morning, smiles and thinks to themselves "Oh, it is such a lovely, foggy day. Let's go outside." Whilst children and childish souls jumps out of bed and nearly falls out of the door as soon as a single snowflake falls to the ground.
He shivers by the thought of being covered in a thick layer of cold snow. He is not a fan.
But thankfully it is August, so both snow and cold are very distant things. He doesn't have to worry about becoming an ice sculpture just yet.
Though, one thing he does have to worry about. And he does. He does a whole lot, indeed. It hasn't left his mind since last night, not even for a second. He has not even been able to sleep. He has tried to think of other things and take his mind off completely, but nothing has worked for him yet. The words that had been said still flies around in his mind. He is trying to give them a new meaning, make them less hurtful, but it's impossible. They are constantly repeating themselves in that cold voice that can make him freeze even in front of the fireplace, like a broken record.
He takes another glare outside the squared window. If it hadn't been for the heavy fog, he would have been able to see his front yard with the well-cut grass and fiercely coloured flowers that his mother takes so good care of. She says she loves to do it, but he suspects her for using it as some sort of therapy. She, too, needs to get her mind of things sometimes.
He would also have been able to see the few wrought-iron gates down the driveway, which you have to come through in order to reach the manor. The gates are black and three times as tall as him. He has clear memories of people entering and leaving through the gates, though most of the people never bothered to get the gates open; they just flew through it. That's a privilege only few people known by the family have.
Last night there had been a bunch of people passing through, but one of them had been a very rare guest of the house. The house-elf of the manor had cleaned and tidied all day to make every thing look as presentable as possible. Everyone who had been present in the living-room last night had been feeling uncomfortable, even though most of them should be used to his presence by now, but having him around always means horror and pain, even to his most loyal followers. Last night had not been an exception at all. It had been very painful and terrifying, especially to the family of the manor.
Shivers still runs down his spine at the memory. He isn't sure if it will ever be different. He will always feel the pain, the fear, the powerlessness over himself.. It seems impossible to ever feel differently. He wishes he would feel nothing at all. Numb. It sounds tempting. He can't believe it to be possible to feel any worse. Though, he also knows that he soon will be. Maybe even before the snow arrives?
What indeed does arrive before the snow is his father. He appears out of the blue in front of the first gate. It makes shrill noises as it opens for him. His father looks a lot different from last night. A little, almost unnoticeable smile is painted on his face. Whatever he has been doing all day was a success. His insanely long, insanely blonde hair looks exact the same as it had earlier on the day, as if he had never left the manor, but his clothes is ripped a few places, and through the holes you can see a wounds and blood. He has been doing duties for his master once again today. It is obvious. Lately he has been spending far more time destroying the world than saving it at his job in the Ministry of Magic. He says he has no choice. He has to make up for his last huge mistake. One his master will not forget as easily. His master is not happy with him any longer, though he used to be his preferred. His father finds it very lucky that he is still alive.
"Draco," his mother says from down the stairs, "come down for tea."
Draco releases his gaze from the window and sighs. No "please" or "won't you, dear." He just has to.
He walks down the fragile staircase in the manor and enters the living-room where he finds his mother Narcissa pouring hot tea in three porcelain cups. Her face is stiff, but her eyes are red and puffy; she has been crying. Silly mother, he thinks. Why waste tears on such a small and meaningless thing? But Draco knows that if he took time to really think about what his future holds, he would shed a tear or two, too.
"Where's father?" Draco asks. His mother looks at him in surprise. She had not been expecting any words from him in the next long time. When things got too much, or Draco had too much on his mind, he would stop talking. He basically lived in his mind.
"Didn't I tell you it was Mr. Malfoy, Sir or absolutely nothing, son?" his father, Lucius, spits. His voice is cold as ice, obviously copying off his master.