The Malfoy Manor
1
In the years following the war only the very senile dared to come into range with the Malfoy Manor. A forbodding sight that sparked ones darkest nightmares.
Those who were brave or folly enough to venture close to the manor had all come back with the same reportings of ghostly wails and moans. And none were brave enough to ever venture back. For fear of angering whatever horrid spirits must haunt the place.
Ronald Weasly, who durning the course of the war had taken a sharp turn to something akin to madness, heard the rumors circulating the manor was driven to investigate.
Dressing in a tawny fleece-lined jacket over a flannel, coupled with tweed pants and combat boots he drove to the Manor, clenching the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Stopping in the front of the Manor, he got out the car and made his way to the manor. Rapping his knuckles against the sleek and oaken door. When there was no response he tentatively pushed the door open. He called. Nothing. The manor echoed the eriee silence. As he entered his every boot step sounded through the seemly empty Malfoy Manor.
Malfoy? He called again, Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?
A weak sound spurred him on. The beginings of name perhaps? A plea?
He followed the feeble moans up the stone staircase, taking them by twos and threes, nearly tripping over his oversized boots and found Malfoy , or at least what slightly resembled Malfoy, at the top of the stairs.
Weasly was almost tempted to turn tail and leave the manor to never return.
The Malfoy, Ron had known had been a proud boy with short sleek white-blond hair and a pale, pointed sneering face, this man was simply an exhausted husk of a person, twin bags of dark purple hung under each pale blue-grey eyes, his face was hollow and sunken in, pale throat decorated with dark purple grape cluster bruising. His white-blond hair long and lank hanging limply down his frail back and wore a thin see through lacy negligee. He braced himself against the wall, holding his sunken stomach. His skin was sickly and grey, dotted with large bruises. He groaned softly reaching a skeletonal hand out to Weasly. Speaking in soft, whispering tone.
Father? Is that you?
Ron took a step back, nearly tripping down the steps. Oh God, where were his eyes? There was nothing but two twin holes where eyes should have been.
Father? It was soft, almost girlish. Father, I'm cold. Will you tuck me in Father?
Ron felt sick to his stomach.
Father?
He took a step forward, Ron took one back. He wanted to scream and put his fist in his mouth to stop himself. Tears filling his eyes.
Father? His voice reached an alarming pitch, fear drenching it. Father?
He seemed to realise it wasn't his father and took a stumbling step back, falling.
D-Draco? Ron managed to choke out.
Weasly? Draco questioned, crawling on hands and knees forwards. Weasly. You shouldn't be here. M-My father...
What did he do to you? Staying a few steps away from the broken huddle of limbs.
Weasly, you should leave. Before Father...He'll hurt you too.
The Malfoy reached out hand flailing to find the wall. He used it to hoist himself up and find his was through the halls.
Wait! Ron called, running after the frail man.