Title: Now I Leave You With My Fondest Memory
Summary: The deep wound was weeping blood down Draco's side. "I need you to take this to Hermione Granger." He cupped the back of the bird's soft head and rested his own forehead against it. Saying goodbye. "Now go," he whispered. Post-war, twenty years later. DHr.
Disclaimer: Shocking, but I am NOT JK Rowling! I know, technically she might have time between best-selling novels to squeeze in a little DHr fic (and we all know, deep down in her darkest, most-lusty depths she ships them!), but I guess you just have to trust me when I say that I am not her, and that I did not create this world or these characters. Bummer, dude.
A/N: Okay, I am really pumped about this one. I have a plan, and I swear to you that this will be the one that I will finally finish! So here's what I'm thinking-so long as people are reading this and liking it, I can write a chapter a week. Maybe even faster than that, because I am really looking forward to write this one. I know the summary is vague, but here's a few things you can expect from this fic: flashbacks to Hogwarts, Draco being cute and fatherly, Draco being an ass just like he's supposed to be, Hermione being a bossy know-it-all likes she's supposed to be, flashy gore, and uh, romance. That too.
Anyway, enough talk. I hope you enjoy!
This is NOT pathetic, he thought to himself with a sharp little smirk. Of course, what he was doing was very pathetic, and he knew that. It was a Saturday night, and he was a 39-year-old man guzzling down a bottle of wine alone. At first, he'd bothered with the pretense of getting a dusty glass out of the cupboard...but when he grabbed the bottle of blood-red wine from the cellars, he knew there'd be no need. Straight from the bottle was fine. More efficient, actually.
"Oh, shut up," he muttered to himself before swallowing down another burning mouthful. This was a sad picture. No denying it. Once upon a time, Malfoy Manor had been a happier place. Ten years ago, visitors to the mansion (and there hadn't been many, save for his wife's family) would've oohed and awed over the impeccably cared-for artwork and tapestries-the looming grandiosity of it all. The high ceilings, the glittering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Also, there was the pretty picture of himself and his wife, a snobby-but-tolerable woman named Astoria Greengrass. The little blond boy running around was quite heartwarming too, occasionally stopping to tug on his father's pant legs and beg for sweets.
To say that he was happy would've been too simple, but there were things about his life that Draco had enjoyed. His marriage was mostly for show-they'd admittedly never loved each other-but he did trust and at times enjoy Astoria's companionship. She felt more like a good friend than anything. And Scorpius...Draco loved the boy fiercely. Still did.
But he was at school, sorted into Slytherin House just as everyone had expected. Astoria, bless the woman, actually fell in love with some other man, and Draco understood her need to leave. He didn't even get angry when he found out she'd been screwing the guy, some nobody who worked at the Muggle Liason Office. She agreed to stay present in Scorpius's life-she loved the boy too-and beyond that, Draco couldn't really ask her for more. They exchanged letters often, most of hers expressing concern that he didn't 'get out enough' and that he was going to 'waste away' in that mansion of his.
So there was really only the wine. And his memories. He liked to visit his Penseive on the attic floor often.
"Now THAT is really sad," he said out loud to himself, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle was already half-empty now, and the wine was starting to work its magic. He was entering that wonderful lightheaded state. You could be the most pathetic man on the continent (Draco he usually thought he was) and still feel alright if you were mind-numbingly drunk.
His plans for the night included finishing this bottle, probably finishing another one, and working on a new draft of The Letter. It was his obsession. How many rolls of parchment had he gone through over the years, eventually balling each letter up and throwing it into the fire? It never sounded right. And above all, he sounded desperate.
No, someday he'd get it down perfectly. The tone, the words...she would read it, probably bawl her eyes out, and come running through those great doors of his, cloak billowing out behind her, hair as bushy and wild as ever.
Yes. That bit of self-delusion he HAD to believe, because if he didn't? Well...then, save for his son's brief visits during the year, he really would have nothing.
Draco staggered out of the leather chair by the fireplace and began walking down the huge, marble-lined hallway that ran through the length of the mansion. His bedroom was at the end and to the right...there he would find what he needed. Parchment, a quill. Maybe if he laid on his bed and let his thoughts wander, he'd think of the perfect words to write. Oftentimes, he thought his letters either came out sounding too sappy and pathetic or too rigid and formal. He wanted to strike that perfect medium, because, after all, she was the "Brightest Witch of Her Age"...she would analyze and critique his letter to death, the insufferable know-it-all. The thought made him laugh, and he took another swig of wine.
He was about to turn into his bedroom, smile still on his face, when he heard a noise drifting down the length of the hallway. At first it was a small noise-a door creaking open, maybe-but then he heard other things. Voices. Several voices, male and female. Not even bothering to whisper, these hooligans.
But are they really hooligans? the sober part of his mind asked in a quiet voice. Could hooligans really break through all that complicated spell-work you placed on the front gates?
"Well, what the fuck," he whispered, ducking down to place his bottle of wine on the floor. He reached into the pocket of his robe (emerald, of course) and brought out his wand. There was a small tremor in his hand, but mostly he felt alright. It probably had a lot to do with the alcohol pumping through his system.
He waited until the band of men and women appeared at the head of the hallway. And then his heart sunk.
Oh, hell. I'm really screwed. Then: I never even got to send her my letter! SHIT!
They were dressed in Death Eater garb, all of them. Long black cloaks, silver masks. The War had been fought and lost twenty years ago, but The Dark Lord still had his host of loyal followers. Draco thought the whole thing was incredibly stupid, but it didn't surprise him that some idiots still clung to the idea that The Dark Lord would return. First of all, if He didn't return, who would bring about the Muggle and Muggle-born scourge that these simple-minded fools all clearly wanted? Secondly, if Harry Potter and his band of ragtag friends really did defeat the darkest wizard of all time, what did that say for their loyalty? Their family history? Draco could sympathize a little bit-the history books wouldn't be too kind to the Malfoys-but there came a time when you simply had to accept defeat.
"You lot? Really?" Draco said irritably, rolling his gray eyes to the ceiling. "He's dead! What more do you want? Merlin and Aggripa, I've seen more brains in Blast-Ended Skrewts!" He felt himself swaying. The wine was working its magic alright. "Anyway. Yeah. Get the fuck out of my house."
He smirked at himself for that one. Artfully done, he thought. He was still probably going to die, but at least he might make one or two of them feel like a jackass before making his grand exit.
"Draco Malfoy," one of them said, stepping to the head of the pack. Draco counted eight in total. This one was the tallest, and she spoke in a slow drawl that almost rivaled his own.
"Yes?"
The female Death Eater lowered her hood and removed her mask. This was no one he'd ever seen before. He'd figured that the old magic bloodlines wouldn't involve themselves with such nonsense as this. This gang was probably made up of bitter half-bloods and psychopathic Muggle-borns who hated their parents, he thought. And this woman looked psychopathic. Beautiful and dark in a way that reminded him of his fucked-up Aunt Bella-and probably just as scattered in the sanity department.
"What a sad sight you are!" she said with a broken trill of laughter. "We figured we'd find you here alone. We were hoping your woman and child would be here, but I guess we'll just have to settle for killing you."
"That's presumptuous, don't you think?" he asked, raising his wand and backing up into the proper dueling stance. Despite his drunkenness, he thought he mastered his movements quite well. "It's been awhile since I've dueled anyone, but it might be fun to get some practice in. Plus, I can rid the world of a few more simpletons."
They all laughed at that. Draco smirk went even wider. I'm a regular comedian, aren't I?
"What's your name, Twitchy?"
As if in response, she blinked both of her eyes and crinkled her nose in what appeared to be a genuine nervous tick. "It's Lora. Anyway, we're going to kill you. Care to know why?"
Draco shrugged. "Sure."
"We've read the accounts of Death Eaters who faced trial at the Ministry of Magic. Many of them said that your cunt mother lied about Harry Potter being dead...she lied to the Dark Lord that night, and that's why..." she trailed off and shook her head in anger.
"Why what? He lost? He died? Are you admitting he's dead now! Merlin's beard, it's a breakthrough!" Then the smile fell from from his face. "And don't call my mother a cunt."
"Oh, but she was one. It's a shame she died, and so young. Muggle disease, wasn't it? Cancer?" Lora tittered out a little note of laughter, and like the simple-minded idiots that they were, the rest of her companions chuckled along with her. Draco cringed. The mimicry reminded him of Crabbe and Goyle.
"I wouldn't call it a Muggle disease considering witches and wizards die from it all the time. Are you telling me you lot couldn't die of cancer? Hell, half of you are probably Muggle-borns anyway."
Lora's dark eyes widened as though he'd struck her. "Shut up!"
"Ha! Hit a nerve, have I?" Maybe I don't have anything to be afraid of, he thought, drawing in a deep breath. None of them seemed too bright. It took intelligence to become skilled with a wand. Of course, there was still the fact that they'd broken through the front gates to get here, but he pushed that bit of knowledge to the back of his mind. Yes, best to think positive. Eight was a large number of people to take on alone, but if he was faced against eight idiots, maybe he had a chance.
"Oh, enough chit-chat. You're pissing me off. The point of it is, your mother was a cunt and a traitor, and since we can't kill her and your father's half-mad at St. Mungo's, you're the next best thing! Plus, we've heard stories that you were working with Potter and the Order during the time of the War."
"Oh, really?" Draco snorted. The idea that Potter would accept him into his golden group of Gryffindors was too funny to take seriously.
"So, when the Dark Lord returns, he'll be very pleased to know that we've killed you." Lora smiled with her teeth, and Draco could see the shadow of the pretty girl she'd probably been before losing her mind. "That's what we do...we find the darkest roots from the Dark Lord's past and we tear them out, so when he returns, the way will be made perfect for him."
Draco let out a long sigh. "Well alright, then. Have we gotten to the part where you try to kill me?"
As if in response, one of the hooded figures that stood at Lora's left shoulder raised their wand in the air and screamed, "CRUCIO!"
Draco deflected the red jet of light easily. "Hey big guy, word of advice? If you're gonna kill me, you need to move a little faster than that."
That's when the real battle started. Jets of red and blue came speeding towards him-far too many to deflect. He dove to the right and hit the floor, his chest slamming against the marble hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
Still, he didn't have to speak to cast a spell. Gasping for air, he pointed his wand and thought STUPEFY! One of the hooded figures was propelled into the air. Like a dementor, they flew and flew, black cloak billowing, until they hit his chandelier and brought the giant crystal centerpiece crashing to the floor. While the Death Eaters-in-denial were busy ducking away from the falling chandelier, Draco leapt to his feet and began to run.
He slammed his bedroom door behind him and raced to the end of the room, bypassing his bed, the roaring fireplace, and nearly tripping over the ancient emerald-silver rug. He didn't even know where he was planning to go until he reached the door beside his wardrobe. Then he realized it, and the fact that his legs had carried him here made perfect sense.
He was heading for the attic.
He stepped into the darkness and shut the door behind him at the very same moment that he heard the door to his bedroom being blown off its hinges. Lumos Maxima! the thought, and the dark passageway was bathed in white light. Draco took one moment to look up at the long set of stone steps before racing up them.
Halfway up, lungs aching, heart pounding, he heard the door below him burst open.
"SECTUMSEMPRA!" a gruff voice shouted.
He glanced down just in time to see the curse flying at him-it was far too late to deflect at this point. The hot knife plunged deep into his left side and slashed from chest to hip. Immediately, he felt the spill of warm blood sheeting over his skin. Running down his legs and soaking his nice sheepskin slippers.
"Orbus!" Draco shouted, and the hooded figure melted into the floor, as though falling straight through. As soon as the man's shoulders reached the stone, he stopped sinking; a pretty good obstacle for anyone else who wanted to chase him up this staircase, Draco thought. Just for good measure, he stunned the bastard too before turning his attention back to the steps.
"Shit," he breathed, moving much slower now. His left side was screaming. He didn't have time to look, but it sure felt like a lot of blood. He could feel it squelching beneath his soaked slipper, probably leaving a grisly trail.
He heard someone crashing into the man he'd left at the foot of the steps. While this hooded figure was busy cursing and groping for his fallen wand, Draco thought sectumsempra and gave this Death Eater their own slash across the side. They howled in pain. It might've been cruel under normal circumstances, but Draco was getting angry. These fools had broken into his house, insulted his dead mother, and now it was looking as though he might never reach the attic. Thanks to them, he'd never get to write his letter; he was going to have to settle for second best, it seemed.
If only he could reach the attic.
Whoever entered next did it stealthily, because Draco didn't hear it. He only knew their presence by the sensation of their spell slamming into his back. It was like being hit by a massive sledgehammer between the shoulder blades, and his cheek stuck the sharp edge of the next step. He swallowed blood and reached up with one hand, reduced to crawling now.
With the other arm, he pointed his wand and stunned this other faceless Death Eater. Now there was a whole pile of them lying at the of the steps. Draco might've felt pride over his skills as a wizard if he wasn't so busy bleeding to death.
After what felt like minutes of agonizing pain, Draco felt his fingers curl over the lip of the top step. He hauled himself over it and tumbled into the tiny attic room, sprawled on his back and gasping for breath. When he felt blood, warm and sickly-smelling spreading out beneath his back, he knew he was in real trouble.
"Oooh, Draco!" Lora's voice called from below. It echoed up the staircase and into the small, stone-walled room. Then she cackled. Merlin, she reminded him of his Aunt Bella.
No time now, he thought, propping himself up on his hands and knees and crawling toward the end of the room. There was a square window there, casting a square of moonlight over the segment of floor that the blood-soaked Draco Malfoy was currently crawling over. There was the outline of an owl, too, in this window-an owl that squawked noisily at the sight of its master.
"Evening, 'Braxis," Malfoy said pleasantly enough. He dragged himself forward another foot and grimaced. The bird was named after his grandfather Abraxis, which was fitting considering how similar the two were. Generally snobbish, silent unless driven to speak.
And seeing me dragging my bloody carcass across the floor sure is giving him a lot to talk about, Draco thought as the bird fluttered its wings and squawked some more.
"I'm going to need you to do me a favor, old friend." There was a small table beside the bird's perch scattered with a few random items. A spool of ribbon, owl droppings...a particularly good draft of The Letter that Draco hadn't found the heart to throw into the fire.
Still, I'm not sending it, he told himself before he allowed himself to consider it. It might've been his best draft, but it wasn't good enough.
His bloody hand enclosed itself around the last item on this table. A small glass bottle. Draco looked up at the bird's silhouette, silent tears of pain standing out in his gray eyes.
"To me, 'Braxis," he said.
The bird left his perch and fluttered down to the floor beside his owner. Then Abraxis did something very uncharacteristic-he cooed lowly and nuzzled Draco's cheek with his black, feathery head.
With the hand that wasn't holding the bottle, Draco patted the bird's head lovingly. The blood this left on his feathers glittered in the moonlight. "Thank you. You've been a good bird, 'Braxis. Now, if it's alright, I have one last task for you."
Draco held up the bottle. Its airy contents swirled around slowly, illuminating his face with silvery dancing light. The owl's eyes widened at the sight of it, as if entranced.
"I need you to take this to Hermione Granger. Here." He reached up for the table and brought back a strand of satin ribbon. As he set himself to tying the bottle around the bird's leg, he heard the woman's cackles coming closer. "She lives in Surrey. Little cottage down the street from Blaise. It's by a stream. You'll know it when you see it."
Draco looked into the owl's yellow eyes, huge and round like billiard balls. It cooed lowly again and ducked its head. Caught by a sudden wave of emotion, Draco cupped the back of the bird's soft head and rested his own forehead against it. Saying goodbye.
"Now go," he whispered, and the bird sprang up and soared out of the window.
He had just enough time to back himself up against the wall and point his wand at the opening to the steps. As he waited for the crazy woman to appear, he suddenly felt afraid. Not of dying, strangely enough. He wondered now if he'd just made a huge mistake. Would it have been wiser just to take those memories with him to the grave? What would be gained now in sharing them with Granger? They would only make her sad.
But it was too late now. He felt his back slide an inch down the wall. Black spots were scattered across his vision.
When the woman appeared in the doorway, shrieking with joy like an evil witch in a Muggle cartoon, Draco thought, STUPEFY! Before the black spots in his vision melted together and thrust him fully into darkness, Draco saw another jet of red light rushing to meet his own.
A/N: Gasp! Wah happened? How will Hermione react when she receives the bottle? What's IN the bottle? Guess you'll have to find out in next week's chapter!
Anyway, I hate to be whiny and needy, but if you liked this first chapter and you want to see more, could you leave me a review? Unless I receive feedback for these things, it feels like I'm just talking to myself...and I do that enough already, hahaha *twitch*. Interacting is half the fun on this website IMO, so tell me what you think! And no, this is not just my roundabout way of begging for praise...I like honest critique and suggestions too! Bring it on!
:)