Author's Note: Other thank chapter 14, this is my favorite chapter... I'm considering adding more chapters to giving certain characters from the ending that get mixed up in the fiasco some more space; to evolve the massive conflicts, etc. So, I'll get writing again as I've slacked off, thinking I was good with being at 14 and so ahead. (groan)

Chapter Ten

Draco flipped through a book, sitting at his window, when he saw a bird tapping against his window pane. Or, rather, it had fallen onto it, its broken wing tucked under its body, his clawed feet scratching the window, trying to get right-side up again. He pulled open the window, inwards, and gathered it in his hands.

It nuzzled into his warm palm. It was a sparrow; it was small and delicate, and it defecated on his pants within minutes of him holding it. He sighed and stood, realizing he had little luck with birds and their emissions.

He put it inside a laundry basket, with a jar lid full of water and another with bread and seeds that Narcissa had bought for a bird feeder that was out in the garden. He covered the basket with a towel and watched the bird hop about. Meanwhile he opened his old spellbook and found a spell to get the bird's hurt wing in a splint. Draco cast the spell and the bird seemed relieved; he began to hop around happily, singing, munching on seeds.

Draco set the basket down opposite him by the window, pulled the window closed, and continued reading, interrupted from time to time by the sparrow's voice, prompting him to lower the book and glance at the bird thoughtfully.

He could imagine him healing within the course of the next week or two, and the parting that would have to occur as he would let him back into the wild. This pessimistic thought hung over him like a ghost and he worried about becoming accustomed to the bird, for he'd just have to let it go.

Yet he pushed the thought away, angry at himself a little; he would enjoy the bird while it was here. He would write at his desk and listen to its songs, and be happy for it when he'd let it free.

Draco wasn't sure which thought he felt was truest to what he felt inside; both echoed some part inside of him.

Perhaps that indecisive, uneasy feeling was the feeling he felt the most, after all.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He sat in the café early the next morning, waiting for Vivian to make her characteristic entrance; in which she'd energetically pull the door outwards and send the bells into a gleeful chiming chorus, and then walk right up to him. She didn't come, however, and so he finished his newspaper and walked home, not even thinking twice about why she wasn't there. He didn't think of any cause and effect; such as, she could be sick, or she could be hurt. He simply let it go.

Only that evening, while petting the little sparrow, he realized something could have happened to Vivian. He thought about sending an owl but all the envelopes left in his room bore the Malfoy crest, and he didn't want to ask for an envelope from Narcissa, as she'd probably ask who he was writing to and why.

So he let his worried thoughts run through his mind, and fell asleep at a normal time but he dreamed a dark dream where there was a great epidemic of some sort of disease, wherein citizens were dying everywhere, and England was falling to ruin. He woke up twice from the dream and fell asleep into it again; he was one of the few people that could change the course of a dream, realizing he was dreaming as he dreamt. He managed to push past the disastrous illness sweeping the nation, but he reflected on the people that had died in the dream; he had found his father cold in his bed; his mother alive but ill, and Vivian dead at the foot of the iron steps, too weak to climb them from illness.

When he took over the dream, he dreamt lazily of a hot summer vacation years ago with his parents; it wasn't that much of a tangent from the dream as he remembered how they had all gotten horrible indigestion from something and had spent the last few days running to and from the bathroom.

He woke up and went to the café, but she wasn't there again that morning. He reconsidered writing; he thought of going to a store and buying unmarked envelopes for the cause; yet he felt ridiculous for wanting to go to such lengths, probably only to find out she was busy with a painting.

Perhaps he could visit?

The thought moved back and forth, considered, reconsidered, re-reconsidered, but he kept finding excuses not to; like leading her on, or just disappointing himself, or making a fool of himself.

Therefore, he decided, he wouldn't go.

&&&&&&&&&&&

The third day of her absence, he bought envelopes but couldn't put together a coherent letter without sounding like a worried, matronly figure; are you sick? Are you alright? I sort of miss you, a little.

Did he miss her? Or was he used to her being a part of his life now, and he felt like he was losing control because she left his daily schedule? Did he control her? Or was she an ever-changing variable in his life, bringing new things in and taking old things out?

He didn't know for sure.

Women!

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Five days of absence; a letter was formed and sent. Worried-sounding or not, he had to know. He waited all day at home, but there was no reply. He was struck by an odd muse though, and after writing the letter, he wrote two good stories, one of which his boss put on the front page; the second, on the other side. That night he found out that his father had gotten sick; a paranoid reminder of his dream entered his mind and he sat the rest of the night beside his father with Narcissa, who looked as if she herself were dying, slipping away.

He could recall being a little boy, worrying about how his parents would die someday; and now he felt it coming close, like an inevitable cold hand, reaching out, thin and bony, for him; for his parents; and he hated the thought.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He sent another letter to her.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

After a week, Draco went to Vivian's home, utterly baffled as to why she was gone. He stood by the door and found a doorbell; he rang it, but nobody came to the door. He fiddled around behind the flower pots, peeking in them and behind them; he found that there was a spare key tucked into the sprawling leaves of a fern.

He had no inhibitions at all of entering someone's home on whim. His feet knocked over a s tack of mail at her door; Draco lifted it and carried it in under his arm. He saw Vivian, wrapped in 2 blankets and smelling like a nose-cleansing herbal rub; she croaked, "Mum?"

"No, it's me," Draco said.

"Wow, hi, sorry... I can't even move without getting dizzy," she said, "I only get up to go to the bathroom or throw up," She looked worn out just by talking to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and then realized the weight of the words – his first apology in a very long time – and he added why, "for intruding."

She coughed loudly, " I hate doctors. I never take medicine. I'm so weird, I want to sleep this flu through," She coughed the last sentence entirely.

"You were gone all week. I wrote," he said, forlornly, "I'm going to fetch a doctor for you."

"I always rest these through," Vivian protested.

"You compromise with my ideas for once, okay? I've compromised a lot to fit you, remember."

"If you really, really want to," She turned her head and looked at him. Her hair had faded to a white-blonde color, a little lighter than his; her eyes looked big because her eyeliner had smudged and made them stand out. She looked weary but oddly attractive in her weakness. He felt control surging back towards his side in their relationship with each other; now he was in charge, guiding her, not vice versa, "I look horrid," she croaked, seeing him look at her so intently.

"No, you just look ill," he sat at the end of the couch. She uncurled her feet from her body and her toes touched his leg. He patted her feet uncertainly, "I wrote twice."

"My Mum must've, too... and the Potters. I wrote them about your desire for privacy and sent out my owl. I keep my word, even when I'm feeling like shit."

"You didn't have to, if you were so sick. Maybe you're feverish," he said.

"Just a bit," She confessed.

He stood and placed his cool hand on her forehead and exclaimed, "if you get any warmer you'll set yourself on fire!"

She broke into a wavering, cough-like laugh, "Thanks, Mum."

He motioned at the stack of letters he was holding under his arm, "I brought in all your mail," He offered helplessly, feeling stupid for intruding but also relieved about finding out why she was gone so long.

"How'd you get in? I've charmed the door from lock-pickers and the like."

"I found the spare."

"Was it hidden really obviously?" She looked disappointed.

"No, no, it took a good five minutes and some weird finger-moving," he joked.

"You're quite the Good Samaritan out of nowhere," she said, her face no smiling quite warmly.

"I'm not one big asshole, or some stone-cold, uh... stone. I'm not completely immune to friendship and kindness."

"So we're friends? Real friends?"

He saw the expectant, hopeful expression on her face, and the curious glow of her eyes and he said, unable to dodge the question, "Yes."

"Thanks," Vivian reached her hand out to him.

He grasped her hand and held it. She laughed, "No! The letters, silly!"

He colored and gave her the letters instantly.

She pulled out the ones with his name and return address – or, rather, Brom Breeler's name – and she opened them, "Let's see what you wrote." He wanted to sprint from the room, completely humiliated by his own panicking scrawl on the folded sheet of paper she found first. " Vivian," she started, then asked, "No dear?"

"Only when I write to my mother," he responded.

"I see," She continued, "Are you doing alright? I haven't seen you for a while. I found this bird with a broken wing and took it in for the time being. Is your kitten still around? I didn't see it when I visited. Maybe you're out and about too, visiting your family, but its been a while. Brom."

She folded it and then pulled out a little ball with a bell in it and rattled it. Within seconds a noisy gallop emerged from the bathroom and flooded into the living room. Draco smiled a little at the little creature as it pranced around the ball, its fur bristling in excitement.

"So that answers your question," Vivian said, "You look completely different when you smile."

He didn't know how to reply.

She laughed at that, too, "You're like a trapped griffin or something, your eyes look so bewildered."

"Well, I'm still worried," he said lamely.

"You can't handle compliments, that's all," she scolded, "You don't even say thank you."

"I don't agree with most compliments," he admitted.

"I haven't really lied to you, so you ought to believe I'm sincere," She said and coughed for a while after speaking.

Draco wrote a hasty note during that time to the Doctor, "It's my doctor, he's very good, and he'll definitely help you," he changed the subject.

"I think my owl's gone. The Potters are probably watching it, I directed him from here to their house last."

"I'll send it with my owl from home and direct him to come here. I'll tell him where the key's hidden."

"Alright, you seem hell-bent on," coughing ensued, then, "on getting a doctor. Excuse me."

"He'll be here this evening, I'll make sure of it," he said.

"Mmm, don't try to get him out of his office just to come see me," Vivian said, " That'll cost too much."

"I never said you'll pay."

Jeez, what happened to you?"

"I've got my father dying at home. I reconsidered a lot of things. He's on his deathbed. I've thought about the hole left in my life, if he were to be taken. There'd be a hole if you just disappeared, too."

"I'm sorry about your father," Vivian said softly.

"I can't stay long, I'm due at home, my mother wants me to keep vigilance at my father's side," Draco explained.

"Yet you came here, leaving your father's deathbed," she raised her eyebrows, "I'm flattered, no, really, I am!" She noticed him looking at the ground, embarrassed.

"I should leave," he said.

"We didn't read your second letter," She pointed out.

"I'll visit again, if I don't see you soon," he said.

"Alright, I hope I'll see you at the café, then," She waved feebly, sniffling.

He nodded, " Good-bye."

"Don't worry too much! Good-bye," She called after him.

Draco left, closing the door, and he returned the key to its hiding place. He walked down the stairs, moving like a cat, quick and silent. He stalked quickly down the street, his eyes sliding off the buildings around him, the sun shining in his eyes and flashing colors in blots when he blinked.

Just as Vivian had said, he had been moved to look out for someone that he knew, maybe even was friends with. He was doing things for no reason, other than to be good, (a "good person" like Vivian); and he above all didn't know why.

He couldn't escape the feeling, however, that his mind was crafting him a cage, a way to recede and stay away; for his heart was searching for freedom and for room to let Vivian in. He felt lost somewhere between his head and his heart, thrashing like a bird with a broken wing.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He thought a lot that night, staying up until bleak sunrise with Lucius. Lucius' face was white as snow, and his cheeks were drawn. He would open his mouth, his dry lips cracking and bleeding, and Draco would hold a cup to his lips. He was petrified with fear; just days ago he had wished for his father's death, to end his pained existence, but now he sobbed in the corner of his father's room, hoping that he would live to see another day.

Draco was startled from his despair, which had added weights his eyelids and brought him close to sleep; Lucius was forming coherent words, "Draco... son..."

He stood and sat on the chair adjacent to the bed. Narcissa had fallen asleep on the cot he had brought into the room. He heard her slow, whistling breath and his father's raspy, rattling sighs.

Draco touched his father's hand.

Lucius opened his pale eyes, one with a cataract hazing it whiter; he lifted his hand slowly and grasped his son's wrist with unexpected strength.

"Father?" Draco asked, uncertainly.

"My son," he babbled, then closed his eyes. Draco could feel his grip loosening on his wrist and lifted the cup to his lips again, but he felt Lucius's hands fall to the bed's surface, his cold fingers caressing his son's skin.

He watched Lucius with bated breath. His father's breath was no longer present in the room. His mother was the only one breathing.

Draco felt the sting of tears as he rushed out a quick breath; he couldn't fight his tears any longer. He knelt by his father, pulling his eyes closed, and then pressed his father's hand to his own wet, cold cheek.

He stood to wake Narcissa, his fingers touching her white shoulder, for the first time in many years. She stirred awake from her light sleep and whispered, "Draco? Is something..." The silence surrounding her shuddering breath and his muted tears spoke a thousand words. She stood immediately and rushed to Lucius's bedside, her hand covering her mouth. She let out a loud, sorrowful moan, "Oh, oh, Lucius, oh," her fingers danced across her husband's arm.

"He..." Draco lost his voice.

NArcissa's silver-laced hair glowed like a Madonna's in the moonlight. Her beautiful, diamond-studded earrings shivered as she wept.

Draco saw her pull at her necklace, tearing it off; pearls bounced and rolled across the floor. She pulled out her earrings, suddenly disgusted with the impressive wealth she had on her body, and its meaninglessness. She yanked off a bracelet and threw it at the floor, and, somewhat calmed, she cried in silence.

Draco felt an unbearable urge to hug her; he didn't know where it came from exactly, but he felt it was somehow implanted in his mind by Vivian. Yet, seeing his mother crying, he felt like an adult, finally; somehow wiser but also sadder, the sort of pervading sadness that he had never before known. He slipped from the room and sat on his bed a few rooms down the hallway. He could see the new morning playing over the trees in the distance; Draco stood and drew the lace and cover curtains, then clutched the red, silk curtain to his mouth and face, wiping tears off. He dressed for the new day, ignoring his own needs for sleep. He couldn't imagine sleeping or eating with his father's dead body in the mansion.

He sent a letter, his second in twenty four hours, to his doctor. He asked him to help arrange a private, small funeral. Draco had seen a few gravestones at the edge of the garden, jutting out through the soil like flat, large teeth. Draco felt Lucius would be buried there among the others; he didn't know whether the dead were pureblood or Mudblood, it didn't matter. Dead was dead.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Two days passed. Draco attended the burial, then went to the café, wanting caffeine to smoothen his frail nerves. He had submitted an obituary to the Daily Prophet, and pretended he was Brom Breeler, intercepting the Malfoy letter and then writing the obituary, singing praises to Lucius.

Now Draco sat in the café, needing the coffee, for he hadn't slept more than three hours for the past three nights. He didn't take a newspaper; he didn't check to see the obituary in print. Nothing seemed to matter much.

Vivian came after he had sat there, nearly immobile, for ten minutes. His coffee was no longer steaming gray in the air above it, rather, it had swallowed the whipped cream and white chocolate and took on a swirled, black and white surface. She saw his miserable face and sat by him, tugging off a purse she had on with her today, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really," he lied, and added, "I got drunk yesterday."

"Why? Because I wasn't in the café?" She saw his face, completely serious and devoid of any humor, and said, "I'm just kidding. Sorry." She grew silent, watching his face, waiting for a sign of life, " Blink? Once for yes? Twice for no?"

He stirred his coffee and drank from it, displeased with how quickly it cooled down, then said, "I guess I'm still completely knocked out of it."

"I hope you don't do it in front of Katie."

"Do it?" He looked at her, for a minute processing it as something quite incorrect that she could be implying.

"Drink!" She swatted at him with her hand, "Jeez, get on the ball, man. It's a brand new day. Put away the bottle!"

Draco smirked, feeling lighter just being around her, "I suppose you wouldn't mind taking a walk with me? I need someone to make me feel better. Seeing someone even more pathetic than I am puts me in good spirits."

She sparred back with him, "I guess sacrificing an hour of my time to a rude cretin would count as social service."

"For your jail sentence, I'm sure."

"Niced someone to death."

"Tough way to go."

They exchanged angry glances, both feigning it, and Draco felt himself smiling and laughing again. Vivian did too, then reached into her purse and pulled something out and pushed it into his hands, "Wear this sometime? Please?"

He unbundled whatever it was and saw that it was a black trenchcoat.

"Why?" He asked.

"Have you seen the Muggle movie, "The Matrix"?" She asked, "On film, put out by that radio station about Muggle life and art?"

"No," Draco lied, for he had felt like he was somehow supporting Muggles by watching it; he thought of them like of Mudbloods before. Saying "no" felt bad, however, so he added, "Well, yes, but a long time ago," so it wasn't a lie. He felt he ought to be sincere to her, as she was sincere to him.

"Trench coats are in again, try it," she said, "You don't always have to wear that silly blazer of yours."

"Don't think you'll get me to cross the reasonable bounds of clothing styles; I'm comfortable the way I am."

"I know," Vivian took a pair of black gloves out, "look at how cool these are." She tugged them on. They were ball-room gloves; beautiful, shimmering and long, past her elbows.

"Did you go to a rummage shop or something?"

"Vintage everything," She confessed, "from a thrift store. My family wasn't averse to going there, lots of kids, too little money."

It reminded him of the Weasleys. He pushed the thought away; Vivian wasn't like them; he couldn't explain why exactly but he just didn't want to lump her with them; Potter's friends. A realization dawned on him – she probably knew them too, if she knew Harry Potter. He said, "Do you know the Weasleys?"

"Do you?" She asked.

"Not very well," He replied, "interviewed them once," he covered, just in case she asks them about Brom Breeler and finds that they only knew a Draco of that description; "their family layout is kind of like yours."

"Nah," She shrugged, "I don't know them well either."

He finished his coffee, "Let's take that walk then."

"Fine," Vivian sighed, "Maybe I can nice you to death, too, and cross you off my daily to-do lists."

"Do how?" He asked, hoping he wasn't pushing the envelope too far, or being too perverted. He felt like his much younger self with this verbal sparring.

"Wouldn't you like to know," She frowned at him critically.

They exited and he walked with her.