HIS PERFECT FAMILY
By: MJT13
Disclaimer:This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary:Harry is given a chance to observe Draco's personal life at home. What is his reaction, after comparing Draco's life with his own, at the Dursleys?
Warning/s: May contain a slight morbidity, which is why it's rated-T.
Stats: One-Shot, Drama/Tragedy, Rated-T (PG-13)
Harry stomped into his cousin, Dudley's second bedroom, which was also his own at present. He had just had another screaming match with his uncle, Vernon Dursley, yet again, about Hedwig.
"That bloody bird's keeping us all up at night, boy!" Uncle Vernon had yelled after shouting for his nephew to come into the master bedroom. "Can't you shut it up?"
Harry had reluctantly told the truth, saying he couldn't. "She's bored, I told you." He said, feeling as if he had been repeating the phrase over and over again for the past week, which he had. Ever since he had gotten back from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hedwig had been locked up in her cage by his accursed relatives, and never let out. This, unfortunately, caused her to hoot all night long without stop, which in turn caused the Dursleys - especially a particular Uncle Vernon Dursley - to be kept up all night, and to put the blame solely on their nephew and cousin.
Sighing, Harry walked over to Hedwig's cage, making shushing sounds, with a pleading look on his face. Thankfully, Hedwig understood, but she looked a bit ruffled after snapping her beak shut. "Thanks, Hedwig," Harry murmured, stepping away from the cage and climbing into his bed. And the night wore on in silence.
But Harry's mind was all but quiet, thoughts rushed through his eleven-year-old head, and none of them were pleasant. Why can't I have a family? Echoed through Harry's mind. A real one... one with loving parents, and a brother who I can talk to - share thoughts with? I know I have my friends... but... Harry sniffed, and tears fell from his young eyes, his train of thought fell away. Inside him, Harry knew that Ron and Hermione couldn't fill in the missing part of him - the one that craved a mother's touch, or a father's embrace.
Harry's tears fell onto the pristine white pillowcase... they tasted of bitter memory. Memory of living with the Dursleys, of being beaten up by his cousin, physically abused by his uncle, and psychologically abused by his aunt. Their words and gestures had stung Harry in places that could never be healed.
I wonder what it would be like if Mum and Dad were here... Harry wondered. Or what it would be like if I wasn't living with the Dursleys... if I was adopted by foster parents... real parents, who had gentle character and soothing words... Harry gave a sob, which seemed to have been uttered into a microphone in the silence of the dark.
Harry shut his glistening eyes, and turned his face into his pillow, trying to get his restless sleep. The dream of a perfect family clung to his mind as he fell into slumber.
ooo
Draco walked through the heavy wooden doors of Malfoy Manor. It was the end of his first school year at Hogwarts, and he had just arrived back home. He was greeted by his mother at the foot of the stairs, her radiant smile lighting up her whole face. She had missed her son dearly when he had been at school.
"Draco, love..." She put her arms around him. "How was school?"
"Great, Mother." He replied with a grin. "I passed all of the exams..."
"That's wonderful, dear." Narcissa smiled down at him, her eyes filled with happiness.
"Though, I'm afraid I didn't do as good on some as on others." The eleven-year-old avoided his mother's gaze with shame.
Narcissa took his chin in her hand and made him look at her. "Nonsense, Draco." She said. "If you are having trouble at school, I will help you."
"But what if I still don't understand?" Draco asked. "Will you still have patience for me?"
"Of course," Narcissa replied promptly. "I don't care if I have to explain it ten times more - just that you understand well."
"Thank you, Mother." Draco said. "But, where has Father gone?"
"He is upstairs, making reservations." His mother explained.
"Reservations for what?"
"Dinner reservations. We are celebrating today, Draco. I have long been waiting for your return... I miss you when you are gone, you know."
"You also."
Narcissa smiled and wrapped an arm around her son's small frame.
o
Draco was practicing Quidditch in the large backyard of Malfoy Manor. His father was with him, coaching him and leading him through complicated moves, and complex maneuvers.
"Watch me, Draco," Lucius instructed his son. "Then do as I do." He released the struggling snitch from his grasp and let it fly. He waited a moment for it to get a distance away and soared after it. Draco watched on with wide, youthful eyes.
Lucius flew through the air with grace and expert ease. His continuous loops and sharp turns were perfect and nearly professional. In the space of about fifteen seconds, he held the snitch firmly in his hand, and held it out to Draco.
The small boy took it in his hand. Lucius smiled. "Try it." He said.
Draco was unsure of himself; his father had made it look so easy, but he knew it was difficult. There was a hidden fear in his eyes, while Lucius' held an assuring gentleness. "I-I don't think I can... it's too hard."
"You'll never know if you don't try." Lucius said. "If you believe you can do it, you will be able to. If I can do it, you can, too."
"But I'm only eleven... I'm not even on the Slytherin Quidditch team." Draco said in a small voice.
"Just focus, Draco."
Draco nodded and released the snitch, letting it soar a few feet away, like his father had done. And with a last anxious glance at his father, he flew after it. At first, it was easy, just smooth turns and uncomplicated dips. But as his flight progressed, it became rougher and rougher. The snitch darted everywhere, and it took all of Draco's strength just to hold onto his broom.
Finally, after a particularly sharp dive, followed by a quick jerk upward, Draco lost his tiny grip on the wide broom handle and fell. His breath caught in his throat and he couldn't utter a sound.
But just before Draco hit the ground, Lucius zoomed under him and caught him with strong arms. "Are you okay, Draco?" He asked with fatherly concern.
"I'm sorry, Father!" Draco sobbed. "I couldn't do it! It was-"
"Shh..." Lucius' voice was soothing. "It's okay... we can try again next time."
"Today?"
"Not if you don't want to." Lucius touched back down to the soft green grass gently, still holding his frightened son in his arms. He weighed next to nothing, which made it easy.
"Can-Can I get another chance tomorrow?" Draco asked.
"You can have as many chances as you like," Lucius answered. "You don't have to be perfect at Quidditch."
"But-but Potter is... don't you want me to beat him at Quidditch once I try out next year?"
"I would love for you to beat him," Lucius replied. "But it's all right if you don't. To me, you're better than him. You're better than any other child on this earth - you're my son."
Lucius hugged Draco as the last tears on his son's face dried up and disappeared to be replaced by a weak smile.
"There's the smile I'm looking for..." Lucius said, stroking his son's golden-silver hair.
o
It was nine o'clock in the evening, and Draco was climbing into his bed to sleep. He felt safe and secure under the warm, smooth blankets of his own bed at home. The beddings at Hogwarts were also comfortable, but lacked the familiar security of his own.
Draco drifted off...
The beginning part of his sleep was undisturbed, but the steady cycle changed and soon, Draco was facing tall, cloaked figures with rotting hands and rattling breaths.
Dementors.
An immense cold took over Draco's body and the terrible feeling of falling came back to him. His vision became blurred, blinded by tears. He felt he couldn't escape.
Then, the cold vanished, replaced by warm, soft sheets and tame strokes.
Draco opened his eyes and found himself curled in his father's arms. He looked up and met his gaze with his father's.
"Bad dream, Draco?" He asked with genuine concern. "I heard you..."
Draco nodded. "Dementors." He said as an explanation.
"There are no dementors here, Draco." Lucius said, trying to slow his son's racing heart.
"Are they really that terrible, Father?" Draco asked. "The cold... and the scary breaths?"
"Yes." Lucius said.
"I don't want you to deal with them, Father." Draco said. "I don't want you to feel the cold. How can a temperature do so much?"
"It's not the temperature, Draco. It's the dementors themselves." Lucius said. "But I won't let them get you, Draco. I'll keep you safe."
"Can you, Father?" Draco whispered.
"I will." Lucius kissed Draco on the forehead, and offered a protective smile.
ooo
In Privet Drive, Harry awoke with unpleasant abruptness. It was night, and when he checked his clock, it read eleven fifty-five.
Harry sat up in his bed, remnants of his dream flashing through his mind. Envy and a terrible ache of longing built up inside his chest.
The painful question of "Why?" resounded in his mind like a gong.
Why did Draco Malfoy have such loving parents? What did he do to deserve the loving touch of a mother, and the encouragement of a father? What had Harry done not to deserve all these things?
Although it was just a dream, Harry couldn't help feeling it was true. Draco had everything that mattered: a loving family. That was all that Harry wanted, a family. A perfect family, it seemed, the Malfoys were.
Why could he, Harry, not have that?
A cry of pain made its way into Harry's chest, and was released through his tears. His shoulders shook, and he held his head in his hands.
Suddenly, an idea came to him. He knew how he could be with his family again. Be with them, and be happy.
Harry stood up and looked at his clock again. It read eleven fifty-eight.
Harry silently slipped through the door of Dudley's second bedroom, along the hall, and down the stairs. He made his way to the kitchen and proceeded to the drawer of utensils. He slid the drawer open and picked up a large, sharp knife. The shiny metal winked at him under the weak light of the moon.
Harry lay his arm on the cold marble top and placed the tip of the knife right above his warm, beating pulse. Taking a deep breath, he plunged the tip into his wrist, just as the clock struck twelve.
o
The Dursleys found their nephew, Harry's lifeless body a few hours later, at about eight in the morning. They felt no grief on that day.
It was July thirty-first, Harry's birthday.