2.
They say that the area between Gentilly Ridge and the Lake was swamp, not drained and developed until the mid and late 20th century. But you couldn't tell from looking at it now. It looked like a swamp, a quagmire of filth with pipes and pieces of automobiles sticking up from the water as if they were part of the natural habitat.
As bad as it looked, it smelt worse: like raw sewage, ammonia, and hopelessness. He saw stray animals reverting to their more instinctive pack-nature, scavenging for food, their ribs showing through flesh and fur and their eyes sad as a child's would be.
As Draco continued to walk, one of the shaggiest dogs turned to watch him as his pack continued on without him. Draco froze, wondering if the dogs had gone so wild that they would begin to attack humans. He gripped his wand, still in his trouser pocket, as the dog walked over to him, his head bowed and tail tucked between his legs.
With his tail wagging, he walked cautiously to Draco, sniffing at his exposed hand before nudging it. Draco understood the hint and began scratching between his ears. Draco knelt in front of the dog, petting his torso, and realizing (quite horribly) just how skinny the dog was. He choked on his words even as they escaped his lips.
"Why, aren't you a brave, little pet? I imagine you are quite hungry, aren't you?" he asked as he looked for a collar, some form of identification.
He found none.
"Well, can't have you following me without a name, can we?" he said, in a light voice.
As if the dog felt Draco's claim, his tail wagged faster, with wider breadth. Draco knew it was far too late to try and chase the stray away, now. He had never been allowed a pet growing up, but it was common sense that, once a stray animal picked up your scent and was shown kindness, they would be hard pressed to be separated from you.
The other dogs stopped, momentarily, watching the transaction before moving on, one less in their pack. They were used to this, Draco imagined; losing a pack-mate. They would have howled an honorary were the loss because of death. Instead, they simply watched, understood, turned and continued their hunt.
"Looks like your mates approve, yeah?" Draco said, bringing his face closer to the dog and allowing it to be licked. "Ok, enough of that – a Malfoy must remain dignified, after all," he said, in a far more commanding voice.
"I shall name you," he paused a moment, staring at the beast's brown wet, glossy eyes, "Dragon."
This was no show dog, nor was it pureblood. Its pedigree wasn't one of to be proud of. It was a kid's dog – a child's dog, the kind of mutt that young boys who aren't keen on raising the fiercest, meanest dog on the block falls in love with. He wondered where the child was and if he had survived the storm. He wondered how long the poor beast had been without his family before being picked up by his pack – his former pack. He wondered if dogs could cry as he wiped away what could have been dragon tears. His tears.