Warning for character death - not too graphic.


"It is as I suspected, Mr Malfoy," the Healer declared grimly. "You are afflicted with dragon pox."

"It took you that long to arrive at that conclusion?" Abraxas rasped, glaring condescendingly at the Healer. "A dimwitted Bowtruckle could've done it faster."

The Healer looked affronted. Abraxas sank further into his pillows, refusing to feel guilty.

"You'll have to forgive my father's temper, Healer," came a silky drawl — Abraxas's son, Lucius, who stood at the foot of his father's bed. "Given the circumstances."

Abraxas peered resentfully at Lucius — his eyesight was poor, and both men were blurry figures. He used his ears to pinpoint the sound of each voice.

"I understand." The Healer reverted to a sympathetic tone, which only stoked his ire. Malfoys did not need the sympathy of incompetent Healers. "I'd better return to St Mungo's. The recent outbreak of dragon pox has the hospital short staffed…"

Lucius murmured something, there was the sound of coins clacking, and then the door shut.

"I told you we should have hired a personal physician," Abraxas sniffed. "These fools are completely under-qualified these days."

"I assure you, the Healer did his best," Lucius said patiently. "He has tended to my wife and son quite admirably and devotedly. It is a shame he has Mudblood blood running through his veins."

Abraxas grunted, sitting up gingerly. "In my day, wizards and Muggles didn't breed — and if they did, they would be ostracized and thoroughly shamed." He touched a pockmark on his face. "I'd have chastised him appropriately, if I didn't have this horrible disease…"

A sudden wave of exhaustion overcame him and he fell backwards into the bed. Lucius pulled the duvet to his chest and murmured, "Rest, Father."

Sleep claimed him after a few minutes.


Abraxas's condition rapidly worsened as the days dragged by, so Lucius sent a servant to tend to all of his needs, not wishing to catch the disease himself. The same Healer came by once every two days to check him over, only to decree that he was getting worse.

His skin now had a hideous green tinge. His vision was deteriorating and his muscle movements were limited. He relied heavily on his hearing, which was also beginning to weaken.

"I'm not weak," he'd protested once when Lucius had paid him a rare visit — even then, he was wearing a mask over his face to protect himself.

Lucius had simply gazed at him, resigned, and had Abraxas been at full strength, his son would have received a verbal lashing.

This was not good.


His last words were, of course, about purity — his life's purpose.

"Make this a purer world," he'd whispered, and then his eyes had shut and Death claimed his life.

A single tear slipped from Lucius's eye, but it was impossible to tell since the mask was obscuring his entire face.

Goodbye, Father.


The funeral was short and unsentimental — just the way he would have preferred it. It was attended mainly by his son's family — Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, all dressed in black robes, watching as a black casket with silver trim was carried down the aisle. Lucius had invited a select few well-wishers, who murmured their (empty) condolences, and then the casket was buried.

No speech. No tears. Just a simple funeral for a simple man, who had achieved something great in their eyes — contributing tremendously to the effort of purifying their world.


574 words

Auction - Abraxas Malfoy

Insane House - 312. Abraxas Malfoy