iii: Your prison is walking through this world all alone.

The week moved along swiftly following his bizarre altercation with the strange woman from his bar. Safe to say, there were no more incidents quite like that one. However, this didn't prevent Draco from breaking pattern so tonight is the first night he's been completely free of alcohol in over a week. It's not exactly his choice either as against his better judgement, he agreed to dinner with his parents tonight.

The joy he feels is so subconscious, one would think he is unhappy about it.

Draco takes slow, yet purposeful, steps out of his office and closes the door behind him. He's taking his time because he needs to conserve energy if he has to talk to his parents all night. Sometimes, Draco wishes he was one of the lucky ones. Goyle's parents kicked the bucket years ago, leaving him a substantial fortunate and wonderful estate. (He's lying, he'd be a more than broken if his parents died. It's easier to pretend he doesn't care.) Lightly pondering his parents mortality, he begins the familiar route towards the fireplace to floo himself far away. Draco's about to grab a fistful of powder, when a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"Where you off to, sulky?"

"Stop calling me that. Could you grow up a little, please?" Blaise only shrugs a shoulder in response, but it's refreshing to Draco and he can't help but enjoy his friends presence more because of it. He knows no one else that is as carefree, light-hearted and cheerful (and generally immature) as Blaise, but this is immensely welcomed. He doesn't need any more morose, cynical or fearful people in his life. Blaise has aged quite fortunately, with but a few wrinkles etched around his eyes and very light ones on his forehead. His dark skin hides age annoyingly well while his posture betrays no signs of his body breaking down. Draco has few wrinkles himself, but this is due to his use of a fantastic potion recently developed.

"I've heard people can grow up…" Blaise trails off mockingly, "You call sulking around all day mature? Then I'll gladly opt out."

"Do you have anything of interest to say?" He asks finally, hand hovering over the bowl of powder once more. Blaise has a way of prolonging what should be the simplest of conversations, and it is one characteristic of his that grates with Draco. Draco prefers to be straight and blunt, not winding and rambling. To his chagrin, Blaise loves the sound of his own voice. (People have often said that about him, too.)

"Apologies, am I boring you?" It's said in a tone that tells anyone he's not the slightest bit regretful. "The latest reports are in, you should take a look. There's been a wave of reports over faulty products and I'm not sure we can keep up with replacing them much longer. There has to be another solution, but what?"

"I think we should revise the idea of a magical-research department. Yes, short-term we'll have to shell out to get the labour and equipment but once they succeed.."

Blaise looks to be thinking deeply, then comes back with, "I wonder if muggles have to deal with this type of shit. We should see how they handle it."

"Get someone on it." Draco nods, "I have to go, I'm having dinner with Lucius and Narcissa."

"Send them my best wishes; they always did like me. Ad wants to talk to Narcissa about some upcoming ball, so we'll pop over during the week. Make sure to be there, I plan on having one of my debates with Lucius," his friend winks then. Draco restrains the reaction to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he wishes Blaise would act like a normal person. He doesn't seem to grasp social norms and how people don't make certain jokes once they hit a certain age, don't mock particular things once they've grown to a particular point. (Sometimes, he wishes he was like Blaise.)

It's a miracle anyone ever tied down his friend, and even more of a miracle that Blaise found someone willing to try. He married only ten years ago, and has not an heir to his name. Draco could never imagine the man as a father anyway, he has always been more of an uncle figure. He's certainly been an uncle figure to his son, and a good one at that. He settled down with a French girl by the name of Adelaide; the blonde bombshell with deep brown eyes, perfect English with a tilt of the signature French accent and money to burn. He had the fortune of knowing she wasn't after his money from the start, as she had her own. She's a passionate woman with a lot of ideas and opinions on just about everything. Of course, she works in the Ministry. She transferred after they married, and settled in quickly. Unfortunately, through a series of parties and balls, she managed to hit it off with Draco's mother – and his ex-wife – so that they could all dine together. It wasn't his idea of fun, let's put it that way. (Despite it, Draco wishes they were coming for dinner tonight.)

Without further ado, Draco bids his friend adieu and steps into the fireplace. One, clear shout of Malfoy Manor and he's transported into his childhood home. Perhaps this is his home, what he will always consider his home. It takes a minute for Draco to realise what a stupid sentiment that is – this house has never been his home. It's draped in Slytherin, and not the kind he remembers with fondness. He can still recall the screams of torture, he still hears the agonising pleads for death during the night. This place will never be home again for him.

His mother rushes into the hallway to greet him, a serene smile on her face. She's remained as youthful as ever, with blemish-free skin and eyes that still hold a regal element reflective of young aristocrats. Narcissa Malfoy is the definition of a weak woman, allowing herself to be ruled by her husband and hiding her affection for her son for far too long. Or rather, she was the definition of a weak woman, in Draco's books. Of course, he never thought that at the time, but in reflection he does. She changed after the war – cared less about what others thought (Lucius) and more about what her son needed. He's never been closer to his mother than in the years after the war, and is thankful for her change more than he'll ever say.

She kisses both his cheeks lightly, the same peppered kiss that greets him everytime. Smiling softly, Narcissa places a hand to his cheek, "You look awfully pale, Draco. Are you alright?"

"Fine, mother." He manages a smile in return, and doesn't know why it's so difficult to do it sincerely. Smiling shouldn't be a chore. (He's afraid to ponder what has become of him.)

There's concern lurking in her glance still, but she doesn't push the topic – she knows it won't yield results. "If you say so, darling. Come, dinner is just about ready and the elves have prepared your favourite. It's been so long since you joined us; I want to hear every detail of the past few weeks. I saw you in the paper, you know." She's rambling as they walk into the dining room, the harsh light from the gaudy chandeliers blinding him momentarily. Draco blinks several times to adjust before sitting down in his usual seat. His mother continues talking, but it's nonsensical and general updates on her life that he's already aware of from phonecalls. He had somehow managed to convince his parents to install a phone in the house, but his mother is the only one who uses it. This surprises very few people.

"Mother, is Father joining us?" He cuts her off mid-speech so that she freezes, caught off-guard by the abrupt questioning.

Narcissa's ice-blue eyes flicker to the door. They return to his gaze, appearing weary, "I'm not sure. He's been working on a project with that odd fellow the past few days, I've not seen heads nor tails of him since."

"Odd fellow?"

"Yes, yes, you wouldn't know him." She's busying herself with straightening the cutlery and it frustrates him as she won't give him her full attention. Draco grabs her hands which forces her to raise her eyes. "I don't know who he is, Draco. I'm not getting involved in all of that again."

"Neither am I. I refuse to associate with someone involved in the dark arts again."

"This isn't associating with him." Her tone is stern. He knows she'll be angry if he leaves, but he can't get sucked into that world again – he simply can't. It has taken Draco many years to rid his name of the stain his father bestowed upon it. Even the stigma he attached to it thanks to his sixth year adventures. Yet, he doesn't want to upset his mother, so he nods.

"I know, that's why I'll dine with you, but I won't speak to him if he's involved in something again." Narcissa doesn't respond. The silence as they await their food is not entirely unpleasant, especially since when the food arrives, his mother begins nattering again. She probes him about his life, and he tells her more than he tells most. Surprising himself, Draco recounts the story of the strange woman from the bar. Narcissa doesn't know the extent of his bar visits, but is aware that he frequents them. She makes all sorts of exclamations about the woman, most of which he finds he can't quite agree with, nor disagree. Draco knows nothing about her he comes to realise. Which shouldn't be surprising, seeing as they only spent one night together, and she unconscious for most of it. Somehow, it startles him to see how little he knows of her. Why that startles him is also baffling.

As their plates are collected by the elves, who Draco eyes the clothing of (bloody Granger), Narcissa hands him his coat and becomes quite once more. He knows she's waiting to say something, causing him to take his time getting ready to leave. He wants to hear what she has to say, because unlike the rest of the night, it's going to be somewhat important.

"He's not right, Draco," her voice is soft, almost questioning, too. She sounds confused, "He's taken a turn the other way, after having done so well for so long. I think visiting Azkaban has triggered some sort of relapse."

Draco does what he does best then. He brushes it off. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, he's just seeing what his life could have been like. Don't fret too much, visit Gina Parkinson or something." He kisses her cheek – not unlike she did to him upon arrival – and sets off.

Narcissa says no more on the subject, but follows him out, "I do occasionally enjoy her company, when she's not being a trollop."

He can't help the chuckle that escapes him, "Goodnight, Mother. Thank you for the dinner."

She nods, "Of course. It was lovely seeing you. I've been speaking to Scorpius more than you lately!"

Before he can question this, she pushes a some powder into his hand and ushers him into the fireplace. He could have stopped and asked, could have questioned or probed, but he finds that he doesn't want to. Draco is sick of hearing how Scorpius loves everyone.

(But him, that is.)

My son – No, that isn't right. Draco crosses out the introduction to the letter for the third time before realising he can't send a page so badly presented and promptly crumples the paper and flicks it into the bin. Sighing, he attempts to pinpoint what it is exactly that he wants to say. It seems his previous efforts have failed woefully, and he can't help but long for a simpler time.

There was a day when Draco would return home from work to a house. This house in particular was filled with warmth, laughter and – to be horribly sentimental and sappy – a lovely mixture of love and joy. Every evening, a blond mop of hair would run to him with open arms. These little arms would be thrown around him so tightly, and with such ferocity, that there was no doubt of him being missed. The arms were skinny and scrawny, therefore having the effect of being incredibly uncomfortable after several seconds but Draco never pushed him away.

Grey eyes, near identical to his own, would then glance up and sparkle with an innocence and pure elation that can never truly be recounted accurately. His smile would stretch easily across his face, causing those eyes to light up, and a goofy (often toothless) grin preceded the ramblings of the day.

This is how Draco wanted to remember his relationship with his son; this is what he wants it to still be like today. The utter regret and sadness he feels that this is not possible causes him to retire for the night.

With an intense sense of despair accompanied by a long exhale, Draco makes his way to the couch and collapses onto it. Sleep is welcomed like an old friend with a glass of scotch.

It's the first time he's slept soundly without alcohol in months – and he has no idea why.

Ok, so I am extremely sorry about the long wait and then short chapter. I gave up on writing again for a bit, but I'm going to try be steady from now on. Although when my college exams come up it could go one of two ways: either I cop on, study and leave FF for a few weeks, or I procrastinate and write more than ever. Who knows which. Also, I think it's obvious that no one should ever believe me when I promise to update on a certain day or week - I'm crap, I know. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please leave a review.
CN

Disclaimer: I do not own HP or "Desperado" by the Eagles.