3rd Person POV:

In his entire life, Lucius has never been so gone. He had spent all that night crying of what he had done to his son Draco, and yet there was a side of him that had done it on purpose. He could not understand himself. He loved his son so; why would he want to hurt him? Honestly, he had been asking himself the question for quite a while now. Almost as long as Draco had been alive.

He had spent the early years of Draco's childhood raising him as Lucius' own father had not, with love and tender care, being there with Narcissa every step of the way. From Draco's first smile to his first broomstick, he was the happiest father on planet earth. He took joy in watching his son grow, and provided a nurturing home with only the best care that he could provide. While he had initially known nothing of caring for babies and young children, he learned, and upheld the jointed responsibility of caring for his son himself, and not with house elves like many other pureblood families tended to do. His parents had always scolded him for "spoiling the baby early," but in all honesty, Lucius was only proper in helping Narcissa raise Draco as poor Wizarding families did, and (though he would never say so out loud) he knew it. His young heir grew into a wonderful child, with a heart full of love and a mind full of knowledge.

However, as the years went on, Lucius became more and more apprehensive. He would later blame the Dark Lord's fall, but he knew, of course, that this happened much after he had believed the Dark Lord to be dead. Lucius would look at Draco, his lovely son, so perfect in every way, and a part of him would grow jealous. If such a child could, indeed, exist, so wonderful, why could it not have been himself? His own parents had been uncaring, typical pureblood wizards, not paying any particular attention to him until he had inherited their fortune after marriage. Then, they were correcting every single thing he did. He had made sure not to do that to Draco. Initially, he would shake off his envy and continue on with his life, ignoring the growing feeling inside him.

And one spectacular day, Lucius, for no particular reason, had found himself in his study by himself, with the door locked, tears forcing their way out of his eyes, unable to stand the pressure any longer. He did not like his emotions, as he had always been taught to repress them, and so he took a bottle of self-refilling fire whiskey from the shelf and took a large swig. He felt the hot liquid burn his throat as it went down, taking with it some of the pain. He drank and drank, becoming so intoxicated, he no longer could remember what he was doing. That night, he beat Narcissa for the first time when she caught him yelling at a young Draco who was only playing with toys. Draco cried in his room while his mother cradled a stinging cheek and broken wrist. Lucius merely passed out on the floor of his bedroom, waking the next morning to a note on his pillow stating that Narcissa wanted to leave him.

He, again, cried tears. He could not believe what he had done. He loved his son and his wife. And when his wife came to collect her things, he confunded her and altered her memory so she would forget. He tried his hardest to keep himself together as he sent a house elf to unpack Narcissa's things. He vowed never to do such a thing again.

He broke that vow, and it occurred several more times, each growing more serious than the last. Eventually, he didn't need to remove the memory from Narcissa, as she would not leave so she could care for Draco herself. Lucius became distanced from his family, losing track of his son's life. He needn't worry anymore about him, as Narcissa provided everything he needed, from brooms to books to toys. Draco lived a life of luxury and love until the summer just before his first year at Hogwarts.

"But dad," Draco had groaned, "why can't you just convince the teachers at Hogwarts to let me ride my broom? I wouldn't do anything bad. Honestly, I would just ride it. Mother would-" And without thinking, Lucius had hit his son. It was the first time that a single drop of alcohol had not touched his lips before he had done it. Draco had let tears slip as he gingerly touched the injured cheek.

"Stop your tears. Malfoys don't cry. Don't be so weak." The harsh words left his mouth and Draco ran to his room.

Lucius was shocked at his actions, but that part of him that sought out violence and punishment only grew with the Dark Lord. When Lord Voldemort himself decided to use their manor as his headquarters, the punishments grew fiercer. He would use the Cruciatus Curse on his son at least three times a month for bad behavior and talking back. The Dark Lord enjoyed viewing these punishments, and would sometimes even add his own. As much as Narcissa did to stop it all, she was powerless.

The portion of Lucius that had raised Draco, and truly loved him, looked upon the child that was once perfect, but now struggling and scarred. This part, however, would never be in control again until that faithful day when Voldemort lost and his family ran. His true self had been waiting for its own rebellion against the monster that ruled his body, and took the chance to spare his loved ones from the war.

But he had failed.

They were caught, and his evil side had returned, inflicting only more damage upon his family, sending his own wife to jail. Every night he would question himself.

What am I? What have I become? When he returned, it took all his might to send his son away so he could not hurt him any longer. He banished him, hoping his life would be better. But he was a selfish man, and his evil-self played upon that, bringing Draco back and locking him up in his room so he could lose his mind just as his mother was, both rotting away in their own cells, becoming cramped and craving company…

Every night it sickened him to have thought such thoughts. Alas, he could not stop. He craved the power he felt when he struck his son's face, feasting upon the pure terror that showed in Draco's eyes when he was around. Farther and farther the original Lucius drew from holding any power over his body. All that he could manage was letting tears fall late into the night.

His red rimmed eyes stared at his reflection in his mirror, lined with real silver with moving snakes slithering in circles. He could see how the years had treated him. His eyes had sunken in with puffy, dark bags beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. He had distinct lines on his forehead. He felt as if he could be hundreds of years old, when he was actually only 45. His inner war had taken a toll on him, especially since the war was long lost.

Lucius recalled a time when he had shared some of the many things he had liked, so as to get his young, four-year-old son to tell his father what he liked.

"Well, I like the color silver. It's my favorite color." He smiled at his son. "It reminds me of the moon. And I also like to eat the roast the elves make on Christmas. That's my favorite food to eat. What color and food do you like?"

Little Draco giggled and replied, "I like silver, too. And roost."

Lucius had laughed. "Roast, Draco." He felt a sense of pride that his son was trying to be like him, even if he had never eaten roast before, and would not try it until Christmas that year.

He was ashamed, the good half of Lucius, that he had let all that go to waste. And yet, he still craved that monstrous power that he had. He knew that as long as he was alive, he would no longer be able to fight the monster inside himself.

Still bleeding and in pain, Draco could not bear to raise himself from the floor of his room. He had managed, after countless hours in the night, to drag himself there. He figured he had left a trail of blood, but he was sure the house elves would take care of it before his father saw it. Surely he wouldn't get a beating for leaving blood everywhere. He didn't think too hard on it, mostly because he was too filled with pain and nausea to think anything, really.

He laid on the floor with his head facing the window, praying to some divine force to kill him so he could stop suffering. Many times he had been in this position. And many times, he had just stayed here until his mother came in with tears in her eyes and some healing potions to fix him back up. But his mother was not here. She was in Azkaban. And so he had no hope of ever feeling better. Rather, he figured he would bleed to death before he would ever see his mother again. In fact, he would bleed to death before he ever saw moonlight again. He would never see his field. He would never see Harry. He was done. And so, he had given up. He was done for.

He heard a thump, and he looked over to the window. His hazy vision focused for a moment, and he caught sight of an incredibly small owl, trying to knock itself unconscious by hitting itself against the glass that would not budge. He saw the beak open, but he did not hear a sound. Draco stared at the owl, not moving an inch. Again, the owl opened its beak and ran into the glass. Finally, it flew away. Draco figured it had given up. His eyes grew hazy again as he looked at nothing in particular, and waited impatiently for his veins to run dry.

Of all the ways to go, Draco had not expected to die so slowly. He had figured it would be a killing curse in early life, if not old age. He remembered the last time he had been so close to death. Over a year ago, a few days before the Dark Lord was going to invade Hogwarts, his father had allowed Lord Voldemort to be the lone person to punish poor Draco, who had let his tongue slip. He had been frightened, more so than usual. Never had the Dark Lord had free range to do anything with him, and he was scared that the Dark Lord had suddenly thought twice about keeping him alive.

He had kneeled before the Dark Lord sitting on his throne in his Throne Room and spoken quietly only after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes, My Lord?"

Lord Voldemort had sized him up a moment. "For a child with such a smart mouth, you speak unconfidently."

There was another agonizing moment of silence, broken only by dangerously calm words, hissed as if the snake had spoken them instead.

"Young Malfoy, you will silence your tongue when the urge to insert a cutting remark presents itself upon your lips. Understood?"

"Yes, My Lord." He felt relieved, thinking that his punishment was over, and he had gotten off with a warning.

"And to make sure this lesson has set in…" The Dark Lord trailed off his sentence, hissing in Parseltongue to the snake around his neck.

In the darkness, Draco could only hear a hiss in reply and a mass lowering itself to the floor gently. He began to shake, fearing that he would not, in fact, be killed with a killing curse, but instead eaten by his snake. Nagini slithered over to Draco, wrapping her body around his torso tightly enough so he could not breathe, but not so much that she crushed his ribs. The Dark Lord stood from his throne and took a couple steps toward Draco as the snake's upper half encircled his throat. His heart pounded, as he knew not what awaited him. He could not breathe. Tears threatened to fall, something that would only urge the Dark Lord to torture him more.

Lord Voldemort flicked his wand and a sort of spotlight was placed over Draco as he dared not move a muscle as Nagini wound herself around him. With another commanded hiss from the Dark Lord, the snake bared her fangs and pierced the sensitive skin of his neck just barely. The venom took effect, entering Draco's bloodstream, and he could feel his veins burning like acid as it moved through his body. It spread fast, taking only a few seconds to reach his brain, engulfing it, too, in a burning sensation, and in a minute, his feet. His eyes soon burned too, leaking crimson blood from them as he cried in pain. Another minute more, he would have been dead, but his mother came forth, injected him with the anti-venom, as instructed by Lord Voldemort, and the venom left his veins slowly, leaving every blood vessel feeling literally burned.

"You may be on your way, then, young Draco." That day had been the peak of his fears of dying.

There was another large thump, this time at Draco's door. He made no effort to move, for if it was his father, he would merely open the unlocked handle and smite Draco where he lay. He almost welcomed it. From behind the door, however, there was the familiar squawk of Hermione's owl, which had rammed into the window. If he were in better shape, he would have opened the door and read the letter, but the effort seemed impossible. Yet another thump as the owl ran into the door with a sad hoot to follow, and Draco closed his eyes, wishing he could read what Hermione had to say.

The owl was determined, and began to peck the wood of the door as hard as it could. Draco was thankful for the effort on the owl's part, but figured it would give up as readily as he had, laying on the floor bleeding as he was, yet still it pecked. As the owl seemed to be making no progress, its pecks only grew in power, until finally, it made a hole. The owl's head crashed through the door and it turned its head to see Draco and hooted softly. It squeezed its still reduced body through the hole and, more or less, waddled over to Draco, nibbling at his bloody fingers affectionately before holding out its leg. Draco only stared and dared not move. How brave that owl was to deliver a message to a dying wizard. A tear slipped down his cheek in amazement.

Realizing that he was not getting the letter, the owl nibbled at the string around the parchment and pulled the letter from his leg and, using his beak along with his foot, unraveled it just before Draco's face so he could read it.

Dear Draco,
Where on earth did you head off to? Your trial was settled. All charges were officially dropped, even though you had left, and they are still investigating who was the one to use the Imperious Charm on the Minister. Reply as soon as you can. I'm worried about you.

Love,
Hermione

Draco let more tears slip down his cheeks. With all his remaining effort, he lifted his hand, fingers bloody and torn with cuts on every finger, and tried to make words on the parchment with his own blood as ink.

Once he finished, Draco rested his hand down again, his head feeling light. The owl proceeded to roll up the letter once more and pick it up with its beak and leave back out the hole in the door that it had created. More and more, Draco lost blood, so much, that the floor around him grew red. His eyes grew hazy and dim, blurring the window he had stared at for hours. He finally lost consciousness and fell into darkness.

Harry's POV:

For hours, I had sat in that spot. I never moved from the clearing. I never thought about moving. I waited for Cygnus to return. Surely he needed some time to consider everything. I knew he wouldn't take it lightly; he needed time. But the night proceeded on, and a new sun burst from the horizon and shone its morning rays through the hole in the ground above me, and still he had not returned. Panic rose inside me as I realized that he might not be coming back.

That's absurd, I thought. Did you hear everything he told you earlier? He doesn't care who you are! He loves you! He probably just…fell asleep again…

And I continued to wait.

I waited on, looking around the clearing, taking in every detail of the trees and the grass. The tree before me stood about 16 and had exactly 6 main branches that I could see coming off the trunk, perfectly spread so that it seemed balanced, oddly enough. Not one side of the tree had too many leaves. The one next to it was leaning to the right with one branch sticking straight up and another three around it, making it seem almost as if it were standing up straight, until you looked at the trunk. All the trees had the same dull brown trunk with orange cracks, leaves with dark green tops and pale undersides with hidden red berry-like fruit under the small groups of white flowers. I tried to place what type of trees surrounded me to let the time pass me by, even if I had no idea what types of trees there were, let alone what they look like.

After some time, I let my curiosity in the trees pass and decided to have more curiosity in the objects that lay behind the bushes. Cygnus had pulled his things from there. I wondered what he had. When I pulled back the bushes, I found only a bag with a book sitting on top. I picked up the book and opened to the first page, wondering what he was reading about, and yet there was not a single word on the blank pages. I flipped through the entire book, not finding anything. I sighed and looked at the cover, thinking that maybe he had some sort of spell to reveal what he was reading. One word engraved itself onto the hardcover,Open. I opened the book, and in it was a short paragraph.

I am a story many cannot unravel

Yet I hold so many words in my pages

To anywhere that you may travel

For you I provide knowledge through the ages

All you must do is think

A clever wizard shall know

Any book you seek in a blink

Far past reading you can go

Just imagine a theme

For it is closer than it may seem

I smiled. He didn't just have one book; he had any book he could ever want. I flipped to the next page, concentrating hard on the book telling me about trees. At first, the page was blank except for the words Don't hurt yourself thinking so hard, but they eventually vanished and more words faded in.

A tree is probably the most common, naturally growing or cultivated, living organism you will ever encounter on a daily basis. Most people I know have a real desire to learn more about a tree including looking at a tree in hopes to identify that tree. For every area, there are different trees. If you are looking for a tree in a particular area, flip to that chapter.

North America: page 2

South America: page 17

Europe: page 29

I stopped reading and flipped the page, thinking (not as hard this time) about flipping straight to page 29.

In northwestern Europe there are as you will know relatively few native tree-species because of the influence of the Ice Age. Especially in the south-east, there are more species. The Caucasian region and the north of Iran are-

I sighed and instead thought about the features of the trees surrounding the clearing.

Little white flowers, red berries, leaf shape, trunk color… I flipped the page to an entirely different book, since the font was much different.

Hawthorn (genus Crataegus or Rhaphiolepis) is a term used to refer to any member of either the Crataegus or (less commonly) the Rhaphiolepis genus. Both are within the Rose family (Rosaceae). Hawthorn has been known for being full of paradoxes, with leaves and blossoms that heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.

Hawthorn, I thought. I flipped the page for more information on Hawthorn, maybe something about the trees berries.

Hawthorn berries are used to promote the health of the circulatory system, treat angina, high blood pressure, congestive heart failure and cardiac arrhythmia and has been found to strengthen the heart. Hawthorn is widely regarded in Europe as a safe and effective treatment for the early stages of heart disease and has been used for a number of ailments including angina, myocarditis, arteriosclerosis, nervous conditions like insomnia, and diarrhea. It has also been indicated for strengthening blood vessels, vascular insufficiency and blood clots, restoring the heart muscle wall, lowering cholesterol and to aid digestion.

I felt like I was reading a textbook. It was quite boring. In my boredom, I could feel my anxiety rising once more. I flipped the page again, hoping for something more interesting to distract me.

Hawthorn is one of the few types of wood used to produce wands. Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and it has been generally observed that the hawthorn wand seems most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a witch or wizard passing through a period of turmoil.

With my not-so-immense knowledge of wandlore, I found my interest peaked. I hadn't realized Hawthorn was used as wand wood. Even if I had ever known anyone with a hawthorn wand, I never would have made the connection anyway, unless my own wand had been hawthorn. But, of course, it was Holly. And so I flipped the page to learn more about wandlore and holly.

Holly is one of the rarer kinds of wand woods; traditionally considered protective, it works most happily for those who may need help overcoming a tendency to anger and impetuosity. At the same time, holly wands often choose owners who are engaged in some dangerous and often spiritual quest. Holly is one of those woods that varies most dramatically in performance depending on the wand core.

With a face mixed with confusion and curiosity, I pulled my wand from my pocket and looked it over.

My wand wood was rare? I needed help overcoming anger? Well, yes, I can't argue there. Dangerous quest? Most certainly. My mind quickly side-tracked to how I had once had a huge quest to defeat Voldemort, and then I remembered how Riddle had once had a wand that was a twin to my own, with phoenix feathers from the same bird. But we hadn't had the same wood. That would have been odd having a wand like Voldemort, the Dark Wizard I was supposed to defeat. But I'm sure if he had, instead, gotten a wand with Hawthorn in it, he might have been too conflicted to be so evil in the first place...

I looked back to the book and noticed the now orange sunlight spilling through the hole onto its pages. The sun was beginning to set. In a few hours, I would have waited exactly 24 hours for Cygnus to return. I didn't mind. He could have weeks, months even, to take in what I had told him. I would wait. Surely, he would have to come back to his own private world sometime, and I would be here waiting when he did.

I closed the book and placed it back onto the bag behind the bush and ran a hand through my hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white. I looked to see a silvery otter float over to me, with Hermione's voice.

"Harry, something terrible has happened to Draco. I won't explain now, but you have to help. Meet me at the front of Hogwarts right now."

As confused as I was, I did as she said, standing and disapperating before the otter had even vanished. My feet touched down and I was just before the entrance to Hogwarts and there was Hermione, eyes red and puffy as she handed me a letter with blood smeared all over it.

Stuck in room
Dying
Draco

I couldn't read anything underneath it, as the blood, looking a bit dried now, had been absorbed into the parchment. The words were terrifying enough without being written in blood.

Dying? I looked to Hermione, who walked over to me and turned, apparating us right before Malfoy Manor.

"Brace yourself, Harry."