This man is not my father.

            That is all I can think as I watch him.  Where has the proud, confident, perfect man gone?  There is only a shell.  He used to stand with his back straight and his chest out, making him impressive and proper and imposing all at once.  Now his shoulders sag, and I can see the jut of his collarbones through his thin, tatty robes.  His face was not perfect, but it was beautiful.  Lines in just the right places had given him a look of character and experience, while the glowing smoothness made him look young, healthy, and positively radiant.  He is jaundiced now; I can see yellow and red in the whites of his eyes, and the blue is somehow duller.  His irises have faded to matte where they once shimmered.  And his hair…it is long and wild and tangled, and resembles broken straw.

            This is not my father.

            His eyes rise briefly to mine.  They are hesitant and skittish, as if he thinks I might punish him for daring to meet my stare.

            "Father," I say, and force a smile.  My voice is shaky.

            "Draco…" he murmurs.  He raises a thin, pale hand, and the backs of his fingers brush my cheek.  I nearly start at how cold his touch is, but manage to stop myself.  His hand hovers, as if he wants to do something more, and it is then that I notice how gnarled and misshapen his fingers are.  There are scars across his knuckles, and each finger looks as though it had been trodden on and broken many times.  It looks painful, and I wonder if he can even hold a wand properly anymore.

            That careless thought shatters my precarious control.  A sob rips from my throat.  The muscles in my legs give out, and my knees crash to the marble floor.  The dam has been broken; my father has no wand to hold.  The Ministry snapped it in two and banned him from ever doing magic again.  They even went so far as to exile him from wizard-kind.  This is his last time at the Manor, and very probably the last time I will ever see him.

            Perhaps it would not have hurt so much if the man before me was not a broken one.  If he had shown a trace of that familiar Malfoy spirit, I wouldn't be worried.  He was resourceful, and even if he loathed it, he could live as a Muggle if need be.  But this man…there was no more spark in his eyes.  I never knew there were so many things in my father's head that the Dementors could use against him.

            "Don't cry, Draco."

            He has gathered me against his bony ribs, and caresses my hair with those twisted, clumsy fingers.

            "Father…" I gasp through my tears.  My hands curl into his robes that are far too thin and far too rough.  "I'm all alone.  How could they?  How could they…"

            "It is what they think of as justice," he whispers softly.  "What is justice but revenge in legal guise?" 

            "I can't."

            "Can't what?"  His voice is distant, dreamy.

            "I can't do it!  I have nothing…nothing.  Mum is gone, and they've all but killed you, and they took the money, every last knut, and I—"

            Suddenly he is gripping me tightly by my forearms.  I feel as though he is crushing my bones.  I did not think his emaciated body was capable of such strength.  I open my mouth to protest, to tell him he's hurting me, but his eyes are full of such fire, fire I have never seen before.  A fire that is not quite sane.

            "You have your wand and you have your freedom!" he hisses in my face.  He gives me one hard, neck-jarring shake.  "That is all that a Malfoy needs!"

            And then his eyes go wide and glassy, and he releases me as if he has been burned.  He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head once, agitatedly, as if there were a fly buzzing around his ear.  The brittle ends of his hair hit me across the cheek.

            He is up and gone a minute later, moving as fast as he can with a limp, as if a pack of rabid werewolves was chasing him.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            The night wears on, and I can't find the courage to look for him in the dark, empty Manor.  Even the house elves were taken, so everything is covered in a fine coating of dust.  The Aurors came four days ago for the elves; since then, I have eaten nothing but eggs.  It is the only thing I know how to cook for myself.  As if on cue, my stomach growls, reminding me that I have not eaten in at least eight hours.  I sigh and put my hand over my flat belly.  I did scrambled last night; that means tonight is over-easy.  The pun makes me want to smack my head repeatedly against the hardwood floor.

            "You're hungry."

            My adrenaline spikes and I jump, badly startled.

            "Father!  I was lost in thought…"

            "You're hungry," he repeats, squinting as though it is an effort for him to hold onto the words.  "Everything echoes…I heard your stomach growl…"

            "Yes, well…they took the house elves, and I don't know how to cook much, and even if I did, I haven't the money for groceries…"

            He frowns intensely.

            "Come with me," he says, beckoning with his knotted hand.  He limps out of the room, and I follow, wondering what he's going to do.  As far as I know, he hasn't a clue how to cook, either.  But then, I am beginning to think that there are many things I don't know about him.

            He leads me into what was once his study.  The old desk is still there, mostly because it is bolted to the floor and heavily charmed with Unmovable spells that only a Malfoy can remove.  There was no way in hell I was going to remove those spells, even though I knew how to.  I felt that if I could keep a few things, just a few, it would somehow lessen the horror of the entire situation.  It was a comforting sight, even if it was no longer covered with my father's baubles.

            He's wringing his hands nervously.

            "I hope they didn't find it.  Oh, I hope they didn't find it all…" he mutters, his eyes darting around the room which is lit only by my Lumos.

            "Find what?" I ask.

            "The stash," he replies.  "A lesson to you, Draco.  A wealthy man never keeps all his money in one place.  Nor does he ever count on being rich forever."

            That said, he strides over to the dark, ash-strewn fireplace.  He stands on his tiptoes on the mantle and touches the topmost brick.  From there he counts down nine bricks.  Then he goes over two.  My eyes widen as I understand the significance.  9/2.  My birthday.

            He has to jiggle the brick a bit before it comes out.  Another one follows, and he reaches into the gap.  I can hear the telltale clink of galleons before his hand emerges with a good-sized black pouch.  There is enough in there to get me by for a few months.  I silently thank him for his ingenuity, and for the fact that he remembers where he's hidden his money after such an ordeal.

            He tosses the pouch to me, and I catch it awkwardly with my left hand.  I never appreciated the reassuring weight of a sack of money until now.

            "There are pouches all over the Manor.  But they aren't hidden by magic.  No, the Aurors would have been able to find them if I hid them that way."

            He proceeds to lead me all over the Manor in search of his sequestered fortune.  There are pouches in nearly every room.  Some are as big as the one behind the fireplace, some slightly larger, some only containing a few galleons and some spare knuts.  Pouches were hidden beneath floorboards, sewn into heavy curtains, secured to the machinery inside the top of the toilet (the best spot, in my opinion – who ever looks there?), inside mattresses – anywhere and everywhere.  There is even some paper Muggle money hidden in the frames of the various family portraits.  Those, too, were Unmovable, and had not been taken. 

I never thought to look in any of these places.  To think I had been surrounded by the Malfoy fortune all these years!

            He leads me into my room.  By this time both of us are laden with pouches.  I have no hands to hold my wand and give him some light, but it doesn't matter.  He knows exactly where he's going.  I watch in awe as he gives the top of the dragon-shaped bedpost a tug; the head of the dragon pops off with some effort.  He turns it over, and a small bag no larger than his hand falls out.  This bag clinks, too, but it is not the sound of galleons or knuts.

            He drops all the other pouches and sits rather unceremoniously on the floor.  I follow suit.  His free hand twitches.

            "Lum—" he stops, realizing that he can't cast the spell.  "Light," he says quietly, his eyes unreadable.

            I give us some light, hoping it won't trigger another outburst.  But he stays calm, and opens the little bag.  He motions toward me, and I hold out my hand.  He pours the contents into my palm: two rings and an amulet bearing the family crest, all silver.  One ring is wide, obviously a man's ring; it is ornately rendered in the shape of a snake, with two gleaming rubies as eyes.  The other, the smaller woman's ring, is studded with emeralds and diamonds.  The amulet is inlaid with pearl and opal.  All three items are breathtaking in their own way.

            "If there's nothing else," he says, his voice taking on that flat, dead quality again, "you can sell these, or pawn them."

            I close my fingers around the jewelry.  The metal is warm rather than cold.  And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will never, ever sell these heirlooms.  I would starve before I gave them away, for I know that whatever food they might buy would taste like ash to my tongue.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            I apparate to Diagon Alley with a handful of galleons in my pocket.  The grocer does not question my appearance so late at night; I have been alone for almost a year now, and occasionally have to make such trips.

            "Lost your house elves, eh, boy?" he says as I bring my basket full of purchases to the front.  I'm sure he's read the news and knows of my father's fate, but he is a kind man.  He won't mention it; he only made the house elf comment because among my items is a cookbook.

            "I have to eat somehow," I reply glumly.

            "Have one of yer friends move in with you, kid.  Preferably one that can cook," he suggests.

            I sigh and lay the galleons on the counter.  There is just enough.  I pick up my sack of supplies and hoist it over my shoulder, and then tell him the truth.

            "I haven't got any friends."

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I had put my father to bed before I left for Diagon Alley, but I find him curled up in fetal position on the cold wooden floor.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I can't sleep.  I don't know why I thought I would be able to.  My father was right; everything does echo.  I can hear the sounds he makes in his sleep all the way down the hall.  Most of them are not pleasant sounds.  He whimpers and mumbles, his voice small and desperate.  I am thankful that I can't make out most of the words he's saying.  The ones that I do understand make me feel faintly nauseated.

After a while, I can't lay in the dark anymore.  The old clock on the wall tells me that it is 2:39 am.  My father will be escorted to the nearest airport by Aurors in about twelve hours.  Where he goes is his choice, but go he must.

I must get out of bed and busy myself before the injustice of it all makes me do something rash.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

He has lost many things, but apparently he has not lost his ability to sneak up on people.  I have no idea how long he's been watching me, for I've been distracted with my first attempts at cooking anything other than eggs.  I find that it is much like potion-brewing; add ingredients here and there, in the right order, and treat it just so, and it will come out right.

I decided to make us a last meal of sorts.  But when my sixth sense slowly alerts me to his presence, it all seems very trivial.  In all likelihood he won't be able to eat much of it, anyway.  Last night I ate what few non-perishables were left in the cupboards.  He didn't ask for any; he simply sat at the table and watched me.  When I offered him some, he shook his head and then rested his chin on his arms.  After I had finished, I looked over at him, only to find him half-asleep.

"Good morning," I say, not turning around.  Damned if I'm going to let these muffins be anything but perfect – and if that means I must watch them, hawklike, for the entire fifteen minutes they're in the oven, I will.  But when he doesn't reply, I feel the need to turn and look at him.

I wish I hadn't.  He has taken a bath, for his hair is damp and lank around his shoulders, and a towel around his waist is his only covering.  The towel is a dark blue color, which only serves to accentuate the yellowish tinge of his skin.  He is thin.  God, so thin.  I can see his ribs, and all the musculature he once had is gone.  The cords in his neck used to only stand out when he was angry or stressed or doing some sort of physical labor; now I can see them, stretched tightly, in his state of total, apathetic relaxation.

"You're good at everything you do," he murmurs, staring at a spot just above my left shoulder.  "I was so blind."

I blink in shock.  What happened to the man who used to berate me for never being good enough?  The man who used to make me feel so ashamed of being bettered by Potter or Granger that I could not show my face to him for a week after such a tongue-lashing?  To some it would seem cruel, but without it, I wouldn't have had any motivation.  Perhaps he was a bit too critical, but I have only become a better wizard because of it.

"Nonsense," I reply shakily.  I have no idea how to accept a compliment from him, so I rebut it.  "All this food will probably taste terrible, and I'll have wasted our money."

He sits at the table and watches me again.  Droplets of water dribble down his back, traversing a network of scars that were not there before he went to Azkaban.

The oven chimes, signaling that the muffins are done.  I levitate them out and set them on the counter to cool.  When I turn back to him, his hands are resting on the table, and he's staring at them.  His lower lip is quivering and his eyes are glassy with a combination of rage and absolute despair.

"I tried to brush my hair.  I can't get a proper grip on anything…I kept dropping the brush."  His voice lowers to a choked whisper.  "How can I live like this, Draco?"

My throat tightens.

"I'll do it for you, for now, Father," I say, hearing my voice as if it is coming from very far away.  "And once you're dressed we'll see about getting your hands healed, all right?"

He nods numbly, and when I return with the brush, he sits with his head bowed, saying nothing as I run the brush through his pale, fragile hair.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

My father looks like a quarter of the man he used to be.  The Aurors had the decency to leave our clothing alone, so his old, posh robes lend a bit to his appearance.  But the robes are too big for him now, and clothing can only do so much.  It can hardly conceal his haunted face and diminished presence.

At last we are ready.  He looks at me expectantly, and I hold out my hand.

"What..?" he says, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"We're apparating," I say, gesturing with my outstretched hand.

Terror floods into his eyes, which widen considerably.

"But that…that's magic…I can't…they'll take me back there…"

"You're not doing the magic.  You're just along for the ride.  If they tried to pin it on you I'd hex them all to smithereens."  The statement was meant to be reassuring, but it seems to make him even more alarmed.

"No!  Then they'd send you to Azkaban, and—"

"Father!  There's no need to worry.  Please."

He swallows and licks his lips anxiously.  At last he places a gnarled hand in mine and closes his eyes.  His palm is sweaty.  He's afraid.  I hate the Ministry more than ever for doing this to him; he's like an abused pet, jumpy and skittish and hardly able to trust.  Not that he had ever trusted much to begin with.  We are a family of Slytherins, after all.  But there is a great difference between choosing not to trust and being unable to trust.

I sigh, squeezing his hand gently, and then we apparate.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

He walks behind me, his eyes on the ground.  It unnerves me, and several times I attempt to convince him to walk at my side.  But he keeps dropping behind.

It is only when we are practically to the gates of Hogwarts that he lifts his head and stares out from underneath his hood.  He freezes in place.

"Where are we going?" he asks warily.

"To Hogwarts," I reply over my shoulder.  "Madame Pomfrey will fix your hands, and whatever else."

I walk a few more steps, and figure that he will follow quietly, as he had been the entire trip.

"No."

I stop and turn back toward him.

"What?"

"No."

"Don't you want your hands healed?" I ask, confused and a bit agitated.

"Yes."

"Then what are you stopping for?"

He shakes his head, looking panicked.

"I can't go in there.  I can't."

"Father, it's the summer holiday, only the staff is there!  No one will see."

"NO," he says through his teeth.  His chest is heaving and a fine layer of sweat has broken out on his forehead.  "I can't.  I can't."

My eyes prickle with tears of frustration, and I resist the urge to pull my own hair.

"Father, please, I know you don't want to be here, but Madame Pomfrey won't tell, and it won't cost us a thing!"

That was the biggest problem: the cost.  I am fairly sure that St. Mungo's would refuse to treat him.  The hospital is steeped in Ministry politics, and would probably insist that he is perfectly fine, since he still has all ten fingers attached to his hand.  Bastards.  The last time I checked, healing was not a selective job.  Everyone was entitled to care.  But they have forgotten the nature of humanity; we are easily hoodwinked into fanaticism, into performing atrocious acts simply because it is our duty, or for the supposed good of the whole.  Our vices are what make us human.  Isn't picking and choosing who is worthy and who is not a vice in itself?

"Draco," he whispers.  His face is a mask of agony.  Two wet tracks glisten across the sallow skin of his cheeks.  "Draco, please, I can't."

The sight of a once-mighty man weeping and begging melts all my resolve.  Money is not important.  It is meaningless.  I would give every galleon I have just to ease his suffering.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"I'm sorry."

That's at least the tenth time he's apologized.  Every time I look at him, he curls up in shame and won't meet my eyes.

"I told you, Father, it's all right.  Since when has a Malfoy cared about money?" I say, abandoning my attempt to count what's left of my funding.  The doctor gave us a discount, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of pity – it doesn't matter.  My father's hands are fixed.  At one time charity would have made me bristle with anger, but now I cannot be so self-righteous.

"But you need it."

"And you need your hands."

"It's not the same."

"You're right, it's not.  I can always earn more money, but you can never get another pair of hands."

That seems to satisfy him.  He is quiet for a while, and I begin to recount the galleons laid out before me.  The operation used up about a third of my funding.  I close my eyes for a moment and sigh.  There is still enough for me to be comfortable for about a year, provided I don't splurge on anything.  No new clothing, no more odds and ends from Hogsmeade…

I look over at him.  He is slowly flexing his hands, watching each movement with a critical eye.  The numbing charm must have worn off.

"Is there any pain?" I ask softly.

"A little," he murmurs.  I hear the joints pop as he makes a fist.  "But you know…there are two kinds of pain.  Positive and negative."

"What's the difference?" I ask.

"Positive pain is the sort of pain you get from straining yourself to achieve something… the pain you get from growing, healing, working…striving to accomplish all that you are capable of.  Or recovering from a dark time…the old pain is still there, but you know you're going to beat it, so it hurts in a different way…" he trails off, opening his fists and examining his palms.

"And negative pain?" I prompt.  I probably shouldn't ask, but this is the most he's spoken since he came home, and I simply can't let go of his voice.  Out of every aspect of his being, his voice is the only thing that is still as it was back then.  Certainly it has changed in volume, confidence, tone, emotion…but the voice, the core, raw sound of his expression, is exactly the same. 

"Negative pain is destructive pain.  The sort of pain that will rip you to shreds inside.  It is the inside that really matters, in relation to pain…one can do anything to the outside, anything at all, and there is some way to bear it.  It is only when pain reaches the mind that it gains the power to destroy."

And has it destroyed you, Father? is all I can think as I stare at him, and for the first time in nearly eighteen hours, he stares back.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

We finally got around to eating the food I had cooked earlier that morning.  It was good, although the muffins had gone slightly stale from sitting out.  Neither of us really cared; he seemed to be in a muted state of euphoria because now he could hold his fork properly.

He ate slowly, painstakingly, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of every bite.  In spite of his rapt appearance, I don't fancy myself a chef.  Anything would be heaven to man who ate only gruel and bread for nearly two years.

"Would you like some wine, Father?" I ask impulsively.  I managed to salvage a few of the best vintages from the Aurors by charming the wine to appear colorless, like water, and transfiguring the bottles to look like plain, clear water bottles.  I explained their presence in the basement by saying that even the finest wizard must be prepared for the worst.  After they left, I transfigured them back to their original form, and they still sit exactly where they were before the stripping of Malfoy Manor.

"Wine."  He repeats the word as if it were a foreign language.  He nods.  "Yes…"

I stand and move towards the basement door, which is not far from the kitchen.  It is a small luxury to me, but I am sure it will be like ambrosia to him.  I briefly worry about his tolerance; it can't be very high when he hasn't had a drop to drink in almost two years and his liver is in a less than stellar state.  I won't allow him too much.  It won't do either of us any good for him to get roaringly drunk just three hours before the Aurors come to take him.

I return with the finest bottle we have.  He surprises me by holding out a hand as I walk by to try to find the corkscrew.  I let him have the bottle and notice him examining it closely as I rummage through the drawers.

"This is what we drank when you were born, Draco," he says softly, his eyes far away.  "This is for special occasions.  Your graduation, your marriage, the birth of a child…not this.  Not me."

"Homecoming is a special occasion, is it not?" I counter, at last locating the corkscrew.

He does not reply, but his eyes have darkened again, in a way that tells me that I will not be seeing much more light in them.  I take the bottle from him and open it.  He winces as the cork comes off.

I Accio some clean glasses.  They're not even wine glasses; the Aurors took all the fine crystal.  But a glass is a glass, or so I've come to learn, and I pour two equal amounts.  I press one glass into his hands, and he does not resist.

"To coming home," I say, fishing for that so-called silver lining.  "And to never crossing the threshold of Azkaban again."

He raises his glass in acknowledgement, a small, bitter smile on his face.  And then we drink. 

The wine is so delicious that it brings tears to his eyes.  At least, that's what I hope it is.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"There's one more thing I have to show you."

I look up from the papers I've been sorting through.  They're his release papers from Azkaban and the Ministry.  I've been poring over them, attempting to find some loophole that will stop them from executing this terrible punishment.  But so far their wording is airtight and their policy rigid; I fear that there really is nothing that I can do.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling the pound of a headache beginning above my right eye. 

"Come with me."

I stand and follow him, wondering what more could possibly be hidden in this house.  He leads me into the rarely-used sitting room.  It was a splendid room, before the Aurors came.  All that is left of it now is the massive, ornately rendered fireplace.  That is where he leads me.  The hearth is tall enough for a grown man to stand; I blink in confusion as he walks right into the cold maw of stone.

"Are you coming?"

"Coming where?"

There is a scraping sound, and he re-emerges from the fireplace, his hands sooty.

"Into my sanctuary."

I peer in cautiously, wondering if he's lost his mind.  But that thought is quickly dashed as I see a door to the far left of the pyre.  It is placed so that you cannot see it at any angle from the outside, but once you are inside it is quite obvious.  At least it is now, since he has it partially opened.

He moves towards the door and slips past it.  I follow.  There is a short corridor, and then a set of stairs.  I am a bit worried about how I can navigate the narrow, steep stairwell in the dark, but then he whispers,

"Thirteen."

That's how many steps there are.  I count as I step, and find myself on solid ground.  A room stretches out before me, dimly lit by one or two candles.  The musty, earthy smell tells me that we are underground.  An extension of the basement, perhaps?

I cast a Lumos and look around me.  It is a large room, but there isn't much in it.  The biggest and most ostentatious feature of the room is the grand piano at the far end.  It looks to be in good shape, but is in desperate need of dusting and polishing.  Aside from the piano, there is a table with one chair and two shelves on the far wall which house a few old toys and games and, quite interestingly, two pensieves.

"It helped you sleep when you were young, did it not?" he asks, nodding towards the piano.

I was told nearly a thousand times of how cranky and colicky I was as an infant and toddler.  I remember, to some degree.  One particularly bad night, a beautiful ghostly music had begun to swirl around me.  I was asleep in less than fifteen minutes.  From that night on, the music would come nearly every night a little after I was tucked into bed.  I would wait for it, listen for it anxiously, and when it came it would soothe me like nothing else could.  My mother had taken a picture of me in my slumber once, and in it I had a tiny, contented smile on my face.  It was the one picture of me she kept by her bedside.  It was also the only memento of me she had taken when she left.

She had thought the smile was because I was having wonderful dreams.  I was, but it was all because of the strange, melodic music that drifted through my room, as if my own personal angel was charming me to sleep.

The music had waned as I grew older, but I had mellowed, so it was all right.  It would still come every now and then.  Sometimes I wondered if it was all in my head.  Now I know that it wasn't.

"It can only be heard in your room," my father says, lifting the cover and running his fingers wistfully over the keys.  "It used to be my mother's room.  She loved to hear me play, but my father hated it.  Thought it was too Muggle, and couldn't stand the sound.  My mother created this room for me so I could play and have somewhere to go where no one could find me.  It's something every child needs."

I nod.  How right he is.

"Can you play?" I ask hesitantly.  It seems right, after all those years of thinking an angel was playing its song for me.  In a way, it was the truth.  I want to see him touch the keys with his new hands, and for him to know that there is still something magical he can do even without his wand.

I can see that he is debating with himself.  But at last he swipes a hand over the dusty bench and sits.  His hands hover over the keys for a moment, as if he isn't quite sure of them.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asks.

"I…I don't know the name," I stammer, surprised.

"Describe it."

"Um…well, at first it's slow and sort of…mournful.  And then it becomes bouncy and happy, and then…fast and somewhat chaotic.  Although I only heard the other two parts once…I would always fall asleep during the first."

He nods, and I think I see his lips quirk upwards, although it could be my imagination.

"I know which one you mean.  But I don't think I can play the last part…it's been too long."

"Then just play the first part."

He nods again, and then his brow furrows in concentration.  His hands move to a certain placement.  He stares at them, and then shakes his head.  He moves them a few keys over, hits one note, and then nods, satisfied.

He plays softly and tenderly; his hands do not falter.  They memorized this tune long ago.  I think, as the doleful notes roll over my ears, that I probably shouldn't have chosen this one.  It is undeniably beautiful, but it makes me ache with unexpressed sorrow.  My chest tightens, and my throat closes up painfully.  It is difficult to breathe.  I step back and sit heavily on the bottom stair.  My eyes keep welling with tears, but I fight them, pressing my palms against my eyelids until I see bursts of purple and yellow stars.

Suppressing the urge to sniffle, I glance up at him.  His face has that same rapturous look that graced it when he took his first sip of wine.  He is playing with his eyes closed.  I know instinctively that the song is winding down; I have heard it dozens of times in that state somewhere between sleeping and waking.  I suppose I am in that same kind of limbo right now; there is the Draco that is All Right and Can Handle Everything, and then there is the Draco that Feels Helpless and Wishes he Could Just Lay Down and Die.

The song ends, leaving the small room pregnant with a heavy silence.  I feel incredibly drained all of a sudden.  Perhaps it is the lack of sleep.  Perhaps it is simply catharsis.  All I know is that the Draco that is All Right and Can Handle Everything will not last much longer.

"What's it called?" I whisper.

"Beethoven's Sonata 14.  The Moonlight Sonata," he whispers back.  "First real piece I ever learned to play.  My father despised it.  Said he might as well give me a funeral so I could play my dirge.  He killed my old owl and then told me I finally had a good reason to play 'that piece of rubbish'."

"He wasn't a very nice man, was he."

My father chuckles mirthlessly.

"No, he wasn't."

The silence lingers for a few more moments, and then he stands up.  He goes over to the shelf and takes down the two pensieves.  He sets them on the table and beckons me.  I go, a little wary of what memories the vessels hold.  Was his life really so bad that he needs two pensieves to exorcise the demons?

"I'm going to leave these to you, Draco," he says, tracing the silver rim of one of the bowl-like containers.  "You can view them, or simply leave them as they are, or smash them to bits for all I care…One contains the majority of my bad memories, and the other all the good."

It is obvious which is which.  One is a great deal fuller than the other, and the silver, liquid surface is turbulent and restless, ever changing.  The second is still and placid, and its mist smells faintly of something, I'm not sure exactly what, that comforts and relaxes me.

"But Father…don't you want your good memories?" I ask, confused.

He shakes his head.

"No, Draco.  I don't want any memories at all."

My eyes widen as I realize what he is saying.  Before I even blink he is on his knees in front of me, his hands clenched together as if in prayer.

"Please, Draco.  Obliviate me, kill me, something, anything!"

"I will not kill you, Father!" I nearly shout, horrified.

"Oh, Draco, you would only be putting me out of my misery!  I can't live like this.  I have nothing, I know nothing, I'm alone and I can hardly muster the spirit to open my eyes each day!  Please, Draco!  Do this for me…don't make me dishonor myself by taking my own life…"

A sudden, violent surge of anger bubbles within me.

"You're not my father!" I scream at him.  I am too angry to care about how his body shrinks and his face crumbles into despair at my words.  "My father would never give up!  He would never let anyone beat him!  He would make do with what he had and STILL BE THE MOST GODDAMNED ARROGANT AND ARISTOCRATIC PUREBLOOD IN THE WORLD, EVEN IF HE HAD TO WEAR RAGS AND WORK AS THE WEASLEYS' BUTLER!"

The splotches of red fade from my vision, and as I try to calm myself, I realize that I have backed him into the wall.  He's pressed against it, his body curled tightly in a defensive position.  His hands cover his head, as if to ward off a blow.

"I'm sorry," his tiny, hollow voice states.  "I didn't mean to displease you."

Despair quickly rises in place of my fury.

"Father, I'm sorry!" I gasp through tears that I can no longer contain, crouching down next to him.  "I didn't mean to be so harsh…"

His tight, passive posture doesn't waver.  He still believes that I would raise a hand or wand to him.

"Just do what you will to me."  His voice is bitter now, and thick with emotion.  "If I am not your father, then you have every right to punish this stranger in your house."

"Father, please, I didn't mean it!  I've been alone since Mother left and now I have you back, but I hate what they've done to you!  And now they're going to snatch you right away again!  At least…at least when you were in Azkaban I knew where you were and that you were alive!  But now…now…why must they do this?" I rant between sobs.

He doesn't answer me at first, and I curl up next to him against the wall, aching from the sheer injustice of the whole situation.  After a few moments, he slowly lowers his hands, and then rests his chin on his knees.

"That other man you spoke of…that proud man…would you kill him if he asked you to?"

I meet his eyes, blue-grey to arctic blue.

"That other man would never ask."