Author's Notes: So...I found this, and finally completed it. It's a one-shot but what else is new? If you read, please review! I like reviews very much and if you do...I'll give you a cookie! Two, if you like. : )
A lot of people on the Dark Side will forever compare my story to that of Icarus and Daedalus. I can't blame them- it's eerily similar. So called 'wise' father builds wings for his son to fly, warns him not to fly too close to the sun, son doesn't listen, wings fall apart, son dies. The End.
No happily ever afters here.
My story will serve as a moral to the children of Death Eaters- listen to your fathers, and don't get close to the Light. Or else, you'll fall, fall like Draco Malfoy did.
And the children will listen with wide eyes and maybe they'll heed the warning, and maybe they won't.
They make it sound so terrible, don't they? And yet, it wasn't that at all. They don't understand. They never will.
They never could.
To them, I went soft. I turned traitor, backstabber, stupid, they say. My father had given me the most powerful wings money and threats could buy, wings to soar high over the common people, wings to fly as high as I could fly, without going too near the sun, of course, or else the wax holding my wings together would melt, and it would have been my fault that I fell. And it was.
My father killed me himself. I remember the look in his eyes when he said those two words.
You know, I think my father loved me very much in his own way. When I was alive, I thought he loved me in the way that one loves a possession that one can show off, and flaunt, but once it breaks, it is useless, and should be tossed out. I was wrong, in this aspect, but he did love me, just cared for his own skin more than he did mine, as was norm for most Death Eaters.
His son, Draco Malfoy, had turned Light. Had been a spy for two years. What else was a proper Death Eater to do, short of beating me into submission, which, on more than one occasion, he tried. In the end, there really was no other choice. I had to be eliminated, and eliminated by my father, so that his loyalty was really proven.
It didn't matter by then anyways. I knew it was bound to happen. Icarus knew very well what he was getting into when he flew closer and closer- yes, I knew all right.
And I suppose you could say my name is glorified on the Light Side- not very often, but when the subject of my death is brought up, they speak in subdued tones, with almost a reverence, saying how brave, how noble! Funny, the Slytherins' definition of such traits is stupid, idiotic.
It shows you the difference between the two houses, between the two sides. A small difference, really. Just a difference in the definitions of certain words.
Someone once told me that higher you go, the farther you have to fall. The more you gain, the more you have to lose.
Icarus fell from the sun, fell from the highest point in the sky to the darkest depths of the ocean. I don't remember if Daedalus went back for his body. I don't think he did.
I have an unmarked grave. It's under this big oak tree. He comes and visits every week, when he can, and he tells me that once the war is over, once everything turns back to normal, he's going to get a plaque, or a marble bench, or something, anything, for my grave. I may be a traitor, unfit to lie in the Malfoy family graveyard, but I am still a Malfoy.
He knows that I could care less, but it bothers him that I don't have a marked grave.
And everyday, I wait for him. He usually comes on Fridays, but sometimes Sundays, late afternoon, and stays until dusk. Occasionally, he comes on a Monday. Wednesday, if he's feeling spontaneous.
He doesn't bring flowers. I don't expect him to.
He'll stand there, and sometimes he'll contort his face, and sometimes he won't. Once, he actually fell to his knees, and made the sound someone makes when they're throwing up. Only nothing came out, though he tried, and tried. What he doesn't know is that I'm always standing next to him. He doesn't know what I say to him, or how, when I try to touch him, I can't.
Sometimes, before he leaves, I'll touch his hand, and for a moment, he'll look straight into my eyes, like he can see me. But then, he just shivers, and turns away.
Lucius Malfoy is a broken shell of a man, they all say. Whisper. He doesn't deny it.
When he can, he comes to the oak tree, right near the old Riddle House. It's on a hill. He chose the hill because Draco always liked being able to see everywhere- like he was flying. He has to smile at the memory of Draco riding his first broom. There are so few things to smile at these days.
He always stands. Stands or paces.
Sometimes he'll mutter to himself. "When this is all over, you'll get a headstone, boy. A big marble affair- like your grandfather's- you always liked to climb on that, remember? And it'll say, 'Here lies Draco Malfoy, a wonderful son (your mother's words, not mine), a good friend (Pansy's two cents) , and a two-timing bastard (mine).' Doesn't that sound nice?"
He never gets a response, of course. Not that he expects one.
One sunny day, he falls to his knees, and tries to throw up. But nothing will come. Then finally, just as the sun begins to dip low in the east, he whispers, "She's dead, boy." He doesn't have to tell him who. Lucius has a feeling that he already knows.
Then he doesn't come for three weeks, and when he does finally show up, he tells him all about the funeral. "Oh, you should've seen it- it was held at home, of course, but everybody came. She wore the pale silver silk dress- your favorite. We had gardenias everywhere. All in all, it went rather well, I think." He clears his throat. "She would've like you to be there, you know. But she understands. Understood."
No, she doesn't understand, I want to tell him. She doesn't understand at all. Never will.
"What did you do, Father? Did you beat her until her skin turned black and blue? Strangle her? Stab her? Was it poison? Or was it magic? How did you kill her, Father, how?"
"Loved her, that's all. Loved her." he says suddenly, quietly, almost as if he can hear me. But I know he can't.
I think I know how she died anyway. I bet she just wasted away, little by little, disappeared until there was nothing left.
He looks older, my father. It's not that he has wrinkles, but there's something about his face. His eyes maybe.
"I adored you once. What happened?"
He doesn't answer me, but instead pats the patch of earth on top of my body.
"It's late. Best be going. Lots of things to do- lots. I'll try and come next week."
And he's gone.
He shows up on a Tuesday, silver eyes glinting, and with a terrible, fierce joy in his face.
"We're so close, boy, so close...the Dark Lord has found a way...we might not have to pay for your mistake as heavily as we thought...we're so close..."
He can't control his excitement. It pours out of him. He tells him about the plan. How nothing can go wrong this time, absolutely nothing.
"It's brilliant, boy, brilliant."
I listen in utter silence. "Do you even remember the cause, Father? Do you?"
I shake my head. "I don't even think it's to purify the wizard race anymore. I don't even know what it is anymore. Can you tell me why you're fighting, Father? What is it exactly that people are dying for? What I died for? Power? Glory? An idea, a creed?"
It frusterates me that he cannot hear, that he cannot answer. I don't know that he would've answered, even if he could have.
Unexpectedly, he shows up on Friday.
"You've ruined everything...everything...we were so close..." his tone isn't his typical cold fury, words cutting like ice daggers, but something different. He sounds like a man on the edge of a dark abyss, straining, and straining. His words melt together, meld into a desperate, fiery, bitter scream.
"Why did you do it? What was so wrong about what we wanted? What did they offer you that I didn't? Why didn't you follow me, Draco, your own father? Why?"
And quite suddenly, Lucius Malfoy cracks. He shatters into a million little pieces, scattering all over the ground. He doesn't bother to pick himself up.
"What did I do wrong, Draco? What went wrong? Why couldn't I love you enough? Why couldn't you love me enough? What went wrong?"
And everything is coming out of him. He can't stop. He can't stop.
I don't know what to say. So I don't say anything. I kneel down, next to him, and watch as my father breaks down.
Unexplicably, tears come into my eyes. And the words come as suddenly as his.
"I don't know Father, I really don't know. But it's okay. It'll be okay."
We sit like that for awhile, and he grows silent. And he looks up, looks straight at me.
"I'm sorry," he rasps, quietly, "I'm so sorry." It's first apology he's ever made in his life.
It's a little before I can bring myself to answer. "Me too, Father. Me too."
"It's tonight. Tonight, he's going to kill me." He gets up, fairly steadily. A wave of pain crosses his face, and Draco knows that somewhere, Voldemort is pressing the tattoo of a skull and a snake, summoning them to him.
"I must go," his voice is devoid of any emotion. But as he turns to leave, he sees something out of the corner of his eye. He whirls around.
There's nothing there.
He has to laugh at himself. "Ah, I'm getting old. Well, goodbye then, Draco."
And once again he is gone, and Draco doesn't know if he'll return.
Just as I'm watching the stars come out, he joins me. I turn to him, and smile."Hello, Father."
He looks at me, for a quick instant before turning his gaze upward. "Draco. How have you been?"
There's a pause, in which everything we've never said to each other comes out and is understood in the silence.
"I've been fine, Father, just fine." It's a banal, ordinary answer- but it's a start.
Author's Notes: gets out the cookie jar Okay, who wants a cookie?
Oh, and if any Requiem reviewers read this...chapter one will be posted Sunday! I promise. : ) Now, do review, you know you want a cookie. Or two. ;)