On The Wings of A Dragon

1. Sadness

Draco Malfoy was sad.  

It wasn't as if he wanted to be, but his head and his heart demanded that he should portray the emotion.  His body had become slumped, with his shoulders leaning forward, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his frame thinner than it had ever been.  It's not as if he wanted to look like this.  He didn't want to feel like death warmed up and rolled over, it just happened.  He knew what the cause was, and he didn't know how to fix it.

How to repair the damage that had been done in the war by so many, but more to the point, by himself.  He was a coward.  He accepted this, but it didn't mean that he liked it.  He didn't even want to put a name to it, but he knew in his heart that that is what everyone thought of him.  And he wanted to change it, he really did.  But he didn't have the knowledge, or the energy to do anything about it.

He had done what he had to survive, but there is a vast difference between living and breathing.  All he was doing now was breathing.  This was no way to live your life.  He was 18 years old for Merlin's sake!  And he wanted nothing more than to crawl under his bed and forget about everyone and everything.  That would make it so much easier.  This breathing thing.  Then he could die, and have all his friends and enemies forget about him, because who would want to remember a bully, who never had nice things to say about anyone else.

He had two passions in his life.  One was his mother, and the other was potions.  He knew he had a brilliant mind when it came to making a potion, just like his godfather before him.  Snape had taught him so much, and for that he was grateful.  But who would be willing to employ an 18 year old, who was not only a death eater, but who had fought on the dark side during the war.  He should be in Azkaban with his father.  He should be, but here he was, free to do what he was doing, which as I've said before, was just breathing.

Yes, he had thrown his wand to Potter during the final showdown between him and the dark lord, but nobody would remember that.  He thought of the old muggle saying that he had seen a while back.  "WHEN I AM RIGHT, NO ONE REMEMBERS.  WHEN I AM WRONG, NO ONE FORGETS".  

True words.  And it described him perfectly.

It didn't matter that he had helped Potter or the light side, it didn't matter that he never wanted to, or that he hadn't even been the one who killed Dumbledore, it didn't matter that Potter had spoken at his trial, ensuring him a life of freedom, because everyone thought that he was bad.  Evil, full of hate, and he deserved his punishment.  But little did they know that just breathing was his punishment.  He didn't want to live like this anymore.

Suicide was an option, but then he would appear weak, and Malfoys were not weak.  They could be anything, but never weak.  That had been printed into his brain since he was a baby.  If he had fallen and scraped his knee, he knew after the first couple of beatings, that he wasn't allowed to cry, for it showed weakness.  It showed other people that you had feelings.  And as a Malfoy, you were not gifted the choice to have them.  And what would happen to his mother if he did indeed kill himself?

He tried to remember the last time that he had been happy.  He must have been six or seven years old, he had gone to Diagon Alley with his parents, and they had bought him ice cream and a plushie.  A silver and green dragon, telling him that he should look after it.  He was to be his only true friend.  You can tell him anything you want.  Draco went home that day filled with wonder, and took forever trying to decide on a name.  And when he finally shouted out in his tiny voice - Firebawl - he was happy.

His new friend had a name, he had a home, and they would spend all of their days together, whether it was outside having a picnic, or if it was on a cold night, snuggling up with a good story book.  But in life, friends, just like anything else, come and go all the time.  

One day when Draco had woken up, he couldn't find Fireball in his bed.  He knew he had gone to sleep with him, so where was he.  Did he decide that he didn't want to be Draco's friend anymore?  Had he gone to be another little boy's best friend?  He was curious.  He was also very heart broken.

He searched for Fireball everywhere.  In his room, along the passages, up and down staircases, in the garden, at the stream by the big oak tree, in the kitchen cupboards, and when finally a week had passed, and there was still no sign of the dragon, he had to admit defeat.  He asked his mother and the house elves where Fireball could be, and can they please help him look.  His mother would look at him with a sad face, and apologize, saying that he was nowhere to be found.  I'm so sorry Draco.

He was eleven when he had lost Fireball.  Of course losing a friend that had been that close to him had made him bitter.  Bitter and angry, paired with the way he was being raised that only pure bloods mattered, he vented his anger towards everyone.  All the time.  Especially at the newest celebrity at school.  When he had met Potter, he thought that the boy would want to be his friend, with him being Draco Malfoy.

But no.  The boy had dissed him and his offer of friendship so harshly it felt like a slap in the face.  And since then, Draco couldn't really say that he had any friends.  Those who hung around him were pawns.  Minions, if you will.  Never friends.  And he sure as hell didn't trust them.  Which of course made him sad from the start again.  He needed another Fireball in his life, but where in the world was he going to find one.  And how was he going to do it?