Bonjour, all! This little songfic is another one of my crazy ideas, and as usual, may be branched out upon. It depends on if I have time. If it does continue, I will make sure to tell you what song I used for each part. Currently, the song for this chapter is 'Breath of Life' by Florence and the Machine. It starts in the middle of the song, just to let you know.
Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics, nor do I own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't have to beg my friends for food substances every day of high school.
Reviews make me feel good! Just to let you know. Even if it's an insult, I need to know what to change about my writing.
But I needed one more touch...
His breath came in short periods, gasps shaking a decaying body, pleading for the so-desired oxygen. But none were as pitiful then the last hour's breathless reminder that Draco Malfoy was nothing, nothing more than a mere traitor. A wimp. A side-hopper. For what more did he do in his life, apart from swearing allegiances? He had truly messed up, truly convinced himself that it was his fault that death had come knocking so early.
But what of his child? What of his wife? What was to become of them when she finally passed beyond the veil? It was inevitable, as there was no cure for whatever ailed him. There was nothing to save the elder Malfoy from his rotting flesh, nothing to cease the drying of his internal organs. His lungs were now only shriveled hags, arguing like siblings over the prospect of life. His matted blond hair was sheer and flimsy, merely sitting on a mass of pasty flesh. His lips would not smirk, his yes would not see, and nothing was spoken, not even the apologies resting on the tip of his flat tongue.
Another taste of heavenly rush...
The dying man's gaze shifted as his wife entered the room, trying her best to plaster a smile on her usually solemn face, to light up the room with hope. Her tight-lipped smile did not last however, fading into a grim look of determination. She was going to get him up, going to wash her husbands grimy face. They would get through the last few days, and he would be fine. he would be happy.
In her hands was a cloth and flask, a mere mirror of her thoughts, the vessels for which his last breaths would fly from. It had been given to her by the Potters, the cloth from the young Mrs. Weasely. Pity. Pity gifts, to elongate Draco's days, if only by a few. But Astoria knew it would not help much. She knew it would only give him a faint rush of life, the strength, and the promise of healing.
Coaxing with gentle hands, his wife lifted the sweaty head, easing flat lips open without a tremble. Her young fingers moved calmly, uncorking the vial next, pausing before tipping the clear liquid down his parched throat. Perhaps he would help her, or try at least, to consume his hope of life, his taste of vigor. Time seemed to slow as the potion smoothly dropped onto the flat petal of tongue, moisture bringing sweet tears to the man's eyes. A new sense of strength rested within him, a strong pride. He had survived a long time. He could make another day.
And I believe, I believe, it's so...
He was speaking, words falling clear off the lips of a young and dying man. Whispers at first, pleading in a quiet tone for his wife to gather up his son, to bring him forth by the damp bedside. Words, forcing themselves out, loudly proclaiming apology, fear in each syllable, finally escaped, coming clear as wealth was bequeathed.
To his son, Scorpios Malfoy, there was given a large sum of money, the manor when he was of age, and his love, as well as a blessing to court the young Miss Potter. For his wife there was money, his wand, his love, and the strongest of all- his memory. Unusual, but proving the heart of a strong man. Though even stranger was the final choices, the names for which a small sum was given.
Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Weasley.
Whose side am I on? Whose side am I?
The single syllable rang out in the dark room, accented by an upward brow, spoken by his son. It was the picture of confusion, and even Draco was having issues explaining why, precisely placing what reason he held.
"Don't we hate them? I mean... Shouldn't we? We're.. You're... Our family is bad, Dad!"
The elder male shook his head weakly. "No. I hate them. I hate them because they had a side. Because they loved, and some loved them. Not fear, no, never. I hated them..."
Because they were right.
"We didn't-" the child began, but was broken off once more by his father, the truthful words pressing through a mask of denial, a bag of lies.
"I didn't have a side. I was good, for the benefits. I was bad, for my family. I was always told what was right and what was wrong."
Whose side am I on? Whose side am I?
And they were wrong, those with the pureblood ideals, the threats made against him ringing back into the dying man's mind. How Draco could one day receive help from his family, the next day shunned. How in the midst of battle the "Golden Trio" had helped him, saved him twice. And then, even worse, he tried to murder them. Then changing sides, he fought against family.
Voice cracking, eyes fluttering, the tired man leaned back in his pillow, dissatisfied and prepared for what was to come. He was ready to die, for he hated what he was, though what he had once been was no better.
And the fever began to spread; from my heart down to my legs...
But the room's to quiet.
Within fifteen minutes, Draco Malfoy had passed into Death's cold arms, passing into another world as his wife and son sat silently next to an empty shell, mulling over what had just been lost.
So, what'd you think? Like it? Hate it?
Hey, tell me either way! I need to know. I apologize if I spelled anything incorrectly, or got something incorrect. I went to the eye-doctor today, and found out I'm blind in my left eye, but lost the contact. Therefore, I was completely contact-less, because I can't just wear one!
Thank you very much for reading, and please review!
Love your still obsessed with Draco Malfoy writer,