Ambivalent Lucidity

The moment Draco Malfoy’s grey eyes slid open, he knew that it was going to be another one of those mornings. There were several reasons for this deduction: not only was it the first day of sixth year exams, but there was also a rather large owl taking chunks out of his hand. “I’m awake!” he yelped, and he snatched the rolled up parchment from the owl he recognised as his mother’s. “Out!”

At this snarl, the bird started and, feathers ruffled in indignance, exited the room in a swift manner. Draco placed the sealed letter on the comforter before lifting his sweaty palms to his face, sighing into them and giving his sticky eyes a good rub. It was much too early for correspondence, he thought, and he tumbled from between the sheets to land his bare feet on a chilly dungeon floor. Whoever had thought that it would be a good idea to make Slytherin’s dormitory in the dungeon was batshit insane, he surmised as he swiftly bee-lined to his trunk for a warm pair of socks. “It’s nine o’ clock!” sang Goyle’s alarm clock from the other side of the room, and Draco crept back into bed.

Settling into the warm blankets, Draco took the letter into his chilled fingers and slipped the Malfoy crest from the parchment and absently onto his pinky finger. The paper smelled of home, and he took a moment to savour the scent before unfolding the letter which read, in a tight, neat script: You are expected home this afternoon, Draco. Everything is arranged with Dumbledore. – Narcissa. The contents of this short note made Draco’s stomach churn–something must be wrong. His mother had not insulted the headmaster, for one, and Dumbledore only excused students from exams for very pressing matters. Regrettably, he found himself falling out of bed again, pulling on an old pair of robes, and heading out the door for Dumbledore’s office.

Shortly after, with his trunk and other belongings, Draco found himself standing in the foyer of Malfoy Manor in Scotland. His trunk hit the white-marbled floor with an echoing thud, and he tucked a flaxen lock of hair behind his ear before heading up the grand staircase. The manor was all white marble and gold trim, so every footstep was thunder in his ears, and when he knocked upon the oak door to his mother’s study, the sound nearly knocked him off his feet. Though he received no answer, he figured that the sound of the earth coming apart at his knock would have been enough to signal his presence, and he pushed the heavy door open to find his mother in her chair, facing the window that overlooked the extensive and lush gardens of the estate. “I’m home, Mother,” Draco whispered, watching Narcissa’s chair rock with an ever-growing feeling of regret for having made this journey.

Slowly, the chair swivelled around, and Draco was quite suddenly presented with the frail image of his mother slumped in her seat. In one hand, she clutched a bottle of hard liquor and, in the other, a Muggle toy known as a gun. Her crazed expression made Draco’s knees lock and his heart pound in his ears so loudly that he only registered Narcissa’s lips moving for a moment before realising that she was speaking. “—the flu, and they couldn’t d-do anything for it, D-Draco...”

“Huh?” he grunted dumbly, having missed the first part, but Narcissa’s eyes flooded with tears, and she thrust a piece of perfectly-folded parchment at him. With trembling fingers and a stone in his throat, he opened the fold and took a deep breath before beginning to read.

Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy,
We at the Ministry of Magic regret to inform you that yesterday, the day of June 22, Lucius Malfoy passed on due to circumstances beyond our control in his cell at Azkaban prison. His body will be sent to the funeral home of your choice, where you may assume all responsibility for his services. We deeply regret your loss.

Draco did not even bother with the list of names signed at the bottom of the body paragraph, allowing the page to flutter to the ground instead. There were a few moments of silence when neither Draco nor Narcissa spoke or looked at one another, then she cleared her throat quietly. “Everything is yours, Draco... We’ve left everything t-to you,” Narcissa breathed, causing her son to look sharply at her.

“‘We?’” he inquired in a startled tone, and he took an aggressive step forward, his hand reaching for the pistol in his mother’s hand. “You’re still here, Mother! Give me that thing!” With another few steps, he reached to grab at Narcissa’s wrist, but his palms were sweaty and slid off her arm as she struggled to place the barrel of the pistol to her temple. “Stop it!” He made another wild gesture for the gun, but Narcissa swivelled her study chair sharply from him.

“You will decide... where we must be placed,” Narcissa rasped, and Draco grabbed her chair to twist just as her finger jerked the trigger, and a loud gunshot announced the falling of Draco Malfoy to his knees and Narcissa Malfoy’s final breath.

“M-Mum...”