His Final Verdict

He was gone, what had he done to deserve to lose him like this? He had been a bad person almost all his life, but he had loved his family with all his being. They were all he cared about he would give his own life if his family were promised safety
He knew it was his own fault, he only wanted to preserve their way of life, and it was with his family’s best interest in mind he had joined the egocentric bastard. In addition, what was he left with, nothing. He had his wealth, his status, his estate and luckily, he still had his wife. But nothing of it mattered anymore.

He’d lost his only son and heir: he was more than just a continuance of their line. He was his beloved son, everywhere he went in the manor and surrounding grounds, there was something that reminded him of his precious Draco.

He gazed out the window to where he’d seen Draco fly his first broom without help. The little voice almost shouting, “Look at me Daddy, look what I can do,” was still fresh in mind as if it was only yesterday.

He looked so proud when he got down to the ground again without accident. He himself was excruciatingly proud of his son’s accomplishment.. One of the biggest milestones in a young witch or wizard’s life was to successfully master a broom.

Whatever people thought of him outside his manor didn’t matter. Inside he was just like any other parent. What would they think if they knew? He could remember the first time Draco scraped his knee. The first sight of his own blood and the stinging pain he felt whilst he cried for his Daddy to fix it. He always did, fixing it and then comforting him before Draco felt better enough to run along doing what he was doing before the accident. He hated seeing Draco cry, and there were many more skinned knees and broom accidents in his upbringing.

It was those accidents that made him indulge in his son, buying him whatever he wished. He could do it and wanted too, there was nothing he denied his little Dragon. Seeing it now, maybe he should have been stricter and not yielded to his every desire.

If he didn’t look so much up to his father, and wanted to make him proud, he wouldn’t have ended up in a cold tomb before his time. He would be out living his life, the way he wished. And why was he killed? Because his father couldn’t do his job properly. If he’d never broken that prophecy. If he never had been caught and sent to Azkaban. What if he’d seen the error of his ways before? Draco had done so, but he was caught and disposed of quickly. He remembered he had collapsed when they brought his lifeless body to the manor. They had put him to rest not long after in the family tomb. Another Malfoy, perished before his time. There were a few of them, from the days of old

That was all he had left of his son, a lot of what-ifs and all the memories.

He was immensely happy that they had decided to make a portrait of Draco for his last year of Hogwarts. So he would be able to speak to his son at least.

But what pained him the most was not feeling his gentle touch or the fingers running trough his silver blonde hair. Or his sweet breath on his face just before he leaned in to kiss him, never to feel that again.

That was what haunted him the most; he’d been unable to sleep much in his own bed, because of the memories. This was one secret no one but he and Draco had shared, even if the Wizarding world was pretty free of those kinds of prejudices. People of same blood sharing a bed were still as much a shame as in the Muggle world.

But for them it was the only right thing, for who can love a Malfoy better than another Malfoy? That was their reason, not even Narcissa knew. For sure, she would have condemned it.

Now he was alone, left with Draco’s presence in the hallways of the manor, in his study, on specific parts of the grounds, and in their bedrooms. It was his final verdict. Lose what you treasure most, to what you feared the most. He would forever hate himself for what his decisions had eventually made happen.