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A/N Thanks to Precious_Rin for beta-ing! It was past midnight in the Emergency ward at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was less crowded than it was during the day, as most people seemed to prefer getting their fingers caught in teapots and hexing their husbands during arguments in the daytime.


The sound of Apparation was followed by the appearance of a severe blonde man. He strode haughtily over to the desk of the Welcome Witch, displeased over the fact that she didn’t even glance up for a split second as she continued reading her trashy tabloid magazine.

“Ahem,” Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat noisily and the witch simply ignored him. He tried again, and only succeeding in receiving a bored reply.

“Throat Clearing Hex? Spell Damage, fourth floor.”

“I believe I was contacted to arrive immediately for an urgent situation. My time is rather precious to waste,” he snapped and the Welcome Witch, who recognized his voice, immediately sugar coated her voice in a disgustingly false tone.

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy, your time and contribution to this hospital is deeply valued by every-”

“You are wasting my time with your babbling, just tell me exactly why I am here in the middle of the night when I could be doing a great number of more important things,” he glared impatiently at the blonde woman behind the desk, who seemed hesitant to give him a straightforward answer.

“I…I’m not quite sure, if it was a Healer that contacted you, the information enclosed is kept private…” she replied hesitantly, “Why don’t you take a seat for now and I’ll inform you of any additional information,” she gestured to a nearby empty chair and Lucius stalked to the area with an air of royalty and a disdainful attitude to match.

Since it was not a busy time at the Emergency Ward, the rows of chairs were only occupied by Healers taking the opportunity of a bonus coffee break and catching up to each other on the latest gossip. The smell of coffee mixed with the smell of disease and various potions was slightly nauseating.

Lucius Malfoy sat in the furthest corner away from these lowly Mudbloods and Half-bloods who were not worthy enough to be learning the secrets of magical medicine; and to think, a millennia worth of knowledge, in the hands of tainted blood.

He leaned back against his uncomfortable straight back wooden chair. Considering all the money he donated to this hospital and a ward named after him, they should be escorting him to a private waiting room with a proper armchair and refreshments to keep him satisfied.

Not that he would even consider consuming hospital food, but having the platter of food in front of him was a sign of respect, a sign that he was of higher class than these lowly plebeians discussing their meaningless lives as if they had some important place in the world. Trying to block out their consistent chattering, Lucius’ icy grey eyes scanned the ancient room and noticed there was only one emergency cubicle that bustled with activity.

“Blood pressure dropping, two milligrams of Regeneration Potion!” a frenzy command came from the curtained cubicle.

More unworthy scum removed from this world, no doubt Lucius thought gleefully, the idea of a Mudblood tasting death appealingly distracting him from his boredom.

“Issued, blood pressure still dropping-”

Even if it was a Half-blood, he probably deserved death, being the spawn of a Muggle, destroying the roots of magical ancestry. He contemplated the idea of heading over, peeking through the curtains and watching as the person died.

“Pressure shock charm, pressure at two hundred volts-”

“Pupils dilating, pulse weakening-”

“Pressure shock charm, pressure at four hundred volts-”

“Pupils dilated, cardiac arrest-”

“Pressure shock charm, pressure at four hundred fifty-”

“No sign of breathing.”

“Confirmed, two thirty-two am,” a male voice stated in a finalized tone and he exited the curtained area, spotting Lucius sitting in the waiting area.

A Healer pushed away the curtains and walked over to where Lucius was sitting.

“Are you the relative of Draco Malfoy?” he asked, Lucius began to feel slightly queasy as the name of his son was mentioned and he caught a glimpse of the body that lay covered under a white sheet.

What does this have to do with Draco?

“I am Lucius Malfoy, his father.”

“I am very sorry to tell you this, Mr. Malfoy, but your son was brought to our hospital at approximately fifteen minutes ago. He was found severely injured at Knockturn Alley and was pronounced dead as of 2:32 am,” the lime-green-gowned healer said with a very solemn face. Lucius stared back at him, the young healer continued looking at him as if waiting for Lucius to display an outrageous bout of sorrow and weep on his shoulder.


It was such an ugly word, it symbolized powerless, lifelessness, no longer there. No longer able to command, to act, to deceive. Draco was dead, passed away, moved on, whatever people called it, he simply wasn’t there anymore.

It was not possible, the man lying in there was a worthless Mudblood, a lowly Half-blood; it couldn’t be Draco. It couldn’t be the same boy that Lucius saw in the corridors of the Malfoy Mansion in the morning. The same boy with the gleam in his blue-grey eyes, the same boy commanding the House Elves with his deep baritone voice, the same boy whom he saw embrace the air as he flew around the Malfoy Manor on his broomstick, the same boy now lying on a cheaply made hospital cot, vulnerable to any and every harm possible to his body.

Was it pain? Was it anger? Was it disappointment? What did he feel? What was he supposed to feel? As a father, he should be inside the small hospital cubicle, feeling the warmth that still lingered on his son’s body, and sob uncontrollably as memories of his son’s childhood floated though his mind. As a Malfoy, he should be Apparating back to Malfoy Manor, and finding out who killed his son and striking back in revenge. He should also be thinking of how this left him with no heir to the Malfoy fortune. But his mind was blank, numb. He could not collapse with sorrow from memories with Draco because there weren’t any. There were no memories of happy times spent with Draco where father and son were smiling happily at each other. There were no memories of his son clinging to his body and the proud feeling of knowing that he was his son’s hero.

On the other hand, deep within him, there seemed to be a pressure squeezing his chest, freezing his mind, it was a feeling filled every corner of his soul that there was no space left to hate, no space left to think about money, power, and things that simply didn’t seem to matter.

There seemed to be something missing, Lucius felt like he had been cheated, he should have some sort of happy memory with Draco to be remembering. Every father did, it wasn’t fair that he didn’t have at least one as well. There had to be at least one. Did he ever teach Draco how to ride a broomstick? Did he ever tuck Draco into bed? What was Draco’s first word? When did he take his first step? What was his favourite colour? his favourite food? Did he even know Draco? Or was he simply the person living in his house that had half of his genes?

Were relationships something that were simply given to you? Like opportunities? Were they supposed to be created? Was there an instruction manual you were given at birth on relationships that he had somehow misplaced?

The most important of them all, did he love his son? Did his son love him?

“Mr. Malfoy, are you alright? We need you to identify the body before we transport it to the Autopsy Room,” the Healer requested, snapping Lucius out of his thoughts as he lead him over cubicle and pushed aside the curtains.

“How,” Lucius began, his normally haughty voice weakened slightly, his eyes avoiding the cot as he entered,” did Draco die?”

He imagined Draco strolling along Knockturn Alley, suddenly a blast of light striking him, his body blown to smithereens.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you until we get the autopsy reports, but based on the examination I did before his heart stopped beating, there seemed to be no visible signs of injury or struggle, so I’m guessing it was a spell that…,” the Healer hesitated as he tried to find a word less blunt to explain to Lucius.

“…killed, it was a spell that killed him,” Lucius finished the sentence off for the healer. Was it the Avada Kedavra? Or the Cruciatus Curse? As a Death Eater, Lucius had always been the one holding out his wand, pointing it at the victims, feeling the rush of adrenaline as he pictured their grotesquely twisted bodies, their moans of suffering, the sound of life being drained from their heart, the metallic scent of blood pooling on the ground, and finally tasting the two satisfying words that stole life away from the victims. Was this how the murderer that killed Draco felt? Did he feel the same euphoria that Lucius felt whenever he killed someone? Did the murderer feel satisfaction in hearing Draco’s voice scream out in pain?

“I’m so sorry,” the healer repeated again, his words offering know condolences for Lucius’ mixed emotions, or his regret, his missing pieces in life. How he hated himself now! And to think, he was the one hoping for his son to die, he was the one hoping to watch in satisfaction as life was drained from him. Oh, the irony!

As the healer pulled the curtains closed again, a sudden question emerged from Lucius’ lips before his normal Malfoy coolness could stop it.

“Do you…do you love your father?” he asked, the question hanging awkwardly as the flames in the lamps flickered, creating images on the white curtains that were meant to provide privacy as Healers struggled to stop death in its tracks.

“I think every child in the world does, Mr. Malfoy,” the healer replied as he left the cubicle.

Every child but Draco.

The covered body on the small cot laid three feet away from him. Despite his normally cool demeanour, his disregard for everyone around him, he found himself trembling as he approached the cot. The white sheet exposed the outline of the body underneath. There was a part of him that didn’t want to lift the sheet up, because he knew that once he saw the body, the death was finalized, there would be no denial left that it was not his son’s body. But there was another part of him that needed to know.

With an unsteady grip, he reached for a corner of the sheet and pulled it backwards. As soon as he saw the flash of blonde hair, there was no denying it, it was Draco. He lay there, absolutely still. Lucius reached out and felt the shape of his son’s face; he could almost see a mixture of him and Narcissa. Draco had his father’s platinum-blonde hair, cool grey eyes, and his mother’s aristocratic chin and nose. Lucius pulled the sheet further back until Draco’s whole body was uncovered. He could see the broad shoulders he passed onto his son, but he could see the elegant hands that came from his wife’s genes. He touched the hand that lay motionless on the cot; it still felt warm like his own. He reached out to press the back of his hand against Draco’s cheek; it was still soft like the cheeks of his wife. He ran his fingers through his son’s hair, imagining the wind blowing through is blonde locks as he soared through the skies with his broomstick, he placed a finger on Draco’s lips, imagining for a split second that those were the same lips that planted sloppy kisses on his father’s cheeks as an infant.

But he knew this was not true, the same grey eyes that could have been looking at him with admiration and love, looked at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. The same broad shoulders that would have touched his as they pulled together in a father-son embrace were instead piled with the pressure of responsibility and a reputation to uphold. The same hands that Lucius would have been holding, if he taught Draco how to ride a broomstick, were instead the hand that Lucius forced to fire deadly spells.

As he held his son’s hand, he closed his eyes, his memory recalling how small they once were, eighteen years ago, when he first came into this world…

“Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy, it’s a boy!” the plump midwife handed Lucius a small bundle that he held awkwardly in his arms. He looked down and saw a tiny, red face with a tuft of blonde hair on his head. The tiny infant opened his eyes; they were grey, just like Lucius’. He let out a lusty cry at the sight of an unfamiliar man. It was loud, strong, just like a dragon’s roar.

“Hello, Draco,” Lucius smiled to his son for the first time and surprising himself, he planted a gentle kiss on his newborn son’s forehead. Surprisingly, the baby stopped crying and hiccupped, looking at his father curiously, with eyes that mirrored Lucius’ own. For the first time ever, Lucius felt amazement as he felt the warmth of the bundle that he helped create. He helped breathe life into this small creature. There was tenderness in Lucius’ heart as he pressed his rough and whiskery cheek against the softness of the baby’s, and wondered how such an innocent creature could possibly be created from him.

Lucius opened his eyes, not even noticing they were moist with tears. It was he that brought so much pain and suffering to that little bundle he once held in his arms, he was the one that tainted his innocence by teaching him tricks of deceit, he was the one stole the warmth from those eyes, but remembering the curious hiccupping baby in his arms brought an odd sense of comfort to him. It was the comfort that he had once stopped his son’s tears instead of causing them, that he had once held his son in his embrace, that he had once been a real father to his son.

A tear rolled down Lucius’ cheek and fell on Draco’s cheek as he kissed his son on the forehead with the same tenderness in his heart when he held his son for the first time, eighteen years ago.

"Goodbye, Draco, goodbye."

A/N I wrote this story for the HPFF's Last Days of School May 2006, Summer Challenge. It didn't become a finalist, so I decided to post it here. This is my first non-romance fanfic so constructive criticism is appreciated.

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