𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐏𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐒

XV

Act XV.

Mater artium necessitas.

Necessity is the mother of invention.

Draco blinked slowly as he felt the last stirrings of sleep leave him. Groggily, he sat up as he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get his bearings. He groaned as he looked at the clock, seeing that it was past midnight. The events of the previous day had probably drained him so much that his intended one-hour nap had stretched for more than six hours. His stomach grumbled in protest as he stood, hunger that had been nonexistent during the past few weeks returning with a vengeance.

Determining that surely everyone in the house would be asleep at this hour, he resolved to make his way into the kitchens. He remembered the steaming chocolate pudding the Weasel's mum had made yesterday and he felt his mouth water a little. He had to give it to the woman, an overweight Weasley she may be, but she sure knew how to cook! Certainly, there would be some left over? After all, the woman had prepared enough to feed a small army, surely the pudding had weathered even the combined appetites of Potter and the Weasel King?

Hurriedly pulling a robe over his clothes, he was about to make his way to the kitchen when a glittering object caught his eye. Smiling softly, he approached the golden key and stroked the sleeping dragon tenderly. A sharp pang shot through his chest as he remembered his mother. I hope she's okay, he thought sadly. He missed her. He never thought he would, especially since the last few years all he had ever done was push her away but Merlin, did he miss her now. What he wouldn't give to just have one last cup of tea with her or to once again meet her smiling eyes. Draco shook his head. What an insufferable sap he was being! His mother was fine and, in fact, didn't Dumbledore just reiterate that he could visit her as soon as possible? He smiled at that, happy in the knowledge he had not lost his mother in all of this. The old wizard had said he could see her once Lucius was out of town.

A cloud of misery descended upon him then, as he thought of his father who was probably cursing his name even now. And Draco didn't blame him one bit. He knew how his father worked and the beliefs he subscribed to. He knew that what he had done would have hurt the man deeply. And even though he couldn't remember what exactly had happened and what words had been said, he knew with a certainty that was making it difficult for him to breathe, he had broken his father's heart.

He sighed deeply, guilt and sorrow settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. His head began to throb dully as he once again tried to remember more of what had happened only to be denied. He rubbed soothing circles on his forehead to alleviate the sudden pain as he scrambled to think of another way to relieve all of his pent up emotions. Gods how he wanted to talk to his father! The man always had the answers and never faltered in his decisions. The memory of his afternoon discussions with his father assaulted him just then. He could almost smell the scent of strong Earl Grey that had usually wafted in the space between them during those chats in his library. It was a ritual that they had started the summer before he'd first left for Hogwarts. It had always been something he had looked forward to since it had been the only real time his father had spent with him, even if it had only been to teach him the Dark Arts. He could still remember the last time it had happened and how his father had almost smiled at him when he had managed a successful Cruciatus. His heart had almost burst out of his chest in joy at the sight.

He shook his head against the painfulness of that vivid recollection, now bittersweet with the knowledge that it could never happen again. Never again, would his father listen to his opinions and thoughts earnestly. Never again, would the man call him son. A sharp pressure began to build behind his eyes and he rubbed frantically at it, furious with himself for being weak once more. A lump in his throat was forming and he scrambled to maintain his loosening hold on his composure. He grabbed the golden key and shoved it inside his desk. He was about to slam the drawer closed when he saw a piece of parchment lying there. Seizing the paper and clutching it like a lifeline; he hurriedly lit his candle and grabbed his quill. And then with a hand that wasn't quite steady, he began to write.