Meanwhile, miles and miles away from where this was, a white-blond haired youth slumped on his bed, burying his ghostly pale face in his pillow. The skull with its serpentine tongue on his wrist burned just as it had been doing all day, making his whole arm throb in agony. Another hard day of waiting to be given orders and tolerating the dark lord's temper.
Draco Malfoy groaned and peeled off his sweaty shirt, exposing his back. Red cuts and marks stood out against the milky-white skin on his back. The Dark lord was a harsh master, and punishment was severe. Aches and pains had kept him up many nights, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Not only that, but dreams had too. Flashbacks of the night Albus Dumbledore died raced through his mind, like a non-stop wheel of images.
He didn't care the old codger was dead. He was kind of glad actually. But … Draco had never seen someone die before. Or tortured, and now he was a death eater it would be expected of him to do that.
And that's what infuriated him so much. It was he, Draco, that had cornered Dumbledore, even disarmed him. And yet when it came to killing … he couldn't do it. The dark lord had accepted him disarming Dumbledore, so he wasn't punished (much). Severus Snape had killed him.
But why? Why had Draco been unable to kill?
"Is it because I'm weak?" he muttered to himself.
"Valuing life is not weakness." Said a voice. Draco jumped as the voice echoed around the large, empty room.
"Who's there?" he called into the empty room. He cautiously opened the door of his wardrobe.
"Getting closer"
"Where are you? Tell me or my father-"
"Humph, your father." Said the voice, mockingly.
He looked around. Everything was in order: the giant double bed, the leather sofas, the large bookshelf, the picture over his bed-
Except it wasn't in order. Draco stared. Usually it was just a plain picture of a simple oak tree against a vibrant blood red sunset. His mother had found it, dusty and old, in the attic and put it up in his room.
But now there was a person in it.
"Oh well done, you've finally found me." He grinned. The man was sprawled out on a branch, grinning lazily, his hands behind his head. He was fairly young, and quite handsome (not that Draco thought so). He had black hair that just reached his shoulders.
He was wearing fine robes, so Draco knew he was quite rich.
"Who are you?" Draco asked, sneering at him. Instead of answering the man looked around Draco's room.
"Malfoy Manor is it?" said the man. "Hmm. I suppose Narcissa saw a pretty tree and hung it in your room, did she?"
"How do you know my mother?" snapped Draco.
"Well, I'd be pretty thick not to know my own cousin's name" said the man, rolling his eyes. But it was then that Draco realized he had seen the man's face before. It had been everywhere in his third year, on posters, in the daily prophet. It was the face of-
"Sirius Black" Draco whispered. Now he recognised that long dark hair and gaunt face. Though the painting must have been painted just before he went to Azkaban, there was no mistaking this was a younger, healthier, less troubled Sirius black.
Sirius clapped his hands. "Hooray! You've worked out who I am!" he said sarcastically.
"You're related to me?" Draco glared at him in disbelief.
"Unfortunately. I'm your … 2nd cousin? Something like that."
"Then how come mother never spoke of you?" said Draco, desperately trying to find some flaw in this.
"Duh, I'm the Black family traitor, aren't I?" he said, as if to a five year old. This annoyed Draco greatly. How dare this painting come into his room and treat him like a fool? "Actually, I don't know why Narcissa even has this portrait…hey!"
Draco had taken the portrait off the wall, much to Sirius's protests, just to check it was his portrait. But, sure enough, in tiny, smudged writing were the words Sirius Black. Draco's lip curled, but he hung the portrait back up.
"And you and mom were friends?"
"Oh we weren't friends!" laughed Sirius. "No, she was too much of a snob for the likes of me. (Draco narrowed his eyes) though" Sirius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "She was quite a sweet little child, I must admit, before she went to Hogwarts. And then she went and married that… that…" he waved his hands, searching for a word to describe Lucius. "That" he finally stated.
Draco felt his face burn. "What do you mean, that? My father is-"
"And then they had you" Sirius said as though Draco had not spoken. "And look at you! You look just like your old man" Sirius chuckled. And then he frowned. "And what's worse, from what my godson told me, you act just like him too. Very bad, Draco" he shook his head disapprovingly. "Am I correct in saying he made you become a Death Eater? Pft, you don't want that" he waved his hands and slouched back on his tree branch." it's all killing and Azkaban, and trust me, that ain't pretty."
"Well, what if I like being a Death Eater?" spat Draco.
"Then you're a fool, boy! Mark my words, your father has made enough of a mess of his own life; don't let him do it to yours.
Draco's jaw dropped. "Wha- but- you can't-" he spluttered. Sirius stretched lazily.
"Oh, come off it, you're not Death Eater material."
"And what do you care if I am or not? Why are you here?" Draco snarled. Sirius paused, gazing at him through deep, dark eyes.
"I was sent." He muttered softly.
"By whom?"
"Someone who does care what happens to you. Someone who believes there is some good hidden in that white-blond head of yours"
"Yes, but whom?"
"Alright it was Dumbledore if you really want to know" snapped Sirius. Draco gaped at him.
"It can't have been. He's dead."
"Not recently! Last summer, he managed to find my other portrait, and asked me to spy on you. How else do you think he knew about your little plan?"
"So. So you've been spying on me have you?" Draco muttered furiously.
"yes." Sirius grinned cheekily. Draco glared out the window.
"And you're saying I shouldn't do what father wants me to, Black? Black?" he turned back to the portrait, to find only the oak tree in calmness once more. With a roar of frustration, he wrenched the painting off its hinges and was about to chuck it into the flickering fire, when something stopped him. He looked at the painting in his hands. Then, he kicked the wardrobe door open and shoved it into the back.
Draco clambered into bed, though it was only ten to six. Sirius's words repeated themselves in his mind. "Your father has made enough of a mess of his own life, don't let him do it to yours…" and with that he fell asleep.
*
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