thirteenth lotus leaf

For a change, the clock hanging right above his bed was now keeping him awake. What on earth possessed him to hang that damned thing there? Maybe it was because there weren't enough clocks in the mansion, or maybe he just wanted to torture himself.
The clock showed 3 am. His mother always said he had to be asleep by 3 or dark spirits would hunt him. How ridiculous. Draco was no longer a child, and his mother wasn't there to say such things.
After the war, his mother and he were grounded. His mother spent a year in Azkaban. Being both a Malfoy and a Black hadn't done him any favors. Draco was under house arrest for two years, forced to live with Aurors in his own home. It wasn't a pleasant experience at all. He often expected an Auror to jump out of the wall at any moment. In fact, the reason the Aurors were gone now was because of his mother. She had contracted a severe flower disease. Draco believed it was a curse from the Black family, who had been killing his family for generations.
They had realized she was sick after she came back from Azkaban. No matter how much they sought treatment, there was no cure. And no one really helped the former Death Eaters.

Narcissa Malfoy passed away a year later, and Lucius Malfoy would face the Kiss about 13 years later. At first, Draco hadn't realized that he was showing the same symptoms as his mother's illness because he was so worried about her. High fever, sleep-talking, forgetting dreams, losing track of time, zoning out a lot, and irritation from itchy skin.

He had contracted an unknown flower curse. The curse manifested as bright pink wounds shaped like flowers on the body. The disease progressed as the petals of the flower darkened and approached the seed. Ironically, Draco's first flower sign was a lotus that had appeared on his upper arm. He had taken an old, creaky, dusty chest from his childhood and found a muggle flower book that he had secretly read from his father. He tried to research more about the plant.

The lotus flower symbolizes purification, rebirth, and the cleansing of the soul. Biologically, the lotus flower, which grows and blooms in muddy and swampy areas, symbolically represents overcoming difficult conditions.

How extraordinary. Draco had also grown up in a swamp, and even though he had clearly learned his lesson (and very harshly), the swamp now felt like the bed he was lying in. Of course, he had overcome difficult conditions. Look at him now, lying in his bed, depressed, with swollen eyes from crying, and very much alive. Even if he was going to die soon with these ridiculous flower wounds. What a waste of his pale porcelain skin.

This week, his eleven flower had appeared, and things were moving really fast. On the one hand, he was sad, but on the other hand, he was happy because he would be joining his mother, and he had already written apology letters to everyone he had harmed in a great Gryffindor move. Many of them hadn't written back, but at least he felt healthier. No, the guilt still didn't leave him, and it wouldn't.

Sometimes he would just look at the clock on his ceiling and wish. Lately, he had been losing track of time a lot. As he watched the minutes pass, he would think, "I wish I could be the spoiled brat I was in the past and change some things."

You wouldn't see a Malfoy apologize or regret anything. Of course, this had changed significantly after Lucius's imprisonment and death sentence in the courtroom. Draco wanted to shout, "If you had a sane mind, you would have chosen to protect your family first, and now you're complaining," but at that moment, he was more worried about his mother, and he could barely focus on his father. Oh, it was already 4 am. Time was really passing while he was lost in thought. Draco scratched his cheek lightly. There was a burning sensation. Another lotus was emerging.

⌛⌛⌛

Even the morning light filtering through the shimmering green curtains couldn't coax him out of bed. These were Draco's favorite curtains as a child. The sequins refracted the light, casting diamond shapes across the room. At twelve, he'd angrily removed them, considering them too childish. (The boy who lived rejected his friendship offer.)

After his mother's release from Azkaban, he'd abandoned his affinity for gray. He was redecorating the entire manor. At least, he was doing as well as someone who was ill could.

Draco irritably raised a hand to scratch his cheek. The flower tattoo on his arm was completely black. He sat up abruptly, his head spinning from the sudden movement. Ignoring it, he swung his legs out of bed, but they refused to support his weight. They felt rooted to the floor. There was a full-length mirror near his dresser, covered in a black cloth. Draco had draped it there when he could no longer bear to look at his own reflection. Now, he crawled toward the cover, cursing his weak body as he moved. He pulled himself up to his knees and yanked the cloth off. A thick layer of dust settled over him. He didn't care, nor did he try to brush it off. He was too focused on his appearance. His cheeks were hollow, his jaw and nose were sharply defined, and his dark circles were visible from a mile away. And his cheekbones, those beautiful cheekbones, seemed to protrude as if they belonged to someone else. His hair had lost its luster, all its golden brightness.

A deep orange sunlight filtered through the window, illuminating the diamonds with a yellow hue. Draco stood before the mirror, examining himself. He wasn't mistaken; the lotus on his cheek had thirteen petals, which was very rare according to the muggle book he had read. It couldn't be a good sign, but he could also think negatively or maybe it just meant he was healing. He grinned wryly. His reflection contorted. Draco was startled. Without realizing it, he scratched his cheek again. This time, pain enveloped him, but he couldn't react. He had stopped reacting a long time ago. His cheek was bleeding.

Draco was still sitting in front of the mirror. He didn't move anywhere. Over time, the deep orange light faded, and the curtain turned dark again. The bleeding hadn't stopped. It was bleeding from the same spot, the thirteenth petal. The petals had already darkened. No other flower wound itched. The scabbed ones were already red, and there was nowhere else to itch. The itch and ache he hadn't been able to shake off for a long time seemed to be gone. He could only watch as the wound on his cheek grew redder and closer to the seed.

The room was plunged into pitch darkness. Draco had wasted a lot of time in front of the mirror. But it didn't matter, he understood, he felt it was the end. He was dying.

"At least let me die in bed," Draco thought. If someone came to check, they would see a fascinating (frightening) corpse that looked like a character from an old count. Of course, someone would look for him, and by then, they wouldn't find his bones. No, he wasn't being dramatic. "I'm dying, man, just leave me alone," he shouted at the floor. It had taken him five minutes to climb into bed, but the hooting of the owls told a different story.
He lay on the bed, pushed the blanket to the floor, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

"Seriously, Draco? Again? Why don't you just relax for once, you've got so little time left to die."

You can't blame him for talking to himself. He had been alone for almost a year and hadn't eaten properly.

"I have an excuse," he mumbled.
He was waiting for death to come to him. His cheek still hurt, which meant there was still time. The clock showed 00:58.

"Oh, was I really supposed to die like this? At least if I had died from a disease named after me."
He clasped his hands on his chest.

"You know, like Star Disease or Curse or Dragon Flower, eww, no, never mind, I don't want to turn green when I die, at least I have flowers on my skin."

Although he tried to make his voice sound sarcastic, he knew he had lost this ability a long time ago. His eyes were very dry. No tears came.

"I wish I had one more chance, what would I do differently. I would even give up my obsession with that stupid Potter, just one chance."

The minute hand of the clock reached exactly 1.

₮ł₥Ɇ>01.00 .......ֆȶօքքɛɖ