They're ready, my lady.

My dear child, they are not.

But my lady, you said that they are soul mates . . .

Oh, of course, my child.

But if not now . . .

They'll meet again now, but it won't be now. Watch.

In the beginning there was nothing. Or that was how it felt? Have you ever seen the end of your life? Not the end of your world- your paltry miserable little world- not the end of an affair, or the end of a school year, not the end of a marriage, or a good friendship, or even the loss of your career or wealth. To Draco it was the loss of everything. He sat in his bedroom, the bedroom where Death Eaters had tried to proposition him, where his mother had tried to protect him, and stared at the char marks in the embossed wallpaper. Every little family crest had char marks and every alternating Torjours Pur had been stuck with a wand blow, as if a fatal blow.

Now there was nothing to do, but wait.

Mother was gone. To France. Last night she had packed a valise and has rushed into Draco's bedroom while he waited- he could no longer sleep anymore- and shook his bony shoulder.

"They will come in the morning," Mother commanded and like in other things, Mother was often right. "Pack your school trunk- make sure to take anything valuable that they will not miss. There will be lists, Draco. I believe they will make an auction of the home."

Draco stood and looked over the garden. The peacocks were gone- killed either by the trampling Aurors or the madness of the Death Eaters. The flower beds had been torn up from their roots and the lovely Grecian ruins placed there by his great-Aunt Araminita over two centuries ago had been hexed and cursed and multilated until they were cinders and dust. There was nothing left of the pond were as a child his nanny had pushed him along in a tiny blue boat so that he could watch the koi fish that Father had imported especially from Japan on a business trip.

There was nothing left.

It came to him as though a stomach ailment, a twisting of pride that starting low in his gut, but worked itself up to his head. He was not leaving. Someone had to stay, and answer for his family, and someone had to be the last bastion of some tradition that meant nothing to this idiotic new world anymore. Draco Malfoy would be the last Malfoy, and the world would shape him probably as much as he'd shape the world, but at least he'd be around to see it. There were times where one had to do something and not just flee and cower and wait.

"I'm not going, Mother," he said as evenly as possible.

Mother walked over to him very slowly- she had jewels shown into her mink cloak. "I knew you wouldn't," she said with pride. "I may never see you again."

"No," Draco responded, biting down his tears. He looked at his mother- his beautiful, mad mother who had defied a Dark Lord and was now fleeing her decaying Manor in the middle of the night with a tiara under her armpit. "I hope you will write to me occasionally and tell me how you get on."

Mother bobbed her head. "Of course," she nodded. "Mind you do not let the courts get the upper hand. Your father would have better advice for you but-"

Father had taken an overdose of laudanum following the final battle. Mother had found him asleep in his favorite embroidered jacket, the tassels covered in the stench. It had taken Draco and Mother together to move his body with a lightening charm and very steady wand motions to the mausoleum. Draco still saw him in his dreams-his fair hair, fairer than Draco's, splayed on the little golden pillow on the chaise lounge, his eyes looking emptily into the future.

"Yes," Draco said shortly. There was no need to talk about that.

"Farewell, my love," Mother had said, and she was gone.

And now Draco was waiting.

They would come today, he was sure.

His family was too important. Draco wasn't being just prideful, although there was that. Once someone entertained the Dark Lord in his home, whether willingly or unwillingly, there was the certain expectation that one knew information. Draco snorted to himself. He wondered how much he was supposed to know when he had had to go to the bathroom in his grandmother Callista's Ming vase more than once because they had locked him in his bedroom for several hours and then he had had to banish away the mess. As soon as the war had ended Draco had thrown that vase across the room, and if he ever saw a miserable example of priceless Chinese pottery again he'd have a anxiety attack.

A crash came from below, and Grandfather Abraxas started shouting.

Draco winced. It had begun.

The Auror who broken into his bedrooms was painfully young. He looked as though he had just passed his examination. His robes looked too loose on him, as though he'd borrowed them from someone else, or had stolen them. For a moment Draco felt the uncomfortable stirrings of sympathy- the poor idiot couldn't be a year or two older than he was- and this was the grand new post-war world? Draco snorted.

"If I was going to run," he drawled to the Auror who was brandishing a shaking wand. "I would have left during the lovely two day grace period you lot gave me. Plus, I've been using my grandfather's wand and as you can tell from down below, he isn't exactly a jolly old chap, is he?"

The Auror's mouth twitched. Under less life or death circumstances Draco would have admired his dark curling hair and light blue eyes, but as it was he was just another one of them determined to extract something from him that they couldn't have, like squeezing so much juice from an orange.

Loud feet bounded up the stairs and a bulky, gruff looking man with a hardened face glared at Draco as though he was something left under his boot. Lovely. This one would be trouble.

"Draco Cygnus Abraxas Black Malfoy," the older Auror growled and Draco wondered if it was entirely necessarily that they recite his entire name like the Empire's Encyclopedia. "You are under arrest for the use of an unforgivable, in two counts, and the account, in one instant, of allowing undesirable and dangerous persons to enter an enclosed area where there were minor children."

Well, Draco thought, feeling the days of absence of sleep coming over him all at once, at least the Aurors weren't reciting anything he hadn't anything to do with. Thank the gods they didn't know about the times he had used crucio on students at Hogwarts for the Carrows and then at home on the requests of his aunt, his father, his uncle- Draco felt the room twist and sway- suddenly it was in perfect state of tidy order as it had been when the house elves had been here.

You must learn to enjoy pain, young Draco . . . a sibilant voice hissed silkily. You must learn that sometimes torture is a gift, and it's own reward. Yes, you must. Show him, Narcissa.

"Sir," a voice in the distance said. "Sir, I think he's quite ill."

"Bloody hell," a gruff voice replied. "What did they do to all these Death Eater kids during the war, eh?"

Draco tried to say something smart back, but the room went entirely black.

There were feet walking around him, which made no sense since Mother had left days ago. Draco tried to lift his head but it felt as though it were pinned down- no, worse, it felt as though it were in a vise. It ached desperately, the sides of his head banging against his skull, his stomach churning with the pain. He tried again to open his eyes, but there was too much light- far too much light, someone had lit all the candles in his room and Draco was going to kill them all- but who had it been? Who would do such a thing? Draco's arms felt heavy, and his calves and legs felt as though Goyle had sat on them- as though someone was forcefully pressing him into the mattress.

Someone walked past, in good shoes, the heels were almost silent, Mother often had shoes like that, she often said that only children and whores wore shoes that clomped like horses hooves.

"Malfoy, Draco," someone said clinically and sadly. "Child of two Death Eaters. Suffering from extreme malnutrition, exhaustion and exposure to two of the three Unforgivables, namely cruciatius for an extended period of time. Seventeen, and parents are no longer around- father deceased and mother fled the country."

"What is to be done?" another voice said uncertainly.

"The Aurors took his memories- quite forcefully and against medical advisement, so we will keep the child under a healing stasis for the next two weeks. After that, it's a matter of making sure he is fed and all meals have a nutritional booster- I will be showing you interns how to brew this in the coming weeks. Hmm, wait a moment, Mediwizard Tyler-"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"The patient is due for the re-application of his stasis spell! Where were you?"

"Sorry Healer Cooper, but there was an accident down in receiving-"

"You do not work in receiving, Tyler, you work in Critical, for me, is that clear? Now, demonstrate the stasis spell for our interns-"

After that Draco knew no more.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Draco felt as though he was awakening from a long and very strange dream. His hands and feet felt as though they were under water, as though pressure was keeping them from moving fully in a way that was completely normal. Unlike when he had awoken before his head no longer hurt, although he felt drowsy and strange and calm-too calm. He tried to force himself to worry about the fact that he was alone, in St. Mungo's, on the date which was supposed to be his trial, but it didn't work- he calmed immediately down, and floated away on an artificial cloud of non-sensation.

Calming Draught.

Although he had never taken it himself, even during the war, he had brewed it enough, for other people- his parent's "guests". Calming Draught was always supposed to be given under Healer's supervision as it was extremely addictive. Draco found himself fighting against the sensation and instantly feeling that much more soothed. Finally he simply gave up, whoever was his healer had obviously heard something of his past and thought that drugging him into stupefaction when he woke up might help him deal better with the post-War world.

Which would make some sense, since he had crumpled at the feet of those Aurors, Draco groaned internally, and felt another wave of calm blast him.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Draco turned his head. There was a woman with caramel colored hair that fell to her shoulders in waves, her body draped in well-cut, if not expensive robes. Her wand was placed on the little table of Draco's bedside and she had out a mending basket, embroidered with prancing kittens and ponies on an endless field. Draco nearly snorted- but there was something sweet and childlike and warm about something so stupidly simple that it would be like mocking a child- he simply couldn't do it anymore.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The witch continued to do something with the yarn. Draco watched her silently. Every few moments she would drape a piece of yarn around one of the little mental sticks, twist them with a click and then repeat the motion with some variation- and it would make a long horizontal row of fabric. The woman was obviously Muggle-born. Draco tried to pull on his old hatred of Muggle borns and their ilk, but instead he felt a blank emptiness, a hollow void where a twisted knotted tree had grown and borne rotten fruit. Now there was nothing, no field, no tree, no land at all. Just a witch sitting, playing with yarn like a kneazle to amuse herself. Draco smiled.

"Oh!" the witch cried, "You are awake! I should fetch the Healers-"

Draco tried to shake his head, but his neck felt heavy.

"Oh," she nodded. "You're right, dear, I do despise being poked and prodded myself- here, have some-"

The witch filled an empty glass with water and held it to Draco's mouth, cupping his chin. Draco looked at her carefully. There was something familiar about her, about the nose, and the eyes- the grey eyes.

Draco struggled to sit up so quickly that he nearly dropped a glass of water in his lap. The witch snorted, and patted his back with pillows gently.

"Figured it out, did you?" Her mouth was very like Mother's when she was amused.

"Yes," Draco said blankly. "Hello, Aunt Andromeda."

"Hello, Draco," Aunt Andromeda said, picking up her string and metal sticks again. "Are you upset that I'm here, child?"

"No," Draco said honestly. "I'm surprised- why- why did you come?"

"They called me," Aunt Andromeda said softly, and something inside of Draco hardened at that. "Or rather that was the reason I came the first day. I keep coming because we are all that's left of each other. If we do not look after each other, Draco, we'll simply let the war be another excuse to tear this family apart. And personally I am exhausted of trying to hate things I couldn't possibly be bothered to care about any longer."

Draco ignored the reasoning of her words and stuck out his chin. "You have your grandson, don't you?"

"And you have your mother, don't you?" Aunt Andromeda countered smoothly, not even looking up from her yarn. "I can not have a conversation with an eight-month old, and you can not have a conversation with a woman currently living in another country. Don't be such a stubborn Black child-we need each other, you and I."

Draco tried to struggle against the logic of everything his aunt was saying-but the last ebbings of the Calming Draught floated him away so that worry became almost a ridiculous notion. And deep, deep down inside of himself there was that horrible fear of being alone. Even though he had always been an only child in a rather lonely childhood he had never been alone. His father, mighty and strong and decisive had always been there to guide him and teach him, and his mother crafty and wily and clever had always been there to guide his father. But they had both left-left and now there was no one, just this one chance with a woman he'd never met, but he knew that his mother had loathed for her bad marriage.

But Narcissa Malfoy was gone, and Draco was alone.

"Alright," his said to his aunt, and sighed at the state of his vocal chords.

"Good," his aunt said briskly. "I'm going to call over whatever mediwizard you're supposed to have looking after you."

A bustling woman with a large bust and huge dark eyes smiled at Draco warmly. Somehow Draco had expected all of them to treat him warily, as that gruff Auror had- or at least not kindly. But this large-wasted mediwizard-or witch, was looking at him in the manner of a kindly mother who's child had put his hand in the biscuit tin. Draco wanted to take her wand and poke her with it.

"I'm Mediwitch Lowell," she said brightly. "I see our patient is up, isn't he?"

"Obviously," Aunt Andromeda whispered from her yarn and needles and Draco found that he was liking her more and more as time went on.

"Good," Lowell said brightly. "We're going to do a few scans and then we'll see where you are at, my dear."

Draco longed to say that where he was at was obviously right in front of her, on a cot, in hospital, but he held his tongue. The mediwitch passed her wand over him several times in a looping, easy-going manner, and finally retrieved a piece of parchment. To the parchment she added several notations in a gaudy lavender quill which she took from behind her ear, and then, finally she shook her head.

"Well," Aunt Andromeda said with a frown. "Is it bad or good? Don't just stand there looking at that slip, girl, honestly!"

Draco really did like his aunt, he decided.

"Sorry, ma'am," the mediwitch said with great reverence. Draco wondered if losing your daughter and her ratty husband brought you that sort of esteem everywhere you went-and then he closed his mind to that notion. Aunt Andromeda was being nothing but kind to him, and thinking anything against her would only work firmly against his favor. She was a very decent sort of person, and she did deserve respect. As for the rest-nevermind.

"He's doing much better, ma'am, " Mediwitch Lowell continued. "But he's still suffering the effects of the pensieve extraction-his mind is exhausted, ma'am. He needs plenty of rest and his muscles are-"

"What my nephew needs," Aunt Andromeda said sharply. "Is some fresh air and a good brisk walk everyday with a nice, hardy meal. Which he will not get sitting here laid up in bed being poked and prodded every second hour by Aurors and Healers. I'm removing my nephew from this hospital, immediately."

The mediwitch blinked her large eyes rapidly. "But-but the Aurors, ma'am-"

"My daughter was an Auror," Aunt Andromeda said with grave dignity. "I'm sure the Department is well aware of my address."

The mediwitch's eyes grew to epic proportions. Draco smothered a laugh.

"Yes ma'am," she finally said. "I'll start getting the paperwork ready, ma'am."

Aunt Andromeda relaxed comfortably back into her chair with her string and needles, once again clicking away as though nothing had ever ruffled her feathers. Draco watched her silently, the way she dipped her head and the way her keen grey eyes watched everything around her for cracks she could manipulate to her own advantage was so much like Mother. But she was not like Mother- Aunt Andromeda had this sense of being a tower of strength, and a bit of a fortress.

Aunt Andromeda leaned over and patted Draco's hand warmly, her eyes shining with kindness. "It will be alright," she said softly. "We'll be fine, darling boy."

Draco turned away slightly, swallowing the knot in his throat painfully.