Three days of untouched plates. Three days of plates not even bothered to be filled at all. Sometimes he would grace his mother's presence, other times, not. He refused to let his mother see him so reserved and gaunt; a shadow of the boy she knew, a reflection of who he was during Voldemort's reign. It scared her and so he kept to himself, in his room or in the library.
He was paler now, the color of the moon, some would say. Draco would argue that he was nothing like the moon. The moon's stark white color glowed vibrantly. He wasn't. He couldn't. His face was as dull as a sickle stuck between two cobblestones where the road met the sidewalk. Forgotten, unimportant, dirty.
She was left in their house, the sound of the door slamming echoing in her head. It was a nice little house on the outskirts of Cambridge that they had built their relationship in but, it no longer felt like home without him there. The bed that she laid in never allowed her to close her eyes. The tangled mess of sheets at the end of her bed was the aftermath of her tossing and turning. She had tried the chaise where he would occasionally find asleep with a book. This time, the books pages were left unturned and the blanket was cast off onto the floor.
Piles of coffee mugs sat in the sink and take away paper cups filled her trash can. The thoughts in her journal were a chain of intangible, illogical thoughts caused by the emotional upset in her life and the inability to sleep.
And in those three days, the only thing that either of them could think about was how much they wished that they were not apart.