Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: This was a longer one shot, though i still wanted it to be longer. Narcissa is very important in this one too.
Please Review!!
ONE RED ROSE
It had been an ordinary day, he remembered. July – summer break, and he was home from school. He never really did much in the summer. It was his chance to relax.
But that day he was bored. This was nothing new; he often had nothing to do in the spacious Malfoy Manor. That day, he decided to find his mother.
He preferred to speak to his mother rather than his father. She was still extremely strict and stern about purity and pride, but she seemed softer, gentler perhaps, in the face of his father's cruelty.
He didn't know where his father was, nor did he care.
He had only seen Lucius a handful of times since the beginning of break, and he knew this was a good thing. The less he saw of his father, the better.
The first, and most significant meeting he had enjoyed (noting the sarcasm) with his father this summer had been his first dinner at home.
--
"Sit Draco. I made sure the house-elves prepared the best meal for your homecoming." That was his mother, of course.
"Yes mother."
Lucius swept into the room in elegant black robes. "I'll be missing dinner, Narcissa. I've got a special dinner with the Minister, and cannot afford to miss it."
Narcissa did not protest, as she perhaps should have, because he was always leaving, and he was a Malfoy. But she did speak. "Your son is home, Lucius. Perhaps he could join you?"
Lucius sent her a dark look at the same time as Draco did. Lucius' response was cold, as always. "This meeting is crucial, Narcissa. The boy would only be in the way. And speaking of him…" Lucius now turned to look directly at Draco. "You will be receiving the Dark Mark soon, Draco. The Dark lord will need you."
--
He hadn't shown his fury, or his fear. He didn't show any of it in his response. He was as cold as his father when he said that word.
"Yes."
His mother was in her greenhouse. He didn't understand why they even had a greenhouse, why they needed it, but his mother said it helped her to relax. She loved gardening.
He didn't know why.
She did everything the Muggle way, too. She didn't just charm her plants to grow up healthy and perfect. She worked at it. She worked.
Oh, he knew his father wouldn't be pleased to know his wife had a Muggle pastime, but he liked watching his mother with her flowers. It made her more real to him, like she wasn't the cardboard woman his father chose. Like she actually had depth.
That day, she was pruning roses. They were white roses, delicate and beautiful. They were the only roses she grew, although he didn't know why.
She smiled, almost sadly, when he entered the greenhouse. "Draco."
"Mother."
She returned to her work, humming softly under her breath. After a moment however, she paused.
"Aren't roses beautiful, Draco?"
Her looked at her, surprised. She rarely stopped working when he visited her while she was gardening. He was taken off guard by the unexpected question.
"Yes, they're very beautiful."
She nodded, as though confirming something. "The prettiest of all the flowers, I think. But only the white roses."
He looked at her, while she nodded to herself, looking almost like a child.
"Why white roses, mother?"
She turned, surprised by the question. There was a look of deep thought on her face, but she spoke.
"Each flower has a meaning, Draco, did you know that?"
He shook his head, wondering if she was avoiding the question. She smiled faintly.
"I am named Narcissa, after the flower Narcissus, which are the flowers of December. They are yellow and white. They give off an air of… innocence I suppose. But their real meaning is vanity and self esteem.
"June's flowers are roses. Roses, the most beautiful flowers.
"But roses have meanings, too, strangely enough. Each colour means something.
"Pink means appreciation, admiration. Things a Malfoy does not feel.
"Yellow means joy, gladness. Things a Malfoy does not need to feel.
"Orange means desire and enthusiasm. Things a Malfoy does not want to feel.
"Blue means unattainable, impossible. Nothing is impossible for a Malfoy.
"Peach means gratitude, modesty. Things a Malfoy will never feel.
"And red…. A red rose has many meanings. Beauty. Respect. Courage. Passion. But mostly… one red rose means love."
She looked at her son wistfully. "Malfoys don't need love," she told him. "That's why we have white roses. White roses mean purity. And that is all that is meaningful to a Malfoy."
He just stared at his mother before turning to leave. But then, slowly, he turned back. "Why did you tell me this?"
She smiled faintly. "Today is our wedding anniversary."
His eyes hardened and he nodded, and left the greenhouse. He wished he had never asked.
--
Seventh year passed surprisingly quickly. He paid little attention, hardly spoke. He often sat on the grounds alone.
He received many letters from his father, none of which he opened. He had thrown them in the lake. Maybe the Giant Squid would eat them.
He bought himself a small flat in downtown London. He did not feel like living in the huge, empty Manor any longer, and he knew he couldn't avoid his father there. Besides, he was an adult now, and he hardly wanted to live with his parents.
But he knew his mother would not be holding up so well on her own. She rarely was. He knew that she loved Lucius, even though Lucius never loved her back.
He almost laughed when he saw the date on the calendar. A year exactly from the day she'd told him about roses. His parents' anniversary.
He didn't laugh though. He sighed.
He apparated there, the magical boundaries recognising him as a Malfoy, so he was let onto the property.
The house – mansion, really – looked exactly the same. Enormous, glamorous, dark. The Manor towered above him, seeming to glower. He sighed.
He knew where she would be. He walked slowly, prepared for her sadness. When he entered the greenhouse, there she was, tending the white roses, again.
She smiled that faint, wistful smile he was used to. "I didn't know that you would come."
He smiled grimly. "Why wouldn't I?"
They stayed there in silence for a while. Then she spoke. "Aren't they perfect?"
He looked up. She ran her wand over the rose, removing its thorns. "Why no thorns, mother?"
She smiled sadly. "Then they can be perfect. Malfoys deserve perfection. They can be flawless. Why should they have imperfections?"
He nodded brusquely, and turned to leave.
--
He didn't remember happiness.
He had seen his father the other day. He couldn't get rid of the bruises.
He sat alone in a small Muggle café in London. His stirred his coffee angrily, fighting tears. His mother should probably be in a mental home, she was so depressed and miserable. His father wanted him to be a murderer. He had no job. He had no friends. He had no life.
"Malfoy?!"
He turned, recognising the voice. He was still speechless however, when he came face to face with a shocked Hermione Granger.
When he recovered after a moment, he nodded stiffly. "Granger."
She looked even more surprised by his civil greeting. Uncertainly, she sat down across from him. "What are you doing at a Muggle café?" she asked.
He shrugged noncommittally. "They have good coffee."
She gaped at him, before noticing his expression. "What's wrong?"
He looked up, surprised. Why did Hermione Granger care what was wrong with him? When was she a part of his life?
He didn't mean that in a cruel manner. He was just wondering when she had starting caring. But then again, she had campaigned for house-elf rights. She probably cared about everybody and everything.
"Nothing," he mumbled.
She sighed, probably expecting this answer.
"You can tell me, you know. I won't judge you. After all, you haven't called me mudblood once in the past few minutes."
That was true, he hadn't. How strange. What was stranger was knowing he didn't want to. He didn't have to protect himself by insulting others, not here.
There was still silence. He didn't want to speak.
Finally, she sighed. "Fine. I'll tell you about me, then."
He looked up at her incredulously. "You will?" he blurted out.
She looked at him with intense brown eyes. "Why not? I've got no one else to talk to."
He was confused by her statement, for if anyone was alone, he was. She was not – she had family and friends. He had no one.
But she began talking anyway, and he listened. She told him about graduation, and he was shocked by how light and happy she made it sound. It had been dark in his memories. It had been something he dreaded. When he left school, he knew he would have no life.
She had enjoyed the freedom graduating had meant for her. She liked the idea of her own career and her own future. She knew she would keep in touch with her friends – she said this part with a grimace – and she couldn't wait for her life to really begin.
He'd thought it was an ending, she'd thought it was a beginning. Ah, the irony.
She told him that she had an apprenticeship at the Ministry, the first to get a job so influential when she was so young. He wasn't surprised; he had always known how intelligent she was.
She told him humorous stories from work – she was interning in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – and there were many accidents and catastrophes. He found himself enjoying her stories, and even laughing at a few of them. Strange. He had almost cried before, and then he was suddenly laughing.
But her presence was infectious, and he found himself pleased she had stopped by. He was surprised to realize that he enjoyed her company.
A while later, she got up to leave. "I should be going," she said, almost apologetically.
He shrugged. "Alright."
She stood, straightening her coat. "Goodbye," she said softly.
He nodded. "Goodbye."
As she turned to leave, though, he called out. "Granger?"
She spun around, surprised. "Yeah?"
He smiled very faintly, almost like his mother. "Thanks."
--
Life was looking up a bit. He had found himself a job.
He was fairly surprised by this. He actually hadn't been looking very hard for a place to work, when the opportunity presented itself. A Ministry job, just like hers. The name Malfoy opened many doors.
He was interning in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Ironic, since he'd hated that class at Hogwarts…
But he didn't mind the job. He liked the slight adrenaline in it – there were some crazy beasts out there, even though he hadn't done anything but paperwork yet. He didn't particularly like his job, but it was all right.
He really enjoyed the fact that his life had purpose now. He had something to fill the empty, lonely hours of daytime where everyone else worked. His father had never had a job, as far as he knew, and he did. He liked being different than his father. It was a good thing.
The letters came more frequently though, and he knew what was expected from him. His mother would tell him to be obedient, because wasn't that what she was? And look where obedience had gotten her.
He knew his mother loved Lucius. But she was nothing to him. Lucius used her as an item, an object that helped his reputation. He hated seeing the reminder of the unrequited love, and the toll it took on his mother.
He liked talking to his mother, usually. But sometimes it was really hard to do. She didn't get depressed like normal people. She would just start rambling on about nothing. He knew she was lonely, and he often wondered, horrified, what she had been like when he had been away for an entire year.
He tried to visit her often, but he didn't like visiting the Manor. His mother never mentioned him visiting her to his father, he was sure, or he would have been punished even more than he already was. His father despised him enough as it was.
He was always afraid of seeing his father while he was at the Manor, so he never stayed long. Even though he knew Narcissa needed him to be there.
--
Something that was also giving his life some form of purpose was Hermione Granger. It was insane, but strangely nice.
Everyday she met him for coffee at the small café. They both had to get to work at the same time, so they had lunch together there, and talked. She mostly did the talking, she had more stories to share, and he didn't think he had anything special to say. But he did talk sometimes – he told her about his years at Hogwarts, about his mother, his friends, his job. He enjoyed telling her these things – things he had never really told anyone. He didn't mention the bad things about his life – and there were many – and neither did she. They focused on the positive.
It was easy to talk to her, and to be around her. He never saw her Gryffindor friends, and he liked spending time alone with her. She was helping him. A lot.
--
They had been meeting for over a month before he knew he had to ask. He remembered her grimace when she had very briefly mentioned her friends, that first day, and he remembered her words. "I've got no one else to talk to."
He had never seen her friends – strange, since he had thought that the trio were attached at the hip. Her and Potter and Weasley had never been apart in Hogwarts – he remembered that clearly.
It was late August, and it felt strange to work during the summer. He enjoyed work, though, so it didn't bother him.
He waited at the café for her. He was rarely there before her, she was always prompt and on time, but he was early today, unlike most others.
When she arrived, she smiled at him pleasantly. He smiled back uneasily.
"So, how was your day?" she asked brightly.
"Fine. More paperwork." He rolled his eyes. She laughed.
"You'll be doing the exciting stuff soon enough," she reminded him.
"I know." He paused. "Uh, Hermione," it was still strange to use her first name. "I wanted to ask you something."
"Okay."
"Why don't you hang out with your friends anymore? Like… Potter and Weasley?"
He spoke hesitantly, but she still winced at their names.
"I…Well, I guess there isn't anything really secret or important about it. We're just not really in touch anymore. They … left. They're attempting to kill Voldemort."
He flinched at the name, realizing how very little she knew about him. Otherwise, she wouldn't mention it; say it there, in front of him.
So Potter and Weasley were trying to save the world. It was shocking, how comforting the idea seemed. Maybe Voldemort really could be killed.
Or maybe he should stop deluding himself.
"Oh," he muttered. The word seemed inconsequential – it didn't show what he was thinking. Which was exactly why he said it.
--
He was alarmed when he received the owl. He was, once again, completing unimportant paperwork, when the family owl began frantically tapping up a storm at his window.
He had expected more threats from his father – it irritated him to think his father would now be owling during work – but that was not the case. The letter was from his mother.
As he scanned it, he was sure he stopped breathing for a moment. Oh, God damn it, no!
It told him, almost cheerfully, that St. Mungo's usually sent these letters, but Narcissa would prefer to inform her son herself.
She was in St. Mungo's.
She had been cursed by one of the many Dark objects Lucius owned. His mother wandered the Manor too much, he thought bitterly, and she had likely accidentally brushed a figurine, and then promptly collapsed.
A House-elf had alerted Mungo's of her condition.
He promptly dropped his paperwork. It was unimportant legal shit anyway; someone else could take care of it.
He didn't bother to tell his boss where he was headed. He just walked out of his pathetically small cubicle, and apparated to St. Mungo's.
--
He hated the smell of hospitals. It was official.
When he had walked in and demanded to know where his mother was, almost sounding like his father, he had been of course given the farthest room. So far, that you had to walk past a ton of other sick people, who could really freak you out.
He had walked past them, though. He would do a lot of unpleasant things for his mother. People may never believe it, never believe a Malfoy could feel, but he loved his mother. No matter how fragile and foolish she was.
She lay so still, that for a minute he panicked, thinking she had already died. There were a lot of horrible things in the Manor…
But then she opened her eyes, and he felt relief flood through him. Thank God.
She smiled the faint smile that was her trademark, and he half-smiled back. He hated seeing her like this.
"So, embarrassed to see your mother in the hospital?" she asked lightly, teasing.
But his answer was serious. "I'll never be embarrassed by you."
This time she really smiled.
--
"Where were you yesterday?" she asked the next day. She sounded concerned.
He looked at the table. "My… My mother is very sick. She was cursed. She's in St. Mungo's. I found out yesterday."
He looked up hesitantly. He was shocked by the sympathy in her gaze. She cared.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
He nodded. He didn't want to talk about it. And then, suddenly, he did.
"It's not fair. No one knows her. They think she's evil and cold… when, really, she's the strongest, kindest woman I've ever met. She's completely broken, and she'll never show it. And there she is, dying in the hospital."
Hermione looked like she was about to cry. "Dying?" she breathed.
"Yes. I don't know. Probably."
--
He struggled to keep up with his work. It suddenly seemed important to him. It was something in his life, and he realized that he didn't want to let it go.
He visited his mother consistently, and every time he saw her, she looked weaker. It stung.
Hermione was another constant in his life. He had thought they were good friends before, but he was wrong. Now, they were good friends. Because he had finally told her the other parts of his life.
He had liked leaving out the negative aspects of his life, pretending they didn't exist. But he realized that she didn't really know him if she didn't know the bad parts of his life.
She wanted to hear it, too. Although she was often almost crying, she wanted to know. She cared. It made him feel warm inside.
--
He had been telling her about his mother again, he remembered. She had looked so heartbroken as he described how his mother loved Lucius, how she loved gardening, how she wasn't the best mother, but she tried.
He remembered the next words out of her mouth. It had shocked him. "Can I meet her?"
He thought about that. He could tell, Hermione loved Narcissa. It would do his mother good to meet this extraordinary witch.
"Sure."
--
That Saturday, he walked as calmly as possible through the halls of St. Mungo's. It felt very strange to have Hermione following him.
"She… she won't care that I'm a muggleborn, will she?" she asked hesitantly.
He had completely forgotten that. But Narcissa didn't seem to care at all anymore. But he could still remember the white roses…
"No, she won't."
They reached Narcissa's room at last. Tentatively, he opened the door.
She was awake, reading. She smiled when she saw him.
"Draco."
"Mother."
It was then that she spotted Hermione. "And who is this?"
"Mother, I'd like you to meet Hermione Granger."
He was surprised to see the slight smile on his mother's face. He was even more surprised when Hermione stepped forward. He had forgotten she was brave…
"Mrs. Malfoy?"
"Please, call me Narcissa. 'Mrs. Malfoy' makes me feel so old."
Hermione smiled. Draco gaped.
"I've heard so much about you Narcissa."
The conversation continued from there, each civil and kind sentence leaving Draco even more astounded. Eventually, it was time to say goodbye.
After Hermione had said goodbye, he was left with his mother.
He kissed her forehead gently and looked at her sadly. She laughed weakly.
"I like her, Draco. She's a keeper. She's good for you."
He was surprised, but he didn't show it.
"I think so, too."
--
"She's wonderful."
He was startled by the words, though he knew who they were about. He looked up to find Hermione stirring her coffee.
"Yeah."
"I'm serious. She seems faint, I know. But she's so real. So alive."
"And yet she's dying."
--
It was a month later when he got another owl. He could guess what this one meant though. He felt himself stop breathing. He heard his heart stop.
He ripped the letter open. When he finished it, he threw it to the floor. No. NO.
He gave no warning, as before. But he couldn't think. He couldn't feel. He refused to.
He raced through the familiar halls, smelling like death. That was what they always smelled like, why he always hated them, but the smell burned his nostrils today. It stabbed him.
When he reached the room, he saw how pale she was. Her breathing was uneven, and he could tell. This was it. This was the end.
He walked over to her, and sat down on a chair next to her. Her took her hand, feeling the tears in his eyes. Why did this have to happen?
She slowly opened her eyes. "Draco." She only mouthed the words.
"I'm here, Mom. I'm here."
"I know."
"I love you, Mom. I do, I always will."
"I love you, too, Draco. And I need to tell you something."
He looked at her, feeling his hopes die. "Yes?"
"Find her, Draco," she whispered. "Find the one who you can love. Find the one you can give a red rose to, Draco."
His eyes widened. But she wasn't finished.
"I told you a Malfoy should never feel anything, but they should, and I have. I loved your father, Draco. Love has no reason, has no choices. I loved him, and he is the one I would give that rose to. It doesn't matter that he'd never accept it. Love matters, if unrequited. Find her Draco."
He swallowed. "You know, mother, I think I might already have."
He watched her last faint, wistful smile fade on her face, and her eyes close.
--
There weren't many people there. Who would show up to the funeral of a Death Eater's wife? Who cared if she was a good person?
He stood silently, crying. For her, he could cry.
It was then that he heard the footsteps behind him.
When he saw her, he wasn't even surprised. He knew she would be here.
She was crying, too.
"She was an amazing person, Draco."
"I know."
She saw his tears, and started sobbing again. Then, she wrapped her arms around him.
He let her hold him.
"Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
--
He had seen his father at the funeral, but they hadn't spoken. It seemed as though his father had given up.
--
When he walked up to her house, he knew it was the right place to be. He needed this.
He had realized it as she held him, while he cried over his mother's grave. He cared about her, but there was more than that.
He remembered the conversation with his mother about roses, so long ago.
"Pink means appreciation, admiration.
"Yellow means joy, gladness.
"Orange means desire and enthusiasm.
"Blue means unattainable, impossible.
"Peach means gratitude, modesty.
"And red…. A red rose has many meanings. Beauty. Respect. Courage. Passion. But mostly… one red rose means love."
She reminded him of every rose. He did appreciate her and admire her, like pink roses. She made him joyful and glad like yellow roses. He desired her; he was enthusiastic about her, like orange roses. She was unattainable and impossible, like blue roses. He was grateful for her, and she was modest, like peach roses.
But there was one rose that described his feelings for her the most.
He knocked on her door. He knew where she lived, though he'd never been there before. He felt nervous.
A flicker of shock crossed her face as she saw him there, standing outside her house in the moonlight. "Draco?"
"Hermione, I need to tell you something."
She didn't ask him why he needed to come to her house to tell her that, or why he was there at midnight. She just let him continue.
"I've been thinking about things a lot since my mother died. There was one truly meaningful conversation I had with her, which I will remember forever.
"We talked about roses. Apparently, each rose colour had a meaning. My mother could only grow white roses – the symbol of purity.
"There was another colour though, that my mother reminded me of before she died. Red.
"Red roses mean love, Hermione. My mother wanted me to find someone who I could give a red rose to. Someone who I really, truly loved.
"And I found her."
He looked at her shocked expression, and did what he had been waiting to do for so long.
He kissed her.
She was in shock, he knew, but suddenly she was kissing him back, her arms around him like they had been at the funeral. She was always holding him up.
Finally, they pulled apart.
"It's you," he whispered. "I love you, Hermione."
She looked so beautiful as she whispered back. "I love you, too."
He held her, kissing her again, before pulling back. Gently, he handed her something, which made tears come to her eyes, and she kissed him passionately, clutching tightly to the object in her hand.
It was one red rose.