Empty Rooms
1
He made his way up the driveway to his home, still rattled from his long working day at the Ministry. He had been working hard to try and convince the current Chief Warlock of some necessary changes to the structures and processes of the Wizengamot (in an attempt to bring them up to speed with the new rebranded Ministry of Magic) but had encountered harsh resistance to every suggestion. In short, his working day had been very long and unfulfilling. He detested days like this. He couldn't wait to get inside by the fire and sample some of Ogden's Finest.
As he pushed open the heavy mahogany door, a sudden feeling of unease hit him. This was unusual. Tisky, his personal house-elf, was standing in the hallway and anxiously twisting the tea-towel she wore as a dress; her large eyes full of worry and fear.
He set down his briefcase and hung his cloak over the large coat stand, cringing slightly as Tisky emitted a small sound that was halfway between a whimper and a sob. "What is it, Tisky?" he demanded, his words coming out more harshly than he had intended. Her eyes began to fill with tears and he instantly began backtracking, not wanting to upset her. She was an excellent elf and served him and his family efficiently and loyally. He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Tisky. What's made you so upset?" he asked more kindly.
At his question, the little elf let go of the fabric slung around her small body and began to sob. "Master will be very angry with Tisky, but Tisky could do nothing!" she wailed. "Tisky tried everything but nothing was enough."
Suddenly, he noticed the chill in the air. There was no familiar scent as there had always been and it was quiet. Too quiet. Where was his wife? She was usually home by now yet he could feel no trace of her in their shared Manor. "Tisky, where is the Mistress?" he asked, feeling ice travelling through his veins at the turn his thoughts were taking. Tisky burst into loud sobs and buried her face in her towel, and immediately he took off running. He climbed the stairs two at a time and looked into their bedroom. The sight he saw made his blood run cold.
There were none of her possessions in the room, strewn around haphazardly as they usually were. No stack of books on her bedside table, no sign of the candles she insisted lighting on their dresser each evening. Striding into the room, he wrenched open the doors to her large walk-in wardrobe. Nothing. All her clothing was gone. The hangers glinted in the dim light, swinging listlessly. "Lumos Maxima," he whispered, taking a step inside the spacious room. The light from his wand lit up the entirety of the space and he could now see the empty shelves, stretching as far as he cared to look. He left the room and made his way to the en suite bathroom, flinging open the door. He saw his own soap and toiletries, but nothing of hers. The candles ringing the roll-top bath were gone. The shelf that was usually clustered with various bath potions was empty.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly with one hand, muttering under his breath about needing more sleep and that he was seeing things. Or not seeing things, as the case may be. Descending the sweeping staircase, he stalked past the still sobbing Tisky and into the drawing room. Nothing of hers. Then the parlour. Nothing – none of her books, none of the little ornaments she loved so much either. He moved into the sunroom – the fresh flowers she usually arranged in crystal vases were absent, although the vases still remained; albeit unfilled. Finally, swallowing the lump that was quickly forming in his throat, he made his way to the private sitting room. Her chair remained, but the multi-coloured knitted throw that he had often scorned was gone. The television (that she had insisted on getting, despite his protests about Muggle technology) was gone.
A bright light prickled at his vision, and he looked down to see the tip of his wand still blazing with light. "Nox," he muttered harshly, shaking his wand as the light died. He looked around in confusion; his thoughts going a hundred miles a minute. She wasn't here. None of her possessions were here. Was this some kind of joke? He remembered something she had told him once about a day where practical jokes were encouraged and celebrated; but he was sure that was in April or something. It was now early November.
He shook his head as if to clear it, expecting to look around and see all her things back in their usual places when he reopened his eyes. But they weren't. The fire was unlit, and suddenly he shivered. What on earth was going on?
Remembering Tisky, he made his way slowly to the hallway once more. The little elf was now sitting on the bottom stair, holding her tea towel dress up to her rounded eyes and sobbing. He sat down next to her, feeling numb and yet wanting to comfort his favourite servant. "Tisky… what happened here?" he asked dully, hearing the thickness in his own voice as it reverberated around the large marble hall.
"Mistress came home early, Master… and immediately began to pack her things," the elf answered between sobs. "Tisky tried to stop her, to ask her why, but Mistress did not answer. Would not answer. Mistress was crying, but very angry! Mistress stomped about and gathered all her things and then brought them here, Master… Tisky tried once more to stop her but she said it wasn't Tisky's fault… and then she was gone." The elf looked up at him, her eyes shining with yet more tears. "Tisky failed, Master."
Despite her immense pressure in his chest, he managed to smile at her. "No, Tisky. You didn't fail… you tried your hardest. You did everything you could." He sighed deeply. "I need a drink."
"Would Master like me to make him some tea?" she asked excitedly, her ears pricking up.
He shook his head wearily. "No thank you, Tisky… but I'm quite hungry. I'd very much like some of your wonderful roast beef, if you could manage it."
Tisky jumped up and clapped her hands together. "Of course, Master! Tisky is honoured to serve." A sad expression came over her face. "Should Tisky make enough for Mistress, too?"
The simple question prompted an avalanche of emotion. He gripped the foot of the banister, steadying himself, as pain began to tear through his chest. Struggling for breath, he looked up at the house elf, determined to keep it together and not frighten the little creature. "No, Tisky," he answered; his voice lacklustre. "Just enough for me – and for yourself." She Apparated to the kitchens as he clutched his tie, loosening the knot he had so painstakingly tied this very morning.
She had been there then, sitting up in bed as she watched him; sipping her tea. He hadn't said a word to her as he had stood there, grumbling at the expensive silk; his long fingers tucking and re-tucking until the knot was perfectly sized and proportioned. He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the scene. How had she looked? He couldn't remember if she had said anything at all to him that morning. His wand alarm had gone off at its ridiculously early hour, as always. Had she been awake then? It bothered him that he couldn't remember.
He stood up then and walked to the parlour, ignoring the murmurs of the family portraits on the walls. "Bloody gossiping canvases," he muttered. Making his way to the drinks cabinet, he pulled off his tie in exasperation and tossed it onto a nearby chair. His trembling hands found the crystal decanter and a tumbler, and he poured himself a large glass of firewhiskey before closing his eyes and taking a large gulp. The potent liquid burned a trail down his throat, making him choke and cough. He slammed his hand down on the cabinet in frustration, causing the decanters to clatter together loudly, before picking up the tumbler again and walking over to the large window to look out. Dusk had fallen, and a slow mist was creeping in over the large hedges that surrounded the expansive gardens. He heard the evening calls of the crows as they circled around the large willow trees that surrounded the patio, and the soft trickling of the waterfall. Both sounds that would have comforted him once, but tonight he felt numb. The faint scent of dinner was wafting up from the kitchen, making his mouth water at the same time as his heart was sinking deeper and deeper in his chest.
Before he could register what he was doing, his feet carried him from room to room once more. Just in case this is all some crazy hallucination, he told himself. He checked the drawing room, the guest bathroom, the sitting room, the dining room, each and every guest bedroom (and there were many), his study… all were devoid of any possession, presence or decoration that suggested a woman lived here. All her possessions had vanished into thin air, along with the woman to who he had given his name.
His eyes, bleary from the firewhiskey, suddenly focused on a large set of double doors. He had never looked at them in such detail before. They were wide and sturdy, fashioned from the finest oak, set with an intricate panelling design that had once been the hallmark of their family. But it was what lay beyond the doors that had suddenly made his heart skip a beat. The library. The family library.
His feet moved him towards those doors as if he were a man possessed; reaching the doors and flinging his arm out just in time to push them open. He stepped into the cavernous room, the scents of old leather and parchment filling his nose. She loved this room. Often he had returned home to find her here, curled up on the large recliner with a stack of books beside her and a large mug of hot chocolate which she had charmed to keep warm. But the recliner was empty. Nothing greeted him inside that room except shelves of ancient tomes, particles of dust floating in the light, and a sense of crushing doom as he finally, painfully, realised the truth he had been trying to deny for the past hour.
The unthinkable had happened. Something he had never seen coming was now his reality. His wife was gone. Hermione Granger-Malfoy; his wife of two years, had left him. And he had no idea why. The grip on his tumbler loosened, and as his ears registered the sound of the glass shattering on the floor, Draco Malfoy sank into the recliner, dropped his head into his hands, and cried.