Disclaimer: I do not own anything within the Harry Potter franchise and am merely guessing on timing and dates listed here-in.

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Rock-Bottom

Another overcast day. Every year, it seemed to be the same. The worst day of his life, and nature complied in making the day much worse than it should have been. Perhaps it was the reason the pain never really left. He scoffed at himself. No use in denying the fact that drowning himself in myriad spirits was the only thing keeping him from moving past this horrible occurrence. Actually, it merely numbed the pain. If he was truly honest with himself, he'd admit that it numbed everything, not just the pain.

He was so stewed in liquor that his mind was slowly turning to mush, he was one mistake away from losing his job. They had already forced him to take a leave of absence. His life was slowly being destroyed. Another sniff of derision as he walked down the garden path from his home. Home. He grit his teeth, grinding them together slowly and ruthlessly as his venomous thoughts swirled around his muddled, intoxicated brain. He had no home, just a place he sat around staring at all the possessions that were filled with such memories. Memories that wrenched mercilessly at his heart, tearing it asunder again and again, and yet again. He drained bottle after bottle, pouring it straight from the decanters down his throat. Drank until he could no longer keep himself conscious. He would pass out and the next morning find himself tucked in his bed, a glass of water and a little something to take the edge off the impending headache.

If he were to be completely, brutally honest with himself, he could admit it- he had no life. His steps brought him to the ornate entrance of the family plot. He no longer had to even look at the path he walked. Two years had ingrained this excursion so deeply within him that he could walk it blindfolded. His badly-scuffed shoes absently kicked gravel, scuffling along haphazardly. His head was still killing him. By this time he'd already be soaked in booze, but this day was the one day he forced himself to not drink one single drop, no matter the reason. No matter the amount of pain.

Without him realizing, his feet had come to a stop. His mind trailed away from the inner thoughts, coming to a hard stop in reality and the immediate present. His bloodshot eyes stayed miserably at the sight before him. The tears came unbidden, as they always did. They fell in slow trails down his face as he fell to his knees, uncaring of what the gravel did to his tailored suit trousers. They were so badly wrinkled as it was, what could a bit of dirt and stone do to them, honestly? He crawled forward on hands and knees as if he were a beaten dog, head down. Admittedly, he was the very definition of a beaten dog. His haggard face lifted, tear-stained and wretched, to stare at the cold grayish-white marble slab. The etchings upon it were still so fresh as to look stark even in this miserable weather.

As he read the words carved upon the stone for the thousandth time, he felt the anguish build within him until he could no longer rein in the sob that threatened to escape. Already on his knees, one would think he could fall no lower to the ground, but he could and did so. His once straight and proud form bent in submission to his grief as he fell to his elbows and then his face, hand reaching out to place long, thin digits against the frozen, non-pliable surface. His fingertips dragged heavily over the etched words, his face mere millimeters from the stone, staring up at the words he wish weren't there.

'Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy

b. June 10th, 2006

d. May 20th, 2019

Much-loved and much-gifted,

Our angel will be dearly missed.'

The sobs wracked one upon the other as his fingers curled, his finger nails dragging across the surface roughly. Once so neatly manicured, they were scuffed, brittle and uneven. His bitter tears streamed down his face into the scraggly, unkempt facial hair he had ceased to meticulously groom. He was a broken man, having lost the only part of his life that had mattered. His head pounded fiercely, and yet he did not move, his eyes blankly looked about him and settled on a similar slab of marble set in the ground only a foot away. The hand that once clutched at the gravestone of his only child grasped wildly at the new grass over this grave. He broke again. The tears left him and he was so defeated that he could only stare at this disabling sight, the ache in his body incomparable.

'Astoria Malfoy

b. January 5th, 1982

d. May 20th, 2020

Doting mother and faithful wife,

We understand your pain was just too great.'

"Why? Why did you leave me to suffer this alone? Two years it's been since his accident. Astoria, my love, I can't go on any longer but I haven't the courage to take your path." The last-remaining Malfoy sobbed quietly, yet the tears refused to fall once more. A derisive snort sounded behind him, distinctly female. Draco's head snapped around so hard, his neck could have snapped. Above him stood the slim, statuesque figure of the honey-blonde Daphne Nott, nee Greengrass. Draco pushed himself shakily to a sitting position, slipping his booze-palsied hands through his disastrously unkempt, dirty hair before glaring up at his sister-in-law.

"What my sister did wasn't courage, brother dear. Astoria took the easy way out. She was a coward, Draco."

He made to speak out at this, the sullying of his late wife's character, but Daphne held out her hand, closing her eyes as she continued through slightly pursed lips. "If she were strong and courageous, she would have kept living, and learned to make a new life and try to accept what happened, Draco. The fact that you haven't off'd yourself as well shows strength of character, not weakness. You're halfway there, brother. You need to try and move on. They're never coming back, but that doesn't mean you should forget them. You can't wallow like this. As much as you may think it, you aren't alone. I may not be your blood, but I was Astoria's, and you're my family as much as she ever was, more-so for the fact that until Scorpius' accident, you were always the strong, efficient one."

Draco stared after his sister as she turned smartly on her heel and walked away as quietly as she came. And suddenly it was if she hadn't been there at all. But she had, and her harsh, but well-spoken words resounded and reverberated through his pained but sober mind. He stared at the ground where she'd stood, mouth agape. After a moment, he looked to his wife's grave stone and then his son's. He placed a hand to each of them, drawing a few shaky breaths, eyes closed. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and then walked away, forlornly making the trek back to the Manor.

Walking back through the garden, he was startled by the sound of breaking glass. His steps quickened and he burst through the door into the lounge, where the sounds of shattering glass grew very loud and the man could see his sister-in-law pulling bottles of liquor out of the cabinet with no regard to what it might be. He took a step forward as she poured the liquid down the available sink, then tossed the empty bottle into the awaiting rubbish bin, where the tinkling of the glass could be heard. The shock on Draco's face was only matched by the determined look on Daphne's.

"WHAT IN BLAZES ARE YOU DOING, WOMAN?" he roared.

She carried on as if he'd not spoken, though he knew she had. How could she not? He took a few steps forward, anger beginning to course through his veins. Suddenly, Daphne turned on him, her wand seemingly appearing from nowhere and trained squarely at his face. It seemed oddly familiar. He stared at the point of her wand warily, suddenly remembering why it seemed so eerily recognized. The end of third year at school, that Granger girl had held him at wand-point. The better part of thirty years ago. And again, at the peak of Astoria's pregnancy, she was in massive amounts of pain and she momentarily went mad and drew her wand on Draco. All three women had the same look in their eyes, though all three had very different eye colors, the look was the same- steely determination paired with controlled anger.

Draco had learned well not to mess with a witch in this state. He took a small step back, raising his hands in both defense and as a sign of resignation. She stood there for a moment, eyeing him beadily, before turning back to her task, tossing bottles emptied of booze, setting crystal decanters aside for the house elves to clean and store away. She was methodical, as if she'd done this sort of thing before.

"You realize you're wasting a few hundred Galleons by pouring that all down the drain, yes?" Daphne made no movement to reveal she'd heard him, sweeping her hands along the undersides of the shelving, digging through cupboards, etc. "One would think you've done this before," he quipped, attempting at some ill humor. She barely glanced at him, but her face set itself into a stony look, lips pursed heavily. Draco's eyes narrowed minutely. "You have done this before," he muttered to himself, but loud enough for her to hear. He saw her from the corner of his eye, at a side table, and turned to look and she put her hands upon the surface, shoulders hunching and head hanging.

"Theo," he said, almost questioningly.

Her head nodded imperceptibly. He moved to her side, forgetting his own pain completely at the merest glimmer of hers. She turned slightly to him, head resting lightly on his shoulder. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.

"He was never the same after the war, you know that. We married too quickly. I thought I could help him, Draco. I thought I could. But he'd already been damaging himself for years, hiding it well in public and around me. He held it together for the first few years."

Draco closed his eyes, remembering how his dorm mate would come over brazenly drunk to Draco's flat in England, trying to coax Draco into joining him for more alcohol at The Leaky Cauldron. Draco would then have to call for Daphne to retrieve he husband, or if the hour was too late, apparate him safely to their home, where she would always be sitting up waiting. She always seemed sickly, face drawn and ill-looking for worry of Theo. It was about a year before he'd married Astoria that Daphne and Theodore's mother had intervened after yet another bar fight and subsequent PTSD breakdown. They had him committed to a clinic to help him fight the addiction and receive help, but he only succeeded in constantly injuring the orderlies and healers.

The flashbacks got increasingly worse the more he sobered until one day he snapped completely and they had to admit him to St. Mungo's seventeen years ago. He'd been there ever since. Daphne visited him regularly, but he no longer recognized her or anyone else he once knew. Sometimes he was so non-complacent that even with the normal restraints, it was too dangerous for her to visit, so she sat outside his room for hours, knitting and crocheting meaningless things.

"Next month is our 21st anniversary. He doesn't even know," she said softly. Draco gave her a consoling hug. "I don't want what happened to him to happen to you, too, Draco. You have so much potential. You need to live, not merely float through."

He looked out the window toward the ancestral burial ground for all Malfoys dating back almost a millennia ago. His heart felt a pang of remorse, of guilt, of deep sadness. Daphne felt the slight increase in tension.

"As I said before," she said, pulling away and straightening herself out, "You needn't forget them, Draco. But the way you've been going merely sullies their memories. Make them proud, make a life for yourself. It's time for the next chapter in your life. Don't waste away."

With that, Daphne Nott, sister to the late Astoria Malfoy, moved to the available fireplace, started a fire, and used a pinch of Floo powder she kept in a small pouch to leave, presumably to her home. Draco stared after her, the epitome of a real woman of incredible strength. A woman much like his own mother. He cared for her as much as if she'd truly been his blood sister.

"You're right, Daphne. So very right…"