Don't you just love random bursts of inspiration? I do.
Many thanks to RedCloakedMaiden for her exceptional help in choosing flowers. Thank you very, very much!
Enjoy!
I don't remember much about when my grandfather died. I stood outside awkwardly with my cousins at the wake. I was too young to go in, see his body, hear their speeches. But I went to the funeral.
It was raining that day. I didn't think much of it then, but now I see how strange it is that funerals so often take place in the rain.
It seemed as though everyone that had ever known him was there. His death would be a great loss, not just to the family, but to society at large. And with the sky crying as well, it seemed as though the entire world were mourning.
I recall my mother talking to Aunt Bellatrix, telling her how it was so unfortunate that the family only seemed to get together for weddings and funerals. I didn't understand what she meant. We saw each other almost monthly at balls.
When they buried Abraxas, everyone was dressed in their finest black robes. Thin mesh veils half covered the women's faces, and they all held lacy black handkerchiefs, but they were only a decoration. Tears would have been improper.
Once he was buried, his children – my father and two silent aunts – came forward and charmed the roses on his grave so that they'd never die. It was an old tradition, I'd later learned, for pureblood children to charm the flowers on their parents' grave. And once the gentle purple sparks had died away, and the roses had stopped glowing, the crowd turned away, a procession of glistening black umbrellas winding towards carriages that had been charmed black as well.
The carriages found their way to our Manor – another tradition was for the first born son (or daughter, if the family was disgraced with only girls) – to host a quite supper at their house after the interment. Sweating bottles of champagne were produced, wet umbrellas were charmed dry, and tasteful conversation mingled with the gentle chink of cutlery floated in the air like mist.
And once it became too late for remaining at the Manor to have been proper, the guests found their way to the door and were swallowed by the dark outside.
...
But my father's funeral was nothing like my grandfather's.
It rained that day as well, but instead of making us feel as though the heavens mourned for him, it seemed as though the world were spitting on his grave. The heavy, sparkling raindrops of my grandfather's funeral that hit the ground and shattered like crystal were replaced by ugly grey bullets that turned the earth to mud and somehow seemed to find their way under our collars and through our clothes, in spite of our umbrellas.
There were only a handful of people standing by his grave – my mother, one of my father's silent sisters, my wife, son and the few men that cared enough for Lucius Malfoy to make an appearance.
It was a silent funeral. None of us had anything to say – or didn't want to say what we had – beyond a quiet eulogy that spoke of a man who cared and provided for his family, who was noble and upstanding, and who would be missed by everyone who knew him. A part of me wanted to be bitter, to ask my mother if she had mistakenly read the eulogy for someone else instead, but I didn't dare. Instead, I moved forward. My father was buried to the right of my grandfather, just as I would be buried to the right of him. I glanced over at my grandfather's grave, and I saw the roses there, looking just as they did so many years ago, red lips craning upwards to drink the rain.
My father didn't have roses. When the man in charge of my father's will came by a few weeks ago, he told me and my mother that he wanted to break the Malfoy tradition of using those aristocratic, crimson Nicole Roses. He said that Lucius had requested sweet yellow narcissus.
I stood there, looking down a line of graves, all adorned with roses looking like specks of blood against the grey-green earth. Until my father's. Sweet yellow narcissus. I took a deep breath, and cast the charm. Purple sparks jumped from the tip of my wand and the flowers glowed for a moment. I wondered if I would have roses on my grave, or if, now that the tradition had been broken, I might choose something else.
The charming done, the tiny knot of people turned away. The black umbrellas glistened in the rain, but there was no procession of them this time, only a black spot that moved like one being towards black carriages that would once again find their way to Malfoy Manor.
Astoria was talking to my mother. She said how it was unfortunate that the family only seemed to get together at weddings and funerals. My mother nodded, and I tightened my grip on Scorpius' hand.
There was no great meeting of people at the Manor that night. There was no champagne, no one wanted any, and supper was mostly silent. The vapour of delicate chatter that had hung in the air after my grandfather's funeral was replaced by silence broken only by the ringing tinkle of silverware. My mother excused herself early, taking Scorpius to bed, and not returning.
The guests left early, and Astoria and I were left alone.
"Draco," she said, so quietly I could barely hear her, "Come to bed, you've had a long day."
I followed her mechanically, my mind still dwelling on the flowers that would one day be growing on my grave.
Perhaps asters.
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