He deserved this. He deserved this for letting himself believe that there was ever any good in the world; that even someone as damaged as he could find love. Could be cared for and fussed over and… loved.

How utterly wrong he was. And this, he told himself, would be the last time.

First were his parents. Cold and aloof, yet kind and caring underneath. They loved him, the kind of love that has no boundaries. He was their child. They were required to love him. A parent has to have I some /I love for their child. Be it a sense of self- because the child is a part of themselves that they can see and touch and play with. Be it a sense of duty- for this is a creature who is defenseless, helpless and unable to grow and prosper without their help. Be it a sense of pride, of knowing that this is your I son /I , and that they will be shaped in your image and teachings.

His parents were made to love him. They held an unconditional love that cannot be helped. They doted upon him in his youngest years, smiling and laughing in privacy while he learned his first words, walked his first steps. They grew more distant as he grew up, learning fast and developing a keen wit.

They stopped telling him how proud they were after his third year. They stopped saying that he was a wonderful son when he was twelve. He was never allowed to say the words "I love you" to his parents in public, nor did they say it to him as he grew.

To say he grew up loved was to say that it was a perfunctory duty of his parents.

To say that he had ever felt loved as a child was like a whisper in a thunderstorm, barely heard and gone without true substance.

He had learned in the years following each of his successive blunders at school that they had loved the idea of him, the baby son they remembered, not the man he had become. When they were incarcerated, he did not weep. He said only three words to his mother as they took her to Azkaban, "Good bye, Mother." She held firm in light of his statement, a slow nod his only answer.

There was no love lost, for there was none to be had.

But the one fact that truly amazed him was that one could I choose /I to love someone. You could, in the face of all adversity, say that you loved someone and mean it. You could go up and face terrifying odds and still say that you loved someone. You could look into their eyes and tell them that you loved them.

You could lie to them for every day of the two years you were together. Two years of happiness, of laughter and friendships and I love /I .

Draco smiled bitterly as he drained his tumbler of brandy.

You could look into the eyes of one of the most loved figures of your generation and see the love they held for you, just for you. Until you realized that that love was just a lie. Just like the love of your parents, the admiration of your friends.

Life was a lie when it came to emotions. This he learned early, and this he felt each day.

Draco filled the tumbler, two fingers of the expensive liquor, and watched the light play on it as he swirled the glass. Life was full of deceit. Why couldn't he accept that and just live like he had before?

He turned at the knock on the door, face carefully schooled in the perfect mask of indifference.

"Enter." Simply spoken in a rather terse manner completely different from his usual arrogant drawl.

"Master, you has a visitor." The house-elf cowered, wringing it's hands on the tea-towel it wore.

"Who?" Again, with no hint of curiosity, no ounce of warmth.

"It's Mistress Weasley, she says to let her in, she needs to talk to you, sir."

He looked at the time, a quarter past seven, and finally gave a nod, draining his tumbler a second time. "Let her in." He turned his back to the elf, and stared at the fire, watched the flames devour another piece of wood. He heard the door open and could smell her distinct scent, honeysuckle and lavender, lingering in the air.

"Draco, would you please come out? We've got a dinner planned, and Ron's taken the twins out to the Nanny's… We were hoping…"

He turned to her, face indifferent, heart pounding. "No." He turned to the brandy bottle again, but he held it, not wanting to drink any more while she was here, not wanting her to see his weakness at the moment.

"I know you're just going to lurk around in the manor all night, and I know that-"

"You seem to know a lot Mrs. Weasley. You seem to assume that you have anything to say that I want to hear. Leave."

Hermione stared at Draco, her eyes angry and sad. "Draco, the boys want to see you, they miss you! And I miss you too, I miss your laugh and your smile. I miss your wit, and I hate the fact that you won't talk to us anymore! I thought you had done away with this childish behavior!" She crossed her arms, glaring at him, hoping to move him into saying something, doing something. But Draco stood, impassive. His eyes grew darker, troubled and unhappy, but he held himself firm and shook his head.

"There is no childish behavior in this house. I have no desire to see your sons, and less desire to see your husband. Leave, before I make you."

Hermione just shook her head. "You used to be someone I respected, Draco. You found out that you had a heart and you opened up and you were funny and interesting. Now look at you! No better than your father was. You're only fooling yourself, Draco."

"I am fooling nobody. Least of all myself."

"Draco, I can't help what Harry did, and I can't say anything to make that hurt go away, but you have people who care about you now. You have two godsons that want to see you. They're hurt that you haven't seen them fly their toy brooms yet. And I'm telling you this because I want you to know- I'm expecting again."

He turned to her without realizing what he was doing. "Really?"

She smiled, and he abruptly stopped the small smile that had started to grow at the news. "Very nice. Maybe it will be a girl." A cold voice took all the caring out of the kind words, making them empty and formal. Hermione frowned, unsure of what to make of the words.

"Thank you?" She said, unsure. "Do you have any plans for the evening, Draco?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm due to meet my new wife in a matter of minutes."

Hermione stopped cold, frozen in shock.

"New… wife?"

"Yes. A pureblooded woman from France, Adèle Bellefrost. The marriage is in six weeks." No sign of enthusiasm, no sense of excitement.

"Is this what you want, Draco?" she whispered, saddened and afraid for her friend.

"This is what must be done."

"I… um… good luck then. The boys… will be happy to have a new person to talk to… Maybe she can teach them French."

Draco sighed, and finally poured the Brandy.

"She'll not be going near the boys. I won't allow it."

"But, why?"

"Because she won't tolerate it. Because I won't allow it."

"But Draco-"

"Mrs. Weasley- Hermione. Leave. For the last time, just leave. Do not force me to remove you from my property. Good evening." He motioned to the house-elf and the little creature pulled her hand, taking her to the door.

"Draco! You are doing what your parents did to you! You are never going to be happy, and your child will grow up to be just as fucked up as you are, you prick!" He turned towards her, watching her with a blank face as she was pulled through the door.

"I never said that life was fair, I never said that life was anything but what it is. Happiness is a lie."

"You're lying to yourself, and your future wife! Your child will turn out just like you… do you want that?" She pulled her hand from the house-elf's and walked up to him. She took the glass from his hand and looked him right on the eye.

"Why are you doing this?"

He stared at her, no hint of emotion on his face, his eyes shuttered. His hands were shaking though, and he smelled strongly of the liquor he had been drinking.

"I am doing this because the family must continue. Because this is what I'm meant to do."

"What you were bred to do, right? You used to tell me how much you hated the fact that you would have had to have a marriage without love. That you wanted to have a child that you would love and care for with the person who loved you."

A hint of the old Malfoy shone through, a glimmer of true joy in his eyes.

"I will have a child who I will love with all my heart. Who will never grow up as I did, who will never know the I pain /I I have known. Who will know what love is before he has his heart torn out forcibly and shoved back into his dying hands. He will never, I ever /I feel the way I have. He will never know what it is to hold his own life against the lives of others. He will never have to bow down to a crazy man, and then find out that his whole I world /I , the entire life that he grew up with was a lie. He won't have to fight a war, won't have to pretend to have friends. Won't be hurt by those who pretend, and will know that when someone says, "I love you", that they won't break his heart."

Hermione blinked away tears, knowing that Draco was telling her all of his own pain, telling her how deeply hurt he was.

"I'm sorry Draco. I should go. The boys… " She stopped talking, a lump forming in her throat.

"What's done is done Mrs. Weasley. 'Que sera sera.'"

"Que sera sera indeed." She reached up and cupped her hand on his chin. He didn't lean in, but he didn't pull away either.

"I'll tell everyone the news. I do expect invitations. I'm a part of a Pureblooded family too."

He nodded once, and she let go. She walked to the door, but before she went through it she turned and said one last thing.

"He's still sulking too, you know."

"I don't care."

She smiled and shook her head as she headed out of the house.

-