STAGES OF GRIEF

CHAPTER THREE:

HELP

When Draco was told in order to avoid his own trial for war crimes he had to sign up for the new Ministry Mentorship Reform Program, he reckoned it seemed like a much better prospect than prison.

When he found out who his Ministry Mentor was to be, he very nearly responded, "Take me to Azkaban instead."

Once per week.

That's how often they'd have to meet.

Once per week at least, but at least six times per month. Thus some weeks he had to see his Ministry Mentor more than once per week. It was about six times per month too many.

The program was announced in early June, one month post-war, and kicked off as of the first of July. Now it was December, just three days after his father's semi-public execution, and he was seated in the Drawing Room of Malfoy Manor, a room no one was permitted to enter anymore, not even the house-elves, since it had been used as a torture chamber by the Dark Lord, as he awaited her arrival. He sat here in the dark, waiting, figuring his mother wouldn't know he'd broken her rule since it wasn't as if she'd be leaving her bedroom any time soon.

At two sharp, there it was: the bang of the doorknocker.

He sighed, rose slowly, and headed to the hall. He'd given strict instructions to the house-elves two months ago that he was to open the door himself whenever she came to call from then on. He said it was because he did not respect her enough to allow her the benefit of service of his servants, but the truth was, he knew she hated the subjugation of house-elves and saw no reason to start their every interaction off with self-righteous anger.

(Also, he'd grown to like her just a little...)

He looked himself over in the hall mirror quickly before opening the door. His hair was perfectly parted to the side, his robe crisp and clean, he was clean-shaven and wearing a spot of cologne, and he even practiced a slight smile, hoping to appear welcoming despite the mourning.

She knocked again, louder and more persistently this time. She was not the most patient person. With another deep breath, he pulled open the door.

"I was worried you wouldn't answer," she said, flashing him the same small smile he'd just been practicing. He nodded as the corners of his mouth forgot how to turn up.

It was a cold, dreary December day, but her bushy brown hair frizzed out like she'd been beaten in battle by midsummer humidity. Draco was surprised to see snow on the ground at her feet. She'd had to trudge through it up the walk (apparently the house-elves had been neglectful in their grounds-keeping duties) and there were flakes of white on the crown of her head and settled on her shoulders.

"Hermione Granger," he said with a cool but unnecessary nod of recognition. "Good afternoon."

"It's only just stopped snowing." She brushed it off as she entered. "Have you been outside since...?"

"Not since, no." He closed the door behind her and warded it locked, not that the protection was needed. No one but her came to call on them these days.

"Would you like tea?"

"Will a house-elf be preparing it?"

He shrugged. This damn woman and her never-bending sense of morality.

"Tell you what, Draco. You lead me to the kitchen and I'll make the tea. I'll even make you something to eat with it. You've lost more weight."

"How can you tell?"

"I can tell."

He led her to the kitchen, as requested, and she put on water for the tea. They'd done this before. She knew where the kitchen was, where the tea things were, and she'd even cooked for him before, but for some reason they made the mutual agreement (the silent mutual agreement) to act as though every time was the first time.

He wondered if it was like this for her other Mentees. She'd taken on four, twice as many as anyone else, as she felt the cause was a necessary one and – in her words – "I want to make a positive mark on the world."

Silly as it seemed, he couldn't help hoping he was her favorite, that she might even enjoy coming to see him, even though it had taken her weeks just to be able to step foot inside his home, and despite the heavy cloud of darkness lingering in the air, reminding them of what this Manor had been used for since the Dark Lord's return to power. Now that his father was gone, truly gone, Draco could feel his loss through the walls as well. He wondered if it felt different to her.

"Milk and honey?" Hermione did not wait for a response before preparing the tea as he liked it. She didn't have to ask. She set his mug down in front of him and settled herself across the small oblong table with her own mug. She took her tea with one cube of sugar, nothing more.

"You were at the execution," he said after his first sip. She nodded. "You were outside, with the protesters. I spotted you, but..."

"I wish our protests had made a difference."

"It made a difference to me." He stared down at the mug between his hands. Tears welled up in his eyes, rendering him too humiliated to meet her gaze. What would she think of him, crying like a child? He hated himself for showing this weakness, especially in front of her.

She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Though his instinct was to pull away, he forced himself to remain frozen, half wishing he could simply melt into the floor and be gone. Her hand was freezing, presumably the result of having been standing on his front step in the cold while he took his time answering the door.

"You should do a warming charm when you're out in this weather. Or, at the very least, wear gloves."

"I forgot my gloves at the home of the Mentee I checked in on this morning. I have other pairs at home but I apparated straight here. I didn't want to be late."

"Who did you see this morning?"

"Stan Shunpike, the former Knight Bus conductor. He doesn't need me, not really, but he signed up for the program upon his release from Azkaban. I think he just needs someplace to belong. He's nice enough. A bit slow. I'm teaching him to play Wizard's Chess."

"You're rubbish at Wizard's Chess."

"I know. But I'm better than he is."

Draco snorted. She removed her hand from atop his.

"We could play today, if you'd like," she suggested. He'd been teaching her since late-August and while he enjoyed teasing her over the fact that she was apparently not good at everything, she was undeniably getting better. It was easier picking it up from him – he was a surprisingly patient and entertaining teacher – than from Harry and especially Ron, who took it far too seriously.

"Not sure I'm in the mood today. I was hoping you and I could brainstorm ideas about what to do with my mother."

"How is she?"

"Unwell."

"Worse than before the... than before your Father's death? Or about the same?"

"I think she hurts herself. She has markings all up and down her left forearm. They look like burn scars, half-healed blisters. My aunt used to do the same. It was the reason she always wore long sleeves, regardless of the weather."

Hermione shuddered at the thought of Bellatrix. She unconsciously tugged on the sleeve covering her own left arm, where the word MUDBLOOD was permanently etched into her skin from the sadistic witch's knife. This was the reason it had taken her so long to enter his home, but due to his six months of house arrest they'd had to meet on the grounds, thus they'd spent an abundance of time in the gardens and by the lake until the weather started to turn. It was pouring the late September day she agreed to come inside for the first time and she'd broken down upon passing the entrance to the Drawing Room. He'd ended up comforting her and the moment had marked a turning point in their strained, forced relationship. He wasn't sure he could call them friends now, since she only visited when she was supposed to, but he liked to think of her as his friend. Merlin knows he didn't currently have any others.

"Your mother needs help."

"I know. I'm trying to help her."

"More help than you can provide. Have you reached out to St. Mungo's? Perhaps they have Healers who deal with..."

"She would hate me for it. She is an intensely private person and I worry public humiliation – more than we've already endured – might send her over the edge." He took a long sip of the tea, letting the hot liquid coat his throat, thinking he might be able to get his mother to take some after Hermione's departure. "You read the Prophet the next day?"

Hermione's cheeks took on pink spots, a flush that continued down her neck, but he knew her well enough to know this was a blush of anger and not embarrassment.

"Those vile reporters; they shouldn't be permitted to call themselves journalists!"

"I try to keep the paper from her, but she'd ordered a house-elf to bring it, expecting something about the execution would be in there. I think she needed to see it for herself, to know that it was real. I think the execution was the only real thing in that rubbish article."

The writer of the article had not only cruelly described in great detail the minute-by-minute details surrounding Lucius Malfoy's execution, he had also delved into his personal life, rehashing every crime he was accused of, and, worst of all, suggesting that he'd had a number of affairs through the years with various beautiful women, none of whom were named, and all of whom allegedly spoke to the Prophet under promise of anonymity. Perhaps Draco was being naïve, but he didn't believe a word of it, and wrote off the claims as pure sensationalism. His father had adored his mother. They'd always been sickeningly loving toward each other when no one but the three of them were home. His entire childhood he'd taken great care to knock loudly and cough before entering any room, as he had accidentally interrupted them in a casual snog session (or... worse!... more) several times as a young boy.

He had also been out in public with his father, without his mother, on numerous occasions during which women had practically thrown themselves at the Malfoy patriarch only to be firmly and quickly rebuked, after which Lucius would tell his son, "There's no reason to accept a lump of coal, even a free one, when you have the world's most beautiful diamond waiting for you at home."

The last two years of the war had been the most difficult, and during the one his father was home, Draco had worried their marriage was suffering from the stress, but the day after the Final Battle, when the couple finally emerged from their bedroom, he could already see a change in them. Both looked healthier and better rested than they had in months. His father touched his mother constantly – had a hand on her knee or on the small of her back or twirled her hair between his fingers mid-conversation – while she was calling him "Peacock" and "Darling" and "Love." It was actually a little disgusting in their son's view, but now he missed it. His friend Crabbe's parents had gone through a vicious divorce Third Year. He'd much rather have a mum and dad who were all over each other like teenagers than a mum and dad who couldn't even be left alone in the same room without trying to kill each other.

"You're awfully quiet," said Hermione, breaking into his thoughts.

"Do you think my father had affairs?"

"No," she answered simply. "The quotes from those 'women' the reporter claimed to have been given exclusively all read like they came from tawdry romance novels written by men. Women don't actually talk that way. And if any such women did really exist, why would they go to the Prophet to anonymously brag about having been with him in the first place? What was there to gain? It doesn't make sense. The Prophet wants what it always wants – to sell papers – and so they give readers what they think they want to read rather than what they ought to know."

"Thanks." He finished his tea, rose, and stretched. "Chess?"

"Not yet." She motioned for him to sit and summoned over the kettle with her wand to refill both their mugs, then set to making sandwiches. "Let's talk more about your mother. It must wear terribly on you, caring for her alone."

"I won't put her in the hospital, if that's what you're about to suggest. I can only imagine what the Prophet would make of that: 'Suicidal Sister of Dark Lord's Mistress Involuntarily Committed After Husband's Execution.' No, thank you."

"What if she had a Mentor, like you?"

"What do you mean? You want me to sign her up for the Ministry program? She'll kill me. The headline will read, 'Suicidal Sister of Dark Lord's Mistress Murders Meddling Son After Husband's Execution.'"

Hermione giggled despite the gravity of the situation and Draco couldn't hide a satisfied smirk. He had a dry dark sense of humor that she seemed to like... and he liked that she liked it. Not that he would like for anyone to know that he liked that she liked it.

"What if she had an unofficial Mentor?" Hermione pressed on as she Accioed plates from the cupboard. "I've been giving this a lot of thought. I even have one in mind. A certain someone who knows what it is to grieve the only one he's ever truly loved, a certain someone who is most likely just as lonely and outcasted as she is, a certain someone already known to her and to your family...?"

Draco's jaw dropped. "Snape?"

"Snape." She set the sandwich down in front of him.

"Snape!" Draco's mind reeled. Severus Snape, spy for the Order, defector from the Dark Lord's Death Eaters, enemy of all turned reluctant war hero, a man who'd barely survived the Final Battle and made it clear during the trials that followed he wished he bloody hadn't... could he help Narcissa? They had been friends, once. He had been Lucius' closest friend. And after his father's arrest, Severus Snape had been the only person outside their family permitted a visit with him in Azkaban in the week before his death. Lucius had expressed to his son how much he appreciated that his old mate stuck by him, testified on his behalf, and never judged him even when he deserved judgment. Snape had also made that Unbreakable Vow with his mother before the start of Sixth Year, promising to keep Draco safe and to keep him from becoming a killer, after his mother begged it of him, even though it could have meant all their deaths had the Dark Lord found out. (If Bellatrix had not been killed, Draco would very much liked to have asked her about this, as he couldn't believe she hadn't gone straight to her lover and master to tell him of his right-hand-man's betrayal. He couldn't believe she had valued the life of her sister over the death of her competition for Favorite Follower, fanatical as she was in her devotion, and as gleeful as she was to murder her other sister's only daughter.)

"That's not a bad idea, Hermione," said Draco finally, wondering if he could convince Severus to do it. "You know, for a Muggleborn, you're reasonably intelligent."

"Sod off, you pampered Pureblood Pufferfish."

He grinned. He liked it when she insulted him. She smiled too. For the rest of his Mentorship Session, they sipped tea, ate, and discussed how he could best approach Severus Snape with this request. When it was time for her to go (half an hour later than her allotted time, actually) he walked her to the door.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" he asked, letting the words tumble out before his brain could censor them.

"Breakfast with friends in the morning, followed by an afternoon supper with my parents."

"Oh." He tried not to appear crestfallen. Of course she had plans with family and friends. That's how most people spent Christmas. He would be lucky if he could get his mother to open her bedroom door and consume something other than alcohol for the holiday.

"But if you're going to be home, I could pay you a visit in the evening, if you'd like," she added quickly. He almost told her not to bother, but her expression was so earnest and kind, and he thought it would be nice to have something to look forward to...

"You'll come for dessert?"

"Will the house-elves be making it?"

"Of course not," he said sarcastically. "Between now and then I intend to learn to cook."

"If you cook a dessert for me, I'll be happy to eat dessert with you." She pulled on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck. "In the interim, I'll see you in one week, same time?"

He nodded.

She turned to go.

He watched from the window until she'd made it to the apparition point beyond the gates and disappeared.

Now he had two goals:

Convince Severus Snape to help him with his grieving mother –

And learn how to cook an edible Christmas dessert.