A/N:

I typically shy away from specific in-chapter Trigger Warnings (I dislike them as a reader), but since I haven't upgraded this from T to M yet (still debating) please be advised that this chapter features a short scene with more detailed self-injury than previously described. If that bothers you, please skip about 10 paragraphs down. Thx!

-AL

STAGES OF GRIEF

CHAPTER TEN:

INSPIRED

Hermione sobbed herself to sleep on Valentine's Day, with Crookshanks curled up beside her in the double bed, batting at her hair and nuzzling against her chin. She felt ashamed of herself for getting carried away with him and further humiliated by her abrupt departure. How could she explain to him what had happened?

At Malfoy Manor, Draco struggled to sleep too. Had he done something wrong? Tried to go too far too fast? Had he scared her? Or... worse... was she simply not attracted to him? Had he been reading their relationship all wrong? Had she gone out with him on Valentine's Day to avoid spending the evening alone rather than because she considered him a potential suitor?

Suitor. The word made him cringe. Sounded too much like courtship, like something his old-fashioned mother would favor.

Speaking of his 'old-fashioned' mother, he wasn't sure how to take the sight of her in bed with Snape, which had assaulted his eyes upon entry into her bedroom that night, even though they were not in any way inappropriately engaged. She was wearing her dressing gown open over a floor-length nightdress, her graying blonde hair loose, and she looked more peaceful than he'd seen her in some time. Severus was sitting up against the headboard, his head tipped back, snoring softly. He was fully dressed save for his shoes and frock coat, and he had his hand between Narcissa's shoulder blades, giving Draco the impression the man might have been scratching her back or combing through her hair before drifting off. She even had her head on top of a pillow in his lap, her hand on his thigh. It was an intimate pose, one he didn't want to see his mother in, even though he was sure the former professor had merely been offering her a source of comfort and companionship.

Narcissa awoke on 15 February around dawn, blinking several times in confusion before understanding why she was not devastatingly alone. She felt awkward, but also touched. She couldn't believe he had stayed. The night before had been nothing short of a nightmare. After they'd looked through photo albums and had dinner in the kitchen (he refused to eat in the dining room, unable to shake the mental image of Charity Burbage being swallowed by the snake) they'd retired to the parlor for drinks.

Non-alcoholic drinks.

Sweet butterbeer in frosted mugs, which took her back to her Hogwarts days with Winnie and Sarah and Andromeda and Bellatrix. Not the ideal winter drink, but in the absence of liquor, she was happy to have it.

He'd returned her wand and her razor, they'd chatted awhile, and he'd gone – or so he said. She'd retired to her room to sleep... but sleep wouldn't come. She picked up her wand and put it down again. She'd promised him she wouldn't use it to burn herself, and she would keep that promise, not because she felt she owed him as much, but because she didn't fancy the possibility of having her wand snapped in half.

But he hadn't specifically said she couldn't use the razor...

And so she did. Tentatively at first, she nicked the skin of her thigh, just to see what would happen. A tiny trickle of blood made its way down her leg. She sat on the bed and did it a second time, slightly deeper. More blood. It didn't feel the way it felt when she burned herself. That was excruciatingly painful. This was... not. It felt oddly liberating, actually, to have this control. She could press as deeply as she wanted to, she could let only as much blood spill as she felt was necessary before healing herself, leaving only the faintest scarring, collecting the blood against a white silk handkerchief that had been his, with his initials monogrammed in the corner. There was a spot of his blood stained there, too. She remembered when it had happened, he'd cut himself on the palm with Bella's knife by mistake one afternoon and used this handkerchief to staunch the wound. Though the house-elves had done their best, they hadn't managed to get it white again, and he had thrown it furiously in a drawer never to be used in the future. She liked watching her blood, red and fresh, mingle with the stains from his, rusty brown.

When she grew bored of her right thigh, she took to her left wrist. The skin Severus had most recently healed was still raw and pink and new. She wondered, in a detached state, whether it would hurt more or less to do it here, and decided she had to know for sure. She pressed into the skin... not so bad. So she pressed a little harder... she watched the blood spill, dripping down her arm... She sank the blade in for a third satisfying time...

"The fuck are you doing?"

Severus' sharp voice had made her jump, made her drop the razor. He Accioed it away from her, hurried to the bed, and tended to her arm without awaiting an answer to his question.

"I thought you left," she said. "I told you to leave."

"I was afraid I couldn't trust you," he replied. "Clearly, I was correct. Your son and I care very much about keeping you safe and well. Why don't you give a damn about yourself?"

This is what had led to her in tears again, dampening the front of his shirt, then lashing out until she was too weak and dizzy to keep her head up. She'd ranted and sobbed and lamented and cursed and expressed her desire to die, then begged him not to tell Draco.

"I don't want him to think he's not enough for me to live for," she cried. "I don't want to hurt him."

He'd sighed and stayed with her, holding her, and not lecturing her, until both were asleep.

As of one month later, this had become a regular thing. Severus frequently sat with Narcissa, sometimes beside her bed in a chair with a book and sometimes beside her in bed with an arm around her, until she fell asleep. Then he'd slip out somewhere between midnight and morning.

Draco spent the next month ignoring this, as he couldn't stand thinking about them together, even though he knew they weren't together-together. When he'd gone to Professor Snape for help, he hadn't had "Cuddle my mother so she doesn't have nightmares" in mind. But he couldn't deny it seemed to be helping. With her 44th birthday only forty-eight hours away, she was crying less, eating more, and abstaining from alcohol – though that last one was not by choice.

Draco talked about his feelings with Hermione more and more, until she was starting to feel more like a therapist than a friend, girlfriend, or even Mentor (not that she minded) thus she'd taken to reading up on psychology and grief with the hope of helping him understand not only Narcissa's, but his own.

As for her explanation of the Valentine's Day departure, she simply told him he was the first man she'd seen since Ron and she'd panicked, thinking they were moving too fast.

"I don't want to be one of those girls who falls for someone while on the rebound," she'd said. "It's better if we're just casually dating for now, and slowly see where things go."

He didn't like hearing this because as much as he valued her friendship, he was also keen to paw at and pant over her, preferably in his bed from dark until dawn, but he certainly wasn't going to pressure her into anything she wasn't ready for. Neither of them needed more stress or drama in their lives than was already present. Besides, he was a little relieved "I don't like you in that way" was not her reason, as that would have been considerably worse.

Hermione was becoming more active and vocal in a group calling themselves W.W.A.M.M., or "Wham." It had been co-founded by Neville Longbottom, George Weasley, and Angelina Johnson. The acronym stood for Witches and Wizards Against Ministry Murder. They were planning a massive rally within the Ministry for 2 May, though the date had to be kept hushed, lest they end up halted before they could demonstrate.

"Join us," said Hermione one Saturday morning in mid-March. She and Draco were having coffee and toast at the Muggle café she liked, as had become their regular thing. "We have a meeting this Wednesday at eight p.m. in a room above the Hog's Head."

He was reluctant, as he knew he would likely be unwelcome, but he agreed because she looked so damn earnest.

Which is what led to him joining fucking W.W.A.M.M.

To keep the possibility of being discovered down, they operated by having a leader (Neville), then a core group privy to most details, and then several concentric circles made up of various members unaware of the identities of all the others. Draco didn't want to tell Hermione, since she'd helped come up with this system, but he couldn't help thinking they operated exactly as the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had. At least they had badges that pinned to their clothes that only revealed their symbols when activated rather than permanent markings burned into their forearms.

Though a new member would typically not be invited to meetings with the core members straight away, Hermione was insistent, and vouched for him.

He settled at the large round table. Hermione, group secretary, explained that the table was this shape so no one person was ever at 'the head.'

"We are all equal in the center circle. Even Neville."

Draco glanced around. He knew several of those present from Hogwarts – Neville Longbottom, George Weasley, Angelina Johnson, Parvati and Padma Patil, Dean Thomas, and Cho Chang – and recognized a few more from articles printed post-War, including Bill and Fleur Weasley and Sturgis Podmore, plus three people he'd never seen nor heard of before, introduced as former Order of the Phoenix members Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones, and Meredith McKinnon. They had just finished saying hello when the door opened and three more came in, presumably to fill the only empty seats left at the table. An elderly woman with white hair who walked with a cane headed straight for the vacant chair beside Draco. Behind her were Neville's grandmother... and Headmistress McGonagall.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Minerva exclaimed. "A pleasant surprise to see you here."

"Good evening, Professor." He stood to shake her hand. "Hermione convinced me to come."

"I'm glad she did."

Draco sat back down and introduced himself to the witch to his left.

"Porpentina Goldstein Scamander, but call me Tina," replied the elderly witch. "You're the Malfoy boy? Met your great-grandfather Brutus once. Arrested him in New York for trafficking in dangerous dark objects. He put up a fight. Hit me in the back with a stinging hex. Still have the scars. Got him, though. He served six months before we deported him back across the pond."

This was certainly starting off swimmingly, thought Draco. At a loss for how to respond, he asked, "You're from America?"

"That's right. I was an Auror for MACUSA. Don't worry, though." She patted his arm. "I don't hold people responsible for the crimes of their relatives. My maternal grandfather was a Muggle who owned slaves. We all have ancestors whose actions we're not proud of, to say the least. Nice to meet you."

Hermione shot Draco a shake smile. He shot a similar shaky smile at Tina Scamander.

"Alright," said Hermione. "Let's call this meeting to order. Everyone sign in." She passed a piece of parchment and quill around, to which they each added their names. Once she had it back, she tapped it twice with her wand, muttering an unfamiliar incantation, then tapped it a third time, causing it to burst into blue flames and crumble into a pile of ash, which she then Vanished. "Before we discuss the details of the upcoming rally, any new business?"

"Professor McGonagall invited me to Hogwarts to guest-teach a lesson in Herbology with Professor Sprout," Neville piped up. "I'll be there next week, during which time I'll be able to check in personally with Luna to find out how the student resistance is going."

"Classes are cancelled on the second of May in memory of those lost," said Minerva. "While I do not give my permission to any student over age seventeen who wishes to travel from Hogwarts to the Ministry that morning, I have it on good authority that the fireplace in the newly repaired Room of Requirement will be connected by Floo Network to the Ministry grates for that day only – a flaw in the design that will be promptly fixed, I'm sure – and if Neville happens to share this information with Miss Lovegood while having lunch between guest teaching assignments, far be it for me to try and stop him."

"Will any professors be attending the rally, Professor?" asked Cho Chang, tapping the side of her butterbeer bottle with one long, blue-painted nail.

"I can't say. But if I could say, I might suggest one of you approach Rolanda Hooch, Rubeus Hagrid, Septima Vector, or Fillius Flitwick as the date approaches. I would advise, however, that you do not mention your aims to Horace Slughorn, Sybil Trelawney, Aurora Sinistra, or the aforementioned Pomona Sprout. Professors who do attend will be doing so without the blessing of the administration of Hogwarts school, though I daresay such a thing wouldn't be considered a fireable offense, as what they do in their off-time is their business."

"Good thing the Headmistress opted to cancel all classes and activities in that case, eh?" said George Weasley, grinning. "I wish Fred were here, Professor. He'd loved to have seen this subversive side of you."

"I'd hardly call valuing life 'subversive,'" Minerva said, a scolding look on her face, but a moment later her expression softened. "I wish he were here to see it, too."

"I wish we could get Ron and Harry on board," Bill Weasley said, shaking his head. "Harry doesn't think anyone ought to die, he spoke out in favor of prison terms and rehabilitation over executions to both the Wizengamot and the Prophet, but he has no interest in demonstrating, and Ron..."

"Ron's a git," supplied George. "Ron and Percy. It's all about revenge for one of them and following the letter of the law for the other. You can guess who's who."

"Harry doesn't want to ruin his chances at becoming an Auror," said Hermione. "He feels he can make more of a difference from the inside than with us, and that's admirable. Ron, on the other hand, wants to focus on his Quidditch career..."

Draco hoped no one noticed the way his face reddened furiously at the mention of Ron Weasley. Clearly that ginger prat had hurt Hermione deeply for her to have pulled away from Draco the way she had. Getting cheated on must rot. Thus the youngest Weasley son could go rot too, as far as he was concerned.

"Don't make excuses for him, Hermione," said George. "He told me and Angelina straight out he's in favor of the executions. He said former Death Eaters are getting what's coming to them. He said they deserve to die."

This made Draco go even redder. His father didn't deserve to die. His mother didn't deserve this suffering ever since. He took several slow, deep breaths, and focused on sipping his butterbeer, keeping calm. He didn't want to blow up at them like Seamus Finnigan's potions cauldrons at his very first meeting.

"Let's move on," said Hermione hurriedly. "How are we doing for outer circle contacts?"

"Astoria and Daphne Greengrass are working on converting present and former Slytherins," said Cho Chang. "Padma and I had lunch with Astoria the day before yesterday, and she thinks she's making headway. A lot of them are against the executions, most, as far as she can discern, but they're afraid to stand up and speak out, as many feel they only narrowly escaped prosecution themselves. This includes the family of Vincent Crabbe."

Draco felt a pang deep in his gut. Astoria Greengrass was one of the girls his parents had considered as a possible future wife for him, and Vincent Crabbe had been one of his best friends from the time they were toddlers together. He was glad to know Astoria and one of her sisters had joined the resistance, but it still made him sick and depressed to think of Crabbe, falling into that Fiendfyre, screaming for help... help they couldn't provide.

"Astoria spoke to his mother and older sister, Victoria. Crabbe senior is in Azkaban, of course, awaiting his own execution, scheduled for 21 April," Padma added. "Astoria said they're devastated. Victoria wants to join the W.W.A.M.M. and attend the protest regardless of whether her father's stay is awarded pending appeal, but her mother says she's terrified of losing the only surviving member of their family to prison, and wants her to stay out of it."

"We've officially infiltrated the Ministry itself," said Hestia Jones. "I've got several fellow Aurors ready to walk off the job that day in a show of support. We also intend to prevent arrests of protestors, even if the Minister himself orders it. I love Kingsley..." Her voice cracked. Draco stared puzzlingly at Hermione, who mouthed 'Later.' Hestia went on. "I love Kingsley, but on this, he'd dead wrong. He said the legality of the executions was for the Wizengamot to decide, and as long as the deaths are brought about in a humane manner, he'll not intervene. But at least eight of us from my department are prepared to... to send him a message to the contrary."

"I've heard some concerns regarding the date from people who would otherwise be supporters," Dedalus Diggle chimed in. "They think it's inappropriate to do such a demonstration on the first anniversary of the Final Battle. They believe the date should be reserved for memorializing the victims and celebrating You-Know-Who's defeat. Can't say I disagree."

"But what better way to remember the victims and celebrate You-Know-Who's defeat than by reminding the wizarding world that we are not like Lord Voldemort?" countered Hermione. "Lord Voldemort, had he won, would have responded by killing off those who fought against him. Is emulating him any way to pay homage to those brave witches and wizards who fought against him throughout this second war?"

"You make good points, as usual, Miss Granger," said Diggle. "But still... the first anniversary... it's still so fresh in people's minds and hearts. Let more time pass, perhaps..."

"The tenth of December," said Draco, surprising even himself by speaking.

"Excuse me?" asked Tina Goldstein.

"That was the day my father was executed. The tenth of December. I'll never forget it. That day will never be just another day to me. It will never not be fresh in my mind or my heart." He glanced at Neville. "How do you feel about the second of November?"

Neville blanched. "That was... that's the day... your aunt..."

"She didn't kill them," said Draco, "But you must feel..."

"It's the day they died," Neville said. "The people they were died, even though they're still alive. They'll never get better. They'll never be the people they used to be."

"They wouldn't have wanted her dead," said his grandmother, Augusta. "They would have wanted her in prison. They would have loved this new Ministry rehabilitation Mentorship program. They believed hearts and minds could be changed. They always tried to find the good in everyone, no matter what. Alice even said... Once, she said..."

"She said she felt sorry for Bellatrix Lestrange," said Neville. "When she was expecting me, right Gran?"

"She said she felt sorry for her, yes," Augusta confirmed. "She said the woman was so brainwashed by her obsessive love of that maniac Voldemort, she existed only for him. She said she'd never seen anyone so pathetic, and speculated she must have had a rotten childhood to have grown up to be so easily manipulated by a man who didn't even pretend to love her back. This was after they arrested her for the first time, but she escaped before they got her to Azkaban. Early 1980."

"She didn't have a rotten childhood," said Draco, somewhat defensively. "Her childhood was fine. Her adulthood was rotten. She didn't want the boring life promised to Black and Lestrange women. Parties, children, playing the doting wife, that rubbish. She wanted excitement, passion, and power. He offered her that, and more. That's why she was the way she was."

"Whatever she wanted," said Neville quietly, "She didn't get it by torturing my parents, and yet, if they could speak, I'd bet they wouldn't have wanted her killed. Not that they'd think your mum did the wrong thing, George. And Bill."

"Even Mum says murder is not the answer," said Bill. "She wishes she'd only stunned her, let her be arrested and put on trial. She has nightmares about it. She can't believe she took a life, but in the heat of the moment, just after losing my brother, and afraid to lose my sister..." He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need to. It was interesting, though, to Draco that other mothers were having nightmares post-Battle, like his. It made sense. The woman had lost her child, after all. But he'd never really thought about it before.

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" asked Angelina Johnson. "Because murder is not the answer."

"The reason I brought up the date," started Draco, feeling a bit bolder now but hoping he didn't come across haughty, "Was because it doesn't matter to the family and friends of those lost how much time has passed, it hurt when it happened and it hurts now and it's going to hurt every year on that date, no matter how much time passes, but if we wait – if we wait until the pain of the Final Battle isn't so fresh – how many more will die in the interim?"

Several members expressed their wholehearted support of this sentiment, including Augusta Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall, and George Weasley. Hermione squeezed Draco's knee under the table. He forced himself to suppress a smile.

After that first meeting, Hermione traveled with Draco back to Malfoy Manor. They settled in the library side by side on two chairs he'd transfigured into a small couch, and discussed the group and the meeting.

"I think it's a good cause," he said. "And not only because I'm still angry my father was executed. Prison and rehabilitation make more sense than letting the Ministry kill people and pretend it's justice. I'm glad you invited me to help. What more can I do?"

Down the hall, in the Master bedroom, Narcissa was trying – and failing – to light a cigarette, with no idea what her son has been up to as of late. Severus entered unnoticed – the door was not closed all the way – and watched her for a good thirty seconds before he busted out laughing.

"You have to put it in your mouth to light it, woman. You have to inhale as you touch the flame to the tip." He walked to her, took it from her fingers, and broke it in half with one hand, then tossed the pieces on her vanity. "But I'm not going to stand here and watch you do it. You can't go from killing yourself with alcohol to killing yourself with tobacco."

"What are you doing here so late? It's nearly midnight."

"It's after midnight. I reckoned you'd still be awake, though. Happy birthday."

She tried to cock one eyebrow as he so often did, but was not adept at it. "You remembered it's my birthday?"

"I did. And I wanted to give you a gift to get you through the day." The hand behind his back switched to in front of him, revealing a bouquet of...

"Chocolate Frogs?" Laughing, she took it from him. "You made me a bouquet of Chocolate Frogs?"

"The stems are Sugar Quills. If you're going to self-medicate, do it with sweets."

"Are you trying to get me fat?"

"Yes," he answered without pause. "And I'm also hoping one of those cards has Dilys Derwent on it. She's the only former Head of Hogwarts my collection is missing."

"This is my birthday present, Severus," she replied teasingly. "If her card is here, why should I give it to you?"

He gestured toward the broken cigarette. "Because I've just saved your life again. Those'll kill you."

"Not enough reason to part with a Dilys Derwent. She's rare."

"Fine," he said. "Then if you have the card and give it to me, I'll spend the night with you."

"You'll spend the night with me anyway. You like falling asleep in a hardbacked chair beside my bed because it means an extended amount of time spent in my company."

"You flatter yourself."

She giggled, set down the 'bouquet,' removed one Frog from its 'stem,' and peeled back the wrapper.

"Oh, such a shame," she said, holding the card out to him. "Phineas Nigellus Black."

"Damn." Severus held her wrist, leaned forward, and bit the head off her frog. "He's my least favorite."

A/N:

Thank you for your reviews! I especially appreciate those readers who review every chapter (or nearly every chapter) as I look forward to your reactions each time. That includes purplehedgehog13, Vani12, lilikaco, HarryPGinnyW4eva, PopularCats, clarasnotlikely, and FrancineHibiscus. Also a huge thank you to my other reviewers, sassanech, mandancie, HallowRain8587, BirdsOfAFeather92, notwritten, Chelsea always, lederra, Karlie, Myrddin Emrys The Third, roon0, and Guest(s). I hope-hope-hope I didn't miss anyone (so sorry if I did!). Because I'm updating so frequently I haven't been PMing responses but I'm loving the feedback and responses and I'm taking note of any questions to make sure there's nothing I forget to answer later in the fic! Thanks again! And thanks to everyone reading, lurking, adding to Faves, and/or Following. I have a busy weekend planned but intend to update again on Monday.

-AL