Chapter Twenty-Two: Being Your Walls

(Four days later: March 16th)

Part 1: She was brown

Rain fell on the eight attendees of Lucius Malfoy's burial, and, to Draco, time seemed to slow and then stop everything around him.

When I am dead
Cry for me a little,
Think of me sometimes,
But not too much.

As the officiator continued to read the poem, Draco stared at his father's closed casket. An odd feeling rose in his chest. He was retreating into himself, into his thoughts. He was pushing everything—external and internal—away. His eyes narrowed slightly. It had always been like that. It had always found him, circled him, engulfed him, and trapped him. He had always fought it at first, but then, he had given in to it.

It?

Well, change, of course. This, right then and there, was change. His life was changing and before he could prevent it, understand it, see it, or even try to resist it; it was there.

Change.

His thoughts circled and tumbled; they baffled and excited him; they strangled and bound him to reality…to the external. Draco, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to escape the external and retreat to the internal. It didn't matter that his internal was in a state of disarray; nothing mattered. Everything was muddled, anyway; too confusing for him to gather his bearings.

Change.

His life had changed. And just what in the hell was he supposed to do about that? What could he do with it? What could he—Draco shut his eyes as he felt another pang of discomfort in his chest as the rain fell. They were getting worse as his body became more and more familiar with them. The pangs of loss. The pangs of guilt. The pangs of anger. The pangs of realization. The awakening. It hurt. Everything just hurt. And it hurt to realize that that his life had changed. It hurt to change.

But then, the pang was over. His muscles settled, his fingers relaxed, and he could breathe again.

And he did, but he knew that nothing lasted forever.

Draco opened his eyes and stared.

Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moments it's pleasant to recall
But not for long.

And then it came back and hit him, hard. Full force. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak.

He had failed to even notice. Otherwise, he would've reached for that hand that was reaching for his. What hand? Draco didn't bother to look down. There was no hand. He knew that much. They didn't know what was going on in his mind. He was good at disguising, pretending, and fooling the world. But, all that he was doing was fooling himself. He was such a great actor, and that was why he was always so bloody tired. It wore him out. Always on. Never off. His mouth moved without his ears hearing. His eyes searched without his mind seeing. And Draco was dizzy and ready to get off the stage because it was making him ill.

That part of his life was done because he had changed.

Draco understood that his life could be affected by the living, but what he was starting to understand more deeply was that his life could be affected by the dead, as well. Everything had changed with Father's death, and he didn't know exactly how to cope. He hadn't had the time to handle it all, either.

When the news of his Lucius Malfoy's death broke at 6:14 AM on March twelfth, Draco was wearily looking outside of his window as the host of owls descended upon his house. Granger's cold hand was firmly clasped in his. She had muttered something, pulled him away from the window, and slowly led him into the kitchen where a growing pile of letters awaited him. Granger numbly put out some treats for the owls while Draco stared blankly at the letters that covered his kitchen table and floor.

In that moment, he had realized that, again, he hadn't been as prepared for the media, the camera, the journalists, the rumours, or the complete and utter psychotic fanfare, as he had once thought.

And his world had been shades of grey ever since.

News of his father's death had been received with mixed feelings. It seemed that part of the wizarding world had only seen him as an ex-Death Eater and, consequently, was glad that he had become "maggot food". They had sent the Malfoys Howlers and junk. Another part didn't care. They sent nothing. However, the vast majority had seen him as a man who had paid his debt to society and had died. They had sent their condolences to the wife and son that he had left behind.

Leave me in peace
And I shall leave you in peace
And while you live
Let your thoughts be with the living...

Draco opened his eyes again and remembered where he was. The external.

Oh, yes, the funeral.

And the pangs began again as soon as the last officiator spoke the last word. Living. His father was no longer living.

Though he couldn't tear his eyes away as the officiator waved his wand and sent bolts of what looked like white lights into the grey sky to symbolize death, the blond man was aware of everything around him: his mother's soft sniffles from his left, Uncle Arcturus' sneezes from behind, his other two uncles' bored murmurs, Blaise's harsh but quiet words that silenced his uncles, Pansy's soothing whispers to his grieving mother, Hermione Granger's shifting feet to his right, and the hard rain that pounded on him thanks to a faulty protection charm.

Everyone else had put up their own protection charms to keep themselves dry, but Draco hadn't bothered.

And neither had Hermione Granger.

"You go home this night to your home of Winter, To your home of Autumn, of Spring and of Summer; You go home this night to your lasting home, To your eternal bed, to your sound sleeping…"

The officiator's words snapped Draco away from his thoughts. He had his wand pointed at the levitating casket and it was starting to slowly lower into the ground. His mother let out a low sob because she knew what those words meant. He had started the Blessings for the Soul's Release, and Draco stared. They were burying his father, and that would be the end. The change would be complete. And where would he go from there? How would his life end up? What would he do?

As the words to the blessing were spoken, for the first time in four days, his grey world had suddenly become a blur of colours. It didn't last. The colours of his world, instead, had melted off their canvases like paint when it came into contact with turpentine; they just slid off with ease; no friction, no resistance. His once-coloured world was various shades of gray, again, and nothing seemed to matter to Draco as he shoved his strong, rough hands into the pockets of his long cloak.

From a distance, it was a scene cut from an old classic black and white movie scene. It was a stereotypical, burial scene featuring a silently weeping widow, a conflicted son, friends, and restless family members—some of which were glad to see the final demise of their supposed leader. However, something was different. It seemed that as the officiator spoke the blessing, the storm had intensified tremendously. What had started as a soft rain had built up into a powerful storm. Draco felt the magic in the air, felt the magic flowing through him, but the hum of it did little to soothe him.

Dark clouds loomed in the sky above them, rolling with so much ferocity that it made his uncles look up nervously.

A sharp crack of lightning lit the sky, but Draco kept his eyes fixed on the grey scene before him.

"…The sleep of seven joys upon you, my dear. The sleep of seven slumbers upon you, my dear. Sleep, oh sleep in the quiet of quietness, Sleep, oh sleep in the way of guidance, Sleep, oh sleep in the love of all loving…"

The rain had started coming down harder and harder with each word spoken, each drop sliding down Draco's blank face. The entire world had become a grey rainstorm and Draco felt like he was out in the middle of a hurricane, but it didn't matter. The cool, slate-grey eyes that once had lit the handsome face transformed into dark, grief-stricken grey. The soft corners of his mouth were turned down into a forlorn grimace. The casket was now out of sight and he felt another pang in his chest.

"…You have been called from the place of your dwelling; after times, after duties, after separations. May blessed soul-friends guide you, May helping spirits lead you, May the Gatherer of Souls call you, May the Homeward path rise up under your feet and lead you gladly home…"

It was suddenly freezing. He pulled the cloak tighter around his soaked neck, trying to keep the warmth from escaping his body. His hands, now removed from the deep pockets, rested at his side, cold and motionless.

Melancholy grey eyes looked over to his left, but found the sight of his mother too much to bear. He locked eyes with Blaise first, then Pansy. The colours were still gone, he realized, when Pansy stared back at him with grey eyes instead of blue. She mouthed something to him, but he didn't comprehend. His eyes returned to the sight before him. Grey. Life was grey. And no matter how hard it rained, nothing could wash away the grey.

Draco's thoughts grew heavy as they ran in succession through his despondent mind. He lowered his head and the rain fell on the back of his head and ran down his neck, soaking into the clothes beneath the cloak. Then his eyes shut, but not before one lone drop trickled down his wet cheeks. It did nothing to wash away the suffering.

Diffident fingers grazed his so lightly that he thought that it was the harsh wind, but it wasn't. They came back, just as hesitant as before, but they didn't leave. He didn't tear his eyes off the ground to identify the culprit. He already knew. He knew her hands. An explorative, small, lithe, and feminine hand rested against his. She didn't entwine their fingers nor did she didn't move them; she only provided the initial contact. Palm against palm, their wet fingers lined up. Her hands were much smaller than his, cool yet comforting, and he didn't wrench his hand away, no matter how many times he had weakly considered the idea.

He was too tired to fight her fingers, her hands, or her arms. He was too tired to fight her.

When she the laced their fingers together and squeezed his hand, Draco tore his eyes off the ground and cut them over to Hermione Granger.

To his initial confusion, he found her brown eyes staring back at him. Brown. Not grey. Brown. He almost didn't even notice the colour, but it had jumped out at him rather suddenly. Brown. His world had been grey for four days, she had been grey for four days, and—and now, things were different. Her eyes weren't grey like his, they weren't grey like the sky, they weren't grey like Pansy's eyes, or even like his mother's. In a world of grey, she was brown, and all Draco could manage to do was to stare, blink, and wonder just when she had changed in his eyes…

He had yelled at her and slammed the door in her face.

Draco honestly hadn't intended to do as much as he had done. He hadn't intended to say as much as he had said. She hadn't deserved his harsh words, but apologizing was the last thing on his mind when he had sat on the bed in the hours before his father's burial. Just like every day since the news of his father's death had broken, it had been a grey and gruelling day. His uncles had been relentless in their mission to convince him to hand over power since the reading of the will, Mother had been a wreck of silent tears and mourning, Blaise had been too quiet, Pansy had all but moved into the Manor to take care of his mother, and Granger pretty much hadn't left his house since that night.

He'd just had to deal with the craziness of his father's funeral the previous day, which had turned into a public spectacle, thanks to his uncles and the media. He was just glad that all of Father's mistresses hadn't showed up – and that they hadn't made themselves known to the family or started a scandal with the introduction of illegitimate heirs.

For nearly an hour, he had watched as virtual strangers and family members that he had never before seen had lied and talked about how great of a man his father had been in life and how they would miss him. Draco knew for certain that his father wasn't a good man, nor would he be missed by anyone outside of his mother. While he couldn't say that he hated his father, he couldn't say that he liked him, either.

He was stuck in the middle of a bitter battle between his head and his chest.

Father had made quite a few mistakes and was terribly flawed, but weren't they all? Lucius Malfoy, Draco had come to realize in the days following his death, was human. He had realized his mistakes and tried to rectify them before he had gone into Azkaban, but sometimes apologies via letters weren't enough.

However, they were a good start…and they were all that he would have to tame his anger now that his father was dead.

Large parts of him didn't want to attend the burial after the circus that had been the funeral. But, then, she had showed up just after two o'clock and asked him when he would be ready to leave for the burial.

It had been hard enough to attend the funeral the previous day with all the cameras and fanfare, and now, she wanted him to get dressed for the burial? Needless to say, Draco snapped. Hard. It hadn't taken much to push him over the edge.

And down he'd gone.

The only thing that yelling at Granger had proven was that he couldn't go on the way he had been living. He was cracking under the immense pressure on his shoulders, the mask was slipping off fast, and he was losing the war against change that he had waged for the last eight months. Hell, he had just about lost, well, everything.

Change was coming and he was helpless to stop it. All that he could do, in the meanwhile, was wait and see how it would affect him. Furthermore, Draco needed time to discover the man who would be left once the mask was gone, before change settled in, and before the pressures of life took over, again.

Going to Father's burial wouldn't give him the time that he needed. Or so he'd told himself.

Truthfully, there were times when Draco didn't even know who he was or what he represented. He had been caught up in the façade for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to be completely honest with someone. And then, there were the rare moments when he would set the mask aside in a private setting and it would cause a jaw or two to drop. But the silent jaw drops had been enough to underscore the painful reminder of who he was supposed to be, and he had gone back to guarding himself.

His bedroom door opened slowly and Hermione Granger stood in the doorway.

Draco immediately went back on the defence. "I thought I told you to get out."

"Well, I'm back."

Coldly, "How did you get past my bedroom's wards?" He shook his head and rolled his eyes once he realized the answer to his own question. Sarcastically, he said, "Oh, yes, you're Hermione Granger. You can do anything."

She pocketed her wand. "If you're trying to start a fight with me, do us both a favour, and don't."

"Who do you think you are? You—"

"I'm your friend, Draco, and I know what you're going through."

He turned his head when she sat down next to him. "You don't know anything."

"Maybe you're right, but I do know that you're just like me. You wear a mask, and while it may be vital to wear it until this mess with your uncles is over, I just want you to know that you don't have to wear it around me. I've seen you before. Truly seen you…and you've seen me. We don't have anything to hide from each other."

Draco knew exactly what she had meant. That morning, when his walls had come tumbling down and he had been astonished to discover that he had actually cared about his father…she had been there with him, through it all. She had seen him at his lowest and weakest, but she hadn't shunned him or laughed. Granger had seen him at his most vulnerable, but she hadn't spoken or taunted him. She had seen him for who he truly was and she hadn't turned him away. She hadn't even tormented him with those awful words, "I told you so," even when they were much deserved. She actually hadn't said much of anything.

Perhaps…perhaps she was right and he didn't have to be on the defence around her. She had seen him sans mask enough and she obviously didn't care. And why would she? Draco had seen her at her utter lows, and he hadn't judged her too harshly, either. He had seen her in the moments when she had thought her life was over, he had sat with her while she was practically catatonic, he had yelled and fought with her when she was being stubborn and pathetic, and he had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go.

And now, she was returning the favour.

Did it honestly matter? He'd gone through such an upheaval that he had somehow lost his grip and control over everything. Did anything matter between them anymore? Honestly?

He was utterly confused, and it frustrated him more than ever.

The lines had been blurred between them, and while Draco had fought and fought to differentiate himself from her, he had only actually proven just how alike they were. Perhaps, because of their similarities, he could be honest with the witch. She truly understood. He knew that much. He knew that her jaw wouldn't drop and she wouldn't look uncomfortable. Hermione—because, really, Draco couldn't think of her as 'Granger' after everything they had been through—had proven her loyalty to him and he had no logical reason, other than that of self-preservation and fear, to hide from her.

And, really, how could he preserve something that he barely knew?

He didn't look at her when he arose from the bed. He didn't glance over his shoulder when he stood in front of the window. He didn't even turn his head while he stared out the window at the grey world. Draco was too busy wading through the pool of confusion to notice that she had joined him in front of the window.

That was, until she spoke, "It took Pansy four hours to get me out of my bathroom the morning of Matthew's funeral. It was absolutely horrible. She thought that I was losing my mind, and I knew that I was long gone, but it didn't matter. I didn't care. I mean, how could I care? I had lost it all. What more was there to lose? I had no grip on reality, I wasn't even seeing in colour."

Draco started at that last sentence, but said nothing.

"The world was black and white, and she was screaming at me to come out. And I refused. I mean, how could I? My life was so chaotic and confusing that I wasn't seeing right." She paused for a few minutes and he stared out at his grey life. He remained silent while she spoke. "Pansy ended up hexing me and dragging me out by my arms. We don't speak about that morning."

"Why didn't you want to go?" He heard himself ask, but he felt as if he were a million miles away.

"Going to his funeral and watching them bury him was something that I didn't think that I could handle. It meant that he was really gone, that he wouldn't be back, and I just couldn't accept that. I think part of me just thought that he would come back, even after they pronounced him dead. I just knew—" She took a breath and continued, but her voice was thick, "Parents aren't supposed to lose their children. They're just not."

"Things that aren't supposed to happen seem to happen to us, don't they, Granger?" His voice was so cold and bland.

"I suppose they do, but I think, in the end, we'll be better people because of the challenges that we've overcome. It sure as hell doesn't feel that way now, but—maybe."

The word lingered in the air. Maybe.

Granger had used it as a word of hope; he had used it as a word of uncertainty. His life was full of maybes. The woman next to him was a definite maybe, in a singular way that he didn't even understand or want to acknowledge.

Bloody hell.

He immediately deleted that thought out of his mind. There was no time to try and define anything in his life, at that moment.

"I know that it's so exhausting."

Finally, he looked at her, "What?"

"Wearing that mask…."

"Draco?"

And she had been right. It was exhausting. It was also hard for him to look in the mirror without being overwhelmed by confusion. On the morning that the news of his father's death broke, he had admitted to Hermione while standing in the bathroom that he didn't look in the mirror often. What he had neglected to admit was that he couldn't stand to look in a mirror and not see himself. He only saw a familiar stranger, someone he knew in passing, but didn't know all that well. And he hated the feelings of fear, emptiness, uncertainty, and confusion that such a sight had evoked.

"Draco?"

His eyes focused on her. "What?" He took a moment to look at her. Hermione was wet from the rain, and the message was clear as day, even in his haze. She was going to be there through whatever. It left a rather odd feeling in him that he didn't understand.

After a long pause, she finally said, "It's done." And with a glance in the direction of the casket, he realized that, sure enough, it was done. The change was complete, but he didn't feel any different…or maybe he did.

The rain had stopped, the storm had calmed, and the magic had disintegrated into the atmosphere. His world was still various shades of grey, but the brown had given him enough hope to know that the grey wouldn't last. The officiator had pocketed his wand, a great pile of dirt had appeared, and his two uncles quickly Disapparated to the Manor to prepare for dinner and the meeting that Draco had been dreading for days. Only Arcturus stayed behind. His grey eyes met Draco's and he gave his nephew a little nod. He then watched as his uncle approached his mother, patted her shoulder (which was a huge display of affection in the Malfoy family), whispered something into her ear that she nodded to, and Disapparated.

"We're getting ready to go back to the Manor. Dinner is in two hours and everyone wants to rest before." Blaise told them.

Granger beat him to the punch. "We'll be there soon, okay?"

Draco hugged his trembling mother for what seemed like forever before she finally pulled away. It didn't matter that she was dry and he was wet. Nothing mattered – just the contact between mother and son. She had been an absolute mess for the first two days following his father's death, but on day three, she had slowly calmed down. His mother was strong; she had made peace with his father, and though it now hurt, Draco knew that she would be fine in the end. Would he, though? Would he be fine? Four days had passed and he was still uncertain of that answer. There was still so much that he was battling. Anger. Residual resentment. Grief. Confusion. Emptiness. Uncertainty. Fear….

Narcissa kissed her son's cheek, told him that she loved him with fresh tears in her eyes, and kissed his cheek again. He watched as she hugged Granger tightly. Blaise then took Narcissa by the arm and Apparated them both to Malfoy Manor.

Pansy heaved a great sigh and looked at her best friend. There was an unspoken conversation between them that had left them utterly confused until Hermione looked around…and nodded. And even in his grey haze, he knew. This had been Granger's first funeral since her son's. He knew that she hadn't wanted to be there, in the Malfoy family cemetery, but she hadn't said a word. She was there for him, she was there for his mother, and she was there because she cared.

Draco came back to reality when Pansy waved her hand in front of his face. "Are you all right?"

He just nodded because that was all that he could do at that point in time, and soon, he and Granger were all alone in the cemetery. Draco only realized that he and Hermione were still holding hands when she released his and turned her back to him.

Confused, he watched as she approached the edge of the unfilled grave. She didn't get too close, but she was close enough. Hesitantly, Draco followed her to the edge, curious about what she was going to do. He was about to speak when she opened her hand and showed him the handful of brown dirt. Brown. The blond wizard blinked twice, and the colour hadn't changed. Brown. He looked into her eyes. Brown. He looked at her wet hair. Brown. He looked up at the sky. Grey. He sighed internally.

She dropped the handful of dirt into the unfilled grave, which confused him. "What are you doing?"

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

"It's a Muggle funeral tradition." Hermione replied softly as she dusted the rest of the dirt off her hands. "It's a symbol of closure. I have to admit that while it is painful, perhaps it ultimately provides the most healing."

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

Healing. He could use some of that at that point in his life. Granger had told him that the first step to healing, according to her therapist, was to let go. But could he? Could he honestly let go of everything? Well, he apparently had to, because there was no one left to be angry, besides himself. And Draco was tired of being angry at himself. He was tired of being a lot of things. And he was tired of being tired, so he was willing to do whatever it took to—Draco turned his head when he heard the dull cracks of Apparition. The grave-fillers had arrived to do their work.

"Sir, if you are—"

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

"Don't," it came out in a disoriented whisper.

"What?" Everyone, including Hermione, chorused.

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

Draco's voice was strong and firm by the time he told them, "You're all fired."

"But," Hermione tried to reason while the men stood there, jaws dropped, "They're here to do their jobs. They're here to bury—"

"I know what they're here to do," he snarled.

"Maybe if they would give us some time—"

"I don't need time! I need them to get off my property!"

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

The confused men turned and all that was heard next were the small cracks of Apparition. Hermione looked rather startled by his outburst, but said nothing when Draco shrugged the wet cloak off his shoulders and rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. Hermione Granger had talked him into doing quite a few things. Her influence over him, he had realized, had matched his influence over her. However, there were no words that she could use to talk him out of his sudden plans.

Still, the wizard didn't need her voice telling him that it was a bad idea. He was pretty sure that it wasn't. He was also sure that this was the only thing he could do to start the process of letting go of everything that had bogged him down for so long. There was a look of set determination in his eyes as he turned and walked towards the mountain of dirt. He had to do this. And he couldn't use magic. That was too easy. There were no other options. But how could he—what would he need—

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

"You need a shovel."

Draco's neck jerked in her direction, and there she stood with her fingers wrapped around a shovel that was almost as tall as she. After appraising the Muggle tool, the wizard took the strange instrument from her. He then nodded more to himself than to her, slowly walked to the mound of dirt next to his father's grave, and instinct took over.

Hermione didn't offer to help; she just stepped aside and allowed him do what he needed to do in silence. The blond had found himself rather conflicted; torn between asking her to stay and telling her to leave. But his mental war with Granger had to be put on the backburner for something more important. And she stayed. She sat on the grass, merely two meters away, and stayed. She didn't speak, she didn't ask if he needed help, and she didn't even look at him. She just stayed.

He would have rather walked across hot coals than admit that her staying had made all the difference in the world.

For the next seventy-eight minutes and forty-six seconds, Draco put his everything into burying his resentment, his anger, his confusion, his pain, his disgust; he put his everything into filling his father's grave. When he had first dug the shovel into the mound of dirt that had been charmed to stay dry during the rain, he had put so much force into the act that brown dirt had flown into the grey sky. He had paused, looked around his grey world, then at the brown dirt, and continued. His first scoops of dirt were disoriented as he got a feel for the instrument. Clouds of dirt had flown into the air as he haphazardly tossed the dirt into the grave.

It was harder than it looked, and soon the sweat was pouring down his face.

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

He wanted to hate his father. With every fibre of his being, Draco Malfoy wanted to hate Lucius. He wanted to hate Father for everything that he had given him when he had left that letter, and for everything that he had taken away in that same moment. He wanted to curse him and thank him for telling him the truth, even when it was too late for Draco to do anything to rectify his behaviour.

Draco gripped the shovel tightly and dug it into the now smaller pile of dirt. The wizard took a moment to wipe his brow with the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt before he continued working.

More than anything, he wanted to resent Lucius for being such a shoddy father and he wanted to accept that he wouldn't be the man he was today if it hadn't been for Lucius. He wanted to be angry at him for putting them through so much as a family, but he wanted to thank him for making them stronger. He wanted to hate him for dumping the immense pressure on his shoulders at a time in his life when he just wanted to figure out his place in the world, but he wanted to recognize that the responsibility had turned him into a man. A real man. He wanted to hate him for dying and making him experience the epitome of melancholy.

Bury your resentment when you bury me.

The wizard had worked so hard and so diligently that his muscles ached and his mind had wanted to make him stop, but he didn't even pause long enough to blink. He had had his mind set. Even if it was going to kill him, he was determined to fill the hole, not just the one in the ground, but the hole in his chest…the hole that he hadn't quite realized was there until that moment.

And, honestly, he didn't know if he'd ever get to the point where he was content with his father's role in his past. He didn't know if he would ever get to the point where he could accept that in teaching him all the wrong lessons, Father had taught him all the right ones, too. Draco didn't know if he would ever get a place where he wouldn't feel a rush of anger for Lucius' added pressure and the impossible aspirations that he had had for Draco when he was younger—demands which he had failed to carry out. He didn't even know if he would ever be at a commonplace understanding about anything regarding his deceased father.

Draco dumped more dirt into the half-full hole.

But—but he had a different view, some understanding, and a bit of insight, and that was a good start. With all of that had come control. His world had changed so much in the last four days that any amount of control he could manage to gain over himself and his life was welcomed. He couldn't change his past, he couldn't change his present, but maybe he could have some control over how his life turned out when it was all said and done.

Some.

The blond wizard pushed the shovel into the diminishing pile of dirt.

Despite the feeling that he was stuck in a rut, Draco did have choices. He could move forward with his life or he could stay where he was. He could continue to allow his father control over him from the grave, or he could just let him go. He didn't have to allow his father to continue to rule his life and emotions from the grave. Draco had the upper hand. He could let go. He could accept. He could deal with the change. He could free himself from all the resentment and anger. He could listen to his father and bury it. Truly bury it all, because he could talk the talk, but walking the walk had always been difficult for him. He could do it now, though.

Bury the anger, the bitterness, the hatred, the pain—

He paused with a shovel-full of dirt over the grave that was three-quarters filled. He turned the shovel over, wiped the sweat off of his forehead, and made his decision.

Thirty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds later he was staring at his father's filled grave, feeling…not good, but not bad, either.

He was filthy from sweat and dirt, his hands were blistered from the labour, his head throbbed, his chest thudded so hard in his chest that it hurt, but—but Draco felt okay. Wasn't he supposed to feel different and changed? Wasn't he supposed to feel something, at all? Maybe not. He felt neither good nor bad, neither relieved nor distressed, neither happy nor sad; and that, well, that was perfectly fine with him.

"Are you all right?"

He looked over at the apprehensive witch whose hands were fiercely gripping the hem of her knee-length dress robes. Hermione looked completely undomesticated; her hair was everywhere and she was flushed and staring back at him with concern in her brown eyes. Brown. However, he couldn't tear his eyes away because surely he was going mad. They had been out there for hours; he could very well blame it on the heat.

Draco shut his eyes and opened them back. He looked around.

The shovel fell to the ground.

Everything was still various shades of grey…and Hermione Granger was in colour.

"Draco?" She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm fine." He allowed his annoyance to be made known, but shook his head. He had no reason to be annoyed with her. It wasn't her fault that she was in colour. He blamed his mind. "I need to go home and change before my meeting with my uncles." And, with that, he grabbed his cloak off the ground and started to walk away from her.

He needed to clear his head. Maybe, if he got away from her, she'd soon fade into the background. Maybe he needed distance from her to make her fade into the background.

But, Hermione followed. He heard her hurried footsteps as he walked briskly through his family's private cemetery.

He knew that he could've Apparated away from her, but he didn't. Instead, he walked. His pace was strenuous, but walking was better than answering the questions that ran around in his already-confused mind. Draco heard her small intake of air, halted mid-stride, and whirled his entire body around rather suddenly. Granger wasn't prepared for his sudden stop and collided right into his chest. She would've cracked her head on a headstone, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her into him. Clumsily, Hermione slammed into his chest, again. Immediately, Draco felt strange and released her before she fully got her bearings, causing her to fall back and land on her butt.

"Ow!" She shrieked. "That hurt! Why did you let go?"

Draco didn't have an answer, so he offered his hand and pulled her onto her feet.

"What's wrong with you? You're looking at me as if I've developed spattergroit."

"I'm fine." He ground out, looking up at the grey sky.

"Then look at me."

He felt like a petulant child. He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to be reminded. He didn't want to figure out why his mind had singled her out. This wasn't the time for that. Draco had just finished burying his father. He didn't look at her. Instead, he fished in his robes for his wand, muttered something that even he couldn't discern, and left her alone in the cemetery.

For once, Draco wanted to see the world in grey. It was easier that way.

ooo

(Twenty minutes later)

Part 2: For your mother.

The first thing that Draco did when he landed in his house was start a hot shower.

As the steam rose from behind the glass shower door, he inhaled and removed his muddy shoes, wet socks, dirty trousers, and smelly shirt. He smelled terrible, but that was the last thing on his mind. He'd been through so much in so little time, and it still wasn't over. His father was dead—buried—gone, everything was grey, his mother was grieving, the will had been read to them, Granger was in colour, his uncles were waiting, he smelled horrible, he—Draco turned on the faucet and splashed himself in the face with tepid sink water.

He really needed that.

Minutes later, he was standing under the showerhead, letting the scalding hot water cascade over him.

The water relaxed his aching muscles and calmed his weary mind. He basked in the steady spray for a more than a few minutes before he grabbed the bar of soap and a towel. As he rinsed the soap off of his skin and hair, he relished in the feeling of being purified. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wash away everything. He needed the time to think, to clear his mind of everything that was going on in his life. So, he enjoyed the time to himself and blocked everything out. No Father, no Mother, no Granger, no uncles, no will, no colour, no businesses, no—nothing.

He stayed in the shower until the water ran cold and he felt parched.

After wrapping a terrycloth towel around his waist, Draco decided to quench his thirst before getting dressed. He came down the stairs and was halfway down when he discovered Hermione Granger—sitting in his ottoman. The blond almost swore aloud, but didn't want to her to discover him.

For some strange reason, Draco eyed the witch, up and down—well, as far down as he could see. Hermione Granger was plainly dressed in knee-length dark grey dress robes. And yes, she was still in colour. He thought about turning around and creeping back up the stairs, but no. This was his house, dammit! He wasn't about to give her that much power over him. He was still Draco Malfoy, after all. So, he was going to do what he had planned, and if—he was momentarily distracted when she pinched the bridge of her nose, shut her eyes, and took a few calming breaths.

Well, distracted was—oh, hell, he was distracted.

There was still that aura surrounding her; the one that he had noticed when he had walked into the restaurant some eight months ago…or was it nine? It was stronger and brighter, maybe because she was the only thing in colour, but there was something different about it—something different about her that went outside of her physical differences. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about her was different than it had been when he had first seen her since her re-emergence in London.

Draco shook himself from the thought and promptly ended any further internal discussion about the witch.

"What are you doing here?" The wizard's voice was bold, austere, and too composed for someone who was just in a damp towel.

She nearly jumped out of the chair when she saw him, and then her brown eyes widened. "Oh! I…"

Grey eyes narrowed at the sight before him, hard. Was she blushing? Yes, she was. Draco would've smirked, but he didn't, which was odd because he was mere seconds from rejoicing in her discomfort. It was almost tragically comical that Hermione Granger, who wasn't exactly innocent, was almost prudishly blushing at the sight of him in a towel.

His voice remained even, "You what?"

"I—I was," Hermione had managed to move halfway across the room in so little time. "Why aren't you dressed?"

And those words were a stiff reminder that he wasn't the only person who was out of touch with certain parts of life. Granger was worse than a virgin—she was a woman who had had sex, and not only was completely ignorant regarding it, but she had emotionally detached herself from the more carnal aspects of life. Though in retrospect, she probably was well within reason to do such a thing. After all, her experiences with sex hadn't ended well—and that was an understatement. She had had rotten luck.

"It's my house." He clipped. Draco was a bit annoyed from the conversation—and chilly, too.

The witch was extremely flustered. "Y-you c-could at least put some c-clothes on."

Dryly, "I wasn't expecting company."

She opened her mouth, then shut it and stared at him.

And, Merlin, for the first time, she had stolen 'The Most Uncomfortable Person Alive' title from him…and he wasn't looking to earn it back, either.

Draco had never, ever been as tense and awkward around a person as he was around Hermione at that moment. Never. It was almost out-of-character for him, and he hated it with a passion. He would've hated her, too, because she was the cause of his discomfort, but he couldn't hate her. Hate was a mental thing, and he just couldn't use his mental powers to hate Hermione Granger. But she made him feel so bloody awkward.

He was Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! He could reason, rationalize, and talk his way into and/or out of anything, and that included women.

"Why are you staring at me?" He folded his arms. His body was dry, for the most part, but he was still cold and he still refused to be the first to retreat.

Hermione looked away. "You should get dressed." Her voice sounded odd. "I'll go fix some wine…."

And she was gone. She had practically run from the room as if Death Eaters were after her. Draco started to say something to the obviously frazzled retreating witch, but all he could do was shake his head. It was a widely-known fact that Hermione Granger didn't drink wine, anymore. He stood there for a minute and listened as she clattered dishes in his kitchen. She had sworn twice and shattered two glasses by the time he took to the stairs. A foreign smirk graced his lips.

Oddly, as he dressed, in his mind picked up right where it had left off. Women. And with women, the thoughts of sex and relationships followed in succession.

Relationships and sex had been plentiful over the years, so much so that he had had enough of them both—okay, maybe not the sex; he was a man after all, but still. Relationships were highly overrated. Well, that wasn't the exact truth. His father's mental illness had certainly played its part in not allowing him to know what a real relationship was all about…or was it the actual witches that had left him rather ignorant?

It was probably the latter—or some weird hybrid between the two.

Draco buttoned his shirt and tucked the ends perfectly into his black trousers. The wizard then summoned his tie.

He had only ever dated one type of witch: blonde, beautiful, slender, supercilious, and downright stupid. And he gnashed his teeth at his own stupidity. But, honestly, they were perfect for that part of his life, when the pressure was enormous and he didn't need anyone to ask him questions. Stupid girls never saw between the lines, never thought to ask questions, and never cared about anything except his Galleons. Never. They were easy to please, easy to use, and easy to discard.

But now he had no use for them. With the death of his father came not just pain, but liberation. Draco was free to find a suitable witch that he didn't have to lie to or hide things from. He could be honest…or not. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea. If he had to be honest about his present, then he had to be honest about his past; and that was something that he would've preferred to leave right where it was…in the past.

However, Granger—Draco froze at that. Wait a bloody second! Where the hell had her name come from? First, they weren't dating, no matter what the rumour-mill had said. They were not dating. He couldn't even entertain the thought of dating her because it was just too—he didn't know what it was, but it wasn't normal. She wasn't normal. She was broken, for Merlin's sake! How could he date someone so broken?

Well, it wasn't as if he was so together—no, he cut that thought off immediately.

The wizard sat down, put on his socks and shoes, and made sure that his black robes were impeccable. A little cologne, but not too much; he had no need for it, after all, his presence was enough to command every room that he entered. He didn't need cologne to do something that he did quite naturally. After fixing his hair, Draco, satisfied with his exterior, went back downstairs. Granger was in front of his fireplace, pacing. So, she wasn't drinking, but clearly she hadn't gotten her wits back.

There was a glass of Elf-wine waiting for him.

He had sat down, picked up the wine glass, and polished its contents off before she finally noticed him. "Oh, you're dressed."

"Obviously," Draco drawled. "What did you want, Granger?" He snapped, but it lacked its usual edge.

She looked over at him; her cheeks were still slightly tinted. "I need you to come with me."

To his amazement, he didn't immediately deny her. Instead, he asked, "Where?"

"To retrieve something for your mother."

ooo

(Three hours later)

Part 3: Friend of the family.

Hermione clutched her wand tightly in her fist as she walked down a long corridor in the Malfoy Manor.

Sure, there were no threats lurking in the shadows and she was still on the ground level, but the memory of the last time that she had walked around the grand home alone had been enough to keep her on edge. She wasn't enjoying the silence.

Where was everyone?

She knew that they had missed dinner, but they always sat in a parlour or the sitting room after meals; she hadn't expected everyone to just disappear, not with Draco's uncles around. Not only were certain rooms warded to keep them out, but Blaise and his trustworthy Auror friends had been conspicuously keeping an eye out on them ever since they had arrived in the country.

The parlour that she had Flooed into was empty, and that had sent her on a search. But soon, after walking into empty room after empty room, her pace slowed and her mind, though vigilant, wandered carefully through the last few days. Hermione had nearly been on auto-pilot since she had left Ron in the sitting room.

Had it been three days? Or maybe four? She wasn't quite sure. She hadn't had a moment's time to think. It probably wasn't the healthiest of responses, but she had thrown herself into helping Narcissa and Draco—so much that she would often return home late to a miffed Apollo that she would have to heavily dote on just to get back into his good graces.

She had lived in a bubble of self-imposed solitude for so long. Now, though, she hated being alone. Hermione didn't like the self-defeating thoughts that that were creeping to the front of her mind – the part of her mind that told her that she didn't deserve to have such good friends. Friends. That word was starting to get easier and easier to say. She had friends. People who cared about her well-being and wanted to be there for her; she'd always had them, but she had been too far gone to see or appreciate them before.

Well, not anymore. She would value them, put her trust in them, and pick them up if they ever fell.

And Draco had done just that. He'd fallen. Hard. And that was a morning that she hadn't expected. She had expected him to argue, fight, and take out his anger and grief on her, but she had gotten something completely different.

Gone were the pretences, the masks, the looks of indifference, and the distance between them.

When the tables had turned and his world had collapsed, everything had changed so abruptly that Hermione was still reeling after four days. She honestly couldn't believe that he had fallen so hard. Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but he was strong and the strong didn't—well, that wasn't the truth. Anyone could be broken; she had learned that lesson all too well. Pansy had been broken. Narcissa, Ron, Harry, Ginny, and now, Malfoy, had all been broken by the cruelties of life.

Blaise had been the one to first tell her to check on Malfoy, but she was halfway to the Floo before he could even get the entire sentence out. She hadn't expected to find him so broken, but there he was, in the middle of the rubble of his old life, eyes vacant and lost. And when she had read the letter, her heart just opened and grieved for him. Draco—the real Draco—had clung to her so tightly and shook, and she had willingly cried the tears that he couldn't.

And once he had fallen into a fitful slumber with his head in her lap, Hermione rested her eyes with a new appreciation for Pansy. It was incredibly and painfully hard to watch as Draco lost his grip and grieved; it was even harder to be his walls when his had collapsed.

And Pansy had done it twice, for her.

Hermione opened another door and—found another empty room. She frowned, shut the heavy door, and continued down the hall. Malfoy Manor was a maze of rooms and corridors, and the witch reminded herself that this would be the final time she ventured through the mansion.

Truly, she believed that, like Narcissa, Draco Malfoy would be fine, in the end. He just had some things to conquer, and the letter was the perfect start. Burying his father, and everything associated with him, today, had been another great leap that he had done on his own. She didn't know what he was thinking, but he was heavy in thought as he filled Lucius' grave, muttering under his breath.

When he finished, he looked as if he'd just finished climbing Mount Everest. Dirty, sweaty, in desperate need of a shower, and, not to mention, he was physically and mentally exhausted. Though he had looked at her with confusion and shock, for some unknown reason, there was something else in his eyes.

Relief.

He had jumped over a huge hurdle today; the first of many, it seemed.

But didn't they all have things that they needed to overcome? She knew that she still had a long way to go before she would be okay. True, she had made some tremendous progress by just being with the Malfoys during their darkest hours, but she still cried at night when she was all alone. She still struggled with her own demons, she still worried, and she still felt an incredible amount of pain—pain that seemed to have multiplied recently, despite her outward appearance of strength and fortitude.

While Hermione was sure that the pain would recede, in time, she wasn't sure that it would ever go away. In fact, she wasn't sure that she even wanted it to go away. The pain had become part of who she was now as a person; it had become her foundation, something that she could cling to when everything went to hell. It had become a symbol of the heartbreaks and disappointments that she had faced, the situations that she had risen above, the lessons that she had learned, and the losses that had made her heart clench.

The pain was the stiff reminder that she was a survivor, and that nothing and nobody could take her down.

She had been through it all, and though she didn't feel it most days, she was strong. She had been on the brink of insanity from the severe sorrow and suffering to which she'd subjected herself following the deaths of her parents and son. She had been shunned, abandoned, insulted, and shoved. She had been bruised and broken. Her heart had been ripped from her chest countless times. She had relied on pure instinct and had taken a life. She had found a way when there was no way at all. She had loved and lost so much….

But she had also pried the doors to her life – and her heart – open and allowed admittance to others.

And she was utterly terrified.

The witch was so terrified that she would be hurt again, but she knew that she couldn't live a meaningful life without something as deep and significant as love in it. Hermione had loved so much; she had given her heart to so many people at no such cost, and she had risked it all in its name. She had been utterly naïve and stupid, and in the end, she had been hurt beyond anything that she could ever have imagined.

Love, something that was supposed to be pure and beautiful, had destroyed her. It had destroyed them all.

And she had suppressed it, ignored it, and chalked it up to other excuses, but the facts remained the same. She had had her heart shattered beyond recognition multiple times, and because of this, she didn't know what to do. That had shaped her into a cynical person who couldn't make decisions, who was afraid to move forward, and who couldn't even think about the word 'love' without choking on bitterness.

But now, she was in repair. And with recovery had come wisdom. She would be more selective about the person to whom she gave her heart, this time around. Hermione stopped and blinked back tears as she prepared to round another corner in the dimly-lit corridor of Malfoy Manor. The sounds of one angry voice and one calm voice, however, stopped her.

"There's no way that little sodding runt will ever run the family businesses. It belongs to us! Not to that little inadequate, disgrace to the—"

"Calm down, Emil. He's weak, just like his mother. He will give up his power to you."

"Right, Hesper. He knows nothing about the business. It would be a foolish thing to keep it. He'll muck it up for sure. That little arrogant boy will completely bastardize the family's reputation and I won't stand for it!"

She took a few giant steps backwards, but it was a bit too late to duck into the closest room. It took a millisecond for the witch to grasp her wits and composure, square her shoulders, and paste a blank look on her face before Draco's two uncles came around the corner.

Part of her thought that they wouldn't stop because she wasn't worth the scum between their toes, in their opinion. But her theory was proven wrong when the two men halted upon seeing the Muggle-born witch…alone. Just the way they liked the situation, she figured. She watched with a perfectly calm and blank expression as the grins on Emil and Hesper Malfoys' faces morphed into something much more sinister. Still, she never wavered. Instead, she boldly stared them in the eyes.

Emil Malfoy was the youngest of the Malfoy brothers, at thirty-seven, and also the angriest. Hermione reckoned that he had every right to be angry. He wasn't as attractive as his brothers, and probably had had to live in their shadows his entire life. He probably used his anger to assert himself and to remind his brothers that he existed.

Of course, he was the first to speak, "Watch where you're going, Mudblood."

Hermione refused to be baited. "Excuse you," she bit back, evenly.

"Excuse us? This little chit has lost her mind! Do you know who we are?"

"Yes."

"You're in the Malfoy Manor, you filthy Mudblood. Show your respect."

She just stood there, defiant, with her wand at her side.

The sneering Emil Malfoy was a rather short, pale, and rotund man with grey eyes and a receding hairline that was beginning to show his milky-white scalp. Emil had short limbs and large extremities that didn't fit his body type, and made him look so terribly awkward. It seemed that a defining feature of the male Malfoys was a lack of body hair. Emil was clearly the exception with his full blond beard. His receding hairline was another oddity, based on what she had seen in the past and learned. She did have to admit, however, that Emil carried himself well, though she did notice that his traditional robes were tight around his waist.

"Don't you have anything to say, Mudblood?" He sneered.

That was the only Malfoy characteristic that he had down pat.

Draco had once said that Emil reminded him of Peter Pettigrew, minus the snivelling, the silver hand, and the extreme cowardice. And in that moment, Hermione agreed. He looked as if he had been permitted into the Malfoy family on a technicality.

"If you would point me in the direction of the parlour where everyone is, that would be—"

"I'm not some sodding house elf—oh, wait, you do know what a house elf is, right? Or are you too—"

"I advise you not to finish that statement, Emil." Hermione told him tightly.

"You dare speak my name!" When the witch just stared at him as if he had mental problems, the plump wizard looked up at his brother. "Well, would you look at that, Hesper? Here's a little piece of filth that needs to be taught a lesson in manners." And even as he threatened her, she could see that he looked up to his older brother for his approval.

Hermione almost laughed at the pathetic display before her.

This was the man that had the nerve to rant about how Draco Malfoy hadn't belonged in the family every time they were in the same room. Funny, he was the actual oddball in both appearance and accomplishments. He was the only one of the brothers who hadn't made his own money outside of the family. Blaise had told her that he had almost been Sorted into Hufflepuff because of his lack of ambition, but was sorted into Slytherin because the Sorting Hat had taken pity on him.

Like he depended on his brother's approval to move in to do harm on her, Emil depended on the successful family businesses' stock for his full income. Not only did that make him covet the companies themselves, it made him want the money and power that came with controlling the Malfoy businesses. He wanted Draco gone and he wanted to assert himself; it was a fact well known when Narcissa wasn't in the room. Draco, with a sneer, had called him a pathetic, brainless twit on more than a few occasions. Hermione was quite sure that Emil lacked what he needed to be assertive.

"Now, now, Emil, there's no need to be rude," finally came the cool voice of Hesper Malfoy, the eldest living brother. "She is, after all, a friend of the family."

Emil grumbled. "Filthy—"

Hesper cut him off scathingly. "Enough."

And just like that, the plump man fell silent.

If there was anyone who reminded Hermione of Lucius at his peak, it was Hesper Malfoy. In fact, he looked so much like the deceased wizard that she had done a double take when she had first laid eyes on him. The only thing that distinguished the brothers was Hesper's eyes; they were a steel blue, instead of grey. Another thing was that Hesper Malfoy was a sociopath. He had absolutely no problem with killing someone and walking away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Draco had confessed that Hesper had scared the living shite out of him when he was a child; it was before he realized that his uncle wouldn't kill him because he was family.

There wasn't much stopping him from killing Hermione—only the Unbreakable Vow that he had taken.

And the fact that he was wandless.

"Miss Granger, what is it that we can do for you?" He had asked in the most blatant example of superficial charm that she had ever seen. But the look on his face had made her blood cool considerably. The charm in his voice was thick, but the covert hostility that was hidden behind the words was more disturbing than anything else in his actual statement.

"I'm looking for everyone else." She had to remain confident. He could smell fear.

He loved it, craved it, and he was relentless once he could sense it. According to Draco, that was why he and Emil were so close; the younger brother feared him and would do his bidding, if asked. Hesper was perfect at exploiting people, getting what he wanted from them, and discarding them when he was through. In addition to his inherited stock in the family businesses, he had made his fortune by seducing rich heiresses, marrying them, and killing them—though the killing part hadn't been proven because they had yet to find any of the bodies.

Thankfully, he was currently single.

"Well," Hesper drawled, "They're just around the corner at the end of the hall."

He was lying, and that was something that she found eerily amazing. When Hesper lied, he was nauseatingly calm and feigned sincerity. A liar could always recognize when a lie was being told to them, but it had taken Hermione a few moments to realize the truth. He was that good. Everyone had little quirks—things that they would do when they lied. Draco got slightly frazzled, Pansy couldn't look her in the eye, and Blaise—well…he hadn't lied to her as much as his best mate had. Hermione figured that Malfoy had his reasons, but she was confident that he wasn't a sociopath.

All she knew, at that moment, was that she wasn't going to go into that room.

"Would you like for us to escort you?" Hesper smiled smoothly.

"No thank you."

"But we insist." He stressed the last word to hide the underlying threat.

"We do?" Emil looked dumbfounded.

"Of course, we wouldn't want anything to happen to the—" he picked his words wisely, "Muggle-born."

Hermione was far from convinced. "I'm perfectly capable of finding my own way."

"There is no need to be stubborn, Miss Granger."

"But there is a reason to be wary."

"Wary?" he looked slightly offended, but there was an evil glint in his steel-blue eyes. "I am wandless and bound by a Vow to not harm you."

"Then let me pass."

"We will take you to them."

"I'm not some stupid Mudblood."

"I don't believe in that."

Emil looked aghast.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And I don't believe in you, so stop playing games."

Something fizzled behind Hesper Malfoy's eyes. The charming smile slipped into a scowl as his entire demeanour changed abruptly. The jig was up, he knew it, she knew it, and Emil was the only one who was confused. Hermione forced herself not to flinch when his right hand reached for her, but when he stopped short of grabbing her by the neck, she relaxed—slightly. He couldn't hurt her; he couldn't even touch her, but that didn't mean that he wasn't dangerous. His fingers strained to seize her, hurt her, and drag her into his twisted game that would render her helpless. And he could reach and reach, he could pull his arm out of its socket, and he could stretch his fingers as far as they would go, but the power of the Vow wouldn't yield to him. The wildly frustrated wizard, dropped his hand, scowling deeply.

"I can't touch you…" And then he smiled. And that was odd. He looked over at his younger brother. "But you can, Emil."

The portly wizard's grey eyes widened. "But I—"

"Do it. Do it now!" He roared. "Dispose of the Mudblood."

Obediently, and with a hint of fear, Emil quickly reached for his wand, but Hermione was faster. Her wand was at his neck as soon as he drew his, which was pointed at the ground. "Don't even think about it." The witch's voice was low and threatening. "I know twenty-seven spells that will sever your head from your body in one clean swipe. Do you want a demonstration?"

By now, Hesper was almost savage. "She's too good and innocent to follow through!"

"Oh, am I? I wouldn't count on that. They say that if you use the Killing Curse once, you can do it again…"

Emil gulped.

"She's just one witch! Take her down, now!"

Hermione tapped his chin with the tip of her wand, daring him.

Emil was angry, sweating, and swearing. He didn't like his current position. Stuck between a Mudblood and his callous brother—an impossible situation. His lips twitched. "Filthy little Mud—"

"I wouldn't finish that word, if I were you," came the almost too-cheerful voice of Pansy Parkinson. "That isn't a word typically used in civilized conversation."

The fat wizard's flushed face suddenly paled.

"Are you okay, Hermione?" her friend asked carefully.

"Yes. Where's your wand?"

"In the middle of his back, ready to fuck his spine up if he so much as breathes wrongly."

Hesper's blond head whipped around to the woman. "You, a pureblood, would protect this filth?" The veins in his forehead had made an appearance.

"With my life." Pansy replied ferociously and reached around Emil and in that moment, Hermione was sure that she had made the right decision by calling Pansy her friend. She was the very best one that she had; she'd proven herself time and time again. The witch grabbed the hand of her best friend and slowly walked around the rotund wizard, who was sneering at them. Her wand was still pointed, just in case.

"You're nothing but a little blood-traitor!"

"I suppose I am," Pansy sneered as they slowly started to back up, preparing for their hasty exit. "But I'm damn proud of it." Step after step, they made their way, backwards, in the opposition direction from which the brothers had come. "Oh, and for your information," the raven-haired witch lifted her wand higher the moment Hermione was safely behind the corner, "Your meeting with Draco will take place in Lucius' old office in approximately thirty minutes. Do see to it that you don't wander. I wouldn't want you to be late."

And they were gone.

ooo

(Five minutes later)

Part 4: What she needed.

Before they entered the sitting room which housed Narcissa, Pansy hugged Hermione, and it was then that the witch allowed herself to reel and shake from the incident. "You're okay. They didn't—"

"No, thanks to the Unbreakable Vow and Emil's slow draw, they didn't put their hands on me. How did you know to—?"

"The wards had alerted Narcissa of your arrival, and when it took you too long to show up, she sent me out for you. Blaise left shortly after dinner—meeting for work, apparently. Where's Draco? He has a meeting—"

"He'll be here shortly. He got a bit tied up."

Pansy didn't question about the wizard's whereabouts, she questioned Hermione's sanity. "Are you sure that you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Don't mention this to Narcissa, I don't want to worry her."

She resigned a sigh, "Fine, but—"

"I'm just a little shaken, that's all."

"You didn't sound shaken before."

"Hesper smells fear."

"Like a bloody dog. How did you—Draco told you?"

She nodded. "That night I told you about, when I ran a quarter of a mile in the rain and—"

"That git told the she-Weasel about Matthew. Wait until I—" Hermione gave her a stern look. Pansy softened, slightly. "He deserves a good hex, Hermione."

"Pansy…"

"Or a curse."

Hermione took a few breaths and pushed open the door to the grand sitting room, ignoring the witch who was still muttering the hundred and one ways she wanted to maim Harry Potter. Narcissa was sitting on the sofa, occupying her time with her latest hobby—magical knitting.

Lucius, it seemed, had been well-prepared for his death—almost disturbingly so. He had left letters to his wife and son too far in advance for it to have been a mere coincidence. And while she had read Draco's letter many times, his mother had been rather tight-lipped about hers. But, the witch had a good idea about his instructions. Lucius Malfoy had instructed Draco to shed his hard feelings towards him and free himself; it only made sense that he had told his wife something along the lines of, "Find happiness, try something new, don't mourn forever, move on, cultivate a skill, and mend broken bridges."

Narcissa Malfoy—she hadn't wanted to abandon her married name so soon—had every intention of following her husband's final orders. There were many things that Hermione admired about Draco's mother, but mostly she admired her resilience. Hermione didn't know if it was innate or learned, but Narcissa possessed the ability to bounce back from just about anything. True, she was a grieving widow, there was no doubt about that, but through her anguish, she had managed to salvage her composure, her strength, and her dignified poise.

But there had been moments when, if Hermione had looked hard enough, she could see sorrow there, lurking. It was a kind of sorrow that the young witch knew all too well. It was that sadness that stemmed from faded dreams and false hopes. She wasn't as fine as she had wanted them to believe, but with some help, maybe she could get back to where she had once been.

"I apologize for not making it to dinner. We were detained."

Startled, Narcissa turned, saw Hermione standing near the door with Pansy, and rose to hug the witch, "No apology needed." Something made her eyes light up just a bit. "Draco's here," her brows furrowed, "With a two guests that the Manor's wards don't recognize—probably the solicitors, for the meeting." There was a moment of silence before Narcissa shrugged and led Hermione to the sofa where she sat in the middle of the two witches.

Pansy rested her head on Hermione's shoulder.

"How are you?"

Narcissa smiled weakly. "Doing the best I can."

"You're going to be fine, you know." Pansy told her, lifting her head momentarily to look at the woman who was the closest thing to a mother that she had had for years. "And we're going to be here for you."

The widow rose from her spot on the sofa and stopped the charmed knitting. She had her back to them, and was looking up at a moving painting of an angel on the hearth when she said, "But you two have lives, and I can't keep them from you. I need time, that's all. I need time and a diversion. I've been taking care of Lucius for years, hoping that he would get better, and—" she took a deep breath. "And I need to fill the void that he's left behind."

Hermione heard the door to the sitting room creak open slowly, and she glanced behind her just once, nodded her head, and said, "Maybe that's not all you need."

Pansy, who had followed her eyes when she had looked back, stifled a small gasp.

"What do you mean?" Narcissa was still staring at the beautiful painting.

"Maybe you need someone, like family."

The older witch waved her off rather flippantly. At least she knew where Draco had got it from. "I have family. I have Draco. I have you two and Blaise—"

"But what about a sister?" a foreign voice asked.

Narcissa instantly froze.

Hermione couldn't see her face, but she knew that the Narcissa Malfoy was lost in a maze of emotions and was utterly confused about what to feel or how to escape. She had suddenly gone very pale—or at least the back of her neck had. Pansy grabbed Hermione's hand, as if she was bracing them both. The first thing she moved was her head; it shook slightly as if she wouldn't—no—couldn't believe whose voice she had heard.

This could both go very badly and open a lot of wounds, or it could be the best thing in the world for her. As she watched Narcissa's reaction from behind, Hermione sincerely hoped that it would be the latter. For once, she beseeched every power that she believed in, and some she did not, to make something in someone's life work out for the best. She was so sick and so tired of everyone suffering.

"It c-couldn't—no."

Narcissa was visibly shaking when she turned her head slowly. Her wide blue eyes watered when she saw her sister, Andromeda, standing in the doorway with Draco and a little blue-haired boy, who shyly buried his face in his grandmother's robes.

"It's me, Cissy." There were tears in her eyes as she made the first move, with the little boy trailing on her heels.

Narcissa's legs seemed to be frozen.

From what Hermione had been told, they hadn't seen each other since Christmas break during Narcissa's Sixth Year.

Andromeda was eighteen and running away to get married to the love of her life, a Muggle-born wizard. Narcissa was the only one to whom she had bothered to say goodbye. Bellatrix had become more and more dangerous as the months went had progressed, but young Narcissa was different. Though she had been a believer in pureblood elitism, she was put off by Voldemort's tactics at gaining power. She had been the one who had cried and refused to take back the Black ring that her sister was giving her willingly. She hadn't wanted to accept that soon she would be all alone. Narcissa had begged her not to leave, and when Andromeda couldn't be convinced to stay, the youngest of the Black daughters had secretly stowed away a little bag of gold in her middle sister's luggage. If she had been caught, she would've been ostracized, but she didn't care.

Hermione didn't know why they hadn't reopened the lines of communication after the war, the reasons hadn't been explained, but she guessed that some miscommunication and assumptions were to blame.

"But how?"

Andromeda and Hermione locked eyes. "I contacted Hermione, this morning, actually. And she came over with Draco—" the witch cast an affectionate gaze over her shoulder at the nephew that she had just met for the first time.

He had been extremely hesitant when Hermione had finally told him where they were really going, but he had stayed, even though she knew that he was uncomfortable. And better yet, he had even answered some of her questions about his mother and the circumstances surrounding his father's death. It wasn't much, but it was more than Hermione had ever expected from the wizard. They would probably never be close, but they were family, and Draco respected her role as a member.

Brown eyes shifted to the door where he was standing, poised and stoic. She had felt silly for her reaction to seeing Malfoy in a towel, but she had felt even sillier that it had taken nearly an hour for the image to leave her mind. She was shocked, that was all. Yes, shocked. Hermione gave Draco a small smile—and he looked at her blankly for a moment before he nodded in return. He then slipped out of the room for his meeting with his uncles. Silently, Hermione wished him luck.

Narcissa seemed to be going through various stages of shock as Andromeda took wary step after wary step towards her. "But why?"

Andromeda stopped. "I got something…from Lucius."

Hermione didn't know whose gasp was louder, Narcissa's or Pansy's.

"An owl delivered it four days ago, but I—" her voice cracked. "I didn't know what to make of it."

Narcissa anxiously closed the distance between her and her older sister. "What—what did it say?"

The older, dark-haired witch, who looked more like Bellatrix than Hermione had ever cared to admit, reached into the pocket of her robes and retrieved the ring that she had shown Hermione merely hours ago. Her old Black family ring. It was the ring that she had forced into a sobbing Narcissa's hand many Christmases ago; the ring that Lucius Malfoy had taken from his wife's jewellery box and returned to its rightful owner as a symbol of amity.

The simple action had not just taught Draco about his father, but it had made Hermione think about the deceased wizard, as well. Things weren't always what they had seemed. He wasn't a good man, but he wasn't the epitome of evil. He had committed sins. He had made many mistakes that would eventually destroy his life and the lives of those he had cared about, but so had she. She had committed sins. Sins—Hermione was amazed by the power that sins held over people; amazed by the power that they gave people. It was a word that could be said in a second and an action that could be done in a second, but once said and done, it could take years to unwind the repercussions of such a word or such an action.

Lucius Malfoy had committed sins in his life. He had done evil things, and Hermione had always assumed that he had been an evil person. Everyone had thought that he was a bad person, and no one understood how Narcissa could love such a man. People were saying that he deserved to die. Deserved. Now, she wouldn't try to justify his actions, but maybe—he had committed sins because he thought that he was doing the right thing. She had committed sins because she had thought that the end justified the means. Did she deserve to live in misery? Did she deserve what had happened to her? No. She didn't. Did he deserve to die the way that he had? No.

She was not so different from him, and he was not so different from anyone else.

The fact of the matter was that Lucius Malfoy wasn't perfect, yet he had cared for his family, loved its members, and had gone through great lengths to ease the pain that would stem from his passing. She had done everything to ease the suffering of others and had done everything to ease the pain of her son's passing. They both had made selfless sacrifices. Evil or not, she had to respect him for that, alone.

And with that thought, the lines had blurred. Who was she to judge him when she had done wrong, as well? Who was she to deem him evil? No one had that right. No one was perfect. People made mistakes all the time, and sometimes those mistakes were larger the ones she and Lucius had made. But who had the right to separate the worthy from the unfit? Who became the judge and jury of their lives? Was it something else? Was it other people? Was it themselves?

Maybe—maybe Narcissa had had a good reason to love him and miss him now that he had passed. Maybe no one could properly judge Lucius Malfoy because no one really knew him—just like no one could properly judge her because not many people knew the real Hermione. Maybe Narcissa had known things about the man that none of them could even fathom. Maybe…

Everyone had read him wrong, Draco most of all, but it wasn't like Lucius had given anyone the opportunity to read him correctly, either. So who was right and who was wrong? Who should be absolved and who should be punished? Those were questions that she didn't have the right to answer, because everyone was right in their own way, but they were all wrong, too. Everyone had been absolved because everyone had suffered. Everyone had won and everyone had lost. No one had come out on the side of self-righteousness.

So maybe, maybe it was time for the Malfoys to forgive themselves and each other, and move forward and on with their lives. They couldn't have foreseen the things that had happened to them, and they couldn't blame themselves. Just like she couldn't have foreseen and blamed herself for what had happened to her parents and to sweet Matthew. She wasn't responsible just like Lucius wasn't responsible. She wasn't a bad mother and Lucius wasn't a bad father. They had made their mistakes, committed their sins, and fought like hell to atone for them. But Lucius seemed to have done one thing that she hadn't.

He had forgiven himself.

And if he could forgive himself after all the wrong that he had done, Hermione could definitely follow suit.

Narcissa took the ring from her sister's hand and stared at it, fresh tears in her eyes.

"There was a letter, too." Andromeda told her softly after instructing little Teddy to sit next to Hermione.

Her voice was strangled, "W-what did it say? What did he—"

"Your sister needs you…"

Narcissa buried her face in the crook of her sister's neck, and cried.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my characterizations and plot. JKR owns the rest. I make no money from this.

A/N: So, thanks to my beta, kazfeist.

(1). The poem at the beginning is an Indian prayer. The second prayer is called Blessings for the Soul's Release. If you want to know more about it, send me a PM.
(2). If anyone wants to translate Broken or any of my stories into another language, please send me a PM or an email. I can't reply back to anon reviews :)