Chapter Twenty Six- A Mother's Love

April

It was early when the parchment grew wet with ink, a single line scrawled across the middle, sloppily, almost like it had been done on the move.

Hermione knew it was early because her head felt groggy when she blinked awake, and the morning sun filtered through her curtains, still the blinding, blood-red orange of sunrise. She rolled onto her side, pulling her pillow closer to her, wondering if she couldn't sneak a few more minutes. Hermione screwed her eyes shut, a sigh escaping her lips. Consciousness crept so surely, sneaking into her brain and making it buzz so that, no matter how much her eyes ached and her head hurt, she couldn't salvage another second of sleep.

The parchment was on her bedside table, and when Hermione huffed, surrendering to the morning and sitting up in bed, her eyes snagged on the single line of writing.

I need you.

She sat up straighter, grabbing the parchment, resting it on her knees. Hermione's fingers flitted across the page, and the ink smudged. Swinging her legs out of bed, slipping her feet into slippers and snatching her robe off her chair, Hermione ran from her room. The parchment drifted to the floor.

Her feet clattered along the corridor. Her heart throbbed in her chest.

Hermione burst into the Room. She knew he was there. The door had opened for her immediately. The fire remained unlit. The bookcases stretched to the ceiling. It was their room.

"Draco?" she called. There was silence, for a long time, and then-

"Hermione."

She followed the voice, her feet moving on their own accord because something had broken in her name. Hermione found him down one of the aisles, head bowed, swathed in so much shadow that she almost missed him. As if on cue, the lighting in the room shifted, and she caught a glimpse of red eyes, wet cheeks, pink lips.

Hermione moved towards him quickly, reaching for his shoulder but stopping just short. "Draco, are you alright?"

When he didn't reply, she stepped closer, hand brushing his arm. Draco turned around and threw himself at her, holding her to him, and all Hermione could do was hold him back, squeezing him tightly. Draco fell apart on her shoulder, sobbing into her neck. His fingers grabbed her, digging into her skin, her hips. His heart pounded against her chest. He came undone, unravelling, and it was all she could do to grapple for his pieces to hold him together.

"Draco," she murmured, stroking his hair until his sobs had quietened. He was still clutching her tightly. "Draco, tell me, what's happened?"

"My mother- she-" he whispered into her hair, and wept. "Fuck, Granger. What am I gonna do? What the fuck am I gonna do?"

oOo

There were Aurors on her door at St Mungo's.

McGonagall had given them leave to visit. She'd granted Draco's visitation immediately, something that was easier now his trial had been settled and no band flashed on his ankle. The Headmistress hadn't even asked before adding, "And you, Miss Granger. You're free to go as well."

Draco whirled round. He had considerably calmed down on the walk to the Headmistress' office and Hermione almost didn't recognise him.

"I don't need a babysitter," he sneered, at the same time as Hermione said, "Oh, Professor, I actually have a lot of work-"

"Mr Malfoy," McGonagall said in that stern voice that left no room for debate. "I understand this is an upsetting time, which is why I would prefer it if Miss Granger would accompany you to provide some support. That is my final say on the matter!"

And so, they stood outside her door, ignoring the two Aurors guarding it, boxing them in. The hospital rushed on around them. The buzz of mundanity was thick in the air.

"Relax," murmured Hermione.

She noticed the extremity of his stiffness only when he tried to loosen up.

"I'm fine," replied Draco.

She looked at him. He stared at the door. "You're trembling."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Draco clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white to try and stop his hands from shaking.

"I don't need bloody moral support," Draco burst suddenly.

She blinked. "I know."

He nodded. Hermione watched him for a moment longer, before he slipped back into composure; there were still dark circles under his eyes, but Draco's face fell blank, and the ease with which he did so surprised her. She reached out to open the door, but he caught her wrist.

"I just- want to warn you," Draco said. "She's not very well. And she- she's what you'd expect a fascist Pureblood wife to be like-"

Hermione interrupted him. "She's your mother. She can't be all that bad if she managed to raise someone like you."

He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers, before he moved his hand to where her fingers were still holding the handle and opened the door.

"Draco."

His mother's voice was soft and awed when they entered, eyes catching on her son and lingering there, like she couldn't quite believe he was standing in front of her, tangible meteor of bounding heart and rushing blood.

Draco's smile was small and weak. "Hello mother."

Hers was the only bed in the room, and he moved to sit in the chair beside her, taking her hand when she held it out. Draco's mother was a woman with bright blue eyes, as clear as the sky, and laughter lines that far opposed the strictness of her son's face. Despite this, Hermione could see the resemblance; see the tightness and rigidity of someone who had lived in the shadows of the spotlight; who had once walked footpaths with the Devil himself. There was a haunting beauty to her, like her son.

Azkaban had been kinder to her than most, but it had nonetheless left its mark. Her cheeks were deathly hollow. Her skin pallid and waxy. Her hair, though still the colour of pure sunlight, had darkened, even greyed in some parts. Her eyes were dull.

Narcissa stared at her son, eyes, alight, drinking him in, taking in every detail, every crook of his eyelash and vein under his skin. Her other hand came up, her fingers slender and white, but shaking, pausing in the air as if he would disappear should she touch him. Draco stayed very still. A small sob left his mother's mouth, as he leaned into her palm, and he screwed his eyes shut. She pulled him into a tight embrace, and he clutched his mother like she was his lifeline. His knuckles were white, fingers delving into her robes. His head was buried in her neck, her fingers smoothing down his lovely blond hair.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

His mother opened her eyes, and her smile softened when she saw Hermione standing in the doorway. She patted Draco's shoulder and he detached himself, sitting back in the chair, his eyes tracing the tiles on the floor.

"You must be Hermione," she said. "I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced."

Hermione swallowed, stepping closer and offering her hand. "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

But Narcissa brushed her hand away, pulling her close. Her arms were warm and strong for such an ill woman, and Hermione momentarily felt the rush of remembrance. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the embrace. She had not been held by a mother for a long time.

Hermione pulled another chair up to the bed, and tucked her hands under her knees, watching Draco as he spoke in a low voice to his mother. Narcissa asked him about school, about whether or not he was sleeping, eating, studying, and Hermione found there was something comforting in the chastising exasperation of her voice when she discovered Draco's latest Transfiguration grade. Still, his smile never left his face. It was small, almost invisible, barely a curve of his lips, but it was there.

His mother held his hand the whole time, her thumb sweeping over his knuckles.

They visited her as much as they could. Hermione never dared ask for updates on his mother's health; the first time she had done so, Draco had shut down completely, and hadn't spoken to her for a couple of days, until she'd broached an entirely different topic and asked if he'd done the Potions essay yet. The visits usually went like this: they would turn up; his mother would hug them; Draco often brought a book to read to her, usually Shakespeare, or they sat in content quiet, savouring the serenity. Sometimes, Hermione would wait outside, other times, she sat beside Draco, their knees bumping, fingers inches apart.

"I'm grateful you came," his mother told him one day, interrupting him mid-sentence as he read.

Draco paused, eyes lingering on the words on the page before they flitted to look at her face. He didn't say anything, just offered her his hand to hold and continued reading. He spoke quietly, if at all, to her, often resolving to sitting at her bedside and taking her hand when she reached for him. He rarely smiled, though occasionally his mother said the right thing to wring a droplet of happiness from him, and Draco's face would crinkle, his lips quirking, and Hermione would catch a glimpse of the child he used to be.

Narcissa Malfoy was many things, though a fascist she was not, though perhaps that was simply because war and malady had wrung her of her supremacy and left her little more than a breathing corpse, who could only smile, sleep and listen to the books her son read to her. Hermione found she was a rather cultured woman, who bore the sparkle of wisdom in her impossibly bright eyes and spoke with an air that suggested she knew something you didn't and was uncontainable with her thrill at the fact. Nevertheless, she quite liked Draco's mother and that was only partially attributable to the stories from his childhood she shared with her, much to her son's chagrin.

"Draco," his mother said one day. "Will you be a dear and get me a drink?"

Her son didn't argue, merely dragged himself to his feet, tapping the back of Hermione's chair and looking down at her. "Do you want anything, Granger?"

"Um, a coffee would be nice. Thank you."

He nodded and left, but not before pausing in the doorway and giving them both a final, searching look. Hermione absentmindedly picked at some skin on her finger. The door clicked shut. They were left alone together.

"You saved him," said Narcissa, breaking the silence. She was watching her, and Hermione shifted on the chair. She shook her head.

"We just helped-"

"Hermione." She fell silent, and Narcissa's eyes were as light and icy as Draco's. "Without you, my son would likely be in Azkaban."

"He doesn't belong there," murmured Hermione. "I couldn't let him go down for something he hadn't done."

Narcissa regarded her for a moment. "As a mother, I had always hoped Draco might amount to something. Lucius had his own aspirations, of course, as his heir, he had always had his own plans for our son. I never anticipated those plans would turn out the way they did." She paused, perhaps catching her breath. Tears spilled over her eyelashes. "I failed him. I'm his mother and I failed him."

Hermione took the other woman's hand and held it between both of hers, leaning forward.

"You haven't failed him," she said, almost pleaded. "Draco's an incredible man. You made him that. He's kind, and he's thoughtful. He can be unsociable but he always cares. He's funny and sometimes he makes me want to rip my hair out, but I l-" Hermione's breath tumbled from her lips, her chest heaving. "I really appreciate your son, Mrs Malfoy-"

"Narcissa." Hermione blinked. The older woman smiled, and her eyes crinkled. Hermione smiled softly.

"He's fond of you, you know," she said. Hermione only stared at her, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. Narcissa brushed a curl away from her face, and Hermione was surprised to find her hands were warm. "I haven't seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

She didn't reply, though his mother was not concerned because she continued softly, almost wistfully, staring at the slit in the curtains, where the light sifted in from the sky, "Like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time."

Hermione's smile was watery and breathless. "It's a privilege to know him," she admitted.

His mother squeezed her hand and she looked at her, into her. "It is. When he's feeling sociable." Hermione laughed, she couldn't help it. She was well accustomed to his scowl, the way his eyebrows pulled together and his lips turned down in a frown when he found her presence displeasing. But she also couldn't help but think of his blinding smile, of the lightness of his laugh when it soared, of his eyes when he looked at her, at her lips-

"And it's a privilege to be loved by him." The laugh stopped in her throat, and Hermione stared at her, eyes wide. She opened her mouth to correct her but she wasn't quick enough, or the words wouldn't come quick enough maybe. Narcissa gave her a knowing look. "I know my son, Hermione." Then, her face grew soft, her voice gentle. "With Draco, it's a warmth. That starts here." She lifted a bony finger and held it at Hermione's chest. "And spreads outward until you feel like you might be consumed, and you feel safe. Like you could live a life and die fulfilled at the end of it."

"He'll make it hard, though," Narcissa continued, and she laughed a little. "He was always so difficult. Like his father. He'll punish himself and pretend he feels nothing, a Malfoy trait, I'm afraid. He'll be distant and think he's helping you when he's really just driving you both to despair." She squeezed Hermione's fingers again and looked at her. "But Draco loves so passionately. He needs to be loved. He has so much of it, going to waste inside of him, that I'm worried he shall burst from the feeling of it all. Do you understand what I'm saying, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded numbly, though she was saved from answering when the door opened, and Draco appeared again. He was carrying three mugs, balanced between both hands. He froze when he saw how closely they were sitting, eyebrows twitching together in a frown. Narcissa shot her a closed-lipped smile, though Hermione was sure it was more a smirk, and similar to one she'd seen before.

Draco gave them both their drinks, then sat back in his chair. There was silence and Hermione tried not to slurp on her coffee, even though it burnt her lips.

Draco went to take a drink, but pulled back and said, "If I hear you were fucking bonding over all the embarrassing stories of my childhood, I'll Avada myself right now."

Hermione burst out laughing, her coffee spilling over the sides. Narcissa snorted rather unladylike. The two women shared a glance and Draco swore again. His mother swatted him for his language.

oOo

It was one weekend, when the sun was sinking beneath the windowpane, and Hermione was curled up on a chair by the window, sleeping because they had been there for hours, that his mother turned to him.

She put her hand on the book, lowering it, and Draco stopped speaking, and looked at her. His mother tapped her lips, motioning to where Hermione slept, and when Draco's eyes snagged on the chair by the window, she reached up and held his cheek so he would focus on her.

"I thought I'd only ever see you on the front of the papers," his mother whispered. Her eyes traced over every line of his face, every individual eyelash and shadow, as though she would never get to see him again. "I thought I'd have to watch you grow up in ink."

Draco's throat tightened, and he simply stared at her. There was a guarded vulnerability to him, to the stillness of his chest.

"We forced a lot on you," she said, her face taut and pursed. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was nodding slightly. "A lot of bad. But you found your own little bit of goodness. Don't let anyone take that away from you, Draco."

He looked away because he couldn't bear to see her cry. His mother, the woman who had loved him and stroked down his hair and kissed him goodnight every time he fell asleep, was dying, and there was nothing, no magic or prayer, that could bring her back. There was nothing he could do to save her. He had never felt so powerless.

His mother brushed his hair back, smoothing the crease of his frown, and Draco forced himself to look at her. She was still crying, silently, because for her entire life, she'd had to be silent and it seemed she would not break the delicacy, not even in death. He wrapped his arms around her, grasping her tightly, holding on.

His mother patted his back, smoothing circles by his shoulder blades, drawing wings, and Draco climbed onto the bed beside her, curling up like he used to when his father was out and he'd had a bad nightmare, when the blackness had groped from every corner, clawing at him. She had always held him close and shielded him. She had always fought away the monsters after him.

He hoped, as he curled up by her side, clutching her to him as the warmth drained from her, weeping into her chest, that she had fought away the monster within him. It had to be enough now because soon there would be nothing.

AN: Sorry for the delay! I've been super busy with school lately. Unfortunately, updates will probably be sparing for the moment just because my exams are coming up in about a month and they last for a month-ish. It's all very worrying but writing gets me through it. (Writing, and the GOT FINAL SEASON!). Some of this you might recognise from The Light, if you read my other fic, just because I'm very short on time recently to write anything of good quality but I wanted to give you an update. I might re-write this chapter in the summer with something more original, but for the time being, I've copied a bit from TL. Shameless, I know. Also, about Narcissa- I feel like she will have had to do a bit of time in Azkaban so this chapter is basically, she's been moved temporarily to St Mungos until her health gets better (she's only in their for accessory, so they can afford to be lenient to her, I think). I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.