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also, angst ahead xo
Draco knew time was shifting by, but he'd lost the ability to make sense of it. In the hours―or it might have been days―that followed his mother's passing, he largely fluctuated through different degrees of awareness.
Someone Apparated him to his flat―Theo, he thought―and Potter took Hermione to her flat, but she arrived back minutes later with a bag. She'd scarcely left his side since.
He'd been given the rest of the week off from work, and as though sensing he wasn't entirely cognizant of how to keep himself functioning, his friends came and went as they pleased and as often as they were able. Draco didn't know how to put most of his thoughts into words when thoughts of his mother encompassed his mind almost entirely, but he was grateful for their ambient presence. He didn't know what to say, but thankfully they kept themselves entertained.
Draco couldn't make sense of anything.
The last time he'd seen his mother, she had been weak but showing signs of improvement. At the very least, she'd had a measure more energy than she had initially when the illness struck.
From what he could understand, the illness had escalated to the point where it all but consumed her magical core, and in the effort to fight it off, the rest of her weakened body had succumbed.
He sat on the sofa, staring into the empty grate, Hermione's shoulder pressed against his.
His mind felt numb, borderline catatonic, as though it had yet to process the extent of what had happened, and all of his thoughts felt blurred around the edges. Brooks' pronouncement had struck Draco like it carried weight, and something within himself had collapsed at last. The strength had drained from him, his appetite was nonexistent, and he'd hardly slept in days.
His entire countenance felt as though he were trying to see through water, trying to process his thoughts through a haze of fog.
Draco didn't know how everything had gone so wrong in only a matter of months.
Hermione's fingers idly entwined with his own. Maybe not everything. She sat cross-legged on the sofa at his side, a book open in her lap, eyes darting rapidly across the page. A hint of amusement pulled at Draco's lips, and he gave her hand a squeeze.
Jolting at the contact, she glanced up. "Do you want some tea?"
"I'm alright," he murmured, his voice hoarse from disuse. Through the entrance into the kitchen, he saw Theo and Potter playing cards at the table. Draco cleared his throat. "Thank you for staying."
"Of course," she said idly, bringing the back of his hand to her mouth. "I'm not going anywhere. Unless you want us to leave you alone, of course."
A harsh breath fell from his lips. "No, please stay." He had always been excessively private, and growing up, he had preferred to struggle alone in silence. But knowing he had people who cared enough to camp out his sitting room was oddly overwhelming. He added a hasty, "If you want to."
The thought had struck him more than once, intense and unwanted, that as the sole remaining Malfoy, he would need to deal with the funeral arrangements. But to accept such a thing would be akin to accepting that his mother was gone, and with the suddenness of it, he couldn't wrap his head around that, either.
"I'm getting dinner," Potter announced to the room at large, rose, and walked towards the Floo. "No one go anywhere." He vanished in a flare of green flames.
Draco fixed the grate with another stare. "I'll just stay here, then."
He hadn't been anywhere since they brought him back from the hospital, and at least a day had passed. Maybe more. Probably more. He'd drifted in and out of restless sleep, and someone had drawn the blinds, so his internal clock was surely inaccurate.
Silence drifted through the room again, and Theo walked into the sitting room. He perched on the armchair by the hearth and met Draco's stare. "Are you feeling alright?"
Draco pursed his lips and carded a hand through his messy hair. "Honestly? I don't know. I think... I don't want to face everything, but I know I have to."
Theo leaned forward, reaching out an arm to clasp Draco on the shoulder. "We're here to help you. Whatever you need."
"Thanks." He briefly placed a hand to rest on Theo's atop his shoulder, then collapsed back into the sofa, dropping his head back. "I don't know what I need right now."
"That's alright," Hermione mused, sadness pulling at her brow. "You've had an incredible shock."
Draco's thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the final moments he'd spoken with his mother. The volumes that had lain unspoken between them and how, in those moments, he'd felt everything between them settle into only what mattered.
"I can't believe she's gone," he said, voicing the thought out loud for the first time. He grimaced, an uncomfortable storm swelling and constricting his chest. Dragging a hand along his face, he blew out a breath. "I knew she was sick, but somehow it felt like... I don't know. Like she was still going to pull through, somehow. She was so strong."
"She was," Theo mused, his lips thinned into a line. "I'm sorry, mate."
Draco's eyes slid towards Hermione, and he could read the emotion visible on her face. Sweeping an arm around her, he tugged her into his chest, drawing a deep breath. Her curls were fruity-scented and tickled his face. Somehow, just the feel of her in his arms released some of the strain.
"I think I'm going to have a shower," he muttered, pushing himself up from the sofa with effort after scarcely moving in hours. Hopefully, a scalding spray of water would clear some of the haze from his head.
"Harry should be back with food soon," Theo offered; Draco ducked his chin and slipped from the room.
The weekend slipped past in a blur. Andromeda had rescheduled their dinner arrangements; Draco spent half of it emotionally drained on the sofa and the other half dealing with barristers and settling his mother's affairs.
Despite the way he had actively avoided the manor for years, it was now entirely his. It would be something for Draco to sort out when the dust settled because he didn't know whether he would ever want to live there again. For the time being, Podski would remain at the manor, and Patroclus popped in and out of Draco's flat to ensure everyone was well-fed, and the surfaces were spotless.
It was oddly reassuring to know Draco wouldn't have to worry about those things in the interim, and the elf was ecstatic to see Hermione on a regular basis.
The funeral was set for Tuesday afternoon; Draco didn't think he was ready—didn't know if he would ever be ready.
In the matter of a month, he'd seen his father's soul taken by a Dementor and lost his mother. It felt like the sort of nightmare that might happen to someone else, and some part of himself still felt oddly disconnected from it all.
Draco suspected when everything slowed down—when the silence crept in—he would feel the full impact.
Through it all, Hermione remained at his side, and Theo and Potter showed up as often as they were able. He didn't know how to express his gratitude when he otherwise would have felt himself sinking into a dark place.
If nothing else, he tried to remind himself that his mother wasn't in pain any longer. As much as he'd wanted her to stay, she hadn't been well for months, and he knew she had been struggling more than she let on. It didn't reassure him nearly as much as he'd hoped. And Draco wasn't always certain what he believed―but maybe there was a chance she and his father were together again.
Monday, he would return to work.
He didn't know how he would manage to focus, whilst simultaneously, he longed for the distraction of it—for the reprieve from his grief, seeping in and colouring everything else with a shade of despair.
He longed for warmth and the tentative peace he'd felt just a week prior. That implicit feeling that things were alright, and there was a chance everything in his life would ultimately lead somewhere good.
The reminder felt bittersweet.
The darkness threatened to encompass at all times, and a chill crept through him to remember the last time he had felt so utterly hopeless. Back at Hogwarts, when he hadn't known what to expect or whether anything would ever be okay again.
If nothing else, he had Hermione, and he had friends who genuinely cared about him, and that was more than Draco could say about the time before.
Returning to the Auror's Office was, oddly, a relief.
He and Potter had been assigned to the office for the front half of the week, presumably because Draco wasn't entirely focused, but he understood the thought. To his surprise, Robards called him into his office first thing Monday morning to express his condolences, and the pair spent three-quarters of an hour simply talking. It was rare to see the side of Robards that was not the Head Auror but just a man, and Draco appreciated the respite.
Having something to distract his mind after spending the last four days stewing over his mother's death felt like a breath of fresh air to clear some of the fog that remained.
When he settled into work, he and Potter pulled up seats at one of the investigation tables and worked in companionable silence.
The latest―and most ridiculous, in Draco's opinion―of the bizarre series of thefts on Diagon Alley occurred over the weekend at Fortescue's. Draco couldn't imagine stealing ice cream, let alone the logistics around it.
"Okay," Potter said, at last, holding up his hands. "I concede. There has to be a link between all of these."
At least a dozen files sat spread on the table between them, each one representing one of their instances of theft, and Draco clicked his tongue as he glanced up. "Did I not say there would be?"
Potter scoffed and shot him a look. "Find it then, smartarse."
"I intend to." In actuality, it would be more difficult than in theory, given there were virtually no indicators to connect one to the others aside from the strange circumstances and ridiculous crimes. But if nothing else, he appreciated the fact that Potter didn't care to tiptoe around the situation.
He had been glad to have Hermione and Theo over all weekend, but Potter was the one who wouldn't worry about treading on his feelings. It felt like a bigger step back to normalcy than anything.
Idly, Draco considered the thought of being grateful to Potter for anything; he snorted.
"What?" Potter asked, cocking a brow as he peered at Draco over his glasses.
"Nothing," Draco murmured, flipping the page in one file. "I'm just looking forward to your reaction when I do solve this shite."
With a roll of his eyes, Potter returned to his work. "Good luck with that. At any rate," he went on, clenching his jaw, "we're partners. We'll solve it together."
Draco eyed him for a moment, his lips twitching with a smirk. "You're afraid I'm going to figure out the link before you."
"Not a bloody chance."
Ignoring him, Draco sorted through the files, arranging them into chronological order, then he drafted the sequence of events in cross-reference to the thefts. Whether or not Potter realised he had just initiated a race, Draco didn't know, nor did he care. Because right now, this series of strange, inconsequential cases was the only thing keeping his head on straight.
The funeral was simultaneously better and worse than Draco had anticipated. They had arranged for a small ceremony in the cemetery on the grounds of Malfoy Manor.
A number of Narcissa's society friends had shown up, though she had been less social in the years since the war. Most of them he knew―a handful he didn't. Lucy and Brooks and some of the other healers who had cared for his mother were there; Draco was glad to know her icy demeanour hadn't pushed them away in her final months.
At his side stood Hermione. He slipped an arm behind her back, seeking the strength she could afford him, and Draco was afraid he might simply collapse without her there to ground him. Then Theo and Potter, who scrubbed a hand through Teddy's hair, stood with Andromeda.
Draco could feel eyes on him, and some idle, distant part of him wondered how it looked that Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were both in attendance at Narcissa Malfoy's memorial service. Whether the detail would end up in yet another Daily Prophet article. The rest of him couldn't be bothered to care.
In the past week, he'd nearly spent himself of tears, though he knew his eyes were rimmed red. He hadn't cared to glamour himself, either.
He was surprised to see Healer Huxley in attendance at Andromeda's other side, and Draco caught the amusement in Potter's stare when they looked at one another. Whether it had been arranged in advance or was simply fortuitous, Draco didn't know, nor was it his business. Until a flicker of memory caught in the back of his mind that Andromeda and Huxley met at his father's trial.
There was a strange irony in the situation, but he didn't have the strength of will to dig into it.
Although Draco had been briefly able to stow away the voracious despair that had held him in its grasp during the initial days after his mother's passing, the bulk of it reignited as he skimmed his gaze around the small group that had assembled. The edges of his vision blurred, that dark, haunting fog creeping back into his head, and Draco firmly averted his gaze to linger on his mother's casket.
An official was speaking, sharing about his mother's life, but Draco could scarcely hear any of it over the coursing, broken throb of his heart.
All he could think of was his mother, who so rarely expressed any sort of genuine emotion. But she had loved more than anyone could have realised. She had loved Draco's father, ultimately, despite the circumstances around their marriage. She had loved the gardens and often dismissed the elves so she could tend to them by hand.
And, though they'd not always seen eye to eye, she had loved Draco.
More than anything else. He'd known as much, but he wondered whether he'd taken that fact for granted.
Whether she had known how much she meant to him, despite their petty arguments.
On an almost constant loop, his mind slid from one conversation to the next. Their arguments, their rare heart-to-hearts, and even more rare, the moments when they simply talked and joked and enjoyed one another's company.
He could remember her last words to him; they'd been ringing in his mind ever since. That she thought Hermione was a good choice after all. After all their debates about blood purity and marrying for social and political status.
Draco hadn't yet found the heart to tell Hermione. Every part of him had felt too raw, too encumbered by his grief.
And that last, quiet, peaceful moment between them, where Draco had felt them both release the grievances that had lingered for years. When Draco had allowed himself to say goodbye, and while he'd clung to hope that whole evening, he suspected he had known. Because it was her way of saying goodbye, too.
Silent tears slid down his cheeks as he stared at the tilled earth, anguish sinking his shoulders and drawing his brow into mourning.
Hermione tucked into his side, wrapping one arm around his front. Her eyes were glassy, and he planted a kiss to her temple, drawing a soft and fortifying strength from her presence.
Despite everything, she still stood by his side.
"Thank you for being here with me," he murmured into her hair, biting hard on his lower lip as a tremble threatened. He swiped away the tears that tracked along his cheeks.
Hermione only nodded with a sniffle, and she gave him a sad, watery smile. "Of course, Draco."
The officiant concluded the ceremony, and with a beautiful flourish of magic, lowered the casket into the ground. The tilled earth shifted back into place on top, securing his mother's resting place below the ground. Draco watched in silence, his jaw clenched; he remained silent as the small group stepped forward to pay their respects, leaving flowers and other tokens on the bare earth.
Each of them stopped to give their condolences, clasp his hand, offer a quiet word of comfort. Draco nodded but clung to Hermione's hand all the while.
Once everyone had gone for the reception at the carriage house on the grounds, Draco stepped forward. Potter and Theo lingered a short distance away, and Hermione stood back to allow him a moment alone.
He summoned an arrangement of his mother's favourite flowers―roses, nasturtiums, narcissus. He laid them at the base of her headstone, gripping the stone with one hand to keep himself upright.
Draco kneeled in the grass beside her grave and folded his legs beneath himself. He took several long, measured breaths and felt, at last, a great exhale fall from his lungs.
"I'll just be a few minutes," he said quietly. Hermione's hand curled around his shoulder, and then she slipped away with Theo and Potter.
Alone with his mother's grave, Draco allowed himself long minutes to grieve. To feel the depth of his despair and to allow the emotions that had been buried for so long. He didn't think there were any more tears, and so he spoke.
All the things he might have shared with her when he was younger if he had the courage. The fears he'd kept trapped inside during the war. The hopes he had once had and those he still harboured for the future. That he might one day make a positive difference―and that the name of Malfoy might one day mean something better.
And he thanked her for being the mother that she was, that he'd needed all along, even if he hadn't always seen it.
For everything she had done for him to shape him into the man he was and for her strength and love all throughout. For long minutes―he lost track of time as the words spilt free―he spoke to his mother's grave, and, somehow, he had the feeling she was listening.
Finally, spent of words, he simply sat in silence, and a sort of peace settled over him.
Draco didn't know what would come next, and he didn't know how everything was going to land in the end or even when he would be able to get his feet beneath himself.
A light breeze flitted through the cemetery, carrying upon it the bright, floral scent of the gardens his mother had tended with such care.
Allowing a soft smile to his lips, Draco rose to his feet. He planted a kiss on his palm, curled his hand around the top of his mother's headstone once more.
"Goodbye, Mother," he whispered, releasing another long, rattling breath. His heart felt just a little lighter.
Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way from the gardens.
"So, what are you going to do with the manor?" Theo asked a few days later as the four of them made a solid effort on a bottle of Firewhisky.
Draco shook his head. "Haven't decided yet. Why, do you want it?"
Theo snorted. "Are you offering?"
"Dunno," Draco drawled, then flashed a crooked grin. "I don't know if I'll ever want to live there again. Suppose it's a shame though―so much history."
"Think of the library," Hermione said, her voice carrying a bit of a slur. "You can't get rid of the library."
"Okay, but―" Draco lifted a finger. "If I sell the manor, we can get a nicer property that wasn't taken over by a sodding dark lord. And we can have a bigger library."
He saw Potter and Theo exchange a glance, and it occurred to him a little belatedly he'd been including Hermione in the collective 'we' without thinking on it overlong. Colour flared into his cheeks; for a long moment, he kept his gaze steady on the table, hoping she hadn't noticed.
He didn't even know at what point he'd started considering a long-term future that included her in it.
Even so, Hermione slumped her chin down, pouting a little. "But the library at the manor is so nice." Even as she spoke the words, her lips twitched, eyes landing on him. "Of course, my perspective is skewed by my love for books and my utter lack of context. So, of course, if you decide to sell the manor, I'll be supportive."
Draco cracked a grin. "Promise you if I do, I'll have an even nicer library."
Straightening in her seat again, Hermione gave him a banal smile. "Then that's all well and good."
"You two, honestly," Potter said gruffly, scruffing his hair, though amusement danced in his face. "Never met two people who cared so much about fucking books. And for years, I thought no one would ever be a bigger swot than Hermione."
"Hey," Hermione scoffed. Then a titter spilt from her lips. "Draco isn't nearly as big a swot as I am."
"Disagree," Theo clipped.
Draco fired him a scowl but pulled Hermione into his side. "I take no quarrel with being called a swot. In fact, that's not the insult you think it is." He skirted his gaze across Hermione's face. "And if nothing else, Hermione's my swot."
"Your swot," she agreed, planting a quick kiss on his mouth.
Potter rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. "Honestly."
Fixing his stare back onto Hermione, Draco ignored the others. Her eyes were a little glazed from the Firewhisky but heated, and his core coiled tight. His breath picked up a little as her mouth curled into a tantalising smile that did something wicked to his insides. Hermione's fingers played against his thigh.
"Get out," Draco breathed, rolling his head towards Potter and Theo. He cleared his throat. "Now, please."
Theo snorted. "Prat." But he rose to his feet a little unsteadily, swiped the rest of the partial bottle, and tugged Potter by his collar towards the Floo. Potter lifted a brow, his cheeks flushing when he glanced at Hermione. But Theo manoeuvred them both into the grate with a facetious, "Have fun!"
Before the green flames had even vanished, Hermione straddled his lap, sliding her hands into his hair as her mouth landed on his. Draco pulled her close, heat roaring through him at the feel of her flush against him. He dragged a hand down her spine, rounding the curve of her arse, and delved between her lips.
As she reached for the buttons on his shirt, her fingers fumbling a little, Draco clutched her against him with one arm and rose to his feet, propping himself up with another hand to the back of the sofa. She laughed against his mouth, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carted her down the hall and towards the bedroom.
Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter xo
Alpha and beta love to Kyonomiko and FaeOrabel.
