Disclaimer: Not mine. No money exchanged. No offence or infringement intended. Doing this just for fun.

A/N: I re-read Ch. 4 after it was posted and decided it was waaay too short (though it didn't seem that way when I was writing) and that I'd left the story at a really unsatisfying point. So I am posting again today, here's Ch.5 for you all--I hope you're still enjoying the story.

Standard warnings, and please note I do not speak, nor have I studied Gaelic. I am certainly not an expert on its forms. If I've made an error please feel free to correct me. Thank you to those who've reviewed! And note--even if you're reading this long after I've posted it, I still want to here from you so review anyway!

5.

When I was finally able to open my eyes I found Father there wiping a cool flannel across my brow. "Father," I said blinking furiously to clear my eyes and weakly trying to sit up.

His hand was against my chest keeping me down gently. "Just rest. You're going to lie there and rest awhile Alexander." He shook his head, "Merlin, you scared me!"

"I scared you?"

He smirked, "Yes you scared me." His face softened, and he brushed his fingers across my cheek, "Alexander," he said softly, "you haven't overloaded since you were twelve years old. And I have never seen it as bad as that. I was very worried."

I could see he was still shaken so I just nodded. He leaned down and kissed my temple. It reassured us both. "I'm sorry Father. I'm alright now though. I just-I've been a bit troubled lately and-things with Dad…I-"

He looked up over my head but kept stroking my hair, it was something he'd done to soothe me since I was very small. "I've given my word Alexander," came the near whisper, "You needn't worry."

After a while he looked down at me, chuckled a little and the corner of his mouth turned up, "Sometimes I wonder whether we should've named you Severus after all. You worry about me nearly as much as he did I think."

I squeezed his hand. It was an old discussion, I was born first so I received a name unique to myself and was not named for anyone, though Dad really wanted both of his sons to carry their Grand-Godfathers' names. He was appeased only when I was given Uncle Severus' name for my middle name and Father acquiesced so Little Siri was named for Uncle Sirius.

I sighed then thinking of my brother, "Do you wonder what he would've been like Father?"

His eyes filled with sadness and regret as he answered, "Often…every day. I mourn not being able to know him as I do you and Claire. Not being able to love him as he grew from child to adult…to be proud of him as he came into his own as I am proud of the two of you…I wonder every day, Alexander and I miss him."

He closed his eyes a moment then swooped down and kissed me again. "I promised to live for the living," he said gently, his lips against my brow, "now rest love, you're worn out."

He righted himself slowly and caressed my face once more before he stood and swept from the room. As my door closed behind him I wondered if I'd ever really understand the depths of my Father.

I slept the rest of the afternoon, then Claire and I went for supper at The Leaky Cauldron to give our parents some time alone. We talked about nothing for a while then she asked me about the overload.

"So what happened today Alex?"

I shrugged, "I think it all just caught up to me and I was just overwhelmed by everything."

Arching her brow, Claire snorted. Her expression said she wasn't buying the casual explanation.

"It wasn't so bad," I said, still trying for understatement. I really hated when she worried, "Father saved me."

The incredulous expression didn't change. "I know. He hollered for me to stay with Daddy scooped you up into his arms and carried you up to your rooms."

"Scooped me up?" There are many things I couldn't picture Father doing. Hollering is one. Scooping someone up is another.

Claire just nodded, "I know seems odd, but he did. Didn't bother with a feather-light charm or levitation either, he just gathered you up into his arms and took off. He's much stronger than one would think."

She looked off into the middle distance and smiled, "I remember once when we were little Daddy dared him to move this huge trunk of old books across the library without magic." She giggled and rolled her eyes, "He teased him something awful! Father muttered that being mistaken for a common labourer was a lifelong goal, smirked at him, hefted the trunk and walked away." She shook her head, "I tried pushing the trunk a little later but it was full of books and ridiculously heavy. Later I told Father he was strong as an ox."

I smiled, "just as stubborn too." We laughed a long while at that.

"Claire," I said after we'd sobered. "I've been thinking…"

"Mmmhmm…" She looked up from her butterbeer, "me too…

I think we should stay here after—" we chorused and smiled. Rarely did we say something at once or finish each other's sentences, we are very different people after all, no matter we were born at the same time.

"I'm glad you've been thinking about it," she said. "I don't want Father to be here alone."

"He'll be resistant to the idea. He won't like that we're putting off our studies."

Claire and I had both planned on moving to Rome to continue our schooling. She was to apprentice a Master Illustrator. He accepted two new students every ten years; that Claire had been chosen was quite the honour, though with trademark Malfoy arrogance she'd never really considered that she had competition.

I, on the other hand, was set to enrol at the university. I planned on continuing my Potions study. Though Claire was the one who'd inherited Father's natural, nearly intuitive, talent in Potions making, I was the one who shared his love of the subject. Though I had to work harder at it than my sister, I enjoyed it immensely and had every intention of becoming a Potions Master.

"I've already owled Gianni actually," she said. "I can begin with him any time I'm ready. He was very understanding."

I nodded. I'd also owled the university and deferred my acceptance. We talked it over and decided finally that we'd remain at home for at least six months after, though we never actually said the words aloud.

At supper a week after my overload and the talk with Claire Dad set aside his napkin and smiling, announced we were going on a trip and told us to pack for a seaside holiday. Father choked on his pumpkin juice and sputtered. Claire and I just exchanged looks. He had been looking a little better the last two or three days, but still—.

Dad pushed his plate away. His eyes grew dark and his smile faded, "I'm serious," he said. "I will not die in this house. I want to go to the cottage."

"Are you sure?" Father desperately tried to school his features against the anguish that threatened to consume him, but was betrayed by his countenance despite the confidence of his voice.

With shaking hands Dad lifted Father's and kissed his palms. "Draco…it's time."

No one beyond the two of them existed in that moment. Father nodded, and despite my pain I watched in awe of their silent communion. 'They are one soul,' I thought, 'one soul in two bodies.' And for the first time in my life I saw tears fall from my father's silver eyes.

The next day we went to the cottage, which, being a Malfoy property isn't really a cottage, but a rather large and expansive beach house. It was as though Dad had given himself permission to stop fighting so hard once we'd arrived, as he grew weaker at an alarming pace. He spent most of his time alone with one of the three of us, alternating turns. He allowed brief visits with the rest of the family, and one by one they trailed in to spend an hour here and there. Every minute he was saying goodbye.

And still he sheltered me.

Claire was handling things quite poorly. After the third time she'd nearly shaken the house down, Father suggested she go for long walks when she was feeling "agitated." She took off after that suggestion and for an hour we watched as sand whirled down the beach in vicious cyclones. But she did as he asked and after her time with Dad she'd storm out of the cottage in a sorrowful rage, screaming and crying as she tore off down the beach. When she returned she was sullen and moody and if he'd allowed himself, Father probably would've acted the same way. He was instead, glacial in his reserve.

Claire and I are definitely our parents' children. She looks like Dad and shares his sense of humour and adventure. But like Father she is often reluctant to share the depths of her feelings. I look like Father and in some ways I am often more aloof and reserved, but like Dad, typically I wear my heart on my emotional sleeve. We are a good mix, the four of us and I wondered what would happen to our balance when our number decreased.

I didn't have long to wait for an answer to my question—two weeks from our arrival at the cottage Dad asked me to spend the evening with him which was odd since usually evenings were spent with Father.

We talked about my future and shared stories of our pasts. It never ceased to amaze me that Dad and I could talk about so many things without restraint. But then, he had a way of putting you at ease—it was another of his many gifts and I loved the times he shared it with me. It was getting late though and I was readying myself to leave, as it looked to me that Dad was getting too tired and needed to rest, when his hand gripped mine tightly.

"Alex I can't hold it back any more," he said sadly.

"It's alright Dad, I can handle it." I looked at him squarely and swallowed, I needed to know; he understood without my saying a word.

"Tomorrow loachan," he whispered, as tears filled his eyes.

He hadn't used that petname with me in years—loachan and laisgeanta he called us, catching us up in his arms and smothering us with hugs and kisses. After tomorrow I'd never hear it from his lips again and I cried for my loss, laying my head on his chest.

Tbc…

A/N 2: Gaelic translations (in alphabetical order):

Laisgeanta--fiery, fierce dimunitive for a girl/woman.

Loachan--little hero, a familiar term in applauding a boy.

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