A/N: One thing I have taken the liberty to alter from canon is the calendar and broken number system in the Harry Potter series. I've tried to keep dates (and the class schedules) as close to described as possible.

In Philosopher's Stone, Harry's birthday is stated to be on a Tuesday. It was actually on a Wednesday, hence the change here.

Chapter 2: Closed Doors

Physical distance from Grandfather ended up not working in keeping Draco from getting sick. What started as an itch one evening turned into a green and purple rash between Draco's toes the next morning. He didn't feel too bad otherwise—a stuffy nose and tired—but it was still enough for his mum to go slightly around the bend. The first time she visited him in his room during his quarantine, her blue eyes were wide and wet above the mask she wore.

The purple potion Draco had to drink three times a day was positively revolting.

"What's in this?" Draco had asked the first time Grandfather's visiting Healer gave it to him. "Dung?"

"Sure you want to know?" she asked with a quirk of the eyebrow.

It was all rather boring. No wonder Grandfather got so grumpy while laying in his bed. The most exciting thing that happened to Draco was when he accidentally lit a tissue on fire by sneezing into it. His friends couldn't come over. Mum told him during one of her visits that she'd discussed the possibility of a pox party with Mrs Nott, Mrs Crabbe, and Mrs Goyle.

"Deidra bowed out first—didn't think it wise," Mum said as she placed a gloved hand against Draco's forehead. "I think she was more worried about herself than Theodore."

"Maybe," Draco said. Mrs Nott was already ill a lot.

"He certainly doesn't need to take it home and give it to her." Mum folded her hands primly in her lap. "I offered to let all the boys stay here. We could quarantine the entire second floor. Perhaps it would have been a more enticing offer if you weren't all due at Hogwarts in September. Your skin didn't tinge green and you didn't get any of the marks, but there's the chance."

Draco's eyes widened. He hadn't thought about that happening, since he didn't feel all too terrible.

"Oh, don't worry!" Mum reassured him. "It would have already happened to you if it was going to."

Draco had to stay in his room until the rash between his toes cleared and he stopped sneezing sparks. His fatigue went away quickly, turning into restlessness. He complained to Mum and Father whenever they came to check on him. There was only so much Wireless that Draco could listen to while laying flat on his stomach with his face moodily planted into his pillow.

The first thing Draco did once the visiting Healer cleared him was go for a fly. He never imagined it could feel so good to be out of the manor house. Vincent and Gregory were allowed to come visit, but Theodore wasn't for another week yet. His mother wanted to be careful.

One day when Draco left his chamber, the second floor felt a little strange. It wasn't as cool as usual. He wondered if with the end of the month approaching, his father was tied up with business and hadn't visited Grandfather yet today. If Draco could do magic—if he'd gotten his wand yet like his school letter a few days earlier—he might have offered to give cooling his chamber down a go. Then again, Draco hadn't visited his grandfather since falling ill. He had a sneaking suspicion that his mum no longer wanted him in there. If Draco was honest, he really didn't mind.

He looked all over the manor house before spotting his mum from the grand staircase's intermediate landing. She knocked at his chamber door, calling to him.

"Mum?" Draco called up.

She appeared over the railing. "Oh, there you are, darling. Come up here, would you?"

Draco slumped, having already gone up and down a few times looking for her or Father. He'd started to sweat. His mum leaned against the wall beside his notice board when Draco reached there.

Mum gave him a strained smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Can we talk inside?"

Draco led her into his chamber. "When are we going to Diagon Alley? I can't find Father anywhere. He isn't in the office."

"No," Mum softly replied. "We aren't going to Diagon Alley today. Your grandfather died last night."

A cold wash down Draco's innards caught his breath in a hitch. He stared at his mum, who rubbed the sides of his arms when they stood close enough together. "But I didn't get to say goodbye."

"Nobody expected it," Mum said. "He was his usual grumpy self last night. The Healer found him when she came back this morning."

Draco let himself be pulled into a hug. "Where's Father?"

"He's in the master suite. He's spent all morning at Gringotts and the Ministry. He's very tired, and he would prefer to be alone right now."

Draco nodded. He hugged his mum back because he didn't want to be alone right now. He'd been sleeping when it happened—just like that. It was impossible to believe that he could go into Grandfather's chamber and he wouldn't be there.

Father was at dinner. He didn't say a whole lot, nor did he look much at Draco or Mum. Draco spent a lot of the meal studying Father's long, downturned face with a pain in his stomach. He couldn't imagine waking up today and not having his own father.

Draco couldn't sleep again that night. He felt hot, so he kicked his blanket off. Then he felt cold, so he pulled it back. Eventually, he slipped out of bed. He poked his head out of his chamber door. The rest of the manor house was dead silent. A few lamps lined each wall of the gallery, but were hardly necessary because of the full moon shining through the field of skylights above. Draco hung close to the wall just in case he wasn't the only one awake.

Somebody had already decided for him that he wouldn't go into Grandfather's chamber. The door was locked.

With a sigh, Draco returned to his own room. He tossed around a bit more in bed before remembering the black book he'd taken from his grandfather's desk. It was still in his bedside table. Draco opened it again, this time taking care to flip through every single page. It really was empty. It didn't feel anymore like it had when he first nicked it, either. The pull was gone. It was like the book had died, just like Grandfather. Maybe it was his grandfather's magic that protected it.

This book was all Draco had left of Grandfather. He hadn't gifted Draco anything since Christmas because of his illness, and all those toys and sweets were long gone. Draco took the book over to his desk and opened some ink. He turned to July twenty-sixth and wrote, My grandfather died today.

The ink glistened. As it dried, it started to fade away. Draco's lips parted, and the sharp feeling in his stomach returned. It was like Draco couldn't even write about his grandfather—like the world was determined to forget he ever existed.

Draco closed the book and buried it under some other things in his bedside table. He felt stupid to cry himself to sleep, but he didn't like how different the manor house felt. Even though it was big, that didn't mean it hadn't been full. His grandfather was such a large man in the way his magic and personality filled a space. So were Draco's parents, but Draco didn't really feel them right now either.

Father was gone for most of the weekend. Draco saw him again on Monday in the manor office. He looked like he hadn't slept very much. When Draco knocked, Father glanced up over the glasses. His eyebrows popped up as well, adding some faint wrinkles to his forehead.

"Draco," Father greeted him.

A bigger wash of parchment than usual covered his desk.

"What're you doing?" Draco asked.

"Working. You?"

"Nothing, really."

"Want to help? I have things that need sealed and owled."

"Okay."

Father picked his wand up from his desk. With a wave of it, a chair similar in appearance to his although smaller manifested beside him. Draco came around and dropped into it.

"This pile here?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes."

Draco dug into the top drawer of the desk return for all the pieces necessary for his job.

"Oh—get some black wax handy as well," his father added as an afterthought. "There are return letters in there to people that owled their sympathies about your grandfather. I'll separate them out for you."

"Did lots of people do that?" Draco asked.

"Your grandfather was very well known," Father replied as he sifted through the pile, creating two new ones.

"He had a lot of friends?"

Draco tried to remember if there had been a lot of people visit his grandfather over the years. He took visitors, yes, although Draco knew most of them by name. Mr Nott came most often.

"Well, he did," Father said in response to Draco's question. "Do you remember Mr Avery's funeral last year? And Mr Lestrange's, a few years before that?"

"Er. . ." Draco remembered Mr Avery's, but not Mr Lestrange's. He remembered Mr Lestrange, though. He had an eye that liked to wander. It would roll toward the wall and then come back to focus whenever Mr Lestrange blinked.

"Mr Nott was the last one alive other than him," Father said.

"Right."

"Your grandfather had far more acquaintances than actual friends." Father finished sorting Draco's to-do pile. "People like the Minister knew him, and wanted to make sure I was aware they thought about our family while we mourn his loss."

"Is that what we're doing?" Draco asked. "Mourning?"

"Of course." Father turned back to the desk. "We're all very sad he's gone. For a family such as ours too, the loss of a patriarch is significant."

"What's a patriarch?"

"The male head of a family."

Draco pushed his lips around as he thought about that. "If Grandfather's gone, does that mean you're the patriarch now?"

"Yes."

"Will I be the patriarch someday?"

"Yes." Father cast him a tight smile over the shoulder. "Not too soon, though. Don't go getting any ideas."

Draco smiled too, although it vanished as he kept on thinking while setting up a candle and water bowl. He toyed with the stamp, fit with the family crest. "Did you cry when you heard Grandfather was dead?"

"What sort of a question is that?"

Father kept his back to Draco, although he didn't sound annoyed at the question. Draco shrugged, even if Father couldn't see it.

"Just curious," Draco said. "I did."

"I did too, once I had time."

"Oh yeah." Draco paused. "Why did you cry?"

The quill Father wrote with stopped scratching. He looked over his shoulder at Draco again. His brow was low. "What sort of question is that?"

"You and Grandfather argued a lot."

"That doesn't mean I didn't love him. He was my father, Draco." Father faced forward again, although his quill didn't scratch again yet. "Your grandfather wasn't always likeable. He had a way of shrinking you down to half your size with only a couple words, and he liked to do that to get his way. You can love someone and not like them."

"So you cried because you loved him?"

"Mostly." Father paused again. "It's also possible to mourn someone that you wished was different."

Draco's brow wrinkled.

"I wish I got along better with him," Father elaborated, having correctly read Draco's confusion. "Now that he's gone, it's impossible."

Draco could see the profile of his father's face, where his cheekbone poked out under his glasses. His eyelashes reflected in them slightly. "Are you going to be like him when you're older?"

"I certainly hope not."

"Can you light my candle and give me some water?" Draco asked. He watched as Father did all that with his wand. "I like you, just so you know."

"Oh, good." Father exhaled a laugh. "I like you too, Draco."

It wasn't until a few days later, on Wednesday, that Mum told Draco they would all be going to Diagon Alley. It was the last day of the month, which meant Father had business at Gringotts to close July for the estate. He also had a whole lot of forms to sign because of Grandfather dying—enough that one of the goblins asked the three of them to come into an office rather than stand at the wicket.

Draco was annoyed and bored by the time they left there. He kept it to himself after Mum shot him a look for sighing too loudly. Draco wasn't looking forward to all the other places they had to go. He felt better about his parents discussing their plan of action after his mum bought him an ice cream cone from Florean's.

"I have a list of books of my own for Flourish and Blotts," Father said. "I could just grab your school texts, if you want."

Draco shrugged, impartial, when Father glanced up at him. With that, he headed off.

"We'll get your robes," Mum offered with a hand between Draco's shoulder blades. She faltered when they made to cross the street, then wrinkled her nose. "Oh dear. Willa always gets passive-aggressive if I'm not wearing something from her shop. Why don't we start somewhere else?"

"I can get my robes by myself." Draco stuck a hand out. "Can I have some money?"

His mum didn't even hesitate before bringing her coin purse out from an inside pocket of her robes. A thrill of excitement passed through Draco. He'd never been allowed to shop by himself before.

She gave him four Galleons. "That should cover it, darling. You can keep whatever change Madam Malkin gives you."

Draco's mood improved further with that. He hoped his parents would let him take whatever that amounted to into Gambol and Japes before they left Diagon Alley.

Mum beamed and ran a hand over Draco's hair. "I'll be down at Ollivander's if you need me. And your father is right next door."

"Okay," Draco said, although he certainly wasn't going to squander this opportunity by running for either of his parents.

That sentiment flickered when Mum walked away. Along with her went the feeling of a cushion. Draco looked around for somebody else that he recognized. He didn't see anyone. He was alone, surrounded by strangers.

His heart pounded and he felt hot. Draco took a deep breath, using it to push his chest out the way Father did when he walked around the Ministry. He was a Malfoy. What on earth was Draco worried about?

He wiped damp hands on his trousers before pushing the door open to Madam Malkin's shop. A little bell tinkled above his head, startling him, but he forced himself to quickly recover before anyone might notice. Draco felt silly.

If Madam Malkin noticed his nerves, she showed no sign. She smiled warmly at Draco while he sized her up in turn.

"Hello, Draco," she greeted him. "Where are your parents?"

Draco lifted his chin. "They're letting me shop by myself today."

"Ooh, how exciting!" Madam Malkin's eyebrows leapt behind the frames of her glasses before lowering back into place. "Are you here for your Hogwarts things, dear?"

Draco nodded.

"Let's get you sized, then."

Draco followed her to the back, relaxing. He was doing this all by himself, and he thought it went rather well so far. Madam Malkin hadn't looked at him yet like he had no idea what he was doing. This all lined up with what Draco had seen of his parents in clothing shops.

Madam Malkin left him with another woman while she returned to the storefront. Draco's mind had wandered down the street to Quality Quidditch Supplies when he heard the click of Madam Malkin's heels again. She gestured for another boy that looked about Draco's age to stand on the second footstool.

The boy pretended like Draco wasn't there while Madam Malkin started pinning his robes. Draco narrowed his eyes in study. His black hair was a mess. Mum would never let Draco leave the manor looking like that, if his hair was even capable of going in so many different directions.

"Hullo," Draco said when it was clear the boy wasn't going to say anything first. "Hogwarts too?"

The boy glanced at him. "Yes."

Draco waited for him to go on, but the boy went back to acting like he wasn't there.

"My father's next door buying my books, and Mother's up the street looking at wands." Draco tried again. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one, and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Draco smiled to himself, but it faded when the boy didn't so much as sniff at his joke. Maybe how one might smuggle a broomstick went over his head.

"Have you got your own broom?" Draco asked.

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No." The boy sounded a little terse.

"I do," Draco said. "Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No."

Draco narrowed just one eye this time. Did this boy know any words other than those two? "Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they? But I know I'll be in Slytherin. All our family have been. Imagine being in Hufflepuff. I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm."

Well, the boy knew how to make sounds to show that he was bored. Annoyed, Draco looked away. He started a bit when, looking at the shop's front window, it was completely overtaken by a feral, grinning face.

"I say, look at that man!" Draco said.

"That's Hagrid." Finally, some life came to the boy. His spine straightened and his lips pulled into a thin smile. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh." Draco's uneasiness lingered. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper."

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage." The way Hagrid ate one of the ice creams he carried, getting it into his beard, did little to go against the stories Draco had heard. "Lives in a hut in the school grounds, and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant."

"Do you?" Draco pulled a face. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead."

"Oh." Draco had no idea how to react when the boy said that with no emotion. "Sorry. But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in. Do you?" Draco kept on watching Hagrid, now trying to clean himself up with a napkin. It wasn't working well. "They're just not the same. They've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter. Imagine! I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

"That's you done, my dear," Madam Malkin told the boy. Her voice wasn't as warm as before, nor were her eyes when her gaze met Draco's.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," Draco said to the boy's back.

The shop fell quiet when the boy left. Draco felt warm in the face, embarrassed that he'd been brushed off. Was this how Father felt when people were rude?

"Bit of a bore, wasn't he?" Draco asked the woman sizing him.

"Mmm," she said, much like the boy had.

Draco started to feel angry. "Aren't you done yet?"

The woman had nothing else to say to that, but it satisfied Draco that she sped up. He had half a thought to go find his father, just to be around someone that didn't make him feel bad. Madam Malkin remained cold through a forced kind of pleasantness at the till. Draco headed for Flourish and Blotts, resisting the urge to plant his face against Father's shoulder when he found him in the aisles.

Father looked him up and down, then arched an eyebrow. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Draco tersely replied.