Okay, I wrote the original version of this chapter a bit over a year and a half ago. I have re-written it at least thrice, and edited it just as many times if not more.

Have I mentioned I'm sorry for the last two chapters? It hurt my heart greatly to let go of Dorea...but it was time. Seriously, it hurt something terrible.

Please leave a review and let me know what you think x

My tumblr: indiebluecrown. tumblr. com

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

Numb. Sunlight poured into her windows on mornings—it brightly attacked her corneas until she managed to muster up enough energy to drag herself over to them to close the curtains. (Hermione vaguely considered that perhaps Mipsy was the one who kept opening her curtains, as if silently urging her to get out of bed.)

There were days when Hermione didn't crawl out of her bed, and she gauged the passing time by the fading light that eventually gave into darkness.

Time, however, meant nothing. Smells were stale. All of her senses suddenly failed her.

Everything was dark: the pitch black darkness greedily swallowed her whole.

Hermione couldn't remember what day it was, much less the actual date: she certainly couldn't remember the last time she had showered or bathed, nevermind the last time she'd eaten.

Hermione's room was both her sanctuary and her prison; as long she remained in it, it meant it wasn't real. She could pretend that it hadn't happened.

Hermione's throat was scratchy and raw, she didn't remember what her own voice sounded like; it'd been so long since she'd last spoken.

Mipsy brought food as the days wore on. Sometimes Hermione ate it, other days she couldn't recall if Mipsy had even brought food for her or not; it was always gone when she woke up the following day.

Mipsy was a gentle presence, she didn't linger, and she understood that her Mistress needed this period of solitude to grieve and mourn.

Hermione needed this: the silence, the isolation, the ability to mourn in her own way; this was her way of processing what had happened while she dealt with her sorrow.

Hermione knew that they wanted to help her, and they understood her need for seclusion to some extent, but not fully; they dealt with their grief differently.

Everyone grieves differently, she whispered to herself sometimes in the darkness.

The rage came after. Her magic ran over her skin like electricity, a white hot flame dancing and biting at her; she thrashed about whilst clutching her sheets when that happened.

Hermione screamed—not really hearing herself—but she couldn't stop. She let out long, garbled and broken cries until her voice left her, and her throat was left brutally abused and tender. She could feel the vein in the side of her neck pulsing violently as angry tears rolled down her cheeks.

It wasn't fair, Hermione shrieked, hands grabbing at her bare body, needing to get it out but not knowing how to. Hermione's nails raked across her skin, leaving long scratches, and unforgiving welts raised across her flesh; but she didn't notice nor did she care. She just wanted the pain to stop.

Hermione always ended up curled up in a foetal position, hugging herself as her body shook—wracked with sobs, shivers running down her body and over her skin, tiny stings stabbing at her.

"Be brave my darling, be strong, be cunning. Fight for what you want and don't let anyone make you feel small. You are brilliant and you can move mountains if you only put that spectacular mind to the task." Dorea's past words echoed in her mind like a broken record, again and again.

A part of Hermione knew she should be stronger, that she should be dealing with her grief better. Yet she couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear a life without her Mother.

She had foolishly let herself get lost in this time, she had loved and now she had lost. She hated it. She wanted all of her feelings to stop consuming her, tearing at her insides as they attempted to find an outlet, but finding no solution.

She had forgotten what was to come, she had known deep down, but her Mother's death was a harsh slap in the face that had coldly reminded her of what lay ahead in the future.

During that time she didn't just mourn her Mother, she mourned everyone. She hadn't allowed herself to do it properly before, but she broke down, finally letting her feelings rush in, swirling and breaking down all the walls she had put up to protect herself.

Slowly. Slowly, it wasn't as hard to get up every day. Hermione opened the curtains some days, and some days she didn't.

There was one day when she simply stared at her hand as she ran her fingers across her sheets, unable to do or think about anything else.

Hermione sat in her bathtub and cried, the water from the shower head spraying down on her body. Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, and gently rocked back and forth as her damp curls clung to her back, and as water droplets gathered on her eyelashes.

Then, she supposed that their worry eventually got the best of them, and they sent him to try and coax her out of her self-enforced, solitary confinement. They sent for Remus; her Remus. She'd known that all her friends visited frequently—when they could—no one more than Sirius; she could hear their voices echoing throughout the house.

Hermione hadn't seen Remus since the funeral, but there he was. Remus announced his presence by rapping his knuckles on the door lightly before he opened it. The hinges let out a soft protest as he did, as if they could voice the pain ripping her soul apart.

There he was, dashing as ever: Remus, her Remus.

She yearned to get up and greet him, but her limbs were too heavy. So she sat in the middle of her bed—in the nude, blankly watching him stoop down to neatly leave his shoes by the door before he cautiously approached her. Hermione blinked, lowering her gaze to her hands folded in her lap.

It was a stormy, grey day, and the weak light that shone into her room was pathetic at best.

He carefully regarded her, not uttering a peep as he sat down—her bed creaked slightly—but after a pregnant, drawn out moment, she hesitantly looked up at him.

Hermione was fully exposed to Remus, with the exception of her feet that were tucked underneath her thick, white duvet; its' soft embrace the only thing she had to comfort her these days, as she sought solace within the four walls that separated her from everyone and everything else.

The dragon that had slumbered on her back for what seemed like eons, stirred, and its tail flicked back and forth on her pale skin.

Hermione knew she looked different from when he last saw her: she was skinnier, her curls were matted and knotty—she hadn't cared enough to brush through them, much less use spells to take care of them. On top of all that, there were nasty dark smudges under her hazel eyes—giving the illusion that they were sunken into their sockets—making her look sickly, and far paler than she actually was.

Remus on the other hand looked stronger than ever, a stark and harsh contrast to her current condition. His sandy blond hair had gotten longer, and he seemed different, older somehow.

The scarce light caught in his hazel eyes, eyes that were filled with his own grief, as well as understanding. Hermione knew, no one needed to inform her, she just knew; she wasn't the only one that had lost her Mother, so had he.

Hermione crawled towards him, sat back on her haunches when she reached him, and with shaking hands she cupped his cheeks; she whimpered the moment her hands came fully into contact with his skin. Remus's warmth spread across her palms, flooding her system and racing through her veins.

"Remus," she whispered. Silent tears sped down her cheeks, as if they sensed that time was running out and they needed to reach her chin before it did.

Remus held her as the thunder outside rolled and cracked, as the rain attacked and lashed out at her windows, he held her as the wind whistled and hissed.

Hermione's heart was burdened with guilt that she hadn't needed him in this moment—though she wasn't entirely sure if he'd come home or not yet. Either way, Hermione knew that Draco understood.

No, he must be home by now…he's the one who sent Remus to me, I'm sure of it, Hermione thought as she burrowed into Remus's protective embrace.

Hermione felt the Pack bond thrum to life for the first time since her Mother's passing; her other bonds also stirred. The bond she shared with her brother and Father, the bonds she shared with her unofficial family: Sirius, Lily, Alice, Riley, and her friends: Frank, Pandora, Marlene, Mary, Dorcas and Emmeline. Lastly she felt the strongest of them all, the only one that beat her Pack bond.

The invisible strings tying her to everyone were almost tangible, and as she closed her eyes she swore she saw them extending out of her—fanning out in every direction—and softly glowing in the darkness.

With an almost content feeling in Hermione's heart she drifted off; the strong arms of her werewolf wrapped around her. That night she slept swaddled in warmth, and comforted and surrounded by love.

Hermione woke up the next morning, and the first thought that flew into her mind was that she needed to find Draco. She had to grovel and beg for forgiveness for not being there—for abandoning him when he was hurting just as much as she was (though truly he had abandoned her first, he was the one who ran away).

Hermione sat up, a hand absently running over her messy hair—scowling lightly when her fingers caught in some of the knotted curls. She glanced back over her shoulder only to see that Remus was already awake, hazel eyes fixed on her, silent and waiting for her to speak first.

"I'm fine." Hermione insisted, grabbing his hand in hers and bringing the back of it up to her lips so that she could press a chaste kiss against it. "Really. I am. Could you...can you send him up please?"

Remus didn't need to ask who she meant, nodding curtly as he sat upright. He studied her a moment longer, his hazel eyes searching her eyes for…something. Seemingly satisfied he dropped a kiss to her forehead, pausing long enough to stroke her cheek tenderly before untangling himself from her, and rolling out of her bed.

Hermione's gaze locked on his retreating figure as he left her room, the door closing with a soft click.

Hermione pursed her lips as she wriggled her toes, brow drawing together in thought: her relationship with Remus was different, some may even find it strange, and others might even say it was wrong how close they still were. Hermione knew it was quite the opposite. It may be an unconventional relationship, but that did not make it bad—on the contrary, it was beautiful, unique, and anyone that didn't like that would get a piece of her mind.

Hermione sighed heavily through her nostrils as she crawled out of bed, and she hissed lowly as her bare feet came in contact with the cool hardwood floors. She paused, trying not to teeter back and forth: her legs trembled like they were made of jelly, and her knees were shaking—knocking together a little.

With a deep breath she slowly made her way over to the bathroom—the door was slightly ajar so all she needed to do was to give it a gentle shove and it swung open.

Hermione headed directly for the bathtub, grimacing slightly as she climbed into it: she took another deep breath as her fingers clumsily clasped the hot water knob, and she pressed her lips together as she turned it.

A shock of cold water doused her: her body seized in shock, but then the hot water burst forth, running along her skin and melting into her.

She stepped fully into the spray, her fingers tirelessly combing through and unknotting her hair; water ran across her face like a river as she sought out the shampoo—once she found it she squeezed a large dollop in the palm of her hand, and she put the bottle down before she rubbed her hands together.

Hermine lathered her head with the shampoo, and scrubbed away at her scalp, she winced at how it was angrily stinging—she could feel the dead flakes of skin that had been caked onto her scalp coming loose. Hermione rinsed her hair out, and then applied the shampoo again; she scrubbed at her scalp with such intensity that her fingers were beginning to get sore.

She was slowly but surely starting to feel more like herself.

Hermione let the water wash out the remainder of the shampoo whilst she grabbed the bottle of conditioner; she stepped out of the water's grasp, squeezing out some of the excess water before she applied a thick layer of conditioner to her raven locks.

Hermione began to hum absently as she tied her hair up into a bun—she left the conditioner in her hair whilst she lathered her skin. She was just running the soap along the length of her shin when she heard the door open. It barely made a sound as it clicked closed.

Hermione gulped in all the air that she could as she straightened up. Hesitantly, she looked towards the door and there he stood.

There he was, looking at her with a sea of emotions raging and roaring across his face; she paused, and he averted his eyes quickly. His beautiful grey eyes were filled with so much sorrow.

Hermione swallowed thickly: her chest tightened and a sharp pain stabbed her heart, and it was then that she realised just how much she had missed him.

Hermione's guilt rose like a tidal wave at his pained expression—burning like acid as it bubbled up inside her.

"How long have I been in here?" Hermione whispered, her tongue heavy and thick in her mouth—her voice sounded strange, foreign, to her own ears.

The raven haired boy inclined his head at her, and his eyes flicked to her momentarily before he looked away once more.

"In the shower, or locked away in your room?" Draco asked sardonically, scrunching up his nose.

"Draco," Hermione said sadly—not caring that the water was still on, or that she was partially covered in soapy suds—she put the soap down on the edge of the tub, and climbed out of it.

A pool of water immediately began to gather on the ground around her, and she slowly approached him—leaving wet footprints across the tiles in her wake. Water dripped off her body and from her hair onto the floor. Drip, drop, drip, drop.

"Hermione," Draco said stiffly, tensing as she reached him.

She stopped right in front of him, so close that their chests were almost touching. Hermione gazed up into the face she loved—the person she had missed the most—with almost revered wonder.

Hermione hated that she was the reason his jaw was clenched, or why his hand was clasping the brass doorknob of the bathroom door as if it was the only thing keeping him from breaking. Most of all, she hated that she had been too weak to be there for him when he needed her most.

"How long?" She repeated—a bit louder this time—her hand moving to cup his face. He flinched, but she couldn't be sure if it was the contact itself, or if it was simply because she was touching him.

"Three weeks."

It had felt longer, like an eternity.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said.

"I needed you, Hermione," Draco admitted, but just as soon as his walls were down, they were back up again. He turned to leave, but she swiftly grabbed a hold of his wrist, and halted him in his tracks; it was obvious that he was going to flee if she relinquished her hold on him.

"What about when I needed you," Hermione choked out.

"That isn't fair, Hermione," Draco responded, still backing her.

"Fair? None of this is fair, Draco!" Hermione snarled. "You ran away, you left me this time!"

"I came back!" Draco yelled, flying back around, and he took fury filled step forward. Instinctively, Hermione took three back—more like two and a half—and she bumped into the lip of the biting sink counter.

Draco was so close, so close—there was barely any room in between them at all.

"I came back, but where were you? Where were you?" Draco asked, his voice breaking, his head falling forward in defeat. Draco's walls crumbled—cracking and shattering apart—right before her eyes; the debris laying waste to everything and violently hitting the floor. In his anguish Draco took several steps backwards, shaking his head as he did so.

Hermione cautiously took a step towards him, and froze in her tracks when his head lifted just enough for his gaze to meet hers.

"I'm sorry," Hermione reiterated.

"We promised that no matter what, we would be there for one another!" Draco snapped—closing the distance between them; his rage was so potent and alive that she could practically taste it on the tip of her tongue.

Draco always kept things bottled up, refusing to let anyone in. Aside from a select few that is, and one of those few is now gone; no matter how much they desperately wished she wasn't.

Something Dorea said to Hermione years ago rushed to the surface, pressing against the insides of her head and insisting its presence be known, "Life is too short. We may have more time to live than muggles, but that doesn't change the fact that it is still too short. It can be taken away from us in an instant, and what's important is not how much time you have, but how you spend the time that you are given. Live everyday as if you are not going to see another."

Draco's lips parted, swallowing audibly before saying lowly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran...I'm—I'm—"

Hermione fought the tears welling up her eyes, breathing in harshly as she waited for Draco to finish.

"I'm—She was my Mother too—" Draco started, but his voice cracked once more and he broke apart: he pressed his lips together into a severe, thin line, his hands buried themselves in his hair—his knuckles burned white as he tried to figure out how to expression the tornado of emotions whipping around inside him.

"I know," Hermione sniffed loudly, stepping into him and instantly wrapping her arms around his midsection, holding onto him with everything she had.

Draco attempted to wriggle out of her grasp, scorching tears flowing freely from his eyes as he yelled at her for abandoning him.

Hermione clung to him—making soothing sounds—and eventually he stopped struggling against her, instead sagging into her. They slid onto the wet floor together, and Hermione cradled his head against her chest as he sobbed violently—she held him with one hand and used the other to tenderly stroke his hair.

Draco slipped his arms around her waist and held fast—silently pleading for her to fit his broken pieces back together.

Hermione heard her Mother's voice—clear as a bell—whisper the wise words Dorea had once bestowed upon her. "We can't live our lives in fear of the inevitable. Life. Death. It is given and taken every day. Life and Death have been lovers since the beginning of time and that won't end."

"I know," Hermione whispered. "I know."

Numb. Nothing made sense anymore: his life, what he thought it was, what he thought it would be, nothing. All of it slid away into nothing.

If he was being entirely honest with himself, Sirius and his Father were possibly the only thing that kept him going most days, the only thing keeping him sane. On top of that, Remus visited as often as he could considering his Mother's condition, and the hum of their pack bond soothed James's aching soul.

Of course, whenever Remus came round he asked after Hermione—the Alpha could sense the pain of his pack members, and even if he wasn't in love with her anymore, he did love her deeply.

James contemplated on the seemingly impenetrable door that barred him from seeing his sister: Hermione had barricaded herself in her room upon arriving back at the Manor after their Mother's funeral. At first James had banged on her door, pleading, begging her to come out, but Charlus had placed a hand on his shoulder before drawing his son to him, tightly hugging him as he said, "we all deal with death differently, son."

Death. Before it had just been a normal word: he knew what it meant, and he knew that it happened—every day, every minute, and every second. Someone, something, somewhere, was dying.

What James didn't know was how foul the word would taste as he mulled it around in his mouth before finally spitting it out.

A week after Hermione isolated herself in her room, Hope Lupin succumbed to her illness.

The world was quiet, washes crashed and tumbled across the cliffside below them as they laid Hope Lupin to rest. It was a private, small affair: James, Sirius and Charlus were the only attendees aside from the widower and his son—Remus had been mainly at Lupin Den in the days before and after Hope's passing, trying to spend as much time with his Mother as he could.

Lyall's strangled sobs drowned out the spindly looking wizard that was conducting the ceremony, but the cold sea breeze sliced through their robes, tousled their hair and then stole away with his agonised cries.

Draco was still missing—they couldn't even track him through the pack bond since he had found a way to cloak himself from them.

They hadn't had it in them to disturb Hermione: none of them were quite sure how to approach the grieving witch at the moment.

Remus had been the epitome of gracious and understanding, I understand completely, he had said, clinging onto James as his Mother's simple, dark-stained coffin was lowered into the ground. One of Hope Lupin's final wishes was to be buried close to the sea.

The two Lupin wizards practically lived at the Manor after that, as they all now had something in common; loss.

James looked at Remus one morning as he absently ate some scrambled eggs—his gaze and mind lost somewhere through the vast window—and was reminded not for the first time that what Remus really needed was Hermione and Draco.

They were all best mates, but in spite of that, his siblings had always understood Remus better than he had, which until that moment James had never minded before—he and Sirius had simply clicked once they met, and had been inseparable ever since—but watching Remus filled with so much palpable pain and sorrow, without an inkling as to what he should do, hurt.

James felt like a grotesquely terrible friend. Which was only exasperated by the fact that he already felt like a terrible brother who couldn't help either of his siblings; one of which was still MIA and the other refused to open a ruddy door.

James wanted his brother and sister back; but if he was being honest with himself, what he wanted more than anything was to see his Mother again, even if it was only just for a moment.

The day Draco returned it was drizzling lightly, the sun was partially obscured by heavy grey clouds, but there was a humidity that clung to the air and stuck to Potter Manor's occupants like glue.

Sirius had been hankering for a snack—and unassumingly was on his way to the kitchen—just passing the foyer when he heard heavy footsteps coming onto the front porch, and he froze.

Sirius breathed in deeply as he watched the front door warily; which Draco Potter sloppily threw open moments later.

Draco swayed in the doorway, reeking of Firewhisky, hair dishevelled, and still wearing the robes he'd been wearing to their Mother's funeral. With the exception that his outer robes were gone, and his shirt was unbuttoned—his bare chest exposed—and he was covered in a dusting of water droplets from the summer shower outside.

Sirius's eyes widened—rooted in place in utter shock—as Draco staggered into the foyer with a sour, twisted expression on his face.

Draco sneered nastily at Sirius as he kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot, he scratched his forearm absently, and then his brow furrowed. Draco's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips almost thoughtfully.

Then Draco let out a loud belch, and he teetered to the right as he lost his balance, only to catch himself before he slammed into the floor—Draco stood with his legs far apart, arms outstretched and turned his gaze onto Sirius once more.

"Sorry about that," He mumbled, eyes fluttering closed and he took a few steps forward, feet dragging across the hardwood before he began to fall once more—Sirius rushed forward and caught the other wizard just in the nick of time.

Sirius held up Draco's dead weight, and it was abundantly clear that the other wizard had passed out.

"Mate, you smell foul," Sirius's nose wrinkled up at the offensive scent, and he turned his head to the side only to holler for James—his voice reaching the other boy's room easily.

"Yes, Padfoot?" James's voice hit Sirius's ears seconds before the boy appeared into view; the wall from upstairs blocked him from view until he reached the balcony that overlooked the foyer.

James stared down at them for a long moment—his hands gently resting on the railing—before he properly registered what he was seeing.

"Shite," James swore as he scrambled to his left to the top of the stairs, swiftly sprinting down them, taking them two at a time.

James stopped abruptly right before them, frowning as Draco's smell hit him full on, "is he okay?"

"He's brilliant it seems, beside the fact that he smells like piss," Sirius grumbled.

"Let's get him upstairs," James instructed.

Sirius merely nodded, shifting to get a better grip on Draco as James bent down by his brother's feet and lifted them off the ground.

The two boys struggled to carry Draco's heavy, unconscious body across the foyer, and they stopped at the foot of the stairs, gritting their teeth as they prepared themselves for the task ahead. They managed to lift him up the staircase, pausing every few moments to catch their breath, but when they reached the landing, there were beads of sweat gathering on their foreheads.

"I must love you," Sirius panted out, glaring down at Draco.

After taking a short time to gather their bearings they set off to the left towards the bedrooms.

Sirius paused by Hermione's door, but James grimaced and shook his head, and they both grunted under Draco's weight as they carried him the remainder of the way—it hadn't occurred to either of them to get Mipsy to apparate Draco into his room, much less to levitate him there themselves.

James raised his knee into the air and braced Draco's legs on it—holding them in place with one and—all whilst twisting the brass doorknob to his brother's room.

A soft click later the door swung inwards just a crack, and he nudged it open the rest of the way with his head.

They only had a little ways to go now, the goal was in sight: Draco's bed.

As soon as they reached his bed, they dropped Draco onto his back, both panting and sharing anxious looks—where had he been? Who had he been with? What had he been doing?

Draco groaned softly in his sleep, brow knitting together, and their attention was drawn back to him. They were both entirely at a loss as to what they were to do with him.

This was not how James had envisioned seeing his brother again.

James's family was falling apart in the wake of Dorea's death: it was if they didn't know what to do anymore, as if they were lost and unable to find their way, as if they couldn't even manage to crawl feebly back onto their path—the path they had been viciously thrust from. They were all careening into the shadows and cold darkness—who snatched them up greedily—tumbling and roughly rolling down the hill, off the cliff and straight into the abyss.

Hermione cut herself off from everyone, Charlus put on a brave face and almost appeared to be fine most days, but James knew the truth: Charlus's broken sobs sliced through the walls and seeped into James's dreams most nights.

It was all James heard when he went to sleep these days—they were the same garbled and agonised noises Charlus made when they buried Dorea's polished black coffin into the earth. The cold, hard earth was eager to swallow his Mother—its' cold fingers embracing her happily.

On top of all that, Draco had up and disappeared, no note, no floo call, nothing—and how had that turned out? He'd returned home, absolutely smashed, not to mention smelling distinctly of alcohol, sweat, and a tart smell that James wasn't sure he wanted to place. James would wager a hefty sum that Draco hadn't showered in days from the smell of him.

Sirius collapsed onto the ground, his knees partially drawn to his chest, his back hitting the bed frame and his head fell back against the mattress.

"Mate, I think we should get him in the shower," James sighed.

Sirius shot him a droll stare, "let's use magic this time, yea?" It was if it had just occurred to him that magical assistance had been available to them the entire time.

Sirius withdrew his wand from where he'd tucked it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and firmly flicked it at Draco—and moments later the raven haired boy was hovering above the bed.

"The things you do for pack," Sirius muttered as he used one hand to get up, twisting and contorting his body, grunting in frustration.

A few minutes later they'd managed to strip Draco down to the nude and get him into the tub. "I repeat, the things you do for your pack," Sirius said.

As they put Draco into the tub, James caught sight of his tattoo: the wolf was blearily staring at them, and its crown of aster flowers had somewhat lost its sheen.

They carefully sat Draco upright in the tub, and his head fell forward.

James noticed something odd.

There were angry scratches on Draco's left forearm, and the skin there looked off somehow. Something pulled James in, and he was about to get closer when Sirius drew his attention.

"Let's just hope he doesn't use wandless magic to take off our heads," Sirius grumbled; he'd neatly tucked Draco's wand into his back pocket after they stripped him down. "You better appreciate this, Paws."

James snorted as he pushed back the shower curtain, leaning into the tub just enough so he could reach the cold water knob, his hand clasped around the cool metal and James grimaced as he quickly turned it all the way to the right, Draco is going to kill me.

James ducked out of the way just as the frigid water shot like a bullet out of the silver shower head—the water hissed as it left the nozzle, and there was a light pitter pattering noise as it assaulted Draco's body and the surface of the tub.

Draco's eyes snapped open harshly—pupils dilating instantly—and he bolted upwards, inadvertently moving his face directly into the spray.

"Fucking hell, Theo!" Draco yelled angrily, words laced with bitter venom as he spat them out, "first Bla—"

Draco stopped suddenly, brow furrowed in confusion as he looked up at them.

"Theo?" James asked.

A split second later Draco's eyebrows rose sharply in alarm, eyes wide and alert.

"Nothing—Nevermind," Draco said dismissively, hands moving to rub at his face, shifting around the raven locks that were plastered onto his forehead in the process.

"Morning, sunshine," Sirius said dryly, leaning over Draco to switch the water off, the dripping sound of the water still caught in the shower head filled the space.

"Piss off, why did you two shove me into a freezing bathtub?" Draco winced, holding his head, he drew his knees up to his chest and partially slid down against the side of the tub.

"Why does my head hurt so fucking much? It feels like I got hit in the head with a stunning spell several times over, only to then be pummelled into the ground by a Giant."

"You just got home from Godric fucking knows where, pissed off your arse" James deadpanned.

James wasn't quite sure what else he wanted to say as he carefully regarded the wizard in front of him—his brother. One thing was for certain, it was as if something had changed inside of Draco; something James couldn't understand.

There were times when Draco could be mysterious, and cagey about details—as could Hermione—but who was Theo? A myriad of questions raced through James's mind, but the main one was, is Theo who he's been with the last few days?

Draco winced again, one of his legs squeaking along the tub as he extended it in front of him, "right." The wizard paused, smacking his lips together as if trying to place a familiar taste that might be clinging to them.

"Right?" James repeated, urging his brother to continue.

"I remember—" Draco lolled his head to look at his fellow pack members, "—I was, well, ah…anyway, for the most part I was staying at the Leaky. Originally, I was muggle pub hopping…but some of the muggles were fucking irritating and tried to chat, always tried to chat."

Draco paused, and his eyes were focused on his fingers that were gripping the lip of the tub. Draco extended his pinky finger, and unexpectedly picked up from where he left off—just as James was about to press him for more details.

"So I ended up at the Leaky. Don't get me wrong, I still had fucking wix coming up to me, the twatfaces usually got the hint and left me alone, but they just kept coming…not a moment of peace…" Draco trailed off for a moment, and just as James began digesting what Draco had said thus far, his brother continued.

"It was pretty shite to be honest, but the bed was decent and Tom didn't cut me off—even when I got so drunk I blacked out…I ended up in my room every night, so I either got up there by myself, or Tom levitated me up there." When Draco finished, he scrunched up his nose, "what's that smell?"

You, James thought sardonically, but didn't think Draco would appreciate him voicing that fact aloud, so he remained silent. Sirius however, had no such reservations, as he had a thing or two he wished to get off his chest.

"Ah, so you weren't fucking random strangers or sleeping in the streets, and here we were, worried," Sirius drawled.

"Not funny, Padfoot," Draco replied curtly, shooting Sirius an icy look.

"For once, Paws…I wasn't trying to be funny," Sirius said, the words heavy as they rolled off his tongue—he attempted to smile but it came out as more of a pained grimace if anything.

Sirius never wanted to talk about it, but he was hurting almost as much as they were—he'd loved Dorea as if she were his own Mother after all.

Sirius straightened out, "I'll go tell Charlus and Mipsy you're back," he said awkwardly, tapping his foot against the ground once before he turned to leave—rubbing at the back of his neck as he did.

It was only after Sirius was out of sight that a thought seemingly occurred to Draco and he asked—a deep frown present and accounted for across his features, "not Hermione? What happened to Hermione—"

"Nothing," James started, but the word sounded wrong so he paused before trying again.

"Well, not nothing, but—but it's a long story," James answered wearily, sighing as he slid down onto the cold ground next to the tub, hazel eyes meeting grey ones.

James put one hand on Draco's upper arm, and the fingers on the other danced along the side of the tub.

"James?"

James pursed his lips, a frown of his own making an appearance, "Hermione hasn't left her room since the funeral."

Numb. The first shovelful of dirt had barely hit the top of her casket, before his hand slipped from Hermione's waist, and he was backing away.

He should have been there, he should have gone with her. This was his fault.

"You sure you don't want to come with me?" echoed in his head; it mockingly span around and around, bouncing off the inner walls of his skull with vicious glee.

"Draco?" Hermione had murmured as he continued to back away, but, he just couldn't. He simply couldn't watch as the earth swallowed her for good.

Draco twisted around and ran, ran as hard as he could, feet slamming across the earth as the men pulled out their wands to shift the rest of the dirt back into the ground. (The first shovelful was more of a symbolic gesture than anything else.)

The bright summer light washed across him as he emerged from the Orchards—Dorea wouldn't have wanted to have been buried in the dreary place where the rest of the Blacks were buried, so they'd decided to bury her deep in the Orchard instead, in a small clearing, where the light oft peeked between the trees.

The trees rustled above him, he stopped abruptly—the world was spinning—and he whirled around as he tried to think, but it was all so loud.

"DRACO!"

Draco kept spinning, and then a familiar feeling pulled at his navel, suctioning everything onto his spine as he apparated. It was a miracle he didn't splinch himself, because he hadn't the foggiest idea of where he was going until his mind flashed to the alley behind Killian's tattoo parlour in Muggle London.

Sure enough, that's where he found himself; somehow all in one piece. The rancid smell of piss slammed his senses as soon as he landed, and his right foot was in a small pool—of what he could only hope was dirty water.

It was much darker here, the sunlight wasn't mocking him as blatantly and brazenly as it had been in the Orchard. Draco sighed before shrugging off his outer robes, leaving him in a white button down, a satin, black waistcoat, fitted black trousers, and his—at least they had been—lustrous, polished black leather shoes.

Draco took in his surroundings and it only then occurred to him that he stuck out like a sore thumb: so he strode over to the dumpster to his left, and he scrunched up his nose when he realised he'd have to actually touch the lid in order to open it—which he reluctantly did with the first digit of one finger.

Draco's face contorted in disgust as the putrid smell hit his senses—instantly clogging his nostrils—and he wasted no time in throwing the robes in.

In that moment he didn't care how expensive they were: he needed to blend in amongst the muggles, and he certainly couldn't do that dressed in fancy dress robes.

At first Draco wandered around aimlessly, but then he quickly stumbled across a pub that was open. The little bell on top of the door rang loudly when he pushed it open, and once inside he realised that it smelt heavily of sweat and smoke; Draco quickly came to the realisation that he didn't care.

There was a thin cloud of smoke that filled every crevice of the room from all the cigars and cigarettes that the men and women were smoking: it was dark, slightly gloomy, with pictures of various people drinking, smoking and engaging in all kinds of debauchery littering the walls. A couple booths were on the right, and to the left there was a short set of stairs which led to an area filled with tables of different sizes and shapes surrounded by stout, wooden chairs.

The pub was still fairly empty, but there were a few people scattered about—whether they were early drinkers or they hadn't left the pub from the night before he couldn't be sure.

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, his right hand enclosing around a leather rectangle, and he was beyond thankful that he'd thought to grab his muggle wallet earlier—perhaps part of him always knew that he'd flee, that he would seek to lose himself amongst people who had no idea of the sorrow that plagued him.

"You sure you don't want to come with me?" Dorea's voice whispered in his head, and he hastily banished it from his mind.

Draco easily strutted over to the bar, smoothly sliding onto one of the bar stools at the end before he grunted out, "whiskey, neat," to the man behind the bar—he was a portly fellow, with beady eyes, a short, flabby neck, thick fingers, and his round chin was pointed downwards, and almost comfortably rested on his clavicle.

The muggle nodded, making a noise in reply before putting down the glass he was polishing. The man turned around, eyes roving across the numerous bottles on the counter behind him—as if searching for one in particular—before finally grabbing one, and slowly heading over to Draco (when he did he paused to grab a short glass from beneath the bar).

Draco watched absently as the amber liquid poured from the spout into the stout glass—he filled it about halfway before sliding it over to Draco.

Draco withdrew his wallet, flipping it open before fishing out some bills and placing them on the bartop; it was way more than the drink could possibly cost, but Draco figured he would be having a few more whilst he was here.

There was at least three fingers worth of whiskey in the glass, a generous amount to be sure, and Draco quirked an eyebrow at the man as he wrapped his hand around it.

"You look like you need it, mate," the man said, his voice gravelly yet a bit pinched.

If only you knew, Draco said to himself, a self-deprecating smile brushing his features as he raised the glass to the man.

To you Mum, Draco thought before he tipped his head back, the cold lip of the glass meeting the warmth of his mouth as the amber liquid flowed down his throat—it didn't burn as much as Firewhisky, but it would do.

"Another?"

"Please," Draco said as he placed the empty glass on the wooden surface.

After that, the next few days were a massive blur as time melted together. In the beginning, he spent his time wallowing from one muggle pub to the next, until one day he passed by a familiar street and he let his instincts guide him directly to The Leaky Cauldron.

His shadow had barely darkened the doorway before he was calling out to Tom to ready a shot of Firewhisky for him—he indulged in unhealthy abundance of the amber liquid that day, and in the days following it.

Draco supposed that the dark, brooding type was attractive: due to the fact that he hit on by a multitude of women and men—muggle and magical alike. He had sneered venomously at them, usually not even bothering to waste his breath on telling them to piss off—once he glowered at them, they generally got the hint and fucked off.

Every night he was lost in thoughts of his witch—wondering how she was holding up—but he couldn't face her, not yet. So, he continued steadily in his attempt to drown his heightened senses in as much alcohol as he could.

"You sure you don't want to come with me?"

Then, one morning Draco woke up with a tail—thankfully he'd been in his single room that he'd rented—apparently having partially transformed in the middle of the night.

After glaring at the tail in the thin, full length mirror in the corner of his room, he somehow managed to get rid of it—barely.

It drained him magically, and there was still a thick layer of liquor enveloping him, almost like a thick, scratchy coat.

Twenty minutes later he'd gathered all of his things, and in his drunken stupor he stumbled downstairs—stopping to give Tom a few galleons, thus clearing any debts he might have and more.

When he found himself on the sidewalk outside the Leaky, he rubbed a hand down his face as he tried to recall why he'd come out here in the first place—squinting as daylight stabbed at his corneas.

Draco's nose itched. Draco put his hands on his hips before turning on the spot, vanishing with a crack and landing heavily across the country moments later. Draco wobbled forward a couple steps as he tried to regain his balance; how he hadn't splinched himself he would never know (there seemed to he a lot of that with him these days).

"Fucking terrible idea," Draco muttered to himself—feeling more than a little sick—and he pressed both of his hands against his abdomen as he gazed up at the structure in front of him.

Potter Manor, his house, his home.

It was drizzling. A raindrop hit the tip of Draco's nose, which caused him to jerk back, but the light rain was incentive enough to set him in motion.

Teetering back and forth Draco made his way towards the house, pausing to compose himself at the base of the porch stairs before he climbed them; Draco relied heavily on the handrail to keep him upright during his ascent.

When Draco reached the landing he took a moment, inhaled a greedy gulp of air before he dragged himself over to the front door—which he threw open, and was instantly greeted by a startled Sirius Black.

I'm home, Draco thought, absently scratching his forearm.

Why is the house spinning? Everything after that was foggy, as if he was moving through a haze, until eventually it all faded to black, and he was falling, falling, falling.