Title: The Well 3/?
Author: eidheann
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~600
Summary: Where there is a wish...
Warnings: angst
A/N: Continuation of my first attempt at writing/posting/sharing HD. Thank you for the feedback and support thus far.
It didn't take long for the unchanging routine of his life to drive thoughts of the Well out of his mind. For the first week, he would find himself pulling the box from his wardrobe each morning after breakfast, and staring at the mark on his palm as it slowly healed, faded, disappeared. He refused to allow the elf to leave the flat when he was not present. Returning from visits with his mother, or from his scheduled portkeys to Paris where he was apprenticed to a Potions Master, he asked Lippy if anyone had visited, floo'd, owled. Always cursed the hope that tried to stir his heartbeat. Always answered with the same "No, I's sorry Master!" Always felt his expression slide to blankness, covering the growing emptiness he felt inside.
The second week was much the same. Breakfast then picture then bathe then dress. The mark on his palm had faded to memory, but he would still find himself reaching for where it was, much as he had other things those weeks after... After. Hope never caused his heartrate to rise when he questioned Lippy, the question and answer just an addition to his daily routine.
The third week, he told himself that he gave up. His routine returned to what it was before the night he is not thinking about. He stopped reaching for the box. Stopped opening it. Stopped looking at the photograph. Stopped remembering the feeling of the arm around his waist. His morning was toast-and-eggs. Bath. Dress. Fridays and weekends meant the day spent in Wiltshire, allowing his mother to fuss over him and use him as he uses her; to forget the trials of the present and pretend the good things haven't changed. Sometimes they return to Paris for shopping or restaurants or any of the things they cannot do in London since the war. The rest of the week, he spends in Paris, working at a cauldron bubbling in a room of gleaming white marble and high arches. Air and light and as different from his time in Hogwarts studying under his godfather as he was able to find.
He pretends his studies in Paris are a choice. Indeed, his Master is almost talented enough for him to believe that he wouldn't study in England had the opportunity allowed. But the Malfoy name was still dirt, his father still in Azkaban, himself and his mother in a strange sort of limbo of public opinion. One marked, but both free for their assistance to the war, both responsible in their own ways for saving Harry's life. They are not spat on in the street, but they are avoided and their business is not welcome, either. Draco is grateful for France. Distant from the troubles in England, they welcome his NEWT scores and his family's money with open arms. Without them, he would speak to no one beyond his mother and house elf.
The fourth week, his routine is interrupted. It is Friday. He and his mother are sitting in the conservatory with plates of cold roast chicken, haricots verts and berry trifle. He remembers the smell of the fountain, the moist soil in the flower pots, the smell of growing things. Then an elf arrives, bearing an envelope of thick white parchment, stamped with the seal of Azkaban. His mother takes it, her hand shaking only slightly, and cracks the seal. Pulling out the single sheet of parchment, her fair skin pales to a shocking white.
He can only watch, setting his fork and knife back on the table, his fists tightening until it feels his knuckles will break through the skin. Her words, when they come, are somewhat expected, but no less shattering for hearing them said. "Your father, Draco. He is... he is gone."