Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
A/N: So, thank you to all of the wonderful, spectacular reviewers. Nothing makes me happier than seeing people who love my story this much. If you're new, thank you for joining me. If you've been here all along, thanks for not losing patience. And another thing-my story is four months old today! Yay? Ok, well, one last thing: I'm not updating the chapter until I've reached 150 reviews. Does that make me greedy? Maybe. I just want to see if it's possible.
Draco:
Draco's mother died on November 17th, a Friday, in the early hours of the morning. Death is funny that way. One minute you're getting out of bed for breakfast, and the next you swear you'll never eat breakfast again.
He wouldn't touch her and feel that cool skin; instead he alerted officials and waited in his room until he heard people come and take her to be prepared for the funeral.
What was even funnier than death, was that he was still alive. Now an orphan, (he didn't count his father a parental figure anymore) he was left with decisions to make. Decisions he never wanted to deal with.
His mother wasn't around to scold him, so he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and grasped on in his fingers. Using his wand, he lit the tip. It was the first time he used magic since he had gotten it back.
The smoke filled the room, and he walked over to his window, opening it and tossing it out, unfinished.
He thought of nothing but Hermione, even though he should be mourning his mother. The truth was, though, she had been wasting away for years. It was better this was-she was at peace through death. Hermione, though, was alive and he loved her so much that he could feel her pulsing through his veins.
The air from outside had seeped in and now rested on his forearms. It was cold in a way that made him want to breathe in until it hurt-until his lungs popped like balloons. He wanted to go see her. He wanted to apologize for never showing up while she needed him...for abandoning her.
But how could he just do that? How could he just…apparate over, and expect her to respond well?
He couldn't.
And this made him so tired that he fell on his bed and slept for a very long time.
-X-
It was while dissecting the contents of his mother's will with the Ministry of Magic that Draco found out his mother had left him something. He had never thought she could have anything more to give him than what his father had dumped at his feet, but they handed him a key, and then a date was set for the funeral two days from then.
She had died from "natural causes", but he knew it was his father's absence that really set her off.
He put the key in his pocket and apparated home.
Who gave a key, without instructions, to their son? Who never even hinted that there could be something for their son to hold onto after their death? His mother was the one person who really and truly loved him his entire life, but in her death she had let him down just like his father.
-X-
"We are gathered here today, to remember the life…" To remember the life? Or to celebrate her death? "Though her body may decay, her spirit lives on in the heart of her only son, Draco…" And what a comforting thought that is. As if there wasn't enough pressure to make the right decisions.
Her coffin was a dark and deep brown, almost blue in the soft dusk light. As the earth engulfed her tiny little world, the edges of his vision blurred and he watched her leave her him for the last time, and wondered what could have been done differently.
People left him standing at her grave for a long time. One by one, they went back to their lives-none of them able to deal with his sorrow longer than required. He had a brief flash of remorse, as he wondered, if this was how the family of the people he killed felt.
"I'm sorry."
He could recognize her soft form behind him, and he wished, so terribly, that she would press her hand, shoulder or arm against him. He ached for her heat, and instead he got distance.
"Why did you come?" he turned and saw her wearing the most beautiful black dress he had ever seen. Her hair, which he hadn't taken much time to notice at their last encounter, was now wild and long- curly in a familiar and wonderful way.
"Almost a year ago, I needed someone, and instead I got you. I was disappointed at first, that the only person who seemed to be around was a narcissist and spiteful child, who offered only cigarettes."
"Your point, Granger." He seethed.
"That you could really use a cigarette." She took one out from a tiny silver handbag and gave it to him. "I haven't smoked in a while. I don't…but…well…"
He took it from her gently, and she turned to leave.
"Don't make me smoke it on my own." He said and lit it quickly.
"I can't. Mark said-"
He stepped closer to her and took a deep drag. His face moved near hers and he blew softly, feeling her breathe in by instinct. As she released the smoke, her lips moved to his and burned onto them. The cigarette in his fingers crumbled down, but he was sucking from a new form; her light, her lips, her love. She was all that he needed, and it was gone just as quickly.
She pulled away and wiped her mouth. A faint smile on her lips, she said goodbye and cracked into nowhere.
-X-
He didn't want anyone touching his mother's things. Though someone from the Ministry offered to come and pack belongings, he refused, and spent three days doing it himself. He could have kept it all, but he wanted to clear her from the house. It did no good to hold onto someone who wasn't there.
The key never left his pocket.
The only things that remained in the room when he was finished were her bed, which he stripped of her old blankets and sheets and replaced with new ones, and a desk-drawer. He walked over to it and tried to pry it open. Seeing that it wouldn't budge, he slammed on it in frustration. Why hadn't he tried to open this sooner?
He tried several spells and then, just as he was about to give up he noticed a keyhole. He breathed in sharply and took out they key.
It fit perfectly.
The drawer slid open with ease and revealed…nothing. His mother had disappointed him again.
As he was shutting it, something rattled in the back. Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, he reopened it and peered inside. What had not been visible before now became clear. A stack of envelopes was shoved in the very back corner. He reached in and took it out. They were addressed to him, but he had known that they would be.
They were heavier than he expected, and holding them in his hands…seeing his mothers handwriting…
He doubled over in pain and let them fall from his hands.
It was almost unbearable how alone he felt. He was twenty-two years old, and had nothing to show for it.
He picked up the letters and took them into his room. He placed them on his bedside table, but not before taking one out from the bottom.
My Dearest,
What I have is called Cancer, and apparently it runs in the family. Since I was diagnosed two years ago, I've searched everywhere for a cure, but have found none. Apparently, no one can fix it.
I cannot bring myself to tell you about this disease, but I hope that you will forgive me. It was never my intention to leave you, but you are gone right now, and I figure that now is as good a time as any to tell you everything I've ever wanted to say.
Stay with me, Draco. I wish I had the courage to say this to your face, but since I can't, I would be honored if you would listen this one last time.
Mother.
The paper clenched in between his fist as he struggled not to rip it in half. What was cancer, and how had it been powerful enough to kill her?
His eyes ached with the need for sleep, but he couldn't. He had four envelopes to open, and he resolved to read them all before letting everything go.
The second envelope opened under his thumb smoothly, and he took the paper out. Her handwriting was lacy and spaced out.
My Dearest,
It is in these times of pain that I remember your many first days of school. When you were a first and second year, you'd plead with me to make you a lunch to take on the train. Then, the older you got, the more embarrassed you were that I did.
Oh, you'll deny it, but eventually I just gave you a galleon or two and sent you off.
You grew so fast I could scarcely believe it, and I felt my time with you slipping away as your interests progressed to darker and more adult things.
I was always amazed with your high marks. Then again, I've always known how intelligent you are. So much potential lives within you.
If you could have watched yourself grow, the way that I did all of these years, you would be so impressed. My only wish is that you will be able, one day, to make the right decision, whatever you believe that to be.
Mother
The letter was short, and he found himself aching for more. It seemed so trivial to drabble on about nothing while she was dying-when she could have been speaking with him instead.
He almost threw the letters on the table and went to bed, but he knew that there would be no sleeping until he had read all there was to read. He wouldn't be able to rest until he knew what she had been hiding from him.
With a heavy heart he picked up the third letter.
My Dearest,
The chemo isn't working, and I have very little time left. And so, I'd like to tell you something, and I hope that you'll still love me even after.
My name is Abby Frothsworth. I was born and grew up in Swindon, on a farm that my father owned and his father before him. My mother was a maid, and I went with her almost all of my life to help her to clean. When I was eleven years old, I received a letter in the mail that said I was to attend a school called Hogwarts for something I had believed to be fairy tale magic.
I am a Mudblood.
My entire years of schooling I was never made fun of for being of non-magic descent. When I graduated, I returned to my family's farm and stayed there, helping. One day, a young man with pale blonde hair came to me and asked for a place to hide his friends. His one friend, a very handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes, was very cunning and convinced my family and I that this was a good idea.
As you may have guessed, this man was the rising Lord Voldemort. He and the Death Eaters stayed for many months, in the barn out back. They never interacted with my family or I, until one day I stumbled in on one of their meetings. I overheard plans for destruction and because of that, they decided to kill me.
Then, by a stroke of good fortune, the man with the pale blonde hair, asked for them to spare me. He was struck by my beauty and said that he would spend the rest of his life keeping me quiet.
I was forced into marriage with this man…with your father. I was taken from my family and the farm, and thrown into a mansion full of things I did not want or need.
I was very un-happy.
And then, I had you. Having you brought color and beauty into my life. But you were not pureblood, and because of that, Voldemort wanted to kill you. In his mind, Mudbloods and Muggles must become a dying breed, and only purebloods could be allowed to live.
I was desperate. I wanted you so badly. And despite whatever you may have believed about your father, he loved you in his own way. He made a deal with Voldemort. In exchange for Voldemort's silence about yours and my "un-pure" blood, he would do as he was told, for as long as he was told.
My family was murdered. There couldn't be any traces of filth, as your father put it. And so, you became my only family. We told everyone that we were pure, and because of Voldemort, no one doubted us.
Growing up, you took so much pride in being Pureblood, and it killed me to not have actually given you that.
I want, more than anything, to be what you want me to be. But, my dear son, I am no better than what you've hated your whole life.
I love you regardless.
Mother.
The last letter ripped in half as his angry hands shook. There was a pulsing behind his eyes, but he knew he had to read the last letter even if it killed him.
He pushed the two sides together and read.
My Dearest,
As I've watched you grow, I've seen you distance yourself from your father and I more and more. You want a life of your own, it's obvious. And that's fine. But, even though you may not have wanted me, you still had me.
We have not always gotten along. We've argued about sill things, and you've stewed in anger over them for months before making up with me. I have never expected or asked you to deal with it any other way. Now, however, I am. I hope that even though I've let you down, and you have discovered the truth, you will not stew this time.
Life is a fragile thing-and so short, too. One minute you're brushing your teeth, and the next you have cancer.
And if your life becomes as short as mine, which I hope it does not, I do not want you to die with the same feelings that I did. Don't live in vain, Draco.
Here is what I ask-my real Will and Testament: I want you to love someone, with all of your heart. I want you to accept people for who they are, not what. I want you to accept that not everything is perfect, and that money isn't always the most important thing out there. You have to hold the things you cherish close to you, and protect them. You must try, for me.
I'll always love you, more than anybody else in the whole world. Though I may be gone, I am still here, watching over you. And even if I wasn't the most perfect mother, I still tried.
Mother.
He wasn't sure what to do with himself. His whole life was based on one idea-on one concept, and that concept didn't exist anymore.
He remembered his second year, spitting the word Mudblood in Hermione's face. He hated her so much, just because she wasn't perfect.
And neither was his mother.
He had come back to her that summer and bragged about making Hermione cry. He thought she would have been pleased. Looking back, he remembered her turning away, her shoulders shaking. He had thought she had been cold, in his childish ignorance. Now he knew she was ashamed.
All he could think was that he wished he could take it all back. The two people he loved most in life were "Mudbloods", but what did that mean? It was just a word. Why had that word been so important to him?
The letters fell to the floor and he climbed under his covers. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.
Everything he had ever known was a lie.