Draco Malfoy sat in his study; the grandiose manor draped in an eerie stillness that seemed to press in on him from all sides. It had been weeks since Harry Potter's death, but the grief lingered, heavy and suffocating, like a storm that refused to break. The world outside continued to turn, life trudging on as if nothing had changed, but for Draco, everything had. The absence of Harry felt like a void that nothing could fill.
A soft meow broke the silence. Draco glanced down to see Astoria, his sleek black cat, winding herself around his legs. Her emerald eyes gleamed in the dim light, reminiscent of Harry's own. Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight. He bent down to pick her up, cradling her against his chest.
Next to the hearth, Orion and Bellatrix, his other two cats, lounged in silence. Orion, a massive Maine Coon with fur as dark as midnight, was sprawled out on the rug, his yellow eyes half-closed. Bellatrix, a delicate silver tabby, sat perched on the arm of Draco's chair, her head tilted as if she were watching him with quiet concern.
The cats had always been his solace. During the darkest days of the war, when Draco wasn't sure if he would survive to see the next sunrise, their quiet companionship had kept him sane. But now, even they couldn't ease the hollow ache inside him.
Draco wasn't supposed to feel this way. He had spent his entire youth resenting Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. But somewhere along the way—between the battles, the near-death encounters, the shared burden of war—his feelings had changed. Harry had changed. They both had. They were never friends, never anything so simple, but there had been an understanding, a connection that Draco could never fully explain.
Now Harry was gone, and Draco was left to grapple with the aftermath. The world celebrated the end of another war, another victory for the good, but Draco could only mourn the loss of the man who had saved them all—yet again—and in doing so, had left Draco to drown in his guilt and grief.
He couldn't sleep. Night after night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to claim him, but it never did. The empty side of the bed, where Harry had sometimes lain during their secret, stolen moments, mocked him. Draco would roll over, reaching out, but there was only cold space.
Each day bled into the next, mundane tasks becoming Herculean feats. Even simple things like getting out of bed, making tea, or opening the mail felt insurmountable. More than once, he had sat at the kitchen table with a cup of cold tea in his hands, unable to remember how long he had been sitting there.
Astoria leapt gracefully from his arms to the desk, padding over to the stack of letters he had been avoiding. She pawed at one, the edges of which had already begun to curl from neglect. With a sigh, Draco pushed aside the weight in his chest and picked up the letter. It was from the Ministry—another invitation to some ceremony, another chance to publicly honor Harry's sacrifice.
He crumpled it in his hand.
Orion shifted beside the fire, his tail flicking lazily, as if sensing the rising tension in the room. Bellatrix nudged her head against Draco's hand, purring softly. The quiet reassurance of their presence was comforting, but only just.
Draco stared into the fire, its crackling warmth a contrast to the cold emptiness he felt inside. He had never been good with emotions. He had been raised to suppress them, to present a front of unflinching composure, but now... now he felt like he was unraveling at the seams, and there was no one left to see.
Except them.
Astoria jumped down from the desk and trotted over to join Orion by the fire. Bellatrix remained, her pale green eyes never leaving Draco. He stroked her absentmindedly, the repetitive motion grounding him, if only for a moment.
"I don't know what to do anymore," he whispered, his voice raw, barely audible.
Bellatrix blinked up at him, her head tilting in that familiar, knowing way. It was as if she understood, as if she had always known.
And maybe she did.
The days went on. Draco went through the motions. The manor remained quiet, the halls darkened by his grief. He spent his evenings sitting by the fire, his three companions by his side, their silent presence the only thing that kept him tethered to reality.
It was in those moments—late at night, when the rest of the world was asleep—that Draco allowed himself to feel the full weight of his sorrow. He would sit there, in the flickering glow of the hearth, and whisper into the darkness.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
The words felt hollow, insufficient. But they were all he had.
The cats stayed with him, through every tear, every sleepless night, every day where the grief felt too heavy to bear. They were his silent witnesses, his only constant in a world that had been irrevocably altered.
And slowly—painfully slowly—the days became a little more bearable. Draco still grieved, but he was learning to live with the loss, to carry it with him, as he always would. And his three cats—his silent sentinels—were there every step of the way, helping him through the darkness.
In time, Draco would find a way to keep going. He wasn't sure how, or when, but he knew he would. For now, though, he sat in the quiet of the manor, the fire crackling softly, and allowed himself to grieve.
And his three cats stayed close, never leaving his side.