31 October 2008
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

.

It was early Friday morning and Draco was standing in the front garden of the Manor, having a smoke under the trees. Autumn was already in full swing with yellow birch leaves trickling down to land on his shoulders and scattering amongst the grass; elderberries having already turned a dark purple so that small birds flew over to give the shrivelled berries experimental pecks.

He watched the sun rise high in the cloudless sky as he took in a long, steady drag to calm his nerves, letting the black smoke pool in his lungs. He hadn't wanted to go inside the manor yet, so he had given a smoke break as an excuse. He wasn't worried about the time travelling; he was upset to be in the same space where his mother had died, alone.

Merlin, he hoped he wouldn't arrive right when she'd died.

Theo didn't seem to mind or particularly care that they hadn't moved inside the manor yet. He was too busy giving Draco explicit instructions on how to not to fool around with the Time-Turner. The blond was only half-listening, his gaze still trained up at the sky, watching the geese migrate farther south, a grim reminder of his own imminent travels. He could admit that he had been a mite impatient all week, waiting for Samhain to arrive.

"Remember," Theo began beside him, "although you're in a dimensional shift, you're still a part of this plane. You're essentially a ghost, but theoretically you can still feel certain things like tactile sensations."

Draco turned his head and took another drag, letting a plume of smoke roll off his tongue and push past his lips before he spoke, "So you're saying someone could knock my teeth out and I'd feel it?"

"Why would you even—" Theo stopped, tetchily waving away the curls of smoke that wafted in his face. "Look, I'm not sure who'd want to knock your teeth out—at least someone who isn't in your very presence right now." He gave Draco a pointed look. "But, no, you can't be harmed while using the device. No one can see you or touch you, let alone hurt you."

Draco merely shrugged at the answer and turned back, rolling his neck to stare up at the crisp cool blue sky again. A sky that kept turning, as if his mother hadn't once been alive under it only a week ago.

"If you say I'll be like a ghost," Draco drawled, "does that mean I can go through walls 'n' shit?"

"I'm not entirely certain about that," Theo admitted, bringing a large hand to rub at his chin. "One school of thought says that you'll be able to indirectly interact with your surroundings while another says you might not be able to feel or sense anything at all. The mechanics of it all are not all clear yet—not without some testing on your part."

"So I'm the guinea pig, then?"

"You should be relatively safe, Draco," said Theo with a deliberate roll of his eyes, carefully handing over the Time-Turner.

"Right, comforting words coming from you."

Draco gritted the cigarette between his teeth as he took the chain from Theo. The small hourglass pendant glinted a dazzling gold in the rising sunlight that streamed in through the trees, causing him to squint. Unlike normal Time-Turners, this one had no dials on it—at least not any that he could see. The time of departure and return had already been set by Theo: a week ago from today for twenty-four hours.

"Now, having said that," began Theo with a serious look, "you really shouldn't be using magic at all, for any reason."

Perplexed, Draco held up the Time-Turner, watching the light refract through it as it spun. "But I am usinga magical device."

"I don't mean that. Of course you have to use the Time-Turner," said Theo, exasperated. "I just meant that you can't use any non-verbal spells. Plus—" he snatched the wand from the holster on Draco's side before the blond could even blink "—I'm keeping your wand."

"Hey!" The cigarette dropped from Draco's lips in protest.

He really needed to keep his defences up in Nott's presence.

"There's no telling what you using your own magic in a different dimensional plane could do to the device," reasoned Theo, taking a step back and out of the blond's reach. "Hence why I'm having limited human trials to begin with—to test . But I don't want you to be stuck on that plane, either."

"Neither do I," groused Draco rather bitterly, crushing the fallen cigarette beneath his booted heel. "Do keep that wand safe."

"Of course." Theo smiled, carefully putting Draco's wand away in his inner robes' pocket and holding his hands up to the blond in surrender. "It will be as if I only had it for a moment."

"See to that," Draco all but growled, straightening out the collar of his robes. "Let's get this bloody well over with, shall we?"

Theo agreed and the two men made their way inside the manor, bypassing the many wards and walking past the small house-elf who greeted them in the sumptuously decorated entryway. Draco faintly recalled the elf's name to be Tippy. His mother had sent all but the one away upon her diagnosis less than a year ago.

Drawing up the stairs one heavy step at a time, the two wizards approached the drawing room and opened the large oak doors. The sound of the heavy wood leaning on the hinges made a deafening echo in the massive room.

Draco glanced around. He had many memories of this place, most unfavourable. His gaze flickered over the furniture—most had been replaced after the war—before lingering on a green leather wing back chair next to the marble mantelpiece surmounted by a large gilded mirror. It was his mother's chair, one of the few pieces she couldn't bring herself to replace.

He looked away.

"So," began Draco, clearing his throat, "you're saying I might feel sensations whilst travelling or I might not. And I can't use magic or else I'd cock something up." He looked up at his friend. "Is there anything else?"

"You must make sure that you're in this exact spot at the exact time in order to merge with your present body to avoid a time paradox."

"Which is, again?"

"Either time gets rid of you or your present-day self."

Draco frowned. "And that would be bad."

"Yes, that would be very bad." Theo sighed the laboured sigh of the intellectually burdened. "Just make sure to record the time before you travel and when you come back to this point in time and step into the exact spot as your present self disappears."

"And then?"

"And then you're back." Theo clapped his hands together, as if this was all elementary. And perhaps to him it was. "The travel will be instantaneous—to me it will be as if you never left."

"All right." Draco nodded slowly. He could hear the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner of the room, like a pulse beating at the back of his eyes. "So I don't need to eat or drink, right?"

"You shouldn't need to, but there's nothing to prevent you from trying. You should still be able to interact with objects and nature around you, much like a poltergeist."

Draco made a face. "You're saying I'll be like Peeves?"

"Sort of." Theo shrugged guiltily. "Except, people won't be able to see or hear you, except maybe animals, other ghosts or very small children."

Draco looked down at the pendant in his palm. Something so small yet so powerful, life-altering, really, was literally in his hand. Some people would kill for an opportunity like this. Draco wasn't so sure. This journey would either break him or heal him, or maybe it would just give him some kind of closure. And wasn't that all that he really needed?

"Ready?" asked Theo, shaking Draco from his thoughts.

"As I'll ever be."

Draco slipped the chain over his neck and walked over to his mother's chair and took a seat. Theo walked over, withdrawing his wand.

"It's set for twenty-four hours," he said, placing a hand almost gently on Draco's shoulder. "Make sure you're in this spot by 8:00 AM the following morning."

Draco nodded and Theo removed his hand, tapping the tip of his wand on the Time-Turner, "Tempus fugit."

After that came oblivion.

Draco could only describe the sensation as free-falling, like the floor had disappeared beneath his feet and he was falling into space. Except space wasn't black but full of colour, whizzing past him at an incalculable and dizzying speed. A cold wetness washed over him like a wave and suddenly there came a sickening jolt, tugging him at his navel and launching him up into the air before snapping him back down on a tether just as quickly.

He rocked in the chair slightly, as if he had just landed in it from a great distance. He gripped the arms tightly to keep from falling, feeling and hearing the leather crease and protest beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and swallowed tightly, breathing slowly as a brief wave of nausea passed over him before inertia quickly settled his body into place.

The feeling of vertigo faded and Draco opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. He was in the drawing room—the same room he'd been in not seconds earlier. Or was it longer than that? He could feel the Time-Turner buzzing against his chest, letting him know that he was, indeed, alive; that he, in fact, travelled.

Maybe.

Unbelievable, he thought at first, the way the present gave way to the past this way. But still, he was here and the world—the world had kept on turning. Time, apparently, was just another inevitability.

Draco rose from the chair and strode towards one of the opened windows. A breeze wafted in, soft and cool in his hair, making him shiver.

He could feel.

That wasn't right, was it?

Draco frowned. Maybe he hadn't really travelled anywhere. He looked at his hands. They seemed solid enough. He walked over to the gilded mirror and saw his reflection in it, his hair long and tousled from the autumn breeze. He scratched his stubbled chin. He felt that, too.

He lifted the Time-Turner into view. The hourglass had stopped turning. He flicked at the glass casing with his fingernail. Nothing. No movement. The stupid thing hadn't worked.

"Theo!" he yelled, his voice booming in the massive room. "Theo, this stupid thing didn't work!"

But there was no Theo in the room.

Suddenly, there was a loud pop and, in the deafening silence of the room, it sounded like a bomb dropping. Draco jumped as a young house-elf with straw-like hair greeted him with a low bow. It was the same one who had greeted him and Theo upon entry.

"Young Master, Tippy did not hear you come in."

"Wait, you can see me?"

"Young Master?"

Draco shook his head in nevermind. Of course she could see him. He hadn't travelled anywhere. Nott's stupid device hadn't worked.

"Where's Theo?" he demanded. He couldn't see the wanker anywhere. Was this some kind of practical joke?

"Young master's friend, Theodore Nott, is not here," said Tippy with a bemused frown before brightening. "Would young Master like to see your mother? Mistress would be so happy to see you."

Draco whipped his head around, livid. "What did you just say?"

"Tippy said Mistress would be happy to see you."

Draco paused, his jaw set hard as his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked around the room briefly, as if he still expected someone else to be in the room. When he found no one but himself and the house-elf there, his eyes returned to it, narrowing in anger.

"Is this," he broke off, frustration and exhaustion rattling him. "Are you taking the piss or somethin'?"

The young house-elf flinched at his tone, sick fear tearing at her dour little features. "Tippy—" she wrung her hands in trepidation "—Tippy does not understand, young Master."

He studied her quietly for a moment. If this was a sick joke on Nott's part, the house-elf was not a part of it.

"My mother is here?" he asked, gently this time. "She's alive?"

The house-elf gave him that same bemused frown again, hands wrung out like a facecloth. "Tippy believes the mistress is alive, yes. She's in the tea room, young Master. Would you like me to announce your presence?"

"No." He shook his head dismissively. "No, I'll go to her now."

Draco walked past the elf and made a left through the second set of large oak doors, leading out of the drawing room and into the other rooms and wings of the manor. He strode down the long tapestry-lined hallways until he came upon a smaller room just off the courtyard. He could hear the faint hum of music coming from inside, its melody choral and effervescent.

The door was open and he hesitantly ventured inside. He saw nothing at first but the large mullioned windows overlooking the expansive courtyard buttressed by the inner gardens. To his right he could hear the music, low but vibrating.

The sounds of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony played on an elegant Victrola stand, the intricately carved cabinet made of dark red mahogany that complemented the rich green Persian rugs covering the cold stone floors. The hidden cover was raised, showcasing the gold-plated player. The needle ran smoothly on the dial for the most part, idly skipping the shallow grooves on the dated record as popping pockets of static signalled the ushering of a new movement.

Draco was suddenly struck with a memory of his childhood: lying on the floor upstairs in the music room—the corner of the room where the light flooded in from the windows. He would sit with his mother while she carefully did her needlework, playing Beethoven's Ninth on the Victrola. Whenever the Second Movement would end, Draco would get up to replay it. There was something about the torturous persistence of it that moved him. Everyone loved the choral Ode to Joy—even he loved it, too—but it was the Second Movement that resonated within him with its relentlessness.

His mother would ask him why he loved it so and one day he told her that it was a song about the refusal to surrender, even in the face of death. Even when the curses were cast, even when the bodies fell to the ground, the music would never stop playing. It was the music of someone marching almost vengefully into battle. It was the music of someone going onwards, upwards and forwards, always moving. It was the music of someone who would not give up because there was no stopping it.

That was, until it did stop.

Draco wiped the memory away with the back of his hand and sighed, glancing around the richly furnished room. The tea room, or morning room as his mother often called it, looked far more lived in than the rest of the manor. Most of his mother's favourite things were here, collecting on various tables and chairs, including her needlework.

There were a few birthday cards lined up on a very old rosewood teapoy with ivory and mother-of-pearl inlay. One looked to have his name written on it, yet he hadn't remembered sending her this one. He reached out to pluck up the card but found that he could not. His hand hadn't gone through it or anything—he could, in fact, feel the card in a very dull way—but his touch made no impact upon it. It hadn't even sent it wobbling.

Okay, so maybe the device had worked.

Apparently he couldn't go through walls or doors or anything of the such, but he could touch things; however, he couldn't affect them. How brilliantly useless.

Just then a light humming came from the other side of the room and Draco turned to see his mother. He almost hadn't seen her at first: she took up so very little space in the room. She was nestled in front of one of the large mullioned windows overlooking the terrace, bundled in thick blankets that seemed to swallow her whole.

The first thing that struck him was how small she looked, her pale skin thin and delicate as parchment. Her hair, whiter and sparser than he remembered, was done up in an elegant chignon, pulling her already high cheekbones higher, almost gaunt-like. She was weaving shaky thin fingers through the gauzy column of steam rising from her teacup, breaking it apart and swirling into separate coils.

Draco held his breath for a moment.

He had imagined what death would be like more times than he could count, but to see his mother swaddled in blankets, the fragility of her body, her movements, choked him with an emotion he couldn't begin to comprehend.

He took a step forwards. "Mother," he whispered.

"Draco?" Blue eyes that used to be bluer looked straight at him.

"Mother?" he asked, disbelief colouring his voice. "You can see me?"

He expected her to look at him oddly, ask him why he would bother to ask such a silly question, but she merely nodded at him, a slight smile blooming on her lips.

"Of course I can see you," she said, in a voice still young and full of authority. She tilted her head, examining her son from head to toe. "Your hair is so long now."

He touched the ends that had now grown just past his shoulders. "I thought I'd let it grow out."

"You look like your father."

"Shall I go cut it now?"

She actually laughed at this and the sound was pleasant, almost bell-like. "It suits you, love, even better than your father."

Draco wasn't quite sure how to respond to such an assessment. When he finally opened his mouth to reply, his mother suddenly gave a hoarse cough, the force of it wracking her body violently. She brought a crumbled handkerchief from the folds of her blankets and held it to her mouth, waving off his reaching hands that couldn't even touch her regardless.

Instead, he stood back, standing stalwart, and waited for the wave to pass. Eventually, she stopped, almost disheartened, and cleared her throat with another phlegmatic cough in apology. The pain in her eyes, while still sharp and biting, eventually dissolved into a transient weariness.

"So which of us is dead?" his mother asked with a slight warble in her throat before clearing it. "I do hope it's me."

"P-pardon?" he all but sputtered.

He forced himself to meet her eyes, finding her head tilted, a few loose tendrils of smooth white-blonde hair fallen from her bun and over her shoulder, one eyebrow rising in an expression he'd learnt from her.

"I can see you, Draco," she remarked, an unreadable look on her face. "But you're not quite there, not entirely solid."

Draco looked down at his hands. They seemed solid to him, but perhaps not to her, not to someone outside of his time.

"I'm using a device," he said, lifting up the golden pendant for her to see.

"A Time-Turner?" His mother blinked, her emotions still carefully hidden.

"Yes."

"So I am dead."

There was a delicate clatter of dishes and he watched her tuck her spoon into the rim of her saucer and tea cup. For a terrible moment, he thought she would say nothing, feared she would stand and leave the room, up and out of his sight. Instead, her eyebrows were drawn together in a contemplative manner, her sharp blue eyes trained almost amusingly on his.

"I'd ask how my funeral went, but I can only imagine how dreadfully tedious the sermon was."

Draco stared at his mother, pale eyebrows raised, mouth parted, jaw slackened. He was about to protest when she shook him off with a smile.

"I'm sorry, darling." Her smile faltered. "I realise that was incredibly morbid of me."

"Mother?"

"It's soon, then, yes?" She cleared her throat, nodding to herself as if he had answered, and then her lips pulled into that same small smile again. "Good."

She unwrapped herself from the blankets and stood somewhat shakily to her feet. She was thinner than he remembered her and dressed a bit more conservative than he was used to, but still richly so. Single strand of pearls, heather twin-set, long tweed skirt with woollen tights and brogues. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't seen his mother in heels.

"I am very happy that you've come home, darling."

She opened her arms wide in receiving and Draco faltered forwards, a sharp pain of regret stabbing at his chest.

"I'm—I want to, but I can't." He motioned to his useless arms and tried to take a hold of her, as if he could keep her steady, but his arms met with nothing.

"I can't feel you," she remarked softly, carefully lowering herself back onto her chair. "That's new for Time-Turners, correct?"

"Yes, sorry I didn't tell you straight away." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure how to broach the subject."

"Can you feel me?"

She held out her hand and he took it gently, gratefully.

"Sort of." He smiled sadly, placing his other hand over top of hers. "I know I'm touching something, but it doesn't really feel like I'm holding your hand."

An imperceptible frown touched her features.

"But I can feel your magic," he said with an encouraging squeeze of her hand, staring at it. "It's like this tiny buzz of electricity that runs like a current through my body."

"That sounds lovely."

From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother's mouth quirk into a quick smile and, instead of feeling happy about it, he felt a brooding sense of loss. He could have been here sooner. He should've been here so much sooner. He could have truly touched her, given her much deserved hugs and kisses on the cheeks, instead of describing what holding her hand felt like on another plane of existence.

"I'm sorry for not coming sooner," he whispered.

The faintest hint of dread had crept into his voice then, into his features, but his mother quickly shook her head, her voice soft and mollifying. "You've always been here with me, Draco."

"No, I could've done more."

"My love, you've done more than you could possibly know."

He was about to protest when a long, protracted meow fractured the quiet stillness of the room. Draco looked down to see a small sleek black cat pad over to his mother, affectionately rubbing up against her shin with a softer meow of acknowledgement and flick of its tail.

"When did you get a cat?"

"Last year," she said, not bothering to look up as it weaved its way around her ankles. "She was a gift." She tickled its chin with a grin of satisfaction. "Isn't that right, Felis?"

The cat meowed its concurrence, content with its master's ministrations.

"I never saw her... After." The funeral. "At the manor, that is."

"She wanders a lot. I'm sure she's found another family already, the natural flirt that she is." His mother bopped the cat on the nose before turning her attention back to her son. "You could always call for her, if you'd like—when you get back."

When he got back to his time, where she was—

Draco murmured his agreement, watching as the cat bounded up onto the windowsill to gaze out at the birds outside. His mother gently stroked its back with a hum, whispering nothings against its soft head, and Draco found himself stumped.

All his childhood he had wanted a pet of any kind, outside of a bird since they had those colourful beasts in abundance running wild in the gardens, and he had never been allowed one. He thought perhaps his mother had been allergic or simply abhorred cats. Yet here she was, loving up and being loved on by one. And he had no clue, no idea that his mother held affection for another creature, another being other than himself—that she had this life outside of being his mother.

The back of his neck began to prick warmly and he suddenly felt very ashamed. How much had he missed out on by not being around, by not being there for his mother?

"Mother," his voice broke around her name, "I'm so sorry."

"For what, darling?"

He could feel himself breaking down, but his mother was having none of it. She tried, valiantly, to guide his incorporeal form closer to her solid one.

"Come now, let's not be this way," she cajoled, hands on shoulders that she could not feel. "I'm just glad that you're here, love. Come, sit down with me."

"Is there anything you'd like?"

"Just talk with me."

They had talked for hours after. He sat with her when she had breakfast, then a late lunch. Their conversations were easy-going and engaging as she caught him up on her life. Draco felt something warm and unwarranted creep into his heart, a kind of peace he hadn't felt in months. Years, if he was being honest.

In that moment, he wanted so desperately to believe that everything was really going to be okay. That his mum would, somehow, be fine, that he could return to his time after this and just take a trip back to the manor and see her sitting there in front of the window with her strange black cat in her lap, greeting him with a cuppa and a warm smile.

It was easiest to pretend once the music started up again and he found himself chuckling when the cat jumped a solid three feet in the air when one of the peacocks pecked at the window. The fantasy started to dim when his mother's cough grew thicker, deeper and peppered with dangerous wheezing that shook her entire body. He reached out to her then, but his touch was unsubstantial.

He couldn't even hold his mother.

He called for the house-elf and Tippy appeared then with a pop, following his orders to take his mother up to her room and make her comfortable. The two Apparated upstairs and Draco followed the familiar route to his parents' bedroom suite, the cat trotting closely at his heels, giving soft mewls of worry.

He entered the room to see his mother's incredibly light body manoeuvred onto the bed, slipping under the soft sheets and thick-looking blankets. The cat hadn't waited for permission before jumping up onto the mattress and curling its body into her side, trying to get as close to her as possible.

Draco frowned. Was that okay? Should he have ordered the house-elf to take the cat away?

But his mother had said nothing, dismissing the elf, instead. She motioned for Draco to come closer and he sat down in the chair next to her bed, taking her hand in his. He wondered if she could feel his hand the same way he felt hers: cold and muted but with the faintest hum of magic.

After a few minutes, her breathing settled into a quiet but constant rattling wheeze. Her eyes had shut, her body relaxing somewhat in slumber. Draco stayed there with her, holding her hand as he watched the sun set from the window.

At some point he must've fallen asleep, although he couldn't imagine how he could've, but he awoke to the feeling of something warm on his cheek and a shift in the air, a buzz of something almost electrifying.

He glanced around the dim room lit by dying candles and the sparkling stars of twilight outside. It was odd how it felt like someone had touched him, yet there was no one in the room with him but his mother. Even the cat was gone, vacant from its spot at his mother's side.

His gaze went to his mother, then. She laid there with her head resting upon her pillow, golden-white hair fanned around her head like a halo, eyes closed in content slumber. There was a faint but soft smile on her lips. He bent over her, observing her closely. He held his breath as his eyes went to her chest, watching for the tell-tale rise and fall of it. After thirty seconds of no movement, panic began to bloom in his chest like a warning. He squeezed her small hand in his, and that was when he noticed that the faint hum of magic he had always felt there was gone.

"Mother?" he mouthed the words, trying to shake her gently, but his hands did nothing. "Mum?"

There was no response.

"Mum?"

He did more than mouth the word this time, "Mummy?"

Silence. Horrible silence.

Somehow, in his desperation, he managed to grab a hold of her, giving her just the slightest disbelieving shake. "Mummy, please." Tears grappled with his face. "Please wake up."

But his mother would not wake.

He knew this yet he still pleaded with the gods to care, for them to listen just this one time and let her live with him, let them start over again. But the gods did not care.

His mother was dead.

He held her limp body in his arms, trying to keep her head from lolling back, until he returned her to her bed.

He did it gently.

Slow. Slow.

Careful.

"Oh, Mum..."

He leaned down and gazed at her lifeless form, her eyes still closed, her face still relaxed almost serenely in slumber. He laid a kiss to her cold, pale cheek. She tasted of regret in the twilight shadows of the early morning sunrise.

He did not say goodbye. He was incapable. He knew, he consciously knew that his mother had died, would have died regardless. What gutted him the most was that he had not been there for her the first time around, not been there to physically hold and comfort her. Instead, she had to meet and experience death in solitude.

After a few more minutes at her side, Draco was finally able to tear himself away. He went to the window. The curtains were open, letting the splendours of the firmaments of the sky and rising sun to filter inside. He looked back at his mother lying prone on the bed, like an angel merely sleeping. But he knew, like the stars to their appointed height, his mother's spirit would soon climb out this window, out of this manor, and her death would be but a low mist that could not blot the brightness of her soul in life—a brightness that death itself would otherwise try to veil.

But death would fail here today, for he would carry the brightness of her spirit with him forever.

Draco slowly made his way out of his mother's suite and back downstairs to the tea room. The cat was still nowhere in sight. Neither was the house-elf. So he sat at the window where his mother had sat not long ago, impatiently waiting for the sun to rise.

A little after seven, a witch (or wizard) Apparated in the middle of the courtyard with an audible crack.

Draco stood, looking out onto the terrace, his eyes narrowed as he followed the witch's movements. He wasn't sure who it could be as no one was capable of Apparating onto Malfoy premises outside of a Malfoy, or an extremely exceptional witch or wizard.

The witch drew closer and Draco could finally make out her face, small and round with a smattering of freckles. Her tell-tale Weasley hair, red and vibrant, flowed loosely down her back in waves.

Draco frowned. What was Weasley doing here?

She strode towards the manor with a sense of purpose. Surprisingly, she was sporting an adequate set of dress robes, open with a rich green dress revealed underneath, and a large leather tote bag slung over her shoulder.

She'd worn green—the thought struck him deeply for some reason.

Although the witch was small and slight, lithe as one could describe her, her gait shifted in a way that could not hide the small outward curve of her stomach.

Draco's eyebrow lifted in surprise at the sight of it. Was she pregnant with Potter's kid? Draco was almost certain the two had separated. Perhaps he had heard wrong. Perhaps she had just put on weight.

But what confused Draco the most was the fact that the Weasley girl was here to begin with. She certainly wasn't a family friend and he highly doubted that she was here for him. There was no love lost between the two of them. Their relationship outside of Hogwarts, outside of the war, was just as contentious now as it was then.

A part of Draco was still rather bitter about Weasley using him in one of her exposés nearly a year ago. And while she hadn't exactly named him as the villain in the article, the erroneous report had inevitably caused the collapse of his marriage with Astoria. Or, as his mother would've put it: it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

He and Astoria had only been married for three years, but Draco had thought they'd been happy. Apparently not. Not two months after the article dropped, they had divorced and Astoria already had a new husband and child on the way.

He supposed karma had something to do with it.

But still... why was Weasley here? And how?

"Narcissa, it's me: Ginny," the witch sang as she opened the door, bypassing who knew how many security wards.

Not Mrs Malfoy. Narcissa.

"I hope you don't mind that I've let myself in." She looked around, disappointed, as if she had expected his mother to greet her at the door. "Narcissa?"

The redhead stepped fully inside, closing the glass door behind her. Her and Draco's eyes met for a moment and Draco could've sworn that she could see him, or at least have sensed him, but she merely frowned inquisitively, taking in the state of the empty tea room before calling for his mother again.

Clearly she hadn't seen him.

When she walked past him, her shoulder brushing against his chest, the tactile sensation had run a violent shudder straight through him. Her magic, bright and hot and somehow familiar, bit at his skin. He went to grab her shoulder, to pull her back to his chest, but it was as if his hand had met air.

He had expected some kind of reaction on her part, as if she could feel or sense him or at least his magic the way he could sense hers, but there was nothing there. No reaction.

"Felis?" she called, unsure.

There was no cat. The cat had already left.

Weasley scanned the tea room once more before exiting. Draco followed her as she manoeuvred her way around the estate in a familiar fashion, as if she'd been to the manor many times before. She lifted her wand, lighting the sconces on the walls, and he couldn't take his eyes away from the movement of her arm, her shoulder—the shoulder she had just brushed into him.

He had felt that, hadn't he? The warmth of it? He was sure…

She called out for Narcissa again before taking the stairs that led to his mother's room.

Draco followed her motions, her body, closely, and his mind wandered again.

Why had she worn green?

The colour was distracting, drawing his eyes no matter where she was in the expansive hallway, pulling his focus, his attention. Not to mention the shape of the dress, an off the shoulder neckline with long sleeves that tapered into points against the backs of her hands, the bodice tight over her breasts but loose at her waist, hiding the small bump of her stomach as it flared around her hips and swished as she walked. Walked in heels, he observed, which he'd never seen her wear; sharp points that clacked against the stone, announcing herself wherever she went.

"Narcissa, you up yet?" she asked loudly, a frown worrying her lips.

Still, there was no response. Obviously. But this silence, this lack of a reception, must've been unusual for the redhead, and the quiet stillness of the manor seemed to galvanise her into action.

"Tippy!" she called.

The young house-elf appeared with a crack, tears tracking down its long and leathery face.

"Tippy," breathed Weasley, horrified at the young elf's expression. She bent down on one knee and placed a hand on the small thing's juddering shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Miss Ginny!" the sad thing cried, wringing its trembling hands. "Mistress Malfoy..." It blinked its large woeful eyes at her, fat droplets of tears dripping down its tiny jumper. "S-she's—she's..."

The house-elf was all but bawling at this point, unable to get the words out. Draco had gone tense behind Weasley. They were close to his mother's room now. He didn't want to follow the girl inside. He didn't want to see his mother again, not like that.

"S-she's gone?" asked Weasley, her hands going to her mouth in shock. Large brown eyes pooled with tears. "I-is he, is Dra—is the young master here?"

"H-he's b-behind you, Miss Ginny," Tippy hiccoughed.

Draco blinked, tearing his gaze from the house-elf to look at the Weasley girl, at Ginny. Her head had whipped around so suddenly that he was sure she had just suffered whiplash from the force of it. For the second time, he thought she could see him, but she just stared right through him, confused.

"I-I don't see him," she whispered, her watery eyes searching desperately down the hallway. "I can't—I don't—" She swallowed thickly then, swiftly composing herself with a sharp nod as she stood to her feet, turning back to the house-elf. "Tippy?"

"Miss?"

"I have to call Harry," she said, wiping tears from her eyes with a sniff. "Take me to the Floo."

The elf escorted her to the fireplace and, after that, there had been a flurry of calls and activities. Weasley had reported his mother's death to Potter, of all people, and the specky git arrived with a team outside the gates of the manor within a matter of minutes.

Weasley had let them inside, escorting them up to his mother's suite. Draco listened as she gave orders. She was barely restrained emotion at this point, but she was handling it well. Better than he had expected.

Be gentle. Be respectful.

Her orders were resolute, brooking no debate. Draco was, admittedly, flummoxed. Since when had his mother and the Weasley girl become friends? And while the witch was obviously upset with his mother's death—again, much to Draco's confusion—she was also acting anxious and, well, downright cagey.

After the body had been recovered and removed, Weasley had gone outside onto the terrace, pacing the cobblestones with a thumb stuck between her worrying lips. She flashed a desperate look in his direction, or what seemed like his direction, before mumbling to herself.

"Ginny, we need to talk."

Potter had stepped outside, hands on his hips and a grim look on his face as he watched the witch pace back and forth.

"About what?"

"About Malfoy... Draco," he corrected, keeping his tone as gentle as he could.

"What about him?" she asked, her chin tilting up at him in defiance.

Yes, what about me? Draco thought to himself.

"This thing between you and him—it's not healthy."

Draco's eyebrows all but disappeared up into his hairline. Him and Weasley had a thing? Since when? Was he talking about their feud over Weasley outing Draco's fictitious Dark wizard activities in the papers? Granted, he wasn't exactly happy with her about the articles, but it wasn't like they ever had a public row about it. He hadn't seen the woman, personally, since Hogwarts.

"What would you know about healthy?" scoffed Weasley, and a constipated look crept onto Potter's features.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she murmured, annoyance spreading across her features like a blush. "Just leave it alone, Harry. This is not the time to discuss it."

"I can't leave it alone," he said, motioning to the tiny bump she was now covering with her hands. "Not with you like this."

Weasley's eyes narrowed then, her jaw clenched stubbornly. She exchanged a sharp look with the specked git, her magic licking dangerously at the air, threateningly, and Potter took a step back.

Draco took a step closer.

"I trust him, Harry," she ground out. "He gave me his word."

"Do you hear yourself?" Potter snapped, crossing his arms. "When has his word ever mattered for anything? I can't believe you actually think you can trust him."

Draco bristled at once, annoyed at Potter's implications—whatever they might've been. Something about trust. Trust who? Him? Who exactly were they talking about?

But then Potter reached forwards and took Weasley's hand and Draco felt the instinctive need to march over there and pry them apart.

"You know what?" said Weasley, pushing Potter's hand away. "It's not your business anymore whom I trust or whom I spend my time with."

"Ginny," Potter said, reaching out again. "Wait—"

With a flick of her fingers, Weasley forced him back, stopping him before he could take her hand a second time. Which was good, because Draco could feel his own hands flexing at his sides, fingers aching to send Potter crashing to the ground.

"I have arrangements to make and a deadline to meet this afternoon," snapped the redhead, adjusting the bag on her shoulder with a rough jerk. "Don't bother Flooing me."

Draco watched as the Weasley girl turned away from Potter and faced him instead, her entire body tensed with nerves. It seemed as though his eyes had caught hers and it looked as though she was staring directly at him. Draco stood stock still, rooted to the spot, as if the witch's vision was based on movement.

Could she see him? This wasn't just his imagination, was it?

But before he could even open his mouth to ask, to yell at her, really, she had Apparated away, leaving both him and Potter in the lurch.

"Harry, we've got a problem."

"What?"

"The wards are going back up," his colleague answered in a rush. "We're trying to maintain them but—well, we can't stay here any longer, not without a Malfoy present."

"Alright," sighed Potter, motioning for everyone to leave. "We got what we came for. Let's go."

Draco winced at Potter's words.

Got what they came for.

They went back into the manor and Draco followed, wondering how the fuck any of them got inside the grounds without a Malfoy's consent in the first place. Was it because he was here? Had his mother given the Weasley girl permission? And, if so, why?

With these thoughts running through his mind, Draco slowly made his way to the drawing room, waiting for everyone to leave. He listened to the doors close and dropped down into his mother's favourite chair with a sigh and waited—waited to see if time would take him the fuck out of there.

Notes:

1. I snuck in a modified but beautiful line from Percy Shelley's Elegy of John Keats: "Like stars to their appointed height they climb/And death is a low mist which cannot blot/The brightness it may veil".