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“Daddy, why don’t I have a mum?”
Draco’s hand jerked on the knife he was holding, and the grape he’d been about to slice rolled across the counter and dropped into the sink with a hollow thud. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the all too familiar inquisitive look he was about to face.
When he turned, Lyra’s head was tilted slightly to one side and her little hands were curled on the edge of her tray. One foot swung gently where it dangled from the high chair.
“You do,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm. “And she loves you very much.”
Lyra’s head tilted to the other side. “I do?”
“Yes, little love,” he said gently, scooping up the pile of already sliced grapes. If he didn’t get her eating now, she’d be too distracted with her line of inquiry to start later.
“You’ve seen pictures,” he said as he held one of the halves up to her mouth. She grabbed it absently, taking a small bite and holding the remainder in both hands at her chin like a raccoon. It always made him smile when she did that. Well, almost always.
Her brows wrinkled with confusion as she chewed, and he pointed through the open doorway into the sitting room at several framed photographs: Draco twirling Hermione at their wedding; both of them smiling on their honeymoon; Hermione waving Lyra’s newborn fist at the camera. It had taken him more than a year to be able to put the last one out—their first and only photo together.
Lyra blinked several times at the images before turning her amber gaze back on him.
“Why isn’t she here?”
She pointed at the chair next to her as though it was the obvious place for her mum to be. And he supposed it was. Hermione would be there. If she could.
Draco turned quickly back to the counter as anger burned his throat. He would never let Lyra see it. Never for a single second risk her thinking he was angry at her.
Because the world is a cruel fucking place where terrible things happen to the best people, and instead of getting to live the lives they deserve, they are torn away, leaving behind an empty, shattered, useless fucking shell of a man attempting to survive with half his soul missing.
He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. When he turned, he was relieved to see she had finished the grape. He crouched next to her chair and held another one up to her mouth.
“Because she died.”
Lyra’s mouth twisted in thought as she munched quietly.
“Like Goldie?”
Draco dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
No, not like a fucking fish—
“A bit like Goldie,” he said gently.
“How?”
He took in a deep breath as he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.
“Well, fish don’t live for very long,” he started, leaning his clasped hands on the table. “And we can’t talk to them or get to know them very well. So, even though we were sad when Goldie died, we weren’t... that sad,” he finished lamely.
Lyra blinked at him.
“But your mum was a witch,” he went on. “And witches can live for a very long time. And I got to talk to her and know her for a lot of years, and she was very special to everyone who knew her.”
His knuckles were white. “So, when she died so young, so suddenly... it was very sad.”
“You’re sad?” Lyra asked.
Draco looked at his daughter. All he could think was that Hermione would have been so much fucking better at explaining this.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “I miss her very much.”
He gritted his teeth as she reached over her tray to pat the back of his hand.
“It’s okay, Daddy.”
He turned his palm up and captured her tiny hand between his. “Thank you, little love.”
She gave him a bright smile and leaned back to pick up another grape.
Draco wondered if he should tell her more. Would she be able to understand the concept of a latent heart condition? Probably not. He didn’t want to use the word ‘weak’ to describe her mother’s heart. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d never known anyone with a stronger heart, and hers would have probably continued to serve her perfectly well for the rest of her life if it hadn’t been for the Cruciatus. Even after the curse, she might have been okay if she’d recognized the panic attacks for what they really were. But by the time she’d had what the healers later estimated was probably six major heart attacks in as many years, it was too late.
They told him the fact that the last one occurred the day after Lyra was born was a miracle. That it was a miracle she had made it through the pregnancy at all. Harry Potter himself had talked the Head of St. Mungo’s out of pressing charges against Draco for what he had done to the healer who was idiotic enough to tell him on the day his wife died that it was a miracle.
Lyra was still too young to understand the idea, but Draco worked very hard to keep anyone from using that word to describe her. She had enough expectations of her just from being the only daughter of the Golden Girl. It would be painfully unfair to expect her to live up to being miraculous, too. She already was, of course, to him. But if she grew up to be as much like her mother as he suspected she would, the weight of it would crush her.
She was alive and she was happy and that was plenty.
“Where is she?” Lyra asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. He took a moment to consider. It was a logical progression. If she wasn’t here, then she must be somewhere else.
Draco leaned forward and tapped gently in the center of her Gryffindor bib. “She’s here.”
Lyra looked down at his finger, and when he drew away, she reached up and pulled at the collar of her shirt to look inside.
Something in his chest fractured. “I meant, she’s in your heart. She’s with you all the time.”
She looked up at him, and he was desperately curious to know what her brilliant little mind had expected to see in there.
“Goldie is in the garden,” she said flatly.
He swallowed the dread pressing into his lungs. “That’s right.” There was no use hoping she wouldn’t ask.
“Is my mum in the garden?”
“No, little love. She’s not.”
Lyra’s chin puckered with a frown, and Draco realized she was disappointed.
“Why do you ask?”
She poked for a moment at a grape half and then looked toward the back door. He followed her gaze out over the lawn and the flower beds. “It’s close,” she said finally.
He watched as she glanced back down at her tray and smushed the fruit between her fingers.
“She’s somewhere else,” he said before he’d fully considered it. “There’s... a place.”
She looked up quickly, and his nostrils burned with the threat of tears at her eagerness.
“Where?”
“It’s not as close as the garden, but it’s close.”
Her feet swung as she shifted excitedly in her seat. “Can I go there?”
Draco chewed the inside of his lip. He knew this day would come eventually, but he’d thought three was too young. Lyra was incredibly bright. Maybe the brightest wi—
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. But she was still only three.
“Daddy?”
When he looked back up, her feet were still.
He felt his chin dip in a nod.
“After you finish your snack, I’ll take you.”
***
Draco dug around in the jacket sleeve, finally unearthing a little hand and drawing it out. Lyra turned, and he repeated the action on her other arm. He nestled the zip under her chin, and she reached up for the basket of hats and scarves. When he offered it to her, she pointed to a white knit cap, and he pulled it down over her ears. As the basket went back on the shelf, however, she cried out that it was the wrong hat, and he smiled as static crackled over her chocolate curls when he pulled it off.
Lyra huffed, smoothing her hands in vain over the electrified mass.
“Do you want braids?” Draco asked, looking down at her.
She nodded, pouting slightly, and he knelt to peel off her puffy coat. Back to square one.
When her mane had been tamed into pigtail French braids and her jacket and proper white knit cap donned, he crouched in front of her and held his coat open. She snaked her arms under the collar, around his neck, and wrapped her legs at his waist when he stood. He closed the flaps over her back and held her tight to his chest.
“Ready for the squeeze?”
“Yeah!” she shouted, pom-pom tickling his chin with her fervent nodding.
As they twisted into nothing, he found himself wishing she had a little more Slytherin self-preservation to temper her lion heart.
His feet connected with the paved path, and autumn leaves immediately fluttered against his ankles. He was glad he’d tucked Lyra’s gloves into his pocket. It was easy for her to be stubborn in the warm house, but the chilly wind was already slipping under his sleeves.
He tightened his arms around her unconsciously, praying without any real hope that she would let him carry her for once. But she squirmed against him almost immediately, always eager to be under her own power.
Normally, he would have set her down without too much fuss, but as he stared over her head at the field of stones, his spine refused to bend. He’d been so concerned with how Lyra would react to coming there, he hadn’t spared a single second to prepare himself for it.
“Daddy...” Lyra complained, kicking her feet into his kidneys. But he couldn’t move. He clutched her with frozen hands as a kaleidoscope of emotions spiraled through him.
She’s here. She’s dead. I miss her so much. She must miss Lyra. She’s close. Never close enough.
His teeth clacked together as Lyra’s head collided with his chin.
“Sorry, little love,” he murmured, finally kneeling and releasing her. She reached for him when he’d buttoned his coat, and he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least he would still have a few more years where he had to bend at the waist to walk hand-in-hand with her. Although if those few years went as quickly as the last few had, it would be no time at all before she wouldn’t want to hold his hand. Before she wouldn’t need him anymore.
She tugged him along even though she didn’t know where they were going, and he realized quite suddenly that she had never needed him anywhere near as much as he had needed her. He squeezed her hand tightly as they passed through the rows.
The grass on top of her grave was soft, and Draco sat, crossing his legs and settling Lyra on top of them. He reached around her to brush away the leaves that had gathered at the base of the stone. The dark marble surface still retained its shine, and his breath caught at the sight of the little face reflected in it. Just below her name, as if it could be hers.
Lyra was quiet for a long time, and he was torn between asking what she was thinking and waiting for her to speak. He probably should have explained more. Should have prepared her better. He shook his head in frustration. Mostly he should stop pretending like he had any idea what the fuck he was doing.
I wish you were here.
Lyra leaned forward then, sliding off his lap and sitting on her feet with her knees against the stone. She lifted a hand to trace the engraved letter H, and Draco’s fists clenched as he watched her tiny finger slip all the way into the deep crevice. She was so small, so young. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. Why—
“What’s this?” she asked quietly.
He cleared his throat, but his voice still rasped when he spoke. “That’s her name.”
She let him move her hand over the letters.
“Herm—” his voice broke, and he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d said it aloud.
“Herm-mione,” he managed after a moment.
“Hermione,” Lyra repeated, and he felt his face crumple. He clasped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, but the tears still spilled onto his fingers.
I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry she didn’t know your name.
As Lyra’s finger traced the G, he failed to stifle a sob, and she glanced back at him. He gave her a tight smile and leaned forward to move her hand again.
“Her last name is Granger-Malfoy. Just like us.”
She hovered over the tail of the Y for a moment, and then she got to her feet and turned.
He could feel his chin trembling as her eyes scanned over his face. There was no hiding the tears that slipped out with every blink. He didn’t want to hide them. He wanted her to know that it was okay to cr—
“It’s okay to cry sometimes,” she said softly.
His shoulders shook as he nodded. “That’s right.”
Her lips pursed in an almost-smile, and he wondered if she was remembering all the times he’d said that to her—when she was sad or scared or angry or injured. Maybe he should have let her see him cry before now. So she would know it was true.
She took a step forward and placed her palms clumsily on his wet cheeks, nearly poking him in the eye. He steadied her by the waist as she wiped her fingers across his face the way he would do for her. When she was satisfied, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He pulled her into a tight hug as a fresh round of sobs racked through him, ruining all her hard work.
Do you see how kind she is? How did you make her so kind? You weren’t even here.
“What does she do here?” Lyra asked into the crook of his neck.
He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and nose before tucking her sideways across his lap.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Her head moved against his chest as she looked back over at the headstone.
“Is she sleeping?”
He considered. “No,” he said after a moment. “She doesn’t need to sleep anymore.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “Then what?”
Draco gazed down at her and wondered how to explain. He didn’t want to tell her that her mother wasn’t doing anything. He didn’t like to think of her like that. But what was she doing?
Lyra’s amber eyes blinked a little slowly, and he realized it would be time for her nap soon. He sighed with the knowledge that she would fight him on it. She always—
His lips pulled into a soft smile as a thought came to him.
“Do you know how sometimes when it’s time for your nap, even though you feel very tired, you don’t want to lay down to sleep?”
She looked wary, like she suspected a lecture, but she gave a little nod.
“Your mother was like that, too,” he said, tucking a flyaway curl back into her hat. “She was always very busy with lots of important things to do, and it was very hard to get her to slow down or stop. Even when she really needed to.”
Lyra smiled, and his heart nearly burst with the thought that she was pleased to be like her mum. If she only knew.
“But you know how when I finally convince you to lay down and you have a chance to relax, there’s a moment right before you fall asleep when it feels very nice and you’re glad that you get to... rest?”
She nibbled on her bottom lip as though she was considering, but he knew she felt that way every time. She had told him so herself.
She nodded finally, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That’s what she’s doing,” he whispered. “She’s resting.”
Lyra’s eyelids drooped, but she gave him a sleepy smile before they closed. Her hand trailed lightly over the grass as he rocked her.
“It’s nice,” she murmured so softly he almost didn’t hear.
“Hm?” he hummed gently, stroking a hand over her back.
Her mouth went slack as she drifted off, and her words floated up to him on a sigh.
“It’s a nice place to rest.”