Work Text:
Draco got out of bed at sunrise. Most nights, he hardly gets a wink of sleep. Last night he had not slept at all.
He couldn't recall the last time he had proper sleep. Certainly, not since moving back to the manor.
He studied his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt and haunting. Dark circles etched beneath his eyes. The sight was jarring with his alabaster skin.
He hadn't looked this way since the war.
He took a deep breath. Then another. Steeling himself for what lay ahead.
'It'll be quick. Treat it like another mission,' he repeated internally, like a mantra. 'Take the book and leave.'
No one would know he was there.
Walking out of the fireplace, he entered the flat he once shared with her. It had only been a little over a month since he last stepped foot in what he once called their home. Still, it felt like a lifetime ago.
It was quiet, just as he expected. Though a part of him wished it wasn't so. He had not spoken to her in a while. A part of him wondered if he still correctly remembered the sound of her voice.
As he navigated towards their library, he ignored the emptiness he felt. Everything was placed exactly as he remembered it. Not a single item out of place, just as she kept it.
He could easily walk around with his eyes closed.
'Take the book and leave,' he reminded himself of his purpose. He had no time to reminisce.
He entered the room they spent a lot of time in. He knew precisely where the book was.
Memories started slipping through the wall he created, as he recognised the smell of the room. A mixture of parchment, leather, and oak. It had been one of his favourite places. Their little sanctuary.
Hastily, he grabbed the book and made towards where he came. He couldn’t afford staying there any longer.
“Draco,” a familiar lilt whispered his name.
Stunned, he stopped mid-walk.
At the familiar sound, a piece of him crumbled. His heart ached and his breath was caught in his chest. He felt raw and exposed.
How foolish of him. He thought he was ready, but it was still too soon.
He slowly turned to the source of the voice. His eyes examined her chocolate curls, her parted lips, and her sad eyes. He said nothing to her. His voice was caught in his throat.
“You look terrible,” her voice was soft but deafening.
He scoffed. How could he ever think he could forget how she sounded or looked? She haunted him even in his dreams.
“How long has it been?” she broke the silence again. He couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to leave.
He swallowed, and cleared his throat, testing his voice.
“Since your accident.”
He turned from her portrait, ignoring the pain in his chest. He threw powder into the fire and stepped into the emerald-green flames calling for the manor.