Chapter Text
Like everyone else, the war changed him.
Before the war, Draco Malfoy was certain of his place in the world. His upbringing surrounded him with family, friends, and high society. His parents fostered an ideal environment befitting of one who would ‘carry the prestige of the family name.’
To his childhood self, his life’s path was clear. He strove to emulate the life his father led. Draco would finish school, marry a respectable pureblood witch, have a child, and, once of age, replace his father as the head of the family.
By becoming a Death Eater, Draco quickly learned of life’s obscurity. Life was not simply about ancestry, society, money, and blood. The war challenged every facet of his early indoctrination. It forced him to question his identity and existence.
From the sheltered boy arose a changed man.
Despite having the same material possessions before and after the war, the ordeal irrevocably transformed his beliefs. He felt like he had everything before the war. Yet, he emerged out of the war feeling like he had nothing.
The father he admired was nothing but a craven man. It was his mother who kept the family together, protecting them from plummeting alongside the Dark Lord.
That was not to say they came out unscathed.
Those who openly associated with the Dark Lord were either locked away or shunned like his family. Meanwhile, those with foresight not to publicly endorse a side eschewed their ties.
Draco received invaluable life-lessons in those years. Human blood looked the same regardless of ancestry. One’s prestige and place in society meant nothing if not properly earned. Money could not buy everything. And true loyalty was hard to come by.
Draco did not return to Hogwarts for his final year, instead opting for private lessons and completing his required N.E.W.T.s through Ministry approved programmes. Even when the wizarding world began healing, and society slowly accepted them, Draco continued to withdraw.
To his mother’s dismay, Draco maintained a solitary life. He did not socialise like young men his age. He avoided galas, soirées, and any hosted events to which he received invitation.
While his parents made their excuses for him, he simply kept to himself.
The established path delivered to him on a silver platter no longer mattered. Draco neither expected anyone to want to marry him (a cowardly, former Death Eater), nor did he want to marry anyone who only sought after his wealth.
At that point, Draco strongly believed no one willingly associated themselves with him and his family. Or, if they did, it was only because of the deep coffers tied to their name. Which ancient laws conveniently secured from the Ministry and any war reparations.
- - -
Though he felt no pressure between his eyes, out of habit, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Being in the Malfoy Manor always evoked such memories. The manor's ancient walls seeped with reminders of the past.
Draco opened the door to his room. As timeless as its foundation, the room remained unchanged.
Draco’s eyes drifted towards the chaise by the fireplace.
Astoria’s favourite spot.
He saw her resting figure, cosied up with a book in hand. Draco strolled towards the chaise.
Her blue eyes looked up at him. He positioned himself beside her, a space she always reserved for him.
Draco smiled wearily.
Astoria was unlike him. She was brave and beautiful. She was light and kind-hearted. Unlike his family who strongly upheld pureblood ideologies, Astoria’s rearing taught her to regard everyone equally. To base her beliefs not by what society upheld, but by a person’s own merit. Though Astoria was two years his junior, Draco felt she was wiser to the world. It was among the countless reasons he fell in love with Astoria Greengrass.
Draco watched Astoria’s cheeks redden and lips upturn into a shy smile. An expression that, she once reasoned to him, only occurred because of a certain look he gave her.
It was Astoria who made him feel warmth; she pulled Draco out of his darkness and loneliness. Though his parents did not approve of her because of her “radical” beliefs, he fell in love.
Draco looked down at his hand, gazing at his matching wedding band.
“Master Draco, mistress Narcissa is wanting your company,” Risley appeared before him, “Mistress said to go to the main dining room. Dinner is ready.”
“Thank you, please let her know I will be there shortly.”
- - -
Draco waited for his mother to take her seat, before taking his beside her.
A delectable array of food conjured itself onto Draco’s plate. It was unsurprising that his mother instructed the elves to cook his childhood favourites. Though it appeared appetizing, Draco did not touch a single piece. Narcissa was aware that Draco would only touch his wine glass, as he had during their previous dinners together.
Narcissa ate in silence while Draco drank soundlessly beside her. Though he just arrived, after months of not seeing one another, he and his mother fell into their comfortable routine.
“Draco darling, when are you returning to America?” Narcissa gracefully took a bite of her food, as he took another sip from his glass.
“The day after tomorrow, mother.”
Realising that he would offer no further detail, Narcissa continued, “Would you like pudding dear? I can instruct the elves to make your old favourites.”
“Thank you, but I have no appetite tonight,” Draco watched his untouched dinner plate vanish from in front of him.
“Ah, yes,” Narcissa responded as if remembering a detail about her dinner guest. “What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, I need to report to the Ministry and have them renew my work permit.”
“You do not have to work at all. I cannot understand why you refuse to stay instead,” though she never changed her tone, Draco could hear his mother’s frustration.
“Mother, we’ve been over this,” Draco sighed. He knew her words were well-intended, but it was the same cyclical conversation.
“Yes, I know. But you certainly do not need the money. And tending to the estate would be easier from here,” Narcissa began, as though listing items from memory. Draco anticipated his mother’s next arguments that often followed. “Besides, have there not been enough lives you saved? It is about time you moved on. Perhaps meet someone new.”
Stunned, Draco straightened and sat motionless.
Narcissa paused and studied him, before continuing indifferently, “Saving muggle mothers and their offspring will not bring Astoria and your daughter back.”
Narcissa resumed eating, her countenance unconcerned.
He did not expect his mother to bring up his deceased wife and unborn child, especially on his first night back. Usually, Narcissa treaded carefully around the topic, and only spoke candidly if Draco was first to broach the subject. He averted his gaze from Narcissa, concluding the matter.
“Forgive me if I overstep. It has been years my son, and I miss you.”
“You seem to forget, mother, that Ministry laws would make it harder for both of us if I were to reside here again,” Draco said evenly, effortlessly composing his features, as though his mother only mentioned the weather.
“That is something we can change in our favour. We have your father’s old connections, along with my own connections, within the Ministry.”
Draco blankly stared at his mother. Lucius died while Draco was away in the States, and they rarely spoke of his father since.
It was atypical for Narcissa to bring such matters rashly over dinner. Though perhaps he should have expected this. Narcissa’s recent correspondence frequently mentioned Draco moving back, or meeting someone new to settle with.
“Mother, how is your health?”
“My health is great. Do not spin this on me. This is about you.” Draco studied his mother’s movements. “Truly, I am in great health. Is it wrong for a mother to want his son back home?”
“Of course not. Please excuse me mother, I am quite exhausted from the time zone difference, and need to wake early tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Before Draco removed himself from the dining table, Narcissa gently placed her hand over his, “We will continue this discussion tomorrow.”
“Good night mother.”
“Good night my dragon,” he heard her whisper as the doors shut behind him.