Chapter Text
When Malfoy and Potter were twenty-one, Draco Malfoy died.
In September, Harry spoke at his trial, the way he rehearsed several dozen times over. Even so, the words never came out quite as elegantly as he wanted. I'm telling you—do you all ever think—his father. You don't consider what a father—all you want is witnesses, but no Death Eaters in the courtroom—why don't you call in Narcissa Mal—no, of course, because of her bias—what about your bias?
The words were jumbled, harsh, a torrent over his teeth, and he shut up abruptly. The judge was still staring at Malfoy's Dark Mark and still flinched whenever Harry said "Voldemort." Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Harry said, to spite her.
The judge glared at him disdainfully, trembling hands betraying her unease. Her fingertips danced over her gavel, and Malfoy's eyes—dead, grey pools. The thin, shallow brown of his prisoner's robes hung loosely over his shoulders, and he only shrank back further when his father was mentioned.
The gavel struck. Harry didn't flinch. Two years in Azkaban, with a one-year banishment of magic after release. Nothing for Narcissa Malfoy.
The average Death Eater verdict resulted in ten or more years, but Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater. The Dark Mark on his forearm was an ugly, twisted thing. Harry left the courtroom, so livid he couldn't think.
#
Harry became an Auror in a flurry. It was his destiny, Robards said, with oily hair and an oily smile. He leered at Harry whenever he stepped into the office, and it made Harry's stomach turn.
After the war, Hermione disappeared to Australia. Six months later, she reappeared with teary eyes, a fierce, white-knuckled grip on two weathered hands, and parents who remembered their daughter.
The following year, Hermione and Ron got engaged. Harry sorted through the details of the proposal with Ron, who was frighteningly meticulous when it came to their relationship. Hermione preferred something private—but not too private, mate, of course both our families should be there. The throwaway comment made Harry's windpipe close in on itself, but by the time he could breathe, Ron was already fussing about the difference between 1.2 and 1.3 carats—so Harry let himself sigh, quietly.
When Hermione threw her arms around Ron's neck as he lifted her with a shout of joy, Harry watched from the side, and smiled for them. The Burrow bustled with noise. Harry excused himself, politely, and swept up the white petals on the ground outside.
He broke up with Ginny soon afterward. He would later tell Ron it was a mutual decision, but with the tight-lipped expression Ginny held on her face for a few weeks, Harry wondered if that was true. He didn't regret it much either way.
"No one has ever become an Auror so fast," Robards fawned, and Harry wanted to kill him.
There was paperwork, and field work, and dealing with everyday bullshit, and then some. The war fell into the past, and Harry felt frantic. He flinched under the wards at the Ministry.
Harry had aged tentatively, holding his breath. He was eleven, again—calculating, maniacally, the lifted corners of mouths and quirks of eyebrows, as boys his age spoke smartly, scoffed lightly, and were loved. He was five, again—the pit of his stomach burning from a hunger enveloped in darkness, inside his cupboard. He was fifteen, again, eyes on every inch of his skin, but none looking in. He was twenty, with his twenty-year-old eyes on others' skin, mimicking their casual everyday boredom, mimicking their peace—suffocating from the effort.
Everyone had swept up and away from the tortured ruins of Malfoy Manor. He knew it—everyone had swept up and away from portraits holding the recently dead, from his blood in the cauldron in the graveyard. Up and away and to drab grey cubicles with steady pay, away from Veils in the Department of Mysteries, and bottomless pools of anguish, where Dumbledore died before his body did—and shimmering, ghostly Veils—and—
"Harry," Hermione said. Her eyes seemed bleary from her Healer course textbooks, and Harry frowned. "You're going a bit off, again. No one's forgotten the war."
Hermione was right, Harry supposed. How could anyone forget?
The next winter, Malfoy was released from Azkaban.
#
It only took one season for Malfoy to become a pain in the ass.
Oleander Copper, a potions brewer fired from Slug and Jiggers, had started his own apothecary in Diagon Alley, on a secluded corner on the edge of Knockturn. Harry was sure he sold potions he shouldn't have—Ministry-restricted potions, potions made with illegal ingredients, like unicorn blood, or phoenix eyes. But there was no proof at all—no signed and trackable contracts with illegal suppliers, no evidence of trace amounts of Polyjuice, Felix Felicis, or Draught of Living Death sold for ridiculously high prices—though the muttered rumours from mothers of new Hogwarts students said it all. With no proof, there was no warrant, and with no warrant, there was no investigation. It was driving Harry mad.
Three months had passed after Copper opened his apothecary ("The Copper Apothecary," he had announced, "No need to name it something ridiculous, you know," when Harry once visited), when Malfoy was hired there.
The Auror division exploded.
"He hired Malfoy! Isn't that proof enough?" Savage had demanded, and Ron retorted, "You think every bloody thing is proof of a conspiracy, Savage. Are you bored?"
"Malfoy was already punished for his actions and served his time," Harry tried to reason. Proudfoot had muttered something about "And so did Sirius Black, and look where that got him," and Ron grabbed Harry by the arm, forcing him back, while Harry choked on anger with nowhere to go.
"Can't we place him under supervision, at least?" a junior Auror piped up.
"On grounds of what? Working? Besides, we can't do that without putting every other Death Eater under supervision."
"Former Death Eater," Harry bit out. "And all the others are still in Azkaban for at least another three years."
"Oh, yes, the 'others.' Why are we so quick to label Malfoy as former?" Savage argued.
"He hasn't been one in years," Harry said. He grit his teeth.
"How would you know? You think the Mark on his arm is temporary?"
Harry stood up and left.
#
"Harry Potter!" Oleander Copper cried, clapping his knobby hands together in delight, as the small bell rung softly above Harry's head. He stepped in briskly, eyes scanning for a particular blonde head—oh, there.
"You hired Draco Malfoy," Harry heard himself saying, and Malfoy stiffened where he stood, behind a wall of boxes, nearly obscured from sight. Copper wrung his hands in a show of performative concern.
"Oh my, my, Auror Potter, I'll have to ask for a warrant if this is an investigation!"
"No, no," Harry sighed. "Just…."
"Then I don't have to answer any of your questions, now do I?"
Harry stared. "I didn't ask any questions."
Copper laughed awkwardly. "Right, of course." He beckoned Malfoy closer, and to Harry's horror, he dipped his head obediently and seemed to float closer, light—too light—on his feet. His cheeks were sunken, smudges of dark skin resting under his eyes, and a sickly pallor filled his face. This was Draco Malfoy?
"Good evening," Malfoy said, and Harry felt sick. His eyes were glassy and dull.
Copper's gaze whipped between them, back and forth. His moustache twitched.
"Good evening," Harry said, flatly.
An awkward silence. Words fled him, and Harry could think of a thousand other places he would rather be.
So, Azkaban.
Why the act?
Wasn't too warm today, was it?—the weather, for fuck's sake. Why was he trying to make conversation? There was no need at all. He could just leave. Malfoy's eyes were trained on the floorboards between Harry's feet.
"Well," Harry ended up saying, and Malfoy's eyes flit up to meet his.
"What may I help you with?" Malfoy said. Harry grimaced at the polite smile that split its way across his face, a chasm with crumbling edges.
Smoke filled Harry's nose, and he remembered the desperate hands clinging to his back, pained sobs he could barely make out over the crackling fire down below. He remembered cold tile against his knees as he peered upward at Bellatrix's sneering face, with swollen eyes. Harry swallowed, hard. Imperceptively, Malfoy tensed.
"If there isn't anything specific you're looking for," chirped Copper, "I'll ask that you please exit the apothecary! We're close to closing, now, you understand." His grubby hands pushed carelessly against Harry, nearly shoving him out the door.
Harry allowed himself to be swept outside, brows furrowed. The moment Harry crossed the threshold, Malfoy turned away, and Harry watched quietly from the storefront window as Copper whacked him over the head with a rolled newspaper.
"Death Eater," Savage's voice announced, triumphantly.
Harry walked away. He seemed to be doing that often.
#
"All we need is one person," Harry said, "to say something about Oleander Copper, and we can start investigating. We've all heard the rumours, so where are they coming from?"
"I told you, mate," Ron muttered, massaging his temples. "I've already spoken to the Hogwarts parents. None of them want to say anything, which makes sense—if they're using Felix Felicis to help their kid, they're not going to want to admit they're taking advantage of Copper."
"Taking advantage of the fact that we haven't caught onto Copper," Harry corrected, and Ron just shook his head.
"Mate, not all of this is the Aurors' fault. All those parents know better than to use Restricted Potions. Y'know we're only human, too?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "But we should have had this down by now."
Ron sat up straight in his chair. "Y'know what?"
Harry frowned. "What."
"Why don't you just ask Malfoy?"
Harry groaned. "Ron, you didn't just ask me that."
"No—listen, it'd be our most reliable source of information!" Ron protested, as Harry jerked himself away from him and started pacing. "The git works there, he'd know the stocks, the clients, the contracts—"
Harry barked out a laugh. "And why would he tell me?"
"He'd still be rotting in Azkaban if not for you."
"And, besides, I can't go two feet into Copper's without him—ugh—yapping at me like a damn chihuahua, asking for a warrant."
Ron wrinkled his nose. "A what?"
Harry shook his head. "It won't work. He works there for a reason—he needs the money after the war—the Malfoy assets were frozen for what, five years?"
Ron opened his mouth, and Harry snapped, "No, we can't offer him money! You know his pride, you know he won't take it. And since when have we bribed people for information?"
"Since forever ago," Ron muttered. "Harry, it's still worth a shot. Catch him after his shift, yeah?"
"Why don't you do it," Harry said, but he could sense defeat descending upon him. He glanced at the clock—5:49pm. "When does Copper's close, again?"
"Six on Sundays. And," Ron nodded at the door, "it's Sunday. Be charming and persuasive for ten minutes."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, he'll be delighted."
#
Harry Apparated back to the Ministry at 7:34pm, a deep frown on his face. Ron raised an eyebrow, and didn't say anything as Harry carelessly threw his cloak onto his desk, just barely missing an inkwell. He collapsed into his chair.
"Malfoy didn't leave."
Ron raised a brow. "What do you mean, he didn't leave."
"I mean, I was waiting outside the apothecary until—" Harry glanced at his watch— "past seven, and only Copper went home. Malfoy's still in the store."
"And he couldn't have Apparated," Ron mused. "Because his magic ban doesn't end until next year."
"I've set charms at the door so we'll know when he leaves." Harry paused. "If he leaves."
"You think Copper's keeping him there?"
"Yes. No." Harry ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "I don't know."
"Just knock, mate. You said Copper left already, no? He's not gonna be a… what'd you say?"
"Chihuahua," Harry said. "Small Muggle dog. Very loud, very obnoxious. Bald, almost."
"Could be his Patronus."
#
Well, frankly, Harry wasn't expecting Draco Malfoy, dressed in ratty pajamas, to answer the door after the first knock.
"You live here?" was what Harry first said, incredulously, as Malfoy's lips pressed into a thin, angry line, the expression so familiar that it left Harry speechless.
"There's not exactly anywhere I can go," Malfoy snapped. He tried to slam the door in his face, but Harry deftly stuck his shoe into the doorway. Malfoy cursed under his breath. He settled for yanking the door back open, defiantly. "Why the fuck are you here?"
"Since when do you swear?" was Harry's next idiotic comment, and oh, Ron was going to kill him. But in his defense, it was a shock—Malfoy rarely cursed in school, and, well.
Malfoy just stared. "Are you familiar with Azkaban, at all?"
Harry bristled. "And whose fault was that, anyhow." No, he wasn't supposed to—
"Out," Malfoy said flatly, and when Harry didn't move, he slammed the door against Harry's shoe and hissed, "Get out!"
"Wait, hold on," Harry asked, rather desperately, avoiding Malfoy's furious and dangerously bright eyes.
"No." Malfoy spoke lowly. His chest heaved, the only evidence of his strained composure. "If I see you again, I'll kill you, restriction be damned." Harry realised abruptly that he was absolutely right: this was never going to work. Some other Auror would have to come talk to the git.
Death Eater.
Ron could do it. Harry spun on his heel and Apparated to his desk within the Ministry, the wards washing over his shoulders as he did. Ron barely flinched at the crack of Apparition, and jerked his head to the right, a stack of papers in his hands.
"Welcome back."
"Ron—"
"Mad, you're mad if you think I could do it," Ron said, shifting the papers around in his hands. Harry groaned, collapsing onto the chair beneath him. "I knew you were going to say that."
Ron sniggered, then his expression grew contemplative.
"What if we turned the case over to someone else?"
Harry froze. Ron casually flicked a manila folder open, tossing files inside, before snapping it shut.
"That's a coward's way out, Ron," Harry snapped, but Ron simply sighed.
"You're being bloody dramatic. I'm not saying we should give up, I'm saying another set of eyes could see something we didn't see." Ron grimaced. "We've been working on the same case for months, and the eyebags plus the glasses aren't a good look, Harry."
Harry blinked. He rubbed under his eyes absentmindedly, as if it would alleviate the dark circles. "Well…" He could lie, and say the idea didn't sound appealing, but his stomach turned. "Not Savage. Not Proudfoot."
"Definitely not," Ron agreed. He stamped a wet red "[UNSPEAKABLES]" onto the folder, then stood, stretching his legs. "We can get the referral forms after I drop these off. I've been considering Gestas…"
And, Harry hated to admit, life went back to a slow crawl of time.
The days blurred together, and Harry's twenty-first birthday slipped by without much fanfare.
He found that Ron was right in trusting Gestas, a young Auror with ears as sharp as a rabbit's and reflexes as quick. A wizard from Durmstrang. It had been discovered that Copper's truly didn't have any storage of closely monitored potions—his Felix Felicis was as good as orange juice, but the placebo effect made naive customers with shifting eyes and eager hands stack Galleons on the counter.
Oleander Copper was fired from Slug and Jiggers for his incompetency, Gestas reported, and couldn't brew to save his life. There was some suspicion that he wasn't brewing his potions himself, and rather utilising a unregistered brewer to do the dirty work for him, but, as Gestas muttered, that'd be another headache, and it'd be more efficient to turn the case over to the Department of Registry and Regulation.
The Ministry released Draco Malfoy's magic banishment in October, when the night chill bit at the tip of Harry's nose.
The Prophet had a field day.
Draco Malfoy Hospitalised—Is His Magic a Curse?—
Healers Aren't Sure Why Malfoy Is Comatose—
Medical Emergency, or Political Necessity? Draco Malfoy Bedridden—
Good thing Harry didn't read the Prophet. And good thing he didn't care about Draco Malfoy.
#
"Kingsley," Harry said, "with all due respect. No, I can't, and you can't make me."
"Mr. Potter." Kingsley gestured in the air, helplessly. "It was Healer Granger-Weasley's discovery. Pureblood families have their magic woven into the very fabric of their being, so his body became incredibly unstable after his magic ban, but as all humans do, adapted completely to a life without magic. But this made it so that he is now unaccustomed to the free influx of magic that he has now."
"And that has nothing to do with me," Harry said slowly, then repeated, "with all due respect."
"A solution would be to put him in the presence of an individual with extraordinarily strong magical capabilities. Temporarily, of course. The magic in his body needs somewhere to go, and placing him into an environment where a gradient can be created would ease the process. His physical form hasn't reached magical equilibrium, so we must force it."
"Are there any other solutions?" Harry stilled his anxiously shaking leg. "You said 'a' solution. So there are multiple?"
"Leaving him to die isn't an option, as you can see—giving up on Draco Malfoy indicates that Purebloods stripped of magic are as good as dead. Magical restriction becomes a death sentence for some, and an inconvenient judicial punishment to others." Kingsley leaned back in his armchair, then, avoiding Harry's gaze. "And, unfortunately, Harry—I swear to you, I don't know how—I believe the Prophet has somehow become aware that I am extending this as an option to you. If Malfoy dies—"
"Right." Kingsley flinched at Harry's voice. "All my fault, again. Brilliant work."
"The other option," Kingsley offered, pathetically, "is to sustain his body with St. Mungo's resources while he is in the coma. And we must simply hope he recovers in time before they cut the support."
Harry paused, then felt blood drain out of his face. "When would that be?"
"One month."
#
Bitter tea burned the roof of Harry's mouth. "Hermione, it's outrageous. You know one month is outrageous."
"Half the Healers in St. Mungo's believe he's still a Death Eater, Harry." Hermione took a rather aggressive sip of coffee as she scribbled onto her parchment. "Including Senior Healer Griff."
"That cunt," Ron groaned, shifting in his chair and wincing when it screeched loudly, the sound cutting through the quiet atmosphere of the café. "She's one of the most insufferable—"
"—witches to exist, Ron, but still my boss," Hermione furrowed her brows. "The paperwork she assigned me for this case alone was so excruciatingly repetitive, I reckon she did it to slow me down."
"Good luck to her with that!"
"So there's nothing we can do?" Harry pressed.
"Well," Hermione said. "Nothing we can do."
"There is something you could do," Ron supplied, unhelpfully.
"Ron." Harry sighed.
#
Harry wasn't at 12 Grimmauld Place when Draco Malfoy blinked his eyes open to stare at the high ceiling above him. The swirling magic in the guest room stung his skin, made his head spin. He blinked a couple more times, then slipped obliviously into a light slumber.
#
Draco Malfoy at 12 Grimmauld Place—
Malfoy Wakes! Do Healers Rejoice Or—
Narcissa Malfoy Avoids Interview—
"How does the Prophet find out about everything?" Harry groaned. Malfoy sneered where he sat across the room from Harry, wrapped in a quilt, not terribly menacingly. The fireplace crackled.
"You should've let me die."
Harry pretended not to see it when he involuntarily shuddered at the pulses of magic from the fireplace.
"Shut up, Malfoy."
Malfoy swore under his breath.
Malfoy was all stiff shoulders and sharp tongue, sneers and tosses of his silver head. He would press his lips into a thin line when he was upset, still uncomfortably familiar to Harry, though he didn't say anything.
The Department of Registry and Regulation questioned Oleander Copper in Harry's office, where Malfoy leaned heavily on one arm of his chair, scowling to hide the pain. Throughout each questioning, Copper grovelled in front of the Aurors. Malfoy did not look at Harry once.
The same cold exterior didn't falter when Malfoy disappeared into his guest room at 12 Grimmauld Place. He barely said anything to Harry once his magic settled into his body, opting for avoiding him at each and every turn of the hallways.
They didn't talk about the past.
Harry tried to give him back his wand, once. Ten inches, hawthorn wood with a unicorn hair core. Malfoy took it back quickly, a hunger aching in his eyes, but the wand writhed in his hand, bit at him.
They visited Ollivander's together, and Ollivander told Malfoy that his wand had forsaken him.
"Reintroducing your body to magic changed your magical signature. You're not the same wizard you were before," Ollivander said. "The excess of magic in your environment"—his magic, Harry realised— "changed your identity. Fermentation of magic isn't common, but it could happen…"
Malfoy didn't say anything once they Apparated back to Grimmauld Place, a new, alien wand clutched in his white-knuckled hands. Ollivander had gone through dozens and dozens of wands before one had tentatively reached out to Malfoy, glowing a pale green. Eleven inches, silver lime, unicorn hair. He disappeared into the guest room once they returned, and Harry only saw flashes of light from the crack under his door.
Malfoy didn't say anything about his loss of his wand, but Harry knew he hated him for it.
#
When Malfoy and Potter were twenty-one, Draco Malfoy died.
It was a winter day. The sun was bright, the clouds high, and Draco Malfoy was gliding on top of the ice, Transfigured blades glimmering from the soles of his boots. He cut easily through remnants of snow on the surface of the lake, dark cloak was billowing around him, eyes the same silver as the wisps of clouds in the sky. His white-blonde hair must have been made of light.
He had sniffed, haughtily, at Harry's suggestion that he should try flying, again—I grew out of those childish antics years ago, but I'm sure you're happy to stay eleven forever, Potter—but Harry had noticed his hands shaking around Floo powder, his air of caution using Portkeys, enchanted objects—even his wand. His hesitancy with magic. If a broom rejected Malfoy mid-air, he would fall to his death.
Out on the ice, Malfoy flew, alone with the soft banks of snow at the edge of the lake, the dark pine trees caressing the horizon. And, well, Harry Potter.
Harry’s eyes followed Malfoy as he danced, neck long and swan-like. The blades on his feet shone. The wooden planks of the dock, extending out into the lake, pressed uncomfortably into his legs, but he paid it little mind.
Once, in the halls, he had seen Malfoy without trousers, in just a dress shirt. Before he could react, had been struck with a hex along with a shriek of indignity. Harry had gone temporarily blind for the next week, and he had stood in Robard's office, arguing like hell that Malfoy, surely, hadn't meant it.
Yes, it was a directed hex. No, there were no Death Eater intentions. No, he didn't mean for it to interfere with his Auror work. Yes, it was Harry's own fault. Yes, Harry still felt safe about Malfoy staying at Grimmauld Place. It was true that they were living at the same residence out of necessity, but he hadn't minded, really.
Anyways, Harry wasn't a voyeur.
Malfoy was just skating on ice, in a public area. On a lake open to the public. Where anyone could be, but wasn't, but how was that his fault? He wasn't looking at Malfoy on purpose—he was just there. Why Harry felt the need to argue with himself about this, he wasn't keen on questioning.
Harry pointedly turned his attention towards the trees bordering the lake, gorgeous evergreens that were worth observing.
But, shouldn't Malfoy be the one avoiding him? They had been shouting at each other just the other day, Harry in his stiff Auror robes, Malfoy in crisp dress robes, so dark they were nearly black. Harry remembered the distinct whiff of mint and crushed elderberries.
What were they arguing about? Harry didn't quite remember. But, once again, Malfoy should be avoiding him. There was little reason for it to be the other way around. Harry continued admiring the outline of the dark pine against the brilliant sky.
Warmth broke through the cold, and Harry dozed a bit, back against the dock, chin tipped up towards the clouds. Within his muddled thoughts, there was something like a crash. When he craned his neck up and spared the lake a glance, the frozen surface was serene as it usually was, on all other days Harry ventured there. Though, where Malfoy had gone, he didn't know, but Harry didn't want to pry.
The tranquil silence filled his ears, and sleep overtook him.
#
Harry woke with a start when it started snowing.
The pinpricks of cold melted away on his eyelids, and Harry sat up. Snowflakes were settling on the surface of the lake, beautiful and cold. Harry stuck out his tongue, then self-consciously pulled it back when no snowflakes landed.
The snow came down in a flurry, and, shaking the snow out of his hair, Harry stood to Apparate. He hadn't expected the sudden snow, and he absentmindedly wondered if Malfoy had gone home alright. Just before he Apparated, a small dark spot in the middle of the lake caught his eye.
There was no snow there.
Harry's gut twisted, strangely.
A jagged hole in the ice. The water below was black as night.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry said, hoarse, and something like the flutter of robes rose from the dark.
Harry’s arms clasped Malfoy’s torso, and it was cold.
A lurch of nausea.
Harry scrambled down the hall of St. Mungo's, dragging Malfoy’s body along, the blades on the soles of Malfoy’s feet leaving long, pale scratches in the tile.
“Hermione!” Harry roared.
“Mr. Potter! Healer Granger-Weasley—”
All of the picture frames in the corridor burst, spraying bits of broken glass on the patients, who screamed or were dead silent, some shaking with their hands clasped on their mouths. The Healer abruptly fled back down the corridor.
A thin hand firmly clasped his arm. Hermione’s furious brown eyes met his.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Hermione snapped, the smallest tremor in her voice, and the walls stopped shaking. Harry shifted Malfoy’s weight in his arms.
“Malfoy—”
Hermione briskly walked to the closest empty room, throwing open the door, and Harry followed after her, ignoring fearful glances from patients and Healers alike.
Muttering under her breath, Hermione settled Draco into the hospital bed with a wandless wave, and before Harry could speak, touched her hand to his forehead, checking his temperature. She paled visibly, and Harry’s head started pounding. “What is it, Hermione? What, what?”
“Harry." Hermione swallowed thickly. "He's so cold.”
Harry’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?” He reached towards Malfoy, refusing to look at his face for fear of what he would see—emaciated cheekbones, or, a bare skeleton, or Malfoy's open, glassy eyes. His fingers pressed firmly into an icy wrist.
Nothing.
"Harry, what happened?"
Nothing, and Harry felt nothing, nothing.
Time stopped.
#
The funeral was a month later. February 13. Only eight people attended. Harry could not bring himself to feel anything, and Hermione and Ron went with him.
He said nothing. He didn’t cry.
Narcissa stood quietly, distanced from Harry, under a murky grey sky filled with heavy clouds. The Ministry wouldn’t allow Lucius out of Azkaban, even for his son’s funeral, but Narcissa said nothing of it. No one had known where Malfoy would have wanted to be buried, so his mother had declared firmly, albeit with a trembling voice, that it was only right that he should be buried in the most beautiful area of the gardens. No one objected. Her hands, with knuckles as white as a bloodless lip, gripped the shovel tightly. She buried him herself.
(Harry left the premises shortly before she began digging. He only managed to return to the Manor a week afterwards, but turned on his heel and ran before he could get anywhere near Malfoy’s grave. No one forced him to go back.
He didn’t go back.)
Blaise was there, too. He showed up five minutes early in a crisp black suit and apologised profusely for Pansy’s absence, not that anyone asked. She had, according to him, drunk herself dumb the night before, and it was later said that she had been draped over his tombstone, sobbing miserably, hands shaking with a crushed bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
(When Harry heard of it, he envied her.)
Luna spoke gently, softly, and rarely. Nobody knew how she had heard when and where the funeral would take place, but nobody complained. She placed a letter written on old yellowed parchment on top of Draco’s body before Narcissa started on the dirt, but the wind whisked it away, and it was lost. She wouldn’t say what she had written in it, much to Hermione’s dismay, and seemed saddened at the fact that the clouds had stolen it.
Goyle arrived in the last fifteen minutes of the funeral, when only Hermione, Ron, and Luna remained. No one had heard from Goyle since the end of the war, and the three were stunned to see him seemingly materialise out of thin air. He walked deliberately past them, directly to the grave, only to spit on the ground and wish hell upon the late Draco Malfoy.
With an enraged bellow of fury, Ron leapt up and punched him hard enough to leave them both staggering. Backing away unsteadily, Goyle threw a scathing look of hatred towards the redhead and Disapparated. Suddenly overwhelmed and exhausted, Hermione burst into fresh tears, and Luna quietly asked Ron why he had done it.
(He didn’t answer. Harry never heard about any of it.)
Not a week later, Narcissa sent a request to the Ministry to officially alter her name back to “Narcissa Black,” dropping the Malfoy name. She promptly moved out of Malfoy Manor and left it to rot, though she visited Draco’s grave every once in a while. Always with a bouquet of forget-me-nots.
A fortnight later, a roar went up at the cells in Azkaban. Lucius had attempted to break out, managing to go so far as getting his wand back with an accomplice on the other side of the bars. The accomplice was quickly thrown into the cell next to his. Lucius never even made it out of his cell. Before the Ministry could remember to take his wand, Lucius Malfoy dropped dead. Nobody knew what truly happened, since every witness that was present was out of their mind, babbling and muttering incoherently.
The last spell that was left in the records of his wand was Avada Kedavra. Narcissa received word of his apparent suicide and moved far, far, far away.
Every Malfoy was dead. Life went on without Draco Malfoy.
Life went on, leaving Harry behind.
Life went on, and on, and on.