When Draco awoke the next morning, Hermione was propped up against the headboard with the thick document from the night before resting on her knees. She was chewing her lip thoughtfully as she flipped through the pages. "My mother's will?" he asked quietly.
Her eyes flickered from the document in her lap and to him. "Hi," she said softly, smiling lightly as she looked at him. "And yes. It's fairly comprehensive. Your mother was quite the planner."
Draco furrowed his brow in confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Hermione shrugged, turning the page. "All of the arrangements are already made and paid for, all I need is your signature and I can get everything in order."
"My signature?" Draco asked, surprised. "Not my father's?"
"I'm just as surprised as you are. I was fully expecting to have to make another trip to Azkaban. But no, everything requires your signature." Hermione paused for a moment, before looking to Draco nervously and biting her lip, as if she had something more she needed to say, but was not entirely certain how to proceed.
"What, Hermione?" he asked, his stomach flipping nervously. He could feel his anxiety building steadily.
Hermione watched him carefully. "She's requested to be buried in the Black family mausoleum."
"What?" he asked sharply, sitting up immediately and grabbing the will from Hermione's hand, running his eyes over the document. "Where does it say that?"
Hermione reached her uninjured hand out and flipped back several pages, chewing her lip nervously as Draco began to read. His eyes flickered over the words, finding it difficult to understand much of the technical jargon presumably drafted by a family lawyer. One sentence, however, stood out: "It is the wish of Narcissa Malfoy, née Black to be buried in the ancestral mausoleum of the most ancient House of Black…" Draco didn't need to read anymore. It was right there, right on the page. She was to be buried alongside the Black family. Not Malfoy. His eyes shot back to Hermione. "I don't understand," he said, his voice shaking faintly. "Why is she being buried with the Blacks?" Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure, Draco. Are you okay?" Draco held the will in his hands, his fingers twitching with anxiety. "I—I just don't understand. Why would she—?" He looked to Hermione, as if she had all the answers. "I don't know," Hermione replied helplessly. Draco handed the will back to her absently and leaned back against the headboard, deep in thought. Why in the world would his mother request to be buried in the Black Family tomb? She had been a Malfoy for more than half her life, and she was still married to his father—she had been, effectively, a Malfoy until the day she died. It was traditional for pureblooded witches to be buried alongside their husbands in their ancestral tombs. To be buried with her blood relatives…It was unheard of as far as married pureblooded witches went. So, why? "Draco?" Hermione's voice shook him from his thoughts.
"Hmm?" he asked, looking back over to her.
Hermione bit her lip once more. "She's leaving everything to you and—and—" Hermione paused, thinking. "She's leaving everything to you and Andromeda. Well, she's donating a bit to Hogwarts, but everything else is going to you and Andromeda," she continued hurriedly.
"Me—and Andromeda?" he asked dumbly. "What about Lucius?"
Hermione shook her head. "There—there's nothing in here about your father at all. I've been through dozens of pages and I have not seen your father mentioned once."
"That doesn't make any sense," Draco argued. "They're married. How is he not mentioned once in her fucking will?" His voice grew louder with every syllable, and he could feel heat creeping up his face."
"Draco," Hermione said gently, covering his fist with her unbandaged hand.
He couldn't sit in that bed any longer. He jerked away from Hermione and her comfort and stood, beginning to pace the length of the bed. He pressed his hand into his brow, feeling where it was furrowed. "I don't fucking understand!" he nearly shouted, looking up to the ceiling, as if he could find answers there or in the heavens above. "I don't fucking understand."
"Draco," Hermione repeated, just as gently.
"Don't—!" he cried, his voice shaking with the intensity of his anger. "Just don't."
"Draco, why are you so upset?" Hermione asked, her eyes flashing with confusion.
Draco paused. Why was he so upset? He hated his father, what did he care if Lucius was named in his mother's will? He dropped his hands from his face and stared at them for a long moment, trying to think—to figure out why this upset him so badly. "I don't know—" he said brokenly. "I don't—I don't know."
Hermione stood from the bed and cautiously approached him. When he didn't move away, she stepped into his space and caught his face in her hands. "Look at me," she said softly.
Draco obeyed, meeting her eyes. "I don't know why I'm so angry," he admitted. "But I am."
Hermione nodded before wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into her. "The grieving process is different for everyone," she said against his shoulder.
Draco's arms remained limp at his sides. Yes, he was grieving, of course. But what he was feeling right now wasn't grief, was it? He wasn't sure—he wasn't sure what he was feeling other than just anger. Anger, for some reason. How could he explain that to Hermione when he couldn't even explain it to himself? "I feel—I just—I don't know," he cut himself off.
"Confused?" she supplied. "Because I'm certainly confused."
"Yeah," he replied weakly. Confused was one way to put it, certainly.
"It was updated recently, too. Just after the end of the War. Maybe she had him cut out of the will after he was sentenced to Azkaban. You said you couldn't access Lucius' money even though he was imprisoned—maybe she knew that would be an issue. She wanted you taken care of, Draco," she offered.
"That—that makes sense," he relented. It did make sense. Hermione was always highly, frustratingly logical. It still did not explain why his mother was being buried with the Blacks and not the Malfoys, however. When he spoke again, he did it without thinking, "When I die—I won't be buried near her," he said, nearly choking on his words. "I'll be buried with the Malfoys."
Hermione's hold on him tightened. "Oh, Draco," she said quietly.
"I'll be buried next to my father, and I hate him," he laughed bitterly, then began to cry against her shoulder.
Emotional-fucking-disaster.
Hermione didn't say anything in response, she simply clung to him, holding him—supporting him.
When I die, I'll be buried next to you, the thought flashed through his mind in an instant, and he wasn't entirely sure where it had come from. He loved Hermione—he loved Hermione more than he thought he was capable of ever loving another human being. He was certain he'd never be able to do better than her, and he never intended to leave her, but in Draco's mind, there had always been, and always would be, an expiration date on their relationship. One day, he was sure, Hermione would look at him a realize that she could do much, much, better than him.
A wife and an heir had always been a foregone conclusion when Draco was a child—his duty had always been to marry the perfect pureblooded witch, then produce several white-blond little boys. He had always understood that. But then, the War happened, and that foregone conclusion had seemed less and less likely with each passing day. Draco had fully expected to die during the War, so what was the sense in thinking about the future? About a wife and children?
Wife. This is my wife, he thought. If it wasn't her, then it wasn't anybody.
He had tried to push her away last night. Then he'd attempted to pull away from her as she slept. But she had already pulled him back in. She held him so tightly, so lovingly. Finally, his hands rose, his arms wrapping around her midsection, pulling her into him just as she pulled him into her. "I'm sorry. I just—I don't understand. I feel like my whole family—it's just a lie."
Hermione nodded against him again. "I understand," she said quietly.
"I've never even met Andromeda," Draco said after a moment.
"You'll like her," Hermione replied instantly. She grimaced. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It appears my mother lived a double life," he said bitterly. "I was—I was raised to hate her. Her and her husband—and now—" he gulped. "I guess she's the only family I have left now." He laughed. "Imagine that."
Hermione did not speak, but her hold on him tightened, but he heard it all the same: "I'm your family."
Yes, he agreed just as silently, dropping a kiss to her curls. You're the only family I'll ever need.
Narcissa Malfoy had been astoundingly thorough preparing for her death. As soon as Draco signed the papers, everything happened very quickly, and before he knew it, he and Hermione were getting dressed for his mother's funeral on a dreary Wednesday morning.
The days following his mother's death and Hermione's injury were a blur, and Draco felt as he was hurtling through the week at breakneck pace, leaving him with very little time to process or grieve the death of his mother. He attempted to put on a brave face in front of Hermione, who had begrudgingly returned to work, but when she would leave him in the mornings, Draco would crawl back into bed and sleep the days away. When she returned in the evenings, Draco would be waiting for her on the couch, playing at a semblance of normalcy.
Their evenings were quiet, Hermione seemingly unsure how or if she should broach the subject of Narcissa's upcoming funeral, and Draco was content with avoiding the subject completely. It was different, though, when they went to bed. Every night, without words, Hermione would wrap herself around him, pulling him into her as he burrowed into her arms. Draco suspected that it was her, and those nights together, that kept him grounded and prevented him from becoming unmoored.
Today, however, there was no avoiding the subject. Today was the day. The day that Narcissa Black Malfoy would be laid to rest. His heart stuttered violently at the thought before he pushed it away and down deep into the recesses of his mind. Don't think about it, he told himself, which was much easier said than done. He thought briefly of the bottle of firewhiskey in the kitchen before Hermione pulled him from his thoughts when she stepped in front of him and pressed her palms to his chest, gently smoothing the impeccably tailored lapels of his suit. "Are you ready?" she asked softly as she moved to straighten his tie.
Draco made to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He nodded jerkily instead.
Hermione smiled at him sadly before rising on the tips of her toes and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dropped her head down onto his shoulder, her wild curls invading his nose with their scent. He buried is his face in her hair, breathing her in. "Yeah," he managed after a moment, before planting a kiss to her temple.
She pulled away from him, and he felt the loss of her warmth acutely. Draco felt the sudden urge to grab her, to hang on to her, and never let her go. He could pull her into him and they could burrow under the covers and hide from the rest of the world, hide from this.
Across the bedroom, Hermione was pulling on her lone pair of heels with some difficulty, planting her hand on the dresser for stability. She flinched, then stumbled. Draco rushed to her, catching her before she fell. "It still hurts?" he asked.
"Not badly," she replied, pulling on her other shoe now that Draco was holding her steady. "Just throbs a bit. Will you grab my coat?"
Draco nodded, releasing his hold on Hermione and heading to the closet where he pulled their coats from the hanger on the door. When he returned, Hermione was holding an antique hairbrush, wrapped in a small towel, between her fingertips. It was the Portkey that would take them to the ancient home of the Black family. Draco gulped and handed Hermione her coat, which she shrugged on before he donned his own coat. "Ready?" Draco asked tightly, his eyes fixed on the Portkey.
Hermione thrust the Portkey hairbrush towards Draco. "Yes," she said quietly, her eyes meeting his.
With a sigh, Draco reached forward and just as his fingers brushed the bristles, he felt a pulling sensation behind his navel, and he was spinning, twirling, and throttling through space. It wasn't a far journey, but Draco had always hated Portkey travel, and it seemed to last far too long. Abruptly, he and Hermione were deposited in an empty field, Hermione looking a bit worse for wear. "All right?" he asked her, reaching for her hand.
Hermione nodded too vigorously as she twined her fingers with his. "Fine," she said briskly, looking around at their surroundings. "Where are we?"
"It's not too far of a walk," Draco replied, gesturing vaguely towards a hill a few hundred feet away. "The house is just over that hill."
They walked towards the hill in silence, Hermione's fingers wrapped tightly around his own. Once they had climbed the short hill, they were met with a rambling Manor, similar in size to Malfoy Manor. It had fallen into disrepair over the past few years, with the grass much too tall and the Manor in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and some handiwork. "When was the last time you were here?" Hermione asked softly.
Draco furrowed his brow, thinking. "Probably not since my first year at Hogwarts. That was the year my grandmother died."
Hermione nodded, squeezing his fingers. "It's your house now, you know," she said quietly.
Draco turned to look at Hermione. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Besides Andromeda, you're the only Black left," Hermione replied. "And legally Andromeda has no claim to it, since she was disowned." Hermione met his eyes. "Means it's yours."
Draco sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I suppose it does," he said dully. He did not have the emotional strength to deal with this.
"Sorry, I didn't mean—" she began, before cutting herself off. "Sorry."
"It's fine, Hermione," he said quietly, pulling her hand and leading her to a small path just at the end of the hill. They walked along the path hand-in-hand, until they were behind Black Manor. "These used to be the gardens," Draco commented, gesturing vaguely towards a courtyard with a decrepit fountain in the middle. There were no weeds, but the former gardens were starkly barren, void of all life and color.
"I'm sure it was lovely," Hermione replied quietly.
Eventually the path led them to the Black family mausoleum, a massive structure set in the back of the gardens, framed and slightly hidden by several yew trees. The mausoleum was several centuries old and built entirely of black marble, save for two supporting pillars in the front and an elegant etching above the door that simply read Black, which were both made from gleaming silver.
Potter was already there, chatting quietly with a woman who was certainly his aunt. He had never met the woman, but she bore such a striking resemblance to Narcissa that the relation was nearly undeniable. Draco's heart stuttered in his chest, and he stopped on the path, just watching his aunt as she conversed with Potter. She had yet to see him.
"Draco," said Hermione softly, squeezing his hand. "Come on."
Draco nodded jerkily and allowed her to pull him forward. After several steps, their presence made itself known, and both Potter and Andromeda turned to face them. Potter lifted a hand in greeting, but Andromeda remained very still, her eyes locked on Draco. Cold, clear blue. His mother's eyes, almost exactly. How was he supposed to—? What was he—? He didn't know how to do this—
"Hi, Harry, Andromeda. Andromeda, this is Draco. Your nephew," offered Hermione, an introduction of two long-lost family members.
"Draco," breathed Andromeda, the lilt of her voice as distinctly well-bred as his mother's had been, despite decades away from her pureblooded upbringing.
"Hello," Draco replied, awkwardly.
Andromeda reached for him in an instant, her thin arms wrapping around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. Draco's first thought was that Andromeda was much shorter than her sister had been. "Draco," Andromeda repeated. "It is so good to finally meet you." Her voice was watery.
Draco stood awkwardly in her embrace for a few moments before he lifted his arms, hugging his aunt back tentatively. "Yes, you as well," he replied quietly, just as awkwardly.
She pulled back from him, her hands grasping his face, studying him. "Gods, you've gotten so handsome. She'd shown me pictures, of course, but to see you in person finally…" Andromeda trailed off. There were tears in her eyes. "I just wish it was under better circumstances that we were meeting."
Draco nodded, unsure of what to say. His eyes left his aunt's, searching for Hermione. She had trailed off with Potter and was studying the mausoleum, both of their backs were to Draco and Andromeda. She was giving them privacy, Draco realized instantly. He looked back to his aunt, who was watching him carefully. "Sorry, I just—" he began.
Andromeda shook her head, dropping her hands. "No, I'm sorry. We've only just met, and I can see that I'm overwhelming you. It's just such an emotionally charged day. I've gotten a bit ahead of myself, is all."
"No, it's all right," Draco replied awkwardly.
She beamed at him. Straight, white teeth. An impeccable smile. She had good breeding, no doubt. But a true Black would never smile the way she did. It was far too plebian. He decided then that he liked his aunt.
"Let's rejoin the others, shall we?" she asked. "Harry, Hermione!"
Hermione turned instantly, her eyes locked on his face. Draco nodded, and Hermione offered him a light smile. As soon as he reached Hermione, her arms were wrapped around his middle and she curled into his side. "Everything all right?" she asked, so lowly that only he could hear.
"Yes," he responded quietly. "Are we expecting anyone else?"
"No," Hermione replied. "This is it."
Draco nodded, avoiding everyone else's eyes on him. "Then I guess we should get started," he said. His voice sounded strange to his ears. Hermione clasped his hand.
The small group made their way up the steps of the mausoleum, Draco reluctantly leading the way beside Hermione. The door swung open of its own accord, as if it had been waiting for Draco, and they stepped inside. Despite its outwardly dark architecture, the inside was relatively well lit. Candelabras lined the walls, casting a glow on the dark marble. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the center of the room, where a simple black casket outfitted with silver hardware stood. His mother's casket. Draco gulped before he ran his fingers along the top of the closed casket—there was just the slightest shimmer of magic.
At the head of the casket stood an immaculately groomed man, wearing a set of obscenely expensive formal robes. A representative of the Black family, Draco presumed, to oversee the funeral.
It was a simple affair, really. The representative performed the traditional Black enchantments on the casket—Draco wasn't certain what they actually entailed, and he didn't listen closely enough to make out any clear spells, but Hermione would certainly know—and everyone spoke a few words about Narcissa before the casket was levitated and lowered into its eternal resting place, right beneath her mother.
The entire funeral took less than half an hour, and when it was over, Draco stood frozen in front of his mother's tomb. Narcissa Black Malfoy was etched neatly into a silver plate, glinting in the light of the candelabras.
That was it? This was it?
His mother. The woman who had loved him unconditionally and unfailingly.
It felt like there should be more.
Hermione's hand on his shoulder snapped him from his reverie. "Hey," she said quietly. "Andromeda suggested we go get some food. Do you want to go, or do you want to go home?"
Draco sighed. He wanted to go home. He wanted to wallow under the covers with Hermione. "No offense, Hermione, but I don't feel like socializing with Potter today," he replied.
Hermione shook her head. "Just us and Andromeda," she clarified.
"Oh." Draco thought for a minute, before nodding. "Yeah, let's go," he replied. "We'll go."
"Really?" Hermione asked, slightly disbelieving.
"Yes," Draco replied more confidently. "Let's—I think—I'd like to spend time with Andromeda."
Hermione gave him a cautious smile. "That's wonderful," she replied, taking his hand once more.
They chose a dimly lit Muggle pub—for privacy's sake—for lunch. Draco was on edge and unsure of himself as Andromeda and Hermione chatted absently while they waited for their food. Draco wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but he ordered a side of chips to nibble on while Hermione munched on a sandwich and Andromeda picked delicately at a Caesar salad. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment before turning to Draco. "I feel the need to apologize to you, Draco. There have been several times over the past few years where I thought about reaching out to you—I know Narcissa's health had been poor—but I was unsure about what you knew, or where you stood regarding my marriage."
"There's no need to apologize," Draco replied, unsure of how to address this woman in front of him. Aunt? Andromeda? Aunt Andromeda? "I wasn't aware you had contact with my mother until—well, until right towards the end—"
Andromeda interrupted him, clasping his hand above the table. "Regardless, I should have reached out to you. We are family, Draco, and I should have been there for you."
Draco felt his lip tremble, and Hermione's hand was instantly on his knee, comforting him. "Thank you," was his only reply. "I think—It's nice to still have family. I don't—my father—I don't—" He felt on the verge of tears, and for a split second he thought he was going to cry in front of this woman, this complete stranger. My family. Draco breathed out. "I don't have a relationship with my father anymore. So it's—it's nice."
Andromeda smiled at him kindly. "I know it's 21 years too late, but I would like to have a relationship with you, Draco, if you'll let me."
"I think I'd like that," Draco replied quietly.
"Good, then it's settled." Andromeda smiled again.
Draco looked briefly to Hermione, who was watching them carefully, a gleam in her brown eyes, before he turned back to Andromeda. "What do I call you?" he asked.
Andromeda's brow furrowed just the tiniest bit before she spoke, "What do you mean?"
"Do I call you 'Aunt?' or 'Andromeda?'" Draco clarified.
Andromeda laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. "You can call me whatever you'd like, Draco."
"Okay, Andromeda," he replied, testing out her name on his tongue.
Her eyes brightened at his use of her name. "Oh, Draco, darling—I am so very happy. That sounds terrible, I know," she gave a watery laugh. "But I've missed my family, too."
When they arrived home later that afternoon, Draco felt the weariness in his bones. He was so very tired. It had been a very intense day, and Draco's emotions were raw, flayed wide open by tears, and admissions and apologies. As soon as the door of the flat was closed behind them, Draco sank against Hermione, whose arms immediately wrapped around him, steadying him. "Are you all right?" she asked, a tinge of worry coloring her voice.
"I'm so tired, Hermione," he admitted, closing his eyes as his head rested atop hers.
Hermione sighed with relief. "It has been a long day," she said.
"I want to hide under the covers with you."
"Then that's what we'll do," Hermione replied, tightening her hold on him. "Come on."
They walked to the bedroom, Hermione's arms still wrapped around him. Draco sat on the edge of the bed, quickly pulling off his jacket, his shirt and trousers. He tossed the suit to the floor. "I never want to see that suit ever again," he said dully.
"We'll burn it," Hermione said, pulling off her dress and tossing it in the pile with his suit. "My dress, too."
"No," Draco replied, falling back against his pillow, clad only in a pair of boxers. "You looked pretty. Keep it."
She curled up to his side, resting her head on his chest. "I'll buy another one," she offered. "I'm rich now, you know."
Draco chuckled faintly before pulling the green silk comforter up over their heads. "You are," he agreed. They laid in comfortable silence for several minutes, and Hermione had just started to doze on his chest when he uttered her name softly, "Hermione."
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
She propped her head up on his chest so that she could look at him. "I love you, too," she replied with a soft smile.
Draco grazed her cheek with the palm of his hand. "You're my family," he said. "I'm so glad to have Andromeda in my life now, but even before that, I always had a family—you. And I just—I just wanted you to know that."
Hermione smiled up at him before pressing a kiss to his lips. "Always.