It was the roiling of his stomach that woke him. He wasn't moving, but the room was spinning so much that he could've sworn that he was. Draco sat up, took in the unfamiliar flat, and promptly vomited onto the floor, his throat burning from the excess alcohol. He banished the mess immediately, feeling horribly embarrassed.
He took in his environment—he was on a couch, in a very nice flat. He had drunk quite a bit last night, if the throbbing in his head was any indication, but he couldn't quite remember. He was fully clothed, thankfully, and he was certain he hadn't fucked anyone last night.
Thank Merlin.
He didn't have too much memory from the night before—a surly bartender, annoyed by his presence. The music, the lights. A fight with Astoria, very vague. Tracey.
Tracey.
Draco sat up quickly, suppressing the urge to vomit again.
He needed to get out of here. He needed to go home.
Tracey appeared in the living room, looking haggard and gray. "We didn't do anything," she said immediately, looking nervous.
"I know," he replied, groaning. "What time is it?"
"2," she answered grimly.
"Great," Draco said bitterly. "I have to get home."
Tracey nodded. "I wish I had a potion to offer you," she said quietly. "I don't keep them on hand."
"It's fine," Draco replied. "She knows me well enough to know what I've been up to—potion or not."
"I'm sorry," Tracey said quietly, "about last night."
Draco sighed, desperately not wanting to have this conversation right now, or ever—or at all. "It's fine, Tracey," he said, rubbing at his aching head. "You didn't know about Hermione."
Tracey visibly paled, looking as if she were about to be sick, if she hadn't already been. "Go," she urged. "I'll—I need to talk to Astoria."
Draco scoffed. "Good luck."
Tracey's expression twisted for a brief moment before she nodded tersely. "I'll see you, Draco," she said awkwardly.
"Yeah," he agreed, before apparating away, mentally steeling himself for Hermione's inevitable ire.
Draco arrived in the living room of the flat, his eyes instantly searching for Hermione. The quietness of the flat struck him—he had never known it to be so quiet. It was unnerving how quiet it was. Crookshanks sat on the couch, watching him warily through hooded eyes, but there was no Hermione.
A quick search of the flat confirmed as much—Hermione was nowhere to be found. Draco furrowed his brows in confusion, and anxiety bloomed in his gut. She should be here. Where else would she be? Suddenly—or maybe not so suddenly—Draco wanted Hermione fiercely. He needed her. Now.
It was this want that triggered his realization. He'd spent the previous evening forcing every thought of Hermione from his mind, when in reality she'd been all he'd needed. She'd always been what he needed. He'd made such a horrible mistake—Hermione had told him that she didn't want to lose him, and he'd promised, he whispered against her skin that she never would, and then, he'd left. He'd left without a second thought.
He was such a fucking idiot.
An emotional fucking disaster.
He should've stayed. He never should have left.
Draco was panicking before he even realized it. Hermione had been afraid to lose him, and he'd left her. A panic attack of his own accord, all of his own making. There was nothing irrational here—this was panic, utter and complete, because underlying everything else was Draco's own worst fear—losing Hermione. If she was afraid of losing him, it paled in comparison to how utterly terrified he was of losing her.
He could not lose her.
He could not breathe—
Draco's lungs stuttered in his chest as he tried to suck in oxygen, his head clouding with the lack of it, and the nausea that had woken him in the first place returning in full force. He couldn't breathe and he was going to vomit—
He choked momentarily, caught between attempting to breathe and the urge to puke all over his shoes. A long, strangled wail erupted from his throat before he gasped, sucking air into his lungs.
Breathe. You have to breathe. Hermione's voice. It was always Hermione's voice.
Breathe. He could breathe.
"You need to breathe, Draco."
It really was Hermione. She was here, with him. Draco exhaled, then dragged in another breath. With Hermione, he could breathe. She was his air, she was his oxygen. She was everything. She was—
She was looking at him with an expression he'd never seen before. As Draco's breathing eased, and the fuzziness that had begun to cloud his eyes cleared, he saw Hermione clearly. Even though she had talked him through a panic attack, he realized she hadn't touched him once. In fact, she stood several feet away from him, her arms crossed over her body defensively. As he studied her, he took in her unkempt appearance, and the puffiness around both of her eyes, which were red and irritated looking with a slightly glassy sheen to them. Since the last time he'd seen, she'd cried, evidently quite a bit. "Hermione?" he asked, reaching a hand out for her.
Hermione took a step back and glared at him. "Did you have fun last night?" she asked, her voice creaky and unsteady.
Draco shook his head. No, he had decidedly not had fun. "Hermione, look—"
Hermione held up a hand, stopping him. She laughed shakily for a moment, before speaking again, "I was sitting here thinking that I had been a bit too harsh on you, and I know Harry didn't help—I yelled at him for quite a bit after you had left, by the way—" she spoke hurriedly, before she broke off, looking up at him with a harsh glint in her eye. "I was sitting here, composing my apology in my head, when an owl knocked on the window."
Oh no. Oh no.
Draco didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.
"It was my dear friend Rita Skeeter," she continued bitterly, "letting me know that my adoring boyfriend was at some seedy club in Knockturn Alley dancing with another woman." Hermione's voice broke. She looked away from him. "Sent me pictures for good measure." While she had started off angry, now she just seemed sad.
"Hermione, wait," Draco finally said. "It's not what it looks like, I promise."
She still didn't look at him. "So it's true then," she said quietly.
Draco shook his head. "No, no. Hermione, I just—I needed to let off steam. I went to Astoria's—"
"Astoria?" Hermione asked disbelievingly, before speaking faintly, seemingly to herself, "Fucking Astoria."
"And yes, we went out," he admitted. "Tracey Davis was there—she, she had a crush on me at Hogwarts—she hit on me. Hermione, I pushed her away, I swear."
Hermione laughed meanly. "Only took you a solid ten seconds. That's the thing with Wizarding photos, Draco. They move," she said as if Draco wasn't completely aware of this fact.
Draco stared at Hermione. "Hermione—" he began again, his tone taking on a faint begging quality.
"Don't," she said quietly, interrupting him. She shrugged forcefully. "I don't really want to hear it."
Draco didn't listen. He had to tell her—he had to make sure she understood. "Hermione, I would never—I would never do that to you. Ever. You have to believe me."
She looked back up at him, studying him. "Who did you stay with last night?" she asked. "You said you were staying with a friend. Who was it?"
Draco stilled, realizing that there was no way he would be getting out of this unscathed. In fact, he was fairly certain he would be badly mangled. "Tracey. I slept on her couch."
Hermione smiled cruelly. "I knew it. I just knew it." It was then that she began to cry.
He reached for her again, but Hermione took several more steps back. "Hermione, nothing happened. I promise you." Draco took several steps forward—Hermione was nearing a wall and thusly, running out of empty space to put between the two of them. "As soon as she realized I had a girlfriend, she apologized. She felt horrible."
"I suppose Astoria conveniently forgot to tell her that. I assume she knew about Tracey's crush?" Hermione asked snidely.
"That's exactly what happened, Hermione," he said earnestly. Hermione had reached the wall, and Draco did not intend to allow her to escape. He stood directly in front of her, still allowing her some semblance of space, and planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head, framing her. "I would never do that, Hermione."
She finally met his eyes, glossy with tears. "I want to believe you, Draco," she said quietly. "I so badly want to believe you." Hermione fisted his shirt for a brief moment, as if she wanted to pull him closer, but then thought better of it, and dropped her hands back to her sides. "It would be easier to believe you if you hadn't already been lying to me."
Draco's heart sank. This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for since the day he realized he wanted to kiss Hermione Granger.
"You use alcohol to cope with your problems. I knew this about you when we got together, and I was fine with it. I'm not naïve. I knew it was problematic—but I—you seemed okay. Especially when you were with me." She smiled, but it didn't feel real. "I supposed, in some way, I thought I'd fixed you."
"I'm not yours to fix, Hermione," he said quietly.
"I know that," Hermione replied. "But it was a nice thought. And then when everything started piling up for you, I watched you. I was waiting. There were some days that I thought you'd shatter from the pressure of everything, but you never did. I thought—I thought you were okay. That you were better. That I made it better."
"You did make it better, Hermione," Draco insisted, desperately. "You make everything better."
Hermione looked back up at him. "You promised me, Draco. You promised me you'd tell me if you were not okay."
So he had. He remembered, her watching him. The way she seemed to be waiting for him to break. How he'd promised to tell her if he was about to.
He'd broken— he had been blown to smithereens. His entire life, his legacy, all of it was shattered beyond any hope of repair, and he'd never even told her.
That's what she'd wanted. She'd wanted him to tell her he was not okay. He realized it an instant, and in the same instant, realized it was much too late.
"You can't hide it from me, Draco," she continued. "I know you better than I've ever known anyone. And I didn't—I didn't like that you were drinking. I just hated knowing you were lying to me more. I just—why didn't you tell me?" she asked girlishly.
"I didn't want you to be disappointed in me," Draco replied, hating how weak his voice sounded.
"Why would I be disappointed in you? Because you have feelings? An unhealthy coping mechanism?" she asked. "Draco—I just—" she cut off for a moment, searching for her words. "And when I found those potions, those potions that I worked so hard to make for you that you never even took and—I just—I realized that I would've done anything to help you. And you never even tried."
Draco felt as if she'd slapped him. But she was right, wasn't she? He'd taken those potions and tucked them under a cabinet, because Hermione made him happy. Because Hermione helped him through his anxiety. Because Hermione made him forget all of his other problems, just for a little bit. He'd been leaning so heavily on Hermione that he didn't even realize she was on the verge of her own collapse. Staring down at her now, with her hair unkempt and her eyes so red and irritated, her eyelids puffy from shedding tears, he realized that he was the cause of it. He removed his hands from the wall and took several steps back from her.
All he could do was stare at her. There were no excuses, and apologies were useless. Hermione had asked him to promise her one thing, and he'd failed spectacularly.
It was Hermione who spoke first: "I think I'm going to stay with Harry and Ginny for a bit," she said quietly, gnawing at her lip.
Draco's gaze snapped to her. He shook his head. "No. You stay here. I'll—I'll leave."
"Draco—" she began.
"This is your flat, Hermione," he interrupted. I don't want you sleeping on a couch the way Weasley made you, he did not say.
"Where will you go?" Hermione asked quietly.
Even in the midst of their inevitable break-up, Hermione was so gods-damned kind and caring. "I'll find somewhere. Just—give me some time to gather some clothes."
"Draco, wait—" she continued.
Draco shook his head, giving her a wan smile. "It's okay, Granger, I understand."
Hermione faltered and then looked crestfallen, her gaze locked on the floor. "Okay," she said quietly.
Draco left Hermione in the living room, feeling very much removed from his body as he headed to the bedroom—the, not theirs, not anymore—and to the closet. He mindlessly shrunk several sets of clothes and tucked them into his pockets before he grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom. Some mismatched clothes and a toothbrush. Surely there must be more he needed? He didn't know, and he didn't care. There was the curious sensation of watching himself walk down the hallway, as if he were otherwise removed from the scene at hand. This was not him—this was not his life. It was some other bloke, with some other girl.
The girl in question was still standing against the wall, staring at her shoes. Her socks were mismatched.
"I'll be off now," he said, his voice sounding oddly calm and detached.
Hermione's eyes rose, but they did not meet his. "Okay," she replied, sounding hoarse.
If not for the feeling that he was watching himself outside of his own body, he would've begged, would've pleaded, for her to forgive him. To not leave him—to not let him leave. He'd promised her, after all.
Another promise he'd broken.
But he was somewhere else, floating, so he did not beg. He simply walked out the door, leaving Hermione Granger behind.
He did not know where to go. Astoria was out of the question, as was Tracey. He briefly thought about Andromeda, but decided that their relationship was still too new for him to show up at her door, holding only a toothbrush and a few jumpers.
Draco had no inclination towards being recognized, so he apparated to Muggle London, into an alleyway he had often frequented with Hermione.
Granger. She was Granger again. She had to be.
Hermione hurt his heart too much. As if on cue, his heart clenched in his chest, and Draco held his hand there, willing the pain to stop. A Muggle walking past him stopped, looking at him with concern. "Are you quite all right?" the Muggle asked.
Draco nodded, smiling weakly. "Yes, thank you," he replied, removing his hand from his chest. The Muggle smiled back, clapping Draco on the back before moving on. Once, he would've felt disgusted, just having been touched by a Muggle. But Hermione—Granger—had shown him—they were just like him. They just didn't have magic.
No, even the Muggle world was too jarring. It brought up too many thoughts of Her—Granger. Draco needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else—
He apparated without a destination in mind, which was inherently dangerous, but Draco didn't much care. He reappeared on a hill, overlooking a vast house—Black Manor.
It's your house now, you know.
Of course he'd ended up here.
He had no home—not really, not anymore. His ancestral home was in the hands of the Ministry, and his true home was inhabited by one Hermione Granger, whom he was no longer in a relationship with. It made sense, then, that he'd end up at Black Manor, where his mother was buried despite pureblood family tradition.
But then, Draco had gone against tradition, too. Former Death Eater, former blood supremacist, irrevocably in love with a Muggleborn witch.
No. No.
No. Just because they'd broken up did not mean he was no longer in love with her. That was not how love worked. He was as still in love with her as the day he'd realized he was in love with her, if not moreso. And if Draco was certain of one thing, it was that she still loved him, too.
That had never been the issue, though.
Even though this was the end, Draco knew he'd love her forever. That was how love worked.
Draco walked towards the house, grateful that he had at least found shelter for the night. The house was dark, and just how he remembered it—unkept and in need of repair, but not entirely hopeless.
He was surprised when the door opened with a single twist of the knob, as he was expecting much more resistance. As he stepped inside, there was light—a dusty chandelier directly above him. Draco could see down the hall, as more lights came on, the Manor suddenly lit for the first time in what must have been years. Draco took a few steps inside, and instantly felt the magic envelop him. He was calm. At ease.
He was home.
Home.
It registered so viscerally within him that he nearly gasped. Blood wards, it had to be. He'd never felt this swarm of magic before—not even in Malfoy Manor. Pleasure prickled down his spine, and he shivered. The magic here—gods, it felt so good—He was nearly drunk on it.
He wanted to collapse in the hallway and let the magic overtake him, but he resisted. He needed a bed. A lantern at the end of the hall suddenly burned brighter, then combusted, shattering the glass. His bedroom, he was certain, he'd found it. Draco walked towards the lantern, his movements slow as the Black magic sank into his bones, his core, his soul—where he found a perfectly maintained bedroom. It was simple, fitted with a few unadorned pillows and a white down comforter. There was also a dresser and a nightstand surprisingly free of dust.
Draco sighed with relief. A bed. A place to stay. A place to grieve. A place to cry. There was a pop behind him, and Draco turned so quickly he thought he might vomit. The nausea was not wholly gone.
There was an elf, who looked very excited to see Draco. The elf rubbed his hands together and smiled. "Hexy was always knowing Master Draco would return to Black Manor. Hexy kept Master's bedroom clean."
The elf looked deranged. Smiling widely and rubbing his hands together as if he were plotting.
Draco stared at the elf. "Hexy?" he asked.
"Sirs!" Hexy immediately responded.
"How long have you been here?" Draco asked in disbelief.
"124 years, sirs," the elf replied.
Draco shook his head. "How long have you been here since someone else has lived here?"
"Hexy has been being on his own since 1988, Sirs," the elf answered.
No wonder Hermione had such a problem with House Elf labor.
"Hexy has been waiting for you!" the elf continued.
Draco stared at the elf. "Me?" he asked.
"Mistress foretold it. The other elves are gone, but Hexy has stayed, because Mistress knew Master Draco would be in needings of homes."
"Mistress?" Draco asked.
"Mistress Narcissa," the elf said as if it were obvious.
Draco sighed and stared at the elf in complete disbelief. This little elf—Hexy—had been waiting for Draco since 1988, because his mother had foretold it. That was far too much for Draco to unpack today, along with everything else. Nausea roiled through him once more, and Draco groaned and closed his eyes. "Thank you, Hexy," was all Draco could manage.
"Master Draco will be calling Hexy if Master Draco is needing anything?" the elf asked excitedly.
Draco nodded, his eyes still closed, before he heard the door of the bedroom close behind him. Immediately, Draco threw himself down on the bed, sighing with relief. The bed was so soft, instantly enveloping Draco in soft down and the warmth of several blankets. As he wrapped himself in the cozy down comforter, Draco's spine continued to tingle with the pleasant thrum of Black family magic. Between the combination of the mattress, the sheets, and the magic, Draco was surprised to find himself in the most comfortable bed he'd ever been in.
In another life, it would have been a bed he'd want to share with Hermione. He'd pull her close, hold her, wrap his body around hers before sleeping, or kissing her, or fucking—
No. In another life. A life that was decidedly not this one.
Draco clenched his closed eyes tighter, trying to ban the mental picture from his head, but to no avail. Hermione was so close to the forefront of his mind, and he found that he couldn't quite banish himself to a Hermione-less existence just yet.
It was with the thought of Hermione that he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Draco awoke several hours late, feeling neither rested nor relieved of his hangover. Thankfully, his nausea seemed to have been abated, having been replaced with a steady, throbbing headache in his temple. Draco groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the mountain of pillows for a moment before he swung his legs over the bed and stood on unsteady feet. If he couldn't numb himself with sleep, he could at least distract himself by exploring his ancestral home—the remaining one. "Hexy!" he called.
Hexy appeared in an instant. "Master Dracos is calling Hexy, sirs?" the elf questioned, his large eyes gleaming with excitement.
Draco nodded at Hexy. "Yes," he replied. "I was hoping you could show me around the estate. It's been number of years since I've been here."
Hexy squeaked, and for a moment, Draco was certain the elf was going to burst. When he spoke again, Hexy's voice had risen several octaves, "Hexy would be lovings to show Master Dracos around."
The house was enormous. Not quite as large as Malfoy Manor, but still large enough to effectively boast to outsiders about the immense wealth had by the inhabitants, which currently only numbered two. While large, it appeared that Hexy's attentions had lain solely on the wing where Draco currently resided, as well as the adjoining common spaces. Besides his wing, the kitchens, and a small dining room, the manor was in complete disarray, but Hexy gave him a thorough tour despite this, showing off every room proudly, even if the surface of every piece of furniture were covered in several inches of dust. Draco just barely managed to bite his tongue and smile at the excited elf.
"Black Manor has been in the Black family for several hundred years," Hexy chattered happily. "Hexy is being born here and is growing up here with my sister Jinxy—"
Draco's snapped to attention. "Did you say Jinxy?" he asked.
Hexy nodded. "Yes, Jinxy is being my twin. Mistress Narcissa took her away when she is getting married," Hexy said sadly, then brightened. "Mistress Narcissa was always the kindest to uses."
For the first time that day, Draco managed a genuine smile. "Jinxy!" he called.
After several minutes, Jinxy appeared with a crack. "Master Dracos is calling—?" Jinxy cut herself off when she took in the figures standing before her. "Hexy?" she asked quietly.
Hexy shrieked and launched himself at Jinxy, wrapping his gnarled arms around Jinxy. "Is Hexy, Jinxy!"
Draco watched from afar as the elf siblings chattered away happily, in a language he didn't entirely understand, before a tearful Jinxy turned to Draco, and asked quietly, "Was Master Dracos needing anything?"
Draco smiled again and shook his head. "No, in fact, I'm demanding that you take the day off. Catch up with Hexy. I had no idea you had a twin, Jinxy."
Jinxy nodded. "Jinxy is. Is not having seen Hexy since Mistress Narcissa's wedding day."
"Well, enjoy your day off," Draco replied, shooing at the elves. "I can handle the rest of the tour by myself, Hexy."
Draco watched as the elves wandered off, clinging to each other and still conversing in their strange language. For just a moment, Draco experienced a feeling of lightness, of happiness, at having done something good—something kind—for someone else. The feeling did not last long, as he realized he stood alone in a very dirty wing of Black Manor. He sighed; the moment shattered.
At least today hadn't been completely without merit, he thought darkly. He wondered briefly if Hexy was a free elf, or whether he had been tethered to Black Manor, alone, for nearly 13 years. Draco shook his head, feeling instantly guilt. Of course Hexy was not free—his grandmother had been notoriously cruel to House Elves. The fact that Jinxy, and perhaps, Hexy, was not terrified of humans probably owed entirely to the fact that while Narcissa had always spoken condescendingly about elves, Draco had never once seen her abuse one.
Mistress Narcissa was always the kindest to uses
Another act, another farce, perhaps. Another facet of his mother that he had never seen—would never see. In her youth, Narcissa had been kind to House Elves. He laughed for a moment; this was precisely the kind of information he'd love to share with Hermione. Draco could see her now, her eyes widening in surprise, a small glimmer beginning to form in the corner as she smiled up at him—
No.
Stop it.
He shook his head, once more attempting to rid himself of thoughts of Hermione Granger.
Draco spent the majority of the day wandering the Manor, discovering that in total, the Manor was composed of four identical wings, each composing of four bedrooms, each with its own lavish bathroom, and several expertly decorated parlors. Draco also found two ballrooms, several dining rooms in various sizes, the opulence of the décor growing with the respective size of each room. There were also several libraries that unsurprisingly brought thoughts of Hermione, causing Draco to swiftly turn his back on the rooms, closing the doors behind him.
He thought he'd discovered every room not concealed by magic—of which, he was certain there were several, as the Blacks were rather famously paranoid—when he came across an ornate stone door in one of the more elaborately decorated hallways near the largest dining room. Curious, Draco tested the door, expecting to find it locked, so he was surprised when the door swung open easily.
Of course, he was the last Black. The magic of the estate welcomed his presence. He shivered, remembering feeling the Black magic for the first time. He could still feel it, humming pleasantly along his spine.
Draco took a step into the room, astonished by what he had discovered. A vast stone cellar, filled with rack after rack, each rack full from the floor all the way to the ceiling, of what Draco could only assume were the finest wines and spirits that money could buy. He felt himself trembling as he reached a hand out, running his fingers over a dusty bottle of what appeared to be a Bordeaux, from what Draco could see.
He walked further into the cellar, the massive wine collection leading into a collection of vodkas, rums, and—firewhiskey. Two racks full of vintage firewhiskeys, both Ogden's and Blishen's, as well as several brands Draco had never heard of but nevertheless looked obscenely expensive. Draco didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until his chest began to tighten and he forced a breath out.
He didn't even think as he reached out, grabbing the first bottle of firewhiskey within his reach, and headed outside.
Draco settled himself in the garden, on a bench in front of the empty fountain, fancying some fresh air after having spent the day traipsing through a dusty manor house. After padding the stone bench with a few cushioning charms, Draco pulled the cork from the bottle of firewhiskey and took a large gulp.
Fuck, if wasn't the best thing he'd ever tasted—
He looked at the label—Blishen's Best Firewhiskey, 1937.
A spectacular vintage, if he did say so himself.
Another sip as he stared at the empty fountain. He vaguely remembered the gardens from his childhood, this fountain in particular. He remembered summer vacations taken here with his parents, and when Draco had gotten too hot playing in the gardens, he'd taken a quick swim in the fountain, much to the chagrin of his mother, and to the absolute horror of his father. Draco chuckled darkly at the memory.
His memories at Black Manor were mostly fond, he mused, though they were few and far between. Despite having been in the family for decades, it was used mostly as a summer home for the most recent generation of Blacks—his grandmother had much preferred to live in a townhouse in London.
Draco stilled—in Potter's house. Sometimes he forgot how closely he and Potter were connected. All the dinner's he'd taken at Potter's house, and it never even registered that he was standing in what had once been a home to his family. He supposed Ginny's redecorating had something to do with that—the Potter home was much warmer than he remembered it as a child—but then, his grandmother had been a rather austere woman.
He'd been jealous, when he was younger, that Potter had been given Grimmauld Place—a house he'd believed to rightly belong to him. It wasn't so much that Draco had wanted the house, moreso that it simply belonged to him, despite having so few fond memories there. Draco looked up at the vast expanse of Black Manor, a clearly beautiful house despite its rundown condition, a place where he had fond memories. He'd been happy here, once, swimming in that fountain. Draco was uncertain if the swelling feeling in his stomach had more to do with his pride that this was his, or because the alcohol was beginning to thrum through his bloodstream.
Still, it remained. This place was his. Uncorrupted and untainted by the terrible memories of his father, Voldemort, and Nagini.
Draco sucked in a deep breath, relishing in the fresh air. He had rarely ventured outside the walls of Malfoy Manor after the War. Every piece of that house had been tainted, and even though Voldemort was dead and gone, the gardens would always stink of blood and rot to Draco.
He was glad Malfoy Manor was gone.
There. He'd finally admitted it.
Another swig of firewhiskey. At least he no longer had to feel guilty about drinking now, he mused. There was no Hermione to please, no Hermione to be better for. He'd spent most of his adult life trying, and failing, to be better than he was, and this was just the culmination. He accepted this failure—he'd done it to himself ,and in the process, he'd lost the most important thing he'd ever had.
It seemed apropos, then, that he'd ended up with only a handful of clothes in an empty manor, drinking vintage firewhiskey alone in a garden. No family, no girlfriend, nobody in the world who cared about him. He was well and truly pathetic. He started to laugh then, realizing how ridiculous it all was.
When his laughter abated, Draco hiccupped twice. Well, that left no question—the alcohol had certainly begun to kick in. Draco sat up, feeling wobbly as he did so. Mindlessly, Draco straightened his jumper before standing, stumbling several steps, and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even further than the outdoors had. "Hmm," he muttered, staring thoughtfully at his bottle of firewhiskey before taking several steps towards the back of the garden. "Let's go—" he hiccupped again. "Let's go talk to Mum.