Draco lumbered through the gardens, his journey hindered by the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed in such a short period of time. It had been early evening when Draco began making his way towards the mausoleum, but now it was fully dark outside, and he was having a bit of trouble navigating the unfamiliar gardens without light. He stumbled over a particularly thick root in the dark and nearly dropped his bottle. Swearing, Draco righted himself and took an indignant swallow of firewhiskey before continuing on his journey.
He was just beginning to believe that he had taken a wrong turn and was now woefully lost amidst the vast estate of Black Manor, when suddenly he saw a light in the distance. Unaware of any other structures on the property, Draco staggered towards the building.
The mausoleum loomed over him, looking much more menacing in the night than it had on the day he had last been there, with Hermione.
Hermione.
Draco stumbled again, either because of the thought of her, or because of the alcohol that was currently sloshing in his stomach—he was uncertain. He took another gulp of firewhiskey, determined to drown out every thought of her. He climbed the steps of the mausoleum, now feeling incredibly intoxicated as the letters of the Black family crest engraved on the mausoleum door swam in his vision.
Toujours Pur. Always pure.
Draco fought the intense urge to spit on the crest. He wanted to debase it—destroy it. It was a load of rubbish.
He laughed to himself, sounding somewhat maniacal to himself. This was his house now, and he was the only Black left. That damnable crest would the first thing to go. "Toujurs Pur," he muttered under his breath, and the door to the mausoleum swung open unexpectedly. Draco stared at the door for a moment before shaking his head, which caused his vision to swim once more.
Swearing again, Draco walked through the door and into the building that encased the remains of 100s of years of his family members, heading directly to where he knew his mother's body rested. Draco stared at the plaque of her tomb, the glinting silver in the low light.
Narcissa Black Malfoy
Draco ran his fingers over the lettering, hard and cold as his fingertips brushed across the metal. It was then that he felt himself shatter. He dropped to his knees in front of the tomb with a low wail. He felt wetness on his cheeks, and he was uncertain when he had started crying—there was a veritable waterfall streaming down his face. A long sob wrenched itself out of his throat, echoing loudly in the marble building.
He didn't know how long he sat on the floor crying, but when he finally wiped at his eyes, he found his face was complete dry, and caked lightly with salt—he had cried himself out. Draco wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jumper, attempting to clean himself up. He ran a hand through his hair, which was beginning to tangle at his temple. Draco fell back on his knees, landing hard on his arse. He took a long steadying breath, followed by a long gulp of firewhiskey that effectively emptied the bottle. Draco let the empty bottle fall from his hand, and it rolled away from him with a clatter.
"I miss you," he said quietly, looking up at his mother's tomb. "I miss you so much, Mum." Draco sighed, looking down at his fingers, which were trembling badly despite having drunk an entire bottle of vintage firewhiskey. "I thought—" he cut off as his jaw began to tremble as well. "I thought I'd be all right without you. I thought—I told you I'd be okay because I had Hermione."
Draco shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts, which were slipping away from him at a steady rate.
"I lost her, Mum," Draco said in a sob. "I lost her. I fucked it all up, because—you left me here," he continued, his tone angrier now. "You left me here with all these fucking questions. Who were you, Mum? What did you actually believe? I loved you more than any other person in my life—and I just—I feel like I didn't know you at all. I found out about Father, you know. I don't—why did you tell me, Mum? Did you think I wouldn't ever find out? And I'm so angry with you—because, because—fuck. Why couldn't you just be honest with me? I would've understood, if you had told me—But now, I have all these questions and you're not around for me to ask them, and I'm so, so confused."
Draco knew he was rambling, emotional and unbelievably intoxicated, and he didn't care.
"I thought—You told me the Dragon would protect me. But she's gone now, Mum, so who's going to protect me now?" Draco scoffed. "If you could see me now, Mum, you'd be so ashamed of me. I'm a grown man and I want someone to protect me. I'm so pathetic." His mouth twisted then, and he smiled bitterly. "You did warn me to be careful—that if I wasn't, I'd get burned. I got burned, Mum. I got burned so badly that I don't know that I'll survive it." Draco looked away from his mother's tomb, staring down the darkened hallway thoughtfully. "I wish you were here to tell me what to do, Mum," he finally said quietly. Draco looked back towards his mother's tomb. "But you left me here all alone."
He was angry. He was so angry. At his mother. His father. Voldemort. Dumbledore. Hermione. All of them—they had all hurt him.
And he was so—
He was so tired of being hurt.
A light caught his eye, and Draco found his drunken gaze shifting to the empty bottle of Blishen's, glittering faintly in the light of the candelabras. Draco smirked, then stumbled as he reached for the bottle, taking several steps back. He took in his family tree, as they wasted away before him: Orion Black, Walburga Black, Cygnus Black, Druella Rosier Black, Narcissa Black Malfoy—and then, with all the force that he could muster, he threw the bottle at the wall of tombs, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
The pieces fell to the ground, destroyed beyond repair.
They reminded Draco of himself.
Draco woke the next morning with what was quite possibly the worst hangover of his entire life.
He had zero recollection of returning to his bedroom the previous evening, so with a groan, Draco sat up and surveyed the room. At some point, he had made a second stop at the cellar, as there was another bottle of Blishen's open his bedside stand—it appeared as if someone taken a few sips out of the bottle before going to sleep—or passing out—in bed. Draco sighed, attempting to ignore the headache steadily blooming at the base of his skull, as well as the nausea that accompanied it. He swallowed, and he could already taste the bile in his mouth.
His bedroom appeared fairly in order—there was a bit of mud staining the carpet by the doorway, but that would be an easy clean. Draco was still in his clothes from the night before, and as he stood, he could feel the tell-tale signs that there was a fairly nasty bruise beginning to bloom on his arse—and—yes, two matching bruises on knees. So he had fallen last night. Unsurprising, considering how much alcohol he had apparently drank last night. He felt the nausea start to build, and Draco reached for the bottle of firewhiskey on his bedside table—no better cure for a hangover than simply continuing to drink.
Draco checked the time as he sipped at the firewhiskey: 12:30 p.m. Much too early for a drink, and he rather didn't give a fuck.
He was here, alone. There was no one here with any expectation of him. It occurred to Draco that it was the first time in his entire life that this was the case. His whole life had been filled with expectations—from his father, especially. Without his parents and his father's expectations of him, Draco would have never fought in a war. Then there was the full weight of expectations that had fallen onto his shoulders during his sixth year at Hogwarts. The War, and all of those expectations that he had failed to meet. Then after the War—the public opinion, the Aurors, the lawyers—and his subsequent trial. His mother, who had been unwell since the ending of the War, and of course he had to take care of her. Then Hermione, who he had desperately wanted to be better for.
He'd failed all of them, he realized.
He'd always been a failure.
But, he was alone now. He'd finally cut all of his ties with his father. His mother was dead. Hermione was—Hermione was gone.
There was no one expecting anything from him anymore. It was freeing, in a horrible way.
He could drink himself into oblivion if he wanted to.
There was no one to stop him.
Hermione's face flashed through his mind and he groaned. He had mostly been successful in not thinking about her yesterday, pushing every thought of her away with gulps of firewhiskey and his anger towards his mother and the Blacks. In the light of day, however, Draco knew he would not be able to not think about Hermione. She had been all he ever thought about since he allowed himself to drop his gaze to her pretty pink lips—
Pretty pink lips that he had kissed, thousands of times. He could still remember the taste of them, the way they felt against his—
No. Stop it.
While Draco recognized that he could not push away all thoughts of Hermione, he could not allow himself to think about her lips.
He needed to distract himself, with something that wasn't firewhiskey.
Toujours Pur, Draco suddenly remembered from the night before, one of his few clear memories.
Destroying that bloody, bigoted crest could prove to be a rather useful distraction.
Draco roused himself, took a fortifying sip of firewhiskey, and stood. He found that his shrunken clothes had been resized and hung neatly in the closet on the far side of the room—perhaps courtesy of Hexy or Jinxy—and found a pair of Muggle denims Hermione had purchased for him, and comfortable cotton t-shirt. Draco found that in his dissociative haze he had grabbed several sets of shoes that actually didn't match, and it took him several minutes to find a matching pair before hastily pulling them on, grabbing his wand and firewhiskey, and heading outside.
It was remarkably easier to find the mausoleum during the day, and with far less alcohol coursing through his system. The Black family crest was also much more jarring, the sunshine reflecting onto it harshly. Draco eyed it warily and took another sip of firewhiskey before setting the bottle down on the steps and pulling out his wand.
He tried every spell in his arsenal to remove the damnable thing. Vanishing spells, summoning spells, cutting spells, before he attempted to blow the crest off the door with a well-placed Bombarda curse. The crest refused to move—it gleamed brightly in the sunshine, mocking him. Draco huffed a breath and took another gulp of firewhiskey, trying to think of another spell that could remove the crest.
Briefly, Draco wondered what spells Hermione would think of. Surely the brightest witch of their age would think of a spell to remove a prejudiced crest from a door. He cursed himself mentally, having inadvertently thought of Hermione once again.
Not thinking about her was turning out to be nearly impossible.
Every little part of his life was so ingrained with Hermione that he couldn't do anything without thinking about her. Groaning, Draco reached for the bottle of firewhiskey and took a long gulp, hoping the burning sensation in his throat would distract him from Hermione thoroughly.
Predictably, it did not.
Draco sighed, and his wand twitched in his fingers.
This was proving to be fruitless.
"I was expecting I'd find you here, licking your wounds. It looks more like you're having an existential crisis, though."
Draco whirled around and was met with the unexpected, and relatively unwelcome, sight of Potter, who was standing with his hands awkwardly jammed in the pockets of his trousers, looking at Draco with an unreadable expression. Draco groaned, and rubbed frustratedly at his face. "Why are you here, Potter?" he asked.
Potter shrugged, his expression unchanging. "I brought you some things."
Right. Draco hadn't even considered the thought that he'd have to move all of his belongings out of Hermione's flat. The thought cut through him painfully, and Draco's expression twisted into a painful grimace. "Right. Thanks, Potter," Draco replied coldly.
Potter made no attempt to move. "What are you doing?" he asked after a moment.
Draco stared at Potter with narrowed eyes before deciding to answer honestly: "I'm trying to remove the Black family crest from the door of the mausoleum. I'm not having very much luck," he admitted.
Potter considered the crest for a moment before taking a step forward, pressing the tip to the crest, then muttering a spell. The crest brightened for just the briefest moment before it began to dull. Potter took several steps back, eyes locked on the crest as it continued to grow darker and darker, until Draco could barely see it. "I had to remove a bunch of these when I moved into Grimmauld Place. It's ancient family magic—it took a long time to find the right spell. It was actually Hermione who eventually discovered the incantation and figured out the right wand movement."
Draco ground his teeth painfully together, but he couldn't stop himself from asking the question: "How is she?" he asked, hating himself even as he did so.
Potter eyed him carefully before his eyes flickered to the bottle of firewhiskey and his eyes widened incrementally. "Not well," Potter answered, wincing.
Draco nodded. "Me neither," he admitted.
Potter shook his head. "You look markedly better than her. I've never seen her cry this much."
Draco winced, hating the thought that Hermione was crying at all. "Is there a reason you're here, Potter? Are you here to hex me? Because if you are, can we go ahead and get it over with?"
"I told you, I brought you some things," Potter replied, unhelpfully.
"Well, you can leave them on the steps of the Manor," Draco said, turning away from Potter, pretending to study the mausoleum once more.
Again, Potter did not move. "I—" he began. "I was wondering if we could talk," Potter finished awkwardly.
Draco looked back towards Potter for a moment—he looked distinctly uncomfortable. "No," Draco said shortly, turning to begin walking back towards the Manor and away from Potter.
"Draco," Potter called out, his voice taking on a vaguely authoritative tone.
Draco froze. He was certain Potter had never used his first name in the entirety of his life. He turned and looked expectantly at Potter, crossing his arms defensively.
"What are you doing?" Potter repeated, with a bit more of an edge to his voice.
"I'm going back inside," Draco replied, angrily.
Potter shook his head. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. What are you doing with Hermione?"
Draco dropped his eyes, looking pointedly at his shoes. "I'm not doing anything, Potter. That's kind of the point."
Potter stared at Draco, and odd expression on his face. "You're fucking up," Potter said heatedly.
Draco laughed bitterly, still not look at Potter. "I've already fucked it up. I'm well aware, Potter."
"Gods, you are so insufferable. I don't understand how she's put up with you for so long," Potter said disdainfully. "If you could just pull your head out of your own ass for five seconds—"
Draco snapped to attention, taking several steps back towards Potter, his eyes narrowed. "So is this why you came? To insult me, to rub in my face that I completely fucked up my entire life? That I've destroyed the relationship with the only woman that I've ever loved? Because, truthfully, I don't need you for that, Potter. I'm more than aware," he interrupted coldly.
Potter shook his head, a look of confusion passing across his face. "No," he replied hotly. "I had become resigned the fact that you'd probably be in my life for much longer than I'd care for, but I was willing to put up with you for Hermione's sake. And despite everything, I've come to consider you a friend. So I'm here as a friend to tell you to your face that you are being an enormous git."
"We aren't friends, Potter," Draco snarled. "We've never been friends."
Potter's eyes flashed with indignation, and he audibly ground his teeth together. "I'll tell her that you're fine," he finally said, bitterly. "Upset, but fine. I won't tell her that you're attempting to drink yourself to death—that'll just make her worry more."
"I don't care what you tell her, Potter," Draco said, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Potter rolled his eyes, before handing out a shrunken box to Draco. "Here's a few things. Shoes, a few jumpers and such."
Draco snatched the box from Potter and shoved it into the pocket of his denims, nodding a curt 'thanks.' Potter had just begun to walk down the path back towards the Manor before Draco called out to him: "Potter, how did you find me?" he asked.
Potter paused before turning back around to face Draco. He shrugged. "It took her a bit, but she realized you probably came here. All I had to do was check at the Ministry. You reactivated the blood wards when you entered the main house."
Draco nodded. He had suspected blood wards.
Potter seemed to sense that their conversation had come to an end, and he turned back, disappearing behind the Manor. Draco stood frozen in the gardens, and he felt it the instant that Potter slipped beyond the wards. It was a curious sensation. It was as if instinctively Draco knew that Potter had left the protection of the wards—he couldn't explain why he knew, just that he did.
Very interesting indeed.
Draco was exhausted. Between his drinking, his use of magic trying to get rid of the Black family crest, and his subsequent confrontation with Potter, Draco just wanted to lay down and close his eyes. He was emotionally worn-out, and if he was to stay conscious much longer he knew his thoughts would drift once more to Hermione, and he knew he didn't have the mental fortitude to deal with thoughts of her right now.
He walked slowly back to the Manor, dragging his feet with every step. He was desperate for unconsciousness, for darkness. He forced himself up the steps of the Manor and down the hall of bedroom, collapsing indelicately onto the bed and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come for him sooner rather than later.
Luckily, he was truly exhausted, and sleep took him easily and quickly. Draco slept for several hours and awoke feeling fuzzy and disoriented. Immediately, he reached across the bed—Hermione was much too far away for his liking—and when he found her side of the bed empty, he was briefly confused before he remembered that they had broken up. There was no Hermione in his bed. There never would be again. It felt as if he had been struck by the Hogwarts Express.
Draco missed her so fiercely that he immediately began to cry. For all the time he had spent trying to avoid thoughts of Hermione, he now felt the absence of her so viscerally, so deeply in his soul that he could barely breathe, could barely think through the haze that was wanting of her. In her absence, Draco would always clutch her pillow to his face to mollify himself with her scent. He tried now, grappling desperately for the pillow that was on her side of the bed, and pressed it to his face. It was the wrong scent—it was not her. Draco's heart stuttered in his chest. What if he never smelled her again? What if that was gone forever? Draco didn't think that he could bear it if he never got to smell her again. He'd do anything just to bury his nose in her hair again, and take a gigantic whiff of her curls. He could die happy if he could just do that—
He was spiraling, traveling at an alarming rate into being completely and utterly out of control.
Where was she? Was she crying? Was she thinking about him as much as he was thinking about her—he doubted it—and most importantly, was she safe?
The idea that she might not be safe had him nearly in tatters.
Draco took a deep breath. He was being irrational. Of course she was safe. He had just seen Potter hours earlier—he'd know if she wasn't all right. He would've told him if she was hurt.
An image of Hermione, pinned to his father's desk, a cursed letter opener through her hand.
She was safe. It was he who had failed to keep her safe.
Potter would make sure she was taken care. He had promised.
Somewhat assuaged, Draco rose from the bed and walked down towards the cellar, having forgotten his bottle of firewhiskey on the steps of the mausoleum. He grabbed a bottle of firewhiskey from the shelf without looking at the label, unceremoniously pulling the cork from the bottle and taking a long swig.
Bottle in hand, Draco walked back down the hallway, uncertain of where he was headed. It did not surprise him, however, when he found himself once more in the barren gardens behind the Manor. Perhaps he was like his mother—she had loved the gardens at Malfoy Manor, and had tended to them obsessively until the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts. After that, they had fallen by the wayside.
He liked it here, in front of the fountain, despite its decrepit state. It reminded him of happier times—before the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders. He remembered the tinkle of a fountain and the scent of flowers in full bloom in the summertime. He could think here.
Flowers. There needed to be flowers at the very least, he suddenly realized. His mother was here, and she needed her flowers.
First the door, then the flowers.
Distraction, all of it. A distraction from Hermione.
Narcissa had tended to her gardens using house elves and an extensive bit of magic. Draco wondered if there was a Muggle way to garden—he loved doing things the Muggle way, using his hands was the perfect way to turn his mind off.
And he desperately wanted his mind to be off.
Draco stayed outside for several hours, drinking nearly the entire bottle of firewhiskey, until the chill became too much even in his intoxicated state. He tried to take another swig, hoping to fend off the cold, but his fingers twitched and refused to move—stiff with cold.
He'd have to go inside.
But he didn't want to go inside.
Inside was empty. His bed was so very empty. Draco didn't know if he could spend another night alone in his cozy bed, waking and reaching instinctively for Hermione, and finding her very much not there.
Draco shook his head, and his vision swam. Yes. He was very drunk and he wanted Hermione.
Hermione would hold him and kiss him and tell him she loved him—
No.
Draco stood and wobbled. His mother—he'd go—he hiccupped—he'd go see his mother.
Draco had a markedly easier time finding the mausoleum than he had the previous night—he was less intoxicated and had made the trip multiple times by now—and he reached it in fairly short order. He was pleased to see that the door was noticeably absent of the Black family crest. Draco grinned sloppily.
Once inside, he sat down clumsily in front of his mother's tomb. "Hi, Mum," he said quietly, staring at the plaque bearing her name. "I destroyed the Black family crest today. I think you'd be pleased with that—maybe—I don't know," he continued uncertainly. "And Mum, I'm going to plant you flowers. I'm going to plant you so many flowers."
Draco was answered with silence.