After Potter left, Draco ventured once more to the cellar. He found the oldest vintages of Blishen's in the cellar—1921 and 1923, respectively—and returned to the gardens and the empty fountain and began to drink steadily.
He had just finished half of the first bottle when he felt the niggle, muted slightly by alcohol. Draco sighed and placed the bottle firmly on the ground, closing his eyes and tiredly awaited another assault from Potter. It was deserved, he had decided after several more sips of firewhiskey. He had left Hermione. He could've—should've—fought for her. He should have stayed; he should have let her go. Instead, he had assumed, as he always had, that she would end their relationship.
He was an idiot.
The assault—physical or verbal—never came. Instead, Draco heard a soft sigh and felt someone sit down next to him. "Hi, Draco," Pansy said quietly.
"Hey," Draco replied, not opening his eyes.
He heard Pansy pick up the bottle of firewhiskey and take a long gulp before she placed it back on the ground. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Drinking," Draco replied flatly.
"I see that," Pansy said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Draco," she urged, "look at me."
Reluctantly, Draco opened his eyes to look at Pansy. "What?" he asked.
"You're—" Pansy swallowed. "You're self-destructing just like Astoria, and I—I don't—how can I help?"
"Don't compare me to Astoria," Draco answered coldly.
Pansy laughed, but it wasn't mean or mocking. "Draco, today is the first time I've seen you in years, and I can already tell you're trying to drink yourself to death. It's the same thing Astoria is doing."
Draco didn't respond, clenching his jaw at the implication.
Pansy sighed. "I have permission to tell you this now, so listen closely. A year after we graduated from Hogwarts, Astoria got really sick," she began. "We—we weren't together at the time, but she reached out to me. She was scared. Pomfrey couldn't figure out what was wrong, and neither could St. Mungo's. When she graduated—" Pansy audibly swallowed. "—she came to France to stay with me. I told her—I told her I'd take care of her. I found a Healer in Calais who diagnosed her with a blood curse." Pansy paused then, looking at Draco.
"A blood curse?" Draco asked.
Pansy nodded. "We don't—we don't know why. But a blood curse was put on the Greengrass family. It manifested in Astoria, also, for reasons that no one understands."
Draco stared at Pansy. "Is she—?" He couldn't bring himself to ask whether or not Astoria was going to die.
Pansy shrugged, understanding. "That's partially up to her, I think. We were told it was untreatable, but the Healer found an ancient, obscure text that that could potentially treat her."
Draco furrowed his brows, confused. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"
Pansy shrugged again. "I thought so. She didn't feel quite the same way. In the past couple of years, her magic has been become a bit...unreliable." At this, Pansy winced. "The treatment could either cure her completely or disable her permanently."
"You mean—?" Draco began to ask.
Pansy nodded. "Yes. She could lose her magic." Pansy paused again. "I thought it was preferable to death, but Astoria didn't exactly agree," she finished with a scoff.
Draco did not respond. Logically, he realized that living without magic was, indeed, better than death. But what a choice—to live without magic or to cease to live? Draco was uncertain if he would be able to make the choice. A life without magic? Draco shook his head at his own thoughts. He wasn't sure he'd want to live without magic. Suddenly, Astoria's behavior made perfect sense.
"My point," Pansy continued when Draco continued to fail to respond, "is that she has a perfectly valid reason for her self-destruction. What's your excuse?" she asked harshly.
He looked to Pansy with narrow eyes, once more grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey, taking a furious sip. "You know, Pans, I may not be facing death or loss of my own magic, but I do have problems of my own, you know," Draco replied coldly.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, Granger, of course—"
"Don't—"
"Again, my point, is that you are not facing death or the loss of your magic, so why are you just sitting here wallowing? Do something about it—Go get your girl, Draco," Pansy interrupted, wrinkling her nose at the end of her command.
Draco buried his head in his hands. "It's not that simple, Pansy," he said quietly.
Pansy huffed. "It is just that simple."
Draco laughed bitterly. "You haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Pans. You just missed Potter," he continued, taking another swig from the bottle of firewhiskey. "Threatening me once more—telling me I need to stay away from her." Draco shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. "I have fucked up my relationship gloriously, Pansy."
She scoffed. "Since when do you defer to Harry Potter?"
"Since I started dating his best friend," Draco replied glumly.
Pansy sighed and took his hand, stroking it comfortingly with her fingertips. "Tell me what happened," she encouraged.
Another sip of firewhiskey. Draco feeling slightly intoxicated now, despite the slowing of his drinking, and where he might have not normally chosen to be vulnerable with someone who wasn't Hermione Granger, he was just drunk enough to tell Pansy. He had trusted her at one time, after all. "My mother died," he began, and he saw Pansy visibly wince.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, squeezing his fingers. "I had heard. I'm so sorry, Draco."
Draco nodded, accepting her comfort. "And I just—I lost it, Pans. After everything—" he laughed again. "Well, that's a story for a different day. Anyways, I just lost it. Hermione only made me promise her two things—that's it: two things. You'd think that wouldn't be so difficult, right?"
"What did she ask you to promise, Draco?" Pansy gently prodded.
"She asked me to tell her if I were ever—if I was not okay. And she made me promise to never leave her." Draco straightened forcefully, his spine cracking with the movement. "I failed spectacularly on both accounts." He paused and looked at Pansy, who was looking at him with a closed expression. He sighed. "I was not fucking all right. I was lying to her, hiding things from her. And she knew, and she waited because she's so godsdamned good and patient—and I just continued to lie and hurt her. It all got to be too much one night, and I just needed to leave—I just needed a break. I went to Astoria, who—I still don't understand what she was trying to do with Tracey, but Skeeter sent Hermione a picture of the two of us." Draco shook his head again. "I thought she broke up with me, Pansy. I really did. And I just left—again."
Pansy smacked his shoulder. "You idiot," she exclaimed. "You didn't fight for her?"
"Ow," Draco yelped, shrinking away from Pansy. "I thought it was over, Pansy!"
She hit him again. "You didn't fight for me, which was fine, but you're pathetically, hopelessly in love with her, and you didn't even try."
"I just told you that Potter told me to leave her alone!" Draco tried to argue.
"Fuck Potter," Pansy said, standing and pulling him up even has he resisted. "This is your relationship, Draco. Grow some bollocks—as I recall, you used to have some."
"Pansy, stop!" Draco exclaimed, pulling away from her. "Just stop."
Pansy crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. "So, what? You're just going to sit here and wallow in this house, drinking yourself to death without even having a conversation with her?" she challenged.
Draco faltered. Pansy did have a point. They had never formally broken up—they both had made incorrect assumptions which had been rather belatedly communicated to each other via other parties. He looked at Pansy, who looked triumphant. Draco had lost count of how many times he felt like a complete and utter fool today, but the feeling was becoming all too familiar. "You're right," he finally said, not looking at Pansy. "I'll—I'll talk to her tonight."
Pansy smiled, rising up on her toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Good boy," she said gently.
"Thank you, Pansy," Draco replied gently. "I needed—I needed a friend."
"I'm here now," she said. "And I'm not going anywhere."
After a shower and a sobering potion, Draco apparated just outside the flat he had shared with Hermione. He supposed, technically, they still did share the flat, since the majority of his belongings were still inside. As Draco approached the door, anxiety flared deep in his belly and his fingers began to twitch roughly. He had been drunk for so many days on end now that he acutely felt its absence. His emotions were rough and raw, nearly overwhelming him. Draco took in a deep shuddering breath. He could do this.
This was Hermione, after all.
He knocked on the door twice, the sound much too loud for his liking. He winced and dropped his fist, flexing it in an attempt to stop its trembling. It took several moments, but finally the door swung open, revealing Hermione, who was dressed in an overly large fisherman's jumper. The smell of meatballs wafted through the door. Her father's jumper. Her mother's meatballs. Draco didn't even have to look at Hermione to know that she had had a bad day.
Still, Draco looked, his eyes raking over her. She looked even more distraught than she had earlier that day. Her face was swollen and puffy, red and rubbed raw where tears had clearly fallen and she had vigorously wiped them away. She had pulled her hair up, but he could still see the oil at her roots. Vaguely, Draco wondered when she had last taken a shower.
Hermione's eyes widened incrementally, and she wiped at her face even though there were no tears, as if it had become a habit.
Just like earlier in the day, he longed to take her into his arms and hold her. He wanted to take her to bed and hide under the covers with her. He wanted to nuzzle his nose against her neck so he could take in her full scent before peppering every inch of her skin with kisses until she smiled again. Instead, he spoke: "Hi."
"Hi," she replied back, barely audible.
Draco shoved his hands into his pockets when she made no movement to open the door further. "I was wondering if we could talk," he said finally, his eyes focused on the door.
"About what?" Hermione asked, her voice raspy.
"Us," Draco said, meeting her eyes.
Hermione swallowed, her eyes flitting uncomfortably down the hall. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Hermione," he urged quietly. "I have some things I need to say—things I need to clear up."
She bit her lip, sucking it between her teeth. Draco closed his eyes, not allowing himself to witness such a delicious image. Hermione looked conflicted for just a brief moment before she finally nodded and swung the door open, ushering him inside.
Draco stepped inside and was shocked by the changes in the flat. Nearly all of the furniture had been rearranged, some of it awkwardly, like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit. There were various colored squares stuck to the wall, in different tones of blue, yellow, and cream, as if she were attempting to pick a color. By the front door sat a large stack of shrunken boxes. Draco gulped. He knew they were his, but he asked anyways: "Mine?"
Minutely, Hermione nodded, her eyes beginning to shine with tears. She wiped at her face again. "I packed it up earlier today. I thought you might want your things."
Experimentally, Draco took a step towards Hermione, wondering if she would step away from him. She did not, but she did wrap her arms around herself protectively. "Hermione—" he began, at a loss for words.
Hermione looked up at him sharply, as if she was surprised to hear her name on his lips. She did not reply, she simply stared at him, waiting.
Draco sighed and rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "I didn't—I didn't know, Hermione. I thought—I thought you were breaking up with me."
Hermione laughed, a mirthless sound. "If I had done that, I would've said so," she replied bitterly.
"I know," he said gently. "I know that now. But at the time—"
"It doesn't matter now, Draco," she interrupted, looking away from him. "It doesn't matter."
Draco's heart sank. "Oh," he said quietly.
There was a long silence as they both stared intently at the carpet. "Yeah," she finally said.
"I just—I'm sorry. I never would've left otherwise," Draco replied, looking at his hands which were shaking badly.
"But you did leave. You did," Hermione said quietly, sadly.
"I know."
"And Pansy's back," she said harshly.
Draco nodded. "Yes," he admitted, and Hermione winced before he continued. "But not for me, Hermione. Not for me at all." He swallowed. "She's in love with Astoria. She's been looking for her."
"I don't care about Astoria!" Hermione shouted, her carefully guarded expression finally cracking. "I don't give two shits about Astoria fucking Greengrass!"
Before Draco even thought about the motion, he had his hand on Hermione's shoulder, stroking it gently in an attempt to comfort her. Hermione tilted her head, staring at his fingers, before she jerked away. Draco recoiled his fingers, holding them to his chest as if she had injured them. "I know," he said quietly. "When Potter came by today, he asked me if I was fucking Pansy. And, Hermione—I just need you to know this: whether or not we were together, I would never. Not ever, Hermione. I'm not sleeping with her, Hermione. I'm not sleeping with anyone."
Hermione snorted but didn't reply.
"I'm not, Hermione," he said earnestly.
"It doesn't matter," she repeated as she turned back to studying her shoes, her cheeks a violent shade of red.
"Okay," Draco replied quietly. "I just—I just wanted you to know—I didn't want you to think—Anyways, I guess I'll just—go, then."
Hermione nodded. "Don't forget your things."
There was something stuck in the back of Draco's throat, and it was burning. His eyes stung, and he felt himself rubbing at them, attempting to keep his own tears from falling. He nodded, turning away from Hermione, completely unable to continue looking at her. He had thought the last time he had walked away from her had been bad, but it was nothing like this. It was as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. Whereas before there had been only numbness, now he felt everything as forcefully as if he were being repeatedly stabbed in the gut. A strangled sob escaped his lips, and he pressed his palm to mouth to dampen the sound. He did not dare to look back at Hermione.
Hurriedly, he tucked the shrunken boxes into his pockets, eager to get out of the flat—this place—his home, where it was safe and certain, and smelled like meatballs and Hermione. He had just wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, making to leave, before he suddenly couldn't. Draco turned back to Hermione, who stood several feet away with tears streaming down her face, her arms hanging limply by her sides. He couldn't help himself; he walked back towards her and gathered her in a hug, squeezing her tightly. For the briefest of instances, Draco buried his nose in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, tinged slightly with the musk of uncleanliness. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her, squeezing her once more before he let her go and walked through the door without another glance back.
When he returned to Black Manor, Draco dumped all of the shrunken boxes in the foyer before he headed to the cellar, determined to get obliterated.
Hermione was officially gone. He hadn't realized it, but while his things still resided in her flat, when they still hadn't talked, Draco had some modicum of hope. She wasn't lost to him if he still existed in her flat. But judging by the condition of her flat, it seemed that she was determined to erase him from her home completely.
He understood that. He deserved that.
He always had.
So Draco decided to drink. He didn't bother heading to the gardens this time. He wanted to be in close proximity of the alcohol that would ease his pain. Indiscriminately, he grabbed four bottles of firewhiskey from the shelf, slumped down on the stone floor, and began to sob into his knees.
When he had no more tears left to shed, he drank.
Draco wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep. He was vaguely aware that he had drunk heavily the night before, but he was fairly certain that he was currently dreaming. He was on a ferry, waves slapping gently against the sides as they sailed along, water wetting his skin and cooling him. He closed his eyes in the dream, enjoying the way the water felt against his skin.
The waves picked up, splashing him more and more with every second until he was frowning and stepping away from the railing. The waves did not relent; instead, they grew steadily more violent until a particularly menacing wave slammed against the deck. The sea slammed Draco down on the deck, filling his mouth and nose, Draco attempted to suck in a breath, but he was surrounded by water—
Waves. He remembered that Hermione liked waves.
—And Draco was spluttering awake, gasping as the ice-cold water washed over him. His eyes flew open to find Pansy Parkinson standing over him, gripping her wand and conjuring more water. "I've been doing this for ten minutes, you know," she said as way of greeting.
"Pansy, what the fuck!" Draco shouted, pushing her wand away.
Pansy's expression did not so much as flicker. "It's 3 p.m., Draco. After yesterday's conversation, I had certain expectations. An owl, at the very least. A fruit basket, perhaps. Maybe even an engagement announcement, as appalling as that would be." Pansy rolled her eyes. "Imagine my surprise when I received none of those things. So, I came to check on you, and I find your pathetic arse passed out on the floor at 3 in the afternoon!" she cried indignantly.
"Must you shout, Pans?" Draco asked, rubbing at his temple.
"YES!" she screamed. "You are a gigantic fool, Draco Malfoy!"
"So I've been told," Draco replied wryly. "How did you even get in here, Pansy?"
"I broke in. Do not change the subject!"
"You broke in?" Draco asked in disbelief. "I think that's really what we should be talking about here."
"It isn't and you know it, Draco Malfoy!"
"I could have you arrested, you know."
"You would never," Pansy challenged. "But again, we have more important things to discuss."
"Seriously? More important than you breaking into my house?"
Pansy sniffed. "I was concerned," she replied, vaguely waving a hand. "Also, I've been here a few hours. I got bored waiting for you to make an appearance. I planted a few flowers."
"What?"
Pansy merely rolled her eyes. "I saw your pathetic attempt at gardening the other day. I figured I'd help you out."
"You garden?" Draco asked skeptically.
Pansy bristled. "I'll have you know I received an O on my Herbology N.E.W.T. I was second in our class behind Longbottom by less than a tenth of a point," she replied snottily.
"Wait, really?"
"My name is Pansy, Draco. And if you recall, my sister's name is Violet. Unbelievable," she scoffed. "How many years were we together?" Pansy shook her head in irritation. "Anyways, your family is into constellations, mine is into flowers."
"Huh," Draco said after a moment, remembering belatedly that Pansy's older sister was, in fact, named Violet. "How did I never know this?"
Pansy rolled her eyes again. "Gods, we were so wrong for each other," she said, conjuring another small jet of water to his face. "I don't even feel bad for cheating on you."
"Rude," Draco sniffed.
"You got over it," Pansy replied with a roll of her eyes. "But, Granger—I know you, Draco, don't attempt to change the subject—I suspect you won't ever get over her."
Draco stared at Pansy for a long moment. "No," he agreed. "I don't think I will. Just like you and Astoria?"
Pansy visibly tensed. "Yes," she agreed. "I want her to get the treatment, obviously. She says she'd rather die than lose her magic." Pansy stared at her hands. "But half the time it doesn't even work," she continued, seemingly more to herself than Draco. "I don't understand."
"It's a hard choice, Pans. You have to see that," Draco replied. "Losing your magic forever? I don't—I don't know how I'd do it either."
She nodded before looking directly into Draco's eyes. "I get that it's hard, Draco. I understand that. But—" her voice broke, "I love her, Draco. I don't care if she has magic. I do care that she's alive. What would you tell Granger to do?"
The words left him before he even thought about them. "If Hermione died, I think it would kill me."
"Then you do understand."
"Yes," Draco admitted.
Pansy smiled, though it was obviously forced. "So all we have to do is convince Astoria to get treatment, and remind Grange—Hermione—that you two are hopelessly in love with each other. Simple." Pansy clapped her hands, as if she were setting the plan into motion. "But first, we need to unpack all that junk in your foyer. Draco, you have become so common thatit makes me nauseous.
"She packed up my things yesterday," Draco said solemnly. "After she saw me with you, I guess."
Pansy furrowed her brow. "Why?" she asked.
"We were holding hands, like we always used to…she is—" he paused. She is a dragon, he almost said. But that would not make any sense to Pansy—not yet. He sighed, trying to find a way to explain it to her. "We—we were both a bit possessive of each other," he admitted. "I was hers and she was mine. We always said that to each other."
"Oh, gods, I didn't even think—" Pansy lamented.
"Nor did I," Draco interrupted. "It's all right, Pans. It wouldn't have mattered who it was—it would have hurt her regardless."
Pansy seemed to think for several seconds before she spoke again, "No matter, I'll just swing by that horrid little shop—" she rolled her eyes absently, "and explain the matter to Granger. That should get everything fixed."
"Pansy, are you listening to me?" Draco asked heatedly. "She packed up all my shit. It's over. And why do you care so much anyways? You don't even know Hermione—why don't you focus on your own relationship."
Pansy sat down on the floor next to Draco with a slight grimace, crossing her legs at the ankle daintily. "Is it so wrong of me to want you to be happy, Draco?" she asked, wrapping her fingers around his arm and leaning her head against his shoulder. "That article in The Prophet," Pansy continued after a moment, "I'd never seen you look that happy before. I'd always felt guilty about leaving you here, you know, but I—when I saw that article, I knew you were all right with Granger, and I didn't have to feel bad anymore."
He couldn't help but smirk down at Pansy. "Pansy Parkinson being heartfelt and earnest—I never thought I'd see the day."
"Shut up," Pansy snapped, "before I change my mind about this." She softened. "As for Astoria, we are decidedly not in a relationship. She made that very clear the last time she was in France. So excuse me if I'd prefer to focus on your relationship woes instead of my own."
"So you're not going to fight for her? Didn't you just berate me for this exact same thing?" Draco asked.
"Oh, I'm still fighting for her," Pansy replied intensely. "I did track her down from a different country."
"Fair point," Draco mused.
Pansy stood, taking Draco's hands in her own and pulling him up. "Come on, Draco. It's time to pick your arse up off this floor. It is positively filthy in here. I still can't believe you gave up Malfoy Manor for this—dump."
"Ah, so there's the Pansy that I know and love," Draco replied mirthlessly, allowing Pansy to pull him up from the floor. "And I'll have you know that's not quite what happened."
Pansy sniffed, checking her skirt for dirt. "Yes, dear, we have quite a bit of catching up to do," she said absently. "But first, if you insist on living here, we really do need to unpack your things. If you won't allow me to fix your relationship with Granger, the very least I can do is help you with this—place. I can't have you living out of a box like a peasant."
Draco rolled his eyes. "I am quite capable of resizing and unpacking a bunch of boxes without your help, Pansy."
"I am quite aware that you are more than capable—I remember your magical prowess very well, Draco—the fact, however, remains that without my help, you won't do it. All you'll do is drink yourself silly. I am here as a distraction." As Pansy spoke, Draco found his eyes wandering to the bottle of firewhiskey where it still sat on the floor. Pansy caught the motion instantly, raising an eyebrow at him. "Is my company that unbearable?"
"Well, you did break into my house," Draco mused, eyes still locked on the bottle.
Pansy sighed. "Grab it if you need it, Draco. But we're just unpacking boxes."
He supposed Pansy had a point. They were just unpacking boxes. Surely he could handle that without a bottle of firewhiskey. "You're right," he said finally, his voice sounding tense. He swallowed, uncomfortable.
"Wonderful," Pansy replied, grabbing his arm and pulling him from the cellar. Draco took one last longing look at the bottle of firewhiskey before Pansy was dragging him forcefully into the hallway and towards the foyer. She didn't release her grip on his arm until they were surrounded by the shrunken boxes. Pansy pulled out her wand and began to resize the boxes. "I'll take this side and you do that side," she ordered.
"Bossy," Draco said under his breath, even as he complied and began to resize the boxes.
Between the two of them, resizing Draco's belongings did not take very long. Draco opened the first box, and sighed heavily when he saw what laid on the very top: the potions Hermione had brewed for him. He was unsure whether their inclusion had been intentional or not, but he instantly wished he had brought the bottle of firewhiskey with him.
"What is it?" Pansy asked, digging through a box of clothes, folding them neatly with the tip of her wand.
"Potions Hermione made for me," Draco answered quietly.
Pansy looked over at him sharply before her eyes dropped down to the vibrant pink vials. "What kind of potion is it?" she asked curiously. "I love the shade."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Truth be told, I'm not sure. She made it for—um—well, she made it—I suppose it's a Depression Draught," he answered lamely.
Pansy narrowed her eyes at the vials before she looked back to Draco. "You never took them?" she asked, even though Draco could tell she did not mean it as such.
Sheepishly, Draco shook his head. "No," he said lowly.
Pansy smacked him across the chest. "I know I've said this before, but you, Draco Malfoy, are an idiotic git."
"Ow!" Draco exclaimed. "I don't remember you being so abusive, Pansy."
"Yes, well," she said haughtily. "You clearly need a swift kick in your arse. So let me get this straight: this girl loves you enough to make you a Depression Draught—and you're not a fool, Draco, I know you know that is a difficult undertaking—and you never even took them? What did you do? Shove them in a drawer and forget about them?" Draco's embarrassment must have shown on his face, because Pansy smacked him again on the arm. "That is exactly what you did!"
Draco nodded—there was no point in lying.
Pansy snorted, reaching for a vial. With a delicate flick of her wand, she unstopped the vial and shoved it under Draco's nose. Immediately, Draco detected an intense citrusy bouquet of lemon and lime. "Drink it," Pansy ordered.
Draco swatted her hand away. "Pans, stop it."
Pansy did not relent, returning to vial to his mouth. "Drink it," she ordered again, more forcefully this time.
"Why? What is the fucking point?" he asked, pushing her hand away again.
"Seriously?" she countered. "You're miserable, Draco. It's a good a time as any."
"Hermione—"
"What about Hermione?" she asked coldly. "This has nothing to do with Hermione. Drink the fucking potion."
Draco resisted once more before finally giving in, realizing that he was fighting a losing battle with a very determined Pansy Parkinson. "Fine," he growled, taking the potion from Pansy and downing it in one swallow. The potion was bitter and acidic, but in no way offensive. "Happy?" he asked Pansy, handing her the empty vial.
"Thrilled," Pansy deadpanned, vanishing the vial. "Now I want you take them as directed."
"Whatever, Pansy," Draco said lowly, turning back to the boxes, attempting to ignore her. He could almost hear her eyeroll as she returned to her own box.
Draco and Pansy worked in relative silence, until Pansy moved onto a fourth box. Opening the sealed box with the tip of her wand, she pulled out several bound journals that reminded Draco of the Muggle spiral notebooks Hermione sometimes used at home. Draco's eyes widened. "What is all of this?" Pansy asked. "Are you writing a book?"
He shook his head. "No. I have no idea what those are."
Wordlessly, Pansy handed Draco one of the journals and he immediately flipped it open to the first page. Narcissa Black Malfoy, was written in the middle of the page, in his mother's familiar delicate cursive. Draco swallowed, turning the page. June 5, 1979, was scrawled elegantly in the top left-hand corner of the page. Then, just below that: the most handsome little boy with white blonde hair.
Draco stared at the page for a long moment, reading the phrase over and over again, until he managed to tear his eyes from the words to look at Pansy. "They—they were my mother's."