Venom & Virtue

chapter 66

TWO WEEKS LATER

Draco cursed under his breath, the tie around his neck slackening as his fingers fumbled with the silk material.

"Here, let me," I moved his hands away gently, looping the tie neatly around itself and tightening it to the collar of his shirt.

He watched me as I did it, his eyes focused intently upon my face in a way that was almost unnerving.

I finished my handiwork and stepped away, allowing him to inspect his appearance in the long mirror.

My gaze drifted out of the windows of his bedroom as he did so, taking in the morning light and miserable fog hanging around the grounds, the ominous mood heavy.

It was the day of Lucius' funeral, one that everyone in the household had been dreading for a long time.

The last few weeks had been strange in nature, as if we'd been caught in our own private twilight zone, the hours drifting past in a surreal motion.

I'd been so wrapped up in Draco, that I'd almost forgotten what was awaiting us on the horizon.

Most of our time had been devoted to one another, remaining in the safety of his room, tucked away from the harsh reality of the world around us.

But after some gentle coaxing, I'd managed to convince him to join the household at mealtimes, thrilled when Narcissa had begun to attend too.

But even with small victories, most days were difficult.

The Dementor attack had left a lingering mark on Draco, the trauma effect causing him to frequently wake up with nightmares, thrashing in panic against the sheets, a sheen of sweat against his inked skin.

On those nights I always helped calm him down, holding his frame and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, waiting for his breathing to slow against my neck as he relaxed into me.

And on those nights we always said we loved one another, that we were safe, that things would be okay.

It was agonising to watch him go through it, especially knowing that he'd sacrificed the one thing that could've protected him for my sake.

In a way, it felt like survivor's guilt.

A heavy remorse lodging itself into my brain every time I watched him zone out mid-sentence, or yell fearfully into the darkness of his bedroom as he came to.

But just as I reassured him that he would get better, he reassured me that he didn't regret his decision at all, that I didn't need to have a bad conscience over my good health.

So we took it day by day, holding onto hope from what the healer had told us; that he would eventually fully recover, that time was the best remedy.

The worst days were when he got absorbed in his own self-hatred, the guilt about his participation in the coup eating away at him bit by bit.

On those days, a deep depression would overwhelm him, and for the most part, he wanted to be alone, private in the aura of his sadness and turmoil.

He liked to sit in the garden when he felt that way, his lean form placed in the grass, his back facing the house.

In those hours I never disturbed him, instead, sitting myself on the veranda with a book, keeping half an eye on him incase he needed me.