The Malfoy-Granger Guide To Fake Dating

7

Upon being discharged from St. Mungos the following afternoon, Draco trudged silently down the halls of Malfoy Manor with his arm slung over his mother's shoulders, focusing on the steady ache in his ribs rather than the painful lack of words between them.

They stepped forward in unison, putting one foot in front of the other and wholly ignoring the thick tension that had begun to bubble, daring to boil over like a pot left unattended on the stove.

It seemed that ever since Narcissa had returned to his bedside after their previous argument, she'd resolved herself to never engage in a similar conversation to the one they'd had before. Apparently, acknowledging it at all had proved to be far too much for her nerves to handle, if the deep worry line between her brows had anything to show for it.

"Fuck," Draco hissed as they turned a corner and his mother's hand around his midriff touched a little too close to his injured ribs. He reached up to press a palm to the tender area.

"Language," Narcissa chided, at which Draco clenched his jaw so tightly that it threatened to snap. "I did not raise you to speak in such an uncivilized manner."

Draco's gut roiled, and before he knew it, the very word he'd swore never to speak again was right on the tip of his tongue. Only this time, it wouldn't be a Muggleborn he was attempting to wound. "Ah, yes. But the term Mudblood was always perfectly acceptable, was it not?"

Tensing immediately, Narcissa turned to stare up at him, her icy eyes glazed over with impassivity. Sometimes he managed to forget what a skilled Occlumens his mother had become over the years. More skilled than he was, certainly, and possibly even more talented than the very witch that had taught him to use it. Narcissa had refused to be the one to educate him, of course, as she wouldn't have been willing to take the necessary measures to complete every aspect of his training. Aunt Bella was less sentimental when it came to those sorts of things, so she'd been perfect for the job, and all too happy to do it.

"You're still a bit woozy," Narcissa said in lieu of a real response, avoiding his accusation entirely. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mum—"

"Bed, Draco."

His lips pressed together in a firm line, and he took another aided step forward, his palm still pressed to his side.

Once they'd reached his old bedroom—a space he didn't particularly like the idea of entering—Narcissa helped him to the bedside, then carefully pulled back the sheets so that he could slide between them. He assumed she'd had the elves change them since the last time he'd stayed over, judging by the fresh smell of soap and a soft floral fragrance.

When she began to tuck the sheets snuggly around his legs and feet, Draco wondered if this moment felt in any way nostalgic to her. Back when he was young, Narcissa never failed to tuck the sheets under his toes each night to keep them from getting cold. Or sit at the edge of his mattress and read to him from one of his favorite series until his eyes drifted shut with exhaustion. Then, she would brush the fringe from his forehead, dropping a featherlight kiss to his hairline before smoothing the white-blonde strands back into place.

She cleared her throat sharply, drawing him from his reminiscence, and straightened back to her full height. Her eyes remained cold. Detached. Like she hardly recognized him at all.

"Poppy will be around if you need anything," she said, glancing away. "Just be sure to call for her. Or ring the bell."

"And what of you?"

The question seemed to catch her off guard, and in the span of a single blink, Narcissa'ss irises flashed. Just momentarily, but long enough that he was able to catch the movement in the dim light. "What of me?"