And She Was Golden

and a funeral (for a stolen life)

Draco is freezing.

Unfortunately, it's not the kind that he can wave away with a well-placed warming charm. No, it's the kind of chill that settles into your very bones and threatens to make its home there.

He scratches his arm again, though it proves ineffective through his woolen robes, he can't help it. Things have only been getting worse.

Unsteady. Alone.

The overcast day seems fitting. Grey as the occasion calls for⸺as it should be.

The sun isn't supposed to shine on a day like today. He hasn't slept a wink.

Breathe in.

He fucking hates this. Weren't they supposed to be done with all of this now? All the death and destruction and mourning. Haven't they done enough? He scans the area, a sea of black and he's drowning. It might have been easier to face this funeral with someone by his side but he doesn't have anyone left. And whose fault is that?

Breathe out.

There is a woman standing in front of the crowd saying something but Draco cannot hear. The world is oddly muffled around him. He thinks it might be Millie's mother.

There is a room filled with shelves that touch the sky. These shelves are filled with boxes under lock and key.

Draco is trying but it's a losing battle. The woman pauses in her speech, taking a moment to compose herself, but it doesn't work. Tears stream down her face and she's quickly joined by someone else⸺another face he's supposed to know but can't be bothered to recall. What's the point? Another deep breath and the ground trembles.

Or perhaps he's the one shaking.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

His arm is burning. Why is he here again? The funeral has arrived at the most inopportune of moments and Draco is disgusted with himself for the thought. It's not as if the world ought to revolve as per his convenience.

Perhaps Blaise was right all along.

But this is neither the time nor place.

Boxes. He needs his boxes. Why won't the burning stop? He claws at his forearm, staggering back with the intensity. Burning and burning and burning. Draco clenches his teeth, grateful that he's chosen to linger on the outskirts of the small gathered crowd.

I won't let you down, My Lord.

His own words are a whisper as they loop, echoing back to him. Hands shaking as he gasps, he scans the area, eying the door. Would anyone notice if he left? The only people who might have aren't currently with him.

His friends, if he can still call them that.

Burning and burning and burning. Draco stumbles towards the exits of the modest building. Merlin. He quickly undoes the button of his formal shirt, shoving up it's sleeve as he reveals the pale expanse of his left forearm.

Perfectly glamoured. Draco can still see every jagged line of the Mark.

He scratches at the skin. This isn't okay.

Breathe in.

It hasn't been for so long. Burning and burning and burning.

Breathe in.

He needs his boxes. He needs his boxes. He needs his boxes.

Breathe in.

Draco can't let them fall. Not now. Not ever.