𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

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Malfoy Manor

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DRACO had been going through boxes for a while.

He had been staying with Blaise and Daphne since he'd been discharged from St. Mungo's almost two weeks ago. It was bizarre how long he'd been in that hospital for; most of his time there he laid in a coma.

Daphne gave him the tightest hug when he walked through their doors. She was half-sobbing, half-laughing, and Draco didn't know how to improve the situation for her.

According to Blaise, there wasn't anything that needed to be done.

He let her have her moment with him, and then showed him to where he would stay. He couldn't believe the condition of the Manor. When Blaise and his mother lived there, the atmosphere had been quite eery. Reminding Draco of his own Manor. But Daphne and Blaise had had the entire place renovated, and it had felt so welcoming and warm.

Blaise had taken a few days off work to keep Draco company, while Daphne left every morning, to return in the late afternoon. Draco had said it was unnecessary to do so, but they insisted. And Draco hadn't enough energy to argue.

It was Wednesday now, and Blaise had taken him back to Malfoy Manor, to sort out a few things before he moved away to Prague with Hermione.

It felt strange to him, seeing all his things from when he was a child and teenager. Things that, at some point, he would've deemed valuable. Now, worthless, entirely.

They'd been looking through his things for hours, dividing what he wanted to hold on to, and the belongings he'd discard, happily, into two separate piles. He hadn't much he wanted to keep.

"Are you sure you don't want any of this?" asked Blaise, his tone skeptical as his brows raised to his hairline. "I remember how much some of this used to mean to you, Draco."

The blonde shrugged, nonchalantly, "I'm about to move away with the woman I love. A woman who had been tortured in this house. In the drawing room. My parents wouldn't have approved of her if they were still here." He took a breath, as he made his point. "I don't want anything that reminds her or myself of the person I used to be. So, yes, I do want to be rid of it all."

"Okay then," the other said, "if that's what you want. We can leave, then." Blaise had shoved all of it into a box and moved on to the next room.

Draco had walked these hallways countless times, breathed in the air that infiltrated the premises, subconsciously. He could cover his palms over his eyes and locate what painting was where in each room. However, he still felt that disturbing chill path up the height of his spine whenever his mind ever drew near to this place, never even mind when he was here.

It was a strange thing; walking through here and knowing it was the last time. For him and for everyone else. 

Blaise had his 'keep' box levitating in the air, bewitching it to follow wherever they walked. The final, relevant room to rummage through was the kitchen, and Draco only wanted one thing: his mother's cook book.

That held the light in the darkness of his childhood memories. That had been trustworthy to him as the only good he'd had in his life. The only memory of his mother he didn't wish would rot.

His mother wasn't as bad as his father. He knew that; he could admit that, and he wouldn't hold that against her. But it didn't make her an angel. She knew of his father's abuse toward their son, and didn't act.