Chiaroscuro

The Burrow

Draco woke up to the sound of thunder rolling across the skies. In his dreams the noise had belonged to something different. He was relieved to have woken from his nightmares to find that he was safe at home, with a summer storm blowing by.

Scorpius, however, was not thrilled about the storm. He came running into Draco's room only a few minutes after the storm began. He dove into the covers, rousing Draco even further.

"It's just a storm," he said to his son as he rolled on his side. "It's nothing to be afraid of."

Scorpius said nothing but Draco knew his son well enough that he was holding back tears. He didn't blame him, as a child many things startled him in the same way. The only difference was that he would rather stay awake in his room crying than face Lucius. Draco never wanted to become the kind of father who Scorpius feared.

He reached over and rubbed the little boy's back. The storm continued on, but Draco refused to fall asleep. Instead, he stayed awake with Scorpius, telling him about anything he could think of to keep the boy's mind off the sounds outside.

Morning came and fresh light poured in through Draco's curtains. He was comfortable in bed beside Scorpius and the idea of moving sounded revolting. So, he laid in bed for longer than usual, pondering his day.

He supposed that no work meant he could lay in bed all day, but what kind of father would that make him? He remembered towards the end of the war, Narcissa hardly left her room. She slept for nearly fourteen hours a day with the aid of a sleeping draught. Draco sighed to himself; he supposed he didn't want to be that kind of parent either.

Slowly, Draco sat up and pulled on a robe. He left the tiny bedroom and walked into the kitchen. He put a kettle on the stove and leaned back against the kitchen counter, waiting for it to heat up. He looked around his apartment, realizing how small and cramped it was. Even with its lack of space, he could hardly afford it.

Draco made tea and contemplated what he was going to tell his landlord when he saw him next. He was a week late on rent and didn't see any foreseeable way to earn enough money to pay for the next month. Even if he was able to scrape together enough money for last month's rent, he would be left with nothing to pay for other necessities.

Sitting at the tiny table in his kitchen, Draco pondered what his options were. For the past several years he had rationed the little money he had been left with. He was occasionally able to make extra money with his potion-making skills, but it wasn't always guaranteed. He had hoped to find financial stability when Scorpius went to Hogwarts, but those dreams had been squashed rather efficiently.

He was drowning. There was no way around that simple fact. Life cost more than Draco had and there was nothing he could do to outrun the bills that were beginning to pile up. No matter how hard he swam, life was pulling him in a downward spiral.

He let his head fall onto the table, feeling a headache beginning to build. He had no idea how others were doing it. Sure, most people didn't have to deal with the repercussions of working for the Dark Lord, but they had their own battles. Draco wasn't daft enough to not see the pain all around him. The war had impacted everyone.

Harry had nightmares; he had mentioned it one night at a pub. He had also mentioned that sometimes Ginny was unable to leave her house. Molly saw her dead son every time she looked at George. Despite all this, they were all able to continue on. Draco wasn't sure if it was a strange act of heroism or stupidity.

He thought about Hermione Granger and her cold eyes. She could see through him; he was certain of it. She was also, perhaps, the most well-adjusted out of the group. It was odd to see it, since she had gone through so much, but she seemed at peace. Even her house felt 'at peace'.