DISCONTINUED--Letters I Can't Send (draco x reader)

50

Draco's POV

New Years Day, and I find myself alone in my room, sitting on my bed, the covers unmade, crumpled and folded in every direction, sheets strewn across the mattress. It's a mess. So unlike how it normally is in here. But I can't seem to move. I can't seem to do much else other than stare at the wall of my bedroom, watching the dry paint crack and peel.

Funny thing about death, even when it's expected, it's still as sudden as a punch in the gut.

It happened early this morning.

I was in the comfort of my room, sleeping.

His heart stopped beating.

His limbs grew cold. Colder than his normal personality.

He was in his study, in a wooden chair, pen in hand, paper still on the desk. He must have been midsentence, mid-word, even.

Emerald green blanket.

Silky black sheets.

Silky black pillowcase.

Gray walls.

Black and white floor tiles.

No thoughts are running through my brain, no tears sting my eyes, no expression on my face.

I see my surroundings; I feel my fingers furled into the sheets, my knuckles white; I smell nothing; I hear nothing; I taste nothing.

Until there is a knock on my door.

I barely know I'm walking to the door to open it up, until her arms are around my neck.

A feeling I am not used to, but I welcome it.

At first, I stay stiff, arms at my sides, fingers fiddling with the bandages around my palms. The bandages she so carefully engulfed my self-inflicted wounds in. The wounds I barely knew I gave myself. The wounds that my grandfather caused.

At that last thought, I let my hands float up to her back, my head fitting perfectly into the crook of her neck. I hold her tighter tighter tighter.

..........

The funeral is set for the day before we head back to Hogwarts. That day is today.

My nicest black suit hugs my torso in the freezing cold outside the Manor. My family, family friends, and Y/n are all here, crowding in a sea of black around a mahogany colored casket, frost already creeping up the sides. Small snowflakes fall from the sky, but not the ones that you catch on your tongue or the ones that make Christmas feel special. No, these blow in the wind, sting your nose and cheeks, making them rosy in the blistering cold.

My suit is suddenly feeling too tight, I pull at the collar, coughing slightly as I shift on the frozen ground beneath my feet.

My father speaks a few words, his platinum blonde hair whipping his face. Damn the wind.

Damn this suit. I tug on the collar again. It's all too warm, an uncomfortable contrast to the freezing wind. I must be moving too much because my mother hits my arm lightly, implying I stop moving.

I catch Y/n's eyes and hold her gaze, both of ours grim, unfeeling.

I would say tragedy has stuck the Malfoy family, but I would hardly call this a tragedy.

Dying in your office study, not only having expecting to pass soon, but everyone having said their goodbyes, is no tragedy. Just a loss of life. A lack of life.

The life that is being lacked, was a cold one. He never had a nice thing to say, never a respectful bone in his body. That goes for almost every Malfoy member, but he, he was wicked. My father was always trying to please him, to win his approval. But instead, my father only made a carbon copy of himself. Me.