Lunar Cost - Dramione

1

The "family room" as Narcissa calls it is just a large hallway of sorts. The only thing that sets it apart from every other vast corridor in the manor was a singular tiny sofa facing a grand fireplace, carved in white marble and onyx, with an enormous portrait of the Malfoy family above the mantle. The mantle itself was barren. No picture frames or trinkets, not even one singular speck of dust could be found. On either side of the fireplace were huge built-in bookshelves neatly stocked with ancient, but cleanly looking tomes and works by famous authors, magical only.

As for the portrait, there was nothing Draco hated more than looking at it. It was a piece that had been painted before he had started at Hogwarts. The day before, precisely.

He remembers how awful that day was. Young Draco didn't mind it at all, but in retrospect Draco considered nothing of his past to be what it seemed like when he was a boy. His father was always spouting nonsense that Draco thought he had no business worrying about at his age. His mother agreed, of course, but it was a rarity Lucius valued anything that left her mouth.

Draco recalls that day as if it wasn't almost a decade ago and sneers. He remembers being excited for school. Was that such a crime? Such a crime that he had to sit through torturous lectures and lessons from Lucius before his official schooling had even begun.

After leaving his room, the portrait catches his eye, as it always does, and he finds himself in a staring match. Perhaps if he looks at it long enough it'll burst into flames or the paint will melt right off the canvas and end up a puddle of mud on the floor.

When it doesn't, he sighs, eyes scanning it one last time. His younger self wore a rude sneer, his father's matched, and his mother was the only one smiling. He hadn't seen his mother smile in years. Looking at Lucius made him sick. To think of what he'd done.

He'd attempted to take the portrait down once, but as soon as his fingertips grazed the frame, it felt as if shards of ice were being pushed underneath his fingernails. The thought of it makes him shiver as he walks down the corridor.

His attempts to clear his mind are frivolous. He can't stop thinking about Lucius. So many years of his life were spent doting on Lucius, like he was a god. Like his words were gospel and it was pure sin to think anything less. Rubbish.

After the battle, Lucius left.

He vanished. Without a word. Narcissa apparated to the Manor to find him, but there was no trace. His belongings were gone. As if he'd never lived there at all. The only thing that signified he was ever there was the portrait above that fireplace. In the "family room."

It was unfair. Lucius preached the importance of Draco's task. His role in the war, and then vanishes as soon as it's over. Like that's not what Draco had wanted to do from the start. He didn't want to kill Dumbledore. He didn't want to let the Death Eaters into the school. Or watch his friends die. Or watch his mother cry. He could've run.

But he didn't.

And Lucius did.

Draco thinks he should've let Voldemort kill him rather than get the job done.

The corridor is cold and lifeless. The walls are black, wooden panelling with incredibly intricate opal inlay that he didn't particularly care for. Doors to empty rooms were spaced out twenty feet apart on both sides of the 7 foot wide hall.

Eventually, Draco makes it to the top of a staircase that leads into a spacious, high ceiling drawing room. The stairs are black and carpeted, the same that dons the floor of his bedroom.

Another fireplace surrounded by great luxurious sofas. Unbearably repetitive, in his opinion.

He walks straight through toward a swinging door on the other side of the room, paying no mind to the annoyingly cookie cutter decor.