Detachment – a late frost in April colored his Father’s words, but Draco had learned somewhere in between the first time he fell from his broom, and the last time he screamed as a curse tore through his form, that detachment could sound an awful lot like worry.
W O R R Y – a swarm of fire-ants ravaged his body in the wee hours. It’d began when he’d returned to the manor the dark lord roaming the halls. At night, alone in his bed he allowed it to consume his mind, allowed it to eat him from the inside out. Then and only then, in the stark silence of it all did he give into his worry, and there was so much of it. Worry for his mother, for his father, for himself, and even now as the world pulled itself from the unsteady apparition of war his worry remained a constant companion. But here in this flat, it all seemed to quiet, and the worry settled into the back of his mind – he could breath.
A dragonfly landed on the windowsill, wings pastel refractions of light. There was a wall between them – bricks of unspoken regret and unmet expectations, the mortar oozing shame and despair. When he was younger the wall had been easy to navigate, to climb or break through. The rewards – fleeting smiles or a firm hand on his shoulder, always just on the other side. As the years dragged on, as touch became scarce, Draco found he lacked the energy to try.
A nod and a smile, weak and weary failed to reach his eye’s as he traced the edge of his teacup. The leaves settled into an upended archway – fragmentation. Tasseography was rubbish, but the word lingered in his mind all the same.
“ Thank you for your understanding ” Voice – willow branches in the wind, aimless and meandering sent the dragonfly on it’s way. What was it he sought exactly? Was it peace? Was it direction? Was it identity? Perhaps it was all three. Perhaps it was none. A bell chimed, the door of bakery down the lane singing to the cloudless sky.
There were many things his father would never hear the end of, Draco did not plan on his continual failure being one of them.
“ I will do, ” he continued, rising from his seat. “ I’m sure mother will be ‘round herself before the weeks out – more tea? ” Draco was not naive enough to believe this would be the end of the conversation, of the pleading for his return. If it had been his mother sat across from him Draco wasn’t sure he wouldn’t already be back in his childhood bedroom, but that was neither here nor there.
understanding, lucius tried not to cringe at the word for it was not understanding that reasoned with him to drop the subject of returning to the manor. guilt && fear, more like. guilt for the tragedy ( and the lunatic ) he unleashed upon his family. fear that should he push draco further from him by forcing him to heal by his side he may never again return for good.
his head bobbed in a somewhat absent acceptance, ears listening yet mind far away elsewhere. forming the words to explain to his wife his failure to bring his son home. she had threatened him with divorce prior to his coming here and though he would like to believe she would not abandon him so he has not exactly endeared himself to her with his activities with the dark lord.
with a disillusioned son and a disappointed wife for a man so well versed in self preservation, lucius malfoy risked everything for nothing.
lucius only turned to face his son at the offer of more tea, momentarily distracting his thoughts as he pondered whether it wise to overstay his welcome. “ please “ left his lips before he could stop them, fatherly instincts overriding his logic and pride, exploiting what he could to spend as much time with draco until asked to leave “ that would be nice, draco “ for if there was one thing he gleaned from the war, without a doubt, was that these moments were precious and fleeting.
with his intent to stay made clear, the patriarch surveyed the room with mild interest so very unlike malfoy manor, yet it reflected more of his son than their ancestral home ever did. the thought pained the older wizard, and yet another ache to ponder later in the comfort of his study and a decanter of fine whiskey to make it bearable.
he returned his gaze to draco, a comely smile upon his face to herald the horror that is small talk. “ so, “ an attempt to sound casual, though so very foreign in his usual aristocratic drawl, “ what have you been busying yourself with? “ the question came with genuine curiosity, “ your mother has taken to gardening, though why she insist i should do so with her is beyond me. “ his face twisted with feigned distaste when in actuality he relished the moment spent with his wife, even if he had to spend it kneeling on bloody dirt.
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