𝓕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 — 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲
The thick air that fogged through the sky caused a shiver to run up his spine, the long black cloak he wore failing to shield him from the dawning of night’s chill.
The leaves that had fallen from the swaying trees around the graveyard as they blew through the wind landed before his steps hit the ground, crunching beneath his heavy boots. Each step hummed a tune only heard between him and the dead, the loose twigs he stepped on splitting from his footfalls.
He kept his head down, eyes downcast. He knew the path like the back of his hand, always threading down the familiar route that lead him back to you—only differently now.
His eyes landed on the familiar headstone, the fateful inscription greeting him as it always did.
In Loving Memory
15 March 1982 - 29 August 2019
And Flights of Angels Sing Thee to Thy Rest
Against his better judgment, he always hoped that one day, he would find himself in front of the accustomed tombstone, a name other than yours filling its place.
The area surrounding your grave looked all the same. The flowers that he had left on the tall stone mere days earlier still bloomed, contrasting with the harsh weather that numbed the living. The two empty spaces of land next to where you lay buried underground remained untouched—waiting for its two loose-ends to meet once again, eternally.
He stared at your name etched into the thick stone, the inscription becoming fainter with each passing day. Yet, against the progression of passing time, the pain still lingered anew.
It had never felt right since you’d left. You’d left a tear in Draco’s heart that was unable to be mended.
The night replayed in his head as if he’d submerged his consciousness into a Pensieve. The night the sickness had claimed you—and no amount of magic could have changed that fatality. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself of this truth, he would never stop feeling at fault.
As the temperature dropped around him, he stayed staring down at the grave. As a group of wailing widows and vilomahs gathered around nearby, the earth torn beneath their feet to house another, he stayed standing. As the sky grew darker and darker, he stayed, longing for the life he had once been fortunate enough to share with you, yet had ultimately taken for granted.
He looked up at the moon, his only affinity of solitude. It casted a glow on him, his platinum hair shining in the light.
He reached his ring finger up to his cheek subtly, dragging it across the skin. With a final glance at the resting place of his beloved, he turned away—silently pleading for life’s finality to consume him, too.
© angelicchris
notes ⋆. 𐙚 ₊˚ i think i got left behind in 2022 bc idk if anyone even still writes for draco ..
