❝ Why can't we be more than friends, Draco?
-Why can't we be more than friends? Merlin Astoria, figure it out. I am fucking social pariah. Your friends, your family, your fucking parents who adore you, would never approve. ❞
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Father,
Mother is dead. I don't know how else to write it other than as plainly as that. Someone cursed her and we weren't able to save her. Looks like I'm a fucking orphan now.
I hope this letter doesn't reach you. I hope it gets lost in the sea and you continue on living, thinking that Mother and I are still happy and together, living in the haunted Malfoy Manor for all of eternity.
I don't know what to do now. How to fill my time without her by my side. For so long, we were all each other had. Now, I have nothing.
I wish I were in Azkaban with you. I wish we were all in Azkaban. Me. You. Mother. At least we'd be protected there. There, no one would send us cursed post. Besides, I'd rather learn the pitches of your screams than live this life without Mother alive.
Andromeda and Astoria scheduled the funeral for Saturday. Astoria wants me to see if they'll let you out for a day for it. What a load of rubbish. The only way they'd let you leave Azkaban is if you're dead.
I hope you die. I hope we both do.
Draco
Without reading the letter over, Draco stuffed the paper into an envelope and handed it over to the unnaturally large hawk, who gazed at Draco with the utmost contempt, obviously distrustful of the youngest Malfoy. Draco wondered for a moment if his father had ever gotten any other post. It wasn't exactly allowed, so he supposed not. Besides, Astoria had to request permission from the Auror office for this specialized Azkaban hawk for Draco to send this letter, and who'd go through all that trouble for him?
Draco pondered for a moment whether his mother ever got in contact with his father, but remembering his mum was too painful, so he shoved that thought to the far ends of his brain, where he hoped it'd disappear.
The hawk took off after properly gripping the thin envelope in its beak, sweeping through the kitchen door and to the North, where Azkaban laid, where his father was rotting in a cell, unaware of the emptiness his life would soon take on.
An uncomfortable, unbearable quiet fell on the manor once more, shifting through the corners of rooms, pressing the kitchen with stifling air, stuffing Draco's ears with cotton. There was no real sound except the steady thump of Draco's heart in his chest. What once was a bustling, loud kitchen, held nothing but the ghosts of its inhabitants.
His chair scraped against the stone as he rushed forward into the wine cellar, grabbing the first bottle his eyes fell on. Almost immediately, the cork popped out from Draco's grip, his magic bursting forth from his fingertips. He drained half of the bottle in one go, anxiety easing as the tendrils of alcohol curled around his insides.
