𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 | 𝐝.𝐦

𝟔𝟗

Draco Malfoy | August 1996

Suicide.

That was what it went out as, and what the Ministry declared it as.

Just as Draco planned.

Draco hadn't thought much about it since. Or as he was now getting ready for the funeral.

He thought about killing his father—plenty of times—because of the abuse he received from him. Maybe the nasty comment Lucius made about Kaimana was just the one push Draco needed to go forward with his thoughts—to kill his father.

His eyes scanned the brief blurb of Lucius Malfoy's funeral on the Daily Prophet, resting on his dresser, as he buttoned his black button down. It just stated stuff about the funeral time and place.

Draco didn't care to attend the funeral, but he had to—for his mother, he told himself.

He slid on his black blazer and fixed the collar of his button down before grabbing his wand and leaving his bedroom. He walked down the corridor of his home, feeling the aura of the home shift entirely already.

It didn't feel somber and chilling and dark. Instead, it felt more light and free and thin, the air.

Draco tried not to smile at it.

He went to his mother's bedroom and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He opened the door and saw his mother at her vanity table, staring at her reflection. "Mother, are you ready?" he asked softly, staying at the door.

She smiled sadly at her son through the reflection of the mirror. "I don't really have a choice."

She was torn about Lucius' death, and Draco hated how he hurt his mother like this. But it had to be done.

She stood from her seat, her eyes red and glossy already as she walked to her son. "You're ready, my boy?" she asked quietly, her voice hoarse.

Draco just nodded and escorted his mother down the grand staircase.

♧︎

The sky was oddly very blue and the clouds were white, big and fluffy in the sky. The sun was shining above, and nature was a vivid green around them—not particularly the best scenery for a supposed sad funeral.

Draco stood by his mother, holding her hand as she cried into his bicep. He scanned the people who attended the funeral.

"Is your sister coming, Mother?" Draco had asked on the way to the funeral.

Narcissa had smiled sadly. "She's busy, my boy."

Draco predicted she was with Voldemort, fixing up his plan and helping him since Lucius... well Lucius was dead.

A lot of people he didn't even recognize, but a lot of people he did. A lot of people from his father's business as well. People from the Ministry, some a single Professor from Hogwarts, some parents and families.

Some of his mates—Pansy, Theodore, Blaise—and their families attended as well, standing in the crowd.

Draco and his mother were standing by the gravestone, where flowers and roses were placed around.

Lucius Malfoy
1954-1996
Loving Father & Husband & Friend

Now, Draco would damn like to know who wrote those lies on that gravestone.

People came up and spoke a few kind words about Lucius—Snape, Mr. Nott. Mr. Parkinson, Mr. Zabini—but Draco wasn't shocked that Voldemort didn't show.

With over fifty people at the funeral, it was predicted Voldemort wouldn't show his face in front of everyone.

Draco suspected he was waiting to finally show his face when his stupid fucking plan was going to take place.

He still didn't know how he was going to stop or even do anything about Voldemort's plan because he actually didn't even know what his plan was. But he knew that it was coming soon because Voldemort hadn't been around the manor as often.

Draco could guess he was probably bringing back more of his fucking Death Eaters. He had overheard his father talk about it with Voldemort a couple weeks ago.

He had overheard them talk about how Voldemort was going to bring back his people, and Lucius had been agreeing and helping out with everything Voldemort could have possibly needed to do just that.

The clicking of cameras brought Draco back to reality, and he slipped an arm around his mother as she sobbed into his shoulder.

After the funeral finished, everyone was scattering around, sending their condolences to the Malfoys.

"Sorry for your loss, mate." Theodore hugged Draco tightly, patting his back. "I can't imagine what you must be going through." He had worn just a black button down and trousers.

Draco hugged back, not saying anything because he didn't care that his father died—or got murdered, he should say in his own head.

"I'm here for you, okay?" Pansy kissed his cheek before squeezing him in one of her world's famous hugs. She had worn a short black dress, her hair straightened.

Blaise then gave Draco a hug, wearing—like Theodore—a black button down and trousers. "My condolences," he said lowly to Draco.

Draco hugged back, again, not saying anything.

♧︎

When they had gotten home from the funeral, Draco had prepared his mother a small sandwich since she had barely eaten ever since Lucius died.

Draco had actually told the elves to take time off, and not to worry about anything. So because of that, he had been taking care of things around the manor for his mother.

Now, Draco was in his bedroom after making sure his mother was asleep after crying for hours. He had taken a shower and was in the middle of putting clothes on when there was a tap on his window.

He slipped on his sweatpants before hanging the towel on the bathroom hooks. He walked out of the bathroom to his window, brushing a quick hand through his damp hair.

He opened the window and a familiar owl handed him an envelope. He stroked the owl for a short minute before it flew away into the dark.

Draco closed the window and dropped into his desk chair, brows furrowed, but his heart pounding.

This was it.

She finally wrote him back.

He ripped open the deep red envelope and pulled out the parchment. He unfolded the parchment and held it as he read the contents.

Dear stalker,

I would say I'm sorry for your loss, but I know you hated him to shreds. So I won't say anything except I hope you're doing okay. I hope you're eating and drinking water and taking care of yourself. I hope your mother's doing okay. Don't bother responding back, because this was just a one-time thing I'm writing to you.

From,
Clover

He didn't realize he was smiling until his cheeks ached a bit.

She wrote him back.

And he knew that she knew it wasn't suicide.

She and him understood each other like that—he knew she would know it wasn't a suicide.

Not giving a shit, he took out his quill and parchment, and began to write.