Shifting in his chair, he could see the rain lashing against the glass walls of the conservatory. He could feel the autumn night air growing cooler around the manor, leaves withering and dropping to the manicured lawns. If he shut his eyes, he could remember the times that he’d eagerly await the fall of the leaves and the impending darkness of winter. Now, winter’s jaws loomed jagged and ready to bite.
He stood, leaving the book in his abandoned seat, and left the room that had once been his mother’s pride and joy. She’d spent countless hours here, gardening and coaxing life from the numerous planters. He could still feel her maternal yet reserved magic here, just as he could feel the frigid, splintered magic of his father in the stables and in his study. Abraxas Malfoy had left his mark in the dungeons. It felt similar to Lucius’s, but harder, and even less forgiving. His grandmother’s crisp touch lingered in the dining room, where she’d played hostess to thousands of guests over hundreds of nights.
Draco often wondered where he’d leave the touch of his magic in the house, and what it would feel like. Wandering aimlessly through the dark hallways, he could feel flashes of each of the ancestors that had lived in these walls.
He avoided the drawing room that had been locked shut for years, as if shards of crystal from the fallen chandelier were still imbedded in the rug. He turned instead for the music room, where he brushed his fingers over the polished ivory keys of the piano. Restlessly, he played a few scales, the familiar movements steadying him. The sounds reverberated through the spacious room, and he closed his eyes again, willing himself to not fall into the melancholy of the damp evening.
He didn’t make it through an entire movement though before another familiar magical signature tugged at him, and he left the piano as he had the book.
The dark paneled door loomed ahead of him, and he knew the moment he stepped over the threshold, he would feel it. Thick and sweet like syrup, lingering in the space that had served as her refuge in the house.
The doors opened to their master as he approached, and he waited for the sweet embrace of the magic he craved. He swallowed hard as light flared to life, illuminating the portrait of the manor’s mistress, asleep with a book in her lap.
He sat in her favorite chair, where the shadow of her honey sweet magic was the strongest, and gazed up at her. Chestnut curls, never quite subdued, and smooth, soft skin captured in oils. Her hand curled over the leather-bound book in her lap, the ring of Lady Malfoy on full display.
Sighing, he sat back, content to at least feel the gentle touch of her magic. If he couldn’t have her, he’d stay here until sleep overtook him. Closing his eyes once more, he could imagine the scent of her hair and the way her whiskey coloured eyes sparkled in the sun.
“What are you doing here?” Her whisper made his heart pound even in his dreams, and he reached for her curls, wrapping a stray strand around his finger.
“Waiting for you, Granger. What else would I be doing?”
“Come on then.” Her fingers tangled in his, and she was pulling him, weightless, into the light.
A door shut somewhere, and he jerked awake. The candles had burned low, and Hermione’s eyes bore down into him.
This wasn’t a likeness in oil. This was the witch that had changed everything. “Don’t make me levitate you to bed again,” she sighed, and he smiled for the first time that evening.
“Bossy witch,” he huffed, and she arched an eyebrow at him.
“It comes with the title,” she said airily, and shrieked when Draco lunged at her, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist, pulling her down into his lap. She giggled, her feet dangling several inches off the floor, settling against his chest.
“Indeed. The Golden Princess,” he murmured into her neck, breathing in the jasmine of her perfume and green tea that she’d no doubt sipped at her desk that evening. “Or did you mean Minister?”
She laughed, the sound enough to warm him through to his core. “You know very well what I meant.” Lacing her fingers with his, her platinum wedding band clinked softly with his, and he felt a rush of emotion as he realized yet again that she was his.
She had returned to him, and continued to return.
“I do, Lady Malfoy.” His words were the closest thing he’d ever uttered to a prayer, and he’d worship her like the goddess she was as for the rest of his days. She was golden sunlight and honeyed whiskey, the feel of a warm hearth in the winter. She was the embodiment of magic. And she was his.