Loss defines a man’s faith.
Draco Malfoy was no stranger to death. He’d seen the souls of unsuspecting men tortured at the table where he ate, the last light in the eyes of his classmates as they defied the new order of the wizarding world, the resignation of his headmaster before his final moments—they haunted him in his sleep. It only made sense that death would soon follow him.
It clung to the shadows of his mind, the hymn of a harbinger, and it stripped him of all his faith.
He wanted to feel the naivety of his youth and the hope that dwelled there. He wanted to be reminded of what it was to see the world in full spectrum because his days only seemed to be one dreary shade of gray. He desired sunlight and sweets and Sauvignon. He wanted French summers and English winters. He wanted everything a fool would want because fools have hope. It’s what makes them naive.
So it begged the question, if fools have hope, what do Godless men have?
He didn’t believe someone as merciful and loving as God could condemn the fear of a boy trying to protect his family yet here he sat in a cold, dreary cell with his head placed upon stone waiting for his judgement.
Draco Malfoy was Godless.
He knew what would become of him.
It was no longer a burden, knowing his fate, but the weight he carried didn’t come from him but from her. While loss defines a man’s faith, it is wrath that defines a woman’s. Hers burnt bright—undeniable and painstakingly fierce.
It was probably the only way he could describe her—Hermione Granger.
She was a lawyer, as if she would be anything else, and she had taken him on as a client. He didn’t ask. In fact, he didn’t even have a say. Their first meeting he called her an insufferable know-it-all with an idiotic savior complex. In return, she called him a prat who clearly needed a hand to hold. It wasn’t mean at all. It was honest. That’s what bothered him. Her honesty. No one had ever been so kind as to reveal the parts of himself he worked to keep hidden.
Undeniable and painstakingly fierce.
And like a fool he yearned to bind himself to her will.
Bind me with these threads of sorrow and carry me out of the hollow light where I have torn my soul on twenty monstrous altars.
And like a fool he learned the true meaning of despair.
It was tragic, unexpected even, which he figures is the irony of it all. In the beginning, he would have shun the light for the stillness of night. Draco didn’t believe in trading the lull of darkness for something like sunlight. But she as a force to be reckoned with—undeniable and painstakingly fierce—and he’d been lost to her, sunlight, and flew like a moth to a flame.
No one told me how much it would hurt.
He’d been told the tale from his mother, time and time again, the beauty of something as undeniable as this. But that’s all it was—a tale, a fable because Draco has the misfortune of being a soul born in the cold and rain. It only made sense that he would burn for the very thing that would destroy him.
And she did.
There was no limit to her love. It poured from every freckle, every breathe, every shade of brown that made up her eyes. And, at last, he could grant a name to a buried and the burning flame. Love. Draco Malfoy was undeniably and painstakingly in love.
Only fools fall in love.
So he spent the better half of the next two and a half years doing what he could to make her laugh. It was the sound that followed him into his dreams. When she visited to discuss the case, he often times sat too close, if only to feel her knees brush his. Eventually longing stares and brief touches grew in a hand hold. It was the closest to their souls merging they would be allowed. It was a phantom that clung to his skin at night. And each day as he woke, he knew that he would gladly be the Icarus to her certainty. His sunlight. His beautiful, beautiful, sunlight. Draco knew the fate of the boy with feathers and wax but he’d die happily bathing in the sea if only to be under sunlight.
So when the warden appeared one morning with the Minister on his heels, Draco knew he would never confess.
The Minster lingered, dismissing the warden for privacy. “My hands are tied.”
“As are mine.”
“Would you like her to be here?” He shook his head. “She should know.”
“You’ve never liked me Minister. Don’t start now.”
“I’ve never known you, Mr. Malfoy.”
“I’m being sentenced to death—no need for formalities.” The Minister gave a curt nod. It wasn’t malicious but pitiful. Draco wondered how his death affected the man before him.
“Due to certain circumstances, the council has granted a few wishes on your behalf—within reason—should you name them.”
“How much time do I have left?”
“A week.”
“A bottle of Sauvignon.”
“That’s it?”
“If I told you what I really want, you’d deny me.” The Minister nodded once more. “Give this—” he rummaged through pocket, procuring a torn piece of parchment. “—to my mother. She’ll know what to do with it.”
“Is that all?” Draco nodded. “Alright, I will inform Miss Granger—”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“Miss Granger is no longer my lawyer. She will not be notified of the permanent changes in my case. I also would like to revoke her visiting rights.”
“Draco—”
A familiar burn spread across his vision. He’d been cruel to love her even if it was something as simple as holding hands. Draco Malfoy learned a lot after the second Wizarding War and in his act of repentance, he chose selflessness. He would not burden her with his life or lack thereof so instead he would offer her everything but himself.
He thought the Minister would leave then but he didn’t. Instead, he planted himself on the ground near the iron bars.
“Ask me for one more thing.”
“What?”
“I cannot grant you freedom but I am not so old and empty as to not see the perils of a boy in love.”
Draco wanted to shout that he wasn’t a boy, that he was a man—three and twenty—but that wouldn’t be the truth. His soul was still young and naive as ever. It was something to be cherished.
“I have a son—Roman—born on the ides of March. He’s six now and a lot like you.”
“Sarcastic and depressed?”
The Minister laughed. “No—no, he’s soft and gentle and often times afraid.”
A tear slipped down his hallowed cheeks. “I was usually described as a terror.”
“Not by your mother.” His eyes flicked up in surprise. His mother had never come to visit. “Oh, you are so very loved Draco.”
“I haven’t—”
“She feels responsible.”
“But it was my choice! I—”
“A choice a boy should have never had to make. Ask yourself what you would do for those you love and then you’ll understand why she is burdened with this guilt.”
He began to cry in earnest then.
The Minister’s hand snaked through the bars to grip Draco’s hand. “Ask me.” Draco spoke so softly he wasn’t sure the Minister heard. The man gave a gentle squeeze and promised it would all be done.
It wasn’t easy.
Sunlight demands to be felt in every way that it shines. He should’ve known she’d try to see him. He should’ve known that she’d fight her way in. She wasn’t successful and it was that small blessing that eased the ache in his chest. A dying man only had so many pleasures—his sanity was one of them. He’d never be the same if she was across from him demanding answers to questions he could never acknowledge. Instead, he savored the wine, piquant and floral, as it was reminiscent of his affections.
It was the night before his last that the warden appeared with a letter in his hand. It was neatly folded, the Malfoy insigne embedded in red wax. Mother. He took the letter, settling in the farthest corner of his cell with the last remnants of his wine, and cracked the seal.
Oh, you clever woman.
Hermione must have tried to send him letters and when rebuffed, went through his mother instead.
Draco,
I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. Talk to me.
Please.
With love,
Hermione G.
So he did.
He spoke into the darkness everything that light should hear. A soul splitting confession that bludgeoned anger and fear and laughter and tears. And when he was through, the warden appeared with the Minister. It was time.
The Minister held out a book of prayers. A portkey. Draco hesitated until the Minister grabbed his hand like a father would his young son. He hadn’t had much of a father—no matter how much he loves Lucius. The Minister left room for him and that was enough to feel just as small as a boy.
They squeezed through time, popping out on the shores of a pebbled beach.
“Are you afraid?” The Minister hadn’t let go of his hand.
“No.” An obvious lie as he clung to the man next to him.
“It won’t hurt.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s like slipping into the next room.”
Draco took one step forward, then another and another until he was waist deep in the water. His eyes never left the sky, reveling in the warmth of the sunlight on his skin. He imagined her touch, her smile, her laugh. He began then, to speak into the open air, unabashedly. They were demands and hopes and wishes for him and for her, for another life where the sun and the moon may have a chance to collide forcefully and fully, if only for a moment, and be something other than admirers in passing.
With his head tipped up to the sky and the sun kissing his face, Draco closed his eyes enjoying the last light. He didn’t see the flash of green. He didn’t feel the pain he was so afraid of. He simply slipped into the next room.