Chapter 14
Covet the spring when life is plentiful.
Eager decay makes way to greenery.
Blossoms indiscriminately extoll
our bereaved Equinox plenary.
Covet the plant that grows in well fed soil.
Garden fruit resurrect each year through seed.
Vegetation remembers not the toil
of decomposed plants on which they feed.
Covet the bloom of spring’s first flower.
No gloom appears in its ebullient smile.
Could you discard recollections most dour
and don verdant perspective for a while?
Let memories of love lost fertilize
flora, root or leaf worn to eulogize.
Draco kept the invitation in his breast pocket on the carriage ride to Grimmauld Place. It did not feel like going home. Draco had thought it had evolved to his home, but an extended stay with the Weasley’s reminded him of what home was supposed to be. Not just a place, but a place made by the people who were in it. A place where routines were like rituals that brought people closer to one another. Grimmauld Place was a home for other people, and Draco just lived there.
Still, Draco could hardly sit still with the anticipation. He nibbled on his lips as he surveyed his mental catalog of each mask in the attic, debating between floral and tree variations. He dreamed of creating his own mask one day, but there simply wasn’t enough time. He would have to look again and see what spoke to him, then scrounge up source materials to construct a broader costume.
The carriage dropped Draco off outside the servants entrance instead of the main hall. While he couldn’t tell if it was a slight, Draco set aside his pride and chose to be thankful for it. The king was always willing to shove open the large front door himself but Draco couldn’t bother. The servants’ door was down half a staircase and led him right to the kitchen.
Kreacher caught Draco stealing a warm bun and cuffed the back of Draco’s head for it. “You were taught better manners than that, Master Draco,” Kreacher said in lieu of greeting.
Draco grinned at him, with bread in his teeth. “Not ‘Master’ anything, Kreacher.”
Kreacher’s grunt was not agreement. He did hand Draco another roll. “Get upstairs before you cause more trouble. Your mother will be happy to have you back.”
His mother was happy to see him. She put propriety aside and embraced him fully, nearly clutching him in a firm embrace. Draco would never say it, but she was worn around the edges. A little more wrinkled, a little more gray. This household didn’t nurture her, either.
They stayed side by side as Narcissa insisted Draco tell her everything. Draco found himself parroting Percy’s words. He’d stayed with Percy as the family rested and worked hard to get better. It felt like a breach of trust to share anymore about their particular struggles. Draco distracted his mother with his tales of trying to re-learn remedial French. He listened fondly as she scolded him, in perfect French, for letting the talent slip. It was almost like they were at their real home, waiting for Draco’s father to come home from running the country to inquire about their day. It made him think of Molly and Lucy’s joy when they saw their mother return to them. He yearned for the experience.
Was it so different, to have his aunt and cousin walk in then instead? Teddy hooted and lept for Draco, who caught him in air and lifted him up towards the ceiling. Draco spun Teddy around while Andromeda said, “I heard you’d come back. Welcome home.”
It still didn’t feel like home. Not even with Teddy is his arms.
He had never played with Teddy where Andromeda could see, but neither his aunt nor his mother took mind of their shenanigans, except when they paused a somewhat stilted conversation to watch and smile hesitantly. Draco could see they had both decided to try at being family.
It was almost enough for Draco. Certainly, it was the best he could hope for and that would have to be enough.
“You’re back, then?” Andromeda asked after both Teddy and Narcissa left for a rest.
Draco watched after his mother as she walked away. She looked so tired. “Um, for now,” Draco answered. “They left unexpectedly, so I offered to help maintain the townhouse for a short while, get everything in order. I’ll stay here a few days before I return.” It was a liberal interpretation of Percy’s call for Draco to stay as long as he liked, but he doubted the word would get back to the Weasleys before Draco came back for good.
Late that night, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Draco sat on the attic floor. The black trunk was open before him and he had tenderly pulled out every mask inside it to find five perfect options for the ball.
Each was spectacular, but none was right.
Draco rubbed his fingers over the verses of the sonnet he’d long since memorized. The masks in front of him fit the theme of growing vegetation. Only, the lines in the poem that settled in Draco’s mind didn’t conjure pictures of leaves and flowers. They conjured heartache. Draco read a longing not just for things lost, but for loss to stop consuming everything. For the loss to transform to nutrients that would feed spring’s growth and revival, instead of just leaving one’s insides hollow.
It was near on three years since Draco’s side lost the war and his world went topsy turvy. He still felt hollow inside.
The masks of dead ancestors he didn’t know could not fill the hollow ache in his chest. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of what possibly could.
Reading to Teddy. Baking pies with Luna. Percy’s fragile trust.
Small moments when his heart felt full.
His mother draining herself to stay strong for him. His aunt bending her iron will to give him a chance.
It was almost enough for Draco. Certainly, it was the best he could hope for and that would have to be enough.