Welcome Home.
Draco slowly opened his eyes and closed them again as a ray of sunlight had pierced through the curtains of his London flat. A groan escaped his throat as he rolled on his front and buried his face in her pillow.
It smelled so good, like freshly picked lavender and roses, the same roses that bloom every spring in his mother’s garden, the same roses he picks every year for her birthday, the same roses that always make her smile as she smells them.
Today is no exception to that tradition.
It’s her birthday and Draco, as always, had taken a day off of work to plan the perfect day for his beloved wife.
He breathed in her scent on her pillow one more time and finally got out of bed. Her side is always made, he never has to bother with it.
Thank Salazar for his fastidious wife.
He jumped under the shower, and, as always, knocked her four hair-care products bottles on the floor. He always wondered why she took care of her hair the muggle way and not with charms and magic. That’s what he did.
Dry his hair with a flick of his wand, style it the way she likes in a snap of his fingers, summon his clothes out of the closet while she always did as if no magic ran in her blood.
As he ran a hand in his hair, he heard her voice reminding him that relying on magic was a form of laziness. He knew that deep down it was a way for her to stay connected to the world she grew up in, a way to stay close to her parents.
Parents she hadn’t seen in years now.
So, as tradition, he did everything the muggle way.
Shower, hair, clothes, coffee; everything.
He did everything her way because it was her birthday, and on her birthday, Draco did everything that would make her happy.
Happy wife, happy life, right?
He picked her favourite suit and tie and spread them on the bed, wondering what shirt she'd like to see him wear, which shirt she’d love to tear off of his body when the night’ll end, which shirt she’ll wear in the morning as they’ll take their breakfast in the fresh air of the morning.
He decided to think about that later, the first stop of the day was his mother’s garden to pick her favourite roses. It was probably the hardest part of his day.
He slipped on a pair of black linen trousers, a black jumper and his favourite dragon-hide loafers, a pair his wife had bought for him on his birthday fifteen years ago.
It was far from the usual outfit people would wear for flower picking, but it was Draco, and Draco Malfoy was everything but a casual-outfit man. Linen trousers were the most casual he’d go for.
He scratched the head of the purring orange furball on the upholstered velvet end-of-bed bench and jumped in the floo to Malfoy Manor.
As always, Narcissa Malfoy sat in her favourite armchair in the small living room, a cup of tea in her hand and a book in the other. She lifted her eyes and met his icy grey ones when she heard him step foot in the room.
She greeted him with a small smile as he kissed the crown of her head before he left for the greenhouse where she magically grew dozens of different flowers. She had been the one to offer the roses to his wife first, and since then they became her favourite.
Narcissa always grew some in the back of her gigantic greenhouse, just for Draco’s wife.
The moment he stepped foot in it, he got overwhelmed by the scent of the roses; they were always the strongest smell and overpowered any other scent. It felt as if his wife was wrapped around him, like a cloud of her was floating all around him.
He breathed the smell in, filling his lungs with her and walked to the back of the greenhouse where those gorgeous roses had bloomed, just for her. He crouched in front of them and proceeded to pick all of the pink roses to make his wife an enormous bouquet.
Narcissa will have an entire year to grow some back.
He wrapped the stems with a crimson velvet ribbon and, before exiting the glassed garden, picked a few sprigs of lavender to make his gift smell exactly like her.
He walked back to his mother, flowers in hand and smiled at her.
The war had had a toll on her and she now spent half of her peaceful days drinking tea and reading books in the quiet of Malfoy Manor, waiting for the day her husband would be released from Azkaban.
Draco walked to her again and kissed her forehead. Before he left, she grabbed his wrist in her cold, alabaster hand.
“I’m not going to come today, Draco. Wish her a happy birthday for me and please, ask her to apologise for my rude manners. I promise I’ll try to come next year.” she whispered.
Draco nodded and smiled; she never came for his wife’s birthday and he knew she wouldn’t the following year. He also knew his wife wouldn’t mind, she understood.
That was one of her qualities, she was always so sweet and kind to others, always understanding and offering her help. She wouldn’t be offended if Narcissa didn’t come to see her, she knew she was in her mother-in-law’s thoughts.
Draco left the manor to return back to his flat where the fluffy companion waited, wide awake, in front of his empty bowl, meowing for his human to fill it.
Draco filled the bowl with a flick of his wand, forgetting about the no-magic tradition that occurred every September 19th. It’s not that he didn’t want to, but going to Malfoy Manor was always so draining.
Standing in a house that reminded him of so many atrocities was too hard for him, even after all those years. That’s why he took a flat in the centre of Wizarding London, to be as far away as possible from his childhood home.
No wonder Narcissa was just the shadow of herself now, living in this hell-hole was sucking all the energy and life out of her. But she refused to leave, because she had gotten married there, she had given birth and saw her child grow up there.
Draco didn’t have any good memories in this house, but she did, and she clung onto them.
Draco shook his head and chased the dark thoughts that started to plague his mind and forced himself to focus on the sound the orange creature made as he ate, the purring sounds coming out of his mouth when he rubbed himself on Draco’s leg, leaving a trail of orange hairs on his black trousers.
Draco vanished them with a flick of his wrist, forgetting again about the tradition he was supposed to follow. The one she’d have reminded him if she had been home.
But it was her birthday, and she wasn’t. So he forgot.
He poured himself a cup of hot black coffee and sat on the velvet cushioned end-of-bed bench, staring at the open door of his closet; he still had no idea what shirt he wanted to wear.
But most importantly, which shirt he’ll watch her slip on as they’d get up in the morning.
The thought made him smile, she always looked so good in his clothes, mixing both their smell on her freckled skin. What a delicious taste it always left on his tongue when he kissed her neck.
The sound of the Floo tore him out of his reverie, indicating that his guests had arrived. It was still the morning but they had a lot of things to do and Draco could always count on his friends to help him, to make her birthday even better every year.
Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Harry and Ginny stepped in his bedroom as he sipped on the last drops of his coffee. Pansy walked up to him and kissed his cheek, as she did every time they saw each other.
Her husband, the speccy bastard that apparently didn’t want to leave him alone, grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a friendly embrace.
Yes, because Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were now friends, and co-workers. It was odd for him to think about this sometimes but brushed it off when he remembered why he had befriended the boy he had once hated fervently.
It had all been for his wife.
She had begged him to be at least courteous with her friend when they had started to work together. And, finally, against all odds, they did get along. After many nights working together at the DMLE, after many nights out with the co-workers, after all the weddings and babies and parties with all their closest friends, they had become friends.
Harry had been there at their wedding, at every birthday, every party his wife wanted to throw because life was so peaceful now to not be celebrated. She always said that their youth had been stolen and all she wanted to do was celebrate now.
Celebrate being alive.
So they did, they always all did whatever she wanted because she was the light of their lives and if she wanted to celebrate, then celebrate they would.
“What gifts did you buy?” Pansy asked as she poured herself a glass of firewhiskey.
Draco frowned when she did, it was still morning after all. But it was Pansy, and if she wanted to drink, she would.
“Nothing yet, I was planning on doing it this afternoon.” He shrugged, it didn’t matter at what time he bought the gifts, she wouldn’t see them until the evening and he knew what to buy.
He got up from the bench and opened the drawer of her bedside table. All her little clutter was inside; hair ties, chapstick, a dummy, her favourite copy of Hogwarts : A Historyand a crimson notebook, big enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
Inside was a list of all the things she wanted to do, a bucket list she called it and Draco still wondered what visiting Italy, skinny-dipping in the South of France and going pumpkins picking in the United States had to do with a bucket.
At the end of this notebook was a list of all the books she wanted to buy to fill her library, all first editions, extremely expensive and rare. Most of them were already in the Malfoy’s library, but she wanted them to be hers.
She wanted to be able to see them, touch and smell the old books every day, handle them with care in case the spine would be damaged. She said she didn’t want to rob Narcissa from her books even though both her and Draco knew Narcissa wouldn’t even notice their disappearance.
But he respected his wife’s desire. That’s why, every year, he went to this little bookshop in a crooked alleyway in muggle London where they sold so many books he was sure if he ever let her step foot in it she’d never leave.
The bookshop was full of muggle books but, in the back of it, behind a few dusty shelves stood magical books. The owner was an old muggle man who had once been friends and acquaintances with some witches and wizards. From what Draco had gathered, the man couldn’t remember who these people were but he knew there was a part of magic in this world.
That’s why he kept a shelf of magical books in case some lone wizards crossed the path of his little bookstore. Draco had been the first wizard to ever step foot in the shop.
It was his secret. The bookshop was his and the books were hers. That’s all that mattered.
Like every year, he gave the piece of paper to his friends and they all debated on which book she’d like more, which book she talked about the most, which book Draco would’ve to read to her on some days.
They decided on a handful of books and Draco left for the small bookshop, alone. He liked his friends but if they had accompanied him, they would’ve been so fucking chatty and all Draco wanted to do was focus on his wife’s happiness.
He walked into the shop, smells of dust and ancient wood wrapped around him, replacing the comforting and peaceful smell of roses that had stayed with him all morning.
He walked to the back of the boutique where he knew he’d find a wonky half-empty shelf, and that’s the one he wanted.
There were only a few books on display and they probably were the only ones that weren’t covered in dust. They were shiny, almost impeccable, untouched almost.
He decided that this year’s books would be The True Story of the Opal Fireand a book she had once had in her possession but lost many years ago; Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried.
He walked to the cashier and smiled at the grey-haired wizard.
“Ah, Mister Malfoy, I wondered when you’d be here today.” he mumbled, his mouth half-attached to a cup of coffee that probably had more whiskey than coffee. “I kept the books in the back, to prevent them from smelling old and dusty.”
Draco smiled at the thought, the wizard was really thoughtful.
“Thank you, that’s very nice of you.”
“Anything for that wonderful wife of yours.”
Draco dropped the books on the counter and, as usual, paid way more than he was supposed to. He suspected that the bookshop wasn’t visited by many muggles and the last thing he wanted was for it to go bankrupt.
So, every year, he paid for a year worth of bills and supplies, just so his wife could have the best gifts every year.
The old man wrapped the books with delicacy and practice, as if he had been using his hands to work for years, for something more than wrapping silly books he probably didn’t know anything about.
“There you go, I added a little card with it, for you to write her a note.” he smiled, showing the creases and wrinkles around his honey eyes.
“So thoughtful as always.” Draco chuckled.
“The best for my best customer.”
Draco desperately wanted to highlight that he probably was the only one, but if his old friend didn’t want to say it, then Draco wouldn’t mention it.
They shook hands as always and Draco grabbed one spearmint candy on display on the counter. “Thanks for that,” Draco said as he raised his hand to show the neatly wrapped books. “Kiss your wife for me.”
“I will, she’ll be sad to have missed you. Come see us more often, will you?” The old man asked, like every year, and as usual, Draco answered the same.
“I’ll do my best. See you next year Wendell.”
*****
Draco looked at himself in the mahogany leaning full-length mirror in front of his bed, sliding his hands down his torso to rid his shirt of any wrinkles that he would’ve missed.
When he came back from the shop, his friends had left his flat non-without leaving a note saying they’d be back at seven to pick him up before all going to his wife together.
Draco had then spent half his day trying to iron his shirt the muggle way.
He burned it twice, had to use magic to repair it, burned it again, threw it in the corner of his room, picked it up again, used magic to mend the burnt hole and finally magically ironed it before smacking himself in the face with the hot iron.
He had even forgotten to eat lunch, downing cups of coffee after cups of coffee. He had long stopped drinking sweetened tea like his wife, he needed something stronger.
Sometimes he wanted to do like Wendell, down his coffee with a small dose of firewhiskey, just to ease his nerves, calm his thoughts a bit.
Instead, he inhaled the scent left on his wife’s pillow and basked on the comfort and calm it brought him when she wasn’t around.
He put on his black jacket, slipped the chain and ring he wore around his neck under his shirt before he tied his tie around his neck, knowing that someone will do it again for him as he never knew how to probably do it.
He looked at himself in the mirror again, buttoning up his jacket , running a hand in his hair, making it look exactly like she loves it the most and closed his eyes. He was so eager to see her again.
He grabbed the bouquet, the books he had brought and didn’t bother taking blankets or food as he knew his friends had been the ones planning the picnic that year.
All he had to do was show up.
And he would, because it was his beloved wife’s birthday.
The last thing he grabbed before leaving was a very small, fluffy canary-yellow blanket as he stepped in the Floo. The orange furball followed him, maybe he knew that every year it was the only time he could go outside with his human.
Draco whispered the location, knowing full well that his friends were minutes away from flooing in. But he wanted to be there first, enjoy some alone time with his wife before the others would steal her away from him for the evening.
He arrived at the location in the blink of an eye and stepped into the small cottage house that still smelled like her even if it had been a year since they had been there.
The cottage belonged to Draco, he had bought it as a wedding gift for her to go when life in London would be too much. A place for them to breathe and relax, a place for them to forget all about the aches and pains life had brought them and just.. be.
Draco dusted the place with a flick of his wrist, making the place all shiny and like-new again. They didn’t have time to come here anymore.
The orange creature ran and jumped and smelled everything in the house. It had been a year for him too and even though his old eyes didn’t work as they used to, he still remembered the smell of the house.
Draco opened the back door for him and he ran out on the beach.
The house was stranded and alone, they were the only ones here, nobody would disturb their peace.
Draco knew he should’ve taken a coat, the late September wind was icy and unforgiving in this secluded part of Scotland. He walked for a few minutes with his companion by his side when he saw her, at the top of the hill, waiting for him.
She knew he’d come before the others, she knew how much he loved and needed this moment between the two of them.
Well, the three of them.
Plus Crookshanks.
“Good evening my love.” Draco whispered as if afraid to wake someone.
He smiled at her and after a few seconds, sat in the sand in front of her, displaying the small blanket on his lap for the cat to crawl on him and purr as he felt his mother near him again.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you baby, you have no idea.”
In the distance, Draco heard the sound of the Floo, the house being quite close from the hill they were sitting on, but didnt turn his head to look at his friends.
Neither did they walk up to them.
Harry, Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Luna, Ginny, Neville and Ronald all stood at the foot of the door, eyes glued to the tall frame of their friend that looked so small for once, sitting all alone in front of two shiny grey stones.
Harry held Pansy in his arms as tears ran down their faces.
Her birthday was a day to celebrate, but it was also fucking hard for them to see their friend crumble into pieces a bit more each year. White hair in the wind, his usual black suit with his poorly tied tie, shoulders shaking with the force of his grief.
Theo held Ginny by the hand, Blaise held his pregnant wife against his chest, her long white-blond hair flying around them in the cold summer wind. Neville and Ron simply standing there, holding presents in their shaky hands.
Shaky not from the cold but from how hard it was for them to hold back their tears.
They had all been here for Draco when he had needed it, but they knew it wasn’t enough. Because what he needed was his wife.
Draco was all alone, sitting in front of his wife, holding the baby canary-yellow blanket against his chest, tears flowing freely out of his eyes as Crookshanks curled up, shivering against the cold stone of the woman who had once been his home.
It was uncanny that he was still alive if Draco were honest, the old orange ball of fur must have been at least twenty years old by now.
Draco thought that maybe, given that he was half kneazle was the reason he had been around for so long. But, in the back of his mind, there was a little voice that kept telling him the same thing, over and over.
Crookshanks stayed for Draco.
Because he was the only thing linking him to the woman who had been his owner for so long, because Draco had become Crookshanks' home now.
And they were comforting each other from the passing of their witch.
Draco tried to get up but fell on his knees, the unforgiving strength of his pain keeping him frozen in place, eyes glued to the two cold gravestones, one being the home of the woman that had always been so warm to him.
He let his hand rest on the frigid tombstone where the name of his other half had been engraved.
Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy
1979-2005
Beloved wife, daughter, friend, aunt and mother.
For ever ours.
Draco couldn’t even bear to read the epitaph nor could he even dare to look at the second, smaller one next to his wife’s.
Scorpius Draco Granger-Malfoy
2005
Beloved son.
Nothing left had been added to the stone as Draco never even had the chance to get to know his son.
They had both died on the same day.
Scorpius was a stillborn baby and when his mother, exhausted by the hours of labour, had felt his still and cold body against hers, her heart had skipped a beat.
And another.
And another.
Until the hand that had held Draco turned cold.
Until her heart had stooped.
Until Draco’s world had given out under his feet.
Until he had been dragged out of the hospital room, crying and shouting her name, not understanding what was happening to his family.
Until the last thing he had left from his wife had been her scent.
Until the last thing he had from his son was the canary-yellow blanket they had wrapped him in when they had handed his lifeless body to Draco, just for him to see his son.
At least once.
Letting him see the little white curls on his head.
Curls that would never grow.
And to this day, Draco didn’t even know what his eye colour was.
Deep down, he was convinced he had her honey-gold eyes.
And he knew that two honey-eyed Gryffindors were waiting for him.
Draco stood up, brushed the sand off of his trousers and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, dropping the Gentle Hermione roses on the ground and smiled at the two graves that, for some strange reason, appeared to smile back at him.
“I love you, Hermione. My beautiful wife. I can’t wait to see you again, and I can’t wait to see Scorpius. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Draco smiled, knowing that they were looking down at him, smiling at him.
He stroked the graves one more time and walked back to the house, his cat following him in silence.
Draco stopped in front of his friend, letting them see his red-rimmed eyes, the remnants of tears on his quivering chin, not strong enough to look them in the eye just yet.
“She’s thrilled you’re all here.”
He walked into the house and waited for his friends to walk up to his wife. He looked at them, all sitting in front of her grave, talking and smiling at her, filling her in on all the things she had missed since the last time they had visited.
They all wanted to come more often, but it was too hard.
And they knew.
She understood.
Because she always did.
They all gathered their strength on this day, dressed up, cooked some delicious food she would’ve loved and shared this evening all together, talking about her and everything she did.
Everything she had been for them.
Everything she was.
Everything she is.
*****
On that September 19th 2015, Draco went home with his head full of memories of his wife. Some that were his, some that were his friends'.
Draco went home and stripped off of his sand-stained clothes, took a scalding hot shower and knocked off his wife’s hair-care product on the floor again.
Draco slipped on the grey sweatpants his wife had bought him and a comfy sweater, sprayed her perfume on her pillow and slipped in his bed, his cat curled up on his chest.
Draco fell asleep to the purring sound of Crookshanks and the strong smell of his wife.
On that September 19th 2015, Draco fell asleep and met his wife in his dreams, again.
She was waiting for him, a newborn in her arms, her signature smile stretching her lips, her honey-gold eyes shining in the pale light of the morning.
For the first time since her passing, Draco was able to touch her, smell her even in his dream, hear her, and hear the cute noise Scorpius made.
The noises he never had a chance to hear.
For the first time in ten years, Draco heard her voice.
“Good morning, Draco.”
She looked so young, almost ten years younger than him.
Oh wasn’t she so beautiful in her yellow summer dress, her long and shiny curls bouncing around her as the warm wind danced around them.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” she whispered.
Draco furrowed his brows as he lifted his hand and touched her cheeks with the tip of his fingers.
She was so warm and so soft, like he remembered her.
Something stepped on Draco’s foot and as he lowered his gaze from his wife, he noticed the orange furball that was rubbing his head against Draco’s wife’s legs.
It had been the first time Draco had dreamt of him.
And something itched his brain, but he didn’t know what.
He looked at his wife again, then at their son.
His eyes were wide open and looked at him.
His big, honey-gold eyes.
Ah-ha! He was sure he had his mother’s eyes.
Draco’s hand cupped her cheek, her freckled skin was so warm against his alabaster one. It felt so good, so real.
“Where are we, Hermione?” Draco breathed as he tried to scratch the itch on his mind.
She giggled.
Oh, how he missed that sound.
She smiled up at him and her eyes lit up.
“Look around you.”
Draco blinked a few times and it was as if a blinding light had been turned off. He looked around and recognised the cottage he had been at earlier that day. It was their house.
And finally, Draco scratched that itch.
As his icy grey gaze met the warm honey of his wife’s, Draco understood.
He grabbed her by her nape and slammed her, gently, against his chest. He breathed in her curls, filling his lungs with her smell as tears ran down his face, shaking his whole body with such force they had to kneel on the ground.
Hermione cupped his face in return and forced her gaze in his.
As their new-born son started to wiggle in her arms, she whispered.
“Welcome home, my love.”
For the first time in ten years, Draco felt the soft lips of his wife on his.
And nothing else mattered.
Because he was home, with his family.
And there was nothing more he wanted.
*****
On September 19th 2016, the same group of friends walked out of the cottage on a beach in Scotland, their children running towards the hill.
As usual, they all sat in front of the shiny grey stones and smiled.
They filled their friends in on all the gossip they had missed for a year, because, on September 19th 2015, Draco’s heart had stopped in his sleep. So did Crookshanks’.
And now, on the hill next to their cottage, stood four shiny grey stones.
Draco Lucius Malfoy
1980-2015
Beloved husband, son, friend, uncle and father.
Finally home.
For ever.
Crookshanks Granger-Malfoy
1993-2015
Best half-kneazle half-cat creature
You shall be missed.
Because on September 19th 2015, Crookshanks and Draco went back home.
But what their friends couldn’t see as they shared their picnic together, a bouquet of Gentle Hermione Roses that Narcissa hadn’t stopped growing, a stack of neatly wrapped books with a card signed by some people called Wendell and Monica and a canary-yellow blanket on Harry’s lap, was the shadows of their friends, smiling at the threshold of the back door, a giggling scorpius running around with his orange best friend.
What they couldn’t see was the happiest Draco.
Because Hermione had waited for him.
Because Draco went home.
And they now had forever to be in love.
FIN.