A Funeral
Lucius hastily made his way down to the garden. He had told Narcissa that he would go down, if only because he was curious about what Harry wanted to say to him, but the truth was, he really did want to be there. Even if it was selfish. Even if he didn't deserve it. Rows and rows of chairs were lined up together, filled with people sharing fond memories of his son. He recognized a few. Blaise and Pansy sat in the front row. Lucius was completely shocked to see Hermione Granger behind them, sitting together with Ron Weasley and his siblings. He noted that two of them were gone. He wondered fleetingly how their father felt about them being here.
Lucius took a seat as the pastor arrived and administered the typical funeral monologue. After he was finished, a few people stood up and gave speeches of their own. Lucius didn't listen.
After it was over, as people began to clear out, Lucius stood over the casket with his right hand on the wood. Narcissa patted his back.
He tried his hardest to muster up some kind of feeling, any feeling at all. To reopen the gashes of pain on his heart and make them pour out with blood once again. But he felt nothing. His face was flat and dark as he stood, completely unmoving.
He didn't flinch as he heard the soft crumpling of grass, someone stepping up behind him and slipping between him and his wife.
"Lucius? Lucius Malfoy?" He said.
Lucius turned. The boy who lived. In the flesh. How predictable.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude, but…" Harry stuttered. "I think you deserve to know the last thing your son said."
Lucius gave him a blank stare.
"When he was bleeding, he looked at me and asked… he asked if you were okay. He wanted to know where you were." Harry stated. It was silent for a few moments. "The last thing he heard was your voice, calling for him." He whispered, gently placing his hand on Lucius's shoulder. They all stared down at the casket, completely still, the whistling of the wind and Narcissa's quiet sobs the only noise between them.
Lucius's brain traveled back, a memory clicking into place and replaying. He could recall it perfectly.
When he was in Azkaban, there was one reason he survived. One reason he didn't give in, even through the dementor's neverending torture. His son. A miniscule semblance of hope that when he got home, he would be able to see his son again. Even though the soul-sucking agony, the torture, the peril, he thought of one thing. Draco. Draco. His son's name repeated in his mind. He couldn't give in. He had to come home. For his heir. His boy. His Draco.
When he arrived on the doorstep cloaked in his tattered Azkaban robes, he could barely speak, barely formulate a sentence, but he asked Narcissa one thing.
"Is Draco okay?"
"How pitiful." Lucius whispered, in his faint, emotionless voice. "The last thing you said to my son was a lie."
He turned around and went back inside his house.