the girl who lost it all [d.m]

seventy one: requiem

requiem: rest, repose, relax

———

DRACO felt like the ground had given way underneath his feet for the second time tonight.

Even Narcissa had frozen, her features gaunt and pale as she stared at her husband sauntering out of the shadows.

Lucius Malfoy looked no different than Draco remembered him. Long, pale hair, harsh features—although they'd weathered with time. There were stress lines above his brow, around his eyes and mouth.

He was shorter than Draco, taller than Narcissa—but seeing them seemed to have no effect on the evil grin he had on his face.

He'd been waiting, Draco realised. In the shadows. They hadn't even thought to look. After defeating Dolohov and his horde of prisoners, he hadn't even thought anybody else would be guarding the Horcrux.

But then again, Dolohov had said they knew nothing about what was protecting the Horcrux. He'd obviously been right—because out of everything, Draco hadn't been expecting his father.

Even his mother was shaking now beside him, her eyes wide and unblinking like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Elara had gone still from where she was watching them outside the cell.

"Cissy." Lucius took a step forward, hands outstretched. "My dear, dear Cissy."

Narcissa retreated one trembling step, swallowing hard and Draco stepped in front of her, protectively.

"Get back," he snarled, his wand coming up to point right at his father's face.

Lucius' hands came up in surrender—but that glint of insanity in his eyes didn't change. "Draco. My son. My precious, perfect—"

"Don't you dare," Draco growled, his chest twisting. "Don't act like you care about me."

"Draco," Narcissa whispered in warning from behind him.

He tamped down his frustration. "What are you doing here."

Lucius cocked his head, hands still up in supplication. "Look at us. All three of us here in the same room. We're a family again."

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here."

Draco's Occlumency had come crashing down the moment he'd seen Elara kill those prisoners and then Dolohov. All he'd been thinking about was her. Getting to her, making sure she was okay.

For one terrifying second, when he'd seen her collapse, all colour drained from her face, he'd thought she was dead. It had ripped a part of him open—but when she'd gasped out a breath and her eyelashes fluttered open, he'd nearly sobbed.

He hadn't rebuilt the walls in his mind since—and he was beginning to regret it. Because looking at Lucius Malfoy was like taking a knife to the gut.