Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I'm Leaving Without You)

chapter 17

Harry spends the rest of the service hiding in Narcissa's sitting room. He feels bad for avoiding everyone, but he just can't face going back. Hermione had offered to sit with him, but he needs a little while by himself. The windows here face the rear of the property, and Harry watches as the assembled mourners troop across the lawns en masse, the empty casket Levitated between them. He knows they're headed for the cemetery tucked away in the back corner of the grounds. Draco had taken Harry there, once, and they'd walked slowly up and down the rows of all the Malfoys who'd come before Draco, and Harry listened to story after story of Draco's forebears, at least half of which put his ancestors in an unflattering light, and a few were tales of outright disaster and ruin. It was then that Harry had known how serious Draco was about their relationship. Draco was sharing his family secrets, telling him all the things that only Malfoy kin were allowed to know. Harry had taken his hand and although Draco was still talking about Eustace Malfoy's ill-advised feud with Godfrey Urquart in the mid-1600s, Harry heard the words that lay beneath it. "I love you, Harry," he was really saying. And, "We're a family."

Harry swallows and looks away from the window, and tries not to think about about them digging a deep hole and lowering the empty casket into it. Draco always expected that he'd be laid to rest among his departed family, but he's not. Draco burned up, and now he's bits of ash scattered far and wide by the wind, spread all over London. Harry tries not to think of that either, and calls for a house-elf to bring him a cup of tea. He stays in the sitting room until after the mourners return to the Manor. He's tempted to just leave, but he hasn't spoken to Draco's parents yet. He's exchanged a few notes with Narcissa over the past few days, but he feels he should see her face-to-face before he goes.

When he finishes his tea, he leaves the sitting room and returns to the grand ballroom where the memorial service was held, and finds that the house-elves have cleared out the chairs and set up a long table of refreshments. Harry sees Ron and Hermione on the other end of the room, but he doesn't go to them. He lingers at the edges of the room, shrugging off any condolences he's offered until there's a lull in the crowd around Draco's parents. Taking a deep breath, Harry walks over. They look up as he approaches, and Harry's surprised to see just how visibly shattered Lucius is, his expression helplessly blank, his eyes as flat and grey as damp pavement. He's always been so proud, so strong and sure of himself, and seeing his pain laid bare like a shameful secret is more difficult than Harry thought it would be. Narcissa's blue eyes well with tears even as her mouth curves into a trembling smile. She reaches out to pluck a bit of lint from the shoulder of Harry's jumper, and suddenly he's achingly aware of the bright color.

"Sorry, I... I know I should have worn black, but this one's his favourite," Harry says, unable to stand the thought that she might think he means disrespect. "And I just thought..."

"He'd have loved it that you're so thoughtful," Narcissa says, brushing her fingertips over Harry's shoulder. "He loved you very much."

"And I love him," Harry says automatically.

"Loved," Lucius corrects him, and his voice is rough and flat. His eyes jump to Harry and then flit away like sparrows darting from tree to tree. "My son is gone, and you loved him."

"I love him," Harry insists gently. "You don't stop loving someone just because they're dead."

Lucius watches him silently for a moment, and Harry can see the cracks form, and grow, and then Lucius Malfoy breaks apart right before his eyes. Harry has no idea what to do, and a distant part of him is oddly fascinated to watch from the outside what he's only been feeling from within. It's a strangely intimate thing, for Harry to watch someone else shattered and crumbling beneath the very same grief he feels, but before he can reach out, Lucius turns away, his shoulders trembling, and walks off, each step slow and careful.

Narcissa watches him go, then dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief and sniffs once. "I love him, too," she says, and Harry understands.

He reaches out and takes her hand to give her fingers a gentle squeeze just like Draco does for him, and he watches as the cracks form in her too, and spread, and then she's in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, her slight body wracked with the force of her crying. And Harry doesn't know what else to do, so he holds her close and pats her back and sways very gently back and forth, back and forth. And he's so, so glad that Draco isn't here to see his mother devastated like this.

She recovers herself sooner than he thought she would. She pulls back, wiping at her eyes with her handkerchief and gives him a watery, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry," she says. "I should... I should go find my husband." She starts to turn away and hesitates, then turns back and leans up on her toes to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. "He was lucky to have had you. The only thing I ever truly wanted for my son was for him to be happy, and you did. You did that," she says, and her voice catches but she swallows and forces herself to go on. "He was very, very happy with you."

Narcissa turns away again and Harry watches her go, weaving between people as she makes her way to Lucius. He can feel himself cracking and he's afraid he's going to fall apart, right here in the middle of the room, right here in front of everyone. And then Ron and Hermione are there, one either side of him.

"I want to go home," he says.

They leave the Manor with him and take him back to his house and offer to stay with him for as long as he'd like, and this time he doesn't argue with them even though a part of him really wants to be alone. They sit on the sofa with him, Harry in the middle, Ron on his right and Hermione curled up against his left. And for a while it's nice to not have to worry about being strong or holding himself together. He can let himself fall apart, just for a while, and know that his friends are right there, ready and willing to catch him and help to put him back together again when he's through.

And he does, and they do. And when he's finished and he feels that he can safely clamp the lid shut over his grief without it boiling over again, they're still there.