Just a Kiss

Chapter 29

Four months pass as a blur in the Malfoy manor. Draco can hardly tell the difference between minutes and hours, or separate the days from the weeks.

His chest has long since healed up from the curse, but it aches anew with a whole other type of pain. A horrid sort of agony, one that he would happily trade for another blast of sectumsempra if only it would go away.

Except nothing will make it disappear, because four months have passed and Hermione Granger was officially assumed dead two months previous.

The Daily Prophet had went haywire with the information, writing article after article about the evil Weasley and his nefarious plot to kill his former lover. For weeks her face was plastered to the front page of the Prophet, a constant reminder of what he's lost. Even now, two months since the press made the official call, she holds a place in the paper.

War Hero Tragically Killed By Ronald Weasley, a title that appears in some corner of the paper on any given day of the week.

No one knows where her body is, though not for lack of searching. Harry has been leading the search in a desperate rage along with the rest of the auror department and Ginny has contacted every source she knows to help find her best friend. Draco hasn't any clue how the pair is coping in private, but to the rest of the world, they present a strong force that no one dares cross in their grieving time.

Every day Draco will ask for the paper to be delivered to him, seeking out some good fortune. The paper is always burned without fail. Good news doesn't come.

Never would he have imagined that losing her would bring him this much heartbreak. He's far too attached to a woman who doesn't love him back and it's too late to change anything about it. His feelings don't seem to want to fade.

His mother sees this and more.

Besides the heartbreak, she's forced to watch her son waste away before her eyes. Time and again she has tried to drag him back from the brink of deterioration. She gives him all his favorite foods, talks about his favorite books, attempts to make him laugh when she can, and gives him his space when she can't. Everything she tries only ends with the same frown etched onto his face and his eyes gazing unseeingly through her.

For all intents and purposes, Draco seems to have passed along with his love. It doesn't take long for the physical appearance of him to start to support this idea. He's gone near gray with his lack of food, or rather, his refusal to eat until she convinces him to. His form, always so slim, is now little more than skin stretched over bones. She fears for his health and is sure to keep a mediwitch on call to watch over him.

Draco speaks so rarely, only drifting silently about the halls like a ghost that's lost its way. He never acknowledges anyone besides his mother, though occasionally not even her, and those are the worst days. Nothing can compare to the torture of the nights, however.

It's once the sun has set and Draco has finally drifted off to sleep that she can hear the cries. His moans of misery as grief haunts even his dreams, tearing him apart from the inside out. The sound echoes through the manor, worrying her and the house elves, who all care so deeply for the young man.

Countless times she has tried to comfort him during the nights, but the wards he's cast on his room keep her out. Not once has he allowed anyone into his room while he slept, for a reason she cannot understand.

It's nearing the end of his fourth month home from the hospital that she knocks on his door early one morning, knowing him to already be awake.

"Draco, open your door and come out. I'd like to talk for a moment," Narcissa calls as she raps her knuckles against the wood. She listens for sounds on the other side of the door, hearing nothing at first, then the distant murmur of words as the wards are removed. Once silence falls, the door opens a crack. "Draco? Are you coming?" He doesn't reply, and Narcissa pushes the door open.