quidditch kiss cam | dramione

15. Returning to the Manor. (part two)

[ important ]

Based the vote count on the previous chapter, I've decided to come back with the vote counter again— meaning that I will publish the next chakter if the vote goal is reached. It's actually a huge disappointment when I put so much effort juggling college and everything else to write a single chapter and then it doesn't even get the appreciation. Please vote, not just for this story but for every other story, you have no idea how big of a motivator it is for the writers who put their heart and soul into their stories.

P.s. I went batshit crazy with this chapter, it's 5k+ words so, make sure you don't cry or worse, die with all the fluff and ofc, trauma. I really like this one, hope you will too.

I'm setting the goal vote for 130.

Fuck, let's start.

The initial shock of the whole ordeal didn't settle in with the pale boy until McGonagall had put a hand to his shoulder— a reminder that she was there, and that this all was real, painfully, horribly and undeniably real. Narcissa's limp hand with sleek and thin fingers stayed trapped in between Draco's, he refused to let the mere memory of his mother vanish, dropping his hand from her own was going to be just that— the moment he would drop her hand, it would all come crashing to his mind; that the woman who had brought him into this world, the woman who had raised him, more or less, the woman he loved despite everything she put him through, despite all their differences, the woman who was now dead, and the woman who was now lying limp in her chair with eyes absolutely blank, that this woman, his mother, was dead.

Dead.

Funny word, Draco had always imagined it to be.

One didn't know the consequences of its aftermath once they had a one on one with the frightful monster themselves. It was easy to say that someone died, it was even easier to feel little to no pain when it concerned someone else; but when it was someone you loved, someone you knew all your sodding life— the tables were quick to turn in death's favour, dumping all sorts of griefs on you, as if death itself is yelling at you, “So I took them and you can't do anything about it.”

“Draco,” truth was, Minerva didn't know what to tell the Slytherin before her. Should she tell him that it's alright and that deaths of family members are just as natural as anything else in the universe or should she tell him that he can talk to her about it? Certainly none of the above stated, she thought. Instead of saying anything, she assured herself to remain calm and silent, as if she hadn't just witnessed the death of someone she knew, even if not well, right before her eyes. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes felt like prolonged hours and yet, Draco still didn't move a muscle from his place of being crouched next to his pale and dead mother in the lavish seat. His head was bowed in a tired slump and his body was visibly calm to the eye, not shaking even one bit.

Minerva allowed him to gireve, he did, after all, lose the last person he could call family.

And on Christmas, what a day to grieve.

After what felt like decades, Draco raised his head to look one final time in the blank eyes of his mother, a sigh escaping his lips. Slowly, as if he was afraid that she'd break had he moved any faster, he unwrapped his fingers from around her wrist, letting her frail hand fall in her lap. He closed his eyes briefly before reopening, revealing the slate grey orbs behind his hooded eyelids.

Not even a single tear, not one.

Ever so gently, he ran his cold hand over her eyes, shutting the eyelids of his once beautiful mother— the woman he admired all his life because despite everything, Draco still held more love in his heart for his mother than he held hate. Maybe it was an ounce or two bigger than the hate he had tucked away deep down in his heart, but it was always more than the loathe he held for her.