Bitter Transmutation : Cruel Transformation || Drarry

Part 16

"Here you are, Draco," McGonagall said, handing him a small blue porcelain dish filled with floo powder. "I'll be at my desk if you need anything."

Draco nodded, "Thank you." He watched her go through the doorway connecting to the Headmistress' office, waiting for her to change her mind or remember who he was, but she didn't. McGonagall left him alone with an open floo and more than enough floo powder to force a connection he could step through, if he wanted.

Draco took the opportunity to look around. The living area had been set up a reading and tea room. McGonagall must have kept her old professor's apartments for the actual living in because there was no bed that he could see. It was cosy if a little heavy-handed with the tartan.

Draco stared at the fireplace for several seconds before slowly kneeling in front of it. Yesterday he had dragged a mopping Potter out of the hospital wing and spent the rest of the day curled up on the couch talking and teasing one another. That had been a good day. He took a deep breath and a large pinch of floo powder, throwing it into the fire and calling his parents apartments in france.

He saw his mother's robes first as she stepped into the room and eased the door shut behind her so that it only made the faintest click. She was wearing a pale mint green embroidered with flowers in all sorts of bright colours. Growing up, he had only ever seen her in deep jewel tones. During the war she only wore black, most thought it was in solidarity with the death eaters, Draco thought it was in mourning.

"Draco! I'm so happy to see you, darling. I was hoping you would call today. I've been looking forward to seeing you since I received your owl," Mother said.

"Professor McGonagall was kind enough to lend me the school's floo, we have plenty of time to talk, but I don't wish to overuse her floo powder," Draco said.

"Of course," Mother said, she levitated an ornate pot down from the mantle and threw a handful of floo powder into the fire to re-enforce the connection. "Now are you quite sure you don't want me to portkey over for the holidays?"

Draco shook his head, "I still have one more fever to go through, and after that, I need to put all my focus on my studies."

Mother pursed her lips, searching his expression through the flames, "I could come for just a few days, if you wanted. It would be no trouble."

Because he had never really been sick as a child, the only memory Draco had of his mother dotting on him at his bedside was after the chandelier fell and cut him during the war. He hadn't needed to stay in bed, it had simply been a way for Mother to keep him away from the death eaters and Voldemort's wrath for a few precious days. It wasn't a memory he wanted to revisit, and he didn't trust his fever addled mind not to dwell on the connection if she was there. "Thank you, but no. I'll be fine, Mother."

Mother looked down at her hands and carefully placed one over the other, her expression blank, "Of course."

Draco winced. Thinking quickly, he said, "I'd like to see you during the spring holiday. Perhaps we could- could see the shore?"

Mother hesitated, "...That sounds lovely. There are some delightful little towns in the south, we could rent a cottage."

Draco nodded, "Wonderful. So. That's settled..."

"I'll owl you your presents," Mother said.

"You don't have to-"

"Of course I do," Mother said, "I love buying you presents."

"Right," Draco said awkwardly.

He had never known what to buy. Anything he had ever picked out for his parents had been met with polite thank-yous lacking any sort of real excitement. After a while, he quit trying. Draco gave his mother jewellery, and he bought his father new quills from wherever they were most expensive. It meant nothing. When he was young, he thought it meant the world revolved around him, and only his own enjoyment had value. As he grew older and the world crashed down around his ears, he simply felt that he had never known his parents in any way that really mattered.