Post Bellum, Auxilium [ENG]

Titel: Post Bellum, Auxilium
Färdigskriven: Nej
Antal Kapitel: Vet ej
Rating: R
Språk: Engelska
Beskrivning: ”The evil side of the war, the dark side. What is left of it, no matter how innocent they might be, they will never be forgiven.” DRACO MALFOY efter kriget.

PROLOGUE

They stared at each other. Father and son. They had the same cold, grey eyes and the same blonde hair.
Their faces had the same expression, the same determination, the same harshness.
They had never been close, never really acted like fathers and sons usually do. Still, they were.

Well, you can't choose your father, Draco thought bitterly as he watched his own stand up, ready to leave and never come back.

His footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he reached for the door knob, to get out of there, out of the room, out of the manor. Out of their lives.

"She won't make it," Draco threw out the words, suddenly terrified.

He had no idea what to do, how to rebuild his life. His father could not leave now, he was not ready for this. He would never be. Lucius slowly turned around, with a surprised look on his face. He quickly composed his facial expression and gave Draco a stern look.

"Have you even said goodbye?” Draco pushed on, his eyes wide with desperation.

Lucius Malfoy looked away with pursed lips, an expression on his face that Draco had learnt to recognise over the years; disgust. The man before him refused to look at his son, and Draco almost laughed. How could his father still, even in these times, in this moment, so near the end, still put his pride before his wife? War changed many, but his father was a stone too hard to whet.

”Look at me!” Draco snapped, and for the first time in his life, at the final end of his family, that was when he stood up for himself.

His father looked at him with a cold, harsh stare.

”You have to talk to her,” Draco said, his voice low, barely louder than a whisper. ”You owe her that.”

His father walked to the far west of the room and stepped out through the open glass doors and out on to the balcony overlooking the grounds belonging to the Malfoy Manor. Draco followed him. The sun was setting behind the horizon and the forests beyond the grounds seemed peaceful, the trees swaying to the light breeze that brushed gently against his skin.

”This will be yours,” his father said, still refusing to look at Draco, his eyes intently set on the grounds before them.

”I know,” Draco said.

”I expect you to take care of it, of course. And...” his father trailed off, unsure what to say, it seemed. They did not have time for long pauses of silence; the Minister of Magic would arrive anytime soon.

”And?” Draco said, remaining calm, using his manners, his posture proud and tall in the face of the few remaining rays of sun.

There was a long pause.

”Your mother.”

”What about her, father?” Draco asked, feeling his temper rise.

”Draco,” his father warned through gritted teeth and finally, his gaze was resting on Draco.

”We do not have time for formalities, father.”

”I...” a long silence. ”Know that.”

There was a sudden knock on the great entrance doors of the manor, somewhere on the other side of the grande mansion. It rang loud in the silence of the room, the magic that the manor held allowing it to be heard in every room and corridor. Draco sighed, and a mixed feeling of frustration and relief washed over him as father and son made their way inside and headed towards the entrance hall.
Their footsteps eachoed through the corridors as their shoes hit the marble floors and Draco hoped it would not wake his mother, as she was asleep in her own sleeping quarters, which they were now passing by. His father did not seem to take notice of it, just kept his gaze steadied before him as he walked towards his own death.

At last, they reached the front doors. His father gave him one last look before opening them, his countenance indifferent but his hands shaking slightly as they gripped the handle.

Draco gave him one last pleading look before watching his father greet the Minister of Magic, and within minutes they were gone, having disapparated right on the grande doorstep.

That was the last time Draco Malfoy ever saw his father.

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Life without his father, the man of the household and the financial caretaker took time to adjust to. There was the paperwork, the letters that had to be written in order to stay in the Minestry's good graces; old friends of his father that had to be contacted, and relationships (mostly work-related) that had to be nourished. Not much of the Malfoy's social circle was left. Most of it had consisted of pure blooded Death Eater families of which not many were left because the imprisonment of most. The aristocratic circles of the pure blood wizards were diminishing in number for each passing day, Potter was seeing to that. There were of course his school mates, his friends, they were mostly alive and well, but Draco felt no wish to contact them, and he had a suspicion the feeling was mutual.

His days were spent at the Manor, in the study that had belonged to his father. Its walls were covered by book shelves from head to toe, while the southern wall consisted mostly of glass windows that looked over southern part of the garden and the great fountain in which Draco used to play when he was little. The sound of the rippling water when it made its way in through the open windows was comforting whilst, seated at the mahogany desk, dealing with post war finances and politics; in the midst of all the work, there was a comforting remainder of his childhood days.

His mother, the proud and beautiful Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, had retreated to her own sleeping quarters of the Manor and apart from when they drank tea in the afternoons, he did not see much of her. What she did with her time, Draco had no idea. She did not seem to be spending time with any of her friends, since the locked gates to the Malfoy Manor stood dusty and rusty, unopened since Merlin knew when. Of course, floo powder was a way of travelling, so of course she might be having someone over without him noticing. He doubted it though – the war had changed her too much.

Her proud and cold features were not anymore a sign of strength and wealth but now seemed to darken her very soul. She rarely smiled, she had never, but there was no longer a comforting and caring glint in her eyes as her eyes settled on him, her son, there was instead something unforgiving and bitter in her nature. She was thinner now, if that was even possible, and said very little during the small amount of time they spent together. If there was someone who would never heal after this war, it would be her. She was forever changed, broken, and there was, in contrast to the many lonely survivors of the winning side, no one left to mend her.

”That is what happens when the evil side, the dark side, loses,” Draco thought bitterly as he studied her sipping her tea, this late August afternoon, her delicate fingers barely managing to lift the cup to her lips.

”What is left of it, no matter how innocent they might be,” at this, his mother looked up at him, as if hearing his thoughts, as if begging him to understand and accept her innocence, ”will never be forgiven.”
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