Chapter Text
The azaleas were a nice touch. They'd always been her favorite flower. Not roses, as so many assumed, by the large garden she'd managed in the courtyard of the manor. No, those had been his mother's favorite, and Narcissa simply cared enough about him to keep the Malfoy tradition going.
She always cared too much about everyone else, instead of herself. That had been her downfall.
So focused on him, on their son, on their happiness and well-being, she ignored the alarming signs of her declining health until it was too late.
The Healers called it cancer, an appropriate term. The disease ate away at her very being until she was merely a husk of herself. When Narcissa finally succumbed to illness, she was severely underweight, gaunt to the point of skeletal, and even opening her eyes each day had been a struggle.
Now, gazing down at her lifeless body through a veil of tears, Lucius refused to see what she'd become. Instead he envisioned her as the young, vibrant woman he'd fallen for years and years ago.
His Cissy.
The love of his life.
Gone too soon.
His chest seized as the grief rolled through him. Each time he thought he might be coming to grips with her death, the bleak reality of an empty home and a cold bed came crashing down, and his heart would shatter anew.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he choked back a sob and tried to will the tears not to fall. Not here, not now. Pure-blood society frowned upon public displays of emotion. The last thing he wanted to do was sour his reputation in this vulnerable period.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"Father."
The low rumble of his only son's voice reached his ears. He raised his chin and forced his eyes open, attempting a smile, though he was fairly certain it came off as a grimace.
"Draco," he said, nodding at his son, then turning his gaze to his companion. "Pansy. You both look well."
They didn't. They both appeared as if they'd been up all night crying. Puffy skin, dark circles, and a dullness in their eyes that mirrored his own.
Pansy slipped her hand discreetly into his, squeezing tight. "We both love you very much."
Despite her usually icy outward appearance, his daughter-in-law was quite caring and fiercely loyal to those she loved.
"Thank you, Pansy. That means a great deal."
"When you're ready," Draco said stiffly, "I will open the doors to let the other guests in."
He would never be ready.
The moment those doors opened, the second the crowd rolled in, and everyone else witnessed her trussed up corpse in too much make up and a gown that swallowed her frail form, it would become too real. He would have to accept the condolences, the awkward hand shakes from the somber wizards, the perfunctory kisses on the cheek from society's well-bred witches. The pity and concern painting every face turning in his direction would be enough to make him break. Again.
Occlumency.
That's how he would survive this ordeal. Throw up some walls and hide behind them, and perhaps he could maintain a calm facade.
Except… when he tried, the walls kept toppling over, his control slipping through his fingers like sand.
Panic set in.
His lungs seized, and he was unable to take in air.
His vision darkened at the edges and he leaned over, hands falling to his knees.
"Lucius? Are you okay?"
Pansy's voice sounded like it was underwater. Or maybe he was underwater? It would explain the lack of air. Perhaps this was all a nightmare and he would wake up at any moment, tucked comfortably in Narcissa's arms.
A caustic , sharp odor jolted him upright, and he looked down at the pale skin of his son. He reached up to dab at his nose, and he was surprised when then handkerchief wasn't covered in blood.
"What was that? I feel like my nostrils are burning from the inside."
"Smelling salts." Draco capped a vial and shoved it into a pocket of his robes. "You looked like you might faint."
He would have welcomed unconsciousness with open arms.
With a grunt, Lucius pushed back up to a standing position.
"Open the doors. I'm ready."
"Are you sure?" Pansy's forehead crinkled. "It's alright if you need more time—"
"The only thing I need is Narcissa back, and more time won't change that," he snapped.
His eyes blazed with fury and pain, but when they cut over to Pansy's hurt face, they softened at the corners.
"Apologies, Pansy. None of this is anyone's fault but the Fates."
And maybe his wife's, for her self-negligence, though he chose not to place much blame at her feet. She'd been performing as an expected high society wife, and it should have been his responsibility to look after her.
Why wasn't he paying closer attention?
He'd failed her.
He deserved every ounce of guilt and remorse that coursed through his veins, tearing at the fabric of his soul.
With a long sniff and a final swipe at his eyes, Lucius straightened his robes and took up a stiff position next to her open casket. He tucked his hands behind his back and raised his chin, his mask of indifference firmly in place.
"Let them in."
The room filled with witches and wizards from every corner of the wizarding world, all there to celebrate the life of Narcissa Cassiopeia Malfoy, nee Black.
Unlike himself, who'd managed to gain more enemies than friends over the years, his late wife had vast connections and an array of friends and acquaintances. After the war, she had single-handedly repaired the Malfoy name, giving large sums of galleons to Muggle causes, holding charity balls in Malfoy Manor, and speaking out against the deceased Dark Lord's teachings. She had insisted Draco and himself, after his release from Azkaban, always put their best foot forward. Not once were they permitted to leave their home with a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight. Their attendance was required at every big name event, and she'd even talked Draco into training to be a barrister for the Wizengamot, with plans to fight for stronger laws to protect Muggle rights.
Without her, Lucius and Draco would have floundered and eventually withered away in the eyes of the wizarding world.
He scratched unconsciously at the numbers etched into his neck as he cast another longing stare at her pristine face.
How would he survive without her?
Soft hands reached up and gently removed his hand from his neck, breaking his train of thought. As if in a daze, he shifted around to see his sister-in-law, dressed head to toe in black lace.
"Lucius, your tie is loose, allow me."
Andromeda adjusted his collar, shifting the knot on his tieback to center. Leaning in close she murmured, "Don't draw attention to your tattoo. No need to remind anyone of your shortcomings, especially right now." She kissed his cheek. "We will all miss her dearly. She was so, so loved."
Repairing her relationship with her living sister had been important to Narcissa, once the dust settled from the war. It had taken time, many letters, short visits over tea, and eventually dinners and holiday gatherings, but their platonic bond had rekindled, and in the end, they'd been quite close.
Stepping back, she caught his hands and squeezed his fingers. "I'll stop over in a couple of days to check on you, okay?"
He could only nod, afraid if he opened his mouth, the only sound to exit would be an inhuman wail.
A stream of people made their way to the front of the room to greet him and say their goodbyes to Narcissa. Most were former Death Eaters themselves, reformed, though to what extent was debatable. Antonin Dolohov, the Carrows, the Greengrasses, the Flints, and the Parkinsons, as well as a handful of Draco's schoolmates from Hogwarts were only a few of the many. Yet there were others present as well, faces he hadn't expected to see: Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic; and the Weasleys, Arthur and Molly, accompanied by their eldest son, Bill. They stayed in the back, but gave Lucius a solemn nod when he turned in their direction.
As the evening dragged on, he lost count of the number of times he murmured "thank you for coming", how often he nodded or shook someone's hand. The faces around him began to blend in together, the voices all joining one cacophony of sound in his mind, a low rumble threatening to steal his sanity. He was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and the idea of spending even another minute in public was too much. A deep ache in his chest gnawed at him as all his former anxieties began to surface, bubbling up to add fuel to his desire to flee.
He was alone, in a mass of people.
His emotions must've finally cut through his mask, because he felt Draco and Theo grasp his arms on either side, guiding him across the room.
"I think you've been on your feet long enough, Father," Draco whispered.
"There's a private Floo out this way." Theo pulled more of Lucius' weight onto him. "We can sneak you out with no one being any the wiser."
They pushed through a small unassuming door and into a back hallway. Two quick right turns, and they approached a gilded door with small snakes sculpted into the archway surrounding it. Theo murmured a quiet Alohomora, and it sprung open on a creak.
As they stepped across the threshold, they were met with stale air and the warmth of a disused space. The room appeared to have been used for storage, full of old furniture and piles of discarded junk.
"How did you find this place, Theo?" Draco asked.
Twirling his wand, a devious grin spread over his cheeks. "Don't worry about it. The important thing to note is that the Floo is still activated."
"That's all I care about," Lucius replied, as he freed himself from their hold. "I need to be alone."
What he needed was the embrace of his wife, but since he couldn't have her, alone was his next choice. He did not want to grieve in front of so many people.
A dusty container of Floo powder was on top of the mantel, and he quickly pinched some to toss into the hearth, calling out for the manor the moment the flames shot up. Rushing through, he tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away, and he landed face first on the hard floor of his Floo parlor. He palpated his probably broken nose as blood dripped down to stain the stone.
He barely felt the pain through his despair.
He didn't even have the energy or will to move, so he simply laid his head down, cheek directly in the small puddle of blood, and wept until he passed out.