As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he pictured her there lying next to him. Everyone told him it would get easier as time passed. They obviously hadn’t lost the love of their life. There was no use agonizing over something he had no control over; he had been down that road before and wasn’t about to go back. The parchment lay on the desk by the window overlooking the garden. As hard as he tried, he could not bring himself to continue the letter. It seemed life had begun with a letter. A small, worn, scrap of parchment he carried with him always. Her first letter to him had been a beacon of hope in a very troubled world, ‘Meet me at 1:00 by the pitch.’ She had signed off with only her initials, but he knew exactly who the bit of parchment was from before he opened it. He had been watching her since his fifth year.
It was nine months to the day exactly since the accident, but it felt as if a century had passed him by. In a fit of anger he had tried to destroy everything in the house that reminded him of her. In the end, he had only succeeded in banishing all her things to the upstairs attic, where he promised himself he would never go. All that was left of her in their room was an unopened letter and her memory. Try as he might, her memory would never leave. It was not only ingrained in every aspect of this room. She would forever be a part of his soul, a piece that he could not afford to loose. The unopened letter had been tucked away in his desk drawer. Every once in a while he would play with the notion of reading it. Try as he might though, he could never bring himself to open it. He hadn’t the faintest idea what might be in the letter. A part of him kept repeating over and over again, that as long as the letter remained sealed, he would still carry with him one of her secrets; one last message, that if left unopened would leave the writer forever alive. If the letter remained closed, then he could never really admit that all of her was gone. She still had one more thing to say and he couldn’t kill her yet.
On Monday mornings such as these the normal routine would be to sit in bed for a good part of the morning and wait for the kids to rise. Ever since the accident he had been taking his work home with him, not able to bear being away from them for too long. During these early hours before the sun came up, he would sit and think about the years before they were married. He couldn’t honestly say that those years were less hectic than the ones after Hogwarts.
There was a war going on and his family had been in the middle of it. Two years before the war ended his father had changed his allegiance and pledged himself to Dumbledore. All that it took for a change of heart was the brutal death of a friend at the hands of his sister-in-law. Rodolphus Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy had been friends since childhood. They were both wealthy, both purebloods, and both married to Black women. Fortunately for his father, Rodolphus and he did not share one thing. Lucius wasn’t killed at the hands of his wife. It was during these trying months that he first began his infatuation with the flame haired beauty.
She was exquisite to say the least. He had memorized every inch of her porcelain skin that wasn’t hidden beneath her Hogwarts uniform. He could close his eyes and picture where every single freckle lay. They were no longer scattered dots marring her perfect skin. They had taken the form of golden stars in a sky of opaque beauty, and he could recite every constellation. At first being the high and mighty, wealthy pureblood snob that he was, he deemed this obsession as a form of treason, punishable by death. A year before the war ended he happened upon a nauseating couple sitting in the corner of The Three Broomsticks. It wasn’t until he got up to leave that he realized who one half of that duo was. Anger, jealousy, and hurt filled his eyes. There she was, his secret obsession, his unreachable fantasy, in the arms of some foul, bleeding heart, noble Gryffindor ponce. At that very moment in time he pledged himself to the task of making her his. There was no longer concern of wealth or family. She had Malfoy written all over her; it was her destiny. And so, with that thought in mind, the games began.
Even though his proclamation of want was, in his own mind, rather impressive, in reality he hadn’t a clue as to the proper way to approach the situation. He spent many a sleepless night strategizing in an effort to create the most fabulous battle plan the world had ever seen, or so he thought. His so called efforts were in vain, for she clearly was not impressed by the so-called tactics that elicited his usual charm. Imagine that, a young witch of pureblood stature (however deluded it may have been by mixing with such miscreants as Pothead and Granger) who was not impressed by the flaunting of wealth and status. Most times he couldn’t pull them off quick enough. She however, his one desire, cared little for his timely thought out displays of superiority and he couldn’t fathom why. In truth she had seemed almost disgusted. To think, someone disgusted by wealth and stature. It was unheard of, that’s what it was. After a thoroughly devastating loss the score stood Universe: 1, Draco: 0. He needed to reevaluate his strategy and try again. A Malfoy never quit.
All of a sudden he was pulled from his reverie by a tiny knock at his door signaling Lillian’s arrival. With a resounding sigh he called for her to enter. From his door peeked a tiny head covered in a mass of brilliant fire-red curls.
“Da, Asher and I are ready for the day, and Millie says breakfast will be ready shortly.” It amazed him how brave she was trying to be. She had silently taken over her mother’s usual task of preparing Asher in the morning along with a few other daily rituals. At the age of nine she’d shown great maturity in the aftermath of the accident, events he would wish to Obliviate from his memory entirely. It worried him to no end that perhaps she was growing up too fast. He wanted so badly to make everything better. He just couldn’t find a way to alleviate his own pain. How was he even to begin to ease hers?
It was nine months to the day exactly since the accident, but it felt as if a century had passed him by. In a fit of anger he had tried to destroy everything in the house that reminded him of her. In the end, he had only succeeded in banishing all her things to the upstairs attic, where he promised himself he would never go. All that was left of her in their room was an unopened letter and her memory. Try as he might, her memory would never leave. It was not only ingrained in every aspect of this room. She would forever be a part of his soul, a piece that he could not afford to loose. The unopened letter had been tucked away in his desk drawer. Every once in a while he would play with the notion of reading it. Try as he might though, he could never bring himself to open it. He hadn’t the faintest idea what might be in the letter. A part of him kept repeating over and over again, that as long as the letter remained sealed, he would still carry with him one of her secrets; one last message, that if left unopened would leave the writer forever alive. If the letter remained closed, then he could never really admit that all of her was gone. She still had one more thing to say and he couldn’t kill her yet.
On Monday mornings such as these the normal routine would be to sit in bed for a good part of the morning and wait for the kids to rise. Ever since the accident he had been taking his work home with him, not able to bear being away from them for too long. During these early hours before the sun came up, he would sit and think about the years before they were married. He couldn’t honestly say that those years were less hectic than the ones after Hogwarts.
There was a war going on and his family had been in the middle of it. Two years before the war ended his father had changed his allegiance and pledged himself to Dumbledore. All that it took for a change of heart was the brutal death of a friend at the hands of his sister-in-law. Rodolphus Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy had been friends since childhood. They were both wealthy, both purebloods, and both married to Black women. Fortunately for his father, Rodolphus and he did not share one thing. Lucius wasn’t killed at the hands of his wife. It was during these trying months that he first began his infatuation with the flame haired beauty.
She was exquisite to say the least. He had memorized every inch of her porcelain skin that wasn’t hidden beneath her Hogwarts uniform. He could close his eyes and picture where every single freckle lay. They were no longer scattered dots marring her perfect skin. They had taken the form of golden stars in a sky of opaque beauty, and he could recite every constellation. At first being the high and mighty, wealthy pureblood snob that he was, he deemed this obsession as a form of treason, punishable by death. A year before the war ended he happened upon a nauseating couple sitting in the corner of The Three Broomsticks. It wasn’t until he got up to leave that he realized who one half of that duo was. Anger, jealousy, and hurt filled his eyes. There she was, his secret obsession, his unreachable fantasy, in the arms of some foul, bleeding heart, noble Gryffindor ponce. At that very moment in time he pledged himself to the task of making her his. There was no longer concern of wealth or family. She had Malfoy written all over her; it was her destiny. And so, with that thought in mind, the games began.
Even though his proclamation of want was, in his own mind, rather impressive, in reality he hadn’t a clue as to the proper way to approach the situation. He spent many a sleepless night strategizing in an effort to create the most fabulous battle plan the world had ever seen, or so he thought. His so called efforts were in vain, for she clearly was not impressed by the so-called tactics that elicited his usual charm. Imagine that, a young witch of pureblood stature (however deluded it may have been by mixing with such miscreants as Pothead and Granger) who was not impressed by the flaunting of wealth and status. Most times he couldn’t pull them off quick enough. She however, his one desire, cared little for his timely thought out displays of superiority and he couldn’t fathom why. In truth she had seemed almost disgusted. To think, someone disgusted by wealth and stature. It was unheard of, that’s what it was. After a thoroughly devastating loss the score stood Universe: 1, Draco: 0. He needed to reevaluate his strategy and try again. A Malfoy never quit.
All of a sudden he was pulled from his reverie by a tiny knock at his door signaling Lillian’s arrival. With a resounding sigh he called for her to enter. From his door peeked a tiny head covered in a mass of brilliant fire-red curls.
“Da, Asher and I are ready for the day, and Millie says breakfast will be ready shortly.” It amazed him how brave she was trying to be. She had silently taken over her mother’s usual task of preparing Asher in the morning along with a few other daily rituals. At the age of nine she’d shown great maturity in the aftermath of the accident, events he would wish to Obliviate from his memory entirely. It worried him to no end that perhaps she was growing up too fast. He wanted so badly to make everything better. He just couldn’t find a way to alleviate his own pain. How was he even to begin to ease hers?
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