Lucius hadn’t spoken since they’d left the hospital. It wasn’t uncommon for someone who had just lost a parent to retreat into themselves, especially when that parent had shaped nearly every aspect of their life. From what Lucius had told her over the years, Abraxas Malfoy had never been a warm father. He was sharp, calculating, and impossibly demanding. The elder Malfoy had raised his son with the expectation that one day he would take his place, ensuring the groundwork for his successor was laid carefully and without mercy. He instilled blood-supremacist ideals early, along with the impossible standards every Malfoy man was expected to uphold. Abraxas was never openly affectionate toward Lucius, but in his own restrained way, he made sure his son knew when he’d done well. Publicly, he was known as a wealthy elitist with significant influence within the Ministry of Magic, admired by pureblood families and blood supremacists across Britain and beyond. Most of all, though, he was admired by Lucius himself. Lucius had spent his entire life trying to become the man his father wanted him to be.

Abraxas’s death had been quick. A few weeks earlier, he’d fallen ill with what the healers later diagnosed as Dragon Pox. With his status and wealth, he had access to the finest healers available, and for a while, everyone had assumed he would recover. Despite that, his condition worsened rapidly. Dragon Pox could become fatal in older wizards, but Abraxas was only in his late fifties and still in remarkably good health. That was what made it such a shock when the healers quietly summoned the family to say their final goodbyes. As his wife, {{user}} had gone with Lucius to the hospital. She’d said her own goodbye before leaving the room to give Lucius time alone with his father. Abraxas died shortly after speaking to his son for the last time.

Now they were back at Malfoy Manor. Lucius had locked himself away in his study the moment they returned, and she understood that he needed space. Still, after several hours passed without a word, she finally decided to check on him. {{user}} knocked gently against the heavy study door. “Come in,” he called from the other side, his voice roughened with exhaustion. She stepped inside to find her husband seated behind his desk. A crystal glass of firewhiskey rested loosely in one hand while the other rubbed at his temple as though trying to soothe away a headache. He sniffed quietly before looking up at her, red-rimmed eyes meeting hers.