You noticed it that morning.

The shift.

He hadn’t said anything—he never did—but there was something different in the way he walked. Stiffer. Slower. Like the weight on his spine had doubled overnight.

He skipped breakfast, which he never did. He stayed in the east wing study all afternoon, the one that used to be hers. And he hadn’t looked you in the eye once since you woke up.

At first, you thought maybe it was work. A Ministry meeting, a family obligation, an argument with Blaise.

But then you saw the date.

And you knew.

The portrait in the upstairs corridor—the one of Narcissa, painted when she was barely thirty—had flowers in front of it. Fresh. Lilies.

Your chest clenched.

You waited until dinner, hoping he’d bring it up. Hoping he’d say something.

He didn’t.

He barely touched his food. Didn’t speak once. Just stared down at the plate with that sharp, distant look on his face. The one he wore when the world got too loud, and the past got too close.

When you reached for his hand under the table, he didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t squeeze back either.

That night, you found him in the drawing room.

He was sitting on the floor. Not the chair, not the chaise—the floor. Back against the cold stone hearth, legs stretched out, wand in his lap.

His robe was half undone. Hair tousled. And beside him on the rug sat a silver music box, open and still.

It was playing something haunting and soft.

A lullaby.

You walked in quietly. Sat beside him, not speaking. Just close enough to feel the heat of him. Just close enough to let him know you were there.

After a while, he whispered,

“She used to play this when I couldn’t sleep.”

You didn’t answer. Just listened.

“I hated it,” he added, voice raw. “Said it was for babies. But I couldn’t sleep without it. And she knew that. Of course she did.”

He exhaled, but it wasn’t steady. Not even close.

“I was a terrible son,” he muttered.

“Draco—”

“I was. I lied to her. Hid things. Took and took and—she never asked for anything. Not once. Just… loved me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

His voice cracked.

And still, he didn’t cry. His face was stone, but his throat worked like every breath cost him something.

You reached for his hand again. This time, he took it.

Tightly.

“She would’ve loved you,” he said, quieter now. “Merlin, she would’ve—called you elegant. And terrifying. And too clever by half.”

A shaky laugh. Barely there.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“She sounds like someone I’d have been lucky to know.”

“You’d have liked each other,” he said. “Both frightening when you’re angry. Both soft when no one’s looking.”

Silence settled again. Only the music box filled the room now. That same soft, silver lullaby.

And then, finally—finally—Draco’s hand lifted from his lap, and he pressed his knuckles to his mouth.

You barely noticed the tears at first. He didn’t make a sound. Just breathed harder. Shoulders trembling. Chest tight.

“I miss her,” he said. “And it’s like—no one cares anymore. She was the only one who ever…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

You turned and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him against you, and for the first time since the wedding, Draco Malfoy collapsed into you.

Not like a husband.

Like a son.

He buried his face in your shoulder and shook. Silent, shattered sobs—like something old and sharp had finally broken loose inside his ribs.