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The sky was overcast and gloomy, threatening to unleash the heavens on them as they approached the family tomb. 

Lucius had been interred shortly following his death, as was tradition, his years in Azkaban finally wearing down on him when Draco was only thirty-four years old. 

It had been a year since his death. A year of dealing with solicitors, investors and family endowments. A year of paperwork, deeds, and magical contracts that Draco would gladly have incinerated. He’d dreamed of his father’s passing for so long, convinced that it would right all of the wrongs done in his lifetime, that they would finally be able to start anew.

Lucius had been a shell of himself after the war. Though he’d tried to flee, had even dragged his son and his wife along with him, the Aurors had swiftly caught them. They’d been hauled before the Wizengamot, made to plead their cases with the rest of the Death Eaters and Snatchers and sympathizers who’d aided in waging the Dark Lord’s war. 

Draco had been shocked to learn that his mother had betrayed the Dark Lord to get back to the castle, to find him. On Potter’s testimony, she was sentenced to a year of house arrest and reparations to the families most impacted by the Malfoys’ involvement in the war. 

Draco had delivered the letter to Professor Burbage’s family personally, unable to get the image of her lifeless body out of his head all these years later.

Lucius’s punishment was swift and final. A lifetime in Azkaban for his decades of criminal acts.

Draco had testified against his father, relaying to the Wizengamot the ways in which his father had raised him to hate Muggles and praise the Dark Lord, even forcing him to receive the Dark Mark. He’d bared his soul, recounting Voldemort’s order that he kill Dumbledore or see his family slaughtered. 

He’d unburdened a lifetime of moments that had led them to the Dark Lord’s service. His depression in sixth year, nearly embracing death when Potter’s Sectumsempra had gutted him. How Snape had saved him then, and again when he’d completed his mission for him. How he’d brought scraps to Lovegood and Ollivander in the Malfoy dungeons. How Lovegood’s pitying look as he’d sat with her, rather than return to the prison above, had been a balm to his soul. 

He’d talked for hours, wanting – if nothing else – to record a truthful account of his life. He’d been imperfect, hateful, and a coward. He’d let horrific things happen to his classmates, teachers, and strangers alike, all in pursuit of a lie he’d believed wholeheartedly. Because he’d wanted his father to be proud of him. 

He’d expected to receive the same sentence as his father. Had earned it.

Then Lovegood took the stand, sharing her perspective on their imprisonment. Then his mother. And then Potter. His rival had talked about his cousin and his uncle, and how the Muggle boy had grown up bullying him, fed on a steady diet of hatred and ignorance. How, after encountering a Dementor and seeing a fate worse than death, his cousin had changed. Perhaps, he claimed, Draco had witnessed some Dementors of his own. 

Even Granger spoke on his behalf, reminding the Wizengamot of the crimes enabled by Fudge and Umbridge at Hogwarts. Reminded them of the false imprisonment of Sirius Black, announcing the role that “loyal Death Eater” Regulus Black had played in defeating Voldemort. Had insisted that Draco’s refusal to identify them at Malfoy Manor not only allowed them time to evade Voldemort, but showed his true character. She’d recommended therapy over incarceration.

He’d been granted leniency. House arrest, restitution, and community service. His father had cursed and spat, calling him a blood traitor as Lucius had been stripped of his freedom and any remaining dignity. 

It was the last time Draco had seen him alive. 

Upon his death, a scathing Howler had arrived in Draco’s office at the Ministry, relaying his father’s final hate-filled words. Draco had Floo’d home to the Manor, confirmed the death with his mother, and let her hold him in her arms while he cried. 

A year later and Draco still hadn’t sorted out his feelings for his father. He mourned his loss, but more than that, he mourned the loss of the relationship they should have had. 

Every day he watched his children grow, he saw his childhood in a new light. Every time he hugged his children, he poured the unabashed love into them he’d never received. Every mistake they made – big or small – he had to unlearn how his father would have dealt with it. The more time passed, the more he discovered how to truly love and be loved, not merely present a facade of happiness to the world. 

The ghost of his father still haunted him, long after his death. 

His mother paused in front of the tomb, taking the flowers Draco had carried for her. She placed her hand on his cheek, kissing his forehead softly. “Thank you for bringing me, my love. I know it’s not been easy for you.” 

Draco swallowed the ball of emotion in his throat. “Anything for you, mother.” 

She gazed at him softly, her eyes full of sadness. “It’s okay to let him go, Draco.” 

Was it? He couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling that doing so made him a failure. Always a failure, in his father’s eyes. 

Narcissa reached down, squeezing his hand. “You are a good son, Draco. You are a good and loving father. I have nothing but pride for you, my son. If he could have seen you become the man you are, he would have been proud, too.” 

Draco tried to believe her. 

“Wait here for me, darling. I just need a moment, and then we can return for tea.” 

The sky above rumbled, ever threatening to unleash a storm. 

“Let the rain wash it all away.”