The gardens were nearly lifeless. The ground was barren and cracked. The bushes were leafless, and only had their tangling branches and brambles that were woven together in a macabre form of a mesh. The thorns could be seen very prominently. The hedges weren't pristine like they once used to be. They had shrivelled and died, and now looked like just twigs stacked up high. A wall of branches and thorns. The fountain was silent. The white peacock had died a long time ago. In winter, everything would be covered with a sheet of snow. Everything would be cold and cracked and devoid of life.

Of course, the garden hadn't always been like this. There had been a time when the grounds were covered in grass, well kept and lush, and if one were to take a walk their feet would suck into the grass. The flower bushes had actually been flower bushes, not thorn bushes. The leaves were a bright green, the flowers added spots of colour. The trees had been glorious, offering shade under their canopies. The hedges had been those one might see in the palace of the muggle Queen, if not better than hers. The fountain had once bubbled merrily, casting small rainbows on the grass when the sun caught the water at an angle. It's sound of whispering and gushing and bubbling could be heard from afar, never leaving the manor in complete silence. The peacock had been alive as well. The estate of Malfoy manor had been esteemed and prestigious.

Narcissa sighed as she looked out upon the gardens. It was barren and lifeless, much like herself and Lucius. It was a comfort to have him back again. But he spent most of his time in the sitting room, or doing the community service that was required of him. She couldn't, and wouldn't, unburden herself on him.

A spot of colour caught her eye.

A lone dandelion. It was full with its white, fleece like seeds, and danced gaily with the wind. Narcissa smiled a small smile. There was still hope, then. Perhaps, come spring, the garden would come to life again.

Narcissa's thoughts wandered to Hermione Granger.

At first, she didn't know what to make of the girl. She was kind, and caring, and was willing to help her when nobody else was. Her friends must have surely disapproved of what she had done. Narcissa had seen the whispers and murmurs of admonition that had spread throughout the crowd at the trial when Hermione had come down from the benches. No doubt, Hermione had heard it was well, but she wasn't affected by it in the least. She was completely okay with standing alone, without support. She bloomed gracefully wherever she was placed. Very much like the dandelion. Since would say dandelions are but weeds. Narcissa thought different. Besides, weeds could be beautiful too.

"Cissy."

Narcissa sucked in a sharp breath and turned around to face her husband. The small smile disappeared from her face at the sight of him. 

His skin was pulled taut across his face, making his cheekbones appear very prominent. His eyes looked sunken, and almost as lifeless as the garden. His long hair had grown haggard and stringy, and his air of self importance was absent from his countenance. His face was starting to show wrinkles of old age, and his forehead was nearly always creased in a frown.

"Lucius," she said in way of greeting, "you-they left you early."

"I asked to be left early," Lucius said somewhat tensely. 

Narcissa's lips parted as she processed his words. 

"You are not well, are you?" she asked sternly, fixing him with a withering glare. He immediately averted his gaze.

"I just needed some rest," Lucius sat down on a settee and rested his walking cane against the back of a chair. He closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths. Narcissa placed a hand on his shoulder, stroking it gently and lovingly with her thumb. 

When they had been set to marry by the pureblood laws, they had both been but teenagers. Narcissa fourteen, and Lucius just turned fifteen. They were both thrown into it unwillingly, bound together against their choice, and were denied their right to choose whom they wed. Thus, it was quite natural for them to hate each other. Narcissa had to give up on her relationship with a school sweetheart, Lucius had to stop going around with a different girl every few weeks. They loathed each other to such an extent that Narcissa had been willing to be disowned by her family if it meant not having to marry Lucius. But it never came to pass. They grew, and at the age of twenty one, they were wed ceremoniously. The first few years of their married life was nothing like it was supposed to be. But as time passed, they both grew to find comfort in each other. During the dark times of the first Wizarding War, they were each other's safe havens. Their friendship soon bloomed into something else. It blossomed into love. 

Now, seeing him like this, worn out and looking much like a corpse, it gave rise to a knot in Narcissa's chest. She felt too tight, too suffocated. 

"You look pale, Cissy."

"And you look like you've arisen from the dead."

"Does that include pale?"

"With many other adjectives along the same lines."

Lucius cracked a small smile. Or maybe it was a grimace. 

"They made me work at St Mungo's today," Lucius spoke suddenly, "there was a little boy, you know, muggle born. Suffering from some form of a muggle disease. Cancer, I think, they call it. He was in the last stage, they told me. They were late in identifying it, or maybe he could have been saved."

Narcissa stood tight-lipped, with her hand still on his shoulder. 

"You know who he looked like, Cissy?" Lucius asked, looking blankly at the wall in front of them. 

"Lucius…"

"He looked like Draco," Lucius said, his voice trembling, "he looked like Draco when he was a little boy of five or six."

Narcissa's lip quivered, and she turned away. A single tear slipped from beneath her eyelids and slid down her cheek.

"I ruined him, Cissy," Lucius' voice cracked, "I tainted him."

"And I let it happen," Narcissa said heavily.

"You had no choice but to let it happen," Lucius said, "he had no choice but to follow me. I never gave him a choice."

Lucius balled his fists and watched as Narcissa cried.

"I-I don't even know if he's alive," Narcissa choked out, "he never-never writes back."

Lucius said nothing. He knew that if he would say anything more, he would break. Truly and completely.

There was no light. 

No light except, Narcissa thought, Hermione. She was light.

"Miss Granger has been meeting you," Lucius said as though he could read her thoughts.

"She has," Narcissa said, "she has been with me, Lucius. After everything we've done, she was there with me."

"It's strange," Lucius said.

"She said she forgave me, for everything," Narcissa pressed on, "she was the only one to come to my aid, Lucius. Nobody else."

"She sees light even where there is none," Lucius said.

"I've grown quite fond of her, actually," Narcissa chuckled humorlessly, "perhaps you can meet her too." she added as an afterthought.

"No," Lucius said immediately. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw.

"It will help you, believe me," Narcissa said earnestly.

"But it won't help her," Lucius said, "she can never forgive me after what I've done."

"She forgave me," Narcissa said.

"I'm not you," his voice sounded harsher than originally intended.

Narcissa shut her mouth to keep her lips from trembling again. She wrung her hands and looked at Lucius, broken. He was but a shell of the man he was before. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. He had the opportunity to build himself up all over again with new values and better traits of character. A chance to be whole again.

Narcissa smiled bitterly. Hermione's optimism had affected her thinking. Narcissa was not used to being optimistic much. Hermione really was the embodiment of all things light. But, Narcissa realised with a frown, the people who have the brightest smile and most caring personalities are generally those who have faced immense loss. Hermione must have been awfully hurt by someone. She wasn't the same girl Narcissa had seen at Madam Malkin's, or who had been tortured by Bellatrix. No, that Hermione had a fire in her, a willingness to fight and oppose all things wrong no matter what. She was still mostly the same, but her eyes, her eyes said different. She had known great pain. 

Narcissa turned on her heel and walked out of the sitting room. She didn't know where exactly she was going, but she walked on, waiting to see where her feet would take her.

She walked all the way to the west wing. 

It was thoroughly unnerving. She had not come here since what felt like ages. The large oak doors had an air of neglect and of not being touched or used for a long time. Narcissa placed her hand on the doorknob. Her hands were trembling. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The door opened with a click and a sigh, as the air from the draught made the dust inside swirl and form clouds. She saw her own reflection on the shattered mirror, her image broken into fragments, each showing her miserable tear stained face. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and choked back a sob. Her body didn't seem to be obeying her commands of turning away. Instead, her feet carried her inside. 

She ran a hand dolefully over the unkempt bed, the tangled sheets and strewn pillows. She looked at the mantel over the fireplace in the room, the box of Quidditch figurines, stacks of old books and tomes. The desk on which he had studied had collected dust almost an inch thick, covering his quills and ink pots. The Nimbus 2001 lay discarded under the bed. Narcissa remembered the day when Lucius had forbidden him from practicing Quidditch anymore, so that he could focus on what the Dark Lord tasked him to do. Draco had been so disheartened that he had burnt his Quidditch Through The Ages, and had nearly ended up throwing his broom away. The bookshelf that had been so frequently used before now lay under spider webs and thin sheets of dust. The carpet on the floor let out clouds of dust with every step she took. 

In one corner of the room, she spotted a piece of parchment. Paper, more likely. Narcissa walked over to it and picked it up. A strangled sob broke past her lips.

He was around eleven or twelve, perhaps, maybe thirteen. He was in his Quidditch robes and standing proudly, broom in hand, head held high. The characteristic Malfoy smirk was spot on. This picture had been taken on the occasion of his thirteenth birthday, now she remembered. He had been so happy at coming a little closer to becoming a man. At that age, he did everything to try and impress his father. In the picture, he smirked and lifted his head high, proudly showing his broom. Then the loop repeated. 

Narcissa couldn't take it anymore. She fled the room.