Wizardly funerals are varied creatures. Some, the type practiced by blood traitors and half-bloods, mimic muggle customs. A wizard or witch lies entombed in a coffin of hard wood, or merlin forbid, stone. The magic that slips from their body and manages to escape their coffin seeps uselessly into the surrounding graves in some muggle cemetery, nourishing nothing but the grass stretching over the ground.

A proper witch's funeral takes place here, in the deep woods. A canopy of autumn leaves guarding the procession from the sun as they trek through the ferns brushing against the edges of their black robes. Her body remains hidden from sight as her casket, woven of supple willow, levitates ahead of them and leads them to her resting place.

Even if the bodies of the adults often block his view, Draco still catches glimpses of the casket as the procession weaves through its winding path to the Nott family's old burial grounds. He's seen one before, of course, illustrated in the storybooks at home. This one isn't even that impressive when compared to paintings of caskets interwoven with roses that shimmer with every color. Mrs. Nott's casket only has fresh willow leaves threaded through the light wooden brown and a small bouquet of white and yellow flowers balanced on top. But still, despite how plain it is, the casket is so large compared to the pictures splayed across a book that can fit in Draco's lap. He can't help but stare at it.

And trip right over the old root that stretches over the path.

Mother's hand grips tightly to Draco's and stops him from falling over completely. There's a snicker behind him, most likely Vincent who was only a little ways back and holding his own mother's hand.

Anger flares up with the warmth in his face, but before Draco can turn to snap at the brat behind him, Mother speaks in a harsh whisper.

"Draco, not here."

"But Mother..."

Mother looks towards where the casket weaves back into view while the front of the procession turns after it. The complaint dies in Draco's throat even before his mother speaks again.

"We must show our respect, Draco."

It takes forever to make it all the way to the clearing, so small that much of the procession remains under the shade of the trees to give enough room for Mr. Nott to levitate the casket to the center.

A ripple of magic lingers around the edges of the space, marking the clearing as an artificial construction that will close around the casket once it is buried. The trees themselves seem eager to reclaim their natural space. The tips of their outermost branches brush against the barrier, the light pressure tinging the magical ripples the faintest blue every time a breeze shifts the leaves.

Draco swallows as the casket floats in the air, its view now fully unimpeded. Nott's words dedicated to his wife drift by on the cold autumn wind as Draco tightens his grip on Mother's hand.

They were the same age, Mother and Mrs. Nott. Shared the same Newt classes together, according to Mother, and even the same wedding year although they married on opposite solstices. They shared teatime too, right in the Malfoy Manor's sunroom only two weeks before. Mrs. Nott had giggled at something Mother had said. Her warm brown eyes had briefly caught Draco's stare before she looked over to her son.

But now, Mrs. Nott rests in a casket as her old husband with his wrinkled, outstretched hand uses his wand to lower her into the ground.

*******

Theodore's missing. Draco hadn't noticed on the way to the clearing, not with how busy he was avoiding any more treacherous roots while watching the casket. But in the silence that shadows Mr. Nott's words and following the moments where he walks away from his wife's grave as soon as it's covered by the forest dirt, it becomes quite clear that Theodore should be there.

It's customary for the entire family to say something at the funeral. Draco's read about exactly how it's supposed to go. But not even did Theodore remain completely silent like he usually does in crowds, Draco can't even see him anywhere!

To be fair, Theodore Nott is quite easy to miss with how quiet he tends to be. Even so, he should have been standing there with his father right in the clearing. Theodore might be able to disappear easily among a crowd, but there's no way Draco could have missed him here.

As the funeral goers head back along the path, Draco careens his head around to try to spot where the boy might be. The other children he sees are too tall, too old, or they're too bulky like Gregory and Vincent.

"Draco," Mother murmurs in warning.

"Where's Theodore? Did his father forget to bring him?" Draco cuts in. People often have to bring Theodore from wherever he's hiding. Mr. Nott himself has had to fetch his son from the Nott Manor's library numerous times so that Theodore actually participates in the playdates scheduled for his benefit.

On that thought, Theodore is rude enough to try to skip out on his obligations to his guests to just go read another book. But surely, he wouldn't choose a book over attending his own mother's funeral!

Mother frowns, her grey eyes darkening as they walk under a thicker canopy of leaves.

"Your friend was too...ill to come. His father didn't want to risk his health on such a long walk."

Draco frowns as he looks to the path. That doesn't make any sense at all, Theodore looked fine only a few weeks ago.

"Are you sure he's ill?" That boy has tried to fake a cough to get out of playing quidditch with Draco on many, many occasions. There's no guarantee that he's actually sick.

"Yes, I'm certain." Mother says, her voice strained. "Now, stay quiet until we return home."

But they don't go home. Not when they reach the Nott Manor and head inside with the rest of the guests. The repast feast lays spread out on tables throughout the parlor. Draco really couldn't care much for much for the food, though, even the sweet-looking honey cakes that Vincent and Gregory huddle around near the end of one table.

Draco especially doesn't want the honey cakes, not when he can hear Vincent snickering at Gregory right beside them. No doubt the traitor is retelling and distorting Draco's minor slip up over that root into some kind of tall tale where he's a clumsy fool.

Mother told him to behave, but he has to tell her about how rude Vincent is being. Insulting the Malfoy honor at a funeral of all places.

Yet, when he turns to alert her to Vincent's poor behavior, Draco sees that she's moved a little ways away from him. Next to her, Ms. Greengrass speaks softly enough that he can't hear the words shared between them. Both women have deep frowns at whatever those words are. His mother's eyes are sharp and stone-hard as she stares at Ms. Greengrass.

Draco looks away. His mother's eyes are always soft when they look at him. To see them as anything else, even if she's staring at someone else, jars something in him that dries his throat.

He swallows again, looking for someone else to speak to. If Mother's talking to the other women and Father seems to be engaged in a conversation with Mr. Nott near the far side of the room, it's only right that he makes nice with the other children.

When he spots Pansy, though, her eyes are watering as she mumbles something to a misty-eyed Daphne. And Vincent is still grinning when both he and Gregory look right at Draco.

There's no way Draco will stoop to talking to fools who mock him or crying girls; however, the other, older children are already clumped into tight groups of their own, leaving no room for him to join them.

That just leaves Theodore Nott then. He may be ill, but he also has an obligation to converse with the guests in his family's manor. Draco can actually help him with that. If Theodore's bed-ridden, then Draco will go to him.

Draco glances about as he walks briskly away from Mother. None of the other guests so much as look down as he slips by and eventually out of the parlor. His shoes do click slightly as he hurries up the staircase in the grand entrance of the manor, yet with nobody appearing to follow him, no one else seems to have heard the noise.

The portraits in the corridors upstairs watch him silently as he passes them. The Malfoy men and women in the pictures at home would have been scolding Draco by now for how briskly he treks by; however, the Nott men here are more well-mannered as they merely stare in silence.

A shiver travels along Draco's back. The quiet is a bit...eerie. But at least the paintings aren't threatening to tell his father about his behavior.

Emboldened, Draco quickly reaches the wing of the manor hosting Theodore's rooms. The door to the boy's bedroom is shut. Rather than knocking, Draco reaches for the doorknob. A hum of magic vibrates through his palm when he grasps the brass and twists at the unyielding metal.

A locking charm, the feel of it softer than any of the wards blocking him from several of the rooms at home. He's never been able to get past his father's more robust wards, but ever since his magic has started to stir Draco has learned that if he just pushes hard enough on these softer charms...

With a sharp twist of the brass knob, a spark of light flashes between his palm and the door, causing the charm's hum to rise into a whistle that fades in a single breath. A smile grows on Draco's face at the achievement of breaking into a bedroom, which is a rather large jump from the sweets' cabinet in a kitchen pantry.

A giggle bursts out at the tingle of the dissipating magic spreading through his arm, but he quickly covers his mouth with his free hand. There is the repast of a funeral occurring downstairs. People certainly can't laugh at those.

When Draco opens the door, a startled gasp manages to escape. He had expected Theodore to be bedridden or curled up in a chair reading. Not staring right at Draco with wide blue eyes as he sits up ramrod straight at the foot of his bed.

The dark bags under Theodore's eyes make those blue eyes seem brighter as the boy's lip trembles.

"You look terrible." Draco blurts out.

Theodore just stares until his gaze jolts over Draco's shoulder. Draco turns, yet there's no one coming up behind him.

"It's just me." Draco reassures, turning back. "Mother said that you were ill, so I thought I'd help you fulfill your proper duties of entertaining your guests by visiting you in bed." Truthfully, Draco thought that he was a little liar reading away the time, but Theodore doesn't have to know that.

"Guests?" Theodore croaks out as if he's confused as to why he would have guests today of all days.

"For the funeral. My family is paying their respects with the others-"

A sob breaks out of Theodore Nott as he hunches in on himself.

A rush of cold sweeps through Draco as he watches Theodore crumble. The inkling that he shouldn't be here creeping in as the other boy's soft cries wash over him.

Theodore has never, never lost his composure. He's always been quiet, mostly watching others rather than speaking to them. More often than not, disdain rules those blue eyes, especially every time Draco has insisted that Theodore play quidditch with him like all the other proper pureblood children. Now, those eyes lack any disdain as they overfill with tears that run down Theodore's face.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to," What? Say why he was here?! That's what someone with manners does. Draco did what he was supposed to do instead of just barging in with no explanation.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Draco steps quickly towards the boy who's still crying, "please calm down, I didn't mean to upset you, please." Looking wildly around the room, Draco spots the small pile of books on the nightstand by Theodore's bed.

"Here," He rushes over, grabbing the first one on the pile. "reading always calms you down. Every time we fight about quidditch, you always read after; so, here's a book."

The book in Draco's outstretched hand hangs in the air as Theodore keeps crying.

"You can't keep crying. You have to be quiet and rest. Mother said you're sick. You'll just get sicker and then your mo..." Theodore's mother would be distressed if Theodore got sicker. But she can't be distressed now. She's dead. And Theodore's just going to keep crying because no one is going to be upset that he's crying.

Mr. Nott's a father, and Draco's father is more annoyed by tears than anything. If they are alike at all, then Mr. Nott would probably call Theodore childish and tell him to stop. But Theodore wouldn't stop crying. Because if Draco was in his place, if it was Mother who died, he would never, ever stop.

The book drops out of Draco's loose grip to the floor. The only times that Draco has stopped crying without exhausting himself to sleep is when Mother has done what she does best. Draco's not a mother, but Theodore isn't going to have his mother ever do this for him again.

When Draco wraps his arms tightly around Theodore's thin, trembling shoulders, the boy stiffens as his breath catches. Only a strangled gasp later, Theodore leans into the hug, burrowing his head into Draco's shoulder and sobbing into his black dress robes.

"It's okay," Draco says, just like Mother does, as Theodore's hands grip tightly to Draco's back, "you're alright. You'll be alright."