He got a drink from the liquor cabinet – one nightcap that Hermione didn't know about wouldn't hurt. Glass of firewhiskey in hand he padded on bare feet out toward the back porch. It was secluded, private, and there was a certain restfulness to the overgrown garden out the back, all greens and browns and splashes of bright colour. Like its own little world, sheltered from the rest of Godric's Hollow. He opened the door awkwardly, juggling his glass and the door handle, and swore internally as he saw a figure standing at the porch railing. It was Nymphadora, swaying from side to side like a gentle metronome, her son in her arms, cooing softly up at his mother. Fuck. Draco couldn't even get some damned privacy in the middle of the fucking night, he thought with slightly desperate anger.