Draco Malfoy and the Order of Ecdysis

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/35821012.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy
& Pansy Parkinson & Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy
& Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy,
Narcissa Black Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Severus Snape,
Colin Creevey, Death (Harry Potter), Apolline Delacour, Cornelius
Fudge, Dolores Umbridge, Millicent Bulstrode, Theodore Nott, Vincent
Crabbe, Gregory Goyle
Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travel, Fluff and Angst, Blood and Violence,
Secrets, Secret Organizations, Truth Serum, Body Horror, Alternate
Universe - Voldemort Wins, Drarry, Consequences, Trust Issues, BAMF
Draco Malfoy, Magically Powerful Draco Malfoy, OCs but only for plot
reasons, Death, Slow Burn, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix, Draco Malfoy Redemption, Survivor Guilt, Soft
Draco Malfoy, Past Character Death, Minor Character Death, Major
Character Injury, Major Character Undeath, Horcruxes, Time Travelling
Draco Malfoy, Panic Attacks, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Unhealthy
Coping Mechanisms, Powerful Draco Malfoy, Completely Justified
Concern for Draco Malfoy, Magical Outbursts, Enemies to Friends to
Lovers, Past Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Canon Rewrite, Mental
Link, Soul Bond, Horcruxes and their side affects, Extreme slow burn,
Eventual Happy Ending, Malfoy Family Drama (Harry Potter), POV
Draco Malfoy, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Canon, Violence, Pining,
Drama, The Ministry of Magic is Terrible (Harry Potter), Veela (Harry
Potter), Assumed Veela!Draco Malfoy (He's not. He's just a pretty blond
time-traveler)
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2021-12-20 Updated: 2024-01-27 Words: 99,376 Chapters:
18/?
 Draco Malfoy and the Order of Ecdysis
by Dayenu (Coffee_Scribbles)

Summary

“When did you get so wise?” Pansy jokes weakly. Sniffling and wiping her eyes on her
sleeve.

Draco just shrugs. His school robes still feel off. Too tight in the shoulders. Too loose in the
heart.

“I didn’t."

Then he smiles, like he’s referencing a private joke she’s not in on.
“I just got old.”

And that may very well be the most honest thing he's ever said.
Maybe the world just feels simpler when you're his age; smaller when you’ve seen it die.
Maybe, when you’ve seen how it ends, the fear of just ending at all is less scary. And the how
becomes a lot more.

(in other words: Draco Malfoy, Eight years post the 'war' at Hogwarts that far more
resembled genocide, is sprung from Azkaban by a group of rebels, quietly fighting against a
Voldemort controlled Ministry, in hopes they could send him back in time to before
Voldemort wins.
And it works... just not quite as well as they'd hoped.)

In OTHER other words: Draco Malfoy had never, in fact, been a brave man. It was
something he'd come to terms with. Something he'd learned to work around.
He had, however, always been a rather... stubborn one.
 Prologue
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Eight years.

It had been eight years since the war had begun.

Eight years since there had been any semblance of peace. Eight years since the battle of
Hogwarts, and eight years since the last hope, Harry Potter, was killed. Draco Malfoy, the
‘Son of Death’, as the papers called him, had been ‘instrumental to the rise of the dark lord’.

The stone floor beneath his legs is rough and freezing cold. A gust of icy wind rushes through
the narrow bars of his cell.

He doesn’t feel it. His fingers and toes and nose having long since gone numb. His cheeks
still tremble from the cold though. He runs an icy hand up his face, dragging his nails down
the unshaven, unwashed scruff.

The last grey dregs of daylight cast through the bars as they’re obscured by the oncoming
storm clouds. Through tiny cracks in the mortar, as the world fades slowly to grey, then
black.

He’d had it good, after the war. At least in comparison. He’d been surrounded by Voldemort's
followers, praised and applauded. After all, he’d played his part perfectly. A puppet at the end
of the show.

Then the curtain closed.

Draco remembered how he had felt. To be used.. but to be safe. A bit like fine china, really.
Locked away in a cabinet. Untouched, gathering dust. He had been trained from a young age
to enjoy this sort of life. And for a while, it really had been good.

Perfectly polished porcelain can live forever, of course. When it has absolutely nothing to
live for.

But it didn’t last.

Guilt is hungry, that way.
It will consume as much of you as it can.

The china slides off it’s balance point, it falls.

It survives, but a crack splits it down the center.

Underneath the porcelain shell, flesh pulsates, and through the crack, it bleeds.

A fresh gust of wind prickles across his numb skin.

It took almost a full year before the stages of grief had worn their way through; with denial
lasting by far the longest, at the beginning. It had taken even longer for his stupid, young,
egotistical self to admit he had done anything wrong at all. Perhaps he should have left it
there. But acknowledging the pain made him feel brave. And bravery was the stupidest thing
to be-

And oh, had he been been so wildly stupid after that. Thinking he could do anything to atone.
Thinking he could perhaps, even begin to change things. Quietly. Thinking he could use what
power he had to shift the tides. Hide in the shadows and use Voldemort’s soft spot for him for
good.

Thinking that any of that could ease the weight of his sins. But he was naive and nineteen,
and fancied himself a bit of a hero complex. He had moved out on his own. And he had
survived the war, hadn’t he? Didn’t that mean he could survive worse?
And then… well.
Then he got caught.

Turns out that spending one’s entire life following the path laid out for them, did not lend
itself to creating one who was great at sneaking about. And to be treasonous against the Dark
Lord was the highest of crime. Punishable by death.

Once again, due to his precarious honor of being something of a soft spot for Voldemort; he
wasn’t sure how, even now, the man seemed to see a bit of himself in Draco. —Which had
been something of a nauseating thought, but one he learned to stomach.—

Thus, he had been spared death. An immediate one, at least.

At the time it had felt like mercy. Now, five and a half years later, he knew it was very much
not.

A last ray of light casts through as the patter of rain begins. Its hard to hear over the constant
rush of waves far below. The light just barely catches on scratches, tally marks carved into
the walls that now meant nothing.
Time, meant nothing.
Weather he was here for a decade more, or a year, or a day, it would all be the same.
His sentence was for the rest of his life, after all.

Another gust of wind. A leathery lash of icy rain comes through. Even the thick, heavily
enchanted walls of Azkaban could not hold up against nature’s lashing blows. Or maybe they
were designed specifically not to. Hell if he knew.

Darkness crowds his mind. A dementor draws near, it’s cold air fluttering over his skin.

He’d tried to empty his mind when it came to the memories the Dementor’s provoke. —
Bellatrix’s shrill cackling, holding the boy-who-lived's severed head like a piñata. Weasley’s
mother clinging to her sons corpse, screaming bloody murder. The way Mcgonagall had
screamed, bloody and raw. Tormented with painful, terrible curses as she did her best to
protect her students.—
Occulemency was something his godfather had attempted to teach him as a child; a tactic he
had only truly learned under his lovely Aunt Bella, and a skill only mastered when necessary
to stay sane, years later.
Instead, he allowed his mind to focus only on the now, allowed his eyes to silently trace the
stones in the wall such that, every time he shut his eyes, that would be what was engraved
there.

Jagged cuts of stone pushed so sharply into his mind, that would be the image, etched with a
razor inside his eyelids.
Light had long since faded. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to be able to tell.

Something shifts outside his cell. Something dark and solemn. His stomach curls at a feeling;
a feeling like being watched-

Footsteps approach.

“Hey runt!” A familiar voice of one of the few human guards, snarls coldly from the base of
his cell block.
He almost feels relived as whatever was in the darkness recoils; he hadn't noticed when his
breathing had quickened, but he could feel when it smoothed out.
He wonders who the guard is talking too.

A different feeling always accompanies hearing from the guards. Its not usually good, but it
is always different; which, when your baseline is misery, tends to at the very least make one
less bored.

“24601.”
The number hits his ears like a hammer hits a bell. Shrill. Painful. Calling.
He opens his eyes and squints into the light of a lantern, which he recognizes as being quite
close to him. Draco, squinting from the bright, can barely make out the guard’s shiny boots.

“You’ve got yerself a visitor,” the guard says gruffly.

Draco wobbles to stand, as the guard practically detaches his shackles from their anchor
outside his cell.

“Come on, I’ve’n’t got all day,” the guard snipes lazily.
And no matter how untrue that may be, Draco barely gives a nod.

The air flushes with cold as two dementors come up to flank him at a distance. Preventing
escape, of course.

Not that he had much to go back to.

He’s led down a long flight of stars, his bare feet padding, the sound echoing all the way,
down, down, down, to a small room.
The guard pushes the door open.

There’s a desk with two chairs, all of which are bolted heavily to the floor, and two disk
lights from above, brightly illuminating the whole room.

Barely any shadows.

Nowhere to hide.

“Are you sure this is the one you’re wanting to see? I mean; i can’t imagine he’ll have
anything you haven’t heard before.” A polite voice says from just outside the room.

“Perhaps; but he’s the only one from that year that’s still alive and not busy with the Dark
Lord.” the other voice says, far more gently. “Besides, orders are orders.”

The first voice laughs.

“Don’ i know it.”

The guard tugs him forward and into the room, clicking the lock of his shackles onto the
desk. The sudden motions were not of help to his shaky, aching muscles… but the room itself
is warm and well insulated, his skin tingling, doing its best to regain feeling.
The lights above flicker and buzz.
The door creeks open, and an older man slips inside, holding a glass of water and a briefcase.
He’s tall enough it barely takes three steps to get to the center of the room, even with his
slight limp.
“Hello Mr. Malfoy,” the older man says smoothly. He’s tall and well groomed —if one could
forgive how his lapel is tucked under oddly— , with shiny auburn hair with silver streaks that
slide up from his temples, a well groomed beard, and warm brown eyes. Probably a hard
contrast to the gaunt, scruffy mess Draco is sure to be.

The guard shoots Draco one last, stern look, before reverently nodding to the visitor, and
exiting the room-
The lock clicking behind him. But no footsteps leaving.

He’d be guarding the door as well then. Interesting.

“My name is Adrien Enno, i’m with the Ministry.”

The glass of water the man had carried in clinks as he sets it down, and slides it forward on
the table.

“What is this,” Draco says, voice rough enough it spirals into a coughing fit just a moment
later. It’d been the first time he’d spoken in… god he couldn’t even remember how long.

Enno’s hands flutter up, toward the glass of water, and then back. Draco, with his face blank
and oozing distrust, glances at the glass.A look almost like guilt flashes over Enno’s face.

Definitely not just water then.

“If you’re wanting to poison me, i doubt the guards would object,” Draco says.

“Poison you?” Enno says, sounding a little startled. He shakes his head and clears his throat.
“No, no,” he laughs. It sounds strained. Enno shoots a pointed look toward the door.

“I’ll just be asking you a few questions,” Enno says. He nudges the paper and quill further
toward Draco.
“But first, please, have a drink.” Enno says, nudging the glass of cool water in front of him.

Draco knows perfectly well it wasn’t just water, at this point.

He could see it in the slightly purple tint the lights above shone. Smell it as he lifted it to his
lips, sour like an unripe apple.
He could taste it as it rolled back over his tongue, sticky like syrup as it coated over the
whole of his throat and down his gullet.

Ah, he should have guessed.

Veritaserum.
He’d taken it once on his own, second time during his ‘trial’, if the farce could even be called
such a thing…

He could do it again now.

But, just to be completely and utterly clear, he shot this ‘Enno’ man a keen look. A flicker of
his eyes, and a slow blink between him, and the cup; a look that said he knew exactly what
was in it.

To his surprise, Enno looks down, in what looks almost to be shame.

This man was not with the Ministry, not in his heart anyway; Draco can see that much easily.

But then… why, and how, was he here?

“Thank you,” Draco says politely, voice still rough. Setting down the glass.

The far-too-familiar chill curls up from his stomach.

He takes a deep breath, knowing he’ll need it.

“First, some baseline honesty-conformation tests;” Enno says, lifting his head professionally.
“What is your name and date of birth?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, June 5th, 1980,” he answers.

“Your prisoner number?”

“24-6-01,” he answers. He’d found that funny, the first time he heard it. An interesting
coincidence to be sure.

“You attended Hogwarts as a Slytherin, from 1991 to 1998, before the Hogwarts Massacre,
correct?”

“Yes.”

“The same year as Harry James Potter, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and Hermione Jean
Granger?”
Draco’s stomach clenches as he hesitates to answer. “...Yes.”

Enno scribbles something down into a notebook that Draco hadn't even seen him pull out.

“Is it also true, that you bore the Dark Mark at the young age of only seventeen?” Enno
asks, again, the clenching feeling returns. His stomach only tightening with each moment he
didn't answer. He swallows but his breaths feel shallow. Like he’s drowning mid air.

“Yes, it is,” Draco mutters, the tension releasing and leaving a warm tingling sensation in
it’s wake.
His heart pounds in his chest. He does his best to keep from gasping; even though his lungs
strain for the oxygen.
He watches the man scrawl something down, yet again.

“Why?” Enno asks.

The tightness returns, and Draco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He had forgotten exactly
how it felt.
His breath comes in as a viscus, choking thing- and a piece of his mind, his deeply atrophied
sense of logic perhaps, knows this is all a part of the properties of the potion.
But even if it's a lie, god is it good at making you feel like you’re dying.

He opens his mouth, and no breath comes. His head pounds.

He almost speaks without thinking, the only reason he knows is the odd choking feeling his
vocal cords make-
He clamps his teeth shut to hold back another wracking, violent cough.

His body aches, but he feels... alive.

Enno is watching him quizzically, but mostly, he just looks at Draco the way one might an
old dog that needs to be ‘put to sleep’ .

Draco doesn’t know quite how he feels about that.

“Why?” Enno reiterates, Draco feels the pressure stay, steady- as if awaiting a command.

“Why what?” Draco chokes rhetorically. Bitter, stubborn, nonsensical revulsion growing for
the man across from him. Or maybe for himself.
 “Why did you take the dark mark?” Enno says, cold.

Draco wonders if the man was lying after all. If he just wanted to watch Draco die here and
now, strangled by his own lies; poisoned by his pride.

Draco's nausea increases in slow spikes, every consideration of a lie making him feel as if
someone had slapped him across the face with a hot iron, and every breath, already shaky and
piercing, feeling labored and painful.
He can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“B-Because I would have been killed if I hadn’t,” he hates how his voice trembles with the
words.

Something in Enno’s face softens. As does the suffocating pressure in his chest.

Draco coughs up something, —it tastes and congeals like blood, but it surely wasn’t— a
figment of the potion’s more hallucinogenic properties.

Probably.

He wipes his chin anyway, holding onto the warm swell of relief that floods through him.

He honestly feels as though he could have sunk through his chair and down to the floor, had
it not been made of solid wood.

“Did you believe in the Dark Lord’s cause, back then?”

“I did.” Draco admits. “Well- I believed in my Father. Then, I believed in the Dark Lord.
Then… then I believed in myself.”

“In yourself?” Enno asks, obviously trying to keep up his professionalism though all this,
Draco was tempted to just say a yes or no answer and be done with it — but his aching,
lethargic body disagrees.

So he does what the Malfoy lineage could honestly be best known for.
He talks.

“I grew up a Death Eaters son. I lived my formative years preparing for a war, and then
winning it.” Draco says flatly. “I learned how to survive on my own. When to use the shelter
of my great and ancient name, when to use… other methods to get what i needed.”

“Other methods.” Enno echoes again. Draco nods, leaning back in his seat.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I could,” Draco says, just to let the ache in his chest ease. “But tell me something, Mr.
Enno,” Draco says, drumming his fingers on the table. “What makes you ask these
questions?”

Enno’s brow furrows, but otherwise his face shows no expression. “I’m afraid i can't share
that information.”
He doesnt sound particularly sorry about it.

“Now,” Enno says, leaning forward; body language more at attention than at any other time
yet. Which meant he was finally getting to the real reason he was here. Bloody finally .

“When you betrayed Voldemort,” Enno says, and Draco wants to roll his eyes. Because of
course that’s what this is really about.

“I’m not going back,” Draco says sharply, cutting him off. “So if that’s what you’re here for,
if you’re some puppet-”

“I told you that i’m with the Ministry,” Enno says, looking sour.

“A Ministry controlled by Voldemort.”

Enno levels him a flat look. Draco suppresses a giggle and goes about cleaning his nails.

“When you betrayed Voldemort,” Enno says, starting again, “You maintained an
underground railroad for nearly a year before being caught. How did you manage this? What
inspired you to do so?”
 “Guilt, i suppose.”

“Just guilt?” Enno says, sounding almost… disappointed?

“You must understand, that i grew up an Heir. And suddenly, before myself, I saw two
roads, both equally straight; but I did see two; and that terrified me,” Draco says slowly. “I,
who had never in my life known anything but one straight line. And, bitter anguish, these two
roads were contradictory.”

“I made my decision, a long time ago, when i killed Dumbledore. I have always known i
will never be able to undo that mistake. But… here, i was in the unique position to do
something. For the first time, i had a choice. And i’d make that choice a hundred times over
if i could.”

Enno pauses a moment, then nods slowly.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and i took the path less traveled by; and that has
made all the difference.”

“Robert Frost,” Draco comments, smirking. “A good quote.”

“I never thought i’d hear a Malfoy complement a muggle writer,” Enno says, slowly, a curl
at the edge of his lip almost like a smile.

“It would be a statistical improbability that all muggle writing would be terrible.” Draco
says, waving a hand. “I believe there’s a muggle quote about that too; something about
monkeys and typewriters.”

Enno clears his throat in a way that’s clearly disguising a laugh, before he coughs into his fist
and smooths his face out again. A pity; Draco hasn’t been able to properly make anyone
laugh in ages.

His chest feels raw and achy; which he chooses to blame solely and squarely on his coughing
fit.

Enno swiftly moves on.

The rest of the interview, —inquisition? Interrogation? Any or all fit the situation well
enough— goes about as well as could be expected.
Dotting questions asked, a-little-to-truthful-for-comfort answers given.

By the end of it, Draco feels more exhausted than he has in years. The mental energy drain of
calculating how to answer, and ponder what Enno’s true motive could be. The physical
energy drain of fighting the truth serum enough to be able to think at all.

But all the while, the mystery around this whole thing grew.

It was odd. Enno was definitely grilling him for some very specific information —specifics
of his relationships to the Golden Trio, specifics of his relationships to Dumbledore— but
also being kind and gingerly loose with how he allowed Draco to answer. Seeming to do his
best to make the entire process as painless as possible; which is most unusual.

He pauses a moment, before deliberately straightening his dress robes, almost exaggeratedly
flipping his lapel up from where it’d been folded in-Draco scrunches his eyes shut and
presses on the lids with cold hands, sure they're betraying him- but no. When his vision clears
again, it's still the same.

The visitor, this Enno fool, is wearing a broach on his lapel.

A broach of the Hogwarts crest.

And Draco feels like he’s missing something. This feels like the world’s worst practical joke.
Nobody sane would ever wear a Hogwarts emblem. Nobody from the Ministry as it is now
would risk such a thing. Not unless they had a death wish.Enno, however, does not seem
particularly suicidal. In fact, it’s hard to tell if he’s even noticed Draco’s internal plight,
simply rummaging through his rich, mahogany leather briefcase, and plucking out a paper
and a quill.He slides the paper across the table. Draco’s trembling, icy fingers are stiff where
they meet the slip of parchment. The prickling of his skin turning soon to burning as his
nerves get used to the warmth once more. He rubs his hands together, hoping to dull the pain.

Then he leans forward, squinting to focus on the paper. Which… is mostly blank.

There’s maybe a paragraph at the top. Grey inked words, in small, slanted print. The kind of
print that would be hard to read if you weren’t just inches from the paper.

My name is Adrian Enno. I am with the Resistance, against Lord Voldemort. I am undercover
as a Ministry executive to get to you. This paper will be burned as soon as we are done. I am
here because I want to give you an opportunity, the opportunity to change all of this, to go
anew and to escape here. I want to give you an opportunity to do good, and to change all of
our lives.
He reads silently, Enno, who’s expression had not changed, quietly pushed the plain, brown-
feathered quill toward him.

“Just sign there,” Enno says, emptily.

Draco tilts his head to the paper, squinting as oily and dirty platinum blond hair falls into his
vision. He reads it again. And again; waiting for the words to change to some legal
document. Morph. Waiting for... something. And when it doesn't, he blinks.

He wonders if he’s finally lost it.

“Mr. Malfoy…?” Enno says.

Draco’s stiff fingers clumsy to lift the quill. Confused, now. ‘What is this?’ Draco scrawls,
pushing the paper back across the table.

“You also need to initial here,” Enno says gently, taking the quill and scrawling what he
could barely make out as: ‘you’re our best chance’ .

Draco nods again, though the act itself meaning nothing to either party. He begins to write-
then hesitates.

His fingers twitch with indecision. His mind rattles through scenarios. Could this be a trick?
But what could anyone possibly get out of tricking someone with a life sentence?

But then what did Enno mean. ‘You’re our only chance’. Why was he anyone’s only chance?
And their only chance for what?‘Our’, had implications of more than one person; and he had
to presume that meant this Resistance thing. But why? And how? What about ‘best chance’
as well?

Literally every piece of that four word sentence was a new question, with few answers that
spiraled into even more questions. A hydra of unknowns.

He looks up, watching Enno’s eyes, watching the man’s face; he could now see the
trepidation there, hidden under layers and layers of practiced, cool facade.
Enno’s fingers drum on the table. Impatient and anxious.

Draco takes a deep breath in… then out.

‘Fine. But I really hope trusting you isn’t my next big mistake.’ He scrawls, handwriting
shoddy and messy from his still very stiff hands; passing it back. It wasn't exactly like he had
much to loose anyway.
He tries to convince himself that any sort of change to his completely isolated life sentence
would be freedom at this point. Even if Enno does intend to poison him; he’s not sure it
would be the worst way to go.

He’s not been sure if he’d gotten himself to believe it, before Enno was looking down at the
paper, and nodding.Folding it and tucking it securely in his pocket, where it promptly burst
into a tiny puff of flame, then smoke.

Huh.

“Alright.” Enno snaps his small notebook closed, sliding it into his briefcase- then,
momentarily, he hesitates-

Then continues with the motion.

It’s clear, Enno has made some kind of decision. And Draco has no real way of knowing what
it is, or what it means.

Enno opens his outer robe and, from an inner pocket, slips across a small, yellowed slip of
paper.

“I just have one more thing for you to sign,” he says.

Draco unfolds it.

‘As soon as the sun sets, tonight, stand at the corner closest to the door. We’ll do the rest to
get you out of here.’

Draco looks up at Enno, who nods, and smiles ever so slightly.

Draco takes a second, doing his best to ignore the fluttering, jittery feeling in his chest, before
looking back down and scrawling out his final question.

'Why are you doing this?' his quill moves over the parchment quickly, strokes uneven and
furled with looping letters, he passes it back to Enno who looks at it for a moment.

“Thank you,”- Enno pauses, tucking the paper back into his coat. He rather deliberately runs
a thumb over the broach, the Seal of Hogwarts. Enno adjusts his robes with a flourish that
incidentally tucks the lapel under; a practiced motion-“for your time,” he completes, making
sure to stand up slowly and nod.

Draco gives a brief nod in return, and watches as Enno gives an odd gesture to the wall
beside them.

All of two seconds later, the lock clicks open, and the same guard enters the room. Unlocking
Draco’s cuffs from the table, and tugging him back out of the room.

The frigid air bites greets him like a slap to the face, and frost immediately begins to bite at
his fingers and toes.
He doesn’t care.

He runs through everything again. And again. And again.

“As soon as the sun sets, tonight, stand at the corner closest to the door. We’ll do the rest to
get you out of here,” By the time he got back to his cell, Draco’d repeated the phrase so many
times, it no longer seemed like words. Just a feeling. Just something new .

He never said anything as the officer threw him in front of a rather hungry looking dementor,
he didn't close his eyes as all hope was drained from his somehow still living corpse of a
body.
He never cried out as he was thrown into his cell, and he didn't wince as he hit the cold
cobblestone floor, all he could do was look up through the window and watch the clouds his
breath made as it turned shallow and deep.
Maybe ten minutes later, Draco had finally gathered enough willpower to move onto his bed,
if the hard, tiny rock he’d sleep on could even be called that.
And somehow, as he closes his eyes and feels the creatures in the darkness stir once more.
Draco smiles. Watching the snow clouds shift through the thick metal bars, slowly moving,
yet unaltered.

Watching and waiting.

¶¶¶

The storm had past, and the sun had long since set over the horizon, bloody tendrils of light
reaching out over the horizon, trying desperately to hold it’s light out until the very end when
midnight blues smothered it completely.
But through a dark barrier of magic that surrounded Azkaban, the surely magnificent color is
swallowed in grey. Draco sluggishly moves toward the far corner of his cell, dragging his
mattress best he could, hoping to conserve body heat by putting at least some barrier between
him and the heat-sapping stone.

He burrows his nose tighter under the scant protection the blanket offers, and does his best to
fluff his pillow.
He sits there, shivering in the corner, watching the window, fighting sleep- and wondering if
it all could have just been some kind of dream, a hallucination, a false hope his mind created
to keep him kicking for just one more hour, one more minute, one day more.

And honestly, given the high majority of his dreams being nightmares these days, if it had
been a dream, he welcomes the change.
Nevertheless, Draco groans slightly as he sat up, tucking his feet underneath him so that he
didn’t freeze them off. That was probably it really, the whole thing had been a cognitive
illusion, a figment created from of the random firings of synapses through a socially isolated
and exhausted mind.

Besides why he would have a visitor in the first place was beyond comprehension, much less
one promising freedom…

Yet the memories sit so clearly in his mind.

The man’s name had been ‘Adrian Enno’. He’d promised him escape and something to go
back to… for what? Some information about his old school life?

He wanted to laugh. Or maybe he wanted to cry; it was hard to tell the difference when he
had done neither in so long.

Why would anyone give two shits about what his mess of a school life had been?

Did Harry Potter still have such a dedicated fan base that someone would spring him from
prison just for a little intel?

Ha, yeah right.

It’d been his imagination, drunk off solitary confinement and a few to many encounters with
the dementors.
Nothing else made sense.

After all, why would it matter anyway? Harry Potter was a symbol of hope, because he was
alive. Because he had stayed alive. And that hope died along with him at the Battle of
Hogwarts.
Now it was just him, and… well, a lot of corpses, criminally insane… or, well…
Now that he thought about it, he might just be the only sane, living one, that came out of that
mess. Except other Death Eaters of course… But then again… How sane could one be, as a
Death Eater? Lord knows he-

He stops his mind there.

“There’s no use in pondering over a stupid dream. It doesn't matter, it really, really, doesn’t,
matter…” He whispers.
Because talking to yourself is a great way to keep sane.

“If that’s so,” A small voice, echoes through his thoughts. “Then why are you sitting in the
corner, exactly like he asked you to?”

Draco blinks.

“If he’s really not coming, what are you even doing?” The small thought asked, and to that,
he did have quite a good answer, really.

He was doing one last tradition, in the honor of his great and noble bloodline.

He was going insane.

The floor is cold and jagged where the moonlight hits it. The bars on his cell are already
gathering frost. It’s going to be a long, cold winter; he’s learned how to tell.
He clutches his hands together, sandwiching them his chest and his legs, and ignoring the
jagged pressure of his ribs underneath.

Perhaps his mother had been right. Perhaps he always had been too stubborn for his own
good.

He knew it was stupid to have even a sliver of hope-

And then the strangest thing happens.

One moment, his cell is, as it always was. Barren and empty and cold-

And then there's a person.

“Mr. Malfoy?” The person’s voice asks quickly. They're tall, or maybe it’s just the fact that
he’s still crouched in the corner.

The person moves into the moonlight.

Draco instinctively presses further into the wall behind himself.

“Depends,” he finally manages to answer. Words barely above a croak.

The woman standing there looks about his age. Her form is willowy and grip white knuckle
on her wand. Her hair cut to a short buzz, dyed purple, with noticeable black roots. Her eyes
are green, or maybe hazel; hard to tell, even as her wand lit up near her face-
A Lumos charm.

A giddy feeeling fills his chest, seeing magic, even such a simple spell-

She points her glowing wand to her chest, where a familiar emblem glinted against the black
of her robes. And she smiles.

Draco tries to speak, but all he could feel is his heart leaping into his throat.

It wasn't a dream, or a hallucination. It was real. Oh bloody christ it was all real!

Hope was a dangerous drug, but fuck if he wasn’t going to be chasing this high as long as he
could.

“The name’s Violet,” she says, no louder than a whisper. And he nods, shuffling quickly to
his knees.
His bones feel old and creaky, like he hasn’t moved in years.
“It’s good to see you're not dead,” Violet addressed kindly. Extending a hand.

“I try not to die when I can avoid it. Bit of a habit of mine really,” he comments. Throat dry
and voice hoarse. He takes her hand, and she pulls him fully to his feet… almost insultingly
easily.

He elects to ignore the burning question of how she got in, given the building was surrounded
by a barrier that was supposedly impenetrable-

The loud yells of the other inmates startle them both.

Violet seems to remember something, suddenly.

Maybe that they were both going to get captured, in his case, re-captured, if they didn't get a
move on. Then again, she could also be remembering that she left her oven on. It was a fifty
fifty shot.
But any shot much above zero meant better odds than Draco was used to.

“Don’t mean to rush-“ Draco says, adrenaline surging-

She pulls his cuffed wrists up — he winces as the metal digs into his skin.

“As I think you already know-” Violet moved over to him quickly, pausing, then mumbling a
few seemingly complex charms and spells until the shackles around his wrists grew near
uncomfortably warm, then turned to some sort of liquid, and slunk from around his wrists"
-“I’m with The Resistance.”

Draco stares at his newly freed wrists. Had she transfigured the metal somehow? Had she
done a numbing or hardening charm on his wrists and melted the metal? Or-

She grins, hazel eyes —and yeah, they were certainly hazel— meeting his own.

And Draco figures the questions can wait.

“Imaginative name,” he comments beneath his breath.

“I know, right?” She laughs. Draco rubs his wrists.

“We can change the name once we get back,” She says, grinning, grabbing him and pulling
him in close. “I’m voting to call it something cool like 'The Association of Ash'.” She
wrapped an arm around his waist, the other shoving her wand deep in her robes; casting them
in darkness, but pulling out- something.

—Draco’s ears twitch at a familiar sound; footsteps climbing the stairs. A guard.—

He quickly returns the gesture of pulling her close, trying not to flinch at the first touch in
ages that wasn’t there to hurt him. Ignoring how she could almost wrap her arm entirely
around his midriff.

“Alright, pull us out,” she mutters into the thing- it looks like a small gemstone.

And maybe it was one. Gemstones had many magical properties after all - and could easily be
enchanted-

She quickly clasps it between them, interlacing his fingers with her own -like the worlds
awkwardest waltzing stance.

“Hold on tight…” she whispers, tightening her grip and wrapping her arms around him.

Just outside his cell, somebody yells. A guard-

Draco turns his head just in time for his vision to blur and swirl. A violent tugging sensation
pulled at his chest. His legs felt like they were made of taffy.
He feels like his entire body was being sucked through a straw and spat out the other end-

Odd lights flashed blindingly around him, a headache spilling through his head.
His fingers knot as tight as he can grip in her robes.

He notes, somewhere deep in his mind, above the nausea and below the headache-, that this
did not feel like a normal transport-

Then, as if nothing had happened, it was over.

Draco stumbles a little, still kind of feeling like his world was swishing around him-
His eyes blink open, one hand lifting to clutch his head. Draco looks up, forcing his eyes into
focus and instinctively taking in his surroundings. It's dark, rather not unlike any other
derelict building-

There's a man, standing right in front of them. But he's just kind of staring. He’s short and
lean, in a cable-knit sweater. His wand is down but extended, and-

Draco blinks as he realizes, fully and truly: they’re not in his cell anymore.

The man’s eyes widen as they lock with Draco’s. He lifts his other hand, where he holds a
similar gemstone to the one Violet had-

“Jack!” Violet cheers, “Jack you little genius! We did it!!” Violet says with a wide grin,
immediately grabbing him and pulling him in for a hug. Her willowy arms yank him forward
with deceptive strength.

The man, Jack, laughs. “You’re okay?” He says, pulling back, hands around her waist. Violet
nods.

Jack’s face splits into an open grins, whispering breathlessly “it worked.”

Draco scans the room, on instinct more than anything. Still honestly shocked to not be seeing
the walls of his cell.

His fight or flight comes though immediately, minding escapes —a set of old stairs leading
up. There aren’t any windows he could see, or natural light; but that could be because it’s
night. The reverberation of their voices suggests the walls are either extremely thick, or
they’re underground—

A floo glows dimly to his left. An old kitchen is to the right, lit by yellowing bulbs.
The floo could be an escape route if the stairs were blocked, but that would mean giving up
on any potential self-defense tools he could find in the kitchen-

Jack turns toward him. Smiling shakily; seeming still rather stirred. Draco really couldn’t
blame him.
“So that means you must be Mr. Draco Malfoy,” Jack says, he’s cautious, but ultimately
friendly, as stuffs the gem in his pocket and extends his hand forward.
Draco ignores how Jack’s other hand still keeps a tight grip on his wand, and extends his own
hand.

“And you are?” Draco asks, his voice is still raspy. Heart still thudding in his chest.
Draco’s bony fingers fit neatly into the firm, overwhelmingly warm grasp of Jack’s.

“Lord you’re freezin’!” Jack says suddenly, before realizing himself and flinching; but not
letting go.
His hand shake is firm, business like.

“Sorry. I’m Jack Gverden,” he greets, a little meekly, and he smiles, and it’s so bright it’s a
little hard to look at.
Draco feels like he could memorize every piece of this moment. The near burning warmth
and the calluses he can feel on Jack’s hand. The light smell of something like green tea in the
air, mixing with the rather deeper one of dank dust, a sweetish rotting smell, like old wood.
The floorboards beneath his bare feet. The prickle of warm air on icy skin.

He feels giddy.

He wonders how he ever thought any of this could be a dream.

Jack and Violet have similar hair, Draco realizes in the back of his mind. Naturally black and
shaggy. Similar eyes too —though Violets are a bit lighter… Same tan skin and sharp
jawline; though Jack’s is coated in a thin layer of stubble. Draco wonders if they might be
siblings.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am you made it,” Jack says, turning back to Violet, “You didn’t
get caught?“

Violet immediately looks meek-

Feet come pounding down the stairs. One set coming in hot, the next slower-

“Vi?” A voice, a bunny-like woman with a southern accent calls, ducking her head around the
corner. Her hair swings into her face like a pair of long lop ears. Her nose scrunches as she
brushes it away-
Her wand drops to her side immediately.

“We did it.” Violet says warmly, breathlessly. Their eyes are locked together.

The girl bounces on her heels, and launches forward.

Violet startles and she stumbles back, nearly bumping into Draco as the two reunite.

“You’re okay? You’re not hurt?” She confirms; Violet barely has a second to nod when she’s
grabbed harshly by the shoulders.

“Yeah-“

“I thought we'd agreed I'd go!!! ” The blonde girl exclaims, shaking Violet by the shoulders.
Twisting toward Jack for a second, fiercely screaming; “How could you?! ”

“Amy, Darling, I-“

Then suddenly, Violet and the girl are kissing.

Draco blinks, and shields his eyes, doing his best to give them privacy… while also knowing
nothing about where he was or where to go from here.
Jack, who had startled backward, lets out an off-kilter laugh.

“Never ever do that kind of dangerous shit again,” the blonde girl says, her voice is high and
tight, like she’s fighting tears.

“Amy.. you know I can’t promise that,” Violet whispers back. She’s cupping the girl- Amy’s
cheeks, which are red and puffy.

The slower set of footsteps finally limp to the base of the stairs. Where Enno looks in, and
smiles.
It’s an unpracticed expression, lopsided and crinkling at the edges of his eyes like the folds of
old parchment. Something about it ages him. Tired.
 The way Draco feels, honestly.

“Glad to see you both made it back in one piece,” Enno says, gesturing with the head of his
simple wooden cane.

“Sorry Violet, I tried to keep her upstairs as long as I could.”

“Y’ should’ve just let me go,” Amy mutters toward him irritably; immediately turning her
attention back to Violet —who, Draco is beginning to think, may be her girlfriend; what with
how the arguments rather seamlessly mesh with their snogging.

“Mr. Malfoy-”

“Draco,” he corrects quickly. Enno looks at him. And Draco swallows the building
discomfort as best he can. “Please.. I…”
There’s a lot he could say. A lot about his father or about his mother. About a name as old as
his and the expectation laid therein. About how he hadn’t been referred to as a Malfoy since
his ‘trial’, since he had become simply prisoner 24601.

Yes, there is a lot he could say.

His jaw simply clicks shut.

Jack watches him, and Draco isn’t so far removed from normality to not see the man’s
tension, to not recognize someone hiding fear.
Draco just folds his arms.

Enno nods solidly.

“Come along then, Mr. Draco,” Enno says with a respectful smile, “we have quite a bit
discuss.”

Chapter End Notes

Feel free to come send me asks/poke me on My Tumblr where i also do a bit of art!

[!!SPOILERS AHEAD!!]

All the chapters leading up to, and including the first half of chapter 5 are all kind of
prologue, pre-time-travel and set up a BUNCH of necessary plot elements.
But if you're looking to just get right into it, chapter five, just before Act I is your place
to go (and chapter 15, or Act II is where he leaves for Hogwarts)! Just know that you'll
probably get pretty confused later on.

Also for anyone doing a re-read, yes i did change up the first chapter a bit! it's been
about 2 years since i wrote it, so i wanted to give it some new life. Hopefully it's a bit
better now! :3
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

Time for Draco to have Emotions™

(It goes about as good as you can expect. Poor baby)

Also i'm super proud of the symbolism in this one.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Violet and Amy stay wrapped up in each other a good bit longer. Draco follows Enno
tentatively, climbing up the creaky set of stairs, out from what Draco had correctly assumed
to be the basement.
Jack follows along, a few steps behind.

“I am sure you would like a change of clothes,” Enno says politely, “perhaps a hot shower. So
I hope we can keep our discussion of the choices you have from here, somewhat quick.”

Draco nods... without really understanding, his bare feet pad on the creaky, dirty mahogany
floor. Passing a nearly unreadable tapestry on the ground floor, then up another set of stairs.
Draco’s entire body feels tense and tingly. It’s hard to tell what is from simply being free
from his cell… and what may genuinely be frostbite.

He rubs his numb hands together and exhales a puff onto them as they plateau on the first
floor.

Enno walks into a warm looking room with a roaring fireplace. Intricate, shiny wallpaper
reaches tall to lofty ceilings, and dark wooden flooring turns soft under his feet, covered by a
plush, ancient seeming rug.
Jack doesn't follow, continuing up the next flight of stairs, waving Draco on with Enno
awkwardly, as he heads up.

“Do sit,” Enno offers, gesturing widely to the second of two leather arm chairs that corner the
fireplace, creating a crescent moon with an old, matching couch between them. The glow
from the fireplace crackles, and Draco draws to it’s warmth like a moth. The old leather
creaks as Draco sits down, the thin fabric of his prison garb doing well to let in heat. He kind
of wants to nuzzle into it like a cat in a patch of sun. Burrow into the soft, plush warmth so
fully he is smothered to death. Or perhaps just walk into the embers in the fire pit and let
himself be consumed by it.
He doesn’t, of course. And before he can even comment on how nice the fire is, he notices
the unnatural stillness with which Enno sits.

Enno’s eyes glint like dark mirrors against the lapping flames. He slowly leans forward,
elbows resting on his knees, finger steepled. The orange glow casts a halo on his auburn hair,
but hard shadows against the right half of his face. Crows feet turning to caverns as it bleeds
into the dark hollow of his jawline.

“I’d like to preface this discussion with the obvious,” Enno says, softly. Draco feels the air in
the room gain almost a physical weight, as Enno finally meets his gaze.

“You were imprisoned without fair trial. Without evidence. With only want of persecution, by
megalomaniacal dictators in a position of power that had been enforced over you since
childhood.”

Draco swallows, the words hit him like a bludger. But they’re blunt and honest in a way that
leaves Draco’s knees shaky.

Enno continues on.

“In none of our eyes are you a criminal. And in all of our eyes, you are by all right, a free
man. You are welcome to stay or go as you please.”

Enno then looks at him.

There’s expectation of response there, but Draco isn’t sure what to say-

“I…” he whispers, “thank you,” his chest feels heavy and light at the same time.

Enno nods. Determined.

“That said,” he gestures, “there are three outcomes to this conversation that you may choose
from.”

He lifts one hand.

“Of course, you can stay here with us. Join our rebellion. Help us do our best to help those in
need, and eventually, take down Voldemort,” Enno says. There’s a glimmer in his eyes at the
name, a fierceness that Draco finds himself smiling at.
Honestly, he’s glad to hear there are others that are still unafraid to speak the name. It had
taken a lot of time for Draco to be comfortable with it, after all.

“Second,” Enno says, lifting the other hand as If he’s holding out something to him. As if the
next words that came from his mouth were a solid object to be given away.
“You leave here a free man.”

Draco blinks, stiff with shock.

“How?” He asks, he can’t feel his feet. His body feels like a bubble about to burst. This
whole discussion feels so out of left field. Though, so was everything about this-

“Nera Callisto,” Enno answers, “she's a friend of mine, a necromancer.”

Draco’s eyes widen. He’d thought the Callisto family had all been killed. But he supposed,
the nature of their work was in death.
Draco doesn’t have much time to think on it.

“She owes me a favor or two… told me a little while ago she could raise a corpse, set it with
Polyjuice to look like you, and,”—he swallows, there’s a feeling to the words that Draco
can’t place—“the body will be publicly killed. Rather brutally, by myself. As an ex Auror,
and a face for the Ministry, I won’t be tried for it.”

“In fact, they’d likely claim me a hero,” Enno says with distaste.
“Either way, I will do so to disfigure, hopefully enough and in a way that the body cannot be
identified as not being you, once the polyjuice wears off.”

Oh.

“You will be free to leave and never return. You will have to stay disguised of course, but...
This means you would hopefully be able to continue your railroad elsewhere, and, in
whatever small part you can, provide us with information.”

“…What kind of information?” Draco says.

He doesn’t think too hard about the railroad bit. He’s terrified of it. He remembers how it felt
to get caught. He still has nightmares of the moment that door opened.
On the other hand…

He remembers tearful faces, a blur of fear that turned to trust over the days he harbored those
who had been fleeing.
He remembers how the guilt had ebbed, for the first time in what felt like his whole life; how
he had almost dared to consider himself a good person.
He's not sure if he can tell the difference anymore. Between guilt and optimism. Not when it
came to this.
“Whatever information you can find. Honestly, it’s very hard to get much of any word out,”
Enno says. “The whole of the wizarding world is basically under martial law. It’s a
dictatorship masquerading as normalcy.”
He sighs, lifting a hand and running it through his auburn hair. “Even with my position at the
Ministry, I’m able to do very little without threatening our position.”

“So you are with the Ministry?” Draco asks.

“I…. Yes, and no. I used to be a rather high raking Ministry member, yes. I stepped down
around the same time as your 'trial'. They didn’t want me to leave though. Felt I was a good
figure head.”

“They thought you’d be a good talking head,” Draco says, nodding.

Enno looks away. “I suppose so.”

“So… you’re still…” Draco says, folding in on himself.

“Technically, and only in title.” Enno says, cold and weak.

“That’s why I was allowed into the prison in the first place, under the presence of Ministry
business.”

Draco nods. Somehow, with the perfectly groomed goatee and styled hair with small, salt and
pepper streaks... His pointed eyes seemed trained enough to fit the image of a ministry
worker, or, more likely, an Auror.

“But our group, of course, is under no influence nor requirements of such proceedings. I
swear.” Enno says, as if he’s afraid Draco may not believe him.

Draco kind of wants to say how obvious that was, what with the aiding and abetting in the
escape of a ‘dangerous criminal’, and then harboring said, escaped, dangerous prisoner in
this… house. Wherever it was.
He would not deny, though. Any connection at all to the Ministry made him tense. And it
seemed, in true Auror fashion, Enno noticed.
Draco looks to the fire, which crackles and spits beside them.
Both options seem… amazing. His heart feels so much lighter than it had just hours prior. His
entire body feels fuzzy with… possibility.

Hope.

“And of course… there is the third,” Enno says, looking down for a second, and Draco really
can’t be sure why. The man had yet to show anything but a solid front. So where was this
sudden meekness coming from?

“What is it?” Draco asks, soft.

Enno lets out a sigh.

Something shines in his eyes as he looks up again; Draco cannot tell if it’s the reflection from
the fire, or something inside Enno, burning.

“What I am about to ask of you, is not owed to us.”

Enno leans back a little.

“I do not wish to pressure you in any way. If you choose to stay, we will not hold this over
you, nor if you choose to leave.”

“You never deserved to be imprisoned,” he emphasizes.

Draco’s guilt lifts up in his chest, memories snarl and gnash their ugly, sharp teeth-

“You did a lot of good,” Enno says, as if he’s sensed something in Draco. Draco looks up.
“You did good. Helping those refugees escape. Frankly, I thought that if you’d had more
time, you’d’ve done even more.”

“I… I did a lot of bad things too.”

“You weren’t imprisoned for those. You were jailed because you dared to rise up. You dared
to change.”
Enno pauses.
“I will not speak to your older crimes. I am no judge and I will not play one; for both of our
sakes.”

Draco looks down, and Enno shifts to meet his eyes. His smile is like a cauterized wound.
Something so obviously hurt, but finally on the mend. Beginning to heal.

“But you have begun to change. And change like that is so very painful at times. And no
matter the reason you decided to change… that means a lot.”

Draco can feel that he’s speaking from experience… somehow.

He convinces himself that he just doesn't have the heart to argue it.

He hadn’t done much. In fact, he had done nothing at all; he just hadn’t followed orders to do
things far worse.
He’d let his guilt overtake his logic, and hoped a few strays that he let escape would ease his
conscience. And then it was a few more, and a few more.

Draco shakes his head, trying to shake the thoughts themselves loose. To escape their hold.

“What’s the third?” He asks, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary.

Enno sighs. His fingers drum on his leg. Nervous.

He’s not the kind of person you’d expect to get nervous.

“Mr. Mal- I, sorry… Draco,” he paused, trying to put his thoughts into words.
“I am about to explain something, and it may be hard to understand at first, but please, try to
stay with me. Alright?” He asks, suddenly quite troubled in tone. Draco nodded, shifting
slightly in the leather chair.

“Because this conversation could change the entire world as we know it.”

¶¶¶
“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” Enno breathes deeply, as if a weight has been lifted from
his shoulders. Even though he was more hunched over than when they’d begun their
conversation.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Draco says, running a hand through his oily hair. His entire body feels
like a load bearing pillar, strained and creaking. He stares down at the rug and the floorboards
below.
His palms stick to the leather chair where they’ve rested at his sides.
The room smells of wood smoke, and Draco pretends that’s the reason his chest feels so
heavy.

When he finally looks back up, Enno at least has the good sense to look guilty.

“As I said earlier, none of this is owed. It is your free choice,” Enno says. More like he’s
trying to convince himself. Like he’s trying not to feel like a shit person, cornering someone
into a decision.
Draco knows the feeling.

“I already agree, I'll do it,” Draco says, gripping the leather of the cushion beneath him. His
eyes glint like a sword, ready to swing. The familiar feeling of rearing for battle.
“How can I not?”

“Easily,” Enno says. “Besides, you don’t have to decide right now. In fact, I’d prefer it if you
didn’t.”

“This kind of magic is... temperamental. It will only work if you are fully ready. Mind, body,
and spirit... And even then, a lot can go wrong,” Enno says darkly, repeating what he’d said
earlier in their conversation. The dangers. What can go wrong. Risks and rewards, and
timing.
When it came down to it, all of this was about time.

Enno rolls up his sleeve, checking his watch in the glinting firelight.

“Dinner is in an hour or so,” he says, softly. The normalcy of it is almost frighteningly

smooth. From life-changing magical discussions, to dinner plans.
But he supposes that’s just life these days
“How about a shower before then? I can show you to your room,” Enno offers, already
shifting, grabbing his cane.

Draco nods mutely. Partly appreciating not being burdened with even more choices.
Especially with everything running through his mind.
Enno leans on the thick, twisting wood of his cane and stands, patting Draco on the shoulder
as he passes. Quietly leading him out of the room.

They go up two more flights of, somewhat less creaky stairs, to the third floor. The hallway is
narrow and long, cornered by the railing to even more stairs going up. There’s four doors on
the right.

“That’s Sammy and Jack’s room right there,” he says, pointing it out, “yours is the second,”
he gestures. “It’s where we usually put up those passing through. If you choose to stay, you’ll
be moved somewhere more permanent,” he explains.

“Amy and Violet’s room is at the end,” Enno points out. “If you need anything in the night,
they’ll be there.”

“Then you’ve got the bathroom,” Enno says, stopping at the third door. Enno twists the
serpent shaped handle and pushes it open.
It’s a narrow little room, a shower at the far end, towels hung up on hooks next to the sink. A
hamper wedged tightly into the corner.

Draco nods, his heart feels caught in his throat. His legs feel tired. His eyes sting. His body
aches. But his heart feels so full.

“I’ll send someone with fresh clothes,” Enno says kindly.

“Thank you,” Draco says, voice wobbly with emotion and earnestness. He never thought he’d
be nearly brought to tears by the sight of a clean bathroom. By the idea of real clothes and a
warm bed.

Enno says his goodbye’s there, muttering something about organizing papers and garden
work before dinner that Draco didn’t catch.
And just like that, Draco is alone again. His ears hold the sound of Enno’s footsteps going
back down the stairs. Strain for the few voices he can hear all the way downstairs…

His chest feels fuzzy as he enters the bathroom and latches the door. Careful. Quiet.
He steps deeper in, pulls open the creaky shower door, and turns the nob. The spray spits for
a few seconds before reaching a steady stream. Hesitantly, he holds his hand out under the
spray-

The cold water pricks at his skin. He twists the handle more, and the spray slowly turns
lukewarm.

For five years the only water he felt was when he spilled some from his cup. When they gave
him drink at all, that is.
It was, of course, too dangerous to give those locked up in Azkaban access to something as
luxurious as a simple shower. And, when cleaning charms did the trick well enough for the
Ministry’s ‘humane’ requirements, well… there really wasn’t any reason to.

Thoughts of the Ministry immediately bring Draco’s mind back to his discussion with
Enno… His mind whirls like a self contained hurricane.

He focuses hard on the spray of water, and after a second- pulls back.
He moves to the outside door. Opening it, just a sliver.
Just enough to be able to hear faint voices from the hall, carried up from downstairs. To
remember that he's still not alone.

The mirror begins to fog with steam. He inhales it, savoring the weight in his lungs, and
exhales.

Exhaustion clings to his bones. He pulls the bottom of his shirt up —if it could even be called
that— over his head.
He does his best not to focus on his reflection in the mirror, but in his periphery he can see
the outline; the map of scars on pale skin, his prominent ribs bobbing with his breath.
Draco closes his eyes to the whirlwind of scars that greet him, cruelly and jaggedly cross-
hatched over pale skin, all across his body; with all the silent subtlety of a hurricane.
He pulls off his trousers, and steps forward, he does not dare turn over his forearm, even as it
burns for his attention.

He elects to close his eyes and go by feel. Tugging open the rusty shower door and testing,
then adjusting the water. He steps in-
Merlin, he could sob- and he realizes a second later he’s a bit late to that realization. His
breathing shakes, tears form and spill down the gaunt hollow of his cheekbones.
His muscles loosen under the hot water for the first time in ages.

Draco sniffles, scrubbing at his arms, but it more turns to clawing at them. His knees tuck,
and he folds himself, shaking under the spray.
Warm water cascades down his head, down his back and the nape of his neck, dribbling over
closed eyes and down his lips, mixing with the tears. Sobs of mourning that turn soon to
shaky, trembling laughter of freedom. Then back to body-shaking sobs.
The feelings pile on top of each other like he’s scribbling it all down in a note-page. But the
words overlap. There’s not enough room on the page, no matter how small he writes. It
becomes indistinguishable. Scribbles. Yearning. Terror. Freedom. Smeared across darkened
parchment like inky bruises. It’s a blur. All tied too tightly together that he can’t parse any of
it. So he feels all of it. Drowns in it.

Draco isn’t sure how long he sits there. His skin turning a blotchy red under the heat. His
nose clogged and eyes pink and puffy from tears.

Eventually he stands. The room is filled with steam. Thanks to the cracked open door, he can
hear life, people still bustling from downstairs. Chatting, playing music off some muggle
invention he can hear someone call a ‘radio'. He sniffles as he hears someone come up the
stairs, then quickly pass by. Humming along to the song that’s playing.

Eventually, Draco stands. He soaps up his body, lathers his hair —it smells like apples and
cinnamon, and Draco’s stomach growls with a fervor at the sweetness of it— and he rinses
himself fully.
His body feels smooth and soft and clean, really clean, for the first time in years. And
Draco’s eyes sting, but he doesn’t have enough tears left in his body to cry about that too.
Or maybe he’s just too tired.
His ribs ache.

He steps out, twists the shower off, and pulls a towel from the hook-

A glint of faded red catches his eye from just outside the foot of the door. Quickly padding
himself dry, then tucking the towel at his waist, he peers out. Sure enough, sitting at the base
of the door, is a small pile of folded clothes.
He peers around, but the person who set it there seems long gone.

Draco picks up the pile and sets it on the counter of the sink, leafing through the fabric; all
soft, warm material that makes Draco’s prison garb look like gauze — a concept not too far
from the truth. Cotton boxers, beige woolen socks, a pair of earthy brown slacks, a soft, white
t-shirt, and a worn, cable-knit jumper.

He gently tosses his used towel into the hamper, on top of his prison garb, and pulls on the
outfit, careful in the narrow space. Most of it fits surprisingly well, —though he has to cuff
the socks to keep them from falling down, and the t-shirt is rather laughably large on him—
but most importantly, it all feels comfortable and warm.

The last thing he puts on is the jumper, stepping out into the chillier air of the rest of the
house. His fingers fiddle in the loose knit, and he lifts the cuff up. Thankful for the long
sleeves.
It smells like detergent, and something floral. The knit a garish, worn down red; but it's
warm, squishy and plush. He sighs.
Draco looks around. …Not really sure where to go from here.

He’d been told his room was the second one. Should he go there then? Or maybe downstairs?
Indecision rocks him back and fourth on his feet —warmed by the socks in a way he's not
sure he's used to quite yet— but he’s saved from it, thankfully, when Amy’s familiar western
twang calls out:

“DINNER TIME!”

The door at the far end to his left opens. Draco twists to see Jack peer his head out, a sizable,
withered book tucked beneath his arm.

Jack notices him and nods, an unsure greeting Draco awkwardly returns, before Jack walks
forward and bellows down the stairs;

“Want me to notify-!”

“Yes please!” Amy yells back. "They’re in the greenhouse!”

Jack yells back an affirmative, and moves on.

“The… greenhouse?” Draco questions. Jack twists, not like he’d forgotten Draco was there;
like he hadn’t expected him to speak.

“In the attic,” Jack says quietly.

“We try not to leave the house too much, so we set up a grow space. Lets us get fresh
vegetables without having to risk getting spotted.” Jack explains. “Works well enough. Tall
ceilings, plenty of sun.”

Draco nods. A piece of him wants to come along, but his legs, which had not had more than
the box of his cell to stand, kneel and walk through, in years, were exhausted already. And
more stairs than necessary felt…
“Anyway," Jack says, already moving up the stairs, "I’ll see you downstairs for dinner,
yeah?”

“Er, of course,” Draco says.

And Jack disappears, footsteps thudding, moving up.

Draco makes his way down; suddenly very glad he hadn’t decided to follow Jack up, as his
weak knees knock against each other, and he ends up holding the railing tight to not tumble
down them. He moves slowly, his socks wool knit muffling the uneven, padding footfalls. He
follows the sounds of cooking; people chatting and dishes clinking.

He gets to the ground floor, where several unknown faces set out plates, bowls and utensils at
a long, grand table. Two men his age chat amicably with a stout older woman, who has a
small child resting on her lap.

“On yer' left,” a red-headed girl chimes, a blur of motion that nearly knocks into him, she
wobbles but recovers near immediately, taking great care not to spill from the overflowing
basket of fresh bread rolls.

“Sorry,” Draco says quickly, pushing himself close to a wall, such as to not get in the way of
anyone else.
The room is a bustle of motion and life, and Draco, even pressed to the wall, still feels like
he’s very in the way-

“Oh Draco! Perfect,” Violet says, having just come up the stairs. Draco can barely see her
face from over top the gigantic, steaming pot of some kind of glorious, earthy smelling stew
she carries.
“Could you grab me a trivet? They should be right behind you,” she gestures as best she can
with her head, straining with the weight of what had to be several gallons of steaming soup.

“Yeah. Uh, where?” He twists. Just to his left there’s a bookshelf.

“Oh!” He spots a large, rusty cast iron trivet on it.

He doesn't question why the shelves seemed to have been half repurposed to hold kitchen
utensils, and half kept as a normal bookshelf. Electing to just grab it and ask later.
“Where should I-“ Draco begins to ask-

“Anywhere on the table,” Violet says.

“Here, set it right 'ere,” one of the young-ish men says. Bowls and plates clacking as he
makes room.
Draco sets it down in the center of the table, barely having a second to move his hands out of
the way before the pot comes down. The contents sloshes dangerously against the high walls
of the pot, but settles without spilling.

“Oof, thanks,” Violet says with a smile.

Draco doesn’t know exactly who she’s talking to; so he settles for a nod.

“Sandwiches’ll be brought up in ae' second,” Amy calls as she hops up the stairs, “otherwise
that should be everything!” She says, slowing and dusting off her apron.

“Did you-?” Violet barely gets out two words before Amy plants a kiss on her cheek.

“Already done,” Amy says, “Jack’s getting everyone else from the greenhouse up top.”

“Perfect,” Violet says as they both twist and move to head back downstairs. "Just the
sandwiches left then."

“Long day?” The man who had helped move dishes earlier says from across the table, and
Draco lets out a half-hearted chuckle. The man shifts the dishes again, and moves fluidly
between a cabinet behind him and the table, to set out bundles of silverware. He’s dressed in
muggle clothes, a warm beige dress shirt and jeans that complement his dark skin. His voice
is low and soft. Like he’s talking to someone in a hospital.
Draco realizes quickly that the three people at the table are all looking at him —the child
having been let down to go play somewhere—, their gazes are a little too curious for perfect
strangers. The woman's brow twitches down.
“Something like that,” Draco says, clearing his throat.

The man moves to sit down. Followed quickly by several others-

Footsteps come rumbling down the stairs and several people in dirt-kneed slacks rush to the
basement to wash up. Others wander more slowly down the stairs, chatting amongst
themselves; and Draco isn’t sure if he’s thankful for it or not. The room fills up quickly

“It happens,” the man says, unbothered by the influx of bodies. The only sign he's even
noticed being the way he scoots his chair further in.

“Augustus Pye,” the man says with a smile. And Draco blinks a second before he realizes
he’s is introducing himself.

Something in Draco knows that name… why-

“You were a Junior Healer at St Mungo’s,” Draco finally places. The man’s eyebrows shoot
up.

“I… yes. A long time ago,” Pye says, running a hand up and over his tight curly locks.
Smoothing them down. There’s a history there, but Draco knows pain when he sees it. So he
doesn’t ask.

“Draco,” he says, introducing himself. And Pye smiles. The man Pye is next to taps him on
the shoulder, opening his mouth to speak-

“We know who you are,” the older woman says quietly, from beside him. There’s an emotion
he can’t place to the words. It’s not a pleasant one, and he doesn’t blame her for that.

Really… Draco doesn’t doubt it. That they know who he is.
At one point he would have preened, at being so striking that, despite it having been years
since the press had seen him last, he could still be easily recognized.

Now he felt more a little like a beetle under an examination light. A dead thing in a shiny
shell, ready to be dissected.
The conversation moves on quickly. Draco lets it flow around him like a tide, not indulging
in any particular detail. Just letting the voices push him around, letting himself bob along the
surface. More people join them from downstairs, and the table soon fills to capacity.
Some people —one of the voices sounds like Jack— are talking about the Horcruxes, the
history and where they were found, pondering how many more Voldemort had made now.
Someone else is telling a funny story about their most recent venture to the grocery store.
Some other few —Draco recognizes Pye’s voice here— are hypothesizing a way to get more
people out faster during a death eater attack. Explaining a recently crafted shielding spell that
worked especially well at deflecting dark magic. Apparently combining pieces from Patronus
magic as well as solid deflection spells-
And another is cheerfully asking about the recipe for the bread rolls, and how long they take
to rise.

It’s quite the odd feeling. How all topics are treated with similar weight. Just simple dinner
conversation. Just life as it is now.

How nobody is covering the ears of the little girl in the corner.
He wonders if she even notices it, the talk of renege and revolution and store-bought bread;
he wonders if she's simply too busy, playing with her little green toy train.
He wonders if there’s a particular reason they don’t care to shield her. He wonders what she’s
seen, such that she’s here at all.

It takes a minute or two, Draco bouncing back and fourth between conversations like a
quaffle, but even as socially rusty as he may be, he recognizes pretty immediately that there
is something underneath it all.
A tension. A chill.

Something is being unsaid, but underlining every word; Draco can feel it.
He’d had more than enough practice with this sort of tension...

Amy and Violet return with a large tray, pile high with steaming hot, grilled sandwiches that
seem to be made on some dark rye bread —“they’re Rubens,” Violet explains, circling the
table, setting them on plates with a pair of tongs; while Jack helps Amy ladle out a savory,
mushroom soup into bowls that are passed down.
Draco’s mouth waters at just the, earthy, savory scents as the steam mingles in the air.
Everyone around him digs in as soon as they can. Mouths full enough that chatter mostly
slows, and Draco is able to hear the pump of pop music from a gritty little box he assumes is
the ‘radio’ in the corner.

He struggles to open his jaw enough for the large sandwich to get a good bite, but as he does
he relishes in the freshness and the heat.
The corned beef is salty and slick with oil —which he’s sure is dribbling down his chin, but
he cannot possibly bring himself to care— the swiss-cheese on top is melty and gooey,
sauerkraut and dressing adding a tang. It’s street food. A North American dish, meaning
nowhere near up to Malfoy Family standard-
And Draco has never eaten anything more delicious in his life. He practically inhales it, rye
bread crunchy and great for sopping up the juice that spills out onto his plate.

“Absolutely scrumptious,” someone at the table complements. A chorus that full-heartedly

includes Draco, makes affirmative noises, their mouths too full to actually form additional
complements.
Draco dabs at his chin with a napkin, swallowing his last bite and sighing heavily.

“Glad y’all like it!” Amy cheers.

His stomach —which is not used to holding more than a slice of stale, grimy ‘Nutraloaf’, a
specially designed food meant to meet nutritional requirements and nothing more. Maybe a
cup or two of water, if he’s willing to suffer the grimy, chalky aftertaste— already feels over
filled. His breathing is deep, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly.

Thus, he goes in a good bit slower on the soup. Sighing into the feeling of earthy, sweet
liquid as it runs over his tongue and down his throat. He feels warm, and for the first time in a
while, full.
He’s relaxed, and conversation is back up, loud enough that he nearly doesn’t hear the quiet
creaking of someone coming down the stairs; then padding toward, stopping right behind
him-
Draco twists- a hand falls in the space where it would have tapped on his shoulder, and
instead awkwardly hesitates- then falls.

Enno also hesitates, then speaks. “How are you feeling, lad?” He asks softly. And a few
others at the table seem to finally take notice of him.

Draco can’t tell if that’s why the rest of the conversations seem to grow quieter, or maybe it’s
some kind of muffling spell.
Or maybe it’s just the sheer presence Enno emanates.
He really doesn't know.

“I’m… good,” Draco says, shifting in his seat. But he means it.

“You’ve got some color to your skin now, which’s a good look,” Enno comments. And Draco
lets himself smile at that.
Enno’s eyes keep that look though. Heavy and cautious. And Draco’s head buzzes with
knowledge of what Enno is thinking. He can see it in the crease of Enno's brow, read it in the
thin line that his lips have pressed silently into.
Enno doesn’t say anything though. Just checks his watch, then moves forward to the table.
Joining in a conversation; something about the current state of Gringots.
Someone else is talking about muggle inventions, and Pye pulls out a little black, shiny box
with a bunch of notation and buttons. Showing it off proudly and excitedly, calling it a
‘blackberry phone’.

And things just move along.

Draco, despite himself, gets ‘stationed on dishes’ after dinner is finished.

He’s not a hundred percent sure what this means, until Enno leans over, mistaking his deeply
ingrained repulsion at the idea of chores, for confusion at muggle tech.
Enno quickly and cheerfully shows him how to rinse the plates, —how to control the water
temperature, when and how much soap to use, how to operate the spray nozzle to clear what
smears and crumbs were left over— and Draco, doesn’t fight it.
With the pleasant, somewhat quieter chatter of people heading out —several also helping to
tidy up— Draco decides to blame the lethargy of a good meal, for why he cannot bring
himself to mind the menial labor.
Or question why they don’t bother to use magic for it.

It seems to just be one of those things.

Enno stays at his side, helping to dry the dishes he cleans, occasionally having to move
around the room to put things away. They make a good rhythm. Moving to the beat of the
tinny songs still coming from the boxy radio upstairs, muffled by the walls and the rush of
the tap.
The smell of citrus-scented suds fills the basin and climbs up his arms, seeping into the wool
cuffs that he'd mindlessly shoved up, that were aggravatingly, slowly falling back down.

Enno is somewhere by a cabinet at the other end of the room when Jack comes up behind
him.

"Need a hand?" Jack says, leering over Draco's shoulder. Before Draco can even ask 'what
with', Jack is at his side, his chest bumping at Draco's bicep. "I hate when they get all wet,"
Jack says with a lopsided, sweet sort of smile.

"It just takes a second."

"Oh um, yeah, sure," Draco nods, distracted with just how warm and close the other man is.
And true to his word, Jack is quick. His practiced hands smoothly rolling up and cuffing the
lumpy woolen knit. The skin of his nimble fingers are smooth and still so very nice and warm
where they bump against Draco's arm, even now that Draco's no longer nearing-hypothermic.
The touch tingles so heavily, it almost stings. Somehow it's nice though.

Jack shifts to Draco's other arm-

They both freeze.

The winding black stain that Draco had somehow, for however many blessed seconds, forgot
about, stands stark against the pale skin on his forearm-

Draco tugs away.

He grabs the cuff of his sleeve from Jack's grip. Tugging it down, hard.

His entire body burns with a flush of shame.

"T-Thanks for the help," Draco says as he pulls his hands away, hating the way his voice
shakes, hating just how close Jack was.
Hating the way Jack was still frozen, not speaking, not yelling, just... blank. His hazel eyes
dark like an oncoming storm.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispers. "I... forgot."

"Yeah," Draco lets out a watery chuckle, hiding the sting of his eyes by turning away. "So did
i."

Enno walks back over.

His steps are cautious but steady with the one-two-three click of his cane.

"Draco, why don't Jack and I finish up here," Enno offers. Tepid. Like he's doing his best to
keep the peace.

And honestly, Draco wishes he were wanting to break it. He wishes he had that kind of anger
in him. But anger was exhausting, and required constant attention and fuel- and Draco hadn't
had that kind of energy in a very long time.
 "Yeah... okay," Draco agrees weakly. Already moving toward the stairs. His shoulders stiff
and cheeks flushed with shame-

"I... none of us think lesser of you. Really," Jack calls after him, his tone matched in weary
heartache.

"I mean... we've all made our own shitty mistakes..."

And Draco's footsteps slow, then halt.

"I know."

And then he disappears up the stairs. As he heads up he can hear a muffled:

"I was just trying to help, ..honest."

Then murmurs as they fade and Draco heads higher up the stairwell.

Draco lets out a long, dreary sigh as he gets to his floor. Legs aching and heart pounding. He
opens the door, not bothering to find any kind of light-

He sees a note on the dresser in the corner. He skims it, and finds that they've stocked the
dresser with pajamas and a few more sets of clothes for him.
He pulls open the drawers, which creak and squeal on their hinges, and finds exactly what
was promised. He pulls out the pajamas set aside for him, —some soft shorts and an old
pajama top— and goes to close the door to his room.
He wriggles out of his clothes and into the pajamas in the darkness.

And collapses face first onto the mattress.

Chapter End Notes

In canon, the "sock thing" is rather well documented as symbolism for freedom and
being cared for. (Molly CONSTANTLY looking for/finding/folding socks, Dobby being
given a sock to free him, Dumbledore seeing himself holding socks in the Mirror of
Erised, Ron regularly getting socks as a gift and casting them aside, Harry having dust
or spider webs on his socks, etc.)

So having Draco wearing socks too big for him (so much he has to cuff them) and being
unused to the warmth they offer after a nice shower was a fun touch :)
 Chapter 3

Draco wakes up softly and slowly, but most importantly, Draco wakes up warm. The soft
fabric of the duvet is tangled loosely around him, and he shifts, then burrows his face into it,
feeling his hot breath puff back at him.
The room itself is temperate, but here under the covers is so cozy. His eyelids have such a
pleasant weight to them. His bones feel like they’re made of jelly. His skin glides softly
beneath the shift of soft cotton as he stretches out his limbs. He turns over, curling into a ball
under the knotted covers, and his inner-eyelids flush red as they block bright light.
Draco groans slightly and throws an arm over his eyes, brow pinched. The light is blocked,
but the warmth of it is tangible on his skin, and where his pillow and mattress have been
soaked by the heat of the rays.

And, as Draco comes more fully to consciousness, he has two realizations at around the same
time.

The first; that may very well have been the most restful sleep of his life.
The second, which only really comes into words after another long stretch, rather than just an
unnamable jumble of emotion:

He’s still here.

The air smells musty like old wood, the mattress is plush and springy beneath him. The duvet
he's tangled in is thick and warm. His skin is silky smooth and clean, smelling vaguely of
apples and cinnamon.

He’s still here.

He can’t fight the smile that crawls lazily across his cheeks. He lets out a lethargic sigh-

CRASH

Draco’s stomach drops.

A short clamor comes from somewhere lower in the building, loud enough it sends Draco’s
fuzzy-soft senses on sharp alert.

His sore body groans as he forces it up against gravity, joints popping as he shifts and tugs
the warm covers away. His legs ache most prominently, but he moves anyway, quick and
quiet.
He doesn’t want to go out the door, but in here he’s trapped. And without a wand or a
weapon, he’s completely helpless.
He looks back at the window. The silver snake latch glints at the base.
He shakes his head. A three story fall isn’t especially good for the knees anyhow.
The snake-head handle to his door is cold in his grip. It twists with a creak that reverberates
through his hand- Draco winces.
The floorboards groan like they’re made of thirty thousand year old whale scrotum. Draco
curses internally - about to give up on stealth when he hears a voice-

“Oh jeez, Snuffles, come’re ya big lug,” comes a tired voice from quite far down the
stairwell, perhaps even from the basement kitchen? Draco’s dread softens to a hesitant
confusion-

“People’re tryna sleep you know,” a woman calls irately from a lower floor. Draco peers over
the railing to see a frizzy head of greyish brown hair, leering over shoulders dressed in a
purple floral nightgown.

“Sorry!” A voice, definitely from the basement calls up.

“Snuffles knocked over the dish rack again.”

Draco really isn’t sure what that means, but something about the way the brown-haired
person shrugs, grumbles, and goes presumably right back to bed, does set him at ease.

Normalcy.
Draco had forgotten how it felt. For random crashes to just happen. For every loud clatter to
be just a sound… and not the only warning you get before the end of the world.

Draco sighs, and scrubs his eyes. His shoulders fall.

Then, figuring that, well, he’s already out of bed, and plenty enough adrenalized… maybe he
could indulge his curiosity.
Because, really, what exactly is a ‘Snuffles’?
...Or a ‘dish rack’ for that matter.

Draco gets dressed, relishing in having fresh garments to wear… even though they do all
seem like hand me downs from someone with a rather poor taste in color and a kitschy sense
of style. He decides to go with some black slacks, and an orange t-shirt — soft and clearly
well loved. The logo on the front is illegible, but it’s hard to tell if that's due to how heavily
it's faded, or if that’s just the font. He adds the same cable-knit red sweater on top.
The lower sleeve is slightly stiff from being damp all night.

He makes his way down the creaky staircase, the few windows that do exist are blocked by
thick curtains, which limit the sunlight to bleach bright stains on the fenestration and
floorboards, just under the sill.
Once again following sound, and eventually the smell —something like fresh chopped onions
and garlic—, to the basement, and twisting to the kitchen.
It’s brighter here than he’d expected, warmer too.
The sun glows bright and golden through the narrow and yellowed glass-block windows,
making Draco squint.
It glints across the copper-metal of the antique gas-burner stove-top, and the silver handles of
cabinets.

There’s a person standing there, Draco’s eyes squint into their silhouette and the light. They
dump a dustpan full of something that glints like shards into the garbage. The sound a
twinkling clatter into the bin.
They lean the broom and dustpan against a wall, not seeming to notice Draco at all.
Humming softly as they move back to the stove and twist the knob. The gas hisses out,
igniter clicking a few times before it flame ignites with a small whoosh.

Draco takes a step. The floorboards creak-

The person twists; and a familiar, thin face greets him.

Black curly locks catch, backlit by the golden sun, creating a halo in the frizz and flyaways.

Soft eyes, that he knows in his mind are hazel, but shine like emeralds-

Draco’s entire body stiffens for two very different reasons.

He swallows, and does everything he can to not show his discomfort. Or at least camouflage
it-

"Oh, hey," Jack says, and Draco fights to say anything-

His eyes drift up to Jack’s forehead.

There’s nothing there. Not even a bump. And he has no glasses either, no thick circular
frames, no smudged glass held together at the bridge with tape.

Just eyes. Green eyes that aren’t even green.

Just hazel eyes and a plain, normal forehead.

Draco sighs, lets his head bow and scrubs at his face. And somewhere there, Jack seems to
break from his own frozen trance.

“I- uh, sorry.” Jack apologizes, and Draco is almost thankful for the tilt of American to his
accent. Even if it still has his ears ringing.
“What for?” Draco asks, dazedly walking further in, collapsing at one of four mismatched,
kitschy little bar-stools by a table wedged against the wall.

“I…” Jack says, rubbing at the back of his neck anxiously. “Last night, I guess.”

Draco shrugs. Last night honestly being the furthest thing from his mind right now.
“Whatever.”

Jack hesitates, then goes back to cooking… whatever he’s cooking. There’s two pans in front
of him, the smaller sizzling with browning onions. An incomplete set of vegetables sit on a
cutting board, wedged amongst a carton of eggs and a scattered set of spices on the narrow
counter.
Draco ignores the way his wrists itch at the resurfacing memory of Jack’s warm hands, how
they danced on his forearm-
Draco tugs down his sleeves, uncomfortable in the memory.

Trying to convince his mind that that’s the only reason he’s uncomfortable.

Jack cuts off a thin slab of butter, which sizzles slowly as it hits the pan.

That’s when something catches his eye. A largish black-ish lump near the floo on the other
side of the room- a lump that seems to be… moving?
Yes. It’s definitely moving.

The odd black lump huffs as it adjusts, and slowly pokes it’s head up. With a lurching shuffle,
it shifts, standing on four, laboring legs.

“That’s Jackie,” Jack says from over his shoulder. Draco blinks.

The black lump, which takes a lot more of a dog-shape when standing, pads over and out
from her small plush dog bed in the shadow. Her small pink floral collar jingles and glints in
the light.

“She gets nervous around people, mostly larger crowds,” Jack says conversationally, “if she
comes up to you, just let’er sniff you.”
And she does, her trimmed nails tapping on the floor as she moves.

She’s a largish dog, some kind of Doberman, coming up to about Draco’s upper thigh. She
has pointy, grey-tipped ears and light spots around her muzzle and brows.
She holds her head tall, with a prideful, yet vaguely wary posture.

Draco holds out his hand to let her sniff.

“...Jackie,” Draco repeats the name with an odd bewilderment, watching as both the old dog
and the young man look toward him.

Jack’s smile lifts at the edge, then he shrugs.

“Yeah I know. Odd choice,” Jack, the human, laughs. “That’s why I call ‘er Snuffles. Got the
idea from the old dog collar I found while cleaning around here.”

Draco kneels and peers at the bone-shaped silver tag, it’s weathered, but clear as day reads
the nickname. ‘Snuffles’, with a little paw print next to it, tucked into a crescent moon.

Jack looks back at him, and pauses for a second.

“My sister, Violet, said the pup reminded her of me. She’s at fault for the name.” He smiles.
“Of course that was back when she thought I was dead.”

“Oh?” Draco hums, letting the pup sniff his hand.

Snuffles’ wet nose hesitates against the side of his palm. She looks up at him, big black
marbly eyes blink slowly. Draco folds to sit fully.

“Long story,” Jack says, with an unexpected level of vulnerability: “I wasn’t always a good
person either.”
And Draco just sort of shrugs, and nods, because that’s life these days. But it is nice to feel
less judged. Nice to feel a kinship, or at least not lonely in regret.

Almost as an afterthought, Jack adds a quiet: “My father was a bit of a wanker.”

Draco spits a sudden laugh- then feels bad for that. So he coughs, then nods.
“I, uh, I can understand that.”

But Jack is smiling as he turns his head back to the stove and continues… whatever cooking
he’s doing. The atmosphere feels a little lighter - sun fading to a warm glow on Jack’s tan
forearms.

“Apparently Enno found Snuffles outback the Ministry office years back, fed 'er what scraps
he could, tried to find somebody to adopt her... but nobody would,” Jack explains, maybe just
to fill the silence. Draco can't say he doesn't appreciate it.

“And Enno, the bleeding heart, he wanted to adopt her then. But he couldn’t. Pets’re an
expensive thing when ya live in the city. Especially energetic lil puppies,” Jack laughs.

Snuffles huffs and leans forward. Her nose moves from his palm to his wrist, then to his knee,
folded and tucked under him. She buts her head at his palm, then leans into it- and Draco,
carefully and ever so gently, scratches behind her ears. Stroking his hand over her head. Her
short hair is a little wiry, but mostly smooth. He notes it has a lighter sheen over here, that
he’s more of a dark chocolate color than a true black.

“But… just before your trial, when Enno tried to quit, he brought her here. So she’s been with
us ever since.”

Snuffles buts in closer to him, trustful, seeming rather content as Draco continues to gently
pet her. Hands carefully scratching at the crux of her floppy little ears.

“So… what are you making?” Draco asks. He feels kind of awkward.
He knows he’s not good at this, at moving past things, at letting water flow under the bridge.
Or filling the silence, though maybe that’s just because he’d lived in it for too long.

“Omelets,” Jack answers, cheerfully, almost completely unbothered.

Almost.

“It was Violet and Amy’s turn on dinner last night, so it’s my turn on breakfast.” He pauses.
The pan sizzles.
“We’ve got a chore wheel actually,” he says, gesturing to a vaguely childish cutout of a
lopsided wheel taped to the fridge, colorful slices with different names divided amongst it.
“Pye told us about it. Apparently it’s the way Muggles keep their chores even.”
“That is another question, actually,” Draco hums, curious but gentle.
“Why doesn’t anybody in this house use magic?”

Jack laughs a little, “Yeah, i was wondering when you’d ask that- ah, shit,” he mutters,
distractedly grabbing at several things.

“Need a hand?” Draco offers quickly, knees popping as he stands and- ouch.

“Yeah, more butter? I totally zoned,” He says, frantically grabbing the pan of sautéed onions
and garlic and scrapping it out onto a plate. Grabbing two eggs, cracking them in a bowl, then
quickly whisking it with a fork.

Draco grabs the butter dish and cuts a slab. It sizzles and foams as soon as it hits the pan.

“Thanks,” Jack says, smiling, an expression which is still so very bright, but Draco is kinda
getting used to it.
Draco lets himself smile back, just a little.
Jack pours the whisked eggs into the pan, then quickly adds a handful of a bunch of different
ingredients in their own dishes around him. Shredded cheese, the caramelized onions, diced
tomatoes, cubed ham and a bunch of other spices that end up filling the room with an
overwhelmingly savory scent.

“Anyway, what were we talking about- oh! Why no magic, right?” He asks, gesturing with
his spatula.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed how strange this house is,” Jack says, continuing on, “it’s a
hodgepodge, new and old, and the old pieces are… very old. Ancient really.”

Draco nods.
Mind slipping to the silver snake latch on the window, the intricate tapestry he passed several
times now, up and down the hall, the snake-head door handles all around the house.
All bones to the old house. Rusted pieces of something far older.

“Well the truth is we really don’t, uh, live here? Well we do, obviously, but not legally, and
nobody knows about it.”

Draco’s brow tilts in confusion.

“Basically… this house is ancient and powerful, obviously, but what you might not know is it
has a fidelius charm on it, one old enough and powerful enough it reaches back all the way to
the people who built it.” Jack explains.
“Now, you probably already know this, but Charms, latched onto a particular object for long
enough, tend to… get a bit mushy.”

“..Mushy?” Draco asks.

“Yeah- well, I mean…" Jack laughs slightly, carefully folding the omelet in on itself. Patting
it with the spatula.
"Fidelius charms especially are finicky things. Protective magic has an odd tendency to latch
on to a host’s heart, their ideals. Not purposefully of course, just does.” He shrugs.

"Pass me the eggs?" Jack says, tilting the now finished omelet off onto a plate.
Draco grabs two and hands them over.

“Dumbledore was secret-keeper for this place for a long time, back when it was the base of
operations for the Order of the Phoenix."
Jack cracks and whisks the eggs with a dollop of cream, then quickly pours it again into the
pan. Focused enough he clearly doesn’t notice the way Draco’s entire body stiffens.

"So when Dumbledore died, every person who he had shared the address with, became a
secret keeper. Making it a lot less safe, ya know, since Dumbledore’s murderer was among
that list.”

Dumbledore’s murderer- Severus Snape.

Draco’s mind flips between moments. Watching the headmaster lift his hands, surrender-
green. Always that cold green, like infection and disease- and anger, but soon after,
overwhelming guilt. Watching Dumbledore fall from the tower, a crumbled body - hearing
his bones snap on impact to the earth below.
Draco had been the one to kill the man, of course- but Severus took the fall in the public eye.
It was more believable. A better cover too. A seasoned death eater killing the most powerful
wizard of the century, versus a petulant, prissy bully who was still just a student-

He remembers hearing Snape’s trial - back when he thought that Voldemort’s ministry
couldn’t be that unjust-
He remembers hearing how Snape had been a double agent. Not believing it at first-
But the evidence was insurmountable. The courts didn’t even have to fabricate anything. He
remembers the pensive, seeing Snape, seeing his godfather held forcibly under the water-
pulled up only momentarily enough for another thin strand of memory to he tugged from his
mind.
Draco remembers feeling queazy, seeing his godfather’s face soaking wet, his eyes tear-filled
- his memories pried from his mind until eventually, there was nothing left to take.

Draco clenches his hands. Focuses on the smell of salt and eggs in the air. Focuses on the
now- on Jack’s voice, as he continues. Unaware.

“But later, when Potter, Granger and Weasley were roaming the country in search of
Horcruxes, they stayed here too, 'n through an incident involving apparition, accidentally
passed knowledge of the place to Corban Yaxley.”

“Wait, Corban Yaxley?” Draco asks. Mind halting again; for an entire different reason now.

“Yup.”
Jack wiggles the pan a little, loosening the egg from the edge of the pan where it'd gotten
stuck.

"Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That Yaxley,” Draco says, almost
unbelieving. The man’s horrible face popping into his mind. Sadistic, too wide smile. Heavy
brow and thick Russian accent. Always had access to good liquor, even if he was a sloppy
drunk.

“That’s the fucker,” Jack gestures, flipping the omelet closed.

“Well, he of course, immediately brought a choice few Aurors through, all under his
jurisdiction as a death eater by the way, and one of those Aurors just so happened to be our
Enno, and Violet, who was just a trainee at the time.”
Jack slides the second omelet off and on-top of the first.
“So when Yaxley died-“

“He died?” Draco asks, his mind still whirring harshly - already handing Jack two more eggs.
“Oh, yeah, maybe a few years ago." Jack cracks the eggs and whisks. "Got in a duel over
honor, or some bullshit.”

“'Died as he lived then,” Draco says with an oddly satisfied, maybe still a little shell-shocked
laugh.

“A prat to boot,” Jack says with a hearty laugh- and it catches Draco so caught off guard he
laughs too.

“Anyway, Enno basically snagged this place right from under the Ministry’s nose. And given
all it’s protective charms —some of which were hell to dismantle to get livable again, lemme
tell ya— it’s technically supposed to be vacant, so, that would be why we try real hard not to
use any unnecessary magic. At least, any kind that can be easily tracked.”
Jack drizzles a handful of the diced ingredients into the egg.

“Huh, interesting,” Draco hums. His mind racing to fit everything together, piece what he
was told into the timeline of events he knew and lived.
“Wait, but then what about legally?” Draco asks idly.

“Well, since for some reason, Potter didn’t have a will, the house’s deed wen’ to the Ministry
too, after his death.”

“Wait this was legally Potter’s house? I thought you said it was Dumbledores,” Draco says,
blinking.

“Nah, Dumbledore was in charge of the charms on the house. I get the confusion though,”
Jack says, sliding the third omelet onto a new plate, handing it to Draco. Who’s still stood,
stock still next to him.

"Eat up," he says with a smile, "silverware's in the third drawer to the right of the sink. Grab
two sets, if ya can."

Draco nods and uses his free hand to pull open the creaky drawer and grabs two sets of knife
and fork. He hears the click of the knob behind him, and the burner turn off.
“Word is that Potter got the house from his godfather, after he died only a few years prior in
the battle at the Department of Mysteries," Jack says, wiping his hands on a dish towel
hanging from the oven handle.

“The house got escheated after Potter himself died; what with ‘im having no next-of-kin in
the Wizarding world, and this house being considerably too magical to go to a muggle.”

Jack grabs his own plate with two omelets, and brings it over to the small table.

“I always heard those kinds of things being fought harder. The Ministry used to do a lot to try
and find a next of kin... but I'm sure with Voldemort looming over their shoulders...” Draco
cuts in thoughtfully, spurning another dry chuckle from Jack as they both sit down to eat.

“Oh, do you wanna help me in chopping the rest of these for the salad after we finish eating?”
Jack asks, gesturing with his head to the half-chopped pile of vegetables on the counter.
Sawing into his stack of omelets and taking a large bite.

“Sure,” Draco says, a piece of him oddly enough, enjoying the feeling of helping get things
done, rather than just letting magic take care of it for them.
He cuts into his own omelet, and once again sighs into the taste of real food. Fluffy eggs with
savory meat and a layer of melty cheese.

“Yeah, anyway, so Potter only had the house… three-ish years before he got killed, so, it
may’ve been technically in the Potter’s name, and been used under the Order of the Phoenix,
but there are pieces of the house itself that're still Pureblood Black to the bone.”

“Black... as in House of Black?” Draco asked. Like his mother’s lineage?

“Yup. That was the next most annoying thing about renovating this place. All the bigotry, the
screaming portraits, yellin’ all sorts of profanity and prattle ‘bout blood purity and the like.”
Jack scoffs, then takes another mouthful of his omelet.
"Can't imagine how bad it was before the Order of the Phoenix cleared it out."

A piece of Draco is really not sure what to feel about it.

“Yeah,” a lethargic, heavy southern voice says with repulsion, coming from halfway down
the stairs. "re'ly must've been shite."

Draco turns just as her footsteps reach the base.

Amy emerges, still clad in her pajamas —a faded cotton set with little yellow flowers and
tiny bunny faces patterned across—, yawning widely.
“Twenty six rooms to this dingy, scrappy place -probably more that're just still hidin' from us
that can only be accessed by blood- n’ every one of ‘em was enchanted wit’ bigotry an’
hatred.”

She kneels down where Snuffles has curled next to the heating vent. Giving the pup some
scratches under her chin.

“Took a good bit ta' get it somewhere livable; had to take off lotta' permanent sticking charms
on som' real ol' stuff,” Amy says.

Snuffles lifts her heavy head and nuzzles into the attention.

“I thought permanent sticking charms were, you know, permanent,” Draco says blankly.

“A lot that was once permanent isn’t,” Amy says with a lethargic wave, adding with
excessive snark: “‘The Ancient and Noble House Black’, bunch’a inbred zealous if ya ask
me. But they definitely got the ancient thing right,” she huffs, “if there’s one thing they’re
good at, it’s making sure the absolute worst of their shit stays in the best condition.“

And something in Draco, something that still feels like fine China, locked away, gathering
dust-

The little boy who took the path of least resistance.

Who let himself be a tool.

Who let everybody else pay the price for his own pusillanimous, cowardly inaction-

“Yeah, sure,” he says sharply, using more effort than necessary on the next-

Chop.
The piece of omelet flops off the side of his plate and falls to the ground. Snuffle's head
twists, seeming to debate going for it.
She seems to decide that the attention and the heating vent were more valuable.

Draco’s hand clenches around the knife, doing it’s best to stay steady.

Amy seems to realize her mistake, and stiffens.

“I-, sorry,” Amy says immediately; which Draco really hadn’t been expecting.

Draco takes a deep breath.

Snuffles bumps at Amy’s rigid hand with her muzzle, and Amy gives the pup a few more
pets, kisses her forehead and stands.

“S’ fine,” Draco says. It’s true after all. It sucks and it’s unpleasant, but he had missed a lot.
Reminding him of it all was gonna sting no matter what.

“No, I.. that was a shite thing to say. I wasn’ thinking.” She looks down.
“Honestly, I kin’a keep forgettin’ you’ve been locked away from the world for five years.”

“It’s okay,” Draco says, softly setting down the knife and standing, twisting toward her. She’s
a head shorter than him, and Draco counts the dots within the smear of freckles on her
cheeks, maybe just to avoid her far-too-knowing eyes.
He looks further down at his hands, bony, skeletal as they are.

“I’m shocked this isn’t a visual reminder though,” he says, gesturing to, well, to all of
himself.

“Maybe ta’ someone who knew ya back then, it would be,” she nods. Moving in next to him,
obviously moving to sit with them, hesitating. He nods, and watches her hop up and semi-
gracefully clamber onto the third stool. Her legs swing, toes not even grazing the ground.

“To be fair, all I knew of you we're news clippin’s. Head shots mostly. You a bit more fleshed
out back then, 'n no beard... but otherwise not too dissimilar.”
“N’ Jack’ll fix that right quick, ‘es basically the mum a’ the house-”

“Oi! I’m nobody’s mom,” Jack glares at her, taking a fierce last bite from his omelets, that are
somehow completely gone.
Draco looks back down to his plate, which barely has four bites taken out from it.

“Course not, that’d be some wild incest, there,” Amy says with an exaggerated wink.

Jack smacks her on the head with his fork. Somehow not getting any crumbs in her hair- even
though she wipes violently at her hair and protests loudly that he did-

Footsteps come down the stairs, light, lethargic taps that seem to come down, more from a
lack of resisting gravity, than any actual care from the human attached.

“You denyin’ you’re a good cook then?” Amy asks with brows raised, eyes narrowed and a
Cheshire grin.

"Oh fuck off!" Jack exclaims, but Amy doesn't stop, leering forward and wiggling her
eyebrows.
Draco just takes another bite of his omelet and enjoys the show.

Jack rolls his eyes, “i’m denyin’ that-“

“What on earth are you two yelling for,” Violet grumbles, startling the bickering two. She has
most certainly just woken up. Dressed in plaid pajama shorts and an old t-shirt. Her eyes
squinting into the light and short hair a mess from bed-head.

“Good morning sunshine~,” Jack says sarcastically. Bonking Amy on the forehead one more
time before retreating back to the oven, cracking and whisking more eggs, presumably to
feed their new company.
Amy glares playfully at Jack as he passes, but resolves in hopping from her stool and moving
toward her girlfriend.
“s’ too early,” Violet complains, still squinting into the light, shuffling forward and plopping
down on a chair.

“Any time before noon seems too early for you, darling,” Amy says with a fond laugh,
standing on her tip-toes to plant a quick peck on Violet’s lips. Then grabbing a dish-towel
from on the oven and wiping the not-there egg out of her hair.
They make breakfast; Draco watching with rapt fascination as Jack whips up a stack of thick
omelets. The kitchen flows through with more and more people as the morning draws on,
most still slowly yawning into wakefulness.
They fit into an easygoing pattern. A routine the others had clearly gone through a hundred
times. The kitchen grows to smell like warmth. A cloud of seasonings, cooking eggs and a
colander of tossed, freshly-washed vegetables that gets slowly eaten down.

Amy slinks around Jack, and they quip back and fourth, but Jack doesn’t even have to ask as
she’s passing him ingredients, grabbing spices from the cabinet as she finishes chopping a
few extra cloves of garlic he'd asked for.

And Draco barely has time to feel insecure, to get in his head about being an outsider,
because they include him in everything.

Violet teaches him how to use the muggle coffee maker; explaining to his obviously building
confusion, how it works.
Soon, steam carries up from the pot, a delectable earthy aroma that Draco had never realized
he’d missed. A memory resurfaces of being young, of his mother sipping a cup and smiling,
really smiling, while they talked over breakfast. It feels like a lifetime ago. And maybe it is.

At some point, someone brings down and puts the radio on, a boxy old thing that hisses with
static loud enough Draco could easily be convinced it were a tortured animal --and startles
Draco considerably more than he’d like to admit.
But Violet is able to click it onto a local jazz station before the coffee maker dings, and she
pours four mugs full.

“So... cream? Sugar?” Jack asks over his shoulder, and it takes Amy waving an arm in front
of him for Draco's face to realize who Jack’s talking to.

“Uh, whatever you recommend,” Draco says, “honestly I haven't had much coffee in my life,
so i really don't know,” he laughs.

“Both it is!” Jack chimes, obviously pleased; nudging at Amy who rolls her eyes. “At least
someone has taste,” he jeers.
“Cream in coffee's just bad! Like, if ya want to dilute coffee that much, its basically just
coffee flavored sugar-milk! Honestly, just get some chocolate milk or something, like a real
child,” Amy rambles and huffs, cutting cubes out of the thick slabs of ham. She hums
appreciatively as Violet sets a mug of coffee in front of her cutting board. ‘Accidentally’
knocking some meat off when she reaches to take a sip.
Snuffles, who has taken a seat at her heels, laps them up from the tile floor as they fall. Tail
wagging.

"Just cause you're a purist doesn't mean other people can't like other things, dear," Violet
says. She hands Jack a cup, moves back to the counter, adds a splash of cream and a sugar
cube to his.

"Have a taste, tell me what you think," Violet says. Smiling as Amy huffs and calls her a
traitor in the background.
Draco finds, through a good amount of trial and error, that he likes his coffee sweet, but with
minimal creamer. And Amy rejoices, spurning another argument between her and Jack.

Violet and Draco, as well as another few people who had wandered into the kitchen, all share
a laugh at the competitiveness, even over something as banal as coffee preference.

And Draco's heart feels full.

 Chapter 4

The morning, as many things seem too in this house, becomes a flurry of life and motion with
little warning. And almost as soon as he’s done with his breakfast, Draco is brought upstairs
to the greenhouse.

It’s gigantic and exceptionally bright, with expansive open skylights and rows of greenery to
soak in the sun it offers. Flushes of cool, fresh air bring in the distinct smell of pine and
asphalt, somewhat lightening the heavy smell of damp dirt and mulch. The main area is
packed with a low maze of calf- height garden beds, ceramic pots in all shades, sizes and
colors, and high shelves that lean heavily against the brick walls, packed with tools and
books and boxes.
There’s a tiny side area they pass as they enter, dark and shadowed and crammed into the
back corner. Draco gets a glimpse through the curtain as Pye and Enno walk in. Silhouetted
by darkness and the faint glow of fire beneath a few bubbling cauldrons.
Draco gets time to question absolutely none of this, being almost immediately roped into
helping with planting and harvesting.

—If he were anyone else, he may not have noticed the way Violet’s shoulders are tense as she
pulls the curtain. Calling in toward Enno. Lips forming words Draco can’t hear, but he can
tell from Enno and Pye’s reaction that it’s not good.
Maybe there was a reason she was so tired this morning. Staying up late, perhaps?—

It’s there, in the garden, the dirt a gritty, needily pressure beneath his knees, yet soft and
pliable in his palms, that he meets Sammy.

If Draco weren’t very sure that the whole Weasley clan was very irrefutably dead, he would
have automatically lumped her in with their pack.
She’s short —clothes obviously hand-me-downs, with a multitude of patches and hems to
make it fit her— with an overwhelming amount of freckles smattering her foxy demeanor;
never staying still for too long, a blur of excitable motion and bright red hair.
And, despite how awkward he is, despite his experiences with-

He reminds himself again, she’s not a Weasley.

She helps him plant anyway.

Humming along to the tune of some song he recognizes very loosely to having been played
on the radio last night.
Most kindly of her; she doesn’t mention his awkward silences or the way his eyes drift up to
never truly loose sight of her- though he’s sure he can’t be being totally inconspicuous about
it.

A few hours later, when he’d been thoroughly coated in a thin sheen of sweat —knees
scratched by jagged mulch and wet dirt, joints creaking, atrophied muscles protesting the
strain of planting and mixing mulch, but his willpower dragging him to keep going— she
stops him, stands him up and hands him a basket.

“Mind givin’ this ta’ Adrian? He should still be in that there ‘pothecary room,” Sammy says,
it’s obvious she’s trying to give him an out, a reason to go take a break - and Draco, —despite
his internal tug of war, one side an entire lifetime and upbringing in status, violently
protesting against being ordered around like this, shouting that he can push, endure, that he
will not show weakness in front of this non-Weasely - tugging hard against the factual,
physical drain from going years in a cell almost immobile, to jumping right back into an
active life— he just mutely nods.

He tries instead to focus on the way the wicker basket feels in his hands, smooth and slightly
heavy, filled with jars and sachets of freshly harvested ingredients.
Trying not to think about the way her red hair shifts on her rosy freckled cheeks. Trying not
to be reminded of-

He twists on his heel and walks toward the ‘Apothecary room’.

It’s not really a door, the entry way. Just a curtain, some kind of silk, messily embroidered
with various protective sigils, hung up on a line of string, hooked up on the bookshelves that
made up the ‘walls’ beside him.
He bows inside the curtain-

It’s dimmer in here, the world feels vaguely muffled. The earth-soaked air is still fresh and
weightless, the windows kept open for ventilation, inviting a gentle breeze that tangles
through the curtains. And yet, despite the movement, the room has the distinct feeling of…
stillness.
Like burying your head under the covers. Like pressing your face into the pillow and feeling
your own breath puff back at you. Soft and warm...

“Ah, Draco,” Enno says, and Draco looks up.

Auburn hair catches in the dim light, greying streaks framed in the purple glow of some small
cauldron, broiling beside him. He smiles as soon as he sees Draco, which… is a welcome
feeling.

“I presume this is from Sam?” Enno asks, arms open, gesturing to the wicker basket.

Draco nods, walking deeper inside and handing over the ingredients. Unable, or perhaps just
unwilling to let his eyes stop drifting, taking in the room.

“Yes,” Draco says after a moment, finally meeting Enno’s eyes. Noticing the younger man,
Pye, beside him.
Noticing how Pye’s brow weighs just slightly above his eyes, noticing how Pye’s eyes never
leave Draco for too long.
Noticing at Violet is nowhere in sight.

Draco clears his throat.

“She, um, told me to bring them to you.”

The popping of bubbles and slow hiss of fire on stone create a softness to the space. The wet
scent of plant life and citrus and magic fills his chest with every breath.
Enno and the other young man aren’t stupid. Draco is quite sure they can tell how distracted
Draco is. And they must know that Draco can see the worry in their shoulders and sideways
glances- But neither party are being terribly discrete about it. Perhaps he should care more
about that.

But… it’s just so odd. Being in a space like this after so long.
It's so odd how easy it had been, to forget about the things you used to love; to forget the
pieces of youth that had, for a long time, been a sole source for genuine joy. Perhaps because
remembering at all, interacting with his past - always burned.

Coming back to it still feels vaguely like fire- but more like gathering in the kitchen over a
kettle. Steam and heat he can hover his hands over, maybe even reach out and hold, like a
mug of hot tea. Warmth at his finger tips, without the sting of the flame itself.

“What… is all this?” Draco asks, without even meaning to. The words form before he can
change them, before he can peel the wonder off of his tone, before he can put up any kind of
front-

Enno and Pye both share a look. Heavy. But Pye is the one to step forward, smiling. It’s a soft
look on him; a sterile one too. Draco is once again reminded of a hospital.

“Well, most everything in this room is pretty simple. Healing ointments, antidotes to common
ails, burn balms, calming draught and dreamless sleep…” Pye says amicably, walking around
the room and pointing as he goes. Draco follows close behind, mind swirling with thoughts.
His mind winds back into the world of potions like a snake to it’s burrow. Immediately
comforted by the familiarities.
The potions all look and smell correct, the consistency may be off in one or two, but they’re
all text-book done, and they’ll all work in a practical sense.
They’re not particularly masterful, nor artistic by any means-

Except for one.

The smell of it is what catches him first.

Something like soft grass on a young, dewy morning. The warmth of it is like a pressure:
Like a toddler being carried through a springtime garden, the pressure of a warm body,
holding him. The feeling of being completely and truly safe.

It smells like his mother’s perfume, something sharp and tinged with vanilla. It feels like the
rock of her warm arms, calming him, or.. maybe the smell is the starched fabric of his father’s
shirt collars.
It’s familiar nonetheless.

The feeling of it makes him feel… displaced, a feeling like yearning. Like nostalgia.

Like wanting to return to a home that no longer exists. His heart aches from low in his chest.

His eyes sting.

The far-too-familiar iron taste of blood sours his tongue. The smell is there - but another rises
with it, lower and far fainter, under the smell of garden mulch. Something bitter and sour.
Almost nauseating - the smell of rigor mortis.

Maggots wriggling into rotting, pus-filled flesh. The smell of a decaying corpse, unburied;
left in the sun to decay-
His throat feels dry. He feels cold and hot all at once as he approaches it.

Pye comes up to stand next to him. He feels the man’s presence before anything else.
Enno is saying something. The tone is fond, words formed as if to keep something else at
bay- Draco takes a long moment to process it.

“I should have known you’d notice it first.”

Draco isn’t sure what that means. But neither of them move to stop him, so Draco peers in
closer.
His heart is beating hard in his chest, not fast; just… thudding, loud and abrasive.

It’s a small cauldron, certainly the smallest of all the others, made of solid, black metal. The
base of it is no larger than a quaffle, and it has a tightly woven mesh over the top — a
protective cover, a cautionary measure, to make sure nothing uncontrolled got in.
It’s on it’s own table, a narrow one at the very back of the room. A second table next to it is
slightly larger, and completely cluttered by sterile beakers and little, extremely precise
measuring equipment.

He peers over it, watching the shallow, sky blue, shimmering liquid as it simmers.
His entire body feels exhausted, and his dry throat finally manages to croak out;

“This one is no simple draught.”

Pye nods, it’s a stiff motion.

“…You’ll note I said most in here are simple.”

There’s a discomfort to it.

“What is it?” Draco asks.

More than likely, this potion is like Amortentia; it had a different smell to each person.

Unlike Amortentia, however - this was not the smells of love or romance or even just want.
This was more…

“It’s said to smell like moments from your past. Good… and bad,” Enno says finally.

Draco watches the liquid swirl. Watches as the soft blue shifts, silvery bubbles forming a
thin, iridescent foam on the surface.

“That doesn’t tell me what it is,” Draco mutters.

Enno looks down at the cauldron. Or maybe he’s looking at Draco. It’s hard to tell.

“…Doesn’t it?”

Enno says it as though it’s a complete answer; which Draco supposes, in some way, it is.
But he looks so… uncomfortable. And Pye doesn’t seem to be fairing much better.

It’s certainly odd.

If Draco is correct in his assumption- this is the potion that they have all been working
toward. The way Enno had explained it all to him, it sounded as though this would be their
magnum opus. A pinnacle to their skill. The last and only way that everything could fully
change - the way the resistance could really, truly, entirely win: By not letting any of this
happen in the first place.
Because this is the potion that will take Draco back in time.

And yet, Draco looks at them, and they seem as though they would rather leap from the attic
window than talk about it much longer.
And he’s fairly certain it’s not just the smell putting them off.

Enno has that same dark look on his face, half cast in light from the breezy open window.
The same look he’d had explaining this idea to Draco by the fireside.
And Draco feels that is the closest thing to true confirmation he's going to get. On what this
is.

Enno lets out a sigh, so old and withered Draco half expects dust to form on it. Pye leans
toward Enno, patting him on the shoulder. A half-conscious show of support.

Draco looks back at the potion, into its shimmering depth.

“I’m not changing my mind, you know,” Draco says softly.

And maybe it’s because Enno is exhausted from whatever potion making he’d been up to in
here, during Draco’s hours of gardening.
Or maybe, Draco is just that annoying- but either way, Enno finally nods.
Too tired to avoid it all.

“I know you aren’t, lad,” his voice is low, a hand, warm and firm and gentle, coming up to
rest on Draco’s shoulder — and it must be his proximity to the potion, the smell lingering, a
thick lacquer on his senses, but-

“I think," Enno pauses, "...you’re right.”

Draco looks up, and for just a brief second, it’s not even Enno standing there-

— Draco can’t help the yearning tug in his chest, reminded painfully of his father- Not the
one Lucius is now, not the cold death-eater he had become, but how he was when Draco was
younger—

Fuck.
Draco's eyes sting, and he fights back the sensation.
He needs to get away from that potion. It’s definitely doing things to his head.

“I think it’s about time we start telling you what you need to know.” —he gestures to the
potion, words steady, in perfect time with the motion— “If this is going to work, you’ll need
the preparation.”

“..What?” Draco blinks. Looking up toward Enno. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” Enno says simply.

Pye, from behind him, nods. There’s something deeply weighted about the motion.
Something telling. But Draco doesn’t get much time to question any of it before Pye is
heading toward the exit, walking with purpose.
Enno moves too, slower though. Beckoning him, more to stand at his side than to follow.
There’s a sallowness to the way Enno lingers. The way Enno’s eyes drift down to meet
Draco’s, full of ache and regret, as Draco comes up to meet him his side.

Draco wonders how the potion smells to him.

They duck under the curtain, and Draco squints into the bright sun. Enno’s hand on his
shoulder guides them toward the stairs.

“I think I’ve been doing you… a disservice.” Enno pauses, words quiet, private, “doing us
all, a disservice, really. In waiting.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco says slowly.

“I… I am trying to get better at that,” Enno admits with an unsteady laugh. And suddenly it
feels so much more... human.
“It’s still my instinct. My training, perhaps, as an Auror - To keep information to myself for
as long as possible. To try and protect those I care for by keeping them in the dark.”

Draco cracks a smile.

“I’ve known a few people like that.”
They take the stairs slowly, and for that, Draco is quite glad. His legs still shaky, and old
bones have tendency to go knock-kneed at the worst times.
“I find that keeping things to yourself… has its place.”

“Yes," Enno nods, "but if you’re trying to care for others… it doesn’t do much to really
protect them.”

Draco looks down, perhaps to avoid Enno’s knowing eyes, perhaps just to make sure he
doesn’t trip. Hand still tight on the railing.

Enno shrugs.

“A part of trusting people, of loving them, I’ve found… is protecting them. Another part is
giving them room enough to protect you. And room to take care of themselves, when the need
arises.”

Draco can’t help the oddly shallow warmth in his chest, —his mind tracing back to earlier
that morning. Coffee and omelets and a gentleness to the air that Draco hadn’t felt since
childhood— much like he can't help his smile; even if he still can’t manage to meet Enno’s
eyes.

“You… really care about these people,” Draco says, steps pausing as they get to the second
floor. It’s empty, quiet. Far off, he can hear people chatting, laughing.
And Enno, for all that Draco is sure he would far prefer to be seen as this stoney, imposing
figure, a pillar for which anyone could lean on; just… smiles. And it looks so soft on him.

Draco suddenly realizes just how fond he’d become of these people, in such a short span. It
brings a certain hollowness to the warmth.

And Enno notices.

“I care about many. But I can understand why you may find it… tough. What with the state
of the world. How… awful, it really has become.” The words are contemplative, thoughtful.
“It can be hard to see the point in caring, especially when it may all be torn away.”

Draco nods.
“But…” Enno smiles, starting on walking down the stairs again, the old wood creaking as he
moves.
“We’ve built a home here; both in this place, and in each other.” The words follow the beat of
his footfalls, slow and steady. “And even though it is built off a foundation of death and pain,
we still cling to it.”
He laughs. A short, stunted sound. “Perhaps, on some level, the misery of the surrounding
world is why we cling to it so tightly.”

Draco can understand that. The idea of making something out of the shattered pieces of your
life, of clinging to cracked, porcelain shards.
Draco barely notices as Enno stops again. On the first floor, just off from where they’d had
their first conversation.
His shoulders are stiff.

“Draco,” Enno says his name gently, yet firmly.

And Draco stops.

“…On some level, it is death. You must understand that.”

The words are deeper now, but unlike before, where Enno had camouflaged them in shades of
gray… he was now making no move to hide the darkness of his words.

“If this potion works, you are the only consciousness that will still be the same. You will
live… but our consciousness will not.”
“And… If it doesn’t work,” —Enno’s fist clenches at his side—“I will have let another
innocent person die in the name of an idea.”

“Innocent person is a loose term,” Draco says with a short laugh, arms folded. It doesn’t
lighten the mood the way he’d hoped. “But, um… I get it. You don’t wanna loose people.”
Draco sighs.
“I understand the risks though.”

Enno opens his mouth, brow furrowed like he’s going to interject-

“Not- no. Not like I owe anything. You- you’ve all made it very clear how welcome I am…”
he shrugs, the motion a lot softer than he means it to be.
“I just… I was in that cell for a long time. I spent a lot of it deep in my own head. A lot of
time wishing my life had gone different.”

“Now I have the chance to make it different.”

Enno smiles. A halfhearted thing.
“I assure you; wishing you could change your past isn’t uncommon here.”

“Yeah… but if I have even the slightest chance to change things. I need to. For me. For
everyone.”

‘For all those that never deserved to die’ goes unsaid.

"...And... until then, I can help out here, in this life."

Enno pauses a second, then, he nods.

“Alright. I’ll show you what we’ve been studying.”

¶¶¶

Maybe it hurts more, seeing that the things The Resistance had been ‘studying’ weren’t even
reports or identifiable accounts; Hell, Draco would take even simple detention slips or
professor’s notes. But no-
Most of the information they had to pour over are… Journals. Things kept in back rooms,
away from the main offices that had been completely destroyed. Kids diaries, found under
the torn up beds in the remnant dormitories of Hogwarts, or tucked deep into personal-chests,
stashed with simple, childish protective charms.

The most useful one is a soft cover, flimsy thing with a garish red and orange print. As for
personal information on the author; a small ‘If lost, return to Colin Creevey, Gryffindor’
could be found penned inside the cover. There are stickers on the pages, smiley faces and
gold stars and things that Enno says are muggle memorabilia; ’sports cars’ and ‘robots’ and
‘superheroes’ —the last one seeming to be referenced many times, and Amy promises to
explain in more detail later— all worn away and peeling at the edges.

The actual recounts and details go a lot into Harry Potter’s life. The beginnings being
significantly more childish and idilic, but as it went on, it became rather more… informative.

It strikes Draco as he studies the material, the fact that the little Creevy’s admiration never
changed – instead, his awe over encountering an idol morphed into an appreciation for Harry
as a person.
—And Draco, despite himself, cannot help his tiny smile at the little, magically animated,
drawn-out stick figures. Showing off how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx
after three meetings’ hard effort in ‘the DA’, his fourth year.—
It’s odd to see all these situations —pieces of history that Draco himself had lived, and could
not remember with much more than shallow bitterness— in such a… such a soft, admirable
light.
He doesn’t dwell on them for too long. Forcing himself into focusing out on the larger
picture.

—Not daring to think too long on how the last quarter of the book is just... blank. Unfinished
—

Draco spends hours, studying through the diaries. Invested in pouring over all the new
information, however limited it may be.
At different times throughout the day, others drop by the little spot by the fireplace that Draco
sets up at. Several even sticking around, helping him summarize and revise, explaining to
him current day events, how they’d come to pass, what could have changed. Figuring out
what went where and for how long it stayed. They break for lunch eventually, but even
though lunch is nice —some kind of vegetable pasta with pesto— Draco can feel himself
itching to get back to it. Studying over the materials, that move from accounts of time and the
past, to current magical practices; and Draco realizes very quickly that... there have been a lot
of advancements.

He spends the time between lunch and dinner mostly studying that. Visualizing, memorizing
the new spells. His mind greedily gulping down the information. It had been so long since he
had done any kind of magic at all; even just reading about it was overwhelmingly
pleasurable.
Sam drops by, and after some explanation for what they were up to —Jack lain out on the rug
beside him, Amy next to him. The three of them surrounded by books and wizarding
magazines and newspaper articles— Sam offers to help him with the more practical aspects
to his spell-studies.
Draco, despite not quite understanding how, takes her up on it immediately. Assuming they’d
probably find somewhere secure and she would show him the spells. Show him what it looks
like when cast, even if he wouldn’t be able to actually do any sort of spell-work. What with
his own lack of a wand, and all. Amy and Jack invite themselves along. And Draco really
cannot bring himself to mind.

—On their way down, Draco spots Enno in the corner of a stairwell. He’s speaking in a
worried hush to a woman in a tattered cloak. Both of them nearly silhouettes in the dim,
yellow light of the foyer.
There’s a wreath of bones, scrimshawed with old runes, that drape gently over the woman’s
covered shoulders, linked like macabre epaulettes of glinting ivory.
She’s turned away from him so he can’t see her face. But with her pitch-black hair tied into a
bun, he can see white marks on the dark, near black skin of her neck. Split on her spine in
fractal patterns, like scars; like something in her is cracking open.

Draco is being pulled to round the corner when she twists-

Looking right at him.

She smiles. It looks like pity.

It tastes like blood in his mouth.—

Sam continues to lead them all down to the basement, a bounce in her step and a grin across
her freckled cheeks as they go. She's quite chatty. Filling the air with talk of new spells, of
stretching her legs when it came to dueling. Even jokingly bumping Jack's shoulder, talking
about how she'd last beaten him, and how he 'pro'ly wan's a rematch'. Jack just huffs and
rolls his eyes.

—Snuffles lifts her head from where she lay beside a heating vent, her beady black eyes
locking on them as they walk. Amy lingers for a moment to scratch behind her ears as they
pass, smiling softly and earning a warm huff from the dog.—

"In ya go," Sam says, gesturing to the floo. Draco blinks- and is shoved half heartedly toward
it. He stumbles, and Sam laughs.
"Wha'? You' forgotten how a floo works?"

"No," Draco huffs, cheeks flushing slightly as he steadies himself, stepping up into the floo
passage. His shoes —well-worn leather work boots he’d gotten from Enno— scrape on the
floor. The old stone smells vaguely of soot.
"I don't know where i'm going, though," Draco says numbly. His mind suddenly whirring
with the realization that he's going out. That he's going somewhere with magic, too.

It's a breathtaking concept.

"I can lead you," Jack says, stepping up onto the stone brick beside him, scooping up a
handful of floo powder from an antique dish on the mantle.
"It's just where we usually go, right Sammy? The Hollow?" Jack asks, not really waiting for
an answer. Even though Amy and Sam both nod.

Draco doesn't quite understand why Amy is leaning over and whispering in Sam's ear- Or
why Jack's warm hand is quickly taking his.
Like many other times in his life, Draco doesn't really get a moment to question it.

"Téch-Duinn ruins, Hollow,” Jack announces.

And then they're gone. Swirled up by the flush of powder and smoke. He closes his eyes and
holds his breath throughout-

Squeezing Jack's hand tight.

 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

They return to 12 Grimmauld Place hours later, sun long gone, sweat, dirt and exhaustion
hanging off their shoulders in equal proportions. The mood from their group, after hours of
teaching each other spells and discussing the world, had settled to something warm and
friendly.

A stark contrast from the grim, muffled argument being had just upstairs.

The sound sucks the joy from their group like a dementor’s kiss. Leaving the whole house
dark, hollow and cold. Draco can’t hide the shiver that runs through him.

“It’s a Black Family heirloom,” one person argues- it sounds like Enno. Certainly tired
enough.
Another person tuts.

“Yes,” the other voice argues, feminine, tinny and withered.

“One of many discovered in this… house,” —he doesn’t recognize the voice- but if the way
Jack tenses, then scowls, is any indication…—

“And here I thought they was’ done wit’ these spats,” Amy mutters from his right, eyes
narrow and expression sharp. Jack’s lip curls with disdain, but he doesn’t speak.

“Ya’ know as well as a’ do, ‘ey’ve got too much history ta’ stop arguin’ for long,” Sam
mutters. She doesn’t hold onto the anger of it though, just sighs.

Nobody makes their way toward the stairs quite yet. Amy dips into the fridge, pulling out a
small clear bin of… damp orange cubes. Some kind of pre-diced fruit, perhaps?
She cracks the lid and pops a cube into her mouth, offering one to Jack, who keeps that sullen
expression, even as he eats.

Sam sits down on the floor, petting a half-asleep Jackie, who blinks her beady old eyes open,
and nuzzles against her. A big lump of warm fur that huffs and settles into the attention.

“…History?” Draco questions, keeping his voice down and quiet.

Ignoring the way his heart pounds. Mind automatically tuning into the argument upstairs,
despite the way it makes his hands shake.

— “That ring also happens to be an incredibly powerful glamour charm,” the older woman’s
voice contests bluntly. “One we could use-"

“If we find a way to bypass the equally powerful charms on it, and that’s a big if.” Enno
argues with admirable calm.

There’s a pause. The old floorboards shift and creak, someone moving about the space.
It feels odd, the house being this… tense. This silent.

Enno presses the advantage.

“Besides, Draco Malfoy is the only person we’re allied with, who has enough of a connection
to the Black family lineage that the ring may work for him…” —

“You know why Enno started the Resistance, right? After years of sitting on the sidelines?
Keeping 'neutral’?” Amy asks, there’s some bitterness there.
Jack shuffles and sits down at the little breakfast table.
Amy offers him an orange cube.

He shakes his head as he takes one. It’s squishy in his hand, slippery. He takes a nibble off a
corner, and realizes that it’s cantaloupe. Weird.
He takes another half-nibble and swallows, the air in the room lowering like a physical
weight.

“Draco… Enno’s… his sister and her husband were murdered,” Jack mutters, his voice is
quiet, guilt-ridden-

“By Death Eaters.”

By your people’ goes unsaid, but everyone hears it anyway.

Draco’s throat dries up.
More innocents dead. More people he should have done something to help. To save. More
people to suffer-

Draco’s stomach turns.

Suddenly, the squishy fruit in his fingers feels- wrong. Gross. Sticky in all the wrong ways.
Like he’s holding a clump of flesh, like-

Draco takes two steps and drops it into the trash bin. Wiping his hand harshly against his
clothes. His face stays blank- a trained response to living with Death Eaters and Psychotics:
Show nothing. Feel nothing. Or you’re next.

“When they died, they left behind Annie, their daughter.” Jack continues. Draco can’t help
but both love and hate him for it.
The world feels still and cold. The muffled argument from upstairs continues.

“Mildred was the husband’s sister,” Jack continues, voice cold, “Annie’s aunt, on her father’s
side. Now, her legal guardian.”

Draco’s ear twitches at what sounds like a slight creak on the staircase- but it settles.
Draco internally shrugs. Old houses settle sometimes.
It keeps him on edge though.

Sam sighs from beside Jackie, who now fully has her muzzle in Sam’s lap.
“Don’ get me wrong, a’… get it. She’s been throug’ a lot. Both her and Enno lost a sibling
that day…”

“But needless to say, there was a good bit of blame to be shared there.” Amy pops another
cube of cantaloupe into her mouth.

“'Shared’ is generous,” Jack snorts angrily, folding his arms over, tight. He’s got that
protective look on his face, that sharpness.
“I think you mean that Mildred blamed Adrien outright, and Adrian's been too soft to ever
seriously fight it.”

There’s a sigh from both Amy and Sam. One that told Draco this was an argument they’d all
had before.
“We should all head to bed. I’m sure this’ll be sorted in the morning,” Amy hums tiredly. Her
own tenseness finally giving way.
She carelessly caps and shoves the cantaloupe container back into the fridge and walks and
everyone else follows her lead.

Toward the staircase- incidentally, toward the argument.

Sam and Amy flank the both of them. Draco can’t tell if it’s a way of keeping tabs on Draco
and Jack, or, in Jack’s case specifically, protecting Mildred from him.

Draco, not for the first time in his life, and certainly not for the last, wishes idly he’d ever
gotten skilled at comforting people.

The argument overhead continues, growing firmer as they grow near, but Draco can’t focus
on it-

There’s a lump, in the darkness of the stairwell-

A child.
She’s small. Nine, at the absolute oldest, sat in the dark near the top of the stairs. There’s this
softness, yet weariness, to her young eyes. A tiredness that has nothing to do with sleep.
It clashes hard with her cutesy, faded blue pajamas, patterned with little brown teddy bears.
Her brown hair bobs as she looks up to meet their eyes, falling in short locks around her
pinched, round cheeks.

“Annie?” Sam asks quietly.

Draco freezes.

This is the little girl. Enno’s niece. Enno’s dead sister’s child-

He wonders if she was listening; but from her eyes, there’s no hope that she wasn’t.

Sam doesn’t hesitate, already moving up the stairs, somehow keeping quiet despite the old
wood’s usual tendencies.
“Lil’ dear, why’re ya still up? Ya’ should be sleepin’!”
Draco, Jack and Amy all stay stock still at the bottom.
Amy takes a step- all of them wincing at the loud creaking of the old wood.

Annie, however, says nothing.

Her glassy brown eyes dart to the side, toward the cracked-open door to the sitting room-
Then down to the floor.

She’s holding her little green toy train close, the wooden edges digging in against her tiny
hands.

“Can’ sleep wit out Mimi,” she mutters finally.

“I’m sure Mildred will be out soon,” Amy tries to comfort, slowly, carefully making her way
up. But the child just curls deeper in on herself, holding tighter to her little toy train.

Draco’s heart aches- the argument from the sitting room only grows.

The child looks so… small. So alone.

And Draco has no idea what to do about it.

Jack’s hand finds his, in the dark stairwell. Sam tucks in toward the child with a veteran sort
of grace.
Draco wonders where Violet is. It’s clear, as an older sister to Jack, she might be good with
kids. With comfort.

— “He is a wanted criminal,” Ms. Havernatch snipes sharply.

“He’s wanted for treason, against Voldemort,” Enno reminds coolly.

“Having a common enemy does not imply he has our best interests at heart. He doesn’t even
know-”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Enno interrupts. “But Draco is still in our care. It was decided-“
“By a vote that I, notably, was one of few to nay-say,” The woman argues. “For reasons that
you should know too well.”
It’s clear that the venom dripping off the words has been building for a long time. Wether
that’s from the long conversation, or perhaps the length of time Draco has been brought into
the house… there’s no way to know.—

“How’s ‘bout I read you a story, hm?” Sam asks, her voice a gentle hum, kneeling down on
the stairs in front of Annie. Who, somehow, looks even smaller now. Curled up, knees tucked
to her chin.
“Lil' distraction, from everythin’?”

Annie looks up, slowly.

“Can we read da’ one about da turtles?”

Sam smiles and nods quickly. And, just as slowly, the girl slowly uncurls from her ball on the
staircase. The wood creaking slightly under her tiny legs as she stands.

“Why’re you down ‘ere anyway?” Sam asks, gently placing a hand on the girl’s small
shoulder.
Annie tucks in toward her. Small hands lifting in the air, then grasping at the fabric of Sam’s
too-large, patchwork overalls as Sam lifts her up onto her hip.

“I came do’n to ‘ave some tea,” Annie’s tiny voice murmurs, muffled by how firmly she’s
digging her head into Sam’s shoulder.
“Tea ‘elps Mimi sleep… bu’ I dunno ‘ow to work tha’ kettle…”
She sounds like she’s going to cry. And Draco- his heart aches-

Jack’s hand tightens on his. Or maybe Draco’s tightened first. It’s hard to tell.
It’s comforting anyway.
The way Jack’s eyes are sharp and unfocused, the tenseness with which he holds himself… is
far less.

“I can bring you up some tea, while you tuck in for your story,” Amy volunteers quietly,
nudging Sam.
And little Annie looks up at her with wonder. Her brown eyes still big and watery.
Amy suppresses a smile, before nodding at Sam. Moving back down the stairs, toward the
kitchen, deliberate in her mission.
The argument continues beside them, becoming louder through the cracked door to the sitting
room.

Sam stoutly ignores it, passing by and hurrying upstairs. Annie’s big brown eyes are horribly
piercing, as they catch Draco’s, before she disappears up the next flight.

Jack stands next to Draco in the corridor-

Draco’s hand feels a little swollen from the sheer pressure of Jack’s grip. The bones in his
hands pressing tight enough in on themselves to ache.

“…Jack?”

—“He perpetuated violence,” Havernatch snarls.

“It’s the world in which he was raised. The world isn’t kind to all of us,” Enno argues.
“It doesn’t give everyone an out, or a way to make a choice. If he had defected when he was
young, he would be making enemies of his own family-“

“He could have changed anyway. You could have changed too. Picked a side before-

“We’re not going there.”

Enno’s voice goes ice cold. Shutting down immediately.

That’s new.

Jack doesn’t move. His eyes are sharp in the darkness. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere
else but here. And yet, he looks… unmovable.

“Fine,” Havernatch says.

And then the door opens. Bathing the hallway in light.

¶¶¶

Draco has no idea what the hell just happened.

One second, Mildred Havernatch is standing, silhouetted in the doorway, her entire body like
one long scowl. Jack was still… halted at his side. And the grip he had on Draco is starting to
really hurt-

Something short was said, an insult of some kind that Draco has heard a million times before,
and thus doesn’t really bother to hear it-
That’s his first mistake. Because Jack did hear it.

And boy does he react.

“Don’t you dare talk to him like that,” Jack snaps, pulling in front. His wand is already in his
free hand. The other still gripping Draco, tugging him behind-

Havernatch is holding a wand too.

“Don’t defend that monster like he’s some innocent-“

“He did what he had to do to not be killed, because he was a child. His family-” Jack snarls.
Sharp. Hostile.

“The Malfoy family murdered my brother,” Havernatch yells. The sound echoing through the
whole house.
Draco’s body flushes with magic. Energy.

“Annie lost her parents because of him. I lost my brother-” her wand lifts, point-blank at
Draco’s head. “You want to let him traipse around this house like his actions have no
consequences?!“
“I want him to get a chance to make his own choices!” Jack yells. Shoving himself toward
her. Knocking her aim away from Draco. “You have no idea what it feels like- to the choked
out of any control over your own life!! You don't know the AGONY-”

“You have no grounds to speak on agony, you filthy little thief!! I bet you’re just waiting for
the day Death Eaters find this house and take you back-“

Jack snarls. The air cracks with hard, hot magic. “I would rather DIE than go back to being a
death-eater pawn-“

Enno’s face is a dangerous one as he emerges, sharp and hot. Somehow unreadable even
though his entire body shaking like a thunderstorm.

He says- something, more a yell; calling out as the voice of reason. But Draco can’t hear
much of anything beyond the blood thrumming in his ears. The feeling of Havernatch's wand
aimed and charged, toward him-

Jack’s arm thrashes, shoving himself forcefully between Havernatch’s wand and Draco-

“Diremi!” Enno casts loud and violent, like his voice was enough to pull the world apart.

And pull it apart he did.

A flush of air splits through the house. Draco finds himself thrown, then braced against the
wall. Near Jack. The hallway quakes.

Havernatch is forced against the opposite.

The wind whips with a leathery snap. Cabinets and doors around the room snapped shut,
slamming into their wooden frames. The fire gutters behind him in the sitting room-

And then, world is quiet. Like the aftermath of an earthquake, or a great hurricane. A horrible
quiet that Draco knew far too well.

And Enno… he just looks tired.

“There is no war within these walls,” Enno says with deep authority, voice cold enough to
make the entire room dip in temperature. Or maybe that was an aftermath of the spell.
“I will not have you battling as if there is one.”

“All of you, to your rooms.” Enno orders. “Or I’m taking your wands.”

Jack and Ms. Havernatch look oddly similar. Furious, faces red, but jaws clamped shut.
Havernatch moves first. Staking up the staircase and disappearing to wherever her room was.

Jack grabs for Draco’s hand, ready to tug them both up to their floor-

“Draco,” Enno says.

And Draco’s stomach drops.

Jack pauses a moment, before Enno waves him on.

With scowl and a sigh, Jack moves up the stairs. Alone.

The world is dim and quiet, in the hallway.

“I’m… sorry,” Enno mutters.

Enno is holding a ring, turning it over in his palm. It’s ivory, there’s carvings in the polished
bone surface that Draco isn’t close enough to see.

“For what?” Draco asks, voice barely above a whisper. A part of him wondering if he's even
supposed to be talking-

And Enno... sighs.

“A lot of things. But all of which we can cover in the morning.” After a moment of
consideration, he extends his hand. The alabaster ring glints against his palm. “I’m sure what
you overheard is enough of an explanation."

There’s a dreariness to it. A feeling that Draco, who is quite frankly, rather exhausted from
the long day, sighs into. He takes the ring. It feels warm in his hand.
He pockets it before he can overthink any of it. And Enno smiles, and gives him a low nod.

“…Goodnight, Enno,” Draco mutters.

He can feel the man’s gaze, a soft, saddened thing, on him until he disappears up the
staircase.

¶¶¶

Draco doesn’t get much sleep, that night. The house is dead silent. Not so much as a shift of
weight, a small creak in the old, stone house. The air still has that smell. Musty like old
wood, the mattress is plush and springy beneath him. The duvet is tangled and stifling, too
warm. His skin feels stiff, and he keeps finding odd particulates of dirt under him.

He’d considered getting a shower… but he’d barely had the energy to stand once he made it
up the stairs. The long day, the argument… everything weighing him down until he was just
collapsing onto the mattress.

Fully clothed.
He barely makes up the energy to toe off his boots, letting them tumble off the side of the bed
with a thud.
There's a growing hole in the bottom of his sock, he wonders if he'd ripped it open somehow,
or the old wool had just finally hit a breaking point.

And that brings him back to where he is.

He lets out a lethargic sigh-

Pops like apparition come from somewhere below. Then thudding footsteps-

Draco’s stomach drops.

It’s oddly reminiscent of just the other morning- waking up to Jack, meeting Snuffles-
But this is all wrong. Something about it isn’t-

A scream cuts its way through the night.

bang BANG BANG -

A sound like someone being thrown around.

Loud enough it sends Draco’s lethargic senses on sharp alert.

Something shatters- Someone else yells-

And Draco isn’t so far removed from reality to not know the sounds of combat. Spell-fire and
struggle.

His aching body barely manages, but he forces it up against gravity anyway, joints popping as
he throws himself to his feet-

His door opens.

He feels his magic flare- he doesn’t know what to do, but he has to do something-

Jack stands in his doorway. Shoving the door shut behind him. Plunging them back into semi-
darkness. There’s thudding along the stairs outside. From both above and below. Chaos.
Yelling-

More spell-fire. The familiar zip and bang of hexes. Hitting their targets. People are yelling
back. Fighting. Screaming. Draco’s heart is thudding in his chest-

“Death Eaters.” Jack says, confirming Draco’s worst fears before he can give them a voice.
He’s shaking.
“Amy’s gone to get the potion,” Jack says.
“We-We have to do something,” Draco says. His body feels weak and shaky- but adrenaline
is still strumming through his veins. Magic too.
Everything they practiced at the Hollow. Wandless magic- it’s-

“Draco, listen- whatever happens today-“

There’s a knock on the door. How polite to let them know before they die horribly-

“It’s me! I have it!“ Amy yells.

Jack is clamoring- his shaking hands grab the door and yank it open.

She presses the cauldron into Jack’s hand.

Behind them, Draco can see the flares of magic- someone screams, and it’s cut off by
gurgling. Blood sprays up on a wall behind them-

“There’s so many of them. Violet never came home last night-“ Amy exclaims, panicked. Her
eyes lock on Draco- and something in her hardens.

“Protect him. Hide him. Whatever it takes.” She addresses Jack, pushing him, pushing the
cauldron, toward Draco.

Jack nods. He looks terrified, but he’s got that shell too. That mask. It seems to be all that’s
keeping the terror at bay.
There’s to much pain. So much to say-

A bang and a crash.

Footsteps take to the next flight of stares.

They’re almost out of time.

Amy tugs up her wand. Her blonde bob cut swinging around her face.

Draco can feel himself hyperventilating. He doesn’t get to focus on her anymore.
The cauldron is still hot from the fire as Jack hands it over.

“Now. Drink. Go.” Jack urges.

Draco lifts it.

“They’ll be up on this floor any second,” Amy says. He can't see her, not over the cauldron
he’s lifted, taking the potion-

It smells like them. Like Jack and Amy and Violet.

Like omelets in the sunshine and coffee.

“Protect each other,” Amy says urgently. He can hear that she’s fighting off tears. Draco
fights not to choke on the potion as it fills his mouth, sticky and sweet-
“I love you. I wish we had more time.” Amy says.

“I love you too. So does Vi.” Jack says. And he can hear that he is crying. “See you on the
other side.”

That’s the last thing Draco hears before Amy is gone.

Slamming the door shut.

There’s more spell-fire. Someone screams- a child.

A child screams- and it’s cut short.

He hears Amy casting- she’s still alive. Her voice is shrill and terrified though. And she’s up
against what sounds like an army of death eaters-

Draco drinks and drinks- the potion feels like it’s clogging his throat. Sticking to his tongue-
like virtruism-
Amy’s scream is cut off.
Draco wants to sob- and maybe he already is.

When the cauldron is finally empty. He lets it drop. Dark metal banging on the floor as
Draco’s shaking body collapses.
Jack is there to catch him. Hold him tight.
His arms are the only thing Draco can feel over the spell-fire. He can hear people dying out
there-

There’s more footsteps.

They’re out of time.

A heavy bombarda has the two doors, Jack's room and the bathroom, flying open. Theirs
only doesn't because Jack forces a hard wind charm against it in time-

They’re next.

“Draco, hide!” Jack hisses. Shoving Draco-

Under the bed. Draco can only tuck in. His body feels hot and cold- and he can only hope
that’s the potion taking affect.
He should have asked more questions. He should have prepared better-

The door crashes off it’s hinges. It takes down Jack with it-

Draco slams a hand over his mouth, to keep from crying out.

A death eater steps in. His leather boots coated with a spray of blood.

Jack twists, pinned under the door. He tries to fire a spell-

Crack-
Jack’s head falls to the floor rebounding with a thud.

His temple is bloodied. Impact wound.

His eyes look up- and lock with Draco’s.

The brave mask is gone. He’s terrified.

Magic in the room flares-

“Wait,” One of the death eaters pauses. They grab Jack by the scalp, dragging him, up-
“Yer that Gverden kid.”

Draco can't see anything. His body- his lungs feel like they’re barely holding air. His body
wracked with pain-

“Keep him alive. I’m sure his master will want a word.”

Then Jack’s body is falling on the floor.

A stupefy has him immobilized before he can fight.

Jack’s eyes can barely dart back to him. They’re pleading. Tear-filled.
He can’t move, that much is clear.

Draco wishes he could do anything. He wants to sob- nausea plucks at his insides. He
clutches a hand over his mouth. His stomach rolls- he fights to keep it down. Fights to keep
quiet as agony burns through him. Like is blood is trying to crawl its way out of his veins,
like a determined, never ending crucio-
Draco’s vision warbles. His head feels like it’s swimming.

Jack’s eyes dart from Jack’s wand, fallen in front of him. Then to Draco.

Draco can’t be sure where the death eater’s eyes are. If the two in the room are still here-

Draco just barely manages to reach an arm out for the wand-

“What the hell-“

Draco’s eyes are slamming open. He hadn’t remembered shutting them-

There’s a death eater in the doorway. They must have seen Draco-

Draco remembers his cell with stark clarity. Years, years of wishing for change, even for pain.
Just to change things.

I need to change things.

Draco shoves himself from his hiding spot. Vision still swimming. Just dark shapes in a dark
corridor-

Draco can’t feel his hand as he lifts it- points it at the figure-

“Avada Kadavra,” Draco casts.

His voice sounds stronger than it feels. Choking it’s way past the potion and the bile in his
throat-

Jack’s bright hazel eyes reflect the green light as it shoots from Draco’s palm beside him.
Wandless.

And for some reason, Jack looks afraid.

A fresh wave of agony burns through him. And Draco buckles. Clattering to the floor just a
moment after the figure in the doorway does-

Their mask falls off.

There’s more screaming around him. He realizes only a second it’s coming from him-

And despite his initial panic, the cloying agony is the reason he’s screaming.

He looks at his victim.

His Mother’s corpse in the doorway. Blonde hair splayed over her face, obscuring her from
his vision- but it's her, it has to be-

It feels like a piece of his soul has splintered. Something far too deep within him breaking in
half-

The ring in his pocket. Stiff. Made of bone- burns-

He cant feel it. He can’t feel anything.

All he feels is anger.

His mind traces it back like following a trail- to his- to his mission to kill Dumbledore, to
getting the Mark, to- to his father’s failure at the Department of Mysteries.

To a younger version of himself. Taking the path of least resistance.

Something in him, a tension he hadn’t even noticed over all the other pain, agony so
overwhelming it’s like it’s not even there- like a rubber band pulled taught; finally snaps.

The world whites out.

Pain fades.

Suddenly he’s standing at a train station. His legs don’t buckle, not immediately anyway. But
there’s no pressure under him.
Like he’s levitating.

The world is white and silent; completely blank. It’s bright enough it should be blinding,
burning even.

Theres that soporific calm. A warmth, at the edge of it. Pleasant like a summer breeze.
He can’t feel anything; not even his own heartbeat.

He sees, just for a second, two silhouettes.

The shorter figure turns toward him.

He looks every age Draco has known him as. From tiny, twiggy child to a walking corpse, all
flickering through. The only thing consistent about it is-

Those eyes.

Green like death.

They twist, and focus on him. His scar a dull crack across his otherwise tan forehead, and-

“Malfoy?”

He feels the voice far more than he hears it; the sound trembling, sending reverberations
through this fragile world.

It feels like it’s coming from behind him, so he twists - but the world is fading.

White to grey. Darker, and darker. The shadows cutting deeper, like something- like
everything is shattering-

Feeling returns to his body with all the kindness and subtly of an offended hippogriff.

It feels like water filled his ears. His throat feels clogged, lungs burning-

He feels suddenly far less peaceful. His heart pounds in his chest where there once was
silence.

His body feels thrown around like a doll in a hurricane; every piece of him.
Every touch like something between pressing on a bruise and being actively set on fire- He
can't feel himself moving much at all, but the vertigo is horrible-

“Mal- Draco!”

Draco is tugged to consciousness like a man pulled up from drowning, breaking the surface
with a hard gasp and a clawing fear of death. Gasping not like someone trying to return to
normal breathing; but like someone readying to go right back under.
He gasps, heart hammering in his chest. He can feel it again-

This is it. He’s dying.

Or maybe he only feels it cause he’s not dead yet.

Maybe he was dead, in that white train-station, and that’s why it all felt so silent.

It doesn’t matter now.

Adrenaline shakes him. He’s alive now.
Death Eaters must still be surrounding him, especially after he’d just- god, why did he do
that-

He can feel the presence of them. Their magic is like a physical pressure-

He can’t move. Limbs Stupefyingly steady.

He’s been cursed then. He’s defenseless- unless he can force out some wandless magic. But
he doesn’t have a target-

His eyes slam open.

Even if bright yellowed-white blinds him. Stinging his eyes. Burning. He squints, and his
eyes fight to adjust. The light leaves blotchy imprints on the fog of his vision- but he can tell
just by the shadows:
He’s not in his room at Grimmauld.

All the lights in this room are off save the one right above them. It casts them in harsh
shadows on the two figures to his left, under their noses and deep in their eyes.
Draco wants to scream, to curse, to throw up-

And yet, something is wrong.

Draco cannot find it in himself to feel threatened by their presence.

It feels stupid, but- it has to be something in the air, maybe, or perhaps just the way they
stand. The blurry shapes of their arms tucked to their sides. Soft and cautious; concerned, in a
way. But why-

There’s muttering around him, he can’t make sense of it. His head still feels like he’s
sloshing.

His eyes fully focus, and-

Draco has never felt more confused in his life.

The room is tall and archaic, with warm cobblestone walls and flicking gas lanterns all
around. It’s still a blur, but it’s warm. Familiar.
And familiarity was not often a friendly thing, in Draco’s experience.
“Draco - fuck. He’s stopped shaking at least,” that voice-
Draco blinks up, his breath feels strained in his chest - hell, his entire body feels heavy. Or
maybe …tight? Like he’s wearing something a size too small.

Magic, that pressure, lifts. Just in time for Draco to recognize-

Pansy Parkinson.
The alive, teenage version, not a death eater, not a trophy wife- and not a corpse —at least so
far as he could tell— looks down on him.

Her eyes are blown wide with fret and worry. Blaise —also not a corpse, unless this is the
weirdest afterlife he’s ever heard of— stands beside her.
His immaculate suit is rumpled. Like he’d just carried something a long ways-

“Draco, how are you feeling?” Blaise exclaims, clearly noticing Draco’s eyes refocusing.
Draco blinks; then groans.

Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt so much? It’s not as bad as the potion, at least…
but he still feels like he could sleep a hundred years - but exhaustion isn’t anything new.
What is new, however, is the… tightness in his chest. He takes shallow breaths, but they fill
his chest like he’s gasping for air.

“Draco! Dray, darling, keep your eyes open -please, just stay awake,” Pansy’s voice breaks
through, clearly scared, and Draco hadn’t even realized his eyes were drifting closed until-

There’s a warmth on his cheek, a hand.

He jolts to the side, away from the touch-

Pansy looks down at him, almost… hurt.

God she looks so young. Not young like a child, though. She’s obviously somewhere near
adulthood. And yet… the soft edge to her voice, to her eyes, is impossible to ignore.

Draco tries to speak, but the only thing that makes it out is a hard, wet cough. Violent enough
it jolts him up; like his body is trying to expel his soul through his lungs.

Blaise pats him on his upper shoulder throughout the fit, Pansy traces circles on his spine, a
distant warmth.
A mystery pair of hands offer him water- no tinge, no smell. Just plain water. He gulps down
a few sips between wracking coughs.
“How are you feeling?” Blaise asks. His words are… collected, oddly timid and gentle.
Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d been spoken to that way.

—Violet’s arms wrap around him, bright hazel shimmering against the black walls of his cell.
She’s gentle yet firm in her touch.—

Okay, so maybe he did remember.

Fuck - that means… it… it worked.

He blinks to clear his vision, but the hard edges of the hardwood floor still smear together.
His lungs feel shaky.
He feels… oddly alive. He flexes his —well manicured, perfectly groomed, soft and
unscarred— hand.
It feels wrong and right at the same time.

Pansy speaks up again, gentle.

“…Draco?”

“Huh?” He looks up. A nurse stands just behind Blaise and Pansy, a short, nimble woman
with a willowy disposition.

Pansy steps in closer- she looks at him with such clear worry, such youth-

“How do you feel?” Blains cuts.

“I’m… fine,” Draco brushes off. His voice is weird, slightly higher than he’d expected.
Breathy.
His body still feels shaky, but more… energized. He shifts, realizing quickly from the feeling
—smooth, starched cotton with well tailored seams— that he was in dress robes for some
reason… and so were they.
His shoes feel heavy and his socks feel far too thin and tight. He can kind of feel his pulse in
his hands.

“Fine? Fine!?” Pansy yells. Now that’s the Parkinson he knew. Her ferocity cutting through
even the oceanic depths of her worry-
“You collapsed in the middle of the hallway!” Blaise exclaims at the same time that Pansy
screams: “YOU WERE HAVING A SEIZURE!”

Draco blinks.
When was the last time he had seen this much unguarded emotion on them?

It… he fights a smile at it. Smiling would definitely make them worry.
He doesn’t fight the snark, however.

“And I am no longer seizing,” Draco says with an empty shrug, swinging his legs over the
side of the bed, “funny how that works.”

He feels adrenalized.
He needs to go. He needs to plan. What year is it? They’re not at Hogwarts, that’s for sure;
which is both a disappointing and a relieving fact. He feels like a fizzy drink shaken, ready to
pop. Trying to order his thoughts beyond a wild reel of 'it worked it worked it fucking
worked!'
If they’re not at Hogwarts he has more time to plan — they’re certainly pre-Voldemort-
takeover, which is quite the relief. But-

He shifts to stand- only to be body-blocked by his young friends, who look… honestly rather
furious.
He fights to not find it cute.

“No way are you getting up right now,” Blaise says, expression hard- or as hard as his young
face can achieve, which is… not really.

Pansy nods, folding her arms, her delicate silver bracelets clinking on both wrists, over long,
silken gloves. It’s a good look on them; good to see they’ve got that rebellious spitfire still in
them. Certainly better than the last time he saw them.

The nurse is still behind them.

He recognizes her hands the most, second only to Parkinson house crest embroidered on her
neat-pressed dress robes and apron-

It hits him rather suddenly, exactly where he is. —Though when is still a mild mystery.—

Parkinson Manor had always been a beautiful home, gilded age design with tall, elegant
ballrooms - perfect to host parties in. Which, Draco had to assume, was the reason for the
attire.
His brow furrows.
So why was he in a random guest bedroom? Perhaps it was the closest private room they
could get him to? He was, apparently, seizing.

Draco lets out a long, drawling sigh; because he’s so terribly put upon to have to stay in this
soft warm bed.
He does, however, shift back, just a bit.

They relax. A little. And Draco focuses on their faces, trying to memorize how they look.
Their softness and their youth.

“Now, you will, let my nurse examine you?” Pansy demands, already beckoning the woman
over with a wave of her hand-

Draco immediately slams back to sitting up. His strategic mind whirring.
Fuck- it doesn’t matter when he is. If his parents were to find out he had been hurt, they’d
have a fit- and- fuck. They might not let him go back to Hogwarts-

“No.” Draco says, voice stern and sharp.

The nurse stops in her tracks.

Pansy folds her arms, lips turned into a fierce snarl, mouth opening to argue- and Blaise isn’t
too far from that either-

"If my parents hear of it, they will worry,” Draco says, shifting to stand again. He hopes
that’s a good enough reason-
If he mentions anything about the Dark Lord, it may shut them up- but if it’s before his
return, that’s going to lead to awkward questions-

Fuck. He really needs to work on his improv.

Pansy, for all her gentle handlings in the future- all but shoves him back on the bed. The
springs bounce under him as she forces him down. Blaise’s hand folds solid on his shoulder.
Clenched in the soft silk of Draco’s dress cloak.

“Please, at least be creative with your nonsense,” Pansy says with a roll of her eyes. “She’s
my family nurse — and well versed to not utter a thing that goes on here without my express
permission. You know that.”

The nurse nods, even though nobody acknowledges her.

Draco’s heart feels heavy. This is already exhausting- categorizing his every move, playing
this game.
No wonder he felt so old. He spent ninety percent of his youth playing social chess.

Draco lays back down with a soft thump onto the pillows and groans. Accidentally finding
several new bruises with the action.
“…Fine.” He acquiesces. Because he has nothing else he can say.

Blaise snorts. And when Pansy twists to arch a brow- he just shrugs.
Still smiling.
It’s a good look on him.

“Nothing, nothing, ’s just funny,” Blaise waves his hand, smoothing out his soft, shimmering
olive-green dress robes and straightening his black silk tie.
There’s something tired in it though. Draco’s brow twitches.

“You used to be all ‘wait t’ill my faaatheer hears about this!’,” Blaise says with a high
pitched mimic, and Pansy does let out a sharp laugh at that. It relaxes her shoulders slightly.
And Draco can’t even build the energy to pretend to be offended. Not when the two of them
are so…

“But now,” Blaise says, softer, “you’re like, the exact opposite.”
He waves his hand. Like that will alleviate the weight of the statement.

Draco sighs and leans further back, staring up at the ceiling, squinting into the light above
him. There’s a pause, where they obviously expect him to say something… His mind races,
well, as much as it can, sluggish after coming off the serious adrenaline high of time travel…

“Well,” Draco shrugs after a long moment. They’re all obviously post-pubescent, but he
didn’t want to say anything too time-specific. So he settles on a simple:

“Times have changed.”

He twists his head, and notes their reaction in his peripheral.

Pansy’s lip twitches, which had always been her stress-tell. Blaise’s shoulders hunch, then
straighten.
Both stay silent for a beat too long, before Pansy finally gestures for her nurse. The woman
dips to Draco’s side immediately; quick and professional.

“We’ll be in the Ballroom,” Pansy says. Stepping back to make room for the nurse, but
otherwise making no real move to leave. She steps in front of an elegant victorian-style
mirror at the side of the guest bedroom, pretending to futz with her hair, then with her
necklace, a delicate, teardrop emerald on a silver chain. Blaise does similar, fussing with his
own embossed cufflinks.
They shouldn't be here. Surely, as heiress to the hosts, Pansy should be out there, dance card
full to brimming, -Draco just knows how furious her father would be if she wasn't doing her
job as a proper entertainer- and Mrs. Zabini always liked to have her son on her arm through
at least the beginning of any evening; easier to disregard a rotating string of husbands when
at least one escort stayed the same, after all.

And yet, neither of them move too far from each other, or from him.
Draco’s brow furrows.

“Do you know your name?” Pansy’s nurse asks. Pulling out and clicking her wand against
her palm. Hovering it over his form. Some kind of examination spell, no doubt. His chest
feels tight again, but it’s not as bad; achy, like pressing on a bruise.

“Draco Malfoy,” he answers.

She nods, muttering a small ‘lumous’, waving her now brightly glowing wand across his
eyes. Checking the dilation no doubt - Any sign of brain damage.

“And what year is it?”

Shit.
Draco’s brow twitches. He squints, lips pursed- He pretends it’s because he looked directly
into the light on accident.

He uses the ‘flinch’ to toward the group. Blaise and Pansy, both at least mostly post-puberty.
That, and the fact that Crabbe or Goyle are nowhere nearby- and his body —which feels…
not too much different than an adult one— means it’s certainly post ’92. He can’t be sure
beyond that.

“Heir Malfoy?” The nurse asks, gently.

Right. Question.
Well.. Better to be off a year below than a year above.
“1994?”

Her brows drop, she lets out a low hum. Shit.

“No dear. It’s 1995. August, to be exact.”

Draco lets himself frown at this. He didn’t go back nearly as far as they’d planned-
The realization immediately stiffens his shoulders.

School starts in September. He has one month until school starts- Fuck.
He barely has three years to defeat Voldemort. And only a few months before He starts living
at Malfoy Manor… if he’s not there already.

Fuck.

“How about your school, and your house,” the nurse says, watching him carefully.

“Hogwarts, Slytherin, obviously,” he huffs, as haughty as he feels he can comfortably dare.

His mind still spinning wildly out of control.

He doesn’t miss the way Blaise and Pansy look between themselves. The small smile there.
Slivers of comfort as they finally take their leave. Back to the ballroom, to whatever party is
going on, he presumes.

It reminds him of Violet and Jack in a way- and Draco can’t help his little smile- or the way
his heart aches.
A familiar feeling like sitting by a graveside; like mourning.

He tries to comfort himself with the fact that that… it worked.

It worked.

—The nurse says something, that she’s going to fetch him a potion to get his energy back.
Draco nods as she leaves. His chest feels tight again.—
 The door closes. The room is quiet.

He succeeded.
And now he’s alone.

Chapter End Notes

6,747 words on this chapter!! I'm LITERALLY DYING here TwT

 Act I
Chapter Notes

Thank you all SO MUCH for the warm reception on the last chapter. The comments
made me SO HAPPY to read. Thank you!! <3

The hallways of Parkinson Manner are… elegant. If a little drafty. The candelabras on the
wall flicker softly as Draco passes, portraits greeting him with a friendly nod, or chittering
politely with small-talk, lapsing back into gossip once they thought he was far enough out of
ear-shot.
It’s… he wouldn’t say particularly nice, but it’s not awful.

The more he wanders, the more the long, archaic hallways echo, like a winding, elegant cave
system. There’s orchestral music somewhere in the building, faintly overlaid with a prim sort
of chatter. Both of which fade the longer he walks.
If nothing else, it’s good background noise to the whirl of thoughts running through his mind-

'1995. August', the nurse had said.

He has a month until he’s back at Hogwarts. Perhaps less than that until Voldemort takes up
Malfoy Manor as his base of operations.
His stomach lurches slightly, but that soporific calm comes back- and Draco can't tell why.
Maybe he’s in shock. Maybe it’s a side affect of the potion; There are side affects to pepper-
up potions, after all. So why the fuck would a bloody time travel potion be any better?
Draco's hands are shaking at his sides, so he tucks them into his pockets. His dress robes fit
him too perfectly.
It feels wrong.

He needs to start on protective charms as soon as he gets back, then. There’s no telling when
Voldemort could get there- He’d start with the charms he knew, but if he had time, perhaps
some research in the Malfoy Family Library on dark magic, spells, enchantments. Even
something as simple as wards could be helpful. Warding off all of his things. His mother’s
things-
Draco stops, breath hitching in his throat. Nausea spikes hard. He throws a hand up over his
mouth just in case.

His mother.

The image of blonde hair splayed, unmoving against a dark hardwood floor- Death eater
mask tumbling to the floor. Body slumping, lifeless-
Had it really been her? It was hard to tell. Face covered with hair-
A more important question forefronts:

Had… he really killed her?

…It didn’t make sense.

His chest twists. A horrible feeling, one he’d grown weary of-

He’s hit with the sudden, indisputable urge to see his mother. To hold her in his arms, or
perhaps just be held by her. To apologize for everything- to cry- to say nothing at all-
With any normal death, those garbled feelings would be followed by grief. Because when
people die. They’re dead. You can’t see them again-
He will see her again, though.

For some reason, that thought is not as soothing or kind as he might have hoped.

His stomach is still tied in knots, but he doesn’t let his thoughts dawdle.
Once he gets back to the Malfoy Manor, maybe. But here, there’s too many eyes. Parkinson’s
were well fabled for their espionage, after all. And even if there were no portraits to report
after him nearby…

It wasn’t a risk he could take. Not this soon into the game. And no matter how many years of
trusting Pansy he has under his belt, Draco knew first hand at this point how different the
motives of children and their parent’s can be.

He takes a deep breath. Forcing a wave of shuttering calm.

This year was 1995.

’96, next year, was the year Father went to prison. When Aunt Bella got out of it. When
Draco learned at her hands, everything there was to know about Occlumency and about
enduring torture.
But it was also where Draco learned the method that he had employed for the next eight years
of his future. A strategy that kept him sane through seeing the genocide at Hogwarts. Kept
him from getting found out during his brief stint sheltering a railroad. Kept him alive through
Azkaban.

Aunt Bella, in one of her more lucid, teacherly moments, had explained it quite simply.
Emotion, like much else in life, was good in moderation. A good servant but a bad master. A
good mind is a tool, after all, just like any other. A great mind is a weapon. A dagger. And
daggers do the cutting. They do not get cut.

His mind settles. Slowly, as it always does.

The starvation of emotion from a body expecting to break down leaves him shaky and empty.
Searching for another way to grieve - to feel. He doesn’t let it. Does not allow his mind to
focus on casualties of a war that, as of now, has yet to kill them.
He focuses instead on 12 Grimmauld. What felt like barely an hour ago. Something he can
parse apart. Dissect and analyze.
He keeps walking.

It didn’t make sense. Very little of the situation did.

Narcissa had gotten through the first war unmarked. It was not a fact she boasted, nor one she
hid. In the crowds they frequented, neither were acceptable. But Draco knew, deep down, she
always held repulsion toward the idea of being branded. So why would she take up the Dark
Mark, after so long fighting it? Why-
Could it have been the same reason Draco took up the Mark? A punishment in the Malfoy
name? Out of fear?

It hits like a gut punch, and he barely lets himself wonder if, that punishment, was in Lucius’s
name, or in Draco’s.

But then why would she have participated in a raid at 12 Grimmauld? And how did the Death
Eaters get through the Fidelius charms?

Had his Mother’s Black family blood been enough? It was their ancestral home. Perhaps
there was some indiscriminate right, something bonded to the blood in their veins- The Black
Family was well known for their deep dives into Blood Magic, after all- Or was it something
more?

Violet hadn’t come back that day. Amy had said so- and, based off Jack’s explanation of how
the Resistance came to be, she was one of the two secret keepers. Her and Enno. Had they
somehow wriggled the information from her? Torture, perhaps? Violet was tough though-

But then again, does it matter?

The thought catches him off guard. Stopping his steps. Holding him at a standstill. It doesn’t
cause the stir of emotion he’d expect.
The hollow calm is still his most prominent emotion.

A small alcove to his right shines with silvery moonlight. Cast from a tall, cathedral-style
window with a thick stone sill. The orchestra is still a small hum at the edge of his senses.
But just the sound of life and motion, and people is… unduly comforting.
He centers himself with a short breath, feet carrying him closer to the window. The sill is cold
as he leans against it, back pressing into the frigid fenestration and cold glass.

Of course it matters. Enno, Jack, Amy, Violet… The Resistance. They’d always matter. No
matter where he was. Or when.
It just matters… differently, now.

Now that he’s in the past.

Fuck.

He twists to face the window, planting his hands, curling a white-knuckle grip on the sill.
Pressing his forehead deep into the glass pane. Boxing his thoughts in. Raising his mental
walls ever higher. His head aches.

His vision is unfocused. Staring out into the lavish courtyard, the darkness creates a blanket
of shadows, and his mind sets to filling in the blanks with every horrific event it could
scrounge. There’s so much history. Everywhere he goes. A past that hasn’t happened that
follows him as closely as his own shadow, sprawling long and dark against cold slate-stone
floors. A piece of him is deeply glad, now, that he had awoken here, rather than Hogwarts.
There was so much more history there-

1995. August, the nurse had said.

He had a whole month until he’d leave for Hogwarts. A month which would be spent in
Malfoy Manor.

Draco had felt a lot of things, when he’d first heard about the possibility that he could travel
back in time. He’d figured there would be emotional ramifications to success in this venture
as well. Loss, most desperately, but tied in with hope. Fear, of course, warmth and dread-

He hadn’t expected the disorientation to be the most prominent. But the constant unsteadiness
has him… shifting. His magic is a constant under his skin, now. A fuzz, an itch that reaches
down his arms and through his chest. Like it's trying to crawl out to the surface. And Draco
isn’t sure why.

Residual magic is a powerful thing. Being around wizards, magical creatures… it tended to
have affects on its surroundings.

Perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that he’d been in Azkaban for such a long time, a
place where magic was drained out of you - And was now being confronted with a mansion
filled with it.

It was a buzz. A tingling at his finger tips and ears. Like hypothermia being greeted with heat
for the first time-

A pop. Apparation-
Draco doesn’t startle, not outwardly. His magic does flare-

It fades just as fast.

“…Young Mazter Draco?”
A tiny house elf is looking up at him with wide, beady eyes. Dressed in what seems to be a
delicately embroidered pillowcase, with the Parkinson family crest, of course.

Draco swallows, his pulse thudding in his head; which still aches. Quickly shutting down any
emotion that may have presented on his face.

“M-Miztress Malfoy is searching for Young Master Draco,” The house elf says with a little
curtsy, “Mistress Parkinson sent Tikky to come and get Young Master Draco.”

Draco had forgotten how… odd, the speech patterns of house elves were. It takes Draco a
moment to parse. Or maybe just to dislodge his heart from his throat.

“Oh.”

Draco hums. It feels… weird. Being alone with a house elf.

He’s used to having to put up a cruel front, when there was company. Voldemort especially
enjoyed tormenting ‘lesser lifeforms’ —then again, what didn’t the man consider ‘lesser’?—
and, however contrary to popular belief, being like Voldemort had long been dropped to the
lowest pits of Draco's life-goals.
That doesn’t really give him a plan on how to act though. Anything too out of character could
be mentioned, and used against him. But-

The silence draws out out long enough that the elf was beginning to shift from foot to foot.
Draco exhales, a sharp breath.

“I assume my Mother is still in the Ballroom?” Draco asks. Once again forcing his mind to
glide over the idea of seeing his Mother.
He presses his shoulders down, his chin up, and spine straight. A million etiquette lessons all
prodding him into position with their invisible, wrinkled hands.

“Yes,” Tikky confirms with a nod. “Tikky is to escort Master Draco back to the Ballroom
post-haste.”
The little house elf curtsies again. But makes no move to actually start walking.

Right.
Wizards were always supposed to lead. House elves were often tripped or beaten if they
dared to step in front, let alone lead their masters.

…That didn’t exactly help Draco, however. Who… didn’t actually know where he had
managed to wander off to. Gritting his teeth through the awkwardness. He pinches his brow
with a sigh.

“Tikky, is it?” He asks rhetorically.

The little elf, Tikky, stands up impossibly straighter. Clearly mildly terrified.

Draco takes pause to look around, as if he’s simply taking time to appreciate the decor.
Noting things, such as to complement on them later to Tikky’s masters.

“Where are we, exactly?” Draco hums.

Tikky seems to be a good house elf, in the fact that she does not dare to question him in the
slightest.

“We is currently in the south wing of Parkinson Estate, sir.”

Ah.

Draco hadn’t meant to wander so far. Just… he couldn’t stay sitting in that room. He needed
time to think. He needed space. His mind was moving so quickly, processing, planning - it
felt wrong for his body to be so still.

“Tikky, would you Apparate us back? If my Mother is asking for me, I would like to be
efficient.”

Tikky startles slightly, but nods immediately.

“Of course. Tikky can Apparate the Young Master just outside the ballroom.”

She hesitates slightly as he extends his hand, but eventually takes the cuff of his robe.
There’s a slight whirling sensation, and a pop, neither of which help his mild headache-

And then they’re standing just beside a small window-alcove, beside the open ballroom
doors.
The music and chatter are a good bit louder here.

The familiar twinkling lights of chandeliers and floating candelabra’s create a star-like mist
over the ballroom ceiling.
The soft lighting spilling out with the sound of an orchestra, reciting the quick familiar three
quarter beat of G. Kitler’s ‘Expectation’ waltz. The wind and percussion sections begin with
the beat, but quickly grow to taunt each other. Repeating what the other begins with, as if
dueling. Echoing and mocking. Yet following each other’s footwork; as though the music
itself were engaging in the delicate waltz.
It’s… everything he remembered and more. Truly…

“Brilliant,” Draco mutters, the beauty of the ballroom snagging the breath from his lungs
momentarily. Or maybe it’s the constant chest-tightening, drowning feeling of nostalgia that
he’s been thrown into the deep end of. Merlin he’d forgotten how ridiculously opulent these
things were. And how… entrancing.
Without thinking he adds a quiet: “Thank you Tikky.”

He realizes his mistake when the little house elf makes a tiny, startled ‘eep!’, jumping
backward into a deep curtsy as quickly as possible. Mumble-rambling that ‘it is Tikky’s job’
and ‘there is no needs to thank a house elf’...
Draco just sighs, then straightens his robes. Thankful when the little house elf decides she’s
no longer needed, and ‘pop’s off to be useful elsewhere.

Right. Back to the task at hand.

Draco walks toward the door, feet moving before he can stop himself and overthink- and is
immediately caught off guard by the sheer amount of people — lord, there has to be at least a
hundred. Probably more than that; but the night was winding down. He hasn’t been around
this many people for… a long time.
Draco is once again vaguely grateful for his… trained response. His breathing shakes slightly,
but that seems to be the extent of it, as he weaves through the sparse crowd by the entrance.
His seeming inability to really show true panic anymore is a dubious positive, but he wasn’t
handed enough good things to take silver linings for granted.

Most of the patrons are scattered by the tables, busy indulging in the hors d’oeuvre and
champagne —served on elegant silver platters that levitated through the crowds— or are
dancing among the swirl of elegant fabrics on the dance floor.

The stench of several different, overzealous perfumes hit him as he passes by a narrow group
of chittering old ladies. Someone else is laughing obnoxiously loudly-

He spots them almost as soon as they come into view. Instinctually seeking out the familiar,
tell-tale platinum blonde of his family-

His Mother is, predictably, waiting by Lucius, who is —also predictably— chatting it up with
Minister Fudge.
Both his parents look so… so different. Different enough that his feet stutter to a stop. His
mental walls slamming upward to prevent the manic tidal wave of emotion from showing.

He realizes now, just how much the war had changed his parents.
Desperation had made his father hard at first; but it had carved him open anyway. Forced him
to show softness, in the bare moments he was allowed a long enough leash to do so.

The war had done similarly to his mother - but she never let herself fully close off to it. Draco
had never understood quite how she had enough strength for it. To bare the slings and arrows
of loving people, even after they had all but given up.
He remembers how tense and withdrawn she had become throughout the war. It had been a
difficult thing to see, even more difficult for her to live, he was sure. His proud, dignified
mother, tiptoeing meekly through her own home. No longer stood straight, but constantly
pinched at the waist; as if ready to bow at any moment; or perhaps dive for cover.

Here, with the sway of the crowd to the orchestra… Draco is confronted with how it was.
How it should have stayed. And the sight is... dizzying.

Father stands like a pillar, long charcoal grey robes with silver accents that shift and swirl
with an underlay of magic in the embroidery. His cane is in his right hand, the silver head
pressed under his right palm, not carrying any weight. His left is gently entangled with his
wife’s.

Mother’s long blonde hair is tucked back into a long braid —he can’t think about it. Can’t
focus on it—, perfectly in line with the trail of gemstones leading down her back, cascading
to the tasteful mermaid cut of her gown. They both have long sleeves, but his Mother’s are
looser. The delicate silver accents glint in the candlelight.

Draco’s stomach churns.

The Minister says something, and both his parents laugh, a polite, delicate sound.
It’s …peaceful. Not entirely lacking strain, of course, no moment was that serine… but still.
It’s a moment he never would have noticed in his youth, far too accustom to such a sight. To
such commonplace, yet, such ineffable grace.

Now, seeing it feels…

Something in the air shifts, near him. He feels someone move up from his left-

“Draco!”

He twists and steps to the side, just in time for an extended arm to grasp- and fail to grab his.
His wand is already in his hand, at his side-

He hadn't even realized he had his wand with him. The weight of it in his palm is a sharp jolt
of reality-
Pansy blinks momentarily, and Draco recognizes his mistake.

“Ah, Pansy,” he says, pocketing his wand, “I must have zoned out.” Like that’s an
explanation for his dodge. She sees right through it, of course; but presumes it’s for different
reasons.

She tries again to grab him- he doesn’t dodge her this time. And her nimble palm tucks neatly
into the crux of his elbow. Her hand is firm and warm against the fabric of his robes. It’s
grounding, in a way. Her arms and her grip as warm as they’d ever been.

She tugs delicately at her elbow-length glove, smoothing it out- and uses the motion to
camouflage a sharp dig into his ribs.

Draco flinches away from it, but he doesn't pull off her.
‘And her elbows are just as sharp’ his mind cuts- and he fights a laugh. Eyes stinging
slightly.

He'd missed her.

“What is wrong with you?” She hisses. Face impassive but eyes brimming.
She seems to catch something, maybe in him, or maybe in herself- and sighs. Eyebrows
pinched. Lip twitching.

“...Are you okay?” She asks, more gently. Her grip on his arm is still firm- like she’s ready
for him to try and rip out of her hold. And maybe a younger version of him would have.
Draco just keeps still, feet falling into pace as she slowly moves them forward; the movement
clearly subconscious.

“My nurse said you just skipped out-

“Your nurse said she couldn’t find anything wrong with me,” Draco counters, the slamming
swell of calm that his Occlumency shields offer keeping him on task — and it’s not even a
lie. Besides, getting a good physical evaluation from a trained medi-wizard had honestly been
an informing experience.
Good to make sure this body is at full-function. Especially with everything to come.

Pansy frowns.
“Still! You told me you’d get fully examined. I cannot believe-”
Draco still isn’t sure how to interact here —not when his entire body feels this close to
breaking down, perhaps even if it wasn’t— but thankfully it doesn’t matter much. Because
Pansy’s tugging has gotten them close enough that Mother has noticed them.

Narcissa looks at him, and smiles.

And Draco has never hated himself more. His stomach gives a horrible, guilty lurch-

“There he is,” Narcissa hums elegantly. Her voice is poised, soft. Loving.
She’s beautiful, of course she is; it is not in any way a new thought. Even putting aside
superficial aesthetics, Narcissa is beautiful in the way the rain is beautiful. As something
nurturing. As a hand of nature, and as something destructive, particularly when
underestimated. These are all well-documented facets of his mother- and yet, in this moment,
Draco is struck by the beauty she has, in the way only a child can to their mother. As only
someone in mourning can appreciate their loved one.
Beauty, as something truly… internal. Beauty that relies on memories. That relies on
connection.

And grief and pain, which rely on the same.

Draco’s breath stutters. His lungs feel like they’re burning. Maybe they are. Maybe he’s been
on fire this whole time. Maybe this is hell.
If it is, he’s certain he deserves it.

All the things he had forced himself not to think about come back in a swell of emotion-
And the stress reverts his body to instinct, when Lucius and the Minister’s eyes fall on him
too. The Pureblooded-courtesy from his youth meshes violently with Aunt Bella’s
Occlumency ‘lessons’-

He bows his head slightly, but keeps his stance slightly wide. He keeps his arms still, one in
Pansy’s grasp, but the other strays near his pocketed wand.

Occlumency closes in, his only escape, building walls upon the walls, cutting his panic off
like a steel trap; He visualizes nothing but blank, cold stone in his mind.
Forcing a small, serine smile to his lips.

“Son, Ms. Parkinson,” Lucius greets calmly. His voice is cold the way a stone wall is; it
rushes over Draco’s ears like someone’s dunked his head in ice water. He cannot hear it. Not
with all the blood flushing through his ears-
Lucius says something that makes Pansy’s grip tighten, but makes the Minister smile and
nod. Draco probably should be listening- but in reality, it’s taking all his energy to not curl up
into a ball. Or maybe just start screaming.
The crowd is so loud. The world is so much-

His mother stands in his periphery, like a faint watercolor painting of an angel- and Draco’s
eyes sting, and stomach twists-

Something under his skin stretches and curls.

He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, when the world seems a little brighter- a little sharper in
focus.

The flames of the candles and the stars growing effervescent, momentarily sparking brighter-

“Ready to go then, darling?”

Narcissa’s voice cuts through everything, it seems. Or perhaps his mind is actively seeking it
out; an effort to keep sane, or to get it over with and shatter his mind faster, he’ll never know.
Draco manages a nod. Ignoring Pansy’s truly bruising grip. She doesn’t seem too happy that
he’s leaving, but even she's not quite willing to go up against a senior Malfoy. Especially on a
manner so trivial.

And Draco hates it, hates it with a searing passion- but for a moment, he’s grateful to his
father.

“I’ll walk you to the floo’s,” Pansy offers with a sunny smile. She’s got that grin that says she
won’t be taking no for an answer- and Draco doesn’t fight it. He doesn't have the energy. Or
the willpower. Or the- anything, really.

He can't tell if he’s actually shaking or not. If he is, Pansy is kind enough to not openly react
to it.
Her hand on his arm feels oddly secure, against his pounding heart and restless energy. Like
Pansy is the only thing grounding him from floating away.

—It feels rather the exact opposite of how it had been on Pansy’s wedding night. The both of
them pooled in the absurd amount of fabric of her ball-gown style wedding dress; her hands
digging deep into his arms, nails nearly drawing blood, as Draco just... held her. She sobbed
hard enough it shook them both.—
Lucius and Narcissa engage Pansy with light, polite conversation as they walk. Asking about
schoolwork, excitement for the new school year. Pansy responds in kind. It seems to distract
her a bit- operate word being seems.

“You’ll write,” Pansy says once they get to the floo, arm still clenched in his, pulling him in
closer for just a moment. Letting her side bump against his. She’s clumsy with the affection, a
good bit far off from the svelte femme-fatale she’d become to survive in the ruthless Slytherin
atmosphere in their later years.
Even farther off from the icy, poised bride she’d forced herself to become after that.

And Draco can’t help a tight smile. Even with panic still clawing at the edge of his heart.

“Of course I will,” Draco nods, his soft-spot for her on full display.

She relaxes to it… somewhat.

Eyes darting to his parents behind him, already moving into the stone floo. Then her eyes dart
to the floor- then to Draco himself-

“Be safe,” she wishes, quieter, before finally stepping back.

Draco takes a shallow breath- it fills his chest again like he’s heaving. It goes blessedly
unnoticed-

The floo smells like the one at Grimmauld place did, though less potent. Like soot and stone.
Father takes a handful of Floo Powder-

He feels a hand on his shoulder, one that can only be his mother’s; long elegant fingers
keeping gentle hold. Warm. Sweet.
He fights not to tug his entire body away from the touch.
He fights equally hard not to lean into it.

All he succeeds in doing is holding perfectly still, just barely keeping from sobbing, before
they’re swirled into green flame-

And stepping out into the horribly familiar Manor foyer.

¶¶¶

Draco barely stays long enough for his parents to wish him goodnight before he’s scrambling
to get out- out- OUT-

His feet take him on memory. His mind and body far too busy trying desperately not to throw
up whatever his last meal had been. — and he’s not about to play Auror and try and figure it
out by the taste.

Every emotion he’d been repressing throughout the day comes back with a vengeance. He’s
hyperventilating. He knows that.

The bite of cold wind hits his face.

He also knows he’s alone. Finally. And his panic knows that too-

A choked sob breaks past his lips.

He stumbles and falls to his knees. Hitting grass in a hard tumble. His shoulder bruises
against a tree as he shoves himself forward to lean against it. Dry heaving. A few seams in
his well-tailored suit pop at the strain-

Tears run hot down his cheeks. The ground melts in a swirl of green under him as they choke
with the sobs from his throat. The dew and the jagged grass creating an icy prickle that
pierces his bruised knees. The world feels like it’s coming undone. Or maybe it’s just him.

A flush of feeling bears it’s teeth under the drowning sadness. The pain and the grief that
weigh on his limbs and exhaust him. His lungs trembling and burning for the brief gasps of
air he gets between sobs.

His body, or maybe it’s his magic, isn’t at all tired though. His head feels heavy and eyes
slow-blinking, but his limbs are shaking, chest burning with that same strained, fuzzy feeling
it had when he first woke up.

He feels kind of like a firecracker ready to pop. A fizzy drink shaken, then cracked slightly
open - hissing and spitting, foaming up and ready to burst.

He supposes, somewhere deep and more logical in his mind, there should be some… side
effects, to shoving an adult soul —all his knowledge, all his memories, his whole adult
awareness and his entirely developed magical core— into this body.

And those issues manifest as anger.

A scream tears it’s way from his throat- something between physical pain, shooting holes in
his veins, and horribly consuming fury at the universe-

For giving him so little through his life.

For forcing him into this impossible situation.
For giving him just enough to feel safe and loved- and having it ripped away-

For his Mother, being dragged into this mess by her husband - and murdered by her son.

Something nearby splinters and breaks.

Adrenaline shoots through Draco at the suddenness of it- he stands and stumbles backward-
Hiccuping pathetically-

The tree he’d been leaning against teeters, creaking dangerously-

Several do, all around him. Large holes blown out of their trunks-

And then they slowly lean toward collapse. Of course they do- and Draco has to hold in a
fucking laugh. Because everything fucking breaks when he relies on it, right? Everything he
touches-

Another hard pulse of fury burns- It’s more conscious this time, but just barely. Itching
through his skin like it’s carving it’s way out of him.

He doesn't try and rein it in.

Fire explodes around the trees in a perfect bubble. Glowing red with hate.
Nothing outside it’s perfect orb catches. But everything inside combusts, just inches from
him. Hot enough it scalds his skin-
Bright enough it sears his retinas-

Hot wind billows through him, tearing like a tornado, like fiendfyre, consuming everything
within a manner of seconds.

And then it dies.

The burst of light and energy leaves his body finally on the same page as his mind.
And Draco stumbles forward in the new clearing, On the dry, scorched dirt, and falls onto the
still-warm earth.

Weeping emptily under a tree-less, star-filled sky.

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s not long before cold sets in. But it is a good bit longer before it gets bad enough for
Draco to pull himself up off the warm, dry earth and stumble back inside. Exhaustion —
physical, mental, and probably some level of bloody spiritual as well— has a heavy hold on
his limbs, which move slowly as he climbs up the frankly far too dramatic bifurcated stairs,
hanging right, and shambles to the first door on the hallway. Muscle memory in full affect as
his mind is barraged by where he is. What this place would soon become.

It’s an odd feeling. Not the exhaustion - but… That… energy, which had felt so restless ever
since he woke up here. The tightness under his skin was… slack. Soft. Not quite gone, but…
replaced with an odd warmth. Well, not quite warmth- but a calm feeling. A slow, rumbling
purr.
It reminds him idly of the first few times he got drunk —when he was young enough for
alcohol to be a for fun rather than function—, the drowsiness and the warmth and the tingle at
the edge of his senses.

Odd indeed.

His room is a familiar sight, lit warmly by the minimalist central chandelier that flickers to
life as soon as he’s cracked open the door, but even in the grandeur —and he cannot deny that
it is grand; all dark mahogany woods, rich cream-colored walls and wrought iron fixtures. It’s
large too, larger than he remembers. Or maybe he's just smaller— Draco can’t help but zero
in on the little crevices of organized clutter around him; pieces of a larger puzzle that show
that this is a life that really had been in the middle of being lived. It’s not an abstract memory,
not a stiff pensive evocation - his childhood room is no longer a fragment of the past, but a
living, grounded present. Something that can be interacted with and altered. Draco had been
about nineteen when he moved out of Malfoy Manor. Fully grown. To his disgustingly
affectionately named ‘château de basilic’. One of many ‘gifts’ from none other than
Voldemort himself, perhaps in odd thanks or praise for the role Draco played in the war; or
perhaps some sort of trade, so the man could keep using the Manor as a main base for his
insurgent world-ending coup. Draco hadn’t cared to fight it.

Nineteen years old and fresh out of a war, Draco had thought all the fight was drained out of
him.

Clearly, he had been wrong.

The long, large, grey, snake-shaped rug slithers up to him from where it had curled at the foot
of his four-poster. It’s mostly muscle memory that has Draco kneeling, unlacing and peeling
off his shoes.
The snake-rug —‘Nachash’, as he’d named it, a Hebrew word meaning 'serpent' or more
specifically, 'sibilant whisperer'. Quite creative for a seven year old who had yet to truly
grasp the double meaning, or connect the dots to the identical second rug in his parent’s room
— blinks it’s two dimensional, shiny green eyes slowly at him.
A greeting.

Draco blinks back at it, mirroring the gesture. Gently setting his shoes on its tail and
watching as it slithers across the marble floor to deposit them in his closet. His sock-clad feet,
without the barrier of stiff leather soles, can feel the smooth marble under him, charmed-
warm. With a few drowsy tugs and clumsy unbuttoning’s, his dirt-speckled robes fall to the
polished floor. He barely remembers to take his wand out and set it on his nightstand.

—He considers holding onto it. Getting back into using it- but almost immediately banishes
the thought.
A wand is much like a prism, that way. A way to direct. A focal point.

But a conduit can only be as powerful as what it conducts. And a weaker conduit can only
handle so much.
It was incredibly rare for a wand to have intrinsic power - far more common for a powerful
wizard to shatter or splinter a weaker wand; a weak conduit fracturing under the sheer power
flushing through it.

And after his little ...display, of wandless magic in the forest… Draco wasn’t sure if it was
egoism, or just risk management, that keeps him from using the wand.—

He contemplates his bed —exhaustion still creeping through his limbs— contemplating the
inviting, thick black duvet and beige Sferra-Capri Egyptian Cotton sheets. His meticulously
fluffed pillows with Jacquard weave edges and fitted sheets with at least ten different charms
for proper temperature regulation-

He ends up at his desk.

It’s long and narrow, styled victorian, positioned just at the base of an arching cathedral -
esque window. It’s sturdy, mahogany hardwood lacquered to be both spell and stain resistant.
He spots what seems to be his summer homework, precociously complete, stacked neatly to
the side.
Draco sits slowly in the desk chair. He knows it’s his, and it’s not even fragile, but it feels…
so weird, to interact with something so… lavish, after spending years without even a proper
blanket to stave off the winter.

The soft velvet padding on the chair is inviting, and weirdly comfortable. Warm.
Mindlessly, he waves his hand, levitating his soiled robes into the wicker hamper beside his
closet-

His left arm is extended for the display of wandless magic, which purrs out from him without
hesitation. But this is not what gives him pause.

His forearm is blank.

Unmarked.

His breath hitches in his chest. The candelabra above his head sparks brighter, warmer- his
magic sizzles under his skin-

Draco takes a choppy breath in, and out. Fighting to steady himself.
A grief-shaped crater in the forest was… fine. But not here. Not now.

The feelings flush through him slowly, and Draco, in his time alone, takes the necessary time
to try and process them. His eyes stay on his wrist. Stroking fingers over the blank expanse of
skin. The only interruptions in the pallor swathe being the long branch of a pale blue vein.

He’s reminded mildly of his mother’s old paintings.

Draco had loved them since he was a child. He was a little attention seeker, so of course he
adored posing for them - but more than that, he loved the spark in his Mother’s eye when she
painted. The open glimmers of warmth and joy in the way she held the brush or chided him
for moving. The messy way she leaned toward the easel, getting specks of paint on her hands,
sometimes even on her cheeks.
The way she’d pull her hair up, not in an elaborate braid or a sleek bun, but with just a hair-
tie or a few clips. Sometimes Father would come in and tie her hair back for her. Or just
gently tuck the strands behind her ears.

The sheer color mixed and rolling down the canvas.

It was defiance. A small rebellion.

Not that painting in and of itself was frowned upon, quite the opposite really; but much like
many things, it was the way in which it was done that mattered.
His mother did not paint following the usual style of victorian-romantic realism and thick,
clumping oil paints. She enchanted her works, but they did not move and speak with that
familiar posthumous, pompous air. Her paintings did not speak or honor their blood in some
sardonic grandstand. Because that wasn’t the point.

His mother’s paintings were vivid and colorful. Watercolor leaning into her impressionist
style, crafting delicate scenes of dancing gardens in the smear of rain, or cafe’s filled and
blurred by blonde shafts of sun. This vivid beauty, the joy, made his mother’s paintings not a
memorial or some mild try at immortality on the side of the painter or painted - but the
antithesis.

Draco stares at his blank wrist and sees not a blank canvas, waiting for that black, solid stain
- but an already painted picture. Intentionally blank.

A pair of silk grey pajamas, neatly folded, come slithering out on Nachash’s silent back.
Blending in amongst his shag-carpet scales. Draco almost foregoes them - but his outburst
and subsequent lay in the forest had left him shivering. And silk was good for retaining body-
heat.
He puts them on, and keeps the sleeves rolled up as he sits back at the desk.

It feels like a reminder - and for once, it’s a positive one. Of why he’s here. Of his mission -
one he'd chosen for himself.

He opens his drawer, second down to the right. A shallow thing with a false bottom he’d
charmed at thirteen. It creaks open smoothly in the dead silence of his room.
The protective charms on it are simple enough; they let him in with a simple tap of his finger.
The false-bottom folding back to reveal a book.
It was a simple one. Unobtrusive, but layered with far more impressive locking, sealing and
protective charms.

It’s a diary. Bound in simple, elegant black snakeskin. It’s smooth, slightly cold to the touch.
Draco turns it over in his hands, it’s heavy, and with his intimate future knowledge on the
subject, he can see small runes carved and camouflaged into the book, hidden in the curve
and shimmer of onyx, obsidian scales.
It was something his grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy had given him. One of the few gifts from
the dispassionate, practical man that wasn’t just an official note from Gringotts, stating that
an additional sum had been dropped into Draco's personal account.

—That was another thing Draco would have to look into. No longer being of age and now
just the subsidiary patriarch of the Malfoy fortune, he had little to no ability to access those
funds without tacit approval of his father.
This did not count his own personal account, of course, but currently, what pieces of that
weren’t bound up alongside his father's in an impressive investment portfolio, were bound to
be monitored in some fashion…
That was all for later though.—

The diary itself clearly hadn’t gotten a lot of use, and most of what it had seen was innocuous
complaining. But still, Draco had hidden it. Perhaps out of some childish idea that owning a
diary was embarrassing. Perhaps just because it felt cool, as a kid, to have something worth
hiding.

Draco presses his palm over the cover, and there’s a slight give to the firm scales. A cool
pressure answers him. The book recognizes him as its master, and there’s a soft click, and
then the pages flutter open.
The music box at the edge of his desk —a shiny black box with a tiny, delicately crafted,
porcelain faux-orchestra inside. A gift from Father— responds to the magic too. Popping
open with a slow creak. Opening with a familiar waltz beat.

For a moment- it feels horribly abrasive. Even such a soft sound in the hard, jagged silence.
But it soon softens a tension in him that he hadn’t really been aware of.
He supposed he never was a fan of true silence. Azkaban had only exacerbated that.

The paper is thin between his fingers. There’s a few paragraphs toward the front, written in
his own heavy, looping hand.
He skims them, and can’t help a laugh.

Perhaps he’s just far enough removed from the infinitesimal slights of his youth, that they
seem so… small. Or it could be that, due to old age, he just can’t remember to be mad. Can’t
remember why it mattered so much.

Or maybe the world just feels smaller when you’ve seen it die.

He flips past them anyway, and sets to work.

¶¶¶

Hours pass, recalling and writing out everything he could about the future.
Snape’s pensive execution is certainly helpful in some aspects, though most of it seemed to
have just been a whipped-naked-through-the-streets style of complete embarrassment and
character assassination pre-execution. So not all of it is useful for truly defeating Voldemort.
Then everything from Colin Creevey’s Diary; which he notes diligently, but remains
somewhat weary of using as any kind of gospel, given its place as the subjective findings of a
starstruck prepubescent.

Then, lastly and most lengthy, he notes down his own experiences, first in short hand and
then… in more painful depth.
Agonizing as the ordeal is, they’re… less useful than he might have hoped, given how
awfully self-centered he was.
It’s a lot, but also… not enough. Even scrawling out everything and anything that could be of
any use; there are some glaring blind spots.

Most notable being, the horcruxes.

Yes, the Golden trio had succeeded in their quest to destroy most of Voldemort’s Horcruxes…
But the records of where, and what exactly went on, were nonexistent.

Even so, line by line, —pieces and slivers he only knew because of Voldemort’s distinct
favoritism toward him, for reasons that Draco still didn’t quite understand— what little
information Draco has gets penned down:

The black leather Diary is first. Destroyed in the chamber of secrets, second year. Draco
didn’t go back far enough to alter that one, which, like most things, is both positive and
negative.

The ring had been destroyed by year five, in Dumbledore’s office, cursing him. Snape had
helped to isolate the curse, and afterwards, orchestrate Dumbledore’s ‘assassination’ to fully
win the trust of the other side.
Not that it really helped in the end.
Nor, Draco now realized, was Snape ever informed of the full story.

The Locket of Slytherin was an unknown. Draco knew it existed, he knew that the oldest
Black Family house elf —The name escapes him... Critter, maybe?— had once offered it to
the Malfoy family to protect; But how it ended up… he couldn’t be sure.

The Diadem of Ravenclaw had been destroyed by fiendfyre in the room of requirement, by
Crabbe.
...Draco tries not to focus on that one too long.

Hufflepuffs Cup had been found in the Chamber of secrets after the battle, shattered by
Basilisk fang; which had been left rather carelessly beside it. Draco himself had been there
upon this discovery - it had been, in part, what made him put together the pieces of what
exactly the importance of these destroyed items was. Before Horcruxes became public
knowledge.

Nagini, of course… had never been destroyed. Still by Voldemort’s side by the end of
Draco’s future.

—Along with however many more horcruxes he’d made afterwards; and any others that were
missed during the trio’s hunt.
Draco had no idea if there was some sort of natural limit on horcruxes- there should be, right?
There are only so many slices one can take out of a whole.
But the Resistance had seemed convinced he had more…
And Dumbledore, despite how deeply Snape had been kept in his pocket, hadn’t seemed to
see fit to tell him anything useful. Even on his death bed.—

No matter what, end of the day, it was the same.

Harry Potter… well, he had been killed, entirely. Horcrux and all.

Draco stares at the filled out page. It’s… something. But it’s not enough.
It doesn’t tell him where they are now. Or really how they actually got destroyed. Just that
they can be destroyed.

The basilisk fang is… most promising.

In fact, it’s all he’s really got.

He knows the diary and the cup were destroyed by it. He knows that basilisk venom is one of,
if not the, most erosive, poisonous substance out there. But there’s no telling if that means it’s
a catch all- or if there had been specific circumstances. Could specific horcruxes only be
destroyed by certain things? It would certainly make sense. And it would be a good safeguard
- and therefore, far more logical.

Draco drags an exhausted hand down his cheek. Biting in a yawn. Straightening slightly from
where he’d slumped toward his desk.
Wincing as a low ache resides down through his lower back.

A bereft beginning of dawn creeps up over the horizon beyond the cool panes of his window.
The barest hint of a lighter navy blue on a jagged black tree-line.
If he’s going to get any sleep at all tonight, he should do it now.

Draco keeps writing.

¶¶¶

Draco had wandered the Malfoy family library since he could waddle, rows and rows of
ancient tomes, tall shelves with protective sigils carved into ornate frames; dark wood
standing so mighty it was like walking through a forest. So tall that when Draco was little, he
envisioned climbing the shelves to the top, and, maybe, if he reached out his tiny hands far
enough, being able to grasp the stars in the glass sky above.
Now… well, it was less like a forest. More like a maze. Despite the somewhat easy to follow
grid pattern, barring the back section, the center third oriented with couches and rugs around
a fireplace, hidden with the two narrow Fibonacci spirals to either side - seeming dead ends,
but camouflaging secret passageways to deeper, darker portions of the library that Draco
wasn’t yet supposed to know about.

But that’s not what he needs.

The sun peeks out from the far east-side windows, golden rays cast through archaic stained-
glass windows, pouring warmth into the gigantic room.

The silence here is gentler, somehow, then it had been in his room. Maybe it’s just that the
carpeted floors, plush leather couches and thick wooden shelves dampen the sound, or
perhaps it’s the chirp of birds and the faint shuffle of trees outside. Or the stained-glass
designs that flutter to life in the morning light.

Something about the smell, dry and faint like dust and hardwood. It reminds him of …
something he can’t place. He tries to ignore any feeling that gives him other than warmth.

Draco peruses the section on defensive spell-craft, wards, and the history therein. -It was his
best bet, given the library did not happen to have a convenient section on horcruxes or dark
magic. He wonders if that might be more of a Black family deal.- Hand lifted, bumping along
the spines of the books on the shelves he passes, creating a steady thud-thud-thud of fingers
on hard-backed leather.
His eyes keep catching his wrist. Blank skin that seems almost paler in the sunlight.
Draco can’t help but smile at that.

He mentally picks out a few of the books- only to find them already zipping off the shelves,
settling with a few thum-thumps onto a side-table beside one of the couches.

It’s weird. How he doesn't have to say an incantation, doesn't even have to think it really,
just… wants, and the magic answers.

He wonders if it has anything to do with the unsettling feeling of safety that’s running
through him like warm water; the feeling of being home, even if it’s wrapped in the ugly guilt
for what this home would soon become. Or maybe just reveal itself to have been, all along.
It’s not like he’d done anything like this... these half-conscious displays of wandless,
wordless magic, at Parkinson Manor after all. Maybe it was just the fact that now, he’s alone -
but in a good way.

Or as good as good gets, in a mansion that would soon be a battleground.

He sits down on the couch and pulls a book from his stack at random; ‘Wards, Runes, and
Rituals, the Intersection of Ancient Blood Magicks’.

He’s not sure why it feels so… safe, barricaded in the walls that were practically bricked and
mortared of his bloodlines mistakes. He settles for something between a half-formed, vaguely
morbid theory involving exposure therapy, and shrugging his own general-mental-
fuckedness, because hey, it’s better than Azkaban. And PTSD only has so much on actual
hungry dementors.

The sun is cresting over the trees now. And Draco grits his teeth against his lethargy, but
allows himself the minute pleasure of lying down and sinking into the plush leather couch.
Forcing his eyes to stay open.

He still has work to do.

¶¶¶

Draco dreams he’s in all white, and that should be the first clue it’s a dream; he never wore
white, mother said it washed him out.

But he is. White suit. White tie. White gloves- they should be white anyway.
They’re not though.

They’re red.
Dripping.

He’s in a hallway. Between two doors.

His mother’s corpse is in one. Blonde hair. Hardwood floor.

His father leers in the other, expression unreadable, but haggard.

His hands are trembling. Aftershocks of the cruciatus curse.

Someone else is at the end of the hallway; not sheltered in a doorway, but in the hall, like
him. The middle ground.

He doesn’t know who, but he can feel them staring. He can feel them-

The unmistakable sound of apparition pops.

Thuds- bodies fall-

Screams echo-

Draco wakes up with a gasp. Cold sweat sticking him to the leather couch under him- Breath
heaving-
He labors to stand anyway.

“Master Draco!!”
It’s a tiny voice- familiar for reasons he can’t place. But he can’t- Merlin he can’t think. He
needs to get out of here. He needs to help-

Help…

His eyes slowly refocus.

He’s not at Grimmauld. He’s…

“Master Draco! Is you alright?”

Draco looks down. There’s a house elf there. Standing. Seeming vaguely shaken.

“I…” Draco’s throat croaks dryly as he tries to speak. His entire body feels shaky and
clammy. Silk pajamas crumpled from his unwitting slumber and even more unwitting night-
terror.
He scrubs the sleep out from his eyes. Or maybe he’s trying to scrub the images from his
dreams out. He doesn’t know. The world still feels so disoriented.

“Thyng is deeply sorry.” the little house elf, Thyng, says quickly. Her huge marble blue eyes
blinking up at him. Her thin posture is ram-rod straight, unmoving, but the way her little,
wrinkled hands grip at her pillow-case dress betrays her nervousness.

“Thyng did not mean to wake Master Draco. Only to check on him.”

She speaks in clipped, vaguely matronly tones. Perhaps ready for him to yell at her. Demand
she punish herself.
When Draco stays quiet, she continues. Her small words slower now.
"Mrs. Narcissa has called for Master Draco to join for breakfast… And Young Master was
not in his room.”

Thyng was his mother’s house elf, a part of his mother’s dowry. Transferred under the
Malfoy name just before the fall of House Black. She was… respectful, creepily stoic at
times, and had been one of Grandmother Druella’s house elves, tending to his Mother since
infancy.

Draco had been horrible to Thyng in his own childhood, but she never reacted the way
Dobby had. He’d never quite under stood why.
But as a child, Draco had also not yet had the pleasure of meeting the other children that
Thyng had once tended to; his mother’s sisters.

Draco now knew that whatever cruelty he had pulled on Dobby and Thyng as a child, must
have been minimal in comparison to what Thyng had to put up with, under the thumb of a
young Bellatrix Black.
She must have learned quick, not to react. Because reactions are what bullies crave.

Guilt rolls through his stomach, setting in his gut. A physical weight. Because Thyng had
been completely right. A part of him wants to apologize, then and there-

“…Master Draco?” Thyng says, quiet, old… testing. Her big blue eyes stare up at him. Gaze
far too reminiscent of his mother-

Shit.
Being his mother’s house elf, she’d report to her immediately if she thought anything was
amiss. Draco scours his mind for any of the words she’d said. Cursing himself for not
actually listening. Something about…

“Um. Mother wanted me?”—He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out scratchy. He’s
going to blame that on sleep, and pray he wasn’t screaming his lungs dry in his
unconsciousness— “For… breakfast?” Draco says. Scrubbing his eyes again for good
measure.

Thyng nods. Huge, stoic eyes watch him carefully. Her big ears barely twitching.

“Good. Okay. Yeah.” Draco says.

She doesn’t move.

After a moment, he remembers- she’s a good house elf. Proud. Respectful. She wouldn’t
leave until she was dismissed.
He sighs and pinches his brow. Mildly cursing at himself for both not getting better sleep last
night, and also for not already having his protective wards up.
He ignores how contradictory those reasons are.

“I’ll be right there.”

He offers a half-hearted hand wave to go with it.

She levels him with an odd look. Her eyes flick to his pajamas-
Right. Another Malfoy family rule: no pajamas at the breakfast table.

“After I change.” Draco adds, speaking like he had already, of course, intended that. And
Thyng nods like she believes him.
"That will be all,” he says.

A soft pop, and he’s alone again.

He hesitates a long moment. Exhaustion cloys deep in his bones; but he forces himself to
start moving anyway, before he can hesitate or slump back into the still-warm leather of the
inviting couch. Or maybe just before he can wait or give in to his cowardly nature.

His first trial was complete. He’s time-traveled into the past.
Now for his second trial.

Breakfast with his Mother.

¶¶¶

Father had once harshly enforced mealtimes. Shared breakfasts, lunch and dinner. It had been
a way to ensure he could spend time with his family, after all. Keep up to date on the know-
how of his son and wife’s lives, especially when things got busy.
Draco remembers that around… probably early his fourth year, that had become lax. Which
means that now, soon to be in his fifth, his father would likely already be off somewhere. His
appearances at breakfast and lunch barely an occasional sighting, or a nod, as his father
grabbed a drink and vanished for the day.
Dinner had become the ‘family meal’, but even that eventually rescinded and became
lackadaisically enforced.

Which makes sense.

It’s hard to enforce rules if you are the one who most often breaks them.

That didn’t particularly matter though, because Mother was expecting him for breakfast. And
even if he was wary to be under her keen, lone dissection, he would not disappoint. He has no
excuse to.

Because of that, he allows himself to pick out a simple outfit. Black slacks — the least stiff
ones he can find… which is surprisingly tough. Lord Merlin almighty, did he even own any
comfortable, casual clothes?
He pairs it with a white cotton button up, layering it under a sweater-vest to add warmth—
Slytherin memorabilia, clearly, with it’s silver knit edges and twisting snake ’S’ on the chest.

He hurries out of his room, not bothering with socks or shoes. He does think to kick on the
black slippers that Nachash offers him. Vaguely recalling something about bare feet not being
allowed in the dining room as well.

He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears- voices.

People talking.

Draco’s brow twitches, and he slows his movements, keeping them… quieter as he turns
down the stairs.

It’s his mother’s voice, coming from the family dining room. A smaller room they usually
have their meals in when it was just the three - or two, of them. It’s just offset from the
kitchens.
He’s fully descended the stairs, moving to the right and down the hallway, ignoring the quiet,
—mostly still slumbering — portraits of his ancestors. Following the sound.

No one is speaking back to her. —Draco ignores the way his hands shake, hearing her voice.
—

Even when the depths of death-eater rot had seeded itself in the Manor, Narcissa had never
fallen quite low enough to start talking to herself. Quiet, reserved, even a bit jumpy, yes. But
never quite that.

Which meant that the only explanation was: she wasn’t alone.
Her company was just… quiet. For what reason… he didn’t know.

“I just… I cannot see how this will help matters.” Narcissa speaks, her tone is... complex.
“I can agree in one aspect. There’s nothing quite as dangerous as those who are so convinced
of their righteousness that they never stop to analyze their actions,” Narcissa continues lowly.
“Or, if they do, are convinced that theirs is the path that must be taken by any means
necessary. But I cannot understand these methods.”

There’s a double meaning to those words, and Draco knows it well. He’s not sure if Narcissa
is as aware.

Just then, the other person speaks up-

“Dumbledore is routinely endangering children,” Lucius says, his words are familiar. Icy.
Draco isn’t sure why he didn’t expect it to be him.

“Actively recruiting them to take part in illegal guerilla activities, grooming Harry Potter for
who knows what… Ignoring a fourth of his student populous simply because they’re in
Slytherin. A stand must be taken, darling.“ Lucius states firmly. “And now is the most
advantageous moment, we have more influence over the Ministry than ever. And with…
things as they are, we must act efficiently.”

“I know…” Narcissa whispers. “I just cannot bring myself to trust that the Ministry will have
our best interests either. No matter how …generous, we are to them.”

“...And?”

“What do you mean, and?” Narcissa hums, her voice is tense.

“I can tell that there’s more to it than that,” Lucius presses. Narcissa makes a gentle noise-
between surprise and indignation.
Then a moment later, a gentle laugh; a sad, bitter sound that twists Draco’s stomach.
“I’m just… worried.”

“Because of…?” Lucius questions, not seeming to need to actually speak whatever it is for
his wife to understand.

“Yes.” She clips bitterly, but adds slowly: “And…”

Draco can almost hear his Father’s eyebrow raise.

His sigh is a quiet, low thing.
Draco presses himself closer to the wall, in the shadow of the archway to enter the small —in
comparison to the others, at least— dining room. Sun pours through the windows, casting
across the tile.
Draco focuses on the shadows of his parents. Lucius’s is melded with his chair, but Narcissa
is standing, close to him.

“I know it’s… silly.” Narcissa sighs tightly. “Before you say it, yes. I am aware that I often
pull myself into frets on nothing. I know that I dote on him; Perhaps more than I should. Yet,
I just…”

“Just…?” Lucius prompts again, gentler, almost curious, in an odd way.

Narcissa says nothing. Her shadow moves on the tile.

The dull scrape of chair-legs drag on marble flooring. Narcissa’s shadow blends into her
chair’s.

Lucius sets a sigh. There’s a flutter of paper, a newspaper, perhaps. Being folded up and put
away. Lucius’s shadow severs slightly, leaning forward toward his wife.

“Buttercup, you must cease this unproductive disconcertion,” the words themselves are
painfully cold, condescending, but his father’s tone is so… soft.

“He is fine,” Lucius insists.

It’s almost a plea.
“But what if he isn’t?" Narcissa's ever poised voice shakes.
"Ever since the news hit that… that the Dark Lord has returned,”—there’s an intake of
breath, and it’s not from Narcissa. She just keeps talking. Even as Lucius’ shadow pulls back,
she follows the motion. Moving and leaning toward her husband. An arm reaching out over
the table, as if to hold him there.—

“He’s been cagey. He plays at normalcy, just like the rest of the world- but I can see that he’s-
he’s not sure how to feel… He looks to us for answers, love, and I do not know how-”

“Narcissa,” Lucius’s tone is cold. Solid. Warning.

Terrified, underneath it all.

Draco’s fists clench at his sides. It’s not hard to find anger, when thinking of his father. Even
if it’s not a hot, searing flame it had once been.
Even if it had grown cold in that cell. Just as he had.

He swallows it all down anyway.

He knows this is all for the best. The Dark Lord was a powerful legilimens after all, and not
especially kind to traitors.
Images of writhing bodies, screaming until they were just corpses, flush through his mind-

People who had done less than Draco, and were yet punished far harsher for it. And Draco
still wasn’t quite sure why.

Narcissa sighs. A soft, disheartened sound. Her teeth clack with it, like she’s biting down on
whatever thoughts might come out.

A long moment passes.

“I meant nothing by it.” She says. “As I said, it’s silly.” Her voice is cold, perhaps colder than
Lucius’s had been. Shaky. "Simply the worries of a mother.”
She’s always been good at picking her battles.

Draco takes a few steps backwards, running a hand through his hair to smooth it; monetarily
entertaining himself with fantasies of running off. Of never facing his parents and their
troublingly lacking communicative skills; and yet their awfully apt perception. Of never
facing the thinly veiled and very real fears for their future only his mother dared
acknowledge.
Of walking up to his room, packing his things and just- walking out.

He takes a deep breath in.

The manor smells almost sterile. Cold, like the wind just before a storm. Magic prickles
under his skin like his limbs have fallen asleep.

Draco walks back toward the dining room a bit louder, making a show of moving in through
the door and yawning loudly.
They both twist toward him momentarily, not much more than an idle, half-inch twist of the
head. But for them, —people who barely lift their eyes to greet expected company— it's a
clearly startled gesture.

Lucius is in robes, black overcoat, black slacks, with a deep plumb button up and cravat, held
by a silver pin. He has his cufflinks on too, his favorite leather gloves set gently to the side,
by his newspaper. His cane leans up against the side of his chair.
He's obviously headed out somewhere, and soon - but the fact that he's not already gone is...
odd.

Narcissa contrasts her husband with her simplicity. Wearing a simple, mint green blouse with
bell sleeves, a long black, a-line skirt, and pointed black leather boots. There’s mud on them,
just a touch, stuck in the seam and in the diamond-patterned treads.

“Good morning Son,” Lucius says as Draco climbs into his chair - rich mahogany hardwood
frame and tufted, white velvet padding. It feels a little absurd, three sitting at a table that
could easily sit ten. But Draco supposes it’s better than sitting in one of the others.
His mind flicks to the green dining room. It’s long, extravagant, black-wood table, meant to
seat at least thirty, with a thick, glossy lacquer- The cold corpse of his professor thudding
onto it-

Narcissa is still leaning slightly toward Lucius. Her elegant hand keeping hold of his
unmoving wrist. The window behind her brightens as a cloud pulls itself out of the way of the
morning sun. Draco's eyes blink to adjust. When they do, Narcissa is sitting up perfectly
straight. Perfectly manicured fingers delicate in their hold on her morning coffee.

Lucius ignores his own tall mug of tea, taking the already slightly wrinkled newspaper —
clearly having been opened and shut several times already—, and opens it. Drawing it up
over himself like a curtain, Or maybe a wall.
If nothing else, it adds distance. Exacerbating the line between himself and his wife.

Draco keeps a keen eye to his father’s posture. He’d learned after a time, that his father was
an exemplary actor in most aspects, but his stress-tells seemed to carry by his spine.

Draco doesn’t have to wonder why he does it.

He can see from the pallor of his father’s hands that he’d been drinking last night; possibly a
heavy night cap after they’d returned, possibly more. Either way, it had been enough to make
him regret it.
Sobriety potions always drew blood away from the extremities and into the core, to help keep
the person more alert as the potion worked through eating up all the alcohol left in one’s
system. Another thing a young Draco Malfoy had no reason to know of yet - adding that to
the extensive list of reasons he doesn’t deign to bring it up.

“Good morning darling,” Mother dotes gently, her eyes are careful, more prominent with her
hair pulled to a clean chignon; secured with a golden claw clip. “How did you sleep?"

Food appears before them with perfect timing. His father’s sunny-side eggs with sausage, his
mother’s whole-wheat toast with a fruit cup, Draco’s oatmeal, with a side of toast with jam,
and a glass of milk.

“Well enough,” Draco comments slowly. Keeping his voice low and careful.
He doesn’t yet know how to interact with this Lucius.

The Draco Malfoy of his youth has yet to be humbled to the point of silence; but Draco
doesn’t have quite the energy to ponce about being the ‘pureblood heir’.
He hopes they can settle for ‘half-awake teen’.

Narcissa leans over by Lucius’s shoulder, a barely half-degree lean, feigning interest over
something in the paper. They share a brief look behind the newspaper-partition that Draco
pretends not to notice. Engaging in one-way combat with his noxiously sweet, runny oatmeal
that had once been one of his favorite comfort foods.

The oatmeal wins.

He stomachs barely three bites before pushing it away. Plucking up his toast to munch on
instead. It’s weirdly soft - which Draco privately thinks might have to do with the fact that
it’s not been made in a toaster, like he’s used to. It’s been made in a pan.
He eats the weirdly soft toast anyway, and ignores the small porcelain pot of jam.

It’s… alright for a breakfast. The milk has calcium, and the toast will be fine for carbs. But
the lack of protein is slightly depressing-

“Draco darling, are you feeling alright?”

Mother is fastening him with those worried eyes; Father not too far behind; even if he tucks
himself tighter behind his newspaper when Draco looks up.

Shit.
“Hm?” He deigns. Straightening slightly - only to realize he wasn’t nearly as slumped as he’d
thought. Meaning now he was sitting like his spine was replaced with iron — Narcissa
frowns gently.

“You haven’t touched your oatmeal,” Mother says from across from him.
Nudging at his mostly full, shoved-away bowl with her clean fork, similar to the ways a
detective might nudge damning evidence they didn’t want to get finger prints on.
Ignoring the fact that her own plate was still full.

“I’m just tired,” Draco says. Taking, chewing and swallowing his bite of toast with dignity.
Or, as much dignity as a fifteen year old can achieve, fighting under the the conditioned
response a child has to the authority of a parent.

Narcissa's gaze softens immediately; but there’s something deeper in her gaze that Draco
can’t quite understand. Oh. Right. Draco Malfoy —the kid version— was a chatter box.
Couldn’t read a room if it came with subtitles. A three word answer simply wouldn’t do.

“Woke up early, 'had to work on my summer papers,” Draco continues. As if he had never
meant to stop.
“My Potions summer-work is distinctly more complex than usual. Nothing I can’t handle of
course, but still,” he says with a short laugh. Watching the tension bleed out from his parents
shoulders the more he talks. Slowly beginning to start eating in earnest, rather than simply
picking at their plates. Even if his Mother still has that crease in her brow, her worry still a
small, but physical weight on her.

He’s reminded rather suddenly of Jack. The way he’d talk and talk; filling the oppressive
silence. Make everything better by, at the very least, making it less quiet-

He ignores the soul-soaking wave of mourning that washes its way over him in a short, cold
swell. He’s used to this.
He redirects anyway.

“Speaking of: Have you heard anything from Severus recently? How is he?” Draco asks.
Taking two large bites of his toast. Decorum and pureblood training gets them to talk,
covering for Draco’s full mouth.

And breakfast passes... a bit smoother after that. It's not perfect. There's still a hundred things
that nobody is saying, and a thousand reasons they aren't saying it.
 But compared to what Draco would normally expect from breakfast with family, it's... nice.

Even if he can feel both his parents watching him throughout.

Chapter End Notes

6,675 words on this one! Next chapter is gonna be a little bit shorter - if only cause my
back is KILLING me xD

also a reminder that this fic is NOT BETA'd. So if there are plot holes, errors or
inconsistencies,,,,, sorry. (feel free to point them out but,,, be gentle w/ me :,( <3)
 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

POV SWITCH! Let's GOOOO!!

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Mornings were Narcissa’s favorite. As a child, she’d wake up sometimes even before the sun.
Relishing in the light. The peace that mornings brought.
As a child, after dinner had always been when things got… rowdiest after all. Andromeda
and Bellatrix getting loud with Mother—asking loudly why things mattered, why which
spoon goes where, and why they must wear skirts and sit a certain way—and then Mother
would scream and swear them all off—because women were meant to be seen not heard, and
why could none of them have been born a boy? Why did she not deserve a true heir? What
did she do to deserve this?—

And Narcissa would go to bed early, when she could. Because she learned quickly that
sometimes, just getting out of the way was the best option.
And then she’d wake up early in the morning and relish in the silence. It became a habit,
really. Waking up before the world.

When they’d first moved in together, Lucius had laughed over it. Lovingly curling into her
waist as she indulged in her morning coffee. He had never been a morning person, but he
would wake up when she moved. He’d try and barter her back into bed. Curling. Warm.
Calling her those stupid nicknames. Daffodil. Buttercup. Sunflower.

Daffodil had been the first he’d used. Toward the beginning of their… courtship; it had been
an awkward thing, trying desperately to scrounge romance from the awkwardness of a first
meeting that had also been an engagement proposal. They were barely out of school at the
time.
But he was so full of ambition, so driven and charming, he took it in stride. Took her hand
like it was his decision alone.

She couldn’t blame him, after all. It was a good nickname to pick, for someone you’d just
met. It wasn’t particularly creative, a simple syllogistic leap, but it was her namesake… kind
of.

Buttercup had come soon after. She suspected it was another attempt to connect, or perhaps it
was simply because Lucius had always liked to make people laugh. He enjoyed the benefits
of being well liked and influential, and reaped the rewards his connections created.
It always felt different with her, though. Perhaps for that very reason; there were no rewards
she could offer, no connections or influence. She was just… herself. And for some reason, he
treated her like that was a useful thing to be.
Like she was special.
It didn’t help how he said it. In that kind of saccharine, grandiloquent purr, the kind that was
so over the top that she couldn’t help her smile; hiding giggles in her hand or over the rim of
her champagne flute, if only at the sheer absurdity of it.
It had been nice; how big he’d smiled, the first time she’d let go enough to fully, really laugh.
Charming. Cute.

That was when Narcissa realized that she didn’t just have to marry this man. She could enjoy
his company as well. His friendship.
Maybe even eventually fall for him.

He was kind, if egoistic; And the fact that he was actively trying to court her, to flirt and
make sure she had fun, had some say in her life, was already more than she’d expected from
an arranged marriage. Especially because it wasn't necessary. She was already bought and
paid for, after all. And yet…

She realized a month later, when he’d send her pages upon pages of letters all talking about
his grand plans for the future, for the Malfoy name, for her and for them together—
And then finding buttercups, dried and hand-pressed into the pages; finding her eyes
lingering on the ‘we’ and ‘us’ among it all—that maybe she was already falling.

Sunflower came far later as a nickname. The first time Lucius had called her Sunflower was
the morning after they married. Waking up beside him. Dawn cresting up over the horizon.
It had been the first night that Narcissa had shared a bed since… hell, since childhood. Since
Andy or Bella would crawl in from a nightmare-

Narcissa hadn’t even realized she was crying, when he found her out on the balcony, the cool
morning wind tangling loose in her hair.

He didn’t ask why she was crying. He didn’t try to make her stop either. Just found a robe
and tucked it in on her shoulders to make sure she didn’t get cold.
She’d find out later Lucius had been… hurt, in that moment. Awkward too; he had no
siblings, he had never needed to comfort anyone, much less someone he assumed was crying
because she regretted their marriage—

But when the robe came around her shoulders, she’d leaned into his touch. To his warmth.
And it comforted her. Gave her the strength she needed to shutter the emotions back and
away.

It had taken a little while after that, but she’d explained why she was really crying. Confided
in him about her parents. Her sisters.
And he’d brought her back inside. They had breakfast; and Narcissa had been so cold from
the winds outside that she chose a chair at the table to his left, rather than facing him, so she
could sit in the patch of sun coming through the window—
And it was there, offering her a mug of coffee and a smile, that he called her Sunflower.

¶¶¶

Upon entering her garden that morning, Narcissa cannot help the thought. Of how her son
looks like a sunflower.

He’s turned, dressed in one of those outfits he seems to prefer these days. A loose, cream-
colored jumper tucked warmly over what looks like the under-gear of a quidditch training
outfit; dark green athletic fabric she recognizes from when he’d excitedly unwrapped it by
the Christmas tree.
He’s facing the sun. Soft blond hair caught like a ring of gold, fluttering like petals with the
wind.

The cold brings a dry flush to Draco’s joints. His knuckles and nose, the same way she knew
it did on his knees and elbows. And Narcissa is reminded of all those years that her little boy
would complain over it. Even if he didn’t seem bothered anymore.
Lucius disliked it as well, thought a flush on their skin was unsightly, that the leucistic pallor
was best when it was just that; white as porcelain, with no sign of life under it.

It never escaped Narcissa’s notice, how her stern husband’s voice would soften, using that as
an excuse to remind their son to wear a coat, to make sure he was kept warm. ‘For the sake of
the name you uphold, Draco’, he’d drawl, tucking a coat tighter over their son’s shoulders. At
which point Draco would pout, but under Lucius’s stare, he’d always give in.

It wasn’t often that Lucius asked things of Draco, which meant that whenever he did, Draco
would always agree.
That’s how Narcissa knew Draco loved Lucius as much as she did.

Draco twists from where he stands on the balcony, overlooking the open swath of garden.
Narcissa isn’t quite sure how he’d heard her, or noticed at all, as she’d only just pulled open
the door quietly to step out into the cool morning air.
She’s still at least fifteen feet away, and he’s surrounded by the loud rustle of the trees and
morning birds.

Maybe he’d been expecting her. It’s not as though she’s unpredictable, after all.

Draco smiles as she moves to join him by the railing of the balcony. He does that more
recently. Smiles easier.
It should feel nice to see him at such ease.
The air is cold and slightly damp with morning mist, carrying the smell of the gardens, of
damp sod and growth.

“Good morning, Mother,” he says, his voice like the wind and the trees around them. Rolling
over her skin and through the fabric of her dress.

The gusts pull a few locks of hair into his face, then away. And Narcissa—glad to have her
own hair already pulled out of the way in a bun—tamps down the urge to pull his hair back.
To style it out of his eyes, fuss over the thin threads of hair that dance over his forehead like a
gauzy curtain, even if they don’t seem to irritate him the way they used to.
She fights harder against the urge to cup his cheek and warm him from the frigid air
surrounding them. To usher him inside. Away from the cold cruel winds of the outside world.
Away from the cold that would soon swallow this garden, their home, in frost.

“Good morning,” Narcissa greets instead.

Then, after a long moment of breathing in the cold, fresh air, watching the flush over her
son’s cheeks and his sharp breathing:

“Are you feeling alright?” She asks gently.

He looks confused for a moment. Then realizes… something.

“Oh, yes. I just went for a run.”

A… run? A walk, she could understand; as a child Draco used to love maundering about the
estate. Even if his solivagant tendencies seemed to have faded in recent years.
A flight on his broom would be even more understandable, he’d loved being in the air.
But a run was… odd. Perhaps he was just preparing for the upcoming quidditch season? It
was less than a month until a new year at Hogwarts, after all. But that would make more
sense if he had gone for a flight…
No matter her internal debate on the topic, Narcissa knows better than to think she’ll get
answers through open queries; Draco is a lot like his father in that way.
So she simply hums and looks out over the garden.

Especially if it had anything to do with what she found in the forest, the morning after they
got back from Parkinson Manor.

Which reminds her; she has a letter to write.

“Do remember to keep warm, darling,” she hums. Watching her son.
She’s learned a lot in her time as a mother. She knows perfectly well that children go through
phases, that they get louder or quieter as they grow and change. And perhaps she could have
written this all off as such a phase, if not for…

A scintilla of something crosses Draco’s expression, but it’s gone before Narcissa can process
it. And then he’s smiling again. Not his normal one—but something softer. Clearer. Still
cagey, but… determined.

Narcissa once again resists the urge to pull him in, to bundle him up and lock him in a room
spelled with a million cushioning charms. Keep him safe, from all the young boy was surely
oblivious to. All that would become of this place. All that may become of him. And then,
once he was properly safe, maybe then he wouldn’t have to keep such secrets.

She knew that the Dark Lord’s rebirth would change things; it already had in a lot of ways.
But this plan…
In his place as the Dark Lord’s right hand, Lucius was his most trusted confidant. And
Narcissa’s position as Lucius’s wife meant that she was his.

Especially under the prospect of the Dark Lord living at the Manor. No matter how Lucius
insisted it would earn them favor, or that the Dark Lord would have to keep on the move. No
matter how ‘temporary’ Lucius insisted it must be. Because the world didn’t know about His
Revival yet. And keeping in one place for too long would be too suspicious. And the Dark
Lord had no intentions of being revealed yet.

The Dark Lord would be on his way to gift the next house with his honorable presence before
the year was out.

Narcissa doesn’t rebut her husband’s logic. She knows better.

She doesn’t ask what happens if the Dark Lord takes a shine to the Manor. Or its inhabitants,
and wishes to stay longer. Or what happens if, somehow, for whatever reason, the Dark Lord
is revealed. A smear campaign on Harry Potter, no matter how prolific, could only do so
much. Especially when there’s an unexplained body count to it.

Narcissa doesn’t speak any of these things.

She knows better.

It doesn’t stop her from thinking them.

“Mother,” Draco addresses. His voice is soothing like the rustle of the wind; wind that seems
to pause when he goes to speak. Like it, too, wants to hear.
The canopy of trees surrounding the garden is still, for a moment. Draco isn’t looking at her.
Watching the trees. The horizon; for what, Narcissa cannot know.

“It will be alright.”

His voice is knowing. Too knowing. Too self-assured and earnest.

The kind of tone that a less competent ear may think of as simply overzealous, thoughtlessly
confident.

Narcissa may not have much herself, but she knows what confidence is. She knows what it
looks like on different people.
She knows what it looks like on her son, and this isn’t it. At least, it’s not the preening, poised
pompousness he’d patterned off from his father. Too loose over his shoulders; far too broad
for him. Like when a seven-year-old Draco purloined his father’s coat and Narcissa had
found him posing with it in the mirror.

This isn’t confidence. It’s something else.

“Of course, it will,” Narcissa agrees, with all the confidence she doesn’t feel.

It’s easier to pretend to believe when someone else does. She’s reminded of Lucius’s own
infectious confidence. His grand plans.

The newly-created clearing in the forest, still buzzing with remnants of magic; familiar
magic.
Her son’s magic—twisted. Filled with hurt and pain and longing.

She’s reminded once more of the letter she has to write.

Breakfast would be soon, and Lucius would be expecting her before he headed out for the
day.
…Probably.

She reminds Draco of this, and he nods. He doesn’t move from the railing though.

The low lace hem of her dress lashes around her ankles as the wind picks up, it pushes rather
sharply against her as she retreats back inside. To her study.

Draco stays out in the open.

¶¶¶

Veela blood is a potent thing.

The Malfoy and the Black family lines are pure as can be. Pure in the modern terms of
marriage and conception from families in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and to anyone who
asked, that is the beginning and the end of it. The Malfoy line especially, with their pure
heritage reaching its roots as far back as the Witch Hunts.

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper - Purity Will Always Conquer

But underneath that, there’s a secondary reality. One far more ancient, one rooted far deeper
in the Black ancestral tree; following the term of ‘pure’, back when it meant not just Pure
Wixen blood, but Purely Magical blood.

Toujours Pur - Forever Pure

Narcissa had not thought to hope or pray, but in the current political climate; in the
temperamental political storm of her husband’s… associates, she likely should have. She
knew well, after all, that the Black family blood was not entirely human.
Even if it was entirely magical.
It was something she would have to hope for now, though. Hope and pray that however many
generations back it had been when the Black family had ceased their romping with magical
creatures, it would be enough.

But Veela blood is a potent thing.

Unlike Vampire blood, or Giant blood, or even Mer-blood, which's effects would dissipate to
near unnoticeably faint after three generations at the most; Veela blood is as potent as it is
stubborn. And continues to pop up beyond even the eighth generation. Sometimes even
skipping a few generations.

As it seems to have with Draco.

When Narcissa had come out with blonde hair and bright blue-grey eyes, her mother had
thought it a surefire sign of the Veela heritage presenting itself. After all, Mother and Father
both had dark hair, and so had Andy and Bella. The Black family was famous for it. And yet,
her fourteenth birthday had come and passed, and even though Narcissa had in most aspects,
been a bit of a late bloomer—at least compared to Bella, who had shot up like a beanstalk the
moment she turned thirteen and had her hips and bust filled out by fifteen, complaining
bitterly of it the whole time—it seemed the window for Narcissa's supposed Veela traits to…
Present, came and went.
It had taken up until she had turned seventeen for any of them to really, fully relax from it. To
believe that her blonde hair and faire skin and bright eyes had simply been a small genetic
leap, a bundle of non-dominant traits that all came together by coincidence, rather than being
a signifier for creature-blood presentation.
Mother insisted on Occlumency lessons anyway, just in case it came in late. But it never did.
No… issues, no allure, no pyromaniac tendencies; nary a feather in the wind.

When Draco was born with blond hair, silver eyes and faire skin, nobody batted an eye. Of
course they wouldn’t. He matched his parents in every way.

And Narcissa all but forgot about even the idea of Veela Blood or Presentation ever being a
worry. It honestly felt like something she had left behind in youth. Like playing dolls or
sneaking treats after dinner with Andy.

Seeing that crater in the woods had felt like a kick in the teeth—the idea that Draco, that her
son felt he had to hide such an outburst.

Realizing how much power had to be behind it, realizing that no normal fifteen-year-old boy,
no matter how talented, should be able to eviscerate a section of forest on a whim—

Realizing with the sight of the cauterized branches, that they weren’t cut, but burned.

The realization kicked the air out of her lungs; and Narcissa felt the bruising on her ribcage
every time she looked over at her little Draco, who had always been a poor liar, and saw him
just… smiling. Talking through breakfast. Acting totally normal… or as normal as he ever
was, these days.
The dirt from her excursion in the forest clings to her boots like physical sin.

And sure. It’s not as though he’s started suddenly sprouting feathers... but that much longing
in one’s magic; that aptitude for fire… It’s not something a well-oriented teenage boy should
be able to produce.

Not without something else afoot.

 But she is also not so presumptuous to assume her own tenuous grasp of Veela culture and
Presentation will be enough to aid her son. She needs someone who has had their wings in the
air, so to speak. Who could help this baby-bird to understand what's happening to him, to
nudge him out of the nest so he could get his feet under him, before Draco is sent off for
another year at Hogwarts.
A more terrified piece of her wants to bundle him up. Keep him safe. Lock him in his room
and never even let him see the train, because the idea of her young, impressionable, barely
post-pubescent son surrounded by teenagers. Scared and confused. Perhaps even unable to
contain or control his allure, makes Narcissa want to scream—

But screaming or panicking will not help him. And Narcissa can't very well keep Draco at the
Manor. Not with the Dark Lord coming through—

She takes a deep breath, hand clenching around the delicate calamus of her white-peacock
quill, the other flat on her mahogany desk.
One thing at a time.

She herself will be able to aid him in building mental walls, beginning at least some training
in Occlumency.
So for now, all she needs is someone to handle his creature-elements. To teach him what he
needs to know to contain this piece of himself, and to aid him with whatever pains caused
his... outburst, so he does not hurt himself, or find himself in a position to repeat it.

It's with that surety that Narcissa does something she does not often do.

She dips her quill in ink, pulls a fine sheet of vellum from her desk drawer, and calls in a
favor.

Chapter End Notes

A huge, gigantic thank you to my new (and first) Beta, Puncertainty <3 ily
 Chapter 9

With what Draco has mentally been calling the ‘Parkinson Party’ on Friday, three days later,
it ends up being Monday. And Draco is becoming bluntly aware of the fact that the concept
of a 'Monday' is supposed to mean something to him. Shocking as it may seem, weekdays
and the deliberate impropriety therein, stopped mattering quite as much in his future.
Probably something to do with his life sentence.
And yet it seems to be another one of those things that other people think he should care
about, and thus, he has to at least put up a front of such.

Still, it’s clumsy feet that fall back into the rhythms of a life mid-living, and he spends a lot
of time stumbling over the expectation to hit the ground waltzing. Into schedules he very
faintly recalls. Into the boring, homey slivers of a life that had once been his.

He has schoolwork tutoring on Mondays, etiquette and French lessons on Wednesdays, and
review on Fridays. It’s a light schedule, but with only a few weeks between him and
Hogwarts, and little further progress on his ward project, any disruption in his research —
particularly as it interferes with his severely limited freedom— is far more than he’d like.
But he also knows, within that timeframe, he's going to need the review; lest his teachers
begin to question things when one of their star students returns from break and suddenly
starts bombing tests left and right.

And sure, maybe he's being pessimistic. He knows at least in the practical—lumos, accio,
delicate transfiguration, defensive and offensive spellwork, potions (healing or calming
specifically), certain curses—he'll be fine. Perhaps even great; given his lifetime of practice
pre-Azkaban.

The history of Goblin Wars, however, was certainly not a practical thing. And thus,
something he was rather completely, ludicrously lost on.
A fact that Draco's primary schoolwork tutor, a stout, brunette man in his mid-thirties who
insists Draco call him by his first name—though Draco cannot understand why anyone with
the name ‘Conrad’ would want such a thing—is probably going to be tugging his hair out on
his way home, baffled by how much progress Draco has suddenly and inexplicably lost.

And no matter how grateful Draco forces himself to be for the help, he can't help the guilty
tugs on his own perfectionist complex when he fails to answer a question - or the mild tug of
magic he has to stifle, as he's realizing accompanies having much of any strong emotion these
days.

Draco does take solace in the fact that there is little to no risk of his parents finding out about
his... unfortunate knowledge slip, however.

Because if Draco is suddenly, for some reason, failing, it’s almost certain that his parents will
take that failure out on his tutor. And it’s not like he's going to report out of some moral
query either. His tutors are hand-picked and well paid to get him in shape as Pureblood Heir,
not to care about him as a person. At one point this may have been a disheartening
realization; now, Draco could not be more pleased.

¶¶¶

A throwing knife flies out of Draco's grip-

And thuds handle first into the side of a tree - and not even the tree he was aiming for.
Draco bites in a groan. His jacket long shed and pooled beside him and athletic clothes
clinging to his skin by the adhesive of a thin sheen of sweat.

The early evening sky is a slowly dimming grey above him, and the air has that familiar
sharpness to it, like it always does just before it rains. The wind a gentle coolness over the
heated skin of his arms, sore from his stubborn failures at self-taught, non-magical self-
defense. Having run out of throwing knives—and honestly, whoever thought that six was
enough was quite a fool. Honestly. Even in a purely decorative set, what use could just six
knives have?— Draco is forced to go and collect them off the dirt, thankful that the small,
emerald and moonstone embossed handles and balanced, silver blades are at least obvious
amongst black mulch.

Six in the set, and not a single one actually in his target.
But most of them are at least near to his target—a particularly wide, soft-barked oak tree—
which is better than how he’d started. And any progress is still progress; even if he had
loosely hoped to at least have gotten just one of the blades in.

Alas, success, aside from in an academic sense, was never something Draco had in
abundance; yet one more thing that had not changed over his odyssey.
A fact that was now abetted by how sincerely this body is not at all suitable for martial arts.
Or throwing a punch. Or seemingly doing anything other than being a snotty prick with
daddy issues.

Then again, Draco’s still got those daddy issues under his belt, so he supposes not everything
has changed.

That’s not to say that this body is particularly out of shape—despite what many rumors had
told, he worked his arse off to keep up with his quidditch team—just that it’s in no shape for
what he needs it to be. He’s lean; which makes him light, makes him good on a broom. He’s
got good enough balance and a strong core; good grip strength too. But it seems that, when it
comes down to throwing a punch? To fisticuffs?
In any real scenario, he’d be on the floor before he could even try.

And really, with his magic situation as temperamental as it is—which he figures really was a
rather predictable outcome, what with his whole consciousness and magical core seeming to
have landed basically on top of the partially developed mind and magic that was already here
—Draco doesn’t particularly feel like risking it.

Which is part of why he thought throwing knives might be a reasonable substitute. It’s a
distance weapon, requiring impeccable reflexes and a stomach for blood; both of which
leaned into his strengths damn well. Hypothetically of course.

Reality, of course, is a lot less straightforward.

“Draco?”

The voice is faint, calling from the garden. He can see Narcissa’s small figure between the
leaves. There’s someone next to her.

“Draco dear,” she calls out again, slightly louder. Aided by a charm, most likely; which
meant he only had so much time until she started searching. “Come inside! It’s bound to rain
soon.”

“Coming!” Draco calls back. He quickly throws the set of knives into their box, and taps the
side—the built-in shrinking charm making it no bigger than his palm.
Draco shoves it into his coat pocket beside his wand as he throws it on.
A short gust of wind carries fallen leaves, skittering across the mulch. Like little creatures
trying to lead him on the right path. And Draco follows obediently, trotting the familiar path
in the brush and out to the other side.

The slowly setting sun casts long shadows across the yard, behind the shelter of the trellises
and tall plants and garden beds. The haze of an oncoming storm brings inky clouds floating
across a fading red-orange horizon.
Narcissa is standing by the gate when he arrives, haloed by her own hard work, healthy
leaves and hand-tended flora.

It should seem peaceful. Her charcoal grey dress moves, dancing in the drift of wind that
seems to always follow her, even if the rest of her is as still and cold as a porcelain doll. Her
eyes are glassy like that too, unfocused and a bit too round.
Her guest is just a few steps behind her.

“Mother, Madame Delacour,” he greets, eyebrows raised as the woman neatly glides from the
stairs off the side of the balcony, down among the garden itself. “…What a… pleasant
surprise,” Draco says, swallowing slightly.
This certainly hadn’t happened the last go around.

The old, well-maintained wrought-iron gate swings open soundlessly in his presence. He
walks through, feet finding the cobblestone path on muscle memory, avoiding cracks that
have yet to cut and overgrown roots that have yet to sprout.

“Young Monsieur Malfoy,” Madame Delacour greets with an oddly warm smile, floating past
his mother to greet him more personally.

“It iz good to’ zee you.”

She’s a tall, older woman, lean and golden-blonde with ocean blue eyes, complemented by
her sea-foam green, a-line dress.
She’s ostentatiously beautiful, of course, as her half-Veela heritage would substantiate; the
faint silvery aura she exudes lighting up the garden around her.
She extends her hand, Draco lifts and kisses her knuckles without a thought.

“So ‘ery polite,” Madame Delacour compliments.

He wonders how much of it is Veela instinct that makes her voice go all… soft, and how
much is, like his mother, simply patricianly practice.

Narcissa nods, a refined, mute movement.

“V’ill ‘e be joining uz for dínner?” Madame Delacour purrs. Her soft, lithe hand, still warm
in his… but she’s steady. Like she’s waiting for something.

Narcissa waits with her for a long moment.

Both sets of eyes slide over the scenery, then sit and linger on him. Draco wonders, mildly, if
he’s fucked up already.
He realizes Madame Delacour’s hand is still in his. But …he can’t really help it. The warm
feeling of Madame Delacour’s hand—of her focus—it’s warm, soft, and calming...

And then Madame Delacour just titters, an oddly affectionate sound for a stranger. His
mother says something to Madame Delacour, but it’s hard to hear. Maybe because his head
feels so… unfocused. Maybe because they might be conversing in French and his abilities are
rusty—

Something about the whole situation is off-putting. And it doesn’t help that he can’t seem to
think straight enough to place why.

Madame Delacour’s hand slips out from his and he misses it immediately. The weight and the
warmth leave an imprint, a hollowness as they leave.
Both Narcissa and Madame Delcour both take to the stairs, leading the way back into the
house.

Draco has the rather odd urge to skip ahead of them, to open the door for them.
The house senses his mother, and swings the door open for them before he can.

The warm air of the house is a harsh contrast to the biting cold of the growing evening
outside, but Draco can’t really feel it.

“‘Ow a’re you feeling, Young Monsieur Malfoy?” Madame Delacour asks. His mother
hovers beside the woman like a strained shadow. Draco’s head feels fuzzy. His hands are
shaking, and he’s not really sure why-
He looks up.

Their eyes lock. And Delacour’s, sweeping, oceanic blue seems to pull him in like a tide;
almost glowing. And that silvery softness amplifies.
And she smiles at him.

Draco can’t help but preen at the idea. Swimming in the implied praise of her soft, sweet
grin-

Nausea hits in a sudden, jagged burst.

And Draco suddenly feels trapped. Horribly trapped under her drowning eyes- like he’s
underwater and has suddenly realized he has no guarantee of surfacing.

His lungs burn- he feels lost and cold and not in control-

The door behind him swings open. A heavy gust of wind from outside, slamming it on its
hinges. Draco gasps into the feeling of air.
Madame Delacour jolts at the sound. Draco takes the opportunity and drags himself half a
step backward. His stomach lurches.

His body feels like it’s buzzing, breathing still shallow, but filling his chest fully anyway-
adrenaline kicks-

He doesn’t even realize he’s back over to the door until the handle is in his grasp. Cold metal
warping under his grip.
He needs to get out, get away–

“Draco?! Darling are you alright?” Narcissa’s voice once again cuts through it all, or perhaps
his mind is still seeking her out. Always searching for her.
Fury and adrenaline ball in his chest, spreading down his arms. Another presence pulls up
behind him. He pulls away just as they try to grab-

“Get the hell away from me.” Draco spits.

His free-hand shakes, but the one holding his wand up to Delacour’s neck is dangerously still.

He’s not sure exactly when he pulled it out, but the weight of it in his hand is a comfort
nonetheless. His magic sparks and stings in his veins.
He visualizes every spell he could cast. Envisions slashing her arms off. Summoning a liter of
water directly into her lungs. Plucking her eyes from her skull or just swelling them until they
pop.
He has no idea how using his wand will affect any of the spells. How this new surplus of
power will change things.

He itches to try.

“Draco,” Narcissa whispers, her face a familiar torn expression and her voice a sharp plea,
“put your wand away.”

Delacour looks… different, somehow. Eyes wide and shoulders tense. Gaze flicking between
Draco and Narcissa. Waiting. Her silvery aura is gone.

The tenseness. The fear. It makes her look… More human, in a way.

“She used her Allure on me,” Draco snarls. His magic is still sizzling under his skin. Aching
for escape, for action, for blood.

Narcissa doesn’t speak for a moment.

Draco doesn’t move.

They stay in that locked stance for a good, long second. And Draco is becoming less sure by
the second that it’s disbelief or shock that has his mother so still and silent.
Delacour, for all her faults, at least seems to have the good sense to keep still and silent.

“I know she did,” Narcissa says slowly.

She looks like she wants to add to the thought, for a moment. But her jaw just clicks shut.
Silence.

Draco’s heart sinks ever so slightly, as does the arm holding his wand.
The feeling of betrayal is a bitter taste, but one he’s learned to stomach, over so many years
of choking it down.

He twists back to Madame Delacour. She doesn’t look so afraid now. Just… curious.

“If you know what is good for you, you will not do it again.” Draco says finally, in a cold,
clipped tone. It comes out weaker than he wants it to, magic still a sore ache through his
whole body.
He ignores it and shoves his wand back into his pocket. His mother stays silent.

He barely makes it three steps before Delacour speaks up.

“Your mother… She iz only try’ng to ‘elp you, you know.”

The words feel like he’s being pulled taught; enough that every inch of skin, every piece of
matter in him is stretched thin enough to tear open.

Draco keeps walking.

¶¶¶

Draco can feel the rain on his bones. Rain from the sky. Rain like the space above has opened
up—has cracked open and is bleeding onto the earth.
The world is black with ash. It makes muddy rivers of darkness that carry over his soaked
shoes and the bones of his feet; that stick to the cuffs of his trousers.

That clot like blood.

Fire crackles and spits from where the rain pours down onto it. Smoke, heavy and thick,
billows around him and up toward the sky. He went farther out this time; deep, deep into the
forest surrounding the property, enough to be sure he wouldn’t be followed.
Draco half expects someone to follow it nonetheless. Trail the smoke like a signal and trace it
back and find him at the base.

Nobody does.

¶¶¶

Despite spending a long time debating if he should just skip dinner entirely; he ends up there
anyway.
Perhaps it’s curiosity that keeps bringing Draco back into painful situations.

Perhaps it’s just a habit.

His hair is slick with rainwater, droplets rolling down his neck. Soaking into his blazer and
making the collar of his button-up stick to his neck.
He’d changed once he returned back inside, but his skin still feels stiff from the rain, and
there’s hints of dried mud under his nails, brown against pink nail beds. Hands pressed flat on
the long white tablecloth of the dining-room table, as he takes his seat.

Narcissa and Delacour are sat next to each other, on the opposite side of the table. Closer than
necessary, and Draco can only assume that has to do with the poignant silence that fell into
place upon his arrival. The head chair is left empty.

Delacour looks between him and his mother with an… odd expression. Like she’s trying to
figure something out. Like she’s searching.

“Glad v’ou could join uz,” Delacour greets. Her voice no longer holds the same… odd, over-
familiar warmth it did in the garden, but then again, Draco did threaten her at wand point.
So… fair.

Draco kind of expected… well he’s not sure what he expected; but everyone—not even just
his Narcissa, but Delacour as well—brushing his little tantrum under the rug… isn’t quite it.

Then again, for a Young Draco Malfoy, it’s not out of character. In fact, given the fact he
didn’t openly spit abuse at anyone, use a slur or actively get into a fight—despite his clear
attempts… it’s pretty gentle of an outburst.
Draco is once again filled with regret for the person he used to be, that open threats were
basically expected of him–
“Draco, I…” Narcissa stops.

Draco’s brow twitches. His mother is an erudite woman, not often at a loss for words.
It feels almost physically wrong, seeing her like this. It reminds him horribly of how she’d
become in later years of the war. So quiet and reserved.

“I’m sorry.” Draco really doesn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t even think. He just wants his
mother to… he’s not even sure what. He wants her to feel better? To tell him its alright?
Or maybe to just to stop looking so… tired.

Narcissa and Delacour look up at him. There’s no obvious shock, no gaping mouths or wide
eyes—but just the look is enough to convey that he’s done something unexpected.
She deserves better than this.

“Draco… Darling,” Narcissa mutters, quiet, gentle. The rain patters on the glass outside. “It’s
not your fault. I should have asked you first—communicated clearer.”
Narcissa lifts her hand to rest it on the table. Draco wants more than anything to reach out
and hold it.

There’s an odd sense of poetry in the distance that the dining table forces, he supposes. A
man-made obstruction keeping people apart.
Or maybe he just wants there to be poetry, so there’s something pretty that can come out of
all this pain.

Whatever Delacour had been looking for, she seems to have found it. She offers a slow sigh.
“I know z’is must all be so… confuzing, to you. It only makes senz’e that v’ou would… lash
out.”

She’s right, at least. Draco is confused.

But mostly because he still doesn’t quite understand why she’s here.

Narcissa looks like she’s about to speak up again-

In the foyer the floo flares to life.

The sound is unmistakable.
As is the step-step-click of his father and his cane.

Narcissa stiffens, just slight enough that even she may not have noticed – and Draco is once
again both awed and appalled by the ease with which Lucius puts weight into his mother’s
shoulders, without even touching her.
Narcissa looks at Delacour—

“Narcissa?” Lucius calls into the quiet.

His voice is—unusual. Not the normal strong, calculating one Draco is used to, nor the soft
one he usually addresses his mother with.
This is bad.

Narcissa’s left hand balls loosely on the table, her ring glinting in the warm dining room
light.
It’s a short walk, coming from the floo to the dining room. Not nearly enough time - and yet
still, the bare few seconds seem to drag out into a short eternity of dread.

“We’re in the dining room,” Narcissa calls back, quieter. Tense.

Delacour looks… curious. Sharp.

Prepared, but probably not enough.

The door brushes open; and Lucius looks—well he doesn’t look particularly pleased. His
shoulders are hunched and his jaw tight, like he’s carried the storm inside with him.

His eyes catch Draco. Then Delacour. His words stopping before they begin, and jaw clicking
shut with a simple:

“Oh.”
He draws himself up, tall and sharp. A motion so clean it feels easier to believe that seeing
him just a half second ago, slumped or vulnerable, had been nothing more than a trick of the
light.

“Narcissa,” He addresses formally, “you didn’t inform me we would be having… company.”

His eyes lock on Delacour, narrowing. Nose wrinkling as if smelling something particularly
foul.
“Z’at would be because you do not,” she says. Standing, her grace unimpugnable as she
smooths out her sea-foam dress for invisible wrinkles.
“Z’ank you, again, for z’e ‘ospitality, Mrs. Malfoy.” She nods.

With only a slight pause, Narcissa breaks from looking at Lucius to nod back.
And Lucius’s eyes narrow-

The tension in the room rises. A stiff, shallow cold that soaks more thoroughly than rain
could ever even hope to-

And, well, Draco never had been a brave man.

“Madame Delacour,” Draco says quickly, “would you like me to walk you to the floo?”

“Absolutely not,” Lucius forbids abruptly. It’s not a yell, not even really an order. Just a cold,
sharp tone—

Narcissa levels him a truly deadly glare; and shockingly enough, his jaw clicks shut.

Narcissa waves her hand.

“Go.”

And neither Draco nor Delacour—no matter how her face contorts with fury—have to be told
twice. Or maybe Delacour would have.
Draco doesn’t exactly give her an option though. Thoughtlessly grabbing her wrist and
pulling her out of the room.

Delacour yanks her wrist out from his grip just as they get over the threshold. Face twisting
with birdlike sharpness and ill-concealed anger.

“You v’ill not grab me!” She exclaims with a jagged hiss.

Draco doesn’t pay her any mind. Just tugging the door tightly closed—just in time for the
muffled sound of an argument to begin.

Wonderful.
“Lucius, please, I—”

“Explain yourself, Narcissa. Why in Merlin’s name was there a half-beast, in my dining
room. Staring down my son?!"

“Hal’v beast?!” Delacour snipes—looking practically ready to storm back through—

And Draco grabs her wrist again.

“Nope. No.”

Thankfully, the swallowing cold of a silencing charm cascades over the door. Draco doesn’t
know whether it was his parents or him- he really doesn't care either.

“Un-hand me—”

Draco can feel her puffing up and bristling behind him as he pulls her forward. Honestly, if
she actually meant it, he was sure she would have already found a way out of his grip; so
really, she must just want to complain.

“I s’ould ‘ave known, v’hy are all you purebloods at z’e same. Biggoted—”

They get to the Floo.

Thunder cracks outside, rain pounds on the glass.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Draco interrupts. Finally letting go of her.

And Delacour startles—evaluating—faltering, for some reason.

Draco pushes in the opening. He twists and grabs for the decorative bowl of floo powder off
the mantle.

“I have no idea why my mother thought it was a good idea to bring you here. And my Father
—honestly I agree. He’s being a racist piece of shit; so just—just go home. And for the
approximate nothing I'm sure it’s worth: I'm sorry you spent how ever long you've been here,
dealing with this shit.”

She’s still silent. It’s honestly getting pretty uncomfortable, the way she just… stares at him.
And Draco’s never been very good at this shit anyway. So he just holds the bowl out toward
her.
The hallway is quiet. So quiet. And Draco feels idly glad it’s raining, if only because it’s
something.
His collar is still damp, sticking to his skin.

An uncomfortable something bristles under his skin as her eyes linger. He feels like he’s
being dissected under her gaze—

He pushes the bowl toward her again.

She doesn’t even pretend to look at it; but she does finally speak.

“You do not know?”

“...That my father is a prat? Of course I do.”

Somehow, that spurns a laugh. A terse, yet urbane sound.

Delacour’s eyes trace back toward the hallway, toward where the dining room is. Just for a
moment.

“No… you do not know v’hy… v’hy your mother asked me here.”

Draco had been stared at far worse before. As a war criminal and a murderer; even when he
was a kid, when he was the Slytherin Prince and Heir to the prodigious Malfoy name. He was
used to staring.
But back then, in what felt like a past life, he’d known why they were staring. Now… now he
didn’t.
And that was truly a petrifying unknown.

And then she smiles; well it’s not really a smile, but a… softness. She loses those angry
edges in favor of a… a certain level of confusing not-quite fondness that feels mostly like
pity.
“You really are z’omething else, Draco Malfoy.” Madame Delacour looks down at him, her
eyes are… soft with condolence. Draco’s stomach twists, his fingers tighten on the crystal
bowl. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not many v’ould rizk standing up to a fully grown V’eela. Especially not a fledgling.
Inz’tinct alone v’ould prevent z’at.”

Draco blinks.

A… fledgling? What?

A particularly loud rush of rain hits the window panes; the storm doing its best to find its way
inside.

“Your mother brought me ‘ere to… evaluate v’ou for z’uch. I can see now zat v’ou are not…
emerging, az’ your mother in’zists.”

Draco’s brain short circuits.

As his mother…
What?

“You are… powerful z’ough,” Delacour continues, “e’zpecially if ze story of ze crater v’ou
made in ze forest is true.”

And all of the puzzle pieces come together as Draco slams into the bottom of the rabbit hole.
His mother thinks he’s a Veela. She saw the crater he made in the forest; a crater he made
with fire. Madame Delacour was there because his mother wanted—what, to make sure? Or
maybe she just didn’t know what to do with an angst-filled child coming into a creature
inheritance?

Either one made sense. And sure, there were professionals in this area. But being formally
diagnosed would by law, become a permanent alteration on his medical file, and therefore a
heavy stain on the only heir to the Malfoy name.
Dangerous if it turns out to be true. Even more dangerous if word gets out.

But if his mother finds out he’s not a veela—that would be even worse. At least if she
assumes she has things figured out, she won't poke around too much… plus, it’s not the worst
cover in the world…
“No… v’ou are some’ting elze. Some’ting elze entirely.”

Delacour already knows. She knows-

Panic blurs the edges of his vision.

Blood rushes in his ears.

“Look, Madame Delacour,” Draco says, his mouth suddenly dry, but decision made.
His magic, however, doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Burning under his skin. Sizzling,
wanting out out out-

“You can’t tell anyone-“

“I v’ill not.” Delacour assures, and there’s such a solidarity to the tone. A strength, that
Draco… really isn’t sure how to compute.

Draco swallows. It’s all he can do to keep his magic at bay. Burning in his veins.
She finally steps up toward the floo.

“V’at ever you are, I v’ant no part in it. I came to evaluate v’ou az a favor to v’our mother,”
she stands up tall; her full height, her power making the world around her hum silver. “My
debt iz now repaid; and I hav’e little interest in ze…”—she gestures faintly, eyes narrow and
lip curled in distaste—“ze certain position,” she concludes, “v’our family takes, in v’at is to
come.”

Draco nods, sharp and jagged.

She softens again, in a way Draco is growing to hate.

“Z’ough… it must be ‘erry dangerous v’or you, if you v’ant to pretend to be a Veela.”
She gestures to the other room with a clement nod of her head.

“Ezpecially giv’n ze… opinions, your Father ‘az.”

Draco says nothing. He just pushes forward the decorative crystal bowl of floo powder one
more time. She reaches out—

And ignores it again. Instead, patting him gently on the head.

Her hand is warm and delicate. Draco hates the ease at which it lifts pressure from his
shoulders. The world feels… lighter. Warmer, for just a moment. A tiny sliver of respite.

“Be safe, petit feu,”—she ruffles his hair slightly, then steps backward. Fully into the floo
—“I do not expect v’e will meet again,” Madame Delacour says, before scooping a handful
of the powder. And Draco wishes he could say otherwise; but really, it is for the best.

Flashes of the cellars fill his mind; and he shuts them down just as fast.
So Draco just nods.

Madame Delacour’s lips twitch up in another not-really-smile.

And in a puff of smoke… she’s gone.

¶¶¶

Draco focuses hard on the spray of water as it comes to life, the tactile sensation of heat
rolling over his outstretched palm.
The shower of his ensuite bathroom is ostentatiously large, with polished marble tiling and
little inset shelf-nooks to store his soaps.
It’s just the sound of the shower in the room. The hiss of hot water. The heavy smell of steam.
He inhales it, savoring the weight in his lungs, and exhales; like he’s trying to exhale his
exhaustion itself. Pull it out of him.

His clothes land in a heap on the ensuite floor, and he leaves them there.
He tries his best not to focus on his reflection as he passes it in the mirror, even smeared and
clouded as the steam. He catches a glimpse anyway.

Blank inner forearms. Barely any scars; certainly none prominent. Enough flesh to hide his
bones. Muscle and blank skin and even a slight amount of chub, something between leftover
baby fat and a share of epicurean indulgence.
He looks... healthy, if a bit tired.
He recalls the map of scars on pale skin, his prominent ribs bobbing with his breath. Even his
skin growing thin and taught over his mostly visible skeleton.

He wonders if this is how it feels, when a Phoenix dies and is reborn. Does it know what’s
happening? Is it just as afraid? Does it know it will be reborn? Or does it just accept death,
close its eyes… and then wake up anyway.
Or, more accurately, is this how it feels when a snake sheds off its outer skin? Sloughing off
the years and the scars until it’s something raw, still pink and soft around the edges. So
untouched.

It certainly feels like it. Like he’s something not meant to be seen.

He feels like he’s reverted to something so much rawer than he is. Like he’s been stripped of
his skin. Nerves so close to the surface that even the gentlest touch hurts. And now he’s just
flesh and bones in the pouring rain.

It’s still raining outside, and he wonders idly which storm will clear first. The one outside, or
one making its way within.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Once again - an INSANELY HUGE THANK YOU to my beta Puncertainty, who helped
get me back on the horse once more!!

Also feel free to come poke me on my Tumblr

Nearly a week after Delacour’s visit, and what Draco is realizing were many hours somewhat
wasted in the only semi-charted tundra of the Malfoy family library… Draco is realizing,
among many other things, that 1995 might just have been the absolute worst year for him to
be dropped into.
Specifically because… he has no real, strong plan of action here.

If he had been dropped, perhaps somewhere in ‘91, he likely could nearly start over anew.
Sure, being eleven again would have sucked—and he can’t even imagine trying to conduct
himself as if he were still such a petulant little child—… but he would have had a plan of
action. He probably could have at least nudged his family closer to the light, made friends
with Potter and his… pals—

Or, more likely, just not made them his enemies. Kept his head down and generally been less
of an obnoxious ponce. Maybe even played nice with Dumbledore —and perhaps Lupin as
well, if it came to it— so as to assure he made no enemies in the Order.

(From a practical standpoint, playing nice is a strategy he’s going to have to employ anyway.
No matter his significant doubts toward its probable success. Because all signs point to
Dumbledore having some knowledge of the Horcruxes. And if there’s any shot of destroying
them… Draco’s gonna need that information.)

Really, if he had been transported anywhere before ‘94, as the Resistance planned he would ,
he’d have a good bit more to work with.
Because as a very, very minimal bottom line: he could have made sure Voldemort didn’t
return from the dead.

Oddly… It's similar to if he had been taken to '96 or later. At least in the fact that the decision
would be similarly clear.

It’d be a firefight as soon as he put anything even remotely anti-Voldemort into motion, of
course. A bloody and complicated one where he’d basically be immediately out in the open
with no one to trust on either side of the war… And sure, it would be positively awful; but up
until less than a week ago, he’d been in Azkaban.

There’s only so much worse things can get from there.

A part of him is almost confident he’d be more comfortable like that. On the run. Ready to
die. That was a headspace he knew how to operate under.

But 1995 was— is, he reminds himself— a year predominantly defined by poor attempts at
subterfuge on both sides, and heavy-handed stalemates. A year less defined by what
happened, and more what… didn’t.
And therefore, ‘95 was, by his recollection, an awkward middle-ground.

The Dark Lord had returned, but the Malfoy’s were currently just-favorable enough to stay…
mostly under the radar. The Order of the Phoenix was just regrouping its forces to fight His
return, and the Ministry was doing a dandy job at pretending nothing was wrong at all, and
shoving their heads so far in the sand they choke.

Which should mean he has options. It should mean he has choices. Freedom.

But, in reality—and just like always— the illusion of choice cleaves Draco in half, making
his already thin resources and planning even more limited.
Meaning his energy will be fractured; just like his chances of success.

And where does that leave him now?

Well, in the abstract, it leaves him with very little of a plan.

And in the practical… it leaves him at the dinner table. Narcissa and Lucius both sitting stiff
in their seats. Newspaper once again drawn up in the choleric air between them.

A younger version of himself might have thought his parent’s stubbornness would, just like
the storm outside, flush and flood and rage hell, but inevitably clear before long.
But this Draco spent years learning, in a practical sense, all about storms. How easily even a
mist of water through cell bars can sap your body-heat. How similarly icy and unforgiving
hard cobblestone could be. Years of knowledge and experience, which all tell him —by the
heft and smell of the air, by the way both the moisture and the tension clings to his skin,
sapping his warmth and his energy so easily— that this is a storm that won’t pass so easily.

And as anticipated, even dinner refuses to pass kindly.

Now, Lucius and Narcissa’s fighting wasn’t particularly pleasant in it’s hay-day, but it wasn’t
usually too… awful. His father, despite all Draco knew of him in future, was not one to grow
physical in his displeasure.
Not with his wife, anyway.

The awful part was the growing, toilsome litany of non-subtle looks that, oddly enough, they
were both sending…. him. Specifically when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. Mother
in her usual cocktail of concern and weariness, and Father with something… else. Something
almost curious.
Because they weren’t talking to each other, that meant all eyes on him.

And back in the past, that had been almost the opposite of a problem. His parents were busy,
powerful, influential people who had very little free time. And he was a little attention-hog.

Nowadays? He’d kind of rather put knives through his hands than have both his parent’s
undivided attention.
Which, over the last five days… he’s been able to avoid, for the most part. Both due to their
…rather fruitful social schedules, and his own long-earned skill in dodging human
interaction; particularly using the sheer size of the Manor to his advantage. Which really just
meant any unoccupied time his parents may be home—not scheduled with tutors or on meals
—holed away in the corners of guest rooms, or music rooms, or, on occasion, even the odd
closet or shallowly stocked potions cupboard.

The sound of rain and the chirp of cutlery on dishware presses down, and yet, the heavy
mahogany dining room table does not creak.

Draco stares down at his plate of rubbery, salty filet mignon.

Under the thin camouflage of his paper, Lucius stares.

…Unease swirls in Draco’s stomach.

It’s hard to tell how much was divulged during their argument, after Draco led Delacour to
the floo. How much of his mother’s assumptions have bled forward. How much has been left
to steep in his father’s thoughts—
How much his father may have noticed on his own.

Because Narcissa may pay Draco more mind day-to-day, and of the two, may even be better
with people; but Lucius maintained and augmented an extraordinary fortune based on his
own perceptive abilities. He held great distinction with many politicians, despite his… more
unfortunate allegiances.

He managed to rebuild the Malfoy name, even after the catastrophe of the first war. He may
have raked the Malfoy name through the mud; but he also pulled it out and polished it back.
And Draco —having seen him through a second, and initially thinking that would give him
an advantage— was realizing now, when it comes to Lucius…. He was —and is— still so
hopelessly lost.

His father, who had once been impossible to read because Draco had so little information….
Now his data set was, instead of too small, far too large. Uselessly large. Too muddied by
other factors.

Yes, the strain in the way his father sits, the way he keeps looking over at Draco when he
seems to think Draco’s focus is elsewhere, could be some … revelation about the 'Veela traits'
Draco has 'inherited’, but it could just as easily be stress on how much the ministry knows of
Voldemort’s return, aside from how little they acknowledge. Or it could be something to do
with Voldemort himself. The Dark Lord’s orders. How Draco fits into the ‘new world order’
they intend to create.
Perhaps even to do with the beginning talks of getting hands on the prophecy.

The prophecy.

If there is such a thing as a deadline to this twisted situation Draco finds himself in, he knows
that’s it.
If his father fails his mission to secure the prophecy, history will repeat itself. The Order of
the Phoenix will catch them, Lucius and a dozen other Death Eaters will be carted off to
Azkaban. Voldemort will be ousted as being alive and Draco…

Draco will be assigned his ‘mission’. An impossible task that is, in and of itself, a
punishment. A success that while unexpected to be done at his hand, once completed, would
topple one of the last pillars supporting the integrity and solace of Hogwarts, and thus,
Magical society as it stands and hand him a reward of a front row seat to the slaughter of
hogwarts.

Somewhere in that time, Snape and his mother will make an unbreakable vow, to protect him-
and they will both be slowly destroyed by it.
He cannot have that. Will not.

He cannot allow his father’s brash arrogance, his need to prove himself to Voldemort, to
destroy his family.

Another brunt of wind and rain claw and gnash at the windows. The last drags of daylight
sloshing under the water, casting warbling shadows over his parents.
Narcissa spears a cherry tomato from her salad. The fork squeaks quietly on the plate.
Lucius’s teacup clinks as he lifts it from his saucer, then again when his cufflink hits the base.
If Lucius doesn’t fail his mission, however… Voldemort obtains the prophecy. A success that
would be advantageous for the Malfoy name… yet quite extraordinarily detrimental in the
face of Draco’s larger goal; keeping Voldemort out of power.

…But how detrimental exactly could it be?

Or, more aptly, how could Draco determine the worth of some random prophecy if he,
himself, does not know the content of it?

—Another reason he needs to find a way to speak to Dumbledore. Do what he can about
joining the Order. He needs to know what they know. He needs to know how important this
prophecy is. If it’s worth the sacrifice to keep it out of Voldemort’s hands.
…Draco sighs internally, and adds it to the growing list of unpleasant-yet-necessary
conversations to have in the near future.

He wonders idly if the headmaster had an address Draco could visit. Or perhaps if Draco
might have more luck Owling. He’d vastly prefer a verbal conversation. Less threat of being
intercepted… perhaps if all went well he could owl to organize some kind of meeting…
That was a rather sizable if though.—

The more important piece seems, logistically, to be that, the battle at the Department of
Mysteries was how Voldemort got revealed. It was the tipping point for the dominos that
made everything okay . At least for a little while longer. It was how the Order started to have
more breath to act. And most importantly, it was how Dumbledore was acquitted of his
crimes, and able to return as headmaster after that mess with Umbridge and her draconian
takeover.
So, if Voldemort obtains the prophecy without a fight… none of that happens. And just like
during the ‘Battle’ at Hogwarts, even if he’s not dead , they’re still down a headmaster.

That kind of vulnerability is… bad. Really bad. Especially with the kind of resources and
manpower that Voldemort has at current, and gains by the day. Especially if Voldemort stays
an unknown from the public eye.
And, given, in the first go around, Dumbledore was reinstated… what could Draco even do if
Dumbledore stayed in exile? Would Umbridge stay headmistress? Would the war begin
earlier, since Dumbledore would be at least tangentially out of the way?

There wasn’t enough time for him to keep Umbridge from coming to Hogwarts in the first
place- but keeping her in her defense position might be possible.
And even if not, Draco supposes he has very little to lose in trying.

Draco sighs and takes a swig from his glass of orange juice. Rain continues its pour over the
walls and windows.
His parents sit in a poised, stagnant silence.
Draco knows he cannot let Lucius fail his mission from Voldemort, much less be captured.
But he also cannot let Voldemort stay in hiding, or win the war.

It’s a complex game he’s entered. One where Draco, really, has very little to gain. He just has
things to keep hold on. To not lose.
Simple, right?

¶¶¶

Rain continues to pour down in lashing sheets against the green-tinted glass of the
greenhouses, the sound of crickets hidden under brush barely audible above the patter. The
smell of soft earth, of warm petrichor, contrasts to the heavy brunts of water as they hit the
roof and sidings.
Draco’s clothes stick to him; from sweat, residual rain, or just the warm moisture the
greenhouse holds in, he doesn’t know.

Pruning Wormwood flowers is a delicate task, but not at all a complex one. The bushes, once
tall stalks, are fanned out and bowed, their thin stems going rubbery and pliant as summer
runs to a close; it’s only thanks to the old glass walls and charms that the stalks aren’t already
snapped by the torrent of weather and wind.
The shears, delicate silver-edged things that he’d found by the basket and had certainly seen
better days—a sentiment Draco can certainly find kinship in—, are an easy weight in his
palm. Cutting through the stem of a particularly low, sulking bulb with a clean snip. The last
one on this particular plant, it seems. Draco scoops up the barely open bulb from where it had
dropped to the soil, having to shake a few granules of mulch from it as he examines it closer.
The petals are incredibly delicate, velvety yellowish things that curl out from the warmth of
his hand. They’ve already begun browning at the edges, thin white veins bulging out amongst
the velvety fiber. A likely sign of early-set root rot, and not a particularly pretty thing; but for
his purposes, the looks don’t particularly matter.
He drops the bloom carefully into the basket, amongst the other flowers and the light bundle
of dittany, mint and lavender, gathered from the main garden over the last several days when
the rain eased up.

Enough to work with; but not nearly enough that Narcissa may notice the absence.
He stands straight— and ignores the sharp, protesting ache in his lower back. Penance for
spending the last hour or so bent, he supposes. Rolling out his shoulders and setting down the
shears in an empty spot in his basket. Still, the pain is far more minimal than he'd thought to
expect. Likely because he's still only a teenager; and this body hasn't been though much yet.
It's odd indeed. He'd grown used to certain aches and pains over his life, particularly when it
rained. The air pressure of a hard storm was usually enough for him to be reaching for his
compression socks, or even a brace if it were bad enough, simple ways to lessen the hard
aches in his ankles and knees.

Not that either of those things were afforded in Azkaban of course.

Which really just meant, it felt odd for rain not to be a preface for pain.

Draco sighs into the thick, night-time air as he picks up his basket and moves. Lethargy from
a long day, and several mediocre night’s sleep dragging at his limbs.
He weaves around an overgrown patch of snapdragons, dodging their attempts to reach and
nip at his ankles. The kerosine lamps at the center of the space swing and flick their small
flames on large, wetted wicks; battling against a far larger, far more persistent night.

Unease itches under his skin.

Tomorrow will be a Saturday. Which means he will have completed his first full week since
he came back in time.
That familiar feeling of …insufficiency, simmers with that unease. A stiff heat crawling in his
veins.

A full week seems, on paper, like so much time… and yet, it can feel like so little. Especially
with what little success he’s found in his scant attempts toward executing plans.
He elects not to think about how his only real success had been completely accidental, in
creating a good-enough cover story, mostly via deeply concerning his mother.

He focuses instead on gathering his things - readying his potions and hoping, praying, it will
all be enough.

¶¶¶

The rain clears late enough in the night it's hard to tell, the crack and rumble of distant,
departing thunder breeze in through the open window under the moon, a bluff of wind
carrying a thin mist through the slats of the open Venetian blinds. An involuntary shiver
scrapes up Draco’s forearms, the moisture clinging like dull nails on wispy, blackened hands,
grasping out toward him—
Draco takes a deep breath and scrubs his eyes. Clearing the images through the brute force of
his still slightly-muddy hands.

Sleep has been coming in… sporadic bursts ever since he time-traveled back. Not an unusual
thing for him, especially in Azkaban… but that doesn’t make it any less inconvenient.
Especially because he has things to do now.

— Flashes of his dream brush through his mind. A pale snake with a silvery sheen- Nagini,
slithering over red hardwood- no. Cobblestone.

The hallways of Hogwarts bathed in blood- sticky, clotting. The stench is putrid, like when
Draco had wandered into the kitchens and found that Dobby had left the Wagyu-beef cuts out
too long.

The meat is a sallow grey. Clumping myoglobin separating from the oils of the blood and
sweating meat, dribbling into a puddle of waste. A sour smell hangs low and buzzes with flies
- maggots writhe their way up to the surface and begin to feast. Bursting bulbous pustules
and worming into rotting arteries of his classmates.—

Draco takes a deep breath and exhales, trying to calm his mind. Center himself-

—Another dream. Cool black tiles with an emerald sheen. There’s a long dark hallway behind
him. Ten doors all with old heavy latches.
There's blood on his tongue; a sheen on his teeth. He does not think it's his own.—

Draco slams down his Occlumency shields and breathes in the icy silence.

His few tries at sleep tonight particularly had been met with… heavy resistance — so, in the
wee hours of the morning, he sits. The clean smell of rain greeting him with every breath.
The crisp smell of soil outside and the mist of his slowly brewing potion.
Without lifting a hand, his wooden spoon lifts from the counter and dips into the lightly
bubbling cauldron. Watching the iridescent sheen warble from the intrusion. His magic a soft,
lethargic hum as the spoon begins to slowly stir.
Yes. His preparations are… advancing. Several healing draughts already set and bottled on
the counter. But… it’s not nearly as efficient as he would like. Particularly his ward research.

Not that he can do much to speed it up, of course. Having to dodge his parents’ constant
surveillance and his own sleepless, growing lethargy slowing his roll rather prolifically - but
Draco sustains himself on the thought that, hopefully tonight, he’ll even be able to get some
nice, well-supplemented sleep.

Draco bites back a yawn, and stretches out his shoulders.

A flicker and pop of the candles and burner brighten the aperiodically-used potions lab for a
moment, the mist from the cauldron—filled with a nearly finished, clear and shimmering
Draught of Living Death— flick and thin in the wind. The ever so slowly divagating storm,
and the natural smell of the sterile surroundings, mixing into something like wet clay. Damp
and earthy, yet cool and slick.

The loneliness of the early morning is familiar that way. A cool stone room. The rain.
He keeps the door slightly ajar. Just as a reminder.

He’s vaguely glad for it; that his particular flavor of trauma doesn’t send him spiraling any
time something reminds him of the future. Glad that storms don’t send him into a panic,
despite how many he’s endured. Like many other reminders of the future, they just do that.
Remind him. Keep him aware.
Perhaps that raised attentiveness is why he notices, beyond the clink and shuffle of bottles as
he fills and corks them, beyond the rain and echo of thunder outside:

The pop of apparition. So subtle - more like a distant click. But if there’s one thing Draco
knows the sound of by now, it’s that.

A beat passes.

Then, there’s a knock on the door. Weak and low on the frame. Almost cursory. But enough
for the already ajar door to come open.
And just from the knock, Draco knows it’s not either of his parents. It’s too desiccant, too
feeble. So who -

“Sir?” Croaks a house elf.

Draco whips around. The magic holding the spoon sends it flying-

“Thyng!” Draco greets. Wincing when the wooden spoon thwacks against the far wall and
clatters down in the corner.
Thyng startles only slightly to it — then turns back and raises a single thin eyebrow. Her big
blue eyes narrowing.

“What.. um, why are you up so, er, late…?” Draco takes a heavy side step - trying his best to
block Thyng’s view of the potion. If Narcissa finds out-

“Early, Master Draco. Iz morning now,” Thyng corrects.

Fuck.

“And Thyng iz here to clean the potions lab, sir.”

Double fuck.
“Um… I’m using it?” Draco says weakly.
The knowing look she gives reminds him mildly of being a child, trying to get into the sweets
before dinner. Another vague memory of a rule pop into his head far too late. Something
about not being allowed to do complex potions without supervision. Draco grimaces
internally. He needs at least five more minutes before the potion is done - but he can’t risk
Narcissa finding out and questioning him about this. Or worse - telling Lucius. Especially
since, being close with Severus has not left either particularly blind to what potion as
dangerous as Draught of Living Death may look like-

And Thyng was certainly, and by far, the most loyal elf in the house. There was no way she
wouldn’t tell-

Rain patters hard on the windows and brushes through the air. An icy hiss. And just like that,
Thyng seems to pause, just to bow her head sagely. Draco half expects her to disappear right
there with a pop . Perhaps even for her to-

“What kind of tea would Master Draco like?”

…huh?

“Pardon?” Draco asks. Blinking.

Her large, glassy blue eyes do not blink back. They just stare. Cool and bulbous and knowing-
“Mrs. Narcissa told Thyng to take extra care of young master Draco as he…”—Thyng looks
him up and down—“grows into himself.”

Oh… oh no.
Tell him that Thyng doesn't believe he’s a Veela too.

“Particularly that you may need”—Thyng gestures to the cauldron—“supplementation.”

Draco wants to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

Instead, he goes to speak- or tries. But aside from some flabbergast ‘erm’s and ‘um’s, as well
as some inelegant hand gesturing- particularly under Thyng’s small, matronly stare… he
gives up on that pretty quick. He drags a hand down his face and wonders if joining the
resistance had some fine print somewhere, or if the time-potion had moron-juice as a prime
ingredient.

“It’s alright, really,” Draco insists weakly, slumping down. “…I’ll just finish this up, and…
Um..—”

Thyng shakes her head. Large ears flopping as she clicks her tongue.
“Thyng was told by her Mistress to assure young Master Draco be well cared for. Thyng will
not disappoint her Mistress. Thyng is a good and loyal elf.”

The reminder of how much Thyng cares for his mother, how bravely she wears her little heart
on her sleeve hits him like nausea - a painful jab to his stomach that sends him stiffening.
He’s not sure why that’s what does him in. Not a show of force - but one of trust. Of love.

“I…” Draco swallows. “Can I have coffee instead?”

Thyng pauses a moment, then nods. “Thyng will bring cream and sugar.”

“And Thyng… Please… don’t tell my Mother about this. I… she has enough to worry
about.”

Thyng pauses.
“Thyng does not want Mrs. Narcissa to be stressed.”

It’s not a definitive answer, but…

“Master Draco will be having coffee now?”

“Yes,” Draco nods, “please.”

Pop.
And she’s gone.

¶¶¶
Somehow—despite how dark the storm had been, drawing black clouds and scattering
showers over the near-week it lasts for— when the sun rises Saturday morning, the sky is
finally clear
The grass is still wet outside, the air hanging with the remnant moisture, a mist making its
way in through the cracked open windows of the library. Heavy with the effervescent smell of
nature that collides with the dry, dusty smell of the books mingling with the coffee. Draco
stands in it. Breathes it in. A tiny gust making the pages of his book flutter between his
fingertips.
Still, the sun is high in the sky now, shining over the horizon and the courtyard. Glinting off
the droplets that cling to the leaves, like tiny crystals. Painting hazy streaks on the windows.

The stained glass wildlife flutter about in the sun, brushing the arching library with their
subtle shifts in color. Through those great arched windows, cracked slightly open, Draco can
see the grounds. A few albino peacocks putzing about, the hint of autumn reds in the just-
turning foliage; predecessor to the eventual drop of green to the earth. Autumn rounds the
bend, and soon it will be winter.

A winter Draco knows, not as an abstraction, not as a theoretical based on past experience;
but as something complete. He had already seen what this winter had looked like.

It was an odd feeling indeed; to know more than even the seasons yet do.

Footsteps approach, slow and purposeful. Flat soles on soft carpet. Heavier than usual;
perhaps to announce her approach without having to speak.

“Hello,” he greets. Not bothering to close his book or to turn.

He doesn’t want to see Narcissa. Doesn’t want to face that look. That torn one he’d gotten far
too used to over the course of the war. A yearning that drives through her palms like a nail,
crucifies her by the blunt hammer of her own unrepentant love.

“What brings you by?” He asks without turning, snapping the book quietly shut, but keeping
a hold on it.
A sour taste twists in his mouth at the… odd feeling, lingering in the silence.

Draco doesn’t exactly know how, but he’s familiar enough with the feeling of it, to know that
somewhere, somehow, he’s made a mistake. Perhaps Thyng had told her after all. Perhaps
this is something else entirely.

A cloud drifts over the sun, allowing the windows to shine less brightly, and he sees her
anyway.
It’s not her though.
Lucius’s reflection is faint, translucent against the brightly colored skyline. Tall and refined in
his long, black dress robes and small green accents. The very definition of imposing; with all
the burden and honor it came with.

Draco stays very, very still.

Why is it him? Why is he here?

Lucius hums, a pleasant sound from anyone else. Draco can feel his eyes skimming the room.
Surveillant and calculating until they lock on Draco’s setup.
Lucius isn’t usually up this early. Let alone dressed and maundering the library.
Something’s wrong here. And Draco—who really doesn’t know how to interact with Lucius
on the best of days, let alone one-on-one—, has very little idea what to do about it.

“You spend a lot of time here, these days,” Lucius reasons evenly. From anyone else, such
words would be an open declaration of warmth. Care enough to know his routine, to spot
details of where Draco is at any particular moment.
For Draco, they feel like someone running a nail file over his teeth, or taking a cheese grater
to his neck. Shredding off chunks of himself. Soaking the carpet red.
Draco’s jaw sets, tense. Swallowing against the very teenage urge to block his things from his
father’s sight.

Not that any of it is incriminating, of course. The only thing Draco could see finding odd was
how it was somewhat organized . Sure, books and papers were strewn over the leather couch
and dark-oak coffee-table, but they did so in purposeful little piles — a far cry from a Young
Draco Malfoy’s over-cluttered study-storms.

“Any particular reason?" Lucius asks.

“Summer homework,” Draco maintains cooly. Finally turning, tucking his book under his
arm in the same movement.

Lucius scans briefly over Draco’s now cold cup of coffee, little cream and sugar pots, and a
small, half-consumed charcuterie board, sitting on a tea table beside the couch, under the
warm, multicolor glow of a Tiffany lamp.
He pays far more interest to the titles. The coffee-table rising up on its curled victorian legs to
make it easier for him.

Being master of a magical home had it’s perks, after all.

“Draco,” Lucius’s voice is unsurprisingly equanimous, but there’s something underneath it.
Something… shifty.
It had taken a lot of time for Draco to realize his father’s tells. Lucius reaped the benefits of
his positive rapport on a near-global scale. He may be a vain, stubborn prat prone to
dramatics, but he was an undeniable master of emotion; his own, and others.

And yet, for some reason, he’s hesitant. Undecided. He’s still looking over the books, and one
seems to catch his eye. He plucks it, a thick, old brownish leather-bound tome from the stack.
‘The Workings and Maintenance of the World’s Most Ancient Wards’ . He skims his fingers
over the front, the worn out leather spine. There’s a familiarity to it.

Draco, clenching his jaw, exhales slightly.

“Yes Father?”

Lucius looks up toward him. Seeming steeled in whatever decision he’s just made. Draco
tries hard not to swallow.
“Come along, son,” Lucius says, gently. Obfuscating from whatever else is on his mind. “It’s
about time for breakfast.”

And Draco nods, following his father as he’s lead out of the library. The off-putting
tenderness of that quiet ‘ son ’ ringing in his ears. Especially in the drawn out silence of the
hallway. Echoing with nothing but the quiet tap of his father’s wing-tip shoes, and his own
slippers, on the polished marble floors.

Draco knows Lucius had loved him, once. When he was young, it had been real; or maybe a
mentally-twenty-five-year-old Draco was far enough removed from that version of Lucius,
that it was all rose-tinted enough to smear into something pleasant, probably more pleasant
than what had been true. Draco knows he had wanted that love more than anything. He also
knows his father loves him now. And had loved him, even when he was sent to Azkaban. It
was a different love though. The love of a chess master for his pieces, a collector for his
prize. Draco was something shiny and useful, something that could be used, and could be
useful. And that meant that his father would protect him.
Draco was his only heir, after all.

Right now was something of a middle-ground in all that. The love-for-love’s-sake of youth
weaning away to the scathing, logical love of a man for his tools.

And that meant Draco had something of a… bartering chip, to work with. His allegiance to
his father’s ideologies would, of course, have to be another bluff. He had no interest in a
future of Orwellian totalitarianism under that nose-less megalomaniac.
But he was a damn good liar at this point.
They arrive at the dining room, where Narcissa is already sitting. Nursing her own shallow
cup of coffee.
She looks up from the paper. Her eyebrows raising slightly, seeing them walk in together.
Draco’s thrown-on tan jumper, slacks, and slippers a sure contrast to his father’s ink-black
formal robes.

“Good morning,” Narcissa greets. Her voice is… warmer than it had been the last few days.
Still austere in some ways, but losing its edge.

“Good morning, Daffodil,” Lucius greets in a similar fashion. His chair sliding out for him
without him even having to touch it.
He walks past it, just a step and a half. Leaning over the table corner to plant a chaste kiss on
his wife’s cheek, before taking his seat.

Narcissa’s eyebrows raise, just a fraction. But otherwise, she bears no response. But Draco
himself can't help a small smile.

Over the past week, there had been… quite little in the way of real interaction with his
parents. Narcissa spending more time in her studio, or her garden, or working on her social
projects. And with Lucius gone for breakfast and lunch most days anyway, and dinner kept to
an uncomfortable, quiet affair, the remnants of his parent’s argument only fester. Silting
anything that could break the quiet - which Draco can never quite bring himself to actually
attempt.

So it felt… good. Seeing them moving past things. Better than good; it felt… almost normal.

It’s times like this that make the future feel almost like a bad dream. Seeing things like this.
His parents both being here, alive, even if they’re sharing narrow-eyed glances over stilted
meals like teenagers; not quite ready to actually apologize.

A spat that was because of him. Because he wasn’t acting ‘like himself.’

Not for the first time, even before he’d taken that potion, Draco vaguely wishes he’d spent
his youth as less peacock and more pariah. Perhaps things would be easier then.

But as always, his reputation, his history, walks in the door three steps before he does. Setting
stage like an opener that has yet to fail at upstaging the reality of who he was. The
disappointing main act of a play that had already come to a close; and yet, he’d been the one
to agree to the encore.

It wasn’t like he could just stand up and make an announcement of it. Of the truth. Well he
could- only, he'd probably be immediately full-body tackled by his father, smothered in
charms by his Mother, and carted off to St. Mungos, where a hundred healers would promptly
say he’s completely lost it, and he’d never be seen nor heard from again.
Which, honestly… is fair. All things considering.
Really, if it wasn't for all the memories he had, Draco probably would have checked himself
into an asylum or something. Jury's still out, though. Part of him still kind of believes this is
all one mass hallucination, and that he’s currently convulsing under the bed of his little room
in the rebellion’s base. Or maybe seizing and foaming at the mouth on the cold stone of his
Azkaban cell. The meal appears in front of them as Draco slides into his plush seat. The
smell of breakfast is a warm greeting as they all take their plates.

“You’re up early,” Narcissa hums over her salad, gently spearing an olive with a bit of
lettuce. Pointing it toward Lucius, as if her fork were the branch.
“Sword-fighting today?”

“Not today,” Lucius hums, eyes skimming over the paper as he waits for his eggs and sausage
to cool.
His porcelain cup clinks as he lifts it from the saucer. His black tea turning a honeyed hue in
the sunlight.
“I had to reschedule things somewhat,” he says, hiding the upward twist of his smile with the
rim.

“Oh?” Narcissa hums.

Lucius is a creature of habit. Usually, if things interfere with his carefully crafted schedules,
he is far less than pleased.
Draco drums his fingers on his legs under the table.
Something is up with Lucius today.

“I have a meeting with the Minister today,” Lucius hums, preening slightly. Seeming quite
pleased with himself.

Narcissa’s eyebrows raise further. “Oh?” She hums. “I would have thought he’d be
preoccupied with the Potter boy’s trial.”

Draco’s brain scratches to a halt.

His eyes dart to his father’s newspaper. The headline, shockingly enough, has nothing to do
with Potter’s trial. Perhaps waiting for the real scoop of the trial’s verdict.

But the date — 12 August, 1995 — has him biting into his egg-on-toast with a little too much
fierceness.
A gust of wind rattles the window frames. The taste of salt and egg and toast is completely
dull on his tongue. His parents continue their conversation. His father being pompous and
mother gently proud - and really, he should be listening. Perhaps gently joining them as well;
helping to close the distance between them. It’s the longest, fluid talk they’ve had with him
nearby since their argument—

And yet… he can’t.

Over the last week, Draco has had a lot of time to think. To… settle, into the new reality he’d
found himself in. To plan for what was to come. And somehow within that, he’d gotten so
lost in the future he’d forgotten about the present. And now it’s here. Potter’s trial.
Dumbledore will be at the ministry - along with however many other Order members —
A golden opportunity to start things off naturally. His father would be at the Ministry,
meaning he had the perfect excuse—

And yet, he has no plan.

Feeling like an idiot, Draco bites and bites —cogs in his mind whirring and improvising— he
only realizes he’d practically inhaled his breakfast when his hand and plate come up empty.
And with no more distraction, and the barest hints of a plan. Draco clears his throat.

“Father,” Draco interrupts.

Lucius pauses whatever he had been saying. Arching a single pale brow. He maintains that
cool look as he raises his cup to take a sip; but Draco knows it’s an invitation for Draco to
speak.
So he does.

“You’re heading to the Ministry, correct?” Draco asks. He doesn’t try to contain his
anxiousness. Drumming his foot under the table. Narcissa watches him closely.

Lucius nods.

“I’ll come along then,” Draco says solidly, taking a sip from his cool glass of milk.

Narcissa stiffens immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Draco asks. He doesn’t say it for his own benefit. He knows why.

But it works.
Lucius’s eyes narrow, ever so slightly, softened shoulders drawing in just a half inch. And
Draco tries not to feel the familiar guilt as it mingles with the small success.

“…I simply don’t think it’s wise,” Narcissa hums, tone neutral. Eyes boring into his; which
he meets without hesitation.

“Why?” Draco challenges, holding his tone as even as hers, but letting his contention be
known in the way his glass thuds to the table. Narcissa doesn't respond. Brow furrowed and
shoulders tight. Her eyes flick between Lucius and Draco - the barest glance; but one filled
with renewed pain.

Lucius straightens in his seat.

“If you would like to go with me, you’ll have to change.”

It had been a childhood dream of his, to work at the ministry. It was why he became so
obsessive over his penmanship; why he convinced his father to teach him proper origami
folding techniques for his memos. It also wasn’t particularly uncommon for Draco to tag
along with his parents when they went out—

“Lucius,” Narcissa hisses-

Draco nods to his father.

“I’ll meet you at the floo!” He chimes. Already sliding out of his seat.

With his back to the dining room, Draco can overhear the fruits of his success. His parents
fragile peace shattering.

He has to do this though.

He has no other leads on where the horcruxes are. On what other things Voldemort could
currently be plotting. He needs information.

He needs to talk to the Order.

¶¶¶
Draco remembers how Narcissa had become after he killed, the first time. So mentally
distant, yet physically clinging. Beside him, every day. Waiting at his side; but never there.
Draco remembers how it ached, to see her look directly at him, into the eyes of her son; as
though he were a stranger. It still aches, somehow. As he peers slightly around the corner to
the foyer and sees her looking so similarly at Lucius. Far more mildly of course… but it’s
still there, in her gaze, in the thin purse of her lips and her fingers as they smooth out her
skirt.

He’s had almost a week to get… more acclimated, to this. To the new timeline. To these new,
old versions of his parents.
To seeing things as they once were - and seeing the echoes of what they may soon become.

“Until you actually tell me what’s going on-“ Lucius is cut off, presumably by the weight of
Narcissa’s glare.

“You know I can’t do that,” she hisses.

Lucius may have his back facing Draco, but Draco can tell by the tense, then minuscule
slump of his shoulders, that despite the way he clings to them, the flames of his anger are
fading fast.

“…I simply cannot believe Draco would be intentionally endangering himself,” Lucius says
with rare regret seeping into his tone. “And even so, what will you do when we send him off
to Hogwarts? Sheltering him indefinitely is nonviable.”

Narcissa says nothing, but her expression twists slightly. She takes a breath to stabilize
herself. Lucius takes her hand. Her soft alabaster skin is a hard contrast over the black leather
of his gloves. Yet another sliver of distance between them.

“I understand you want to protect him from… from everything,” Lucius says.
‘From whatever you know that I can’t’ going unsaid.

“But…” he pauses, gathering his thoughts. “Draco is usually forthright with what bothers
him. He usually talks to me any chance he gets. And with him being so…”
“Avoidant?” Narcissa gleans.

“Yes,” Lucius nods. "I… I believe this is an opportunity to… evaluate. To spend some time
with him. Ensure everything is… alright.”

It feels… odd, seeing his parents converse like this. The way they care so evidently — but
also the clumsy way to show it so liberally, without the privacy of a closed door or the
camouflage of a crowd. Usually, they’d be more decisive. More careful in such displays, so
they aren’t overheard so easily. So the love they have for each other isn’t seen as something
exploitable.

It takes Draco a moment to piece together why.

This version of his parents hasn’t yet lived under tyrannic rule. They may have to camouflage
what they know, but so far, that was the extent of the surveillance they needed to worry over
within the walls and wards of Malfoy Manor. They’re in their own home; and they feel safe
here.

Draco clenches his teeth, and walks forward.

Almost as soon as Narcissa’s eyes flick and spot him, Lucius is turning. Dropping her hand
and—pausing for a second to evaluate Draco’s dress robes, but seeming to find them
satisfactory— he steps forward into the floo.

“Come along, at this pace you’ll make us late,” Lucius says cooly, gesturing with the head of
his cane. Expression shuttered, yet lingering. Watching.

Draco scampers to his side quickly and internally finds it odd, being small enough that he
doesn’t have to bow his head like Lucius does to step in. Narcissa’s expression is tense, but
surprisingly gentle as she lifts and extends the dish of floo powder.

“The floo will be open,” Narcissa says as Lucius takes a handful — but her eyes are entirely
on Draco, Even as she sets it back on the mantle with a clink.
“In case you wish to return home early,”—she steps forward, gently using her knuckle to tilt
Draco’s chin up, forcing him to meet her shockingly soft, worried gaze—“for any reason.”
Draco feels his father’s gloved hand come to his shoulder. The touch, once coveted, burns at
contact. He briefly wonders if it’s possible for his magic to fizz up like a potion-gone-wrong
and blast his brain out through his ears. It certainly feels like it’s trying to.

But with Narcissa’s eyes still on him, it’s all he can do to simply nod.

And then she steps back. And a whirl of fire blurs everything to green.
 Chapter 11

After a quick stop off by Gringotts, Draco finds that the early morning rush is in full flood of
the Ministry Atrium. The peacock blue, arched ceiling creates an echo chamber of the loud
crowd, and Merlin is it loud. Just the feeling of it hits Draco like a physical blow. Or- that
might have been someone’s shoulder. It’s not immediately obvious—

Thankfully his father’s rather… derisive reputation has people giving them a little more
breathing room, likely as soon as they clock the distinctive platinum blonde hair. Because
either out of charm, or fear, people seem to instinctively know to give a Malfoy a generous
berth.
Or as much 'generosity' as they can afford, on such a busy morning.

And yet still, even when given a bubble of space - there’s a feeling to it that makes Draco's
hair stand on end.

Lucius’s stern hand on his shoulder steers Draco through the crowd, a hot yet grounding
pressure. And Draco just fights to remind himself that this… feeling is normal. This is to be
expected. The buzz of a crowd. The loud chatter. The uncomfortable heat of being around so
many people - and more notably, their magic.
The buzzing creates almost a stinging prickle on his skin- like he’d kicked a hornets nest and
was now walking through the swarm—

Residual magic is a powerful thing, he reminds himself harshly. Fighting to keep his
shoulders down. Unclench his fists and breathe. Being around wizards, magical creatures… it
tended to have affects on its surroundings. Much like at the Parkinson estate, or Malfoy
Manor.
Yet, even with these solid facts in his mind, it’s hard to focus. Hard to think with the sheer
amount of people crowding in-

His father’s hand on his shoulder is warm, even through the barriers of Lucius’s leather glove
and his own stiff cloak. He uses it to ground himself as his considerable training kicks in. His
breathing shakes slightly, but that seems to be the extent of it. His seeming inability to really
show true panic is a dubious positive, but Draco wasn’t handed good things often enough to
take silver linings for granted.

His mental walls rise, and the silence is a cold dissonance as it washes over him. A peaceful
isolation. A slow hush, like waves crashing against a dam.

The man at the security desk seems rather bored, but thankfully quite efficient in his work,
perhaps even to a venal degree, given how little questions he asks. Moving through the
motions of weighing Lucius’s wand and giving him his badge quickly.
And yet, even so - Lucius is still checking his pocket-watch. Frowning. Tapping his foot.

The man barely has his father’s wand off the scale before Lucius is snatching it out of his
hands-

“Can you take any longer? Lord Merlin,” Lucius huffs, rolling his eyes. “Come Draco,
we-“

“He’s gotta get his wand scanned too.” The security guard adds, raising a hand. Draco,
who was already extending his wand, sees the way his father crosses his arms and-

“It’s alright Father. I'll catch up,” Draco assures immediately.

Lucius hesitates for just a beat, conflict a hard twist to his thin lips - but, with one last darting
check to his silver encrusted pocket watch, he nods.

“Just meet me at the Minister’s office,” Lucius huffs, clicking his watch shut and stowing
it in his pocket.
“Don’t. Dawdle.”

“Yes, Father.” Draco nods immediately.

And with a flare to his robes that would make Severus envious, Lucius struts urgently into the
buzzing crowd, which opens for him - then consumes him.

And Draco stays still for just a moment longer, before exhaling slowly.
The familiar tingle of his magic simmers in his veins, reaching out in the unfamiliar buzz -
finding nothing.

An odd pulse emanates from within the crowd. or maybe from the building itself - further
down. Something sudden and particular - like tossing a pebble into a lake and feeling the
ripples in how the water laps at the shore.

It's a soft feeling like that. Like water washing over skin.

It's... calming. Comforting. Lifting him up, just slightly. Making gravity feel a little less
harsh, easing the weight off his joints -

Draco tries to focus on it. But the swell of hundreds of wizards, of their magic, creates a rush
that makes it hard to untangle. And just as quick as the calm was there - it's gone again.
Draco narrows his eyes at the crowd. Trying to find... whatever it was. Get back to it.

“Uhh, kid?” The guard says stiltedly, “your wand?” He extends his open hand on the
counter.

Draco blinks - not having realized he’d tucked his hands behind his back instinctively.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Draco says, handing his wand over.

The guard ‘Eric’, from what Draco can just barely make out on his name tag, gives Draco a
quizzical look, before seeming to simply shrug it off. Likely deciding he's not paid enough to
care. Barely three minutes later, with his little visitor’s badge on his chest, Draco is told he’s
‘good to go'. Without even once being questioned as to why he’s here.

It’s nepotistic partiality at it's finest, Draco figures - but he’ll take the positives of it while he
still can.

Without his father’s guiding hand, finding his way through the crowd, even though it had
begun to thin, quickly becomes a challenge. Bodies and heat and that- that stifling feeling of
magic, random and unconfined, burns against his senses. And finding any sort of signage
turns out to be quickly all but impossible, the flow of people slowly pushing him toward the
lifts.

Sure, finding ‘the minister’s office’ would… probably be simple enough; particularly as
Lucius Malfoy’s son.
But that’s not where he actually wants to be.

And sure, in the future, he’d taken mild advantage of his privilege and position after
Voldemort’s takeover, maundering about the Ministry as he pleased. Learning of secret rooms
and exits. After he’d started his railroad, it had been one of several ways he’d found to
intercept muggleborns and half-bloods - get them out while there was still time.

But, similar to the Malfoy Manor - with a change in power comes some rather distinct
organizational changes. So there was no telling what security measures were in place. How
many of those backdoors would just be traps. Or perhaps not even exist yet.

A part of him wants to go check and see- But he can't. Right now, he has a mission.
It doesn’t matter how loud the crowd is, or if his hands are starting to shake from how tightly
he’s clenched them. It doesn’t matter if the buzz of the thinning crowd feels like it’s closing
in on him-

Aided by the restless thrumming of his magic, and instead of waiting on the crowded lift -
Draco takes the stairs. They’re old and dusty, —empty, which gives his restless magic more
room to breathe at least— and they’re hardly used by anyone other than maintenance crews
and fitness junkies, which makes them perfect for him.

He doesn't actually have a solid reason for where he’s going, —Draco admits to himself as he
thunders swiftly down the stairs— but he vaguely remembers that Potter, despite both his age
and offense classifying as minor, had been tried by the full court in the previous timeline.
Largely as a part of the ministry’s ever pressing smear campaign against a teenager.

But, more poignantly, the trial had been held in the old courtrooms on the tenth floor - and
was likely still in process. Meaning, Draco may be able to catch an Order member yet.

There’s something… wrong, though. More than the residual magic, more than the crowd. His
magic tugs at his veins like an adamant, untrained dog tugs at its owner’s leash. Adamant
about… something, trying to get away, get out- but unable to communicate why.

But Draco knows he can't. He has to find an order member. Earn their trust.... somehow. He
hasn't figured that part out yet-

A thin copper plaque above the door displays: ‘Level Nine, Department of Mysteries’, just
above the frame. The door itself has a small, narrow window in the center.
And, as he peers through, Draco sees a crowd of people already exiting the courtrooms. Shit.
He's too late-

He scans the crowd for Order members. Dumbledore. Shacklebolt. Someone.

But there's no one. He idly recognizes Umbridge, nodding her pink hat toward Minister
Fudge-
But Fudge isnt moving with the crowd. Nor is his company-

Draco's eyes widen, as he clocks who he's seeing. The elegant dress robes and cool blond hair
make him hard to miss, even in the small crowd.

Draco ignores the questions that swirl in his head —wondering why his father would be
down here at all, why he's not meeting the Minister at his office as he'd said— and instead
focuses on his father’s expression as he turns. Pinched, but poised.

Lucius's voice is a cool, smooth saccharine that Draco can't quite make out at first. Turning to
greet someone else- But there's a distinctly unpleasant note to his voice as he speaks to the
new company.
Draco presses his face closer to the glass to try and see who it could be - but it fogs with his
breath. He tries to clear the glass with his sleeve - but the streaks blur it too much. And it's
too narrow to get a good view.
He is just barely able to note two figures, standing with Lucius and the Minister. One
obviously shorter-

Wait. Did Lucius just say... 'Potter'?

Draco's breath catches in his chest, and he hesitates. Unwelcome images of the massacre at
Hogwarts filling his mind.
He leans his weight gently against the door - cracking it to let more noise filter through.
Focusing on hearing instead of seeing.

“The minister was just telling me about your lucky escape, Potter.” Lucius says, smiling.
The crowd around them thins as the lift doors open, all headed up.

His magic thrums in his veins. Still trying desperately to pull him away.
And Draco frantically tries to think. Because... because this must have happened before,
right? Meaning it couldn’t have gone too poorly. Draco must be overreacting. Or perhaps it's
something about him altering the timeline. Maybe-

Maybe he should pretend he’s not here. Maybe he should give up. Hide away. Draco was
supposed to meet his father back at the Minister’s office anyway- but hell, in the last go-
around, he hadn’t even been here.
He’d been back at the manor, his mother busy entertaining a visit from Grandfather Abraxas.
This was a completely new account, to his knowledge. Or at the very least, a new experience
for him to witness-

—“And Arthur Weasley too! What are you doing here, Arthur?” Lucius asks with faux-
pleasantness.

“I work here,” Mr. Weasley says shortly.—

....Draco can no longer deny his terror, existential as it may be. This was a direct shift from
the past timeline. Not a subtle one either- but that also makes this to be an invaluable
opportunity as well.
Arthur Weasley was, after all, an Order member. And he needed to at least try to get them to
listen to him.

But in order to be listened to: Draco needed to be… less hated, at least. But how the hell
could he get them to even just talk to him. More than likely they'd just walk away. And why
wouldn't they? All he'd ever been to them was a menace. A bully. A pompous peacock with
powerful parents.

— “Really,” Lucius drawls, audibly rolling his eyes, “just because you are Dumbledore’s
favorite boy, you must not expect the same indulgence from the rest of us… Shall we go up
to your office then, Minister?” Lucius says.—
If Draco is going to do something, he needs to do it fast.

The Minister and Lucius are walking off, toward the lift- and Draco is still paralyzed. Mr.
Weasley and Potter say something more to each-other, but Draco cant hear them. Indecision
keeps his body cold and immobile; but beyond that, the fear of changing the timeline at all…
and failing to change it enough, sear into his throat-
The door is cold too. There’s that pulsing feeling in his veins, this sharp dread that asks him if
this is really all worth it. His mind races for a plan.
He needs to do something. But what? And how will it impact everything else? This is far too
complex. Too many variables-

Act, don’t react.

He doesn’t know where exactly the words come from, but they flow through his entire body
like a warm river unblocking a chunk of ice, taking the tension from his shoulders- even if his
magic and his heart still thud loudly in his chest. He peers up through the window, and holds
his breath.

Lucius and the Minister are gone, but Mr. Weasley still stands. Motionless, but distinctly
unsteady, behind a rather more obviously shaken looking Harry Potter - still gripping the poor
boy’s shoulder like he’s going to sprout wings and fly away if he lets go, or perhaps like
Potter may try to pounce. That would fit with the Gryffindor thing a good bit more, wouldn’t
it?

Either way, Mr. Weasley doesn’t let go of Potter’s shoulder. Not for a good long moment
after. And neither of them seem to notice the stairwell door open, or Draco slipping out.

Despite how Draco is walking toward them.

No plan, just action.

Not at all shockingly, it’s not Potter who notices him first.

It’s Mr. Weasley.

Draco notes how his expression barely changes, from the poorly-concealed anger that had
just been directed at his father.

And Draco works hard to pretend he hasn’t noticed. Fighting to keep the same obliviousness
as Potter as he struts toward the lifts. Fighting far harder at trying not to stiffen or change his
posture, and —channeling every acting lesson, every torturous moment he’s had to lie in his
long, long life— he curates a bland, gentle smile to place on his face.

He doesn’t let himself meet Mr. Weasley’s gaze, even as it burns on his skin.

He hopes his smile looks the way he wants it to: soft and kind and maybe even a little
youthful. Rather than the cold and cruel one that had been so commonly stapled onto his
cheeks at this age.

The lift arrives just as Draco worries he may need to slow his approach, empty except for the
flock of pale notices and memos, which bump and nose at Mr. Weasley’s bright red hair as he
steps in. His eyes break off of Draco for just long enough to bat them away. Guiding in a yet
still oblivious Potter.

“Mr. Weasley-“ Potter begins tightly, only for a hand to sharply come down on his
shoulder. Stopping him before he can begin. He looks confused for a second, before he
finally notices Draco, stepping into the lift beside them.

The grates slowly grind, then clang shut. And Draco swallows.

Predictably, Potter’s entire body stiffens as soon as Draco enters within a couple feet of him.
Face tumbling through emotions, completely unhidden, —going from shock to confusion to
annoyance to hatred— all in under a second.

If nothing else, at least Potter is efficient.

—And Draco tries to feel anything for it. He tries to pull a scowl, to dip into the vast ocean
anger that had nearly drowned him back in these years-
But with his magic buzzing in his veins, mingling and mixing with… something, a heft that
seems to hang over the ministry like a thick fog, all he can think of is…
How similar Potter looks now, to how he did in death. Even with his head still attached.—

And Draco doesn’t have to tap into any special acting skills for discomfort to rise to the
surface. His head begins to ache with the pressure of the miasmic magic consuming him.

He tries not to focus on anything other than the now; but it seems that now that his mind is
making references to the future, it is completely unwilling to cease. Because as he turns to
look up at the Weasley patriarch... All he can see is how tired he looks. And yet so… young.

He’s reminded of his own father. Of his mother.

Of the way that war, both wars, aged them.
 `“Oh. Hello, Mr. Weasley,” Draco greets, as though he'd only just noticed them, working to
keep his words the same slithering-smooth as his father. It doesn’t come out right, choppy
and stinted, but maybe that's a good thing.
He’s good at despising good things.

“Young Mr. Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley greets courteously, obviously a tad surprised, but still
offering nothing further than the greeting. His true emotion is betrayed by how sharply he
stabs, thrice repetitively, at the button for the Atrium. Even as the lift is already creaking in
it's slow ascent.
Hardly masters of deceit, this lot.

“What are you doing here?” Potter spits, sharp and petulant anger raw in his voice.
Snarling like he’s trying to bare his teeth. Show dominance. His eyes, his whole posture has
an almost tangible heat. A righteous hatred that spills off him.
Draco doesn’t even blink at it.

Mr. Weasley’s hand clamps back on Potter’s shoulder. Holding him back again. A leash to
hold back a lion.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley says with equal sharpness, his tone one of warning. Draco wonders
idly if he would actually care if Potter hexed him into oblivion, or if he just doesn't want a
haywire spell to damage the already rusting lift.
Or maybe he doesn’t want Potter going to any further trials. Could be any of them, really.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Weasley,” Draco says with a smooth hand-wave. Forcing his hands
to stay steady. Fighting against the way his hair stands on end.

He does have to fight off one emotion, but it isn’t the anger or the dourness he’d expected.

Instead, it’s amusement. If only in comparison.

After all, there had been a long list of people who had tried, succeeded and failed, at
intimidating Draco Malfoy.

A gangly, thin fifteen year old boy in a lift was hardly high on that list.

Draco takes a deep breath in, then out. And forces himself to focus.

Because no matter how annoying they are... this is Potter. And Weasley. And Draco, sadly
enough, needs at least the Weasley them to not hate him so much, or everyone else could very
well die because of it.

Sadly, necessity may be the mother of invention - but she was clearly not kind enough to give
him much of a plan.
Draco thinks, and thinks. And the silence and creaking of the lift echo in the dense silence.
His magic thrums, tugging at his core like it’s trying to outrun the rest of him. Trying to flee
it’s human's awful decision making. Or maybe just respond to that thing he noticed earlier…
that calm-

He stares forward at the grate. Jaw clenching. Why can't he focus?

He needs to do something. He has them trapped, which is good. But not for long. So he needs
to use this time. He needs to tell them something. Something that will make them trust him.
He doesn’t- Salazar, what does he even tell them? What can he do to prepare these two,
without making them think he's gone off his rocker?

‘The Minestry is corrupt,’?

They aren’t stupid, they must know that much.

‘Tell Dumbledore to be careful with the ring’?

That… could work; but a Young Draco Malfoy had no reason to know about it yet. Plus, any
kind of warning he says now will just sound like a threat.

He needs something somewhat obvious, something conversational. Something that can’t be

taken as a threat, but that might be able to help them… somehow. He doesnt have to convince
them now. Just... eventually. Just set up the domino's.

Mr. Weasley holds onto Potter’s shoulder. Leashing him to his side. But even that isn’t really
odd-
The odd part is the way that Potter keeps looking at Draco. Eyes narrow, like he’s impatiently
waiting on… something. And as nothing comes - he grows disbelieving. Like Draco can’t
possibly just be in a lift. He must be plotting something. Something malicious. Like Draco is
going to halt the lift between floors and jump them- kidnap and sacrifice them in some dark
ritual, or chop them up and use their bones in a potion.

Again, Draco fights to hold back his own amusement.

It’s an odd feeling. A giddy sort of fizzing sensation in his chest-

Draco shifts, and swallows it down. He tries to speak-

Nothing comes out.

Draco takes a deep breath in, and out. And in the heavy, oppressive silence, even just
breathing feels so loud. It draws their eyes to him-
The lift creaks, reminding him of how little time he has, with them as his captive audience.
He knows there’s no way he’s going to see them until Kings Cross, at the earliest. He has to
do this now.

“Fudge is getting rather trepidatious, with how much power Dumbledore holds,” Draco
says, managing to shock even himself with how soft the words come out. Slow and
conversational.
He works to hold himself very, very still.
“I expect the Ministry will be trying to extend their reach,” Draco says, “particularly into
Hogwarts grounds.”

He continues to stare only at the doors - but now there are two sets of wide-eyes, staring into
the side of his skull. Scanning over his steady shoulders, carefully watching his expression,
which he keeps pointedly blank. Neither of them have ever shown any sign of Legilimency,
but Draco holds his mental shields high anyway. Keeping his gaze on the diamond-shaped
grate in front of the lift doors. Focused solely on the rust on its sides and hinges.

It’s oddly comforting, how it reminds him of the decaying bricks of his cell, the cold wall.
The nothingness.

He ignores the feeling in his gut, rising like bile- how his entire body tenses, like his throat is
still trying to reflexively swallow those words back down. Pluck them out of the air and-

The lift shakes a little as it slows, rattling like Draco’s hands want to, even though he keeps
them still, pressed steady at his sides.

“…I beg your pardon?” Mr. Weasley finally says after a long beat of hesitation. His voice
is softer than it had been toward Draco’s father, though not by much.

Draco chances a glance toward them, noting immediately how Potter’s expression hadn’t
changed at all; in fact, his scowl just seems to have set yet deeper. Draco stays still, the only
movement he allows himself is minimal - just adjusting the cufflinks on his robe.

“It’s nothing,” Draco says, words stiff and cold. Shaking his head just once. The lift
reaches a grating halt. Docking into the stop with a rusty thud.
“Never mind.”

And Draco’s entire mind is screaming at him.

He should have thought this through. He should have come up with a better plan - hell, he
should have made any sort of plan at all. Or maybe he shouldn't've come. This hadn’t even
helped. It was just awkward as hell-
 “Have a good day,” Draco says icily, stepping out into the near-deserted Atrium with quick
and even footfalls. Dress shoes clacking on tile. Finally giving in to his magic's pull and
making his escape.

He could floo straight home. Tell his mother he got bored waiting on Father, or that the guard
at the entrance took too long- yes. that’s certainly something Young Draco Malfoy would
have done-

“Wait, Mr. Malfoy!” Mr. Weasley calls with a soft voice- and, almost involuntarily,
Draco’s footsteps stop. He twists only his head. Stomach rolling and fists clenched.

Mr. Weasley looks… well he looks rather like he’s just bitten something rotten. And Draco
realizes rather quickly; his dumb Gryffindor sense of responsibility won’t allow him to leave
even an enemy child unattended.

Potter is standing there with an expression Draco wishes he had the freedom to make;
looking all the shocked, mortified and furious that Draco feels-

Draco kind of wants to scream.

“Do you… “ Mr. Weasley says, “need help finding where you’re going? The Ministers
office is up-”

“I can make my way, thank you,” Draco asserts with a firm shake of his head. “Good day.”

And then he’s immediately strutting off. Moving as fast as he can without breaking into a
dead sprint. Ignoring the feeling of eyes that follow him- all the way until he disappears
around the corner. His calm facade holds.

The hallway he follows is long and cold, and most importantly: empty.

Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. Draco's mind whirls. His failure coils around his chest like a vice.
Or maybe that’s something else. His head feels… Fuzzy. Hot. Wrong.

Draco tries, and fails, to take in a deep breath. He tries again, but it comes in short. Stunted
and choked. Like he’s trying to breathe a wall.

Images flush through his mind — a two sections of cauterized forest at the Manor. A wand
digging into Delacour’s jugular—

His heart thunders in his chest. His eyes sting as tears gather.

He feels stupid, very incredibly foolish, to have thought he could do this without preparation.
He’s been so reactive. So high strung. His magic on a hair-trigger-
And now he’s gone and made a complete utter fool of himself. No progress has been made.
Narcissa was right. He should have just stayed home. He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be here. He wants to be somewhere else - anywhere else.

He wants, and his magic answers.

¶¶¶

He’s not entirely sure if it had been apparition, if he had somehow managed to get to one of
the floo’s, or if he’d just managed to stumble out- but when Draco comes to, there’s no
crowd. No people at all.

He stares unfeelingly at the dim grey sky above. It doesn’t feel like he’s been out for a long
time- but that implies that… there’s a such thing as time at all.
There’s a very distinct feeling to it. Distracting, empty- clearly missing something, but hard
to place what.
It’s like he’s somehow come unstuck and is just floating in stasis, quietly still in something
that is already forgotten - a moment so in-between it disappears just as it’s felt.

Felt.
He feels… something. Felt it in the past. Feels it now. Or maybe he will feel it soon. Either
way, past, present and future, it exists. And it feels.. grey.

Grey.

The sky —is it sky? Is it anything?— is grey. A cool grey that offers a mist; an afterthought
of a long rain.

Rain. Water. Damp.

The pavement under him is damp. He feels it. Stones that jut unevenly against his spine and
shoulders, but… it’s hard to feel… anything. He feels oddly separated from his body.
Detached, dazed and disoriented.

For a long time —or… it feels long anyway, time itself feels foreign, every breath feels long
and drawn out— he just… lays there.
If he was an emotion, he would be a totally emotionless one. Something cold, but not like ice
or winter, simply like a wall is cold — cold as a natural consequence to a lack of warmth.

Cold like the pavement under him. Like the walls of the buildings to his side. Like the grey
sky above.
Cold like…. Something else too. Pressure. Kindness.

There’s a nudge. A whimper - or at least something like that.

Draco can’t see the creature. His head still won’t move, and his ears are still ringing from the
crowd - but there’s a feeling it gives off that he cant ignore.

It’s… not soft, but it has a certain give to it. Like old leather, warm from a cracking fireplace.
A smell like stone and fur.

A taste fills his mouth, sour. He reflexively swallows and- ouch.

Draco realizes rather quickly that he is slowly regaining feeling in his throat, which kind of
sucks because of how sore it feels, but there’s so little of him that feels grounded that the pain
is, at the very least, novel.

Maybe this is what being splinched feels like. Maybe he’s gone and fucked up, using his
stupid, inexplicably powerful wandless magic to apparate, even when this body hadn’t even
learned how to do that yet.

There’s that pressure again. A little whimper. Worry, confusion and caution weigh equally in
the creature- and yet, it nudges him with it’s wet, cold little nose.

Familiar.
Why does it feel so… familiar.

With a beleaguered, slumped shift, Draco pulls himself up and back, half dragging himself
until his back is leaned against the wall. His head is still aching -

Draco twists his head, blinks and squints, vision still smeared - but against the grey city, the
dark… dog? Yeah, unless London’s rat population was really getting bad, that was probably a
dog, sits. It’s fur is puffed, tiny triangular ears perked up and tail raised, but it doesn't move.

Groaning to himself, Draco swallows again to wet his throat, and pulls his knees up.
His leather shoes feel clunky, socks too damp and thin. His robes aren’t wet per-say, but
they’ve certainly soaked in some moisture from the ground.
It’s through these sensations that Draco realizes, he is starting to regain connection with his
body… and, as per usual, all he can feel is varying levels of pain.

Draco stretches - his back and shoulder popping at the strain. His head feels fuzzy - but
there’s an urgency, in the back of his mind, a feeling like he’s wasting time… but why?

He blinks. Exhaustion drags at his bones. A thick, pulsing feeling that very nearly makes him
want to just curl up on the pavement and fall back into that… dreamless stasis. That sweet,
ambivalent nothing-

A tiny yip makes Draco’s eyes pop back open. Well, that- and the pair of little paws digging
into his thigh.

“Ah, jeez,” Draco mutters. Squinting and trying to rub his eyes. Propping himself up a bit
further against the wall. The smell of wet asphalt and city hovers over them in a thin fog.

The little dog, a small black —or maybe just dark brown?— puppy stands at alert by his side.
Its thick, dark fur has small, lighter spots around it's muzzle, ears and brow.

“Mm you really don' want me goin’ back to sleep, do ya,” Draco mutters, head still
pounding.
He raises his hand-

The pup bows back. Ears bowing down and eyes focused-

Nervous.

He pauses. Not wanting to scare her. Muttering a small “Hey, it’s okay,” under his breath-

There’s something about it in his head. Fuzzy- like something forgotten. Something he should
remember.

There’s something about her eyes too. Wide open and soft-

“That’s Jackie,” Jack says from over his shoulder. Draco blinks. The sunlight pours
through the glass-block window of Grimmauld’s tight kitchen. Shining like gold off every
metal fixture, creating a warmth that spills in a haze through the space.

She’s a doberman, dark brown with small light spots around her muzzle, ears and brow. Her
small pink floral collar jingles and glints in the light.
“Apparently Enno found ‘er outback the Ministry office years back," Jack says, "fed her
what scraps he could, tried to find somebody to adopt her… but nobody would.”
Jackie’s eyes are wide, black and marbley.

The dog- Jackie, huffs and, cautiously, yet… trustingly, leans forward.
Her nose butts at his palm, cold as it leans, pressing up against his wrist. The side of her head
pressing at his knee, folded up against him. Offering hesitant, but sweet little licks over his
hand.

And Draco, carefully and ever so gently, maneuvers and scratches behind her ears. Stroking
his hand over her head.
Her short hair is a little wiry, but mostly smooth.
Longer than he remembers it. She’s thinner too. A stray, alone in this world.

Loneliness and grief mingle into a sore ache in his chest - like a bruise that refuses to heal.
But it’s a reminder too - of why he’s here.

The feeling of wasting time makes a lot of sense - as his mind flushes with the events of this
morning- and shit. Lucius must still be waiting for him. Who knows how aggravated he
might be-

Jackie buts at his hand again. Licking his fingers.

Draco feels completely drained, but straightens his legs and shifts anyway. Jackie moves
back, just a little. But it doesn’t take much to coax her off the cold ground and into his arms.
And he stands.

A tiny wet nose bumps against his shoulder- then pauses, squirming to get comfortable in his
arms. Trusting - perhaps too trusting for a perfect stranger.
But her familiar, warm weight presses up against his chest. Small and bony, but kind.

It’s bittersweet. But something about the feeling is too good to let go of. It reminds him of the
feeling he got after starting the railroad. The feeling of being able to help someone, to offer
just the slightest amount of comfort in the cold-

And maybe, it’s a start.

 Chapter 12

Even with exhaustion clogging his senses, Jackie in his arms —Who is surprisingly easy to
carry, what with her rather blindly trusting nature and her small frame— there’s something
about stepping into the manor, silent as it is, that sets him on edge.

There’s a sizable difference between quiet and silent. Quiet was usually peaceful. Quiet
comes with the soft murmur of the ancestral portraits talking to each other, or snoozing the
day away. The almost imperceptible pop, then quiet little footsteps of house elves moving
around to tidy and dust. Quiet meant the far off sound of music from Narcissa’s art studio, or
her garden. Or father consulting someone through the floo in his study.

Silence, true silence, meant none of that.

And true silence was never accidental. True silence, particularly in a space where there
should be noise, meant there’s bound to be a muffling charm, or someone listening.

His suspicions are only confirmed as he carefully moves down the hallway, and is hit with
that… feeling. That shuttered buzzing sensation that he’s slowly learning to associate with
active magic.

A silencing charm, to be exact.

Jackie stirs idly in his hold, small head lifting to sniff at the air, before nuzzling sleepily back
into the warmth of his arms. And Draco fights not to envy how comfortable she looks.

Draco creeps slowly past, then quietly up the stairs. Exhaustion drags deep to his bones with
every step, but he doesn’t stumble - unwilling to accidentally draw attention to himself.

He’s still not… a hundred percent sure how he’s gonna pull this off. Jackie is a random dog -
not even a crup, he’d found in an alley. And sure, Narcissa had told him to come home if he
felt poorly - but Lucius had been so sure of him; that Draco would be fine. Another piece of
his father’s poor judgement, Draco could add to the long, long list. But still, the questions
reigned.

How long would it take for Lucius to notice Draco had left the ministry? Would he be
disappointed in Draco for not soldiering through his exhaustion?
And how would he take to Jackie?

Would his parents let him keep her, or just take her away? Could he find a way to hide her -
and maybe stow her away until Hogwarts?
…Would he even be able to keep her safe for that long?

A draft flutters through a cracked open window, tussling the olive green curtains that frame it.
A dry and icy breeze. Jackie shivers, the movement leaving a scuff of mud up the chest of his
robes. Draco pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder. And as soon as he does,
Nachash slithers up and circles his ankles. The enchanted rug happily bumping up against his
shoes, blinking slowly at him. With a sigh, Draco slow-blinks back in greeting, and sits on
the edge of his bed to shuck of his shoes. It takes a moment, what with his arms still
occupied, but he manages.

He realizes then Nachash is not at his feet- and instead slithering toward the closet-

Draco blinks momentarily, confused as he watches the rug nudge two towels onto its back,
and then head straight for the ensuite. It pauses at the door-frame, twisting and looking back
toward him. Expecting him to follow.

Draco sighs, looking down to the muddy dog in his arms, the dirt all down his robes.
"Must we?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

Nachash just waits.

Draco sighs again, but he stands. Ignoring the way the bed passive-aggressively shakes off
the dirt he’d gotten on the sheet. Prissy thing.

Draco barely passes the threshold when the shower spits and hisses to life. The bathroom
lights flicking on, then —after he winces to the brightness— dimming kindly as Draco shuts
the door. Jackie’s head perks up at the mounting, unfamiliar stimuli. The heat of the steam
quickly builds, warmth clinging to her fur. He sets her down on the floor by the vanity.

Almost as soon as her paws hit the heated tile, her little legs curl under her and she sprawls
out on her side. Muddy and content. Draco lets out a half laugh, rolling his eyes.

“No, hey,” Draco tuts, shirking off his outer robes and tossing them carelessly into a pile on
the floor. “If I don’t get to go to sleep, neither do you. C’mon,” Draco nudges her head, then
when that fails, he offers a few halfhearted pats.

Jackie doesn’t move much. She presses her snout and nuzzles against the warmth of the floor.

Draco rolls his eyes and yawns blearily. He’s not an idiot - he knows the house won’t let him
go to bed until he’s properly clean - or if it does take pity on him, it won’t be nice about it.
And Draco is half tempted to just run them both over with a Scourgify—
Images flush through his mind — two sections of cauterized forest at the Manor. A wand
digging into Delacour’s jugular. His magic, his panic. So reactive. On a hair-trigger—

Draco immediately shakes the impulse.

His magic still feels …weak, anyway. Less temperamental than this morning, but still not
quite calm. It feels half empty. Like his magic is a liquid, sloshing around within him with
every move he makes. He feels like he’s swaying with it too. Like getting out from the ocean
but still feeling the bobbing of the tide.

He takes a long inhale, and does not silently awe at how comfortable and warm the floor is…

“C’mon Jackie,” Draco says drearily, nudging her again. And she does move, wiggling close
enough to press up against the side of his thigh. But beyond that, she keeps still. And Draco
isn’t sure if she’s feigning sleep, or just being lazy. He threads his fingers under her chin,
offering her a few scratches, which she leans into easily. His whole body feels heavy, like
he’s sinking through the floor. Draco closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, his head
hitting it with a soft thunk. Just to rest them for a moment. And then he’ll get up. Get Jackie
clean and fed. Figure out a game-plan for how to handle his parents, how to keep her safe…
Then he can stock up more potions… research more offensive and defensive spells… figure
out the wards… brainstorm how to find the Order…… How to keep… everyone safe… Keep
them alive……

He just needs to rest.

That’s all he needs. A moment to rest.

¶¶¶

The bare stone walls all narrow in on a single black door one at the end of a tall, narrow
corridor. The black tile floor has a slight green sheen. Polished and gleaming.

The torches on the walls are so long, and the hall is so narrow, they very nearly create an
archway. The flames at the edges grow brighter as he inches slowly past them - but not hotter.
No. In fact everything feels… cool. Like cold tile or damp earth. His entire body feels
passively cold. Not like a chill or a draft that saps heat from him — More like he has no heat
to give in the first place. He is empty. Comfortable.

There’s someone there. Movement beyond the door, which looks just feet away and yet, feels
so impossibly far… Whispering too. Voices speaking in hushed tones.
The movement is closer now. Halting close-by. Patient, for now. Waiting for… something.

A want, a yearning exists. But for what, he cannot tell.

Does someone inside want out?

Is there anyone there at all?
He’s not sure. And if there is… Draco’s not sure if he wants an answer. The door isn’t exactly
inviting… but the hallway is cool and calm. There’s a comfort here, in this liminal,
transitional space. A respite between choices.

A cold breeze blows over his soul. Shoulders heavy with formal robes. His hands clench- a
ring presses hot against his palm. He turns—

There’s a face.
Red slit eyes in the doorway. A wide grin that grows wider with jagged teeth-

The knock resounds from- somewhere, everywhere all at once. Shaking the world like it's the
inside of a bell being rung - and then someone calls to him.

And the world falls apart.

Draco twists, the familiar hardness of stone under him. Disoriented, he scoots upward hastily.
Scrubbing his eyes. It’s dim here. But warm in a way his cell never got. His breath trembles
in his chest-

A whimper comes from just beside him. A wet knob nudging at him- Jackie’s nose. Her head
is down and tail tucked. And it takes a moment for him to fully catalogue what’s going on-

“Draco? Draco are you alright? I'm coming in.” Narcissa’s ever soft voice asks. And Draco’s
head whips toward it.

Draco blinks blearily up at her- silhouetted in the light from his room. Heart still pounding,
he stares, watching her carefully. Her hand is over her eyes as she pushes the door open-

“I’m, um, sorry to intrude dearest, but you weren’t answering, and I-.. I thought you could be
hurt, or-“ She rushes-
 “Iz' fine,” Draco grumbles, still trying to pull himself to wakefulness. “‘Least I’m decent,”
he mutters. throat sore and body aching.
The room is full of steam now, the window having cracked itself open to vent itself. His spine
aches from sleeping sat-up and-

And Jackie is sat almost fully on his lap.

And Narcissa’s eyes are uncovered.

Draco holds his breath.

“…are you alright?” Narcissa asks. Pushing open the door a bit further - the light from his
bedroom spilling into the dim bathroom.
He examines the way the light catches on the twinkling, star-like patterns of her Persian blue
dress.

The way her eyes flick between Draco and Jackie.

She looks down - and her expression shifts. A thin pale eyebrow arching upward.

“I… Did you bring home a-“ she pauses, head tilting, “What is that. Some sort of crup?”

Draco opens his mouth-

But Narcissa doesn’t wait for a response, simply lingering in a sigh.

And Draco hates the way his chest feels like it’s caving in. Shame is not an unfamiliar feeling
for him, but… from his mother?

Jackie licks tepidly at his fingers, just once. Staying stiff and still in his lap.

The shower still hisses in the background, still filling the room with fog.

“Draco, darling," she says tightly, tutting in that perfectly maternal way, "put that down. You
don’t know where its been.”

Draco notes the way his mother’s wand slots into her hand with unease. Mentally he notes his
own is still in his pocket.

…Not that it matters.

“Put what down?” Comes a rich voice from the hallway, along with that familiar step-step-
tap-
And then, because his day hasn’t been bad enough, apparently; Lucius walks in.

He’s still in his dress robes from this morning, looking no less worse for wear-

His eyes latch onto the scene and widen. Draco and Jackie in a mess on the floor. Narcissa
stood in front of them. The sounds of water rushing from the shower and steam rolling out
from the room.

Narcissa’s wand lifts- and Draco flinches. Tugging Jackie close. Ready to cast a shield-

But nothing happens.

Well, that’s not true. The shower handle twists back and the water cuts off - but nothing else.
Jackie doesn’t fidget in his grip, in fact she barely moves at all; Glassy eyes wide, ears pinned
back. And then it’s just the four of them. Standing in a misty bathroom, in dead silence.

Draco would laugh if he didn’t feel like it would just make it all worse.

“You’re home late,” Narcissa says, twisting sharply to greet her husband.

“If by that you mean that I arrived after Draco, then I suppose so,” Lucius notes.

They stand a few feet apart, but it feels like miles.

The displeasure on Narcissa’s face is raw and vivid.

“Is there a reason for that?” She asks.

“I assume he got bored,” Lucius says with a hand wave.

“You assume?” Narcissa asks sharply.

“Yes,” Lucius says, his eyes dart toward Draco, eyes narrowing for just a moment. And
Draco stays very, very still. “I dropped him off at the Magical Menagerie,” Lucius says.
And Draco swallows.

It’s not the first time his father has lied to his mother’s face, that much Draco knows for sure.
But why here, why now? Why for Draco's benefit?

“He deserves a reward for earning prefect this year, don’t you think?”
Oh yeah. Draco forgot about that.

“But a crup? And such a… strange one at that?” Narcissa says, nose wrinkling.
“How is he going to bring it to school? How is he going to care for it? A pet is a large
responsibility Lucius. This is a huge decision. Particularly with everything-“

“Draco is nearly sixteen,” Lucius says firmly cutting her off, “He is barely a year off
adulthood. He must be allowed to make his own choices.”
There’s more to his tone. Perhaps referencing the conversation they’d had this morning, but-

“Besides,” Lucius says warmly, “I’ll take care of it.” Lucius gives a soft smile and a wave of
his hand. Neither do much to assuage Narcissa’s obvious displeasure. But Draco kind of
doubts the expression is even meant to do so.

Lucius locks eyes with him, just for a beat. And it feels like he’s sold his soul as, dejectedly,
Draco nods.

And Narcissa gives a long sigh, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of her nose. She huffs
and lifts her head. Jaw tight and eyes locked with Lucius. Sharp and challenging.

“Draco,” She addresses, turning to look toward him, “I’m cutting your etiquette tomorrow to
replace it with some… mental training.”

And Draco nods to that too, even though he’s not really sure what it means.

She turns toward Lucius, and opens her mouth to speak…

But then she stops.

Narcissa takes a breath in. Then out. Her hands don’t clench - they just,, straighten. Her
shoulders falling to a perfect stiff line.

“Lucius,” She says, cold. “We’re going to talk about this later.”

“I’m sure we will,” Lucius says, quiet and hollow. Completely unfeeling.

Draco doesn't quite understand why a pang of empathy hits him so sharply. He tires to shake
it but… it stays. Stubborn as any other feeling pertaining to Lucius.

Narcissa twists.
 “Your father is in the sitting room,” Narcissa says over her shoulder, presumably at Lucius,
given his father is right here. “Dinner is in half an hour.”
They’re more statements of facts than invitations, but the tone she uses is threat enough.

And then she’s gone. A pair of manicured heels clicking into the distance of the house.

Draco expects Lucius to follow. If only to exit Draco’s bedroom. Then they’d hit the hallway
and split.

But… he doesn’t. He just sighs. Shoulders tense.

“She… has your best interests at heart, you know,” Lucius says. But it sounds more like he’s
trying to convince himself.

Draco says nothing. Just slowly cards his fingers through Jackie’s wiry fur. Trying to force
himself to relax.

It doesn’t really work.

“…So,” Lucius says, turning and leaning against he door-frame, a forced sort of casual.
"Where did you get that crup?” He says, smiling. Like everything’s okay.

It had taken a lot of time for Draco to realize his father’s tells. Lucius was an undeniable
master of emotion; his own, and others.

And yet, for some reason, he’s hesitant.

And above everything else, that hesitation is what confounds Draco the most.

It reminds Draco of this morning, standing in the library.

It feels like there’s been more than the thin barrier of a few hours between now and then.

Draco leverages a shallow breath.

“I found her,” he replies honestly. And Lucius’s brow furrows, just an inch.

He waits a long beat. Like he expects Draco to keep talking.

And in truth, Draco knows he probably should. He knows a teenage Draco would have.
And yet, he can't.

Lucius' tense posture shifts, just a millimeter, not a rise of tension or a slump of relaxation,
just a shift - his equivalent of a melodramatic, drawn out sigh.

“Stand up,” Lucius says firmly.

It’s an order. A familiar one at that.

Draco’s body moves before he really processes it much. Arms curling around and lifting
Jackie, who curls into his arms almost reflexively at this point, nudging her head unto the
crook of his arm.

“Why don't you go get changed,” Lucius says, standing straight and leaving his cane resting
at the notch of the door-frame, holding out his hands.
“I’ll take… that.”

“Her,” Draco corrects without thinking. Stopping short. Sluggish mind catching up with the
muscle memory from a time that has yet to come.

“…her,” Lucius amends. He extends his hands again-

Jackie lets out a slight whine as Draco holds her tighter.

A muscle in Lucius’s jaw twitches.

“She’s dirty,” Lucius says. As though that’s explanation enough. As though that tells Draco
anything about his intentions-

“I’m aware,” Draco says tightly. His magic a low hum under his skin. “What do you want
with her?”

Lucius exhales, a little huff of breath.

“I’m going to bathe her.”

Draco’s brows rocket upward.

“Like, with water?” Draco asks. Unable to contain his disbelief.

And Lucius actually laughs. A real, throaty thing. Warm.

“Yes, with water,” Lucius says, like it’s a joke they’re both in on, “and soap, preferably. That
is how we keep living things clean, after all.”

But Draco is just stood there. He can’t- he can’t-…

And the fight-or-flight, the adrenaline, the sureness that he knew how this would go—
crumbles.

Draco’s brow furrows. His chest feels tight. He squints a little, through the fog. Trying to
overlay the mental images in his mind. Of the person Lucius was- No. The person he was
bound to become- and…
This.

This strange man with a strange smile and a strange laugh that makes Draco’s heart ache.
Because none of it’s really that strange at all.

Draco doesn’t want to love his father. Not after all he’s done. Not after everything. But…

Lucius’s hand rests gently on his shoulder. Warm and firm. And Draco lets his head tilt and
rest against his arm. Ever so slightly.

He doesn’t have to look up to feel the troubled look as it crosses his father’s expression - he
knows it will fall blank as soon as he meets it anyway.

“You can help me,” Lucius says, his voice is so… soft, “if that would make you happy."

And from there, it doesn’t take nearly as long as he’d thought, to get Jackie clean. Even if it
is more of a battle than he’d thought it would be - for completely different reasons than he
would have assumed.

But Lucius is… patient and kind, even if he is unwavering with what he wants. And Jackie
responds well enough to the structure. Particularly to Lucius’s offerings of snacks after he
summons an elf for them. Which lets Draco relax, and let his father take the reins. It’s oddly
reminiscent of how he interacted with Draco as a small child. Offering treats and gifts in
reward for good behavior, as Jackie slowly acclimates to the shower, occasionally biting at
the spray. And Draco kind of wants to laugh at that.

And a few minutes later, it's done.

Lucius wraps a fluffy towel around Jackie as the shower drain gurgles up the last of the water.
Picking her up out from the shower base-

And as soon as she’s free, Jackie shakes. Towel falling free as a spray of water hits
everything nearby-

Including Lucius.

There’s a split second as Lucius stiffens. Shoulders pressing sharp.

Draco doesn’t even process himself stiffening, moving forward-

But just a half step away, Lucius’s shoulders relax again.

And Draco stops.

Thankfully Lucius doesn’t seem to notice his son’s momentary panic - nor the way his eyes
trace on the far-too-familiar coil of dark ink on his father’s forearm, as he tugs his sleeves up
to cast a drying charm. And even when he does turn his head to notice Draco… all he does is
smile. Scrubbing the towel over Jackie’s now dry fur, and turning toward Draco. The silence
lingers warm, like the steam of the room which is thin with the tang of Lemongrass soap. The
pendant lights by the mirror creates a soft haze through it all.

Draco slowly, awkwardly, kneels back down to the floor. His legs still feel shaky. Body and
magic prepared for a fight that still has yet to come.

“You know, I had one, as a boy,” Lucius says gently. And Draco’s eyes widen.

“Really?” Draco asks.

Jackie trots around the room, stumbling over Lucius’s lap and toward Draco.

Lucius lets out another short laugh.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

Draco hates to admit that it’s… really not. A visual enters his mind; A younger version of
Lucius, trotting around with some pure-blood crup. Caring for it similarly to how he’d cared
for the peacocks. Keeping them fed and watered on a regular schedule couldn’t be hard when
he kept such rigorous alignment to his itinerary.

And as Jackie returns to curl up in his arms, Draco relaxes, ever so slightly.

“I never took Grandfather Abraxas as the type,” Draco says thoughtfully.

“Oh you’re right to think so - he hated it,” Lucius says with a dramatic roll of his eyes.
Reaching over to Draco’s lap to give Jackie one last head scratch.
"But my mother thought it would help me be more ‘responsible’,” Lucius says, then leans
forward and stage-whispers, “Though i'll admit, it hardly worked.”

And, despite himself, Draco laughs.

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The next several days pass quickly. The realization of how close the school year is sending
many families into a flurry.
Lucius spends nearly all morning on the floo making apointments, and Narcissa isn’t far
behind him, sending out a rotation of last minute additions to social calendars, and calling in
favors for anything still missing. And then their evenings are spent at events, or just… gone.
Father especially spends long hours out, coming home late enough that Draco hears him in
the morning, still drinking with Mother in his study, both of them trying to forget where he’d
just come from.
It’s on nights like those that Draco will lay in bed, head twisted toward the door. He sees the
light from the hall under the door the threshold eclipse, he watches the shadow of her shoes
hold.

Waiting. Still.

Exhaustion claws deep in his bones, and one slow blink later, she’s gone.

Cool blue light seeps its way through frost-tinted windows.

It’s morning again.

¶¶¶

The first snowfall of the season comes at four in the morning — just a half inch, which still
leaves most of the grass and flowers poking up out. Draco notes the needle-like shadows
through the window as he wanders out of his room to start his day. Get a little done while his
parents are still sleeping off their whiskey, before the house wakes from its stupor.
He manages to stow a few simple healing salves into the cellars, hidden in holes he chisels
out in the corners and behind loose stones. And by the time he comes up back into the house,
the warmth of the air nearly burns. His fingers pale and nose clogged.

Thyng shepherds him up by the fire as soon as she sees him, bringing tea, and never asking
how he got so cold — despite there being no footprints in the sparse snow outside.
It doesn’t end up mattering. It all melts into slush and mud by seven under the radiant sun —
but still. It’s a reminder of just how quickly time is passing. And not a kind one at that.

So Draco does what he usually does when he’s emotionally distressed these days. He heads
upstairs, and gets dressed for a run.
¶¶¶

A cool sheen of sweat covers his skin as Draco heads back toward the Manor, Jackie
waddling excitedly along at his side. The early morning sun catches the dew on the tree
branches, the warmth of daylight glittering like stained glass against the turning autumn
foliage.
She’s wearing her new collar - an emerald green leather band with a sterling silver name-
plate and a detachable bow at the front. Lucius had gotten it, as well as a matching lead and
an armful of other accoutrements, the morning after Draco brought her home.
And Draco is… still kind of trying to figure out how he feels about that.

But it’s peaceful out here. The heat of day not yet set in… It’s a nice place to be alone; not
have to keep up appearances.

The Malfoy estate is a wide breadth, a mixture of open grassland and forest, which deepens
to the surrounding property line. He remembers loving getting lost around the property, as a
child. Coming home with bark on his palms, scrapes on his knees and a huge smile on his
face.

Draco rounds the bend, his feet still knowing exactly where to go - and his mother’s prized
garden glows in the sunshine. And he finds, rather suddenly, that he and Jackie are not the
only ones out here.

He sees Narcissa's silhouette at first. Soft watercolor of a floral blue-green summer dress,
wrapped up under green robes for warmth. The breeze of autumn rolls through the estate,
dancing gently in her dress and her hair. She has her gardening gloves on, the brown cotton
ones she uses for the more delicate plants, but she doesn’t seem to be doing much with them.
She leans the edge of a tall garden bed, woven basket and thread forgotten beside her, simply
watching the tail ends of sunrise as they crest the tree-line.

Her head twists just a moment after his eyes lock onto her. She always had been so
perceptive, always quick with her reaction times-

“Draco,” she calls out, waving him over. And after a beat of hesitation, Draco waves back,
his steps turning to a slight jog up to the garden gate, which unlocks and swings invitingly
open at his presence. Jackie startles at it, but it doesn’t take too long for the pup to recover,
busily sniffing the low garden beds, tilting her head when some sniff back.

Draco turns the corner, meeting his mother’s eyes. She looks so peaceful, here. The golden
blonde of her hair shining in the sun. She pulls off her gloves, setting them gently in the
basket, on top of the herbs. A slow motion.
She smiles, and it’s such… such a gentle thing.

Cautious.
 “Good morning,” Draco says, the words come out weaker than he’d intended, breathless.
And maybe she notices something in him, what with how her brow twitches, and she opens
up her arms.
Or maybe she’s always known.

Either way, Draco accepts the gesture immediately.

He’s still slightly shorter than her, in this body at least. But that just means he can tuck his
head into the low crux of her shoulder easily. Her arms gliding up around his torso, tucking
him into her body the way she always had.
Her perfume —something vanilla and sharp— envelopes him.

Draco fights the instinct to relax entirely, for a moment, before realizing he doesn’t need to.
There’s nobody here who would judge him for hugging his mother. Nobody peering into his
life.

So, he lets out a breath, and… he allows it. He lets himself have this opportunity to just…
relax. To hold her. And to be held. Just for a moment.

And it’s… warm.

“Vouivre… why are you up so early?” She asks, her voice is warm too. A soft rumble
through her entire body, like a summer thunder storm. The pet name, French, ‘wyvern’, is…
old. Nostalgic. He hadn’t heard it since childhood. He tries, and fails, to ignore the way his
chest tightens at it. He clenches his jaw, and… holds her a little tighter.

Draco isn’t sure if Narcissa’s worry has been lessened over the past couple days, or just
eclipsed by her fears for Lucius and their future… or perhaps neither. Perhaps it simply feels
smaller because he’s viewing it from a distance.

The wind rustles through the tree leaves, like nature itself is whispering through the quiet
morning air.

“…Are you feeling alright?” She asks, pulling back ever so slightly. Draco immediately
misses her warmth. He looks down.
She cups his cheek, her palm smooth and unscathed, guiding him to look back up. Her
diamond earrings sparkle, but even diamonds cannot compare to the brilliant shine of her
eyes. Even if he can’t bring himself to look at them for too long.

He doesn’t want to cry this early in the morning… so he won’t. But… he will let himself
have this. This shared warmth. This moment of peace.

And Draco, he does what he’s good at, he pulls away; but, indulging himself one more time,
he raises a hand to cup her hand on his cheek. Leaning into it. Feeling her soft, svelte fingers
tighten. Feeling her wedding band, smooth silver inset with a bouquet of little diamonds.

Her eyes shine. The ends of her hair and her dress dance against the breeze.

“Of course I am,” Draco finally answers, offering her a quiet smile.
“I’m just… a bit tired. Had to get the energy out of this girl.” He gestures to Jackie, who’s
currently pawing at his pant leg. And Draco smiles down at her, she’s still so small. So much
room to grow.

He wonders, idly, if Narcissa was looking at him the same way.

His Mother presses the back of her palm to his forehead. And Draco looks up toward her,
unable to keep the amusement from his expression.
“You’ve got a chill,” she hums.

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Of course I do. I was on a run.”

“Without a coat, I see,” she tuts with that familiar sort of worry. And Draco lets out a light
laugh at that.

“I think I’ll survive. Now, shouldn’t it be about breakfast time?” Draco asks, redirecting,
maneuvering toward the door to the interior of the house.

“Yes. The elves should be about done,” she hums, still stood in the same spot, “go get
changed.”

“For breakfast?” Draco asks. It had been a longstanding rule, ‘no pajamas at the breakfast
table’, food being a good incentive for a young child to get himself dressed in the morning.
But exercise clothes?

“For Diagon Alley,” she corrects, but her expression is… tenser.

Draco arches a brow.

“I thought we could look for a new broom for you, for the school year? New robes as well,
for both of us,” she hums, "Proper equipment for… Jacqueline, since I presume you will be
taking her to school with you.” She lifts the basket, filled with bundles of fluxweed and
budding asphodel tied with string.

“Yeah,” Draco says, if just to fill the silence. “I’ve been meaning to,” Draco says.

“…And,” Narcissa adds, tense. “Some books on Occulemency should do us well.” She says.

“Oh?” Draco inquires. “How do you mean?”

Narcissa shrugs, waving her hand - more a fan of her fingers than a real decisive wave.
“I noticed last night that the Malfoy collection is less… extensive, than I’d assumed. Thats
all.” She says, as though it were just an unrelated afterthought.

“Off you go now,” Narcissa says with a wave to her hand. There’s no real authority to her
tone, but that’s never really been what coaxed Draco to her side anyway. He does pause, just
for a moment.

“Your mental steadiness should always be your top priority, you know,” She hums, smiling.

¶¶¶

“Draco’s school work must always be his top priority,” Lucius argues. “His time would be
far better suited prepping for the school year. With OWL’s coming up-“

“He’s already ahead on his schoolwork Lucius!” Narcissa exclaims back. “What he needs
now is to be ready in every other way. It won’t matter how well prepared he is if he’s too
exhausted to use the knowledge-“

“There is no such thing as too much preparation when it comes to his future Narcissa! And I
will not have him losing to that mudblood, particularly when these grades will impact him for
the rest of his life-“

And Draco is just… tired.

Their sojourn to Diagon Alley had been rather quick and, honestly, a rather enjoyable
experience. They’d shopped, gotten hot chocolates, and Draco had even been able to skim a
newspaper as they’d checked out from the book shop.
Even if the whole thing was rather bland. —The headline touting something about the
Harpies recent win, with a healthy side-dish of some pop-star’s latest scandal. Nothing about
Voldemort, or Sirius Black. Nothing worthwhile.— It had been another reminder that, at
times, silence can be its own kind of propaganda.

No, the excursion, alone, had actually gone great.

It had been returning home, which was the problem.

“Even so, canceling Draco’s last three days of lessons is simply untoward! I will not have it,
Narcissa!” Lucius yells. “Not without at least communicating first!”

Narcissa lets out a sharp ring of laughter - disturbingly close to one of Bellatrix’s signature
cackles-
“Oh, oh, so now you care about communication,” Narcissa bites sharply, “I wasn’t hearing
anything about that when you got Draco a crup- because, what was it, he’s old enough-“

“This is not about him being old enough,” Lucius stone walls. “This is about how you said
you’d be cutting etiquette, for this… ‘mental training’,”— he emphasizes with air quotes,
then throws his hands in the air—“not all his classes for three bloody days!”

His father’s hands are shaky again, pale in a way that tells Draco that Lucius has been
drinking. He’s too alert for it to have been much, but his eyes are bloodshot too. Like he’s
been awake all night. Draco wonders if Lucius even particularly cares about the current
argument - or if he’s just so lost and exhausted that he’s using this as a distraction.

Draco wouldn’t doubt it. Mostly because he’d done the same.

And people wonder where he got his awful coping mechanisms from.

“If he decided it,” Lucius exclaims, “it may be another story, but he-“

“Fine.” Narcissa says, drawing herself up to her full height. “Draco,” She swivels on her heel
toward him. “Your father clearly believes you ought to make this decision.”

Lucius is looking at him too. Expression pinched in that way it always was when he expected
obedience.
And yet, in that moment, Draco looks at his parents… and feels strangely aware of how much
of their love was on him, and, stranger yet, he suddenly felt it heavy and painful; to be loved
like that. Loved to a point of such contention. And despite it all, despite how Draco knows
this love is temporary, and knows that a few more days of tutoring or mental training are
unnecessary for him…

Despite knowing these few days could be better served figuring out the last things he would
need for the future-

Draco can’t bare to loose it.

“I can do both,” Draco says slowly.

Narcissa tenses, and then, almost immeasurably, she softens.

“Draco, honey - I… I know you’re trying to make us happy but doing both will be too
stressful.”

“Narcissa, the boy gave his answer.”

“And you’ll note I’m not saying no, Lucius,” she hisses over her shoulder.

“I just,”—She kneels down, her hand on his shoulder steady and warm— “don’t want you to
be stressed unnecessarily,” she says. Eyes locked and holding with his - desperately trying to
communicate.

And Draco knows. But he also knows that he only has a few days left of this. Of their love
being tied to menial things, like stress and grades, before it ties itself to…

“I know,” Draco says, holding eye contact. Feeling Lucius’s stare heavy on his head. “My
stress won’t be an issue.”
I won’t let it be.

“Fine, your magic then,” Narcissa says, grasping. “Is this truly a risk you want to take just
before Hogwarts?“ Narcissa asks.

“His… magic?” Lucius says, slowly, ever so slowly.

Narcissa’s hand twitches as though fighting the urge to cover her mouth, a slow movement.
Stiff.

“What’s wrong with his magic?”

“Nothing,” she says immediately. Clearly too quick to be trusted.

“Nothing is wrong with my magic,” Draco asserts, head lifting up to meet his father’s gaze-
But Lucius’s eyes aren’t on him anymore. Too busy scanning over Narcissa’s suddenly even
posture. Her icy panic obvious for how her entire posture has suddenly become totally
neutral.

And just like that, Lucius’s temperament shifts.

It’s not a huge thing, just a stiffening to his shoulders, a pressure. A strain that is familiar to
anyone who’s ever heard a twig snap in the woods nearby. A stress like he’s suddenly been
made aware that he’s being watched.

“Do what you need to do,” Lucius concedes without question. Sparing neither of them a
single glance. Turning on his heel. “I want my son on the top of his game come the first,”
Lucius calls over his shoulder. But it seems like a formality.

Draco doesn’t get long to question it - as Narcissa pulls him in for a quick hug, and then
sends him up to his room.

And despite the argument and all it entails, Draco spends the rest of that day alone. Listening
for his parents though the walls. Waiting to see his mother’s shoes in the shadow under the
door that night.

But they never come.

¶¶¶

‘I remember killing you.’

Draco sits in the library as his mother peruses the shelves just before dawn breaks. Chats idly
with her over breakfast. Helps her harvest in the garden.
—He feels her die. Hears her body collapse with a loud thud - her blonde hair flutters to the
floor over her face. Darkening as it soaks in the blood that’s already there.—

Draco stares at his mother over tea, haloed in the morning light.

‘I remember killing you, and it wasn’t as hard as it should have been.’

It’s gotten progressively harder, since last night, to pretend everything’s normal. Or, as
normal as they ever were in Malfoy Manor.

Lucius wasn’t at breakfast that morning.

He knew this was coming. But his father’s strange actions from last night weigh on him. An
unknown variable that seems to have taken up residence under Draco’s skin like an
unscratchable itch.

And given there’s little to nothing Draco can do to find out —he leaves for Hogwarts in two
days, so snooping is out of the question. He’d barely been able to share pleasantries with
Narcissa without her going silent for long spells or getting that worried crease to her brow -
and odds are, he won’t be seeing Lucius again until they head for platform nine and three
quarters— so he tries to just… put it out of his mind.

It doesn’t work, but he does try.

Which is actually quite similar to Narcissa’s ‘mental training’. Or at least how it’s been going
for the last half an hour.

Apparently meditation was in all the books she’d gotten. A ‘simple yet invulnerable skill’
they’d called it. ‘Used reliably by the most powerful Occulemns in the world’. Draco had
never before seen his mother even try meditating, and yet, he’d watched her hold her own
against the Dark Lord several times in the future. But once again Draco is reminded that to do
does not necessarily come with the ability to teach.

And that’s why Draco was here. Technically. To ‘learn Occulemency’.

Granted, it’s a far cushier way to learn it than Aunt Bella’s tutelage. But… Draco is sure that
most things in life were.

—Despite it all, he rather finds himself hoping he will be able to learn from this, to improve;
perhaps to finally get a rein on his unruly magic. After all, if there's anyone he trusts with
control in the face of unrelenting power, it's his mother.—

They’re sat in one of the ballrooms, on a floor covered in pillows, clearly organized there by
elves at Narcissa’s order. The towering windows are all open; inviting a freshness to the air
that this room likely hasn’t seen in years. The only real furniture in the room is a coffee table,
set in-between them, and decorated with a simple afternoon tea spread that, in spite of the pot
having poured their mugs full of steaming chamomile tea, neither of them had even touched
it, because they were supposed to be ‘meditating’, to ‘de-stress’.
But Draco would margin to say he’s only gotten more stressed since they’d begun. Stuck with
no distractions, having to be alone with his thoughts. With the knowledge of all the important
things he should be doing, and… isn’t.

He almost prefers for the crucio method. At least then he was never this bored.

Draco stares across the table at his mother. Having given up on keeping his eyes closed about
three minutes in.

Her eyes are still closed. Peaceful and pristine in her sensible grey robes.

He wonders what she could be thinking about.

Idly he wonders what the normal amount of guilt one feels upon murdering someone really
is. Seven years of future-time after Dumbledore’s death, and Draco still hasn’t figured it out.
He does, however, have the creeping suspicion that it’s more than he is currently dealing
with.

A wren chirps near to the window, high pitched and repetitive.

—A caress, gentle as the wind, slides across at the very edge of Draco’s mind. Far off outside
his mental walls - too weak for him to even register. Or maybe he would have registered it, if
he didn't trust his mother so much. If he didn't feel so safe when she was near. But, as it is;
It’s just… warmth. Something like hearing someone humming at the end of a long corridor.
—

Without his input, Draco’s mind begins to slowly trace over the things he’d been worried
about most. Which mostly is just a quick path back to the future. He thinks about the Order.
He wonders how much they know. What they might be saying, or doing. He thinks about
Potter too…

He closes his eyes again and tries to focus on… something. His breathing. In —the smell of
the chamomile, the brisk air— and out.

For the first time since he’d been transported back in time, he thinks about Grimmauld. Not
in an abstract sense, not with questions or queries- just… about the feeling of being there,
with the resistance. The comfort it had brought him.
 A dull ache pulses in the back of his head, which could be the beginnings of a stress
headache-

He breathes in again. But.. something is wrong.

Draco’s eyes wrench tighter shut as his head aches, his magic skitters under his skin. A
burning feeling in his veins that settles as soon as it comes.

There’s a strange… something, that follows. A feeling, just above his core.

The air isn’t brisk or fresh when he breathes in again. It’s stuffy, dusty and warm. Heavy like
old wood and salt. Draco’s eyes blink open in his confusion - wondering idly if the windows
had decided to close themselves. Perhaps the curtains too, based on how dark it is-

That strange feeling pulses. An ache. A tug - like apparition but not quite. A chill that slides
up his spine. A taste in his mouth-

Draco looks up to see peeling, olive wallpaper, and everything else stops.

The world is dim and quiet where Draco finds himself, stood one of the bedrooms of
Grimmauld place.
And he is not alone.

Chapter End Notes

My Africa trip had worse cell service than I thought and I lost a good chunk of writing
when my shit decided not to save :/ But i hope y'all like this slightly short and late
chapter anyway lol! <3
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for hanging in there over my little haitus (●´ω｀●) (and sorry for
leaving you on such a cliffhanger lol!) I was in Africa for like a month with no cell
reception, then there was a lot of family stuff going on,,,, but ANYWAY

It's so wild to think that this first arc is almost over and Draco's going to be heading to
Hogwarts next chapter, I'm so excited!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It only takes a moments for Draco to realize they’re not really in Grimmauld —but, then
again, nothing forces acknowledgement quite as fast as a corpse—, even if knowing where
they’re not isn’t quite as useful as he’d like-

It takes longer for Narcissa. Or maybe that’s just because seeing your own dead body is a
little more than startling. Draco wouldn’t know.

But nonetheless, it leaves them… standing there.

Narcissa - the real, young version Narcissa, still in her light grey robes with those piercing
eyes, stands sandwiched in the narrow space between her own corpse —dressed in black,
crumpled and faceless. Her death-eater mask strewn next to her semi-translucent body— and
the wall.

The corpse flickers like a shadow in candle light. The smell of salt and rot linger like a
distant mist. And the room seems to undulate slowly all around them - like it’s pulsating.
Breathing.
Draco’s own breath shakes. But it’s hard to focus on that. It’s hard to feel anything-

The horror on his mother’s face is raw and real. She —almost subconsciously— pushes
herself back, further into the wall. Searching for stability.
The panels of rotting wallpaper squish and ripple at the touch - and that ache in Draco’s head
grows piercing for a moment. Like needles through his temple-

And then she looks up. At Draco.

“What- Where.. are we?” She asks. More visually shaken than he’s seen her since the day
he’d killed Dumbledore. Filled with fear and a growing distance. “I-I… we’re supposed to be
inside your mind-“

And for a moment, even Draco’s intrinsic snark, which had carried him through silences like
this with sarcastic quips, through wars and icy jails alike— has… nothing.

“We’re... what?” Draco asks, voice quiet. Dark.

And suddenly things start to click into place.

He’s had dreams of Grimmauld, of course. Nightmares for the most part. Shadows that run
the halls - sprays of blood and screaming. Tall warping rooms with that distinctive, peeling,
olive wallpaper. But they were never like this. Never so stable. And never with-
Her.

Narcissa’s head snaps upward. Eyes almost comically wide - as the pieces all snap together.

Because if they’re both in his mind, it means she used his trust to get past his occulemency.
And it means she can see-

Draco’s entire body freezes. And in that moment he tries —if just on instinct— to raise his
mental walls-

The world around him trembles as the walls around him grow taller and thicker, swelling.
She’s too close. Draco can’t shut her out.

But-

Narcissa stares down at her own corpse. The cogs in her mind clearly turning-

She knows.
Either she does already or she will soon- She must. She’s too intelligent to be fooled when all
the pieces are in front of her like this. She won’t be able to hide her knowledge from the Dark
Lord. He’ll be exposed, as a time-traveler and a traitor. He'll have failed the whole
Resistance-

Her pale eyes snap back up to him.

At his sides, his fists clench and come forward. He feels his magic burning in his palms, and
finds himself unsurprised to look down and see them glowing-

He doesn’t notice how his forearms are still unmarked. How he still looks young, to her, at
least.
All he can think is how he trusted her. He trusted her and she used that to invade his mind,
just like Him-

“Now d-don’t be upset darling,” Narcissa justifies, quickly, hands waving in front of her, “I
just- I thought, that if I could… could see what was going on with you, what was worrying
you so. I could help tighten your mental defenses more effectively. That’s all, love, I swear,“
She says. Her voice leering honey-saccharine at the end. The way a politician might in a
speech going down hill. The familiarity of damage control.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m your mother. I knew you were hiding something-.
It’s my job to find this out-‘

And Draco’s eyes squeeze shut. His vision is blotchy under his eyelids. He can still feel her
in his head. This can’t be happening. It just can’t-

She’s smiling when Draco opens his eyes. A plastic sort of expression. Tight. There’s a look
on her face, beyond that twitchy, placating smile, though. A strange, narrow, almost manic
intensity in her eyes that makes his stomach twist.

“And,” she continues, shaky, having to pry her eyes off of her own corpse. “These are all”—
she swallows, hard—“understandable fears.”
She reaches out, planting her hands on his shoulders. Her thin fingers like talons as she stares
solidly into his eyes.
“But that is all they are. It’s not real.”

Draco is once again taken aback.

“Draco, Vouivre-“
Narcissa tries to take a step toward him-

A crack splinters its way through the floor. Splitting the floor and cleaving them apart.

The walls around them undulate and seize. The facade of old wood creaking as it warps and
fails to hold its shape-

His head pulses. Her magic, her mind, pressing down on his own. It feels like all the worst
parts of a sinus headache mixed with being skinned and buried alive-

“Draco you must calm down!” Narcissa yells.

“And you need to get out!” Draco yells, his voice high and shaky. His fuze may be long, far
longer than it ever was as a boy - but it is by no means infinite.
Draco has always loved his mother. Always trusted her. He never thought- never imagined
she would take advantage of him like this. Subtly manipulate him, sure, but-

Fire from the sconces grow tall and hot, snapping like whips lashing out over the walls. Fire
spreads, floating in the air on specs of ash. The ceiling trembles and the whole building
shakes like a storm. And he is the center.

He doesn’t want to hurt her. He doesn’t. But-

She betrayed his trust. She invaded his mind. She was just like Him.

His anger rears with his magic under his skin, burning like the sun. Like there’s plasma
running through his veins. Betrayal is thick and hot and overwhelming.

He doesn’t want to feel like this. He wants to feel safe with her again. He wants this not to
have happened. He wants to be anywhere but here. And more than anything he wants his
mother out of his god damn head-

He wants her not to have entered in the first place.

“It’s not real!” Narcissa yells.

Draco’s fists burn.

“How dare you try to tell me what’s real.” Draco’s voice breaks. “How dare you invade my
head-“
The specks of flame and ash from the burning walls whirl around him like a tornado. The
world around burning so hot it turns white-

“This wouldn’t have happened if you had talked to me,” Narcissa argues tightly. Her own
anger bleeding through. “You cannot keep secrets like this, Draco! I cannot help you if you
won’t talk to me-”

“This isn’t about secrets,” Draco snaps. “This is about invading my privacy- just like you
did, convincing Mrs. Delacour to use her allure on me-“

“I am your Mother!!” Narcissa yells, a sudden eruption that, like lightning, echoes with
hundreds of more cracks throughout the room- “You will not speak to me in such a way.
Ever!!”
Her teeth glint in the light. Sharp. Animal.
“And this has been terribly hard on me too! My son is awakening a creature inheritance-“
“I’m not-“

“You haven’t used your wand in a month!” Narcissa screams. “Normal boys do not have that
kind of power!!”

The air is suddenly still. Clouded with enough ash now that he can only see her silhouette.
The hot air warbles warily through the space as fire laps a the wallpaper. Consuming.

She’s right, though. No normal boy his age should have this kind of power.

‘But she still betrayed you’ his ruthless, aching heart whispers. ‘She invaded your mind just
like Voldemort. She took away your agency. Again.’

Narcissa straightens up, righting herself. Clearly assuming the worst has passed. Assuming
the fight had been drained from him.
“By the looks of things I clearly put it off for too long.” Her voice is tight. Emotional.
"Honestly i- really… I didn’t want to face what you were becoming. I didn’t want to think of
what- Merlin above, what your Father would think if he knew-“ Her jaw clams tight on the
word. And Draco wants to sputter and laugh, he wants to cry out in fury. Because of course
she would think first of Lucius’s opinion-

“I didn’t want to face it because I remember being like you,” She says, softer. “Hurt and
ashamed and displaced - unlike all my peers because of choices not my own-” Narcissa says.
She stumbles forward, toward him. Reaching for him in the grey.
“So please,” she pleads, “let me be there for you-“

Draco tugs himself backward, disgust and hatred filling his throat, his lungs, his voice.

“This is not being ‘there for me'!"

A burst of air, hot enough to singe, throws her backward, as a burning wind and fire whips
through.

“You may think you know what I’m going through, but you have no idea.” He runs a hand
up through his hair, tugging on it. The wind is so loud now he’s not even sure she can hear
him. Tears brim in his eyes, his lips twist into a harsh smile.

He laughs, despite himself. For ever being convinced his mother was better than his father.
That she was somehow less selfish. That she would be better than the Death Eaters, even
when she did, eventually, become one herself.

“Even when the facts are staring you in the face,” Draco laughs, voice high and frustrated,
the words ripping from his throat as he stares at her. Furious that he had convinced himself so
thoroughly that they were both victims of circumstance when in reality-
“All you can think about is yourself.”

And Narcissa looks at him, looks up at him, from where she’s collapsed on the floor.
Blonde hair splayed on hardwood-

Her expression is still defiant, still sharp and aware, but-

Draco stops. Everything stops.

Draco wonders if this is some form of magic. Or if it’s something specific to parenthood. The
way Narcissa still has the inextricable power to make Draco startle like this. Make him stop
in his tracks. To make him feel guilty, even after she’s hurt him so—

Tears slip, then pour down his cheeks. His hands shake. His hysterical smile shakes. His
whole body shakes.
Draco shambles backward. Gasping to get ahold of himself. He stumbles and claws at the
wall as soon as he hits it, doing what he can to stabilize himself. The world is starting to blur,
each piece bleeding into itself until every familiar sharp line and curve of the house vanishes.
He feels for a door, and twists the cold knob as soon as he feels it. His mother cries out for
him-

The world bursts to white fire, and Draco Malfoy is devastated.

¶¶¶

When Draco’s eyes finally creak open - Narcissa is gone. But Grimmauld remains; a
bleached, monotone version — His mind’s version of it, at least.

He sits up from where he’d curled up on the floor. His shoulder aches, and he massages at it
with stiff fingers.

The world feels… a little more solid this time, but he feels detached and floaty. Like he’s not
really… Here. Sat by the dusty wooden stairwell.
He supposes he isn’t, really. If this is his mind, this Grimmauld is just a figment. An illusion
of cobbled images and emotions.

The house around him is different though, as he scrubs his eyes of the fog of sleep and tears.
It looks more… normal. Real, in a way. The shadows don’t move or swirl. The light shines
dimly from the sconce on the wall. The shiny green wallpaper is in markedly better
condition; though still not entirely untarnished.
But nothing’s on fire, or even lightly scorched; and most importantly, he can’t feel his Mother
in his head anymore, so he counts that as a win.

He’s heard of ‘mind palaces’ albeit in passing, mostly from Severus. They were usually
painstakingly crafted - a way of remembering important things, a way of keeping one’s true
mind and thoughts safe from queering eyes.

He’s heard that wixen children of trauma were known to create them - a way to escape, when
their bodies were stuck elsewhere. Usually manifesting as a place they felt safest.

Draco doesn’t really want to think about what that means for him. He doesn’t want to think
of… any of it. Maybe that’s why he stands and starts to simply… wanders.

The stairs don’t creak under his weight - he doesn’t seem to have any, here. The world is
eerily still. Silent. But soft. There’s a dim golden light coming in directionlessly from the
fogged-up windows.
He feels hollowed out by grief. A ghost haunting his own head; and maybe, on some level, he
is.

He doesn’t want to return. To his body, to his mother, to the Manor. To a world determined to
crucify him for his blood. But objectively, he knows all he accomplishes by staying holed up
in his own head is he procrastinates the inevitable.

His eyes sting for what must be the hundredth time today. An ache settles at the back of his
throat to match his shoulder.

He runs a hand through his hair, just to feel it as he walks without destination. He feels like a
mess. Probably looks it too, especially if this form is influenced by his mental state as much
as Severus would say.

Inevitably, he ends up just outside the room that was —will be? Is not yet?— his. He presses
his palm gently to the dark, cool wood of the door-

And it slips right through.

He pulls it back immediately, of course. Shaking it out and narrowing his eyes at the odd
pins-and-needles feeling that follows, tickling the ends of his fingertips.

In a moment of simple, childish scientific curiosity, Draco presses his forehead to it too.
Predictably, with a little bit of force, the solid wood gives, and his head pops right through.
Followed swiftly by the rest of him as he stumbles to maintain his balance.

The ticklish pins-and-needles run all over him this time. And despite it all, Draco finds
himself laughing at the sensation. Or maybe the absurdity of bobbling so gracelessly through
Grimmauld like this.

It distracts him enough that he does not realize he isn’t alone.

He turns.

And for a moment, he almost thinks he’s seeing some kind of figment-ghost-emotion-
memory of Jack —ignoring how impossibly rare those were—. He sees the tan skin,
intelligent greenish eyes, a sharp jawline and assumes.

But that’s not quite right, because Jack doesn’t slouch like that. Jack’s eyes aren’t that
vibrantly green.

Jack doesn’t have a lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

Draco stares. The spirit-apparition-thing in his head stares back. And everything about him
all adds up into one incredibly improbable, yet undeniable conclusion.

Harry bloody Potter is sitting on the edge of his old bed. Hair mussed, scar showing, eyes
wide and shining green behind those dinky wire frames.
And a terrible pit forms in Draco’s stomach.

Potter’s lips don't move, there is no sound, but the way he suddenly stands; his furious,
confounded expression says it all.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

Potter’s lips do begin to move a few moments later. And even though no sound seems to
come out, his posturing makes it very obvious that he’s not exactly pleased. And Draco just
stands there, staring. Because why. Why is Potter in his head? This doesn't make any sense.
Why-

Potter tries to shove him-

White light explodes through the room. A violent pressure slams through his skull.

Where his mother had apparently been a scalpel in her presence in his head, Harry Potter
seems to be an actual honest to god ice pick.

And Draco wakes up accordingly. Coughing and wrenching. Only removing his hands from
clutching his aching forehead to reach for the pot held out in front of him and empty the
negligible contents of his stomach into it.

“Vouivre! Oh darling you’re awake-“ Narcissa’s voice comes through pitchy and high. “Oh I
was so worried-“
As Draco’s eyes refocus his mother —because oh yeah, he still has to deal with her on top of
whatever the fuck is going on in his head—, sat in front of him. He can see tears welling in
her eyes.

Draco sets the bowl of bile down. Barely noticing as a house elf pops in to take it away, and
leaves a damp cloth on the table. Narcissa doesn’t even acknowledge it; simply taking the
cloth and dabbing at his sweaty forehead.

Draco’s palm scratches across the floor cool in an effort to not lash out at her, his nails
picking up scraps of fabric as they claw in.
The pillows they had been surrounded by aren’t as much gone as they are… everywhere,
stuffing and tatters of fabric strewn around the room. The floor itself is cracked. Like a storm
has just run through- but instead of drowned with rain, it had been struck with lightning.

There’s ash on the ground, or maybe fibers of fabric so fine and dark they look like it. There
are enough to create a haze in the air that stings his eyes and throat.

“I’m so-" —she hiccoughs— "I never thought that could happen,” she babbles, grabbing and
pulling him to her chest in a hug that used to feel so welcome and warm. “I-”

“Get“—Draco chokes, coughing rough as he tugs himself out from his mothers caging
embrace— “Get away from me.”

“Love... please, just listen to me-“ Narcissa whimpers, eyes pleading.

But Draco can’t. He just-

“Mother please… just stop.”

And for the first time, she listens.

Her arm wilts and falls to her lap. She looks so… hurt.

But Draco cannot will himself to care.

A gust of wind pulls weakly through the space. As if trying to clear the air for him. It feels
like that in his chest too. Every breath followed by a raw cough.

He only kind of understand why his mind-palace is Grimmauld, he’s far less sure if it’s
reasonable to assume the Potter in his head is real. He’s completely lost as to why any kind of
memory-spirit he encountered would be Potter of all people. Aren’t those supposed to be
comforting?
 But, on the other hand, Draco is absolutely sure that Potter does not have the skill in
Legilimency, much less the brains or conniving nature, as to attempt invading his mind
deliberately.

Exhausted, confused and freshly full of teenage angst, Draco shambles through the house and
back to his bedroom, ignoring his mother as she tries to speak to him. Ignoring further as she
attempts to follow him.

He slams the door closed behind him and watches the lock turn and curtains draw
themselves. His magic shutting out the world as best it can. He vaguely notices that he's
managed to draw blood with how hard he'd clenched his fists when a spot of it smears against
the door-frame and his palm stings with fervor.

Without even thinking about it, a thick web of gauzy shimmering wires of magic explode
from him, weaving and braiding themselves into the walls and floor and doorframe, draping
over every surface of the room, leaving the air heavy, tasting of ozone and protective charms.

He collapses on floor against the door. Hollow and exhausted. His mouth tasting of acid and
his arms still aching.

Jackie waddles up and buts her head at his thigh. Positioning herself on his lap. And -
something about the pressure and the warmth… Something in him breaks.

And Draco clutches his dog and cries silently into her fur.

Chapter End Notes

also don't worry y'all, i love Narcissa so much (even tho she is SUCH a helecopter
parent lol), her redemption will happen, just stay patient w/ me xoxo
 Act II
Chapter Notes

With this chapter bumping the word count to 79,934, we've just passed the word count
of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (76,944 words)!!! Lets fucking gooo!!! ヽ(* ∇*
)ノ

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Draco cannot allow himself to feel this way. It's not like it's anything new, after all.

He sits on his bed staring down at the trunk next to him, feeling similarly hollow.

Draco recalls his very first time he packed for Hogwarts, on this very morning so many years
ago. He recalls stuffing so many things in his trunk that the lid could not shut. He remembers
having to ask his mother for help; her having to use an expansion charm and get him to sit on
the lid for it to fully latch closed. And how she had laughed, bright and warm, when he’d
repeated his father’s words that ‘it is better to have what you do not need, than need what you
do not have’.
But now, Draco cannot for the life of him figure out how he had done so.

He’d already packed up everything he can think of and more, yet somehow, his trunk was
barely half filled. And though he should be focused on it, on figuring out all he is missing,
Draco just... can’t.

The sun has just barely risen, the sky still dim and dotted with navy clouds as a thin band of
red-gold stretches just above the tree-line. But Draco cannot focus on anything but his
Mother, and all she had done.

For at least the fifth time, Draco shakes his head and tries to focus on packing. More shoes
maybe? Some warmer clothes? He could always grab his Quidditch things, even though he
wasn’t planning to play…

He thinks of his Mother taking him to Diagon Alley. How the clothes she’d gotten him were
still in their bags, stowed safely in his closet. He should probably bring them. They’ll be nice
for the colder months ahead.

He wonders if, even then, she had been planning what she did.

Draco bites at the inside of his cheek and ignores the rolling emotions in his gut. Glancing at
his door, he wonders if his Mother is up as well. If she’s acknowledging his closed door as a
boundary, or if his past hour of isolation has even been noticed.
He knows he’s being childish and petulant. He was in his mid twenties only a month ago; he
should be mature about this… But he’s hurt and angry, and feeling very much like his fifteen
year old self right now. He wonders if it’s the hormones of being a teenager, or if it’s all his
assorted trauma making him feel-

Still, he thinks, cutting himself off, he cannot allow himself to think this way. He’d been on
this train of thought many times before and it would be dangerous to ride it all the way to the
end. The final station on this rail line may have been a safe-haven of petulant fury and denial
for his past self, but it was not a place he could hide out in anymore.

A part of him knows that mature adults talk about their feelings. And he wants to. He wants
to solve this. He wants to talk about what happened… without mentioning how much it hurt.
There has to be a way; hasn’t there? To care for the wounds without reopening them. To
name the pain without inviting it back in.

And even if he cannot talk. Even if she never apologizes or acknowledges what she did. He
cannot allow himself to be angry like this.
The truth hurts, and people will hurt you, and family is complicated; he’d said all that a
hundred times before. He knows it with every fiber of his being; it came with the territory to
being son to a Death Eater. Why was he becoming angry now, as if the kind of treatment he’d
gone through were anything novel? Anything he hadn’t expected?
Draco has known for ages that both his parents have no understanding of boundaries or
privacy when it came to him; that he was a porcelain doll to dress and pose, a chess piece to
be moved and do as it is bid. Everything is quite exactly as it should be... so what was his
problem? There was no excuse for this… moping. This pointless expression of teenage anger.

And yet still, in his room he stays. Listening for her knock and her voice and her apology;
waiting for them never to come.

He wanted her to be different. He wanted it so bad he took all the work of fooling himself
and did it for her.

The truth always hurt, but for a sweet and gentle moment in her arms he forgot.
How stupid of him.

Yes Draco is angry, and hurt. He wants to go back in time a few days to when things were
stable; or perhaps just less visibly cracked; but he's pretty sure he's already over his quota for
that sort of thing.

And yet, another part of him, knowing what was to come, wants to just… let this go. Brush
this under the rug with all the other shattered slivers of porcelain that prick him like little
needles anytime he's within these walls. Draco really does not want to part on bad terms. Not
when his leaving marks what was possibly the last moment the Manor would truly be theirs.

Draco twirls his wand in a practiced hand and stares into the middle distance in the vague
direction of his trunk, caught between anger, pain and hope.
He flicks his wand, and feels his power simmer and strain as he focuses to levitate and slowly
inch the box of throwing knives in his trunk a little to the right. He’s been attempting to to
use it all this morning, or at the very least look as though he is. A wand is much like a prism;
way to direct. A focal point. But a conduit can only be as powerful as what it conducts. And a
weaker conduit can only handle so much. If he focuses on his wand, tries to use his magic the
way he used to before he came back in time, he can feel the unicorn-hair core pulse, the wood
strain and creak as though it's a branch under the strain of a terrible storm. And trying to slow
his magic down before it reaches the wand, hold it back before it put such strain on the wand,
feels a lot like trying to filter the ocean through a sock, and then shove that sock through the
eye of a needle.

All in all, it has been a very frustrating morning for Draco Malfoy. And the stiff, familiar
knock on the door does not give him hope it will get any better.

“Draco?” Lucius asks, his tense voice muffled by the door. “Are you awake?”

Petulantly, Draco entertains the notion of simply not replying, just to see what his Father
would do. But even if tensions have been high, Draco can’t ignore breakfast forever. Can’t
ignore taking Jackie on her walk forever either; even if she’s seemingly enjoying the extra
hour of sleep.

“Yes Father,” Draco replies flatly and without bothering to invite him in. Sue him. “I’m
awake.”

His father waits another moment longer, before clicking his tongue. A clear sign of irritation.
A thin shiver of adrenaline snaps at his shoulder blades like a cane, and he grits his teeth to
ignore it. Occulemency walls snapping up involuntarily.
“I understand something happened between you and your Mother. But it is unbefitting to sit
in your room and sulk.”

Draco sighs. Of course his Father would be focused on what is ‘suitable’.

“I’m busy packing, and I’m not hungry,” Draco lies, flopping backwards onto his bed. He
slept absolutely terribly last night, and a nap is beyond tempting right now; especially in a
bed so plush it practically makes him back into the sybaritic, entitled child he’d once been,
every time he lies on it.
“I’ll just… I’ll meet you at the floo when its time to go to the train,” he ways, gesturing with
his hand floppily.

“Draco.” His father’s tone is warning, sharp. And Draco winces, sitting up immediately.

“…Come in,” Draco says, rolling to lie face down on the bed, knowing his father would just
come in if he didn’t invite him.
The door creaks softly as it swings open wide, without his father even touching the handle,
no doubt. He feels the bed under him tilt, like it’s trying to help him stand and greet his
Father.
And maybe it is. Lucius is still master of this home; it obeys him and him alone. And Draco,
as always, is left to live under the steel-toe boot of his Father’s whims; treating them as law,
lest they come down on his throat.

Draco just lays there. Listening to the familiar dragging sound of Nachash’s smooth, carpet
scales slithering to the door to greet his father.

“Have you even left your room this morning?” Lucius asks.

“Yes,” he lies pettily. And Draco peeks out of the pillow just in time to glare at the rug, as it
shakes it’s two-dimensional head. The snitch.
Lucius frowns.

“…Nachash seems to disagree,” his father says redundantly, with disapproval lining this
tone.
Draco sighs, his hot breath reflected back at him through the soft fabric.

The idea of being watched is not bothersome; he’d gotten quite well acclimated to the
concept as an inmate at Azkaban, and even before then, as a prodigal death-eater or, hell,
even just a suspected one in Hogwarts.

It’s the idea that his Father cares enough to keep tabs on him, this early on, that’s disquieting.
His father pinches his brow, which is not a good sign. After a moment of consideration,
Draco shuffles to sit up at the edge of his bed. Though he refuses to meet his Father’s eye just
yet.

“I may not know exactly what happened,” Lucius says testily, “but to be quite frank; I do not
feel I need to.”
He crosses his arms.
“You will show your Mother the respect she is owed. The Malfoy family will stand united.”

Draco clenches his jaw and stares at the floor. His stomach churning with the familiar
adrenaline, and the terrible guilt of disappointing his Father.

“You will come downstairs, you will swallow your pride, and you will apologize,” Father
orders.
He pauses for a moment, then turns. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

‘Swallow his pride’. Father said. Draco’s not sure he has enough pride to scrape together into
a decent mouthful, where his parent's are concerned. He feels flayed by the unfairness,
mortified and exhausted all at once. And then he feels even worse because this was not
unexpected at all.

Draco clenches balled fists into the blanket. Indignant rage burning in his throat like bile. He
hates feeling so overwhelmed so easily. The sway his parents still have over him is truly
disgusting. He's meant to be better than this, damn it.
Draco feels the sizzling sensation of his magic, curling up within him, and he wonders if he
should try to get outside before he does something stupid like blow a hole in the side of the
house. He tries to meditate, but everything in his head feels razor sharp and violent—

And then he blinks, and finds himself moving without thinking. Guided by muscle memory
crafted from years under Voldemort, he digs out a vial of calming draught from his mostly
untouched stash, —which he’d already packed and hid in the bottom of his trunk—, and, in a
practiced motion, pops the cork and downs a quick swallow. Just enough to take the edge off,
he promises himself. Dutifully ignoring the part of him vaguely wishing he had something
alcoholic to chase it with.

The relief is instant. The taste sits rubbery and saccharine on his tongue, as the potion does its
work and his emotions are smoothly smothered and drowned.

In a very distant way, he is almost sad, for a moment. He’d brewed this all up because he
knew he’d use them, of course, but…

He stares at the vial in his hand. Rolls the cool, smooth glass between his fingers, watching as
the liquid within stays perfectly level; an apt metaphor, really.

Draco shakes his head. Nothing to be done for it now. He puts the rest back.

Now in a familiar state of tactical, icy calm, Draco wonders if this could be good. That
maybe he should be angry at them, and stay that way. The more distant he is from his parents,
the easier it will be to justify switching sides and not trying to take them with him. He knows
it’s justification for the things he was already planning to do, the betrayal he himself was
plotting under their very noses… But isn’t what he’s planning justice? Have they not failed
and betrayed him already, simply by putting him in the position to have a future so bleak and
bloodstained? Is it even his responsibility to save those who dragged him down in the first
place?

—Besides, with this numb, righteous sort of anger on his side, it’s easy to ignore the childish
part of him that wants to try and save them anyway.—

Draco heads downstairs.

¶¶¶

“Lucius,” Narcissa says in a sharp, almost scolding tone, her voice slightly muffled by the
door, “I told you not to pressure him, if he-“

The door creaks loudly as it opens.

Narcissa stops stops in her tracks as Draco steps out. His parents are sat together, blank
expressions on both of their faces as Draco enters the dining room.
 “Oh,” Narcissa pauses, watching him for a moment. “Good morning dear,” she smiles, a
soft, almost nervous thing as she stands and pulls out the chair right next to hers. It’s
completely unnecessary.

Draco’s eyes flick to his father, his face stony and sharp. It’s the kind of expression that
would have shot a jolt of panic through his system. Now, a simple, calm distance rolls over
him.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, Mother,” Draco says, taking a sharp bow. Being sure to keep
his breathing even, habitually biting at the inside of his cheek in that one spot that never
seems to heal, as he awaits her response.

He chances a glance up through the thin blonde fringe that falls over his eyes. Calculating.
Noting the exact moment she realizes exactly what is going on.

And then she just melts.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says, opening her arms with an uncannily soft expression, “there’s no
need for all that. Come here.”
Stiffly, Draco stands straight and shuffles meekly into her embrace. And for a long moment,
Narcissa just holds him. Gently rocking him side to side, the way she would when he was a
kid after a nightmare. And Draco hates that a tiny childish part of him still finds comfort in it.
He hates how much he wants her comfort.
He doesn’t forgive her, but he does love her.

“I… I pushed you too hard. I see that now.” She presses her cheek to the side of his head,
and Draco inhales her perfume, vanilla sweet with a hint of something crisp, and does his
best to relax into her the way he usually would. Even if he can’t quite remember how.
“We have all been under stress recently. It’s alright.”—His Mother squeezes him tight, and
reflexively, he squeezes back.— “I understand,” she whispers.
Draco’s throat feels tight, which is odd, but not particularly noteworthy. Clinically, he
wonders if it’s possible that she does, on some level, understand. Still, he wonders if he’ll
ever find a way to tell her how much she’s hurt him. He wonders if there’s a way to address
the spider-web cracks in their relationship without breaking it apart entirely. To care for these
wounds without reopening them.

He wonders if he’ll be able to forgive her.

He wonders if she would be able to forgive him, if she ever put together what she saw; if she
ever knew her son had murdered her in cold blood. If she ever realized what he’s planning to
do.
Draco holds her tight, and presses his face in her soft blonde waves to hide his flat
expression. Feeling her perfectly manicured fingers tracing heart-shapes onto his spine.

Tucked into her shoulder, Draco is able to catch a glimpse of his father’s cool expression as it
relaxes, ever so incrementally. And Draco knows he’s accomplished his mission.

“I love you, Vouivre,” his Mother whispers with utmost care. Kissing the side of his head.
“I love you too,” he replies, feeling nothing at all.

¶¶¶

Breakfast is a quicker and more companionable affair than usual, with even Lucius warming
up and partaking in the light, insubstantial conversation shared over the strawberry crepes.
Lucius even kindly offers to have Jackie apparated to Hogwarts; clearly a reward for Draco’s
obedience.
Draco accepts, no matter how much he dislikes the idea of it. He may not like owing Lucius
anything, but he’s not sure how well Jackie would react to being on a train for the better part
of a day. And at this juncture, it would be odder to turn his father down. Best to keep his
cover and acquiesce.

Still, Draco cannot help but find it all rather boring. Then again, without all the silly emotions
attached, running through the motions usually is.

Narcissa pecks over his luggage just before they’re about to head out, adding in the extra
clothes and baubles he’d gotten from Diagon Alley and his Quidditch gear ‘just in case you
decide to play anyway’. A rather useless idea, but he nods anyway. She also packs him a thin
messenger bag and fills it with all his extra books that no longer fit in his trunk. As well as a
small purse of galleons that could quite possibly buy a house; that she apparently expects him
to spend on sweets for the train.

Lucius, for his part, takes the idea that he’s not playing Quidditch this year quite in stride.
Seeming to even approve, once Draco explains it’s to focus on his studies. OWL’s are very
important, after all; and Lucius had always hated when Draco managed to place below 'that
mudblood girl'.

And less than an hour later, they’re at platform nine and three-quarters. The train idling,
huffing out sooty steam into a brisk and crowded station.

“Now, are you sure you have everything?” Narcissa asks for what has to be the fifth time that
hour. Her and his Father are stood just behind him, with their usual perfect posture, dressed in
elegant deep-grey robes and silver and emerald encrusted jewelry; a tribute to their own
alma-mater house, no doubt.

“Are you ready?” She asks, lower. And the tone makes it sound like a very different
question.

Is he ready? It’s a good question. Is he prepared for the long years he'd already gone through
and regretted? Is he up for the task to change everything that had happened? Will the
preparations for the last month be enough for the next several years? Is he ready?

"Yes, Mother."
He is not. He will never be.
No preparation is ever be enough for war; a fight that was supposed to have stopped a
generation before. An inheritance of bloodshed hidden in the fine-print of being born. But,
similar to the day he came back from the Resistance; the time has come anyway.

He turns to face them. Readying for their usual goodbyes. Fighting the urge to fidget with the
cuffs of his olive green turtleneck, or nervously straighten the lapels of his blazer, where his
Prefect pin has been tacked in a position of pride. He wonders if the calming draught is
wearing off already, or if all the assorted trouble around Hogwarts is just too tough a fight for
such a measly dose. He tries not to dwell on it.

Narcissa scans over his face for a long moment, brushing her fingers back over his forehead
and through his fringe, then gliding down to cup his cheek.
He doesn’t push her away, but he doesn’t lean into it either.

“Oh my darling, you’ve grown ever so much.” Narcissa whispers, her voice silken and
sweet. “It feels like it was only yesterday we were sending you off for your very first year.”
She pauses, glancing up and away. And it’s only due to knowing her, that Draco is able to
notice the delicate sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Wherever does the time go?”

She pulls him into a gentle hug, which he shallowly returns. Mentally counting the seconds
until he can step away without causing undue offense. Waiting to hear the train’s beckoning
whistle give him the excuse.
He feels her subtly slip what is undoubtedly a small package of Italian chocolates into his
satchel, and he pastes on a smile when she pulls back just far enough to wink at him.

“Now, Daffodil,” Lucius says in a soft, low tone, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
“He’ll be late if we hold him up much longer.”

As if on cue, the train whistles just once. A flat, long note.

Draco won’t be late. It’s almost physically impossible that he would be; being less than a
hundred feet from the train and with at least ten minutes until the conductor even thinks about
departing. They would quite possibly have to be blocked by a herd of angry centaurs to have
to worry about not being early.
But he nods anyway against her shoulder; Father does like his schedules, after all.

“Of course dear,” Narcissa says tidily, stepping back.

Draco latches a hand onto his trunk, as Lucius stares down at him for a moment. He stands
straight, and awaits his father’s usual spiel of honoring the family name and being the best.

Which is why Draco feels rather understandably startled when instead of anything of the
sort…
Lucius Malfoy bends down and hugs him.

It’s a short embrace, but it makes Draco’s breath hitch nonetheless. The familiar scent of his
father’s starched dress shirt, mixing with the spice of cognac and cologne; something like
cedar and lemongrass. It’s sudden and so nostalgic… it’s strangely overwhelming.
Tentatively, Draco curls his arms around his Father's bulk. Trying to ignore the hollow buzz
in his chest of smothered emotional whiplash.

“Write often, son,” Lucius says, his voice reverberating through the barrel of his ribs. And
perhaps it’s the way he's holding Draco so tight, or perhaps that he’s holding him at all, but
Draco realizes in that moment, that his unflappable, phlegmatic Father… is worried.
And isn’t that a terrifying thought?
“Tell me if you need anything at all,” Lucius whispers. And then, just as quick as he’d
opened the embrace, Lucius pulls away.

“Make us proud,” Lucius says in his usual stern manor. Cool and distant enough that Draco
feels he could have very well imagined the whole thing. If not for the way his Father’s robes
are slightly more wrinkled than before, and the way his hand still rests heavy on Draco's
shoulder.

“Of course, Father,” Draco says dazedly.

They share a nod in their usual fashion, and his father’s hand falls away; and finally, Draco
turns, trunk in hand, and heads toward the train. Entering the steadily growing crowd of
students boarding.

Draco levitates his trunk onto the train with an exaggerated wave of his wand. He takes his
sweet time getting sorted, looking out at the platform and the sea of students, and catches a
very last glance of his parents, hand-in-hand, walking away. Something terribly tense in their
posture as they go.

Draco finds himself staring after them for a long moment, uncaring as more and more people
make their way past him and fill up the compartments around them. Listening to the train’s
growingly impatient whistles and the conductor trying to make himself heard over the station
loudspeaker. Actively ignoring the slightly muffled din and clamor of a crowd of adults
trying to simultaneously pack their children, luggage, and farewells onto the locomotive at
what was growing closer and closer to last minute.

Though not deliberately searching, Draco notices the glaringly easy-to-spot pack of frazzled
red hair surrounding Potter, along with figures who he can recognize glancingly as Moody,
Lupin, Andromeda— hell, what may very well be the entire Order crowded up around him.
He bites his lip and turns away, leaning his back against the window and tightening his hands
on his trunk and wand respectively. Pulling the chocolates out of his blazer and stowing them
in his messenger bag without caring to look. Fingers bumping the cool vial of his draught.

He wonders if his little stint in the Ministry elevator hurt or helped. If it did anything at all to
make him seem more trustworthy.
No matter how much good it did, there was still quite a bit of work to be done. Particularly in
assuaging the Golden Trio.

He can only hope nothing goes too terribly wrong.

The train bleats a few last whistles, before huffing out steam, and rocking once as it lurches
slowly into movement.

Cheerful exclamations to his right disturbs Draco from his thoughts, in the now mostly
deserted hall. There’s a gaggle of some younger years in street clothes, their trunks nearly
bigger than them, —First or second years, perhaps? Merlin, they look so small— laughing,
pointing out the window. Despite himself, Draco peers over-

A big black dog, scraggly looking thing, was bounding alongside one of the farther back train
cars. Tail wagging and tongue lolled.

For a moment, heart stuttering, Draco thinks that Jackie has somehow gotten to the station
and run loose-
But then he remembers, at this point in time, she’s still a baby, barely the height of his shin.
Draco looks up again, seeing barely a glimpse of the dog as the train continues to pick up
speed. There’s still that familiarity to the image. Something he can’t place, even after the
view from the window turns into a blur of stubby houses and scenic, green hillside.

He puzzles on it for a few moments longer before Pansy finds him, striding up and
immediately pulling him forward, planting two kisses on either cheek, and then grabbing him
by the elbow, towing him behind her in the same manor she used to drag him around the
garden chasing butterflies and finding especially shiny rocks.
Somewhere within her chattering about her last month —‘which was straight studying,
Draco. Honestly, I felt my brain was so full I might just explode!’—, she asks what he was
staring at out the window, and he thoughtlessly replies that he thought the dog on the
platform looking like his- but he somewhat doubts she’s listening as much as she’s waiting
for another pause so she can kvetch some more, tugging at him so impatiently.
And he does his best to smile how he should.

¶¶¶

The Prefect's carriage is larger than the normal ones, with plush, leather bench seats facing
each other, an overhead rack for luggage, and a large window.
At least it’s somewhat empty, and quiet, when they arrive. Barring the Head Boy and Girl sat
together in the left corner, and one of the Ravenclaw Prefects on the right, closer to the door.
Patil, maybe? He's not sure.
The quiet, semi-emptiness are something Draco is intensely grateful for- right up until Draco
realizes that ‘empty’, in Pansy Parkinson’s mind, just means that she has time to interrogate
him.

“So what was so interesting out the window?” Pansy asks, leaning up toward him, at least
trying to be somewhat discrete.
She’s close enough that he can smell the mint of her mouthwash, and the overzealous rose of
her perfume.
 “I told you, there was a dog,” Draco shrugs. Leaning to the side to grab a book from his
satchel; an excuse to lean closer and whisper a short:
“I’ll tell you later.”

To be frank, he has no idea what he’ll tell her later. He just knows that if he wants any sort of
peace over this ride, he needed to give her something.

Draco idly shuffles around in his bag for a second, pulling out the first book he can find. A
pale hardback with green ivy slithering up the spine: 'A Consitor's guide to Magical
Botanicals'. Wonderful. He'd been meaning to review his botany skills.
He lifts his head to see Pansy still staring at him. But she’s smiling, a conspiratorial
expression on her, eyes gleaming and teeth a little too sharp.

“Yeah, it was pretty energetic, wasn’t it? I wonder who’s it was!” Pansy allows, playing
along. Maybe a bit too much, as the Ravenclaw prefect, Patil, narrows her eyes at them.

Goldstein joins them a few moments later, successfully distracting Patil by sitting next to her;
following Draco’s accidental example, organizing themselves by house and pulling out a
book.

Over the next five minutes or so, the rest of the prefects flush in.

The Hufflepuff prefects, Macmilian and Abbott, bring noise to the quiet carriage even as
they’ve just crossed the threshold.

Abbott looks around as soon as they arrive, fretting with her hair and her yellow lapels as she
bows into the carriage.
“We aren’t late are we? Oh gosh-“

An unexpected jolt in the train sends her stumbling. Bumping into Draco, then overcorrecting
and slipping to the ground.

“S-Sorry!” She squeaks quickly. Draco isn’t sure why she looks so terrified-

Until he realizes he'd moved on instinct. Book discarded to the bench, he's kneeling, having
grabbed her hand, presumably to help stop her fall.

“Are you alright?” Draco asks, before he can stop himself, before he can overthink it. Even
just kneeling, he’s almost completely leering over her. —Merlin, why are they all so short?—

It’s clearly subconscious, the way her hand, cold and clammy, tightens in his; he’s sure her
conscious mind is much too busy, blurred with complete panic.
She stares at their clasped hands like he’s going to set her on fire. Draco’s not entirely sure if
the old him wouldn't have.

“I-I'm fine,” She manages finally, still clearly terrified. “I’m r-really sorry, I didn’t mean to
fall into you-“

“No,” Draco assures calmly, “it’s fine-“

The door bangs open.
And the next three seconds are a blur of motion. And pain.

A shout: “Flipendo!”

Draco is shoved sharply across the room- his shoulder banging hard against the window —
and it’s thankfully thick glass—, a thud reverberating through the carriage. A knock-back
Jinx. Childish but effective.
His breath is jilted from his lungs, shoulder throbbing hard. Not hard enough to bar him from
reaching his wand-

A different voice, feminine and venomous, comes from just behind him: “Mobilicorpus!”

Draco twists just in time to see Ron Weasley jolt in the doorway, wand clattering to the
ground as he himself is lifted up, limp like a puppet.
Pansy moves swiftly, stepping from behind him. Her wand extended and expression lethal.
Draco tries to say something, but all that comes out is a shallow wheeze, as his lungs still
fight to regain the air they’d lost.

Granger lifts her wand from behind Weasley-

“Parkinson! Let him down this instant!” The Head Boy, some Gryffindor that Draco can’t
make out, yells. Stepping forcedly in between with a headstrong force only a Gryffindor can
pull off.

The Head Girl, some other Ravenclaw Draco also doesn’t recognize, —he really wishes he’d
payed better attention to the years above him in his youth— immediately orders every other
prefect to stay in their seats.

The multitude of prefects around them pin themselves into their seats. Unwilling to get into
the war-path of their superiors. The Head Girl dips down in front of him. Wand out. But her
expression is warm, vaguely worried even.

Draco’s jaw clenches as she taps her wand to his shoulder- but he finds no pain. A healing
charm quickly takes hold of Draco’s shoulder, pouring over his shoulder like warm water. He
coughs violently, lungs still struggling to take in more than wheezing gasps.

He doesn’t dare look away from the fight though. Heart still hammering. Hand itching toward
his wand - magic itching to surface and burn. He wrestles it down as best he can, doing
everything he can to keep calm and not blow up, not-

“Parkinson!” The Head Boy exclaims again. "Let him down."

Pansy doesn't listen. Her expression twisted to a protective sneer-

“That Weasel shot at Draco, with no-“

“I am well aware of what he did, and I will be taking points from Gryffindor because of it.”
The Head Boy snaps.
Granger’s jaw drops open behind Weasley, quickly lowering her own wand. Her fear of
authority snubbing her Gryffindor defensiveness quick enough. Draco might have laughed, if
his lungs had allowed it.

“So let him down,” the Head Boy snaps. “Now.”

Pansy considers for a second, but eventually, she acquiesces. Likely mollified with his intent
to take points, from his own house no less.

She twists back toward at their spot on the right side of the cabin, but, spotting Draco, still on
the floor, joins him and the Head Girl there instead. Not at all subtle in putting herself
between Draco, and any other unsolicited attacks.
Her wand still out.

Draco coughs, taking in shaky breaths and closing his eyes for a second. Doing his best to
soothe his rioting magic. It feels like he's straining at his skin; like he'll burst if he doesn't let
it out. But he can't. Not here. Not now. He tries to ground himself as best he can and ride the
seizing waves of energy.

Weasley flops to the ground with a hard gasp, as Pansy's spell finally undoes itself.
Immediately shambling to his feet, red faced and-

He doesn’t get even a second.

“What were you thinking?” The Head boy yells, before inhaling sharply and growling a
short:
“Never mind, I don’t care. Ten points from Gryffindor, for attacking a fellow Prefect without
cause.”

“Without cause?!” Weasley gapes, Granger steps forward, taking his shoulder like she’s
trying to pull him back. But he just keeps yelling. Completely red in the face.
“Malfoy was leering over her! She had clearly just been shoved to the ground! I was-“

“He was helping me stand up, you brute!” Abbot yells suddenly. Her face puffy with anger.
“What is wrong with you?!” She absconds.

Patil, Goldstein and Macmilian have a hand on her, like she’d otherwise be leaping up into
the fray. And Draco doesn’t know her well enough to be able to tell if that’s true, but he's glad
they're there to hold her back anyway. This situation is already a bloody disaster.
He was trying to be more trustworthy this year, to at least not immediately be on the Golden
Trio's shit list. But here he was.

In a moment he can feel there are as few eyes on him as possible, Draco wrenches the
thankfully not-shattered vial of calming draught from his bag and fakes a terrible cough as an
excuse to drink it down, before he can do something stupid like blow up the train car.
Thankfully, no one seems to pay him mind, amidst the rest of the drama.

It's not like he can blame them either. Weasley and Granger, utterly gobsmacked, staring at
the Head Boy, is kind of a hilarious sight. Their jaws hanging and eyes bulging, as if it were
incomprehensible that Draco Malfoy would ever help someone. And perhaps to them, it is.
Weasley recovers fast though, his expression burning with that flaming Gryffindor self-
righteousness-

The Head Girl catches his attention, slowly putting a hand on his shoulder. Thankfully kind
enough to ignore how he jolts at it.
“Are you alright?” The Head Girl asks quietly, still crouched next to him. Draco blinks.

“What? Oh,” he rasps, clearing his throat. “Fine, …thanks.” He idly rolls out his previously
injured shoulder. The world and his magic settling slowly back to a manageable level.
“I barely feel it,” he comments, vaguely stunned. She must have practice. That or she's
incredibly gifted, “are you training to be a Medi-Wix?" He asks. She shakes her head, cheeks
lightly flushed, but smiling.

Pansy blinks at his side, and Draco idly realizes how out of character that all was for Young,
professional-pain-wuss-and-drama-king, Draco Malfoy.
And Draco, if he weren’t so tired, may have tried to live up to that.
But instead, he just leans back, letting himself slump against the edge of Pansy’s shoulder-
which seems to be enough for her.

“You should see Pomfrey when we arrive at Hogwarts anyway,” Head Girl insists. Draco
opens his mouth to object-

“I’ll make sure he does,” Pansy says immediately, a hand lifting to caress mildly through his
hair. She takes his elbow, wrapping the other around his waist, helping him stand,—and
Draco stifles the urge to both argue and laugh at how delicate she’s being— shuffling them
back to their seat.
She gives him the one closest to the window, another mild effort to put herself between him
and danger.
The Head Girl offers them a nod and a smile as they go.

Draco can hear the sounds of the argument, still ongoing, but he’s far too tired to focus on it.
His lack of sleep last night really catching up to him, or the crash from the adrenaline; or
maybe it was the effort it took to wrestle his magic into not taking out the entire train car.
Thankfully, the Head Boy quiets it before Draco’s building headache can intensify.

“What were we meant to think!” Weasley yells, continuing his determined argument that
Malfoy is a synonym for evil —an argument he was not lacking in evidence for, Draco had to
admit.
“Malfoy was-“

“Weasley, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll sit, and you will be quiet. Before I am
forced to deduct yet more points and start Gryffindor in the negative this year.” The Head
Boy snarls with impatience.
And Draco suddenly finds himself respecting this kid a whole lot more. And maybe even
respecting Granger, as she tensely nods and yanks a near plumb-faced Weasley into the last
open seats. Doubling back to grab their luggage from the doorway, a smushed-faced orange
cat and a caged owl—although calling it an owl might be a bit generous. The creature was
filthy and nearly too weak to be of much use, looking about as old as its cage, which was
 nearly rusted through; meaning it was likely the Weasleys.
She sets it at her feet, and the cat in her lap.

Draco is once again excessively glad that Jackie would be being apparated to Hogwarts. He
did not want to try and deal with having her interacting with any of the other creatures aboard
this train.

Thankfully, they set up at the exact diagonal and opposite end of the car. And even more to
Draco’s appreciation, the fight gives him the perfect excuse not to contribute much, as the
Prefect discussion actually gets going.

It's a long discussion, longer than he remembers even, with Head Girl and Boy going over
basically everything.
Their roles as Prefects, what that means in terms of ‘being a leader’, and 'setting an example
for the younger years' —which, Draco does mildly enjoy the way the entire carriage's eyes
shift to the Gryffindor Prefects for that, who are still fuming and embarrassed, respectively—
where and when their patrol routes should be, and all of their other ‘responsibilities’; most of
which Draco remembers from the first go around.

So he spends the journey paying half attention, but mostly mulling over his own, very much
more important thoughts: like how much he could definitely use a nap, or a nice, relaxing hot
shower. Or how the hell he was going to manage his loaded schoolwork schedule, his Prefect
duties, his loosely planned smear campaign on Umbridge, and stopping Voldemort.

If this is anything close to how Potter felt in his years of playing ’Savior’, it’s a small wonder
he didn’t eventually go off the deep end.
Then again, he supposes, one must first live long enough.

Chapter End Notes

The pace of this story should be speeding up from here on out, now that i've (FINALLY)
hit canon <3 im so excited to get into it!
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco wakes to a scene rather caught outside of time, haunted by the light scent of Pansy’s
floral perfume and of rich leather-cleaner, the feeling of nails combing through his hair,
scratching gently against his scalp; sending pleasant tingles down his spine. A hazy sunlight
stuttering as it cuts out between the dells they sweep past.

It’s a moment that could have happened on nearly any of his rides to Hogwarts. A liminal
reminiscence.
They had stayed in the Prefect’s carriage long after Granger and Weasley make their tail-
tucked escape; much to Pansy’s obvious, cat-like satisfaction. —The rest of the Prefects
filtering out at a far more sedate pace, though the Head Girl and Boy had elected to stay; even
getting drawn into their conversation after a short while.— And eventually, Draco supposes,
he had been coaxed under the guise of rest after ‘being attacked’, to lie his head in Pansy’s
lap.

“I just…”

Pansy sighs, something uncharacteristically dreary and vulnerable to her. And Draco has just
enough presence of mind not immediately reveal his being awake.

“Every time someone tries to deescalate things, everything only gets worse.”—Pansy lifts her
hand from Draco’s head to gesticulate her point.— “Every time someone tries to escalate
things, everything only gets worse. It doesn’t seem to matter what happens...”

“I know,” the more feminine voice, that Draco assumes is probably the Head Girl, says, “I
don’t put stock in Potter or his nutter theory of the whole… You-know-who’s return. I don’t
think most people who have been reading the news do.”
She sighs and lowers her voice even further. “But there’s a certain centrifugal force, as things
tumble faster and faster, that is pulling people to opposite ends. To extremism . And no matter
the side; the growing lack of any sort of middle ground is rather alarming.”

The head boy chuckles a little. “You make it sound like the world’s bound to end.”

Draco idly wonders what marks this girl got in Divination. Whatever they were; they
deserved to be higher.
“I’ve just been doing a lot of research into the Great Wizarding War, for my final project, ya
know?” She says. “And i… the more I see around us… the more I feel like we’re rearing up
for the next one.” There’s a curl to her tone that tells Draco she’s grimacing. “And before
you say it, I know . It sounds barmy. But it’s what I see.”

“I don’t think it’s that barmy,” Pansy says softly. Clearly to the surprise of the Head Girl; and
Draco’s own, though he’s loathe to admit it. “...But even if war does come, I don’t think-
well, it’s bad to have hope, right? To hold onto things for as long as possible until it goes
belly-up?”
Her fingers continue to thread loosely through his hair. And never before has Draco wished
he could peer into her mind more.

“Hm, i suppose,” the Head Girl considers, taking a sip of something. “And it’s not like I’ve
lost hope. It’s just… hard.” She sighs. “I miss not being afraid for my friends’ livelihoods; I
miss seeing the future as something rife with opportunity, you know?”

“Pretty privileged thing to have to worry about, isn’t that?” The Head Boy says curtly.

“Fine,” she says sharper, “I miss the days where I could reach out across the isle without it
seeming like I’m some kind of turncoat.”

The Head Boy hums, and Draco can visualize him raising his hands in mock-surrender.
Something about this seems like a well-worn discourse between the two of them.

“I can understand that,” he says placatingly. “I don’t particularly like that my choices as a
future Auror might just be be ‘accept oppression in the good places, and slaughter in the bad
ones’ or ‘join a terrorist organization’.”

It’s terribly hard to tell what side the Head Boy is on. It’s hard to tell what side any of them
are on; but Draco supposes the plausible deniability of it is exactly how they can afford to
have this conversation at all.

“To simply call it a ‘Terrorist organization’ is a loaded way of thinking,” Pansy says in
consideration. “Is that really what you’d label it?” She needles, ever unable to poke a bruise
when she spots one.
“Yeah, I think that much is pretty clear cut,” the Head Boy replies dryly. “Then again,
‘Revolutionary’ has often been a synonym with ‘traitor’ just as ‘freedom fighter’ has always
been another word for ‘terrorist’.” There’s a pause, considering.
“Did you ever read ‘ V for Vendetta’ or ‘ Les Miserables’ , in Muggle studies?” He asks.

“I read ‘V for Vendetta’ . It was… intriguing,” Pansy admits, as though she’s had to peel the
complement out of her self. When no one jeers at her, she adds, quieter; “desperately sad,
too.”

“They’re really both sad,” The Head Girl says in agreement, “just in different ways. But
they’re also both beautiful works portraying revolution and futility and the negligible
differences between terrorism, vigilantism and war.”

“Wait- you read both ?” Pansy says, blinking.

“You’re such an overachiever,” the Head Boy says with a laugh.

“I’m a Ravenclaw,” she corrects snippily, and they share a little laugh.

“But, like you said, there’s a subtlety to it.” She continues. “At what point does ‘terrorist
hidden in a crowd, waiting to blow up’ become less accurate than ‘freedom fighter in
camouflage, waiting to take a stand against the oppressive tyranny of a dystopia’? Is it simply
about where you stand? Our ‘brave explorers’ to their ‘wandering barbarians’? Is it about
what actions define us? What level of atrocity one is willing to commit in pursuit of their
cause?”

“Justice has never been brought about efficiently by peaceful protest. To fight for the rights of
any downtrodden people, one must be willing to upset the balance,” the Head Girl says.

The car is quiet for a moment. The tracks rumbling along underneath as the train moves ever
onward.
“I suppose you're right,” Pansy agrees equitably. But there’s something shaken to her tone.
Something cautiously considering.

They lapse into silence for a while; long enough Draco considers stirring to ‘wake’. But a
part of him would be remiss to give up such an opportunity to learn more while he can. As
the son of Lucius Malfoy, it would be hard to gather honest intel. The fact that they were
willing to talk about this in his presence at all, even if he is ‘asleep’, is already a rather
fortunate anomaly.
Eventually, the choice is made for him. As someone checks the time and notes how close
they were getting.

Pansy shakes his shoulder to wake him, and he finally creaks his eyes open to her soft
expression, telling him they’re very nearly there, and they’d best get changed into their robes.

¶¶¶

“Draco,” Pansy says, leaning against the wall of the enclave between train-cars. Cornering
him just after he’s finished changing and left the loo. How perfectly Slytherin of her. “I’ve
been thinking…”

He finishes smoothing out his lapels, then looks at to her. Raising a single pale eyebrow and
waits. Resisting the urge to tell her not to strain herself. She doesn't say anything for a
moment, just looks at him and does a little gesture.

And Draco realizes he's no longer quite fluent in this language of little looks between them.
Still, the etiquette never fails Draco; it is etched so deeply he might one day prove he can
broker peace while asleep. So he just keeps his posture and expression open and poised, and
waits.

“About…?” He asks, still nonchalantly straightening his pin down onto his robes. As loathe
as he is to admit it, the nap had done him quite well, really. He feels calmer, more well
adjusted; maybe.

She pauses a moment, before seeming to lose her nerve.

"Nevermind." She says, shaking her head.

Draco notices a tension in her shoulders. Clearly bothered by something; perhaps still
thinking about the conversation he'd overheard?
“Hey you know what might be fun,”—she smirks, a clear cover for whatever else she's
feeling, then makes an utterly incomprehensible little gesture with her hands, then nods
toward the carriage behind them,—“We could go wander the train a little bit. See if we can...
you know.”

Draco does not know. But his brows raise anyway. Especially as he notices the light flush on
her cheeks. Clearly looking to take her mind off of whatever she's thinking about.

As soon as the idea strikes him, Draco's shoulders tense. Surely she wasn’t asking to… They
weren’t at the stage of relationship where they would be… They were barley post pubescent
for christ sake! He-

"Pansy," he says, tone calm and bladed. "I dont think-"

"Oh come on. Don't you wanna go brag over Potter for getting Prefect?" She cocks a hip. But
her smirk is gone, brows furrowed.

Ohhh. That... definitely makes more sense. But Draco doesn't have time to consider anything
further.

“Okay, what is up with you?” Pansy snaps. And just then he notices that he had folded his
arms and taken a step forward to move past her, but she had shot out an arm to block his way.

"What do you mean?" Draco asks blankly.

“First you don’t write, like, at all,”—she throws her other hand up—“And before you say it, I
know your parents have that silly rule of ‘no company for the last month before school starts
up’, so you can focus on studying; but usually you can sneak some word through.” She steps
in closer to him. Brows furrowed and expression sharp. “And then you don’t even bother to
come greet us at the station, then I find you just zoning out - then you’re just weird in the car
with that… girl, ” she spits. Lip curling. “And I could set all that aside, but- I thought you’d
at least still want to get one over on Potter and his sort!” She exclaims. Then pulls back to
put her hands on her hips. “I mean, what’s the point of having made Prefect if not for the
power it gives us, right?” Her tone is flat and snarky, as though to suggest she’s joking, but its
belied by the way her eyes flicker desperately across his face, as though searching for
something in the little corners of his expression. She’s uncomfortable, that much is clear.

“I'm sure I don’t know what you mean,” Draco denies demurely, trying to find his footing.

Pansy’s lip twitches and thins as she bites at it, which had always been her stress-tell. She
glances back and fourth as if to check the empty hallway for anyone who could overhear,
then, when satisfied, she leans closer and grabs at his elbow with both hands, hauling him
close. Something far more sober in her expression now.

“Is this about what happened at the ball?” She asks at a bereft whisper. Draco stiffens. “Did
something… are you alright?” She stares deep into his eyes for a moment before seeming to
loose her nerve, pulling back just a bit. Then bracing her hands on his biceps as the train
gives an unexpected jerk.

“…No,” He says slowly, extracting himself from her grip, “no, nothing like that.” He shakes
his head.
“I just…” He pauses, straightening. “As Prefects, we need to hold ourselves to a higher
standard, that’s all.”

“That’s all.” She echoes. And Draco knows that won’t be enough for her.

So, with a subtle yet unsubtle glance down both hallways, which remain utterly empty, he
backs her further into their little enclave.

“It’s just… I’ve been hearing some things from my Father and his contacts.”

Pansy goes rigid, her eyes wide.

“Pans… things are getting out of control fast.” He whispers, letting something a little tense
enter his tone. “I just… the last thing we need right now is more conflict among the school. I
expect we’ll have far bigger problems far sooner.”
“I… you really think it’s that big a deal?” She glances backward over her shoulder, despite
there being a wall there, and then back to him. “I mean, my parents have been quiet recently;
distant… but you know how it is.” She takes his hand and clutches it between them.
Frightened. “I had hoped it would just blow over. But Mother has been in deep with her
connections recently. She’s been talking about standing strong too… just offhanded
comments, but-”

A spark of recognition flits in Draco’s head. And Pansy notices immediately as it crosses his
face.

“What? What is it?” She asks impatiently. Squeezing his hand. He squeezes back, just for the
feel of it.

“It… may be nothing,” he forewarns, “and, truly, I didn’t think of it much at the time… but
this morning, Father said something about the Malfoy family standing united, ” he says. “He
was quite stern about it.”
Draco glances off to the side. The distance from this morning gives him perspective, and he
realizes that perhaps a lot of what Draco had dismissed in his youth as strange moods from
his Father, could be fear or stress for what was coming this year…

“That kind of thing usually does imply an enemy to stand united against. Doesn’t it?” Draco
ponders quietly. “It would make sense as to why he hugged me at the station anyway.”

He means it as an offhanded comment, a bit of a joke at Lucius’s expense. But when he looks
back at Pansy, her jaw is slightly slack and eyes wide.

As soon as they lock eyes, Pansy tugs herself into his arms. And he can feel her trembling.

“Pans..?” He asks, startled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “just give me a minute, please?” She asks. And it’s all he can do to
nod. They’d always been more tactile than the rest of their friend group —rather ironically
growing more so as they got older— but that was an incredibly low bar. And the didn’t mean
this wasn’t distinctly unusual.

He wonders if that conversation had gone more in depth before he’d awoken into it. If it had
kicked up Pansy’s feelings somehow more than he'd thought. Or maybe this was just a
completely unrelated breaking point she’d reached all on her own.
He doubts she would tell him, if he asked. So he doesn’t.

“Things are just… really are changing, aren’t they?” She whispers.

“Things have been changing for a very long time.” He says, stroking his hands down her
back in long repetitive motions. “It’s just becoming more apparent now.” The words just
vague allusions to what he really aught to be saying; but that’s how it always is, really.

Draco wonders how much longer they’ll be keeping up these airs. How soon Draco will have
to go from handwaving to actively lying.

“We can’t change what’s already come to pass. We’ll just have to be careful as we move
forward, right?” Draco says quietly and with very little real meaning.

Pansy nods her head, still pressed into his chest. “I don’t understand why I’m not okay with
this.” She mutters, something tight in her voice. “I don’t understand why I was so freaked out
at the ball either, when you… you had everything under control.” She grapples for words for
a moment, before finally just electing to squeeze him tighter for a moment.

“You’re the only thing that hasn’t changed. You’re still as polished as ever,” she whispers
finally. “Please don’t ever change.”

“Pansy,” Draco mutters, trying to find everything he can into words to ease this for her,
“don’t get me wrong; what happened at the ball was… intense. I was so scared when it first
started; but you know as well as I do that one cannot show weakness in front of a crowd like
that,” he admits quietly, because it’s true. Traveling back in time- the Death Eaters attacking
Grimmauld and then suddenly just being at the Parkinson Manor- everything had been just
terrifying - “But what’s happened, happened. We can’t change that; and i’ve been checked
out, and it shouldn’t happen again.” He says quietly.

“Thinking about it over and over again isn’t going to change anything either.” He diverts,
leaning back and using a knuckle to tilt her chin up. “I’m just glad you were there for me to
wake up to.”

She huffs a tiny laugh and smacks his shoulder.

“Flatterer,” she mutters wickedly, but without objection. Draco just smirks.

Pansy stares up at him for a moment longer. Something soft and glistening in her eyes. “You
always were the best of us at acting proper in front of our families. But… you know you can
still relax when we get to Hogwarts, right?”

“I do,” he says. Doing his best to make it sound like he believes it.

“And… I’m not just worried about that either you know.” She says it like she’s revealing
some great secret; like she hasn’t been alluding to throughout their conversation. She sighs
and lays her head on his shoulder. Hiding her shining eyes.

“I know,” he says. But nothing more.

She pulls back and looks away.

“…When did you get so wise?” Pansy jokes weakly. Sniffling and wiping her eyes on her
sleeve.

Draco just shrugs. His school robes still feel off. Too tight in the shoulders. Too loose in the
heart.

“I didn’t.” Then he smiles, like he’s referencing a private joke she’s not in on, and maybe he
is.

“I just got old.”

And that may very well be the most honest thing he's ever said.

Maybe the world just feels simpler when you're his age; smaller when you’ve seen it die.

Maybe, when you’ve seen how it ends, the fear of just ending at all is less scary. And the how
becomes a lot more.

¶¶¶
Vince and Greg absolutely light up when they spot Draco and Pansy, immediately haranguing
with questions —How is your family? Where were you? We didn’t see you on the train. How
do you like being a Prefect?— which are all said slowly, and are thankfully incredibly easy to
answer.

Greg takes Draco’s trunk without even asking, which is kind of nice; though he seems
startled when Draco gives him a thankful nod. But Draco finds himself rather distracted by
the light of a large, swinging lantern; or rather, but the one holding it. The glow casting the
prominent chin and soft-featured silhouette of Professor Grubbly-Plank, —the witch who had
taken over Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures the prior year— as she calls the first years to
her. At least that hadn’t changed, Draco thinks. If his memory holds true, Hagrid would not
grace the school with his presence until well into the year. Which, even in his state of
newfound empathy, Draco really couldn’t find too horrible of a prospect. He never had quite
found the charm in the Professor. Even before the… incident, with that overgrown chicken.

The Thestrals at the front of the carriages go still as Draco’s group approaches, their
emaciated forms steady and strong, and their glassy glowing eyes unfocused and eerie as
ever. One close to him opens out it’s leathery batwings to stretch them, and Draco does his
best to surreptitiously dodge them in a way that he hopes doesn’t look too insane to someone
who can’t see them.

One of the Thestrals huffs impatiently as Vince struggles to get Pansy’s surely overflowing
trunk onto the back, toeing invisible at the dirt road with cloven hooves, sending up little
clouds of dust.

‘Sorry for the holdup’ , Draco thinks in its direction. It does not reply. Draco is glad of this.
He does, however, use his friend’s distraction to take a few moments to himself and check his
Occulemency walls to make sure they’re holding.

They get onto the carriage with little fanfare; either Vince or Greg having made the awful
mistake of asking Pansy about her summer; resulting in a repeat-performance of the same
rant she’d given him when she’d been hauling him by the arm on the train. And Draco finds
himself mindlessly chuckling, and even mouthing along to specific turns of phrase as they
come around, as they rock and sway along with the dark carriages, which march dutifully up
the hill and toward the glowing castle.
The magic surrounding hogwarts is thick but contained, and he can decisively feel as they
pass through the wards; like walking through a gauzy waterfall. Draco instinctively represses
the flare of anxiety in his stomach it stirs.

Draco hops out of the carriage as soon as it jingles to a stop, noticing just ahead of him where
it seems Potter and Weasley are already having a mild domestic.

“We haven’t even made it to the steps and they’re making a spectacle of themselves,” Pansy
huffs to his left, still stood on the carriages door and Draco lets out a short laugh and shakes
his head. Mindlessly taking her hand to help her down the stairs. Swept up in the nostalgia of
it all.

The entrance hall is ablaze with torchlight and cacophonous with noise as students skip, strut
and clamor across the flagged stone floor into the open doors of the Great Hall. A starless
black ceiling floats just above the candles and the ribbed vaulting, matching with the sky
outside.

In his usual manor, Draco finds himself scanning the perimeter, cataloging exits and potential
enemies-

And at the head table, dressed in pink, he certainly finds one.

He greets everyone as usual, shaking hands and kissing cheeks before sitting down primly at
the Slytherin table in his usual spot, a familiar disinterested sneer easily fitting onto his face
at the sight of Umbridge; which no one glances twice at.

—He tells himself he's not avoiding the Headmaster or Severus's eyes, as much as he's just
focused on the future. On the trouble Umbridge will bring. Draco has always been a good
lair.—

Several people make to engage him in conversation, only for, a beat later, the great hall to
soundly go quiet, as herds of first-years stumble down the center isle and toward the sorting
hat; which begins its usual song. Or, it began to sing, as usual. The song itself was rather
notably abnormal; which was very clear on the faces of most anyone who had heard it sing
before.

Draco is quick to note these varied expressions, particularly on his fellow Slytherins, as the
proposed message of ‘unity’ sinks in, ranging from disgusted, to considering, to even, on one
or two young faces, hopeful.

As the hat becomes motionless once more; applause breaks out, though it is punctuated,
rather predictably, with muttering and whispers.

“How avant-garde,” Blaise mutters from his right, with a slightly mocking smirk.
Draco just hums a note he had meant to be neutral; but from the odd look that Blaise shoots
him, clearly failed.

The sorting commences as usual, and Draco applauds politely when necessary, and spends
most of it fervently wishing it were acceptable to bring a book to these sort of things. He
does, however, appreciate Dumbledore’s succinct opening speech, and follows his advice to
‘tuck in’.
It’s odd. Draco had kind of figured that the whole atmosphere of Hogwarts, being surrounded
by the people he’d fought, people who had died in front of him— because of him— would
have been a lot more heart-wrenching. Like walking through a hall of ghosts; and maybe it
still will be. Maybe it just hasn't sunk in fully, where he is, what happened here. What he's
done. But the thing that he’s realizing more and more, that he noticed with his Mother and is
growingly more apparent, is that in honesty; they aren’t the same people.
There’s still guilt and turmoil of course; no part of his life is so untouched by grief as for
there not to be. But everyone at Hogwarts right now was far closer to the young,
impressionable kids he recalls with fond nostalgia, than the hardened fighters he recalls from
most of his adult-life.

The chatter is rather comforting, floating around him. He’s reminded of the Resistance, right
down to the salt in the air and the chaotic, rochus laughter.

He’s neatly cutting into his pork-chop when Draco notices that he’s being not-at-all-
surreptitiously glanced at by most of the people around him, and he remembers that he used
to be something of a chatterbox. And that his silence is clearly weirding people out. Even as
he’d been making neutral noises along with the conversations around him.

“So, what do you think of the Pigmy Puff in the high-chair,” Pansy asks, nudging him
playfully. Clearly taking pity on him and inviting him formally into their discussion, so he
doesn’t have to guess at the topic.

In an instant, Draco’s face twists. Much to the clear amusement of everyone around him.

“What did she do, spit in your soup?” Blaise asks, still laughing as Draco sets down his
cutlery with a clink; not bothering to hide the look of disgust that’s surely made it’s way onto
his face.

Draco just shakes his head, as though to refuse to answer.

“Oh come on; tell us. What did she do to offend your delicate sensibilities?” Theo wonders
from across from him, seeming intrigued and ever so subtly delighted. Draco shoots him a
warning glare.
“Other than that outfit?” Pansy titters cattily behind a delicate hand.

“Or her hair?” Millie giggles from beside her. Twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“How about her voice?” Draco tacks on flatly. Perfectly willing to be catty for a good cause.
Or even a moderate cause, if he’s honest. Letting himself enjoy the way the girls giggle into
their hands.

“Why Draco, you make it sound like the two of you are… acquainted,” Blaise hums, brow
raising.

Draco notices then, that several of the surrounding conversations have stalled, to listen in on
his.

“I’ve heard her talk at a handful of ministry functions,” he justifies easily, “terribly grating,
she is. And patronizing ,” he huffs.

The little whispers of: ‘did he say Ministry?’ ‘She’s with the Ministry?’ are utterly satisfying
to hear scampering about. Little ants, spreading hand-picked morsels of information through
the colony.

There had been many pureblood families who thought that Dumbledore’s stance on Dark
Magic, and learning about it —or rather, not —, were far too conservative. It was one of
several reasons Father had persuade Durmstrang as a candidate for Draco’s education so
fiercely, even if it hadn’t panned out. That’s not to say it was at all an unpopular opinion,
especially among older houses or more ambitious students- but after the first war, it was one
kept clemently quiet. That said, it would not be hard at all to convince his fellow young heirs
and heiresses this was a threat. Especially when her and the Ministry’s views made
Dumbledore look so almost carelessly liberal in comparison.

But, Draco can’t help but wonder, biting his bottom lip, if it will be enough.

He absolutely can’t have Slytherin falling in line with Umbridge, if not because it would be
utterly exhausting and demeaning , then to avoid the damage she’d done to the already
cavernous house divide, and making it nigh impossible to separate ‘Slytherin’ from ‘Death
Eater’ in the years to come.

But it can’t be obvious that he’s so invested; or that knows her beyond just in passing. It’s a
needle to thread, certainly… but he’s walked thinner wires.
“Listen,” Draco says in a hush, which, for him at least, has always seemed to gather more
attention than speaking loudly, especially when paired with the opener of: “From what my
Father has informed me,” he says, “a lot of things are bound to change, very soon.”

He folds his arms on the table and leans slightly forward. Looking down the length of the
table both ways, visibly counting heads.

“But there is one thing we do best of all the houses; we adapt.” Draco leans back again, and
shoots a meaningful glance at the head table before adding, “and if you ask me, there’s
nothing wrong with taking this whole unity thing out for a spin.”

A beat passes, and Draco wonders if he’s been too forward, shown too much of his hand—
but then he’s surrounded by slowly nodding heads, and he takes a subtle breath and relaxes.

“It’s not like we’re taking sides; more like playing it safe really,” Blaise says; ever the
centrist.

“I suppose it makes sense.” Nott agrees slower, tapping his fingers on the table. “Bit too soon
to tell what’s going to happen really.”

For them, absolutely. For him… not so much. But Draco’s not quite stupid enough to blow
his cover this early in the game - so he pulls his poker-face up, hand to his chest, and nods
sagely like he believes what he’s talking about.

“Hey Dray,” Millie says, leaning forward past Pansy. “Don’t look now, but someone’s
staring~ ”

Pansy’s head immediately pops up to see for herself; and then she laughs. Draco, figuring the
jig is already up, casts a sideways glance toward the Gryffindor table. And, true to form,
Potter is staring at him. Or at least in his direction; he doesn't really bother enough to check.

“Probably jealous he didn’t get Prefect,” Pansy says, very obviously straightening her own
pin and smirking. Draco rolls his eyes and turns away.
“So it’s true?” Someone further to his right butts in with clear fascination. “He really got
passed up?”

“I wonder how he messed that up.” Another voice titters.

“Right? I thought he was a clear shoe-in, with Dumbledore’s obvious favoritism and all.”

“Or maybe even Dumble-snore has realized he’s off his rocker.”

“Like recognizes like, and all that,” someone else laughs.

Draco just tunes it out from there.

As the meal runs to a close, and Dumbledore makes a few last announcements, the whole
table shares a half-shock, half-fascinated look, upon hearing Umbridge dare to actually
interrupt Dumbledore; which for a moment, makes Draco fear his efforts had been for
naught. But in the end, Umbridge does nearly half the work for him by just being so
belligerently unpleasant. She drones on and on, and the length of her speech is only rivaled
by how utterly patronizing it is. Draco actually snorts out loud as Umbridge unabashedly
drops the line, ‘Progress for progress's sake must be discouraged .’ It's almost fascinating,
seeing her cram so many dog-whistles into a single speech. He half expects, when she sits
back down again to a smattering of half-asleep applause, to see a book labeled ‘FASCISM 4
DUMMIES’ peeking out of her useless little pink-bowed bag.

Draco idly wonders, upon seeing just how quickly Slytherin dismisses Umbridge now, just
how many enemies he’d made during the last go around; strong-arming Slytherin to stand
with her, just to maintain his little feud against Potter.

There’s a sudden clamor around him, as benches are pushed back, scraping across the
cobblestone floor, bodies jostle to stand and chatter grows loud all around; Dumbledore
having clearly just dismissed the school.

Draco stands and excuses himself from the clamor to go guide the first years-

Only for Pansy to stop him with a hand on his chest.

“I’ll handle this,” she says, “ You get your butt down to the Infirmary like you promised.”

Draco groans and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.

“The infirmary?” Blaise echoes, his eyes narrow, scanning over Draco with a fierceness that
Draco finds himself blinking at.
“I’m fine, Pansy’s being a drama queen, as always,” he huffs. Fastidiously ignoring how
Pansy gasps, a hand flying to her chest in mock outrage.

“If it’s truly nothing, I’m sure you’ll enjoy some company then,” Blaise says, brushing off his
trousers as he stands.

Draco shakes his head.

“Don’t bother. It’ll be short.”—He turns to Pansy.—“I’ll meet up with you for rounds when
I’m given the all-clear,” Draco promises, then turns, hoping to blend into the crowd before
either of them can follow. And it works on Pansy, at least.

“Oh come now, Draco,” Blaise purrs, sauntering up behind him and wrapping an arm around
his shoulders. “Surely you don’t despise my company that much.”

“Mh, perhaps you should get your ego checked by Pomfrey while were there; if you’re so
aching,” Draco retorts. “I just mean that I’m not an invalid, I don't need to be babysat for a
five minute walk.”

Blaise laughs.

“You’re certainly one to talk about good care and keeping of ego, aren’t you.” He pulls
himself away, allowing them to weave through the quickly thinning crowds easier. Draco
does his best not to cringe away from the mush of crowded bodies too obviously. Their magic
thick on his tongue.

“Especially with that stunt you just pulled in there.”

Ah, so that’s what Blaise is on about. Draco should have figured as much.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Draco says flatly, challenging. “I plan to be as unified as
everyone else, I assure you.”
Blaise makes to roll his eyes, or perhaps offer another quip, but then his brow twitches. And
he just studies Draco for a moment as they walk side-by side through the now almost entirely
empty halls.

“You really meant it,” Blaise says, eyes ever so slightly wide, “at dinner, all that unity crap.”
A smile splits over his face. “You meant it.”

“Should I not have?” Draco asks hastily.

“Oh no, I think it’s a grand idea.”

Draco levels him a flat look.

“No really! I do!” Blaise says, hands raised in mock surrender. “You know me, Draco, I’ve
always been one to be less… extreme.” —That was a rather kind way to say that one lacks
any sort of hard moral standards, Draco thinks.— “But you have to admit, it’s a rather odd
thing for you to suggest.”

Draco clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, but does not otherwise reply. Still strutting ever
forward.

“I’m more amused that, to hold up your end of all this, you,” —Blaise pokes at Draco’s side
— “are going to have to play nice. Maybe even with the golden boy~”

Draco pulls up another very real sneer over how well he thinks that’s bound to go.

“She’s just a defense teacher,” he protests. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of
yourself?”

“She’s a defense teacher who was instated by Fudge ,” Blaise points out. “And someone you
recognize on sight .” As their place slows and they approach the doors to the infirmary,
Blaise lifts his chin and a single dark brow. “If that combination is not an ill omen, I don’t
know what is.”

“You always did enjoy divination more than the rest of us,” Draco says as he pushes open the
doors, which creak loudly as they open.
He’s greeted by a familiar sterile scent, mixed with the hum of medical charms that hang over
the room like a cool mist. The whole place is dim with shadow; the arched ceilings of the
empty medical wing are black with it.

Draco is reminded suddenly of Parkinson Manor, when he’d just awoken from-

Draco closes his eyes firmly for a beat. No need to get lost in memory now.
Even if, based on the way Blaise has cone conspicuously silent, the resemblance is not lost on
him either.

Before either of them figure out what or what not to say, —accompanied by the thin clack of
practical shoes and the repetitive squeaky wheels of a cart following her like a pup—
Madame Pomfrey emerges from a back room.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, just on time.” She says, glancing at him. “Please sit on one of the beds, I’ll
be with you in a moment.”

Draco blinks, but acquiesces.

Blaise moves to follow, but Draco just lifts a hand and shakes his head. Cutting that off
before it can begin.

“If you want to see me in bed, Blaise, you’re going to have to at least buy me dinner first,”
Draco jokes, popping a hip and making a shooing motion.

Blaise’s cheeks go cherry red, which makes Draco wonder if he’s gotten the timeline wrong.
Have they not started making jokes like that yet-

Blaise just shakes his head.

“You forget we share a dorm,” Blaise replies anyway, rolling his eyes over-dramatically.
“You couldn’t pay me to listen to you snore even closer than I must.”

He nods to Madame Pomfrey —who is busy levitating vials, salves and bandages of varying
size, shape and color off her cart, and into the drawers and shelves of a highboy— just once
in dual greeting and parting, and pivots on his heel and strides toward the exit.

“I do not snore!!” Draco calls after him huffily. Not bothering to hide his smile at Blaise’
retreating back. The door closes.
He notices Pomfrey looking at him, and reflexively schools his features into a displeased
frown. Moving to the nearest bed and kicking his feet up onto it, folding his arms up behind
his head as he leans on the headboard.

“It’s quite important to have a support system, you know,” Pomfrey says sagely; in that odd
way older people sometimes say wistful nonsense out of nowhere. Draco shoots her a
scrutinizing look, but gives it up as she doesn’t even turn away from sorting through her cart.

“So,” Draco says, doing his best to come up with some sort of conversation as a younger
Draco might have. To fill the silence he was so allergic to. “Who stopped by to tell you what
happened? Because if it was Weaslby, I all but guarantee he left out some crucial details,” he
huffs.

At this, she does pause, lifting her head to look at him with an odd pinch to her expression
and brows raised.
“Why would one of the Weasley’s be aware?”

Draco blinks.

“Because he was the one who shoved me across a train car?”

Pomfrey’s brows raise yet further, very nearly to her hairline —which was quite a feat, really
— as she gapes. “Weasley did what? ”

And Draco feels suddenly and distinctly that they’re not on the same page.

But, at her needling, Draco, as accurately as he dares, recounts the events of what happened
on the train. Including that the Head Girl had healed him already and this really wasn’t
necessary, especially if there was something else going on; but she ends up coaxing him into
an examination anyway. Huffing all the while about ‘young men picking fights so early in the
year’, as she prods at his bared shoulder; which Draco feels is rather unfair. He hadn’t
‘picked a fight’. That ‘fight’ —if it could even be considered such, given he had not retaliated
— rammed into him like a runaway train and then immediately crashed and burned.
Yet still, even as Pomfrey smears some kind of gritty, peppermint and arnica scented paste on
the very negligible bruise left on his shoulder-socket, Draco can’t help but wonder.

“You knew I was coming. How?” Draco asks tapping his foot slowly on the ground from
where he’s now sat at the edge of the bed. And Pomfrey’s fingers stop against his skin. “I
thought one of the other Prefects had stopped by. But if you didnt even know about the
train…” he trails off as he notices the way Pomfrey looks suddenly saddened; and then
immediately tries to cover that up with a nervous-looking smile, as she wipes her hands clean
on her apron. It’s an odd look on a woman so usually blunt.

“Well…” She says, summoning a rag to quickly clean off Draco’s shoulder, before turning
away, “I had rather assumed your Mother would have told you before you left home.”

Draco goes slightly stiff at that. A weight settling onto his shoulders at mention of his
parents, a strain he hadn’t even noticed was gone until it was smothering him once more.
There is no one quite as unmaking as a mother, after all.

“My Mother?” Draco questions sharply, “what does my Mother have to do with Weasley
attacking me?”

“Very little, I should hope,” Madame Pomfrey tuts.

She sighs and shuffles away, toward one of the drawers she had been sorting things from her
cart into. And Draco buttons back up his shirt and robes. Leaving his tie undone.

She opens a drawer and, after a moment, pulls out a wire vial rack filled with tiny potion
vials, shaped in odd swirling glass, perhaps the length and width of his pinky. They’re filled
with a translucent yellow liquid with a pale pink foam at the top. There’s a small square of
parchment attached to one of the vials with twine. Pomfrey hands that vial over.

Draco looks at the tag.

‘One Vial (45 ml) of Magical Suppressant

Take once per week after eating.’

There’s a translation into French just underneath. He flips it over to read the back. Where all
the fine print seems to be; along with it’s own translation.

‘Check with your physician or Medi-wix before drinking alcohol with this Potion. Do not
combine with other Potion use unless authorized by your physician or Medi-wix. Use care
when operating any vehicle, vessel, broom or when apparating.
 Side affects may include, drowsiness, excess energy/akathisia, hyperosmia, bubbling skin,
scale rash, loss of fine motor control, hyper-kinesthetic awareness, nightmares, dreamless
sleep, palinopsia, synesthesia…’

Draco is rather glad to note —along with the fact that it seems like half the possible side
affects cancel each-other out— that there’s no mention of creature inheritance on the bottle.
No marker of reasons one may potentially need to suppress their magic either.
And yet something about the way Pomfrey looks at him, knowing and pitying, makes him
want to walk right into the lake and never come out anyway.

“Your Mother did not tell me much in her letter.” Pomfrey says slowly, “only that you had
been having magical outbursts, of a sort, and that you had been prescribed to take these once
a week.”

Draco does not look up at her. He does not do anything other than stare at the little vial in his
hand. Turning the little tag back and fourth between his fingers.

With a wave of Pomfrey’s wand, she summons a small wheeled stool and sits in front of him.
Setting the tray of vials on her lap between them.

“Mr. Malfoy, it is my responsibility at Hogwarts to care for all its students. I must stress to
you, if I do not know exactly what is going on… I may not be able to care for you to the best
of my ability; and anything you tell me will be strictly confidential.” She pauses, waiting for
him to reply.

He doesn’t.

Draco can’t tell her. Saying anything about the truth is a nonstarter. Even expressing as little
as he had to his Mother had terrible consequences. Still, the whole Veela thing is his best
excuse at current to cover all his assorted inconsistencies and oddities. That does not,
however, mean it’s not utterly mortifying to live through.

“It is with all that in mind, that I must ask,” —Pomfrey leans forward, placing a wrinkled
hand on his knee, the same way his mother once had. He hates it—“is there anything at all
you would like to tell to me?”

She waits for a very long moment, but Draco gives her nothing. Simply retreating behind the
quiet stone walls of his mind. It’s better that way.
Idly, he wonders what additional side affects taking a potion like this is could have; if one
does not , in fact, have a creature inheritance of some kind. It’s meant to suppress his magic,
but what does that mean? What if it does nothing? What if it works too well, and it makes
him into a squib?

He rolls the vial over in his hand, the liquid is on the thicker side, like some kind of milk or
cream.

'What if it actually helps?' He can’t help but wonder.

Could it makes it easier for him to use his wand? Could it alleviate his outbursts?

Can he risk it?

He shouldn’t. It would be silly to risk such a thing over such a platitude as normalcy. He
should dump out the vial and just tell her he took it.

“I shall at least have to monitor you taking your first dose, you know,” Pomfrey says, and
even though he knows she did not read his mind because his Occulemency walls are still up;
he would have felt it at least; Draco still finds himself pulling back from her warily.

“Just in case there are any adverse reactions,” she says placatingly, clearly reading his
distress, though definitely unaware of the true reason.

Draco’s jaw clenches and he looks at the vial once more.

The more he pushes not to take it, the more likely it is she will question its purpose, and want
to micromanage his taking every dose. If he’s good on the first one though, he’ll be given
more leeway to sneak it away.

It’s with that thought, Draco pops the cork with his thumb and slugs it down.

Its not immediately terrible, the taste and texture isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s not unpleasant
either. It’s something between a viscus orange-cinnamon tea, and a watery, unsweetened
Sahlab.

But other than the taste, and an odd, tingly chill on his fingers, toes and nose… nothing really
seems to happen. None of the side affects take hold.
Then again, the note had said they were ‘possible’, not ‘probable’.
 “How do you feel?” Madame Pomfrey asks, still watching him carefully.

Draco thinks for a moment, evaluating.

“Tired,” Draco concludes. “But I felt tired before, so it’s fine.”

Pomfrey frowns at him, but thankfully, she doesn’t try to push any further. Simply casting a
handful of medical charms over him, which weave over him like a colorful, pulsating
spiderweb of string-lights. It takes maybe a minute longer of her humming and hawing over
the little nodes of her spells, before they disappear, and she stands.

“Well, we’d best get you to bed then,” she says, and Draco clenches his jaw and stands with
her. Hoping this doesn’t mean he’ll be sleeping in the infirmary. He’d been hoping to get a
nice hot shower tonight. Not to mention that Blaise may actually kill him-

“Now, you’re to come to me immediately if anything feels wrong,” she says, walking him
toward the doors, and Draco sighs a breath of relief that does not go unnoticed. “And don’t
stay up late chatting, young man. You need plenty of rest, understood?”

“Of course,” Draco agrees, nodding amicably.

“And I’ll see you again next week for your next dose,” Pomfrey says sternly. And Draco nods
slower and slightly less agreeably.

She pats him on the arm.

“Good night, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Good night,” he echoes.

Chapter End Notes

Y'all didnt really believe that /leaving/ would get Draco out of his parents clutches, now
did you? ;P

Anyway, y'all would not BELIEVE how long i've had chunks of this chapter written
(actually given a piece is the LITERAL summary, ....maybe you would, LOL) but yeah;
at least it means this chapter had a really fast turnaround, right? (Even tho my computer
decided to no longer accept a charge so ive gotta take it to get fixed. blargh)

(also a quick reminder that this story is NOT beta'd, so apologies for any errors/typos (●
´ω｀●;) and thank you again for all your sweet, lovely comments! <3 )

Feel free to come poke me on my Tumblr

 Chapter 17

When Draco pushes open the door to his dorm room, he’s ready to collapse on his bed,
clothes on. Screw the shower idea-

“Finally Draco,” Blaise says, “your mutt has been-“

“Jackie?” Draco says, perking up immediately. And, just like that, the little pup is bounding
toward him. He kneels down just in time for her to make a full-force dive at him. Landing in
his lap and licking at his face with ferocity. Draco manages to pry her away for just long
enough to move to his bed —the same one as always, closest to the door and tucked into the
left corner—, where she immediately begins again rolling around on the floor near him,
begging for pets. And Draco grins.

“Theo didn’t believe me when I said he was yours,” Blaise says with a short laugh. “I said
nobody else would get something that yappie.”

Draco knows it’s supposed to be a cutting remark, but he can’t help the laughter that spills
out of him. Vincent and Greg look up from their beds across the room, hands full of their
remaining shared snacks from the train.

“Probably helps that Pansy told you I got a dog, as well,” Draco guises. Those two were
always talking.

Blaise’ answering scowl instantly confirms it.

Draco laughs as his friend unceremoniously flops backward on his bed, summoning a dog toy
from his trunk and tossing it for Jackie to busy herself with.

“Can’t you give me thirty seconds to at least seem independently smart?” Blaise huffs.

“Absolutely not. It’ll go to your head,” Draco says, ignoring the way Blaise rolls his eyes.
“Plus, Pans' was angry enough with me for not writing.”

“I’m angry too, ya know,” Theo says from behind his book, face completely impassive,
which makes it a little less believable. It had always been a tad hard to tell with him, how
much of what he said was genuine care, and how much was to stay among the Malfoy Heir’s
good graces. “Me and Millie spent the night looking for you. Imagine my surprise when I’m
informed you left without even talking to us .” He actually shoots Draco a glare there, much
to his surprise.
He hadn’t anticipated this. …Had they always cared so much?

“Me too,” Blaise says, immediately dropping his dramatic charade and twisting to face him.
A lanky boy sitting criss-cross on his bed had no right to be this intimidating . Or so adorable.
Draco hates how he’s reminded of Amy, all her sharp edges and soft words.

The bruising, blunt force trauma of being cared about.

“You gave us quite the scare,”— Blaise leans forward. Locking eyes with Draco—“leaving
the way you did.”

‘After you had a seizure and collapsed’ goes mercifully unsaid. Which very possibly means
that Blaise and Pansy never told the rest… and likely has more to do with his parents than
anything else. Still; Draco sends Blaise a private little smile for that. Blaise returns it with
another roll of his eyes. The frown that follows is still tense. He's probably just keeping it
secret as leverage, or out of fear of Lucius, but it’s still appreciated. For the moment.

“Yeah… sorry,” Draco mutters, leaning back against the smooth black leather of his
headboard. And that, for some reason, seems to send off alarm-bells in the other boy’s heads.
At least based off the way even Vince and Greg look at him.

“…So, what about you lot?” Draco asks, not at all subtly trying to redirect from the
awkwardness. Slipping off his bed and padding toward his trunk.

Blaise and Theo share a look as Draco barely pops it open, blindly grabbing for the familiar
silky-soft cotton of his pajamas, and his toiletries, before latching it shut.

“What, not gonna unpack?” Blaise tuts. The worry is clearer on him than anyone else in the
room. Maybe that’s because he knows . Or maybe that’s just how he looks these days.

“Tonight? No way. I’m far too tired.” Draco huffs, letting his shoulders hold low and lips
press in a thin line; a double meaning. But one he hopes no one will care to catch.

“Is Prefect work that bad?” Theo asks with a raised brow.

“…’s not particularly fun, ” Draco shrugs, tossing his pajamas over his shoulder and
maundering toward the ensuite bathroom, “but its certainly not all bad.” He shoots them a
smirk.

“Yeah, I mean the power’s got to be like, a major bonus huh,” Blaise says, “I mean I’d kill
just for access the prefects bath ,” he hums, shifting to lean toward Draco.
“You’ll let me use it, right?” He purrs, “we are friends, after all.” And Draco laughs.

“As a favor, I suppose so,” Draco says. Enjoying the way Blaise pouts and the rest of the
room giggles at his put-out reaction.

Draco leaves his friends to converse behind him, all debating what they’d do if they got
Prefect, as he gets ready to sleep; tracing his wand around the edge of the curtains, casting a
subtle silencing and locking spells as they close around his bed.

Just in case.

¶¶¶

Draco dreams in snapshots. He dreams of running across an eternal desert as his skin blisters
and boils, but then the desert is Malfoy Manor, and the Parkinson estate, and Grimmauld. He
wakes to the familiar chill of a fever taking hold.

He dreams again of a room painted in arsenic-green wallpaper. Of Nachash’s flat but ever
watching eyes and of Lucius's viscous, demanding scowl. Of the Vanishing cabinet, and its
doors swinging open; flooding the room with ichor. He drowns in it, tasting blood in his
mouth, a film over his teeth and a glue at his throat. He wakes momentarily to his stomach
clenching with nausea.

He sees faces of people he doesn’t know. A mother with a pointed face and words that only
deny. A father with a handlebar mustache that enhances his scowl, and hands that pull him up
by his scalp. A son with pudgy fingers and a learned taste for torment. He hates them with a
burn like hollow hunger and a stinging at his fingers like grease-burns.

The silence in the dorms provides little oasis, during his infrequent moments of lucidity
amongst the turmoil. Tossing and turning restlessly in his bed.
Draco dreams again of elegant hallways with scalding sand dune floors. The stairwell floods
with boiling tar.

He dreams of drowning and boiling alive. Of the tar pouring itself down his throat. It tastes
like cinnamon and oranges. It tastes like acid and bile.

It tastes of nothing at all.

Draco dreams of his room in the manor.

Draco dreams of his cupboard under the stairs.

Draco dreams of an orphanage.

—If a bomb falls on a city, if an air raid siren sounds, but no wizard is around… does it make
a sound?—

Draco breaches the surface gasping. Drowning. His skin is sticking to the tar. Sticking and
peeling off in layers. Blood coagulates on the surface of the lake and boils away. Leaving
viscera and-

A pale, gnarled hand grabs him by the jaw; the touch like dry ice and feeling far too real for
something he knows is a nightmare. Draco’s tear-filled eyes crack open just an inch,
unfocused and burning . Tar paints his hair black and mats it down to his forehead, stains his
skin dark and burns it bloody. Everything is smeared.

He feels the impression of eyes, staring him down, but instinct tells him not to look; so he
doesn’t meet them. The shade snarls, sharp teeth forming a sentence he cannot decipher,
beside the single, familiar moniker of ‘Basilisk’ .

Draco squeezes his eyes closed. Ice fills his veins. His heart beats loud against his ribs. He
feels small and vulnerable and weak for squeezing his eyes shut to the danger. As though
being blind to the shade will save him. He feels like a child, like curling under the covers to
hide from a monster, but he doesn’t know what else to do–

He doesn’t want this. He’s scared. He wants this thing , this shade, this nightmare to leave
him alone- And then his magic bubbles and flares. It’s sluggish, crawling to his call as though
straining against heavy chains to reach him–
But it does, and the hand clenching his jaw falls away, and the world peels away in ribbons to
reveal simple stone. The tar swirls and drains away through the cracking stone.

It’s silent, in his empty cell. It’s always silent. His head is ringing from the sudden
difference.

Draco whimpers and curls in on himself. His magic flickers like a dying fire, growing cold in
the hearth of his chest. It curls up with him; like Jackie does. His fingers feel numb with the
cold. The contrast feels like taking an ice bath after stepping out of hell. It’s too much silence.
Too much nothing. It hurts–

Draco startles to waking, sheets tangled around him and soaked —he has a very vague
memory of setting his bedsheets on fire, and then dousing the entire bed in water to put it out,
but he can’t be sure that wasn’t just another awful dream—, his stomach rolls violently–

He scrambles out of his bed. Barely having the presence of mind to snap up his wand and
toss up an unsteady Disillusionment and a Notice-Me-Not Charm and before stumbling to the
bathroom.

He isn’t sure how long he spends, emptying his entire stomach into the toilet bowl, throwing
up a muddy sunset of colorful bile.

Long enough to leave him trembling with it, at least. Long enough he has nothing left in him
and ends up throwing up mostly stomach acid, making his throat burn terribly from it.

Not quite long enough to forget what he dreamed, but long enough to rationalize it. To
pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

¶¶¶

Draco ends up passing out again, for a short while, though he is thankful to find it dreamless.
When he wakes again, it’s still in the darkness.

He finds himself oddly calmed, after sleeping on the cool stone. He’s reminded of his cell.
The safety in the surety of being alone.
He hadn’t set any sort of alarm, but habit has him peeling off his silk pajamas, and crawling
into one of the shower stalls just as dawn is just barely cresting the horizon. He luxuriates in
the warm water flowing over his skin for a while. Feeling significantly more human than he
had last night. He opens his mouth and lets the hot water fill it. Swirling it around and
spitting it. Then drinking his fill. The heat of it soothing his aching throat.

It’s a tad amusing —in a distant, depressing-if-you-peer-too-close sort of way— that Draco
Malfoy, currently heir to one of the most influential names and vast fortunes in the wixen
world, could be so utterly enthralled with the wonders of hot running water; as he lay curled
up on the floor of the shower.

He checks himself over in the mirror when he gets out, and finds himself rather just the same
as he always did these days; if a tad pink and shaky. No scales, bumps or feathers to be
found. Though its not as if there’s no evidence of his rough night, he is rather flushed; and the
bags under his eyes certainly have not improved. He brushes his teeth twice, dawns his
pajamas again and exits the bathroom.

Draco creeps to his trunk and pops the lid. Too wary of waking his dorm-mates with the glow
of a ‘lumos’ in the open, he has to get by on touch, and the bare blue-green glow coming
through the small window out to the lake. With some trial and error, his palm eventually
slides across the familiar fabric of his uniform. He bumps into the familiar snake-skin of his
journal–

He feels a wet nose bump into his knee, and Draco gives an involuntary yelp.

He looks down, only to see the tiny silhouette of Jackie, tilting her head at him, blinking her
glassy eyes up at him sweetly.

“Oh,” he mutters, sagging in relief. He glances back to her corner, and notices that her black
velvet, tufted dog-bed is rumpled and clearly well used.

“Good morning darling,” he whispers, patting her head gently. And, after a moment of
consideration, he scoops her up in his arms. She sniffs at him and whimpers a little, then sets
about determinedly licking his face; which makes him smile shakily. It's a little odd for her to
be up this early, but if she had been apparated here, and napped on the way —similar to how
he did—, she was probably well enough rested. Then again, she had proven herself to be a
rather lazy creature at heart…

“O’z there?”

There’s shuffling, the sound of curtains being drawn-

Then, with a quickly mumbled ‘lumos’ a light flares into life. Draco hisses and squeezes his
eyes tightly shut.

“Oh shut that off, will you?” Draco snaps.

The light flickers and dies down to a far more subtle glow. And there sits Vince, looking very
much like a particularly grumpy guard dog, as he tilts his head in the very same manor Jackie
did.

With a quick hand, Draco slips his journal back into his trunk and locks it before it can be
seen; hidden beneath the clump of his robes.

“‘raco?” Vince slurs sleepily.

“Yeah, It’s just me.”

“...Waz’ wonderin’ who was up at such an ungodly hour,” Vince mutters. Scrubbing at an
eye. “I heard you yelp. Y’okay?”

Draco nods.

“I stubbed my toe,” he lies. “I’m just off to take Jackie for her morning walk,” Draco
explains.

“You wan’ me to come with?” Vince asks. And Draco feels oddly touched at the gesture of
loyalty, for the boy to give up sleep for him. It makes him wonder if he could have woken
them, when he was feeling poorly. If he could have told someone. Would it have been better
not to have to go it alone? Would it have hurt less if there was someone to witness his
suffering?

“No,” Draco shakes his head. “I’ll be fine on my own. Go on back to sleep.”
“...m’kay,” Vince mumbles a moment later, lying back down. Simple as ever.

Draco gets dressed in his uniform as fast as he can —feeling odly cold and weakened—,
spending an extra few minutes on his grooming; applying some of his mother’s pilfered
concealer to hide his bags and some mascara to offset it. Combing through his hair, trying to
make it look as though he cares how it looks, before giving up. It was a well worn routine
from after his lessons with his lovely aunt Bella; and one it seemed would continue to serve
him. He scavenges in his trunk for Jackie’s lead and clasps it around her collar. Darting a
quick look to his friends' closed bed-curtains.

‘A united front.’ His mind whispers in echo.

He turns away and grabs his coat, shaking his head once more. What utter bollocks.
Maybe a brisk run will help get his mind off it all.

¶¶¶

The sun rises over the Hogwarts grounds through a low, grey fog. Glinting red and orange
streaks over the glass of the windows- like they were on fire.
Draco tries not to think about that for too long. He tries not to think of any of it, if he can.
Turning the collar of his coat up as a hold off against the chilly, pine scented September air.

Jackie trots along at his side, her pointy ears bobbing as her head swivels and she takes in all
the new smells, sounds and scenery. Its still early enough that he doesn’t have to worry about
being interrupted by any other students, and Jackie seems to have a healthy warryness of the
Forbidden forest, so it’s a largely uneventful bout of exercise for the both of them. Though he
does have to smother a laugh at the double take Professor Grubbly-Plank gives as she goes
past.

They’re nearly back to the entrance, near Hagrid’s hut where Draco spots Dumbledore. Just
sort of… standing there, wearing long, plum robes embroidered with gold and paired with a
mildly curious expression. They’re far enough away that they don’t even really have to
acknowledge one another; let alone greet each-other. Yet, in his usual odd fashion,
Dumbledore lifts his hand in a wave anyway.

Draco, after a beat of consideration, waves back.

In the moment he hadn’t been watching, Jackie of course, takes this moment to decide to stop
and smell a nearby rose bush; only to immediately get pricked by the thorns. She lets out a
pained yowl, stumbling backward and pawing up at her nose. Whining and yapping all the
while.

“Oh- Come on- no, come here ,” he hisses, kneeling down next to her and scooping her up in
his arms. Uncaring for how her muddy paws scramble for purchase in his robes. “Oh you’re
alright,” he whispers gently, petting a soothing hand down her back and scratching behind her
ears as she whines.

“I’ve got you sweetie. Don’t fret.” He pulls back from petting her for a moment —which she
of course whines in complaint of— so he can access his wand. And, with a wave, he removes
the thorn and soothes the little wound.

—His magic feels oddly sluggish; which at least has the benefit of making it easier to use.—

“See this is what happens when you aren’t sufficiently cautious,” he tuts nonsensically.
Completely aware the pup has no way of understanding or retaining the lesson.

Jackie, who has obviously noticed the thorn gone, immediately sets about licking at his face
in overly-affectionate thanks. And Draco cracks a smile-

“I quite think, to be curious about one’s surroundings, is one of the many small joys life gives
us,” Dumbledore says, and Draco does not visibly startle —he’s not sure he can, anymore—,
but his head does pop up quickly, to find the headmaster stood right next to him.

—He recalls the sound Dumbledore’s body made as it hit the ground. A sickening, snapping
crunch of bone and cartilage. A splatter as the meat and blood of him explodes from the
force. He was dead before he hit the ground; but it was still utterly gruesome to witness.—

Draco clenches his jaw and looks up at the sky instead, smothering a flare of nauseous panic
with fervor. He wonders if he'd overestimated how ‘over it’ he really was.

“Is that why you’re out here?” Draco questions idly, avoiding eye contact. Setting Jackie
back down on the ground as an excuse to add to the distance between them, then immediately
regretting it for loosing her comforting touch. Mostly as something to do with his hands,
Draco reflexively waves his wand to clear the mud from his front. His head feels oddly
foggy, like it’s too small for his suddenly aching mind. Exhaustion weighs on him too; but
that’s nothing new.
“In a fashion,” Dumbledore says breezily, beginning to walk back toward the castle,
humming a silly tune to himself. He waves a wrinkled, beckoning hand, and smiles vaguely
in Draco’s direction. Unfocused and kind.

As much as Draco may dislike Dumbledore, he knows the man cultivates his doddering-old-
man persona very precisely, and Draco can respect that. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s
that there’s a certain power in being underestimated. Particularly in efforts of surveillance.

After a beat, Draco follows. Draco glances back toward Hagrid's hut. He wonders if Hagrid
brought Fang with him, wherever his little Order mission has taken him. Or maybe the reason
Dumbledore is out here is to check on the dog?

Dumbledore’s eyes wander over the grey sunrise appreciatively, and Draco feels his skin
crawl as that gaze settles momentarily on him. Draco does his best to maintain his even
breathing, and the relaxed slump of his shoulders; even if he’s currently feeling anything but
relaxed.

Draco still doesn’t ask where the half-giant is, even though he can feel Dumbledore waiting
for him to; he doesn’t particularly care to be lied to so early in the morning.

Dumbledore hums for a moment. Glancing back toward Hagrid's hut himself.

“A breadth of socialization is important in the growth of any young creature, you know.”
Dumbledore suggests strangely.

Draco bites at the inside of his cheek and wonders why every adult figure in his life insists on
speaking in double-entendres.

“If you’re suggesting i set up a playdate with Fang; I don’t think so,” Draco says crisply.
Taking special notice of the distinct way the headmaster’s face does not shift an inch.

He realizes a beat later how blood-purist that sounded. and immediately wants to face palm
hard enough it might hopefully rattles his brain online. He’s stood with the Leader of the
Order of the Pheonix right now. —Though for a long moment, it’s rather hard to remember
why that’s so important.— He does know he needs to take advantage of this though.

He figures it will come to him. Clearly, last night threw him off more than he’d thought.

“Perhaps when she gets older,” Draco considers a beat later, clearly to the surprise of
Dumbledore, “but at the moment, I must consider the very real threat that Fang would
accidentally squish Jackie flat. She’s still rather little, you see.”
Draco cuts himself off from rambling as Dumbledore lets out a hearty laugh. And Draco has
the sudden realization that this may be the longest he’s ever conversed with the headmaster
without someone getting killed.

He turns and looks away-

In one of the towers high above, Draco notices the silhouette of a messy-haired figure
looking out at them.

“ Jackie ,” the headmaster says, like he’s testing out how it feels in his mouth. He looks down
at the pup, who is nosing after the train of his vibrant robes, his eyes twinkling. “What a
charming name for a crup,” he marvels.

“I don’t know if she is a crup, actually. She may be a muggle dog.” Draco says quietly,
surprising even himself with the honesty. “I found her in an alley. She was… she seemed
very lonely.” Draco confesses.

Dumbledore gives him a considering once-over. His hands —both still healthy— folding in
front of him neatly. There’s an intrigued little glimmer in his pale eye, and Draco cannot tell
if that’s good or not.

He braces his mental shields and forces himself to meet the headmaster’s gaze. Draco is not
particularly wanting to meet the eyes of any legillimens, if he can so avoid it; but there is no
avoiding this now. Not after this odd conversation, and all he's done to make the man
rightfully suspicious-

But instead of staring him down, the Headmaster just nods and turns away. Never fully
meeting his eyes.

“Have a good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore wishes.

And then they part.

¶¶¶
Draco returns Jackie to his dorm, and endures his dorm-mates' stumbling jibes and clumsily
aimed pillows as they grouchily get ready. He makes his way to the great hall, and spends a
good while reading before even the teachers have fully assembled for breakfast.

It's rather peaceful, so early and uncrowded; but still filled with the low noise of plenty of
people going about their days. A handful of older Ravenclaws —including the Head Girl—
are speaking tiredly around mugs of coffee. There’s a group of Hufflepuffs, playing an idle
game of exploding snap. Up at the head table, Professor Grubbly-Plank engages a rather
bored Professor Sinistra in a rather one sided conversation that involves enough hand
gesturing that Draco fears for how close their goblets are to her elbows. Umbridge isn’t there
yet, which is something of a boon.

Draco pours himself a mug of coffee —which has an odd gritty texture to it, but the caffeine
is worth it, once sweetened up enough—, and spends some time sorting through his
messenger bag, plucking out reading material he feels he could use some last minute
brushing up with, based off his loose recollection of the schedule, and finds himself well
enough drawn into it that he only looks up again as a great woosh and clatter fills the hall.
Hundreds of owls rushing in through the upper windows and sprinkling rainwater over the
now crowded hall as they make their deliveries.

“Best not to interrupt until he at least reaches a chapter mark,” Blaise advises wisely from his
usual spot. Munching on a piece of toast. “He bites.”

“I just can’t believe he’s already studying,” Greg says, shoveling eggs and sausage onto his
plate. Vince nods at his side.

“OWL’s are important,” Draco says primly, snapping his book closed and taking a perverse
joy in the way his friends startle; despite having clearly been discussing him.

“Yeah, that one right there seems to think he is,” Pansy says.

Draco frowns and furrows his brow, glancing to where she gestured-

Only to find a prim Boreal Owl that he does not recognize, perched on the table right in front
of him. A letter tied to its ankle, which it obligingly extends.
The letter, sealed with a powder-blue wax crest, is fine vellum and —as he learns after
peeling it open— written… entirely in French.
Draco scans it, eyes narrowing.

“So,” —Pansy hovers over his shoulder— “Who’s it from~?”

“Based on the crest,” Draco answers without much thought, smoothing out the paper with a
pinched brow. “It must be Miss Delacour, but-”

“ You got a letter from Fleur Delacour?!” Pansy exclaims.

Draco immediately fastens her with a scowl, but the distraction is enough for Blaise to snatch
the letter from his grasp–

Who’s eyes fasten immediately to the bottom, then grow wide .

“It’s from Apolline Delacour.”

“What– seriously?” Theo gasps. To his left, Millie’s jaw is gaping.

“You got a letter from Fleur Delacour’s MOM?!? ” Pansy shouts.

Predictably, this draws a handful of eyes and likely many more of their ears.

“Lord Merlin almighty,” Draco hisses violently, his fingers pressed to how now aching
temples, “where is the volume control on you lot?”

“What does it say?” Greg asks curiously. Nudging in closer toward the group. Leaning over
Blaise’s shoulder-
Draco takes the opportunity to snatch the letter back. Ignoring how the surrounding crowd
leans toward it no matter where it goes.

“Most likely, it’s simply her pestering me to keep up with my French,” Draco says with faux
annoyance. Folding the letter up crisply and tucking it into the secure inner-pocket of his
robes, before buttoning them securely closed. Inwardly praying that whatever Madame
Delacour meant to tell him, it wasn’t too terribly urgent. Her owl doesn’t seem to think so; as
it happily flutters off, oblivious to the terror it had brought.

“You’re getting French lessons from a Delacour ?” Blaise says, letting out a sharp, sardonic
laugh, “ Merlin’s shorts, Draco —while you’re making complete misuse of people’s talents—
why not go get your shoes shined by the Queen?!”

“Nonsense,” Draco says with a hand wave, doing his best to downplay it all, but unable to
hold back a laugh at the sheer absurdity that is his life, “the Queen would be an awful
shoeshine. Have you seen her hands?”

“Stars above,” Millie mutters, staring at his own hands before shaking her head sagely.
“Sometimes I forget how insane the rift is between a Malfoy and us regular folk.”

Blaise pats her on the back consolingly; completely ignoring how Pansy was feigning having
fainted onto his shoulder. Draco tuts and rolls his eyes. As though any of them are even
remotely ‘normal’ either.

A moment later Snape glides past, passing out schedules with his usual contemporary,
detached sneer. And the conversation is cut off there as their entire year gets rather distracted,
balking at their overloaded schedules.

¶¶¶

A fine misty drizzle falls, blurring the edges of the stone with the grey sky overhead as Draco
leads his group toward the courtyard; glad he’d thought to take Jackie on her walk before
everything got so dreadfully damp. Draco’s honor guard was in full form, with Greg and
Vince assuming their usual positions at his flank, their broad figures and dark stares carving
open the crowds in front of them —while Draco does his best to smother the urge to
apologize to every group they send scampering out of their path as they walk— and Pansy
and Blaise keep up conversation in between classes, which swiftly devolves to cataloging
everyone of note they cross paths with, and how poorly they’re looking after the break.

Which of course, means that when they pass a miffed looking Cho Chang and her posse, then
a ferociously bickering Granger and Weasley, while Potter himself looks as though he’d like
very much to walk right out of the country and start a new life; it’s noted in the color
commentary.

“Seems like Potter’s relationships are going about as terribly as always,” Pansy titters just
loud enough that Potter could surely hear her.

“It’s no wonder they’re in shambles. Potter wasn’t much of a people person before , and now
that he’s gone off the deep end…” Blaise shakes his head in false moroseness. Pansy lets out
a truly vicious cackle.

“Yes. It’s so sad,” Draco echoes rather flatly. Which is clearly taken as bladed sarcasm, rather
than the true indifference he feels.

He feels Potter’s eyes snap to him and glare sharply. Draco ignores it.

They head through to the dungeons, lining into the que outside the dungeon door —which
sends a spark of warm nostalgia through his heart— only for it to swing open with a loud
creak not a moment later, allowing their group to file in without breaking stride. It’s an odd
thing to feel nostalgia for; creaking doors and frigid cellar stone. But Draco was rather well
aware at this point that he was, in fact, a rather odd person.

“Settle down,” Severus drawls coldly, shutting the door behind him. There was no real need
to call for order; the moment the class heard the old door swing shut, everything had fallen
quite silent.
That’s just the presence Professor Snape exhumes, Draco supposes. Unable to fight the swell
of warmth for his Godfather, despite everything.

—He sees Severus’s face, eyes rimmed red, hair matted and wet as he goes down, over and
over and over until his dark, intelligent eyes go glassy and vacant, and his mouth hangs slack,
as memory after thread of memory are pulled from him.—
Draco clenches his jaw and does his best to focus on the present. On the feeling of the hard
wooden bench under him, the stuffy, frankly almost overwhelming snarl of smells that fill the
potion’s room.

Severus drawls on in his long, intimidating spiel about OWL grades and NEWT classes,
lingering on both Longbottom and Potter at different points. And in the end, even Draco
finds himself mildly intimidated. He’d always had an affinity for potions, but something
about the air in the room keeps him from being too sure of himself.
He’d been out of the potion-making sphere for so long, after all. And despite having thrown
himself forcedly back into his studies, there was only so much reading can help an atrophied
skill set–

Then, Severus introduces the potion.

Draught of Peace. They’re challenged to make Draught of Peace.

Draco has to physically fight the urge to grin. Or laugh out loud. Or prance his way to the
store room to gather ingredients, kissing Severus on the cheek on the way.

It’s a fiddly potion, yes. One that his peers seem to struggle with quite vividly throughout the
process.
Draco, however, is done with several minutes to spare.

He keeps himself looking busy by cleaning up the excess of his powdered moonstone.
Organizing it next to the tiny bottle of hellebore syrup. He’s pretty sure he would have been
done even earlier, had he not had to deal with this stupid head-fog all day.

A pleasant rustic smell rises warmly from the potion, with an almost glittering silver mist.

He can overhear Severus making a mockery of Potter somewhere behind him. The boy
having foolishly forgotten to add his own drops of hellebore.

And even with his Godfather’s wit as clever and bone-dry as ever, Draco finds himself rather
bored of the derision. He busies himself with idle fantasies of being able to sneak out some of
his potion to add to his stores, and then with ignoring Potter’s eyes drilling into the back of
his head, when Severus complements his draught and gives five points to Slytherin for it as
he fills the proffered flagon, which altogether tides over his boredom until the class is
dismissed with homework.

‘Twelve inches on the importance of moonstone by Thursday’. Busywork. How delightful.

He lingers beside the classroom as everyone exits. Watching idly as Potter makes quite a
display of himself, huffing irately and stomping out from the room as soon as allowed,
fuming all the while.

Draco waits. Barely startling Greg’s mixture shatters in it’s container, setting his robes on
fire- getting shards of glass and muck into the extra in Draco’s cauldron. Whelp. There goes
that pipe dream.

Draco sighs, but he doesn’t let his displeasure show when Greg and Vince make their way
toward him. Flanking him all the way to the great hall. Pansy, Theo and Blaise, who had left
a bit before them, having been kind enough to save them seats as things get crowded.

Wind and rain lash hard against the grandiose windows, the grey, enchanted sky growing ever
darker above them. The floating candles above them flicking in faux wind. Draco suddenly
finds himself exceptionally glad to have gotten in his and Jackie’s exercise in the morning.

Draco spends most of lunch doing his best to contribute properly to the conversation; which
mostly just meant a lot of erudite complaining and barely-subtle boasting. Which bleeds
fluidly into a discussion of Severus’s class that morning, and then somehow into current robe
fashions, which Draco elects soundly not to question.

¶¶¶

Word spreads like wildfire of Umbridge's disastrous first lesson, and her confrontation with
Potter. Which had proven soundly to all who had heard him on the first night, that Draco had
been right about everything. This was not, of course, a surprise to Draco, but it was a pretty
feather in his cap. —Granted, some of the most draconian elements of Umbridge’s
personality had been rather eclipsed by who exactly they were being used upon, which was
disappointing. But better some than none, right?—

Dinner that night is, of course, brimming with whispers and gossip; the accounts of those
who had witnessed it first hand spiraling more and more dramatically, to the point where no
one is particularly shocked when Granger slams her fork into the table before the trio tuck tail
and stalk off.

Draco eats very little —not having found himself particularly hungry all day— and doesn’t
bother engaging with any of it, which is far easier a task with Pansy and Blaise ravenously
engaged in their careers of piloting the ever-spinning rumor mill, and Greg and Vince
ravenously engaged in their dinner.
Draco toys with his knife as he ponders next steps with Umbridge. If he has any hope of
cutting off her rise to power, he needs to be efficient with it; cut her off at the knees.

Intercepting her letters to and from Fudge could buy him a little more time, but they could
just as easily resort to floo calls, which he can’t do much of anything about. Besides; he's not
entirely sure that wouldn't just make Fudge even more paranoid, and push everything even
faster.

He toys with the idea of framing her for some sort of crime, but with Fudge backing her it
would be dicey. It would be easier if he could levy the weight of a solid Pureblood name
behind it; but he doesn't fancy making such obvious enemies so soon, if he can avoid it.

Draco slides the knife up through his pinched fingers. Glancing up to the high table, where
Umbridge was sitting with her nose in the air.

‘You could always just kill her.’

The thought steps into his mind unbidden, like a particularly forward dancing partner. Sliding
its greasy hands around him before he can politely dodge away.

It’s not as though someone like Umbridge had anyone in particular to miss her. And everyone
would probably suspect a crazed-with-fury-Potter before they suspected Draco –

Draco pulls himself back from that train of thought before he can fall onto the tracks.

He can’t just kill her. Even if it weren’t a bad play; it would be… messy. Such a risk for such
menial reward would be sloppy work. There were other avenues to explore first.
He’s not some death-eater mercenary anymore. He’s an heir and a Hogwarts student, and he
really must at least attempt to think like one, before he slips and someone takes notice.

—Draco exits the hall before dinner has even ended, and feels eyes searing into his back as
he goes.—
 Chapter 18

It’s only the next morning, while sorting through his robes from yesterday in search of his
wand —so he can seal the protective runes he’d whittled into his bed posts— that Draco
recalls Madame Delacour’s letter.

It’s short. Just a single page, and addressed not to any of his usual monikers, but simply to ‘
Petit Feu’ .

The letter informs him, albeit a tad late, about the potions his Mother had apparently
purchased, apparently having been grilling the half-veela very tediously about them for some
time now. Madame Delacour warns that she feels this is not the only thing that Narcissa has
planned. Madame Delacour then goes on to add several only semi-related notes on
Umbridge; most notably expounding upon the pink-terror’s history of legislation and her well
renowned hatred for ‘half-breeds’. Closing out with a reminder to take care, and to keep his
head down .

Nothing particularly new, thanks to his future knowledge, and the fact that he has working
ears and eyes on him. But, considering Madame Delacour has absolutely no ties to him and
no skin in the game, Draco can’t help but find it awfully kind of her to attempt to keep him in
the loop; despite clearly wanting nothing to do with his family whatsoever.

Not that Draco can blame her there.

Draco opens his trunk and grabs for his writing things —and, after a moment of thought, his
journal as well— and gathers them quietly. Listening for any shuffling or disturbance from
his dorm-mates beds. He finds himself oddly settled by the sound of their breathing and
subtle snoring; a reminder he’s not alone. He composes his short response in the common
room, by the green light of the dull fire, the flames greedily lapping at the log he’d tossed on.
He’d forgotten just how ridiculous it felt, writing with the damn thing. But, appearances must
be maintained. It would be poor form to fall out of practice with it’s… unique balance,
simply because he found it gaudy.

Jackie, curled up in his lap, bites and swats at the feather when it gets close enough, but
mostly just dozes and noses at him occasionally when she feels she’s not being paid her dues
in attention. While he’s writing, Draco concludes that the sooner he makes a fuss to his father
over ‘Umbridge being terrible’ the better. He does his best to ignore the bitterness in the pit
of his stomach, as he dips into the ink and starts a new page. He may dislike the feeling of
going ‘crying to Father’, but at this point, he has no excuse to not use all the resources
afforded to him.

Letters in hand, Draco tosses on a scarf and clips on Jackie’s lead, and makes his way to the
owlery.
Returning to the common room, which is still a dark, sleepy wash of dim drifting green from
the thick glass windows of the lake, Draco warms himself by the fire, pulling out his journal,
he scours for anything that might be of use.

There’s surprisingly little to work with, aside from continuing the fruitless task of
schmoozing the Order, and Draco is about to shrug and give it up, when he arrives, oddly
enough, at the page on Horcruxes.

Specifically at the few lines about the diadem.

¶¶¶

Draco arrives at the seventh floor, finding himself staring at the familiar blank wall, across
from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. It’s an odd feeling. He had spent an entire year of
his life here, wasting away, trying to understand that forsaken cabinet.

And now he’s back.

Pushing open the old, hefty door, Draco finds the room of hidden things is rather exactly how
he remembers it; cluttered with stacks upon towering stacks of till and smelling of dust and
rot.

It’s an odd mixture of anticipation, dread and nostalgia that greets Draco, but not much more.

Draco wanders in, attempting to follow his memory to where he had found the Golden Trio
sneaking about, but ending up rather aimlessly taking it all in, twisting as he goes in an
attempt to properly marvel at the absolute state of the space. He keeps a firm hand in his bag,
a thumb over the cork of a calming draught.

Vince died here. He had been the first of many of Draco’s friends to die, in or after the war.
The beginning of the end.

Draco waits for the panic to spike through him, for phantom smoke to fill his lungs, for fear
to take over. But all he really succeeds in is just barely not sending a clutter-tower falling, as
he stumbles over a lumpy, ancient looking rug that seems to have enough dust packed into its
weave to strike fear into the hearts of several city blocks worth of asthmatics.
Draco huffs and coughs and dusts himself off, reflexively straightening his tie in
embarrassment.

He wonders if there’s something wrong with him; which almost makes him laugh, because
the answer to that is an obvious and resounding yes .

Once Draco’s memory fails to find him any further markers to push him onward in any
particular direction —which, admittedly, does not take long—, Draco strolls to a stop. The
room is dead silent, except for his own two feet as he moves; and once that’s gone, it’s down
to just his breathing.

“Accio diadem!” Draco casts. Because he does have a reason to be here, other than
reminiscence.

Rather predictably, yet somehow still disappointingly: nothing happens.

“Accio diadem of Ravenclaw!” He tries again; because he’s always been stubborn. “Accio
horcrux!” Yet more nothing.

Unwilling to be bested, Draco tries every combination of words and summoning charms he
can puzzle together in his head; including even a few random vaguely-helpful spells he
vaguely recalls from the future; a spell to make the wanted item glow. Then an air-filtration
and dust repellant charm on himself, because all of his hand waving was kicking up quite
some clouds of it…

But even after half an hour of casting, the only thing Draco ends up with is a sore throat and a
bone deep exhaustion that makes him want to just crawl right back into bed.

Draco toils around for maybe a few minutes longer, briefly considering casting Fiendfyre and
just incinerating the whole room to be done with it all, before electing that rather wasteful
and reckless, even for him; and instead, slumping down to breakfast.

¶¶¶

The otherwise dull and drowsy morning’s lessons pass in a blur of generalized anxiety, with
the professors bearing down on them with warnings of how hard OWL’s are, and their vital
importance for their futures, a coordinated intimidation that is dulled only just, by this being
Draco’s second time around.

But generally, to Draco’s rather genuine surprise, and despite the stress that would usually
make them crack, Slytherin maintains it’s rather uncharacteristic neutrality. Keeping the
peace so well that Draco manages to nap through most of divination without consequence.

During transfiguration, the only notable trouble comes from Draco’s magic, which, even
having been drugged-up just the day before —Draco wonders if the potion would do better if
he managed to actually keep it down —, accidentally vanishes the snail of all four people sat
around him. Thankfully, well entrenched in his familiar pack of Slytherins, all he gets are
some mildly startled glances and —after a beat— thankful nods; though Mcgonagall does
give him a suspicious glance upon noting Greg and Vince’s atypically skilled success. But
otherwise, no Slytherin finds trouble, and no one steps out of line.

There’s very nearly an incident during the blowtruckle lesson, when Pansy caustically sneers
after Hagrid’s absence, but she is thankfully not quite loud enough for any of the Gryffindors
to hear. When Draco stops her from commenting a second time, she does acquiesce; though
not without a handful of wounded, confused looks throughout the rest of the lesson.
Potter shoots him several glare-adjacent looks, as if daring him to start something, and
Blaise, despite his comments, is insultingly surprised when Draco maturely ignores it.

On the way back, while Potter is entertaining Lovegood of all people about his relative sanity,
Draco only just barely spots the familiar unfortunate haircut, broad shoulders and forceful
shoving of Urquhart, making his way through a crowd and into the castle.

“Draco?” Pansy asks tentatively, frowning.

Draco watches the staircase and - yes, he confirms, it is him. He stops and turns around,
waving his friends onward.

“You lot go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

They hesitate, he sighs.

“I’ve got to talk to Urquhart.”

Pansy opens her mouth to argue, but Blaise just shakes his head and hauls her along.

“Urquhart!” Draco calls after him, weaving quickly up the stairs, and he turns. Montague,
who is by his side, pausing as well.
“Ah, Malfoy, I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Urquhart says, which could mean he
truly had been; or he just doesn’t want to seem caught off guard for whatever Draco is about
to say.

He moves to wave away Montague for privacy, but Draco stops him.

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. This will be quick,”—Draco latches his hands together
behind his back casually as they all stroll slowly together—“quite quick, actually.”

The cool wind is cut off as they finally enter the warm walls of the castle.

“Oh?” Montague asks, seeming intrigued. Urquhart, however, frowns and squares his
shoulders. Clearly reading Draco’s tone better.

“I just thought I’d notify you that I’m quitting the team.”

“The team? You mean-” his brows knitted together, jaw opening; the very picture of
disbelief; he even stops in his tracks, which makes several of the people behind them
grumble.

“You want to quit Quidditch? ”

Montague looks like he’s just been punched in the stomach. Urquhart looks absolutely
panicked. Eyes flicking between Draco and Montague-

Then he pauses, and he starts to laugh, a dry and uneasy sound. Glancing back and forth
between Draco and Urquhart, as if waiting for them both to start laughing too.
And Montague chimes in with an unsure chuckle of his own, but that’s about it.

Draco just frowns.

“That’s real funny Malfoy,” Urquhart says quickly, "you got us. Good joke. Anyway, why
don’t you come along” —he claps a hand onto Draco’s shoulder and steers him toward an
empty corridor— “and tell me what you really need, hm?”
And Draco allows it, just for a moment, ignoring how the force of the grip makes his skin
crawl. Just for long enough to get them away from the crowd. Then he takes a step back, and
brushes off his shoulder, as if to dust off the other’s touch.

“I’m not sure what you find so amusing.” He says flatly, raising an eyebrow primly.

Urquhart swivels around to glare at him.

“Look, if this is some kind of weird power play, I’m not having it,” he snaps. Draco’s body
wants to flinch, but only his jaw clenches. “I know Flint was fond of you, and I know you’ve
got your family propping you up, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to be Captain and-“

“Where on earth did you get the idea I wanted Captain?” Draco says, aghast and sneering.
“I’m quitting the-“

“Will you keep your voice down?! ” Urquhart says, slapping a hand over his mouth.

—A pale, gnarled hand grabs him by the jaw; the touch like dry ice and feeling far too real
for something he knows is a nightmare.—

Draco’s stomach plummets.

In a fluid movement, Draco wrenches his hand back. Slamming his opponent into the wall
and bracing his other forearm over Urquhart’s collar bones to pin him there.

“Do not ,” —he snarls, watching Urquhart flinch back at the ice in his tone— “touch me.”

They both stay still for a moment as Draco remembers himself and swallows a litany of
swear words —Urquhart wasn’t attacking him. That was completely unfounded and
idiotically out of character, what the hell—, then taking a half step backward; telegraphing
every move as he does.

“...Sorry,” Urquhart mutters. Shoulders hunched but eyes clearly evaluating Draco in a new
light.
Draco raises both his hands, then slowly latches them behind his back, the same way one
might sheathe a weapon.

There’s a rather long pause after that.

“…You’re serious though, aren’t you?” Urquhart says quietly. Incredulity and condemnation
clear in equal measure.. “Bloody fuck . You’re totally serious about this,” he mutters again,
seemingly to himself. Draco gracefully inclines his head anyway.

“But-“ He gapes, flipping the switch from denial to bargaining with rather admirable
efficiency. “But why? You’re our Seeker , Malfoy. The best Seeker Slytherin’s had in ages, ”
he exclaims, tone dripping with alarmed disbelief, gesticulating widely.
“Why on earth would you give that up? Why so out of the blue?” He demands with the kind
of fervor that was beginning to draw eyes and whispers of those passing them by. And Draco
faintly regrets not having done this somewhere actually private.

Still, not much he can do now.

“I simply find my priorities have shifted, and I am no longer interested,” Draco says. It’s a
politicians answer, which means it’s a lot of words to say very little at all; and they both
clearly know it.

“W-We don’t even have a backup! We’d be starting from scratch to replace you,” Urquhart
says sharply. “You can’t do this!” And Draco actually winces; not at the obvious guilt trip,
but at just how bad Urquhart was at this. Really, it’s rather embarrassing, particularly for a
slytherin of his year.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find another one,” Draco waves his hand dismissively. “That’s
what the trials are for, no?”

“ ‘Find another one’? ” He echoes, eyes flicking from Draco’s hand to his face- he shakes his
head firmly.

“Look,” Urquhart says, clearing his throat, straightening his tie, visibly changing tracks, “if
there’s a problem, if it’s something to do with the change in leadership even; I’m sure that we
can fix whatever-”
“It’s not.” Draco says firmly, and Urquhart’s jaw clenches.

“I am withdrawing as Seeker, and that is final . I will not appreciate any underhanded efforts
to keep me on, do you understand?” He says slowly, and slightly duller than he’d assumed he
would have to. But after his little stunt , it was probably for the best to keep on the kid
gloves.

Urquhart folds his arms. Standing straight and tall, like his extra two inches of height will be
what wins this for him.

“Fine. But- ” he says curtly, “You’ll still have to come to tryouts. If there’s no one there fit to
replace-”

“You will find someone.” Draco tilts his head. “Because if you cannot, then I would have
reason to question your abilities as the new Captain; scouting is your purview, after all.”

There’s an implied threat there. And just in case it isn’t obvious enough, Draco straightens his
lapel, deliberately having his Prefect pin catch the light.

Urquhart’s lips thin into a grim line, something like anger flashing in his eyes-

A subtle clamor comes from the hall beside them from slowed, stumbling bodies, clearly
slowing down to eavesdrop. And Urquhart takes a deep breath brimming with stifled rage.

It’s only after a long moment of ineffectual grandstanding, that he finally acquiesces, nodding
a sluggish assent.

“Fine.”

He crosses his arms, lifting a hand as if to shoo him away-

Then he pauses.

“...I’m not going to get any terrifying letters from your Father because of this, right?” He
asks, leaning closer as he speaks, a bit of anxiety flaring in his quiet tone. “He knows you’re
quitting?”
Draco clicks his tongue and folds his arms. “Of course he knows.”

Urquhart nods again, leaning back. “Alright.”

Draco waits.

Urquhart’s jaw clenches and he looks away. “I… accept your resignation. You don’t need to
be at tryouts.”

Draco flashes him a bland smile. “Good. Glad we understand each other.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves to catch up with Blaise and Pansy.

¶¶¶

That night during dinner, Draco elects, for lack of a better plan, to engage in the good old-
fashioned Slytherin tradition of breaking and entering.

It’s not actually particularly hard, once one is aware that every professor has the exact same
password-activated wards, —something he’d learned from Umbridge while being a part of
her inquisitorial squad—, it’s practically child play, given Professors weren’t allowed to add
any extra wards beyond what was approved by the board; something done in the name of
safety. Umbridge had granted him that information then, also in the name of safety, which
mostly just told Draco that ‘safety’ is relative, and people are stupid.

Before he enters, Draco quickly doubles back and checks the maze of intersecting halls
outside, to make sure they’re still clear. He’d cleared them out himself, of course, —casually
sending a group of sour-faced, loitering hufflepuffs packing, and all but shoving his Prefect
badge in between a Slytherin couple snogging in an alcove— but it never hurt to be sure. He
adds a hasty notice-me-not charms to the alarm charms he’d already set to the end of each
corridor, feeling the interwoven spells lock to each archway like nets of sticky spider-silk.

And when he’s sure everything is set and the wing is clear, Draco steps in.
Umbridge’s office is exactly how he remembers it, coated wall to ceiling in every possible
combination of pink, chintz, porcelain and-

A loud meow startles Draco. Then another, this one hissing vividly-

Bloody cats .

Draco hisses a half dozen swear words as the decorative wall-plates begin to sound off a
caterwauling alarm at sight of a stranger.

“ Sileo! ” He casts.

And then it’s silent. All the cats frozen, and brought back to the still, unassuming pose in
which they had presumably first been painted. It was a spell that Draco had only ever seen
used on portraits who had spoken out of turn; but it seemed to work just as well on the
porcelain kind.

Draco turns, takes in a breath, and sighs. The room smells slightly musty, just like the rest of
the castle, with an overlay of some kind of cheap, chemical perfume that’s making a pitiful
try at seeming sweet; a poetic concept, in some way.

Draco idly wonders if the spell working means, just like normal magical portraits, if these
cats are drawn from real living creatures, instead of strange collectors items as he’d once
assumed… He wonders if they were her pets- And then he immediately has to shake his head
to rid himself of the mental image of Umbridge sending her cats to detention for nonsense
like licking themselves in public or napping out of turn.

A cursory scan of the room shows nothing particularly interesting left out at least. But
beginning to methodically search the drawers tells a different story.

Among a drawer of somewhat haphazardly sorted papers, is a small pink leather jewelry box,
where Draco finds at least three, old, poorly-maintained pieces that have clearly been stolen
and resold. Draco notes a Black greyhound, and a Parkinson spider on the sides of two thin
rings that had been worn down by age. Draco also notes a few rings overlaid with what seems
to be Umbridge’s clumsy attempt at creating her own heraldry; A kind of lumpy looking cat
with a sizable bow around it’s neck and a small string of latin at the bottom, the only word he
can recognize being ‘Lumia’.

Given ‘Lumia’ means light with a positive connotation in English and Latin, Draco can
generally understand the appeal. But given he’s pretty sure it also means ‘ prostitute’ in one
of the Spanish dialects… well, Draco won’t be the one to correct her, anyway. He does
pocket a few of the rings, as well as a chunky pendant necklace with the same lumpy cat
crest, all of them positively reeking of Umbridge's slime-sticky magic.
Draco quickly scours a few more drawers, finding books and paperwork and a bunch of
unnecessarily pink stationary. A few cutesie quills with worn down nibs, and several colors
of ink. And then, when he’s all but given up on finding anything interesting, he notices, at the
very bottom, is a locked drawer.

This one is harder to get into; clearly having meant to be password activated, and therefore
not responsive to alohomora or even some of the stronger unlocking spells he tries. But
Draco wouldn’t be much of a Slytherin if he weren’t good at getting into things he wasn’t
supposed to.

When the lock finally pops open with a click . For a moment, looking into the drawer, he
finds himself rather disappointed to just see a load of opened envelopes. He even carefully
shuffles through the mail to make sure it’s not just a cover for something more interesting.

And yet, no. He really just spend five precious minutes breaking into Umbridge’s junky
mailbox . Draco grimaces. Honestly; with his future knowledge, he kind of doubts there’ll be
anything of interest.

Then Draco notices the crests. Not just that of the Ministry’s official crest, but also a handful
of the minister’s personal stamp.

And really, after taking the effort to break in, it seems rather a waste to just lock it up again…
So, after casting a quick tempus and electing he still had more than enough time, Draco
climbs into her pink velvet chair and combs through her letters, shuffling through them in
proper order to be sure nothing will seem disrupted.

And, to his own surprise, Draco learns quite a few things.

First: Fudge genuinely thinks that Dumbledore is building an army of children to sabotage
him.

It’s an idea that feels actually utterly absurd to first think about, given —to the best of his
knowledge— Dumbledore has never even alluded to the idea. And if Dumbledore wanted
Fudge gone in a militarized, full-frontal attack kind of way… Dumbledore was likely quite
capable of taking on most of the ministry himself; no army of toddling, delinquent school
children necessary.

Draco scans over the letters and thinks.

It doesn’t just feel absurd. On second thought… it is . The idea that an actual adult official
would feel threatened in such a specific and convenient way to disguise the Dark Lord was–
Draco pauses.

It’s absurd… as an accident. But if it were a plan to destabilize both the Ministry and
Hogwarts by pitting them against each-other, while also creating a smokescreen for the Dark
Lord to hide behind… it was actually somewhat ingenious.

Draco thinks to his father chatting with the Minister at the gala. Having private meetings with
him. How well his Father and Fudge clearly got along…

And Draco knows his father is an undeniable master of emotion, his own and others.

Draco grimaces and pinches his brow, under the dawning realization that owling his father
about Umbridge may have been far less useful than he’d thought. And that, perhaps,
Slytherin’s antithetical loyalty to Umbridge in the first go-around was not as independent a
decision as he’d thought.

Draco double checks his alarm charms, feeling his magic hum, undisturbed.

Then he kicks his feet up onto Umbridge’s desk and leans back in her egregiously plush
office chair.

The second thing he realizes as he continues to read is this:

The character assassination of one Harry Potter —though it may have not exactly been
slowed by Lucius’s opinion on the boy— had a lot less to do with him being, you know,
Harry Potter , and all that rot, and far more to do with him taking a stance alongside
Dumbledore, and refusing to shut the hell up when properly threatened by the government
like anyone else would.

It was apparently a point of distinct frustration for the Minister, who, unlike many others,
does apparently hold some small amount of guilt for attempting twice over to expel a
teenager and/or send said teenager to Azkaban.

Though, clearly not enough guilt for him to stop. Nor for him to disincentivize the Prophet’s
libel.

It’s true, that the control of information is something the elite has always done, particularly in
a despotic government. Under Voldemort, it had been considerably worse, even. Information,
knowledge, is power. If you can control the information, you can easily control the people.

It’s quite entirely how Lucius maintained the family name all these years.

And yet, it’s almost depressing how easily they’re being capitalized upon; how they’re
foregoing fact for sensationalized fiction, because, deep down, they’re scared.

Then again… Draco can’t really blame them. People will do a lot to convince themselves of a
lie when the truth is too uncomfortable to face. —Draco thinks of his own mother. And of,
for the longest time, himself.— Denial is a powerful force, after all.

Draco finishes up his skimming and locks the drawer back up. Settling everything as it was.

He does one last lap of the room. Somewhat soured for how little actually on Umbridge
herself he’d found.

Draco is nearly finished when he finds, at the back of the room, on a table next to a tacky
floral tea-set, hidden underneath a oddly folded cardigan he’d just assumed to be of an
unattractively lumpy knit, there’s a box. It’s long and thin and black, padded as if to house a
wand.

But inside is a quill.

With his head still full of his Father and propaganda and ideology, Draco nearly dismisses it
on sight. Thinking it rather elegant and refreshing, compared to the rest of her stationary, and
any similarity to the once popular Black Quill, —First invented to be used on house-elves to
brand them with their crime and assure life-long social scorn; and then picked up by many
Pureblood families as a form of corporal punishment— purely coincidental.

He casts a dark-magic detection spell on the whole room. And nearly jumps when the quill
lights up like he’s set it aflame.

Draco cuts the spell, and just stares at the box for a long moment. Brow furrowed in thought-

Then his wand rattles in his palm. Buzzing violently like an angry beehive, sending a stinging
feeling prickling up his arm.

Shit- his alarm charms. Someone is coming-

Draco swears and turns on his heel. Only just managing to sprint out, shut and door and
round a bend before Umbridge herself comes strolling up the adjoining isle.

Draco slows to a casual stroll, ignoring how his heart is thudding hard in his chest. Tucking
his wand securely back up into his sleeve.

“Ah, Young Mr. Malfoy! What a pleasant surprise,” Umbridge says sweetly. Draco quickly
pins a cordial smile to his cheeks. His pocket feels heavy with the pilfered jewelry, his heart
thuds in his chest.

“Professor Umbridge,” he greets with a nod, knowing the title will lift her ego and hopefully
give him enough room to stride right past her-

Only, she doesn’t. In fact, she stops right in the middle of the hall in front of him. Blocking
his path. Leaving them both just steps away from the room he’d just broken out of.

“Why don’t you come in, have a cup of tea,” Umbridge gestures, moving to open the door to
her office-

In a moment of frantic panic, as Draco recalls that the cats are still frozen, Draco waves his
wand low at his side, sticking the door firmly shut.

Umbrige tries to open it, but it doesn’t budge.

“That’s odd,” Umbridge hums, brow lowering suspiciously. Wand slipping into her hand-

“Ah, these old castle doors stick sometimes,” Draco says quickly, “allow me.” Draco
courteously steps in front of her, making a small show of giving it a good shove with one
hand, and hiding the other behind his back as he casts a murmured ‘finite incantatem’.

The door opens with a bump, and, just as they had before, the cats begin to meow loudly-
only for them to catch sight of Umbridge as she enters, and quiet down. A few purring and
rubbing up against the sides of their plates.
Draco privately thinks they may be the only beings in existence pleased with the sight of
Dolores Umbridge.

“Come, sit,” Umbridge says, grinning a fitting, feline smile.

“Ah, apologies, I’m, er-” –he scrambles to think of an excuse– “I’m actually heading to fetch
a book to the library at the moment,” Draco says, still at the door, because it’s more plausible
than heading to dinner, what with the castle layout and what hall she found him in, and
because heading from would have left a paper trail.

“Ah, what initiative!” She cheers, actually clapping her hands like a particularly tall toddler.
“You’re such a smart young man. Such promise.”

And for a moment, Draco just stares at her.

...Did she truly expect Draco to fall for that? For such a blatant, saccharine display of
flattery? He pauses. Well. Perhaps a younger, more naive version of him would have. He
would be so blinded by ego and arrogance he would have fallen right into the honey-trap for
just a taste of that sweet nectar.

She waves her wand and calls a stout, very tacky, ditsy floral teapot to her, filling two cups
presumptuously.

Before he can figure out a way to graciously slip away, a shadow slips over his shoulder, and
from behind him, a familiar dry throat is cleared.

“Professor Umbridge,” Severus intones, sounding for all the world as though he’d rather been
hoping he’d be trampled by centaurs on the way here, and was only now coming to accept
that he was still living. “You wished to speak with me… in private?”

Draco feels Severus's eyes scrape over his back, scanning, calculating. And suddenly, Draco
wonders if maybe he can’t stick around after all; because what on earth could Umbridge want
with his godfather?

“Ah, yes I did,” she glances between Draco and Severus in her doorway and frowns. “I’m
sorry, I suppose we’ll have to reschedule,” she hums, seeming genuinely distraught at the
thought. Draco isn’t entirely sure which of them she’s talking to; and neither is Severus,
strangely enough, if the little glance-with-a-slightly-raised-brow he sends is any indication.

—A burst of fondness fills his chest that he still recognizes, at least in it’s most basic forms.
He may have lost a lot, but most of the little glances he’d shared with Severus have been the
same since infancy.—

“I can wait,” Draco says, stepping further into the room, trying to seem indifferent.
Severus clicks his tongue in disapproval, but Umbridge beats him to it.

“I’m sorry dearie,” —Draco fights a repulsed grimace at the ‘endearment’ — “but we’ll be
discussing teaching matters. I’m sure you’d find it dreadfully boring anyway.” She
handwaves with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Severus says, clamping a hand down on his shoulder and guiding him back
toward the door with an irrepentance that makes Draco rather feel like a scruffed kitten. “I’m
sure Mr. Malfoy will have plenty of free-time to speak with you, later.”

Draco’s nose scrunches to fight off a grimace. He really should have known Severus would
be the one to object to his quitting quidditch; his feud with Mcgonagall over the house-cup
had been legendary .

An involuntary shiver rolls up his spine when he meets Severus’ dark, piercing glower over
his shoulder; even just for a glancing moment. And he is reminded that this is not just his
upset godfather, but a senior legilimens with unparalleled skill. And by leaving the team,
Draco had just done something that not just blindsided him, but had also inconvenienced him.

Suddenly, the little cracks in the ceiling are beyond fascinating. A very meditative texture,
perfect for clearing one's mind.

Severus sighs, long and dreary, and squeezes his shoulder gently. “Run along, young mister
Malfoy,” Severus drones.

“Of course, sir,” Draco nods; perhaps over-graciously, if the way Severus arches a brow is
any indication. But then the door is closing in between them, so it's not like it matters.

Draco sighs, slightly put out, but he can't be too peeved. He pats his pocket, heavy with his
slightly jangling treasures, and he allows himself a small smile.
After all, he has a plan to set in motion.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!