Chapter Text
It’s cold—October in Scotland, of course. But Draco doesn’t feel the chill, not with the fire-warmth in his belly.
A thestral nudges it boney head into Draco’s side. Draco bares his big sharp teeth back, but the thestral is undeterred, and a couple of other colts and fillies trot over to Draco’s warmth.
Draco lifts his head for a moment, and then flops back down with a huff of smoke and flames. He’s even more disgruntled by the thestral foals scrambling up his tail in an attempt to get onto his back. The daft little things, his scales are smooth, and their legs were still unsteady as fuck.
The leader of the thestral herd neighs, a dismissal of Draco’s complaints and a firm rebuke to stop moving in one as she tilts one brilliant white eye towards Draco rather meaningfully. She ruffles her bony wings, clawed thumb glinting sharp.
Draco huffs again, wriggling his body out of principle. The baby thestrals are not cute, making their little whuffling noises and stumbling around, no matter what their herd leader seems to think.
But Draco’s not foolish enough to engage the entire herd in battle, despite the fact that they had herded him from his maiden flight of the Forbidden Forest. (He has principles, and he has no appetite for crispy-fried thestrals.) So instead he deigns to lie in place in this glade in the Forbidden Forest.
With each breath, he settles. The burning need to take the dragon form fades, as does the weirdness of the form itself: six limbs, counting his wings; the extra stomach filled with fire.
It’s the second time he’s ever taken this form, and it’s starting to feel more like himself.
No students, no teachers, no fucking Slytherin Head of House, and herd dynamics that Draco needn’t worry about.
The juvenile thestrals are like the junior-years Slytherins, Draco thinks lazily. No fear after the adults give authorisation. Often, no fear before that too.
Draco grumbles with annoyance when an entire cluster of thestrals bump their heads against his, making little chuffing sounds. They nudge at his limbs. What—
Thump thump thump, of heavy footsteps.
“—Must be ‘round here somewhere—” Hagrid’s voice pricks Draco’s ears.
Draco lurches to his feet, and all of a sudden he can smell that deep scent of Harry Potter.
“What did who say it was?” Potter’s voice is tiny compared to Hagrid’s boom. But Draco recognises it perfectly.
“Just a new creature in the Forest—”
Oh, just brilliant.
Grunting, Draco squeezes his eyes shut and forces the reverse transformation. The world shrinks, and he feels tiny...and cold. His robes had been lost in the initial transformation. The baby thestrals cluster around him, trying to protect Draco’s modesty, but it’s not going to work.
Summoning clothes wandless is Blaise’s forte. Draco pulls a face and does his best. No time for pants, he summons a pair of trousers from his Hogwarts wardrobe, and manages to get them on just in time as Potter and Hagrid emerge from the Forest.
“Ah, the thestrals’ glen,” Hagrid says loudly. “I should’ve taken more meat with me!” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and pulls out what meat he does have, and some of the baby thestrals leave their protect-Draco-detail, the traitors.
Just in time for Draco to lock eyes with Potter.
“M-Malfoy?” Potter gapes, eyes drifting down Draco’s chest. And stays there.
Draco rolls his eyes. Is Potter really that surprised about the Sectumsempra scars on his chest? Or the faded Dark Mark on his arm? He summons one of his robes; the buttons down the center front do themselves up, but Potter keeps staring. Draco inwardly shrugs. Maybe Potter’ll learn something about fashion.
“Malfoy! You’re a friend of the thestrals!” Hagrid beams.
Draco scoffs. “Professor Hagrid,” he drawls, “I’m not their friend.”
LICK goes one of the thestrals to Draco’s face. Draco shoves the thestral back. “Behave,” he chides it. He scorgifies himself, and gives Potter and Hagrid a refined nod. “Have a good day, Professor. Potter.” It takes a bit of pushing to leave the thestrals, but Hagrid and Potter don’t stop him.
*
Pansy jumps on him the moment he returns to the Slytherin Dungeons.
“Are you feeling better now?” she says lowly. “If you want, I could leave Garren a little gift.”
Draco’s shoulders tense. “Don’t bother,” he says, “Dear Professor Garren is not worth it.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Shit about being an obedient little boy,” Draco curls his upper lip. Or rather, Garren had called him a disrespectful little upstart, had said you should be grateful the Ministry let a Death Eater like you back here. If anything, Garren is the upstart.
“He should speak with my father, I’m sure they’ll get along, if it weren’t for the fact that they’ll hex each other.”
Pansy makes an expression of distaste. “Where did you go? I thought you were going to go flying, but you weren’t by the Quidditch pitch.”
“I was in the Forbidden Forest,” Draco says truthfully enough. He hasn’t told her about his dragon form because...she would have noticed if he had undergone the procedure for an animagus transformation, which he hadn’t.
However, there is something in Pansy’s tone—why had she looked for him? Draco has been gone for a few hours at most.
Draco surveys the Slytherin Commons. Given that classes have ended for the day, and that it is Friday evening, the Commons is surprisingly quiet. Even the student signing with the merpeople by the glass window is making subdued movements.
“Pans, what happened?”
Pansy grimaces, and informs him of an altercation turned violent. A number of Slytherins had incurred injuries heavy enough to warrant an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing, and a number more have gotten detention.
“Just our luck that Professor Garren was the one who caught them,” she mutters.
Draco shuffles the names around in his mind, and summons some parchment for the updated schedule of the next day. With some of the older students out of action, he’ll have to stretch the guard detail for the younger kids.
He knows that will make them even more exposed. It’s not sustainable, and each of the eighth and seventh years will have to work harder. Already, he’s recruited some of the sixth years into escorting the lower years.
If only they could get some kind of help. But it’s not as though Draco can just precast shield charms and have the kids carry them around. It’s not as though Draco could somehow transfer their injuries to himself, so that only one person would be out of action...
Blaise returns a while later with the second and first years Jamie Ottley and Alyss Singh respectively. Blaise has braided Alyss’s hair again, weaving in green ribbon.
Pansy and Draco, who are currently seated on the Eighth Year throne sofa of black velvet and gold-gilt frame, both turn to them.
“Good evening, Pansy, Draco,” he greets, the corner of his mouth upturned in a cool, amused smile. “The elves are more than happy to provide a dinner service right here.” He nods to the two kids. “They couldn’t say no to them.”
Draco bites back a snort. Blaise’s own smooth words no doubt played a role. Draco will have to be wary about any elves falling in love with him and professing their new allegiance. McGonagall would not be happy.
“Yeah! They were so cool,” Jamie gushes, light brown eyes sparkling. “They even gave me hot chocolate!”
“Before dinner?” Draco drawls. He inwardly grins at Jamie’s wide-eye look. “Just make sure to eat your vegetables.”
“Er—yes sir!”
“They were very nice,” Alyss says quietly.
Draco hums and dismisses them. Jamie runs off to join his friends, while Alyss heads over to the other first years.
Blaise takes a seat on the Eighth Year throne sofa. He presses right up against Draco as he’s wont to do. Pansy grumbles as she’s forced to budge over.
“Finished your charms work?” Blaise asks, summoning his papers.
“Badges,” Draco says suddenly. Ideas are pulling together in his mind, sliding into place. “Badges.”
Pansy laughs. “What? Did you think of an even better catchphrase than Potter Stinks?”
Draco nudges Pansy in the side in retaliation. “Impervious charms are imbued in make-up,” Draco says. “Why can’t we enchant shield charms into badges?”
Pansy glares half-heartedly as she rubs her side. “It’s a good idea. But one for everyone? We may have reduced Slytherin numbers since the war,” she says, voice dry, “but you’re not the fourth year you once were.”
Draco smirks. “Why, I accept your offer to help.”
Pansy rolls her eyes. “Not everyone is a genius at charms like you.”
“Well…”
“Modesty is unbecoming,” Blaise says.
“I’ll get the fifth years to help,” Draco decides. “It’ll be good for their OWLS.” He gets up, and heads over to the clusters of fifth years to recruit minions for his plans.
*
Despite the new meal service in the Slytherin Commons courtesy of the house elves and Blaise’s silver words, Slytherin House still needs to make a showing at dinner, and so Draco is down in the Great Hall with Pansy and Blaise and a variety of the other Slytherins.
Potter is definitely staring. In any other year, it would have been normal. However, Potter hadn’t been watching Draco when school started again.
Draco can feel his peaceful, green-eyes-black-curls-Potter-free days slipping away like the wind. He turns back to his friends, and frowns when he realises they’re looking at him.
“Mn,” Blaise says with that look in his eye. “I’ve heard that Potter’s seen you naked.”
“Finally—” Pansy starts, but Draco slaps a Siliencio on her.
“He has not,” Draco retorts.
Pansy smirks as she pulls off the Silencio. “Protesting too much?”
Draco ignores her, and flags down Felicity Shafiq, seventh year prefect and in charge of going-ons outside Slytherin House. “Felicity, any information on Potter?”
Felicity looks at Pansy, and the two of them exchange looks (traitors).
“In fact, there is,” Felicity says. “I saw Potter in the Rituals section in the Library this evening. Told his friends that it was extracurricular.”
“You’re extracurricular!” Pansy cackles. “Were you really out in the Forbidden Forest?”
“Were you doing a naked beautifying ritual when Potter caught you?” Blaise leers.
“I hate you both,” Draco says, giving them a distasteful look. “I don’t need a ritual, just my beauty sleep which you two keep interrupting!”
Pansy doesn’t stop laughing. “Don’t look now, I think Potter’s—”
To be contrary, Draco looks over to the Gryffindork’s table in time to meet Potter’s bright green eyes across the Great Hall. Potter quickly looks away, as does Draco.
“Shall I assign someone to watch Potter for you?” Felicity says with a straight face.
“No need,” Blaise says, “Draco can watch Potter himself.”
“Look, desserts’ out,” Draco says pointedly.
In the background, under the loud talking of the Great Hall, he can hear, “Ugh, what are they laughing about?” “He wasn’t punished at all for what he did…”
*
Draco automatically looks up when the Slytherin passageway opens. Felicity Shafiq hurries in, mouth set in a frown as she heads over to Draco and his friends.
“Is there a problem?” Draco asks.
“Professor Garren’s coming,” Felicity says, face dark, hand worrying the thick braid over her shoulder. “He’s heading down the stairs as we speak.”
“He didn’t say,” Pansy scowls.
“He’s our Head of House, he’s above scheduling ahead,” Draco drawls.
All of Hogwarts knows Professor Garren as the new, young Head of Slytherin and Hogwarts Potions Professor. Everyone in Slytherin knows that Garren doesn’t care an inch about them.
But McGonagall might have pulled her eyes away from the other houses long enough to notice the low turn-out of Slytherins at dinner, and Garren does care about appearances.
“Everyone, gather your homework! Act natural!” Draco orders. With Blaise’s help, they reset the Slytherin Commons, hiding away all the extra bookshelves and desks and tables and snacks and sofas and charming over the central firepit. A couple of first years pull out a game of Exploding Snap—Draco gives them an approving nod; everyone doing their homework would appear unnatural.
Once everyone is in place, Draco arranges himself on Pansy’s lap, Potions text hovering over him—it’s about making potion variants of spells, but he’s charmed it to the NEWTs textbook.
“You’re such a Pansy-boy,” Blaise says goodnaturedly, just as the Slytherin entrance opens.
Professor Richard Garren steps into Slytherin. He’s not the first Ravenclaw to stand in the Slytherin Commons, but he’s certainly an unwanted one. With brown hair and blue eyes and pale skin and a smile on his face, he’s text-book innocent.
“Good evening, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Garren says with a charming, self-deprecating smile. That smile tightens when he sees Draco.
Draco languidly sits up, face expressionless. Garren wouldn’t dare to argue with Draco in front of so many people.
“Of course not, sir,” Blaise says with an even more charming smile. “How can we help you, sir?”
Garren scans the Slytherin Commons, and turns his gaze back to Draco and his friends. “Call everyone down, I have some announcements and information about Halloween.”
“Yes, sir,” Draco says obediently, tone just shy of mocking.
Inwardly, he’s scoffing. They celebrate Samhain. But Garren’s a muggleborn, and he’s probably at least secular christain, so of course he’ll push All Hallow’s Eve instead.
It takes a few minutes for all the Slytherins to congregate. The upper years take the sofas, arranging them to face Garren, while the lower years sit on the carpet.
“As you know, Halloween is next Saturday,” Garren says. “Headmistress McGonagall has allowed for a Halloween feast, and encourages everyone to dress up. There’s no trick-or-treating, but there will be a prize for the best costume. It will start at four in the evening, and will end by nine. Dinner will be served at the usual time in the Hall. If there are any after parties...I didn’t hear of it,” Garren adds with a wink.
Some of the Slytherins give forced chuckles.
Garren smiles, straightening. “If any students would like to volunteer to help set up the Great Hall, please come to me tomorrow morning. That’s all, have a good evening.” Garren dismisses them, but stands there, watching. The lower years shift, but they don’t leave, glancing towards Draco.
Subtly, Draco nudges Blaise, and with good humour, Blaise goes up to speak with Garren and leads him out of Slytherin.
Draco makes an annoyed sound in his throat. “Our Samhain will still proceed,” he tells the Slytherins, now congregating around him. He outlines the slight modifications with the Halloween event—just because it goes for long doesn’t mean they have to attend for the entire duration. In fact, the other houses would rejoice if the Slytherins leave early.
Pansy writes down the changes and hands out the copies of the written schedule, and Draco notes down names of volunteers who will help with the Great Hall set-up.
With that done, Draco grabs his recruited minions fifth years for his badge project and takes them all to Severus’s office. The door to the office opens easily under Draco’s touch, charmed lights turning on.
Severus’s front office has remained mostly untouched—Draco only uses his late godfather’s books. The potions laboratory, however, has been put to use.
Half of the group is put to work on the potion form of the Shield Charm, and the other half on the making of the physical badges. Draco calculates how to bring it all together, arithmancy calculations and potions theory notes scattered across sheaves of parchment: how long the badges should soak, how the shield activation itself will occur. What they hack together by midnight is hardly perfect, but it’s something.
“Good work everyone,” he tells them as they walk wearily back to Slytherin. “Have a lie in tomorrow.”
“It’s Saturday already,” Vaisey Owler says, pointedly casting a Tempus. “And I have Quidditch practice tomorrow—I mean today.”
Draco waves him off. “Do Slytherin proud,” he says drily.
“Thanks, Draco,” Vaisey Owler says, rolling his eyes.
The fifth years trudge up to their dorms, leaving the Slytherin Commons empty but for an insomniac third year. Draco has a quiet word with them, but all they want is a hot chocolate, which Draco provides. With that, he heads up to his own bed.
Draco’s the only Eighth Year Slytherin who’s forced to come back to Hogwarts—it’s part of his parole terms. When Draco had been escorted to Platform 9 ¾ by his parole Auror, he hadn’t expected any of his friends.
But Pansy and Blaise came, and Draco tries not to think about what kind of miserable fuck he would have been without them. And he doesn’t fault Greg for staying away—he knows Greg is happier working his community service hours than going back to school.
With the three of them, Pansy’s moved into the boys Eighth Year dorm, and Blaise's transfigured the two beds into a giant one. They didn’t sleep together before the War. But Draco’s glad for their company now.
“You’re finally back,” Pansy says with a yawn in voice. She doesn’t lift her head, instead raising a lazy arm. “Hurry up, you’re warm.”
“I’m not a walking warming charm,” Draco says back.
“Hmm, might be the best career you can hope for,” Pansy says languidly.
Draco rolls his eyes, but speeds up his bedtime routine. He slips into bed between Blaise and Pansy. His friends are like those thestrals, he thinks, snuggling up to him for warmth.
He can bet the world that the Dark Lord hadn’t thought of this particular use for him.