but we don't feel like outsiders at all

by justprompts

Summary:

"Nothing's impossible," Weasley smiles, like she's remembering something. "If you've got enough nerve."

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"I'm not going to take shit from a fucking  Hufflepuff,  Smith," Draco hisses, his left arm holding Zacharias Smith against the wall. The Dark Mark on his arm shows, and Smith cringes.  Good.  "You can speak your rubbish if you want to, but try touching me again, and you  will  regret it."

"You - you can't - " Smith tries, but Draco glances behind his shoulder once to see if the corridors are empty, before pushing him up towards the wall. 

"I can," Draco promises, and means it. "I might get sent to Azkaban, I might not. But you," Draco laughs as Smith pales a little, " you  will not come out unscathed, either, I swear."

He lets go with a jerk, and Smith stumbles.

"You love calling me a Death Eater, it seems," Draco says, idly, picking up his torn satchel, that Smith had hexed from the back. "Do you even know what it fucking means? You  ran  when the Battle reached Hogwarts."

Smith glares at him, rubbing his throat, but doesn't speak.

Draco swings his satchel on his shoulder.

"I mean it," he says, lowly, before going. "I learnt quite a few things as a Death Eater," he smiles at Smith, a little mockingly,  "Don’t  try fucking with me again."



(He doesn't notice a red-haired girl standing just around the bend, having heard the whole exchange, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling.)






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"Malfoy?"

Draco looks up, a little startled, because this was not one of the usual places where people picked fights. Draco hadn't ever been happier about the fact that Madam Pince was a downright terror. 

It's...  Weaslette. 

Which is,  a)  surprising, because she's here, apparently, to talk to Draco. She looks fiercely determined, the way she used to when the Carrows used to torture her and ask her about Potter's whereabouts, and she used to refuse. Which, frankly, doesn't bode well, and  b)  it's also right fucking depressing, because if she hexes him, for whatever reason (she has plenty of reason), Draco really can't retaliate. He would be in Azkaban before he knew it. 

"Weasley," Draco says, trying to untense his shoulders, his hand curling around his wand, even though he knows he can't use it. At all. No, literally, the stupid thing doesn't work well for him, and even if it did, he's on Probation. 

"Erm," she blinks, clenching her jaw, and looking away for a second. She looks red and embarrassed, in a way that Draco’s seen her brother be, but never her. "I need to talk to you," she glances at the Fifth Years sitting nearby and watching them curiously, "Alone."

She needs to  talk  to him.  Alone.

Draco can't very well refuse. He's barely allowed to be in school, and only because of  Potter.  It really wouldn't do to anger his little girlfriend.

"Of course," Draco says, swallowing, and gets up, hangs his satchel on his shoulder, and walks out after Weaslette, wondering where she's planning to have this  talk.

Draco really can't imagine why she would do this now, though. 

Potter’s merry band of Gryffindors had ignored him, even though Potter had been passing him strange looks, the entire term. Because if he was waiting for Draco to come and thank him personally, he was going to be waiting a long,  long  time. Draco had written him a letter. Potter had accepted, then. But even now, Potter would look at him like he wanted something. Maybe the war had fucked with his head a little too badly.

Maybe, Weaslette actually just wanted to talk, for some Merlin-forsaken reason.

They enter into an empty Charms classroom, and Weasley locks the door behind her with her wand. 

Which is when Draco realises where they are, suddenly feeling light-headed.

Oh.  This is where Vince had  crucio- ed Weasley for the first time, and Draco hadn't done anything to stop him. He remembers, because it was the first time Carrows had given Detention and asked the Slytherins to administer it, instead of doing it themselves. 

(He remembers it because he'd ran to the loo after it, and puked, remembering Weasley's tear-stained face, again and again, in a loop, as she opened her mouth and spat out blood, before saying  I don't know where Harry is, I swear, I swear I don't - )

Draco glances behind at the door. It's definitely locked. It's not like he can run forever, though, anyway. Better to get it over with, he thinks, as Weasley slides up and sits on a desk. 

(The same one that Draco sat on, when he watched Crabbe say  Crucio!)

Well. She's horribly poetic, it seems. She's eying him with a strange kind of nervousness? Maybe, she's never tortured anyone before. Maybe, she's doing it for therapeutic reasons. Removing toxicity and all. (Draco’s been going to the Mind Healer, too, again, because it's a part of his Probation rules.)

"Sit," Weasley says, abruptly, and points vaguely, towards a desk. "I wanted to ask you something."

Draco releases a breath. "Ask?" he says, in a voice that's passably even.

"Yeah," Weasley says, "It's about what was in the Daily Prophet, the other day."

The Daily Prophet?

The only thing Draco can think of, being in the Daily Prophet, and related to him, is the shortening of his Father's sentence in Azkaban, from a lifetime to a mere ten years, because of Draco’s Mother's more-than-generous (much,  much  more than generous) donations for Reparations at the Ministry, and the homes of those affected, and at Hogwarts.

Entire fucking Second Year comes to mind,  Draco thinks, morosely, if he tries to imagine a connection between his Father and Ginny Weasley.

So, that clears  that  up. He looks at her, with a blank expression, because he's not going to give her the satisfaction of him understanding what she's saying. She looks even more uncomfortable.

"I just wanted to know," Weasley shifts awkwardly, and pulls out her wand. 

Draco braces himself. 

"How'd you know you weren't straight?" she blurts out, instead, squeezing her eyes shut, her hands curled tightly around her wand, as if for moral support.

Draco blinks. Stares. Blinks, again. Stares some more. Choice headings in the Daily Prophet like,   MALFOY HEIR, FOR HIRE?  and  THE DIRTIER SECRETS OF LORD VOLDEMORT'S MANOR  come to mind, along with an impromptu interview with Narcissa Malfoy, who had, despite never being told by Draco about his... preferences,  had seemingly taken it in stride and claimed that  "I only have one Heir and that Heir is Draco"  and  "no, Draco would not be going anywhere"  and a shocking but pride-invoking,  " If  you try suggesting once more that I should disown my own son, Ms. Skeeter, I will remove you from my house."

He realises how far off the mark he had been for what he'd been thinking Weasley would do, and he can't do anything but laugh, a little helplessly.

Weasley's expression darkens.

"Should've known you'd be a dick about this, too," she mutters, and starts stalking out, but Draco grabs her wrist before she can, surprising even himself.

"No, no, I wasn't laughing at you for," he says, before cutting himself off, and shaking his head. "I can help. I'll help."

Weasley looks at him, a little warily.

" I wasn’t being a dick. Right now," Draco adds, at her pointedly raised eyebrow, letting go of her wrist. "I wasn't taking the piss. I swear. I'll help. Merlin knows I owe you all enough."

Weasley smiles, just a bit. He counts it a victory.

They walk out of the classroom, to the Library, in a companionable sort of silence, which is funny, because this is  Weasley  he's walking with. 

"Do you want to - " Draco starts.

"Let's go play Quidditch," Weasley says, firmly, suddenly, and doesn't wait for an answer.

Draco let's himself get pulled along.

"So, Weasley," Draco says, as they cross a group of Hufflepuffs staring at them incredulously. "Potter not doing it for you or something?"

She smacks him on the shoulder, and  wow,  it is  not  like the way Pansy smacks him. Ginny Weasley apparently has freakishly strong arms.

"Potter , by the way,"  Weasley says, smiling slyly. "Is  waiting for something  else. "

Draco blinks, uncomprehendingly.

"...for Granger and Weasley to ask him along?" Draco asks, finally, because he can't think of anything else.

Weasley smacks him on the shoulder again, and Draco winces.






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"...No?"

"No," Draco replies, shortly.

"No," Mcgonagall says, slowly, like it could mean anything other than just refusal. "No, meaning you did not threaten and/or act with hostility towards Professor Lane?"

"No," Draco repeats, exhaling. "I did not. I was just sitting in her class, which again, I did not choose. It's part of my Probation to get a NEWT in Muggle Studies. When Professor Lane entered the room, she looked at me and she - "

"Ran out," Mcgonagall says, and nods, to Draco’s surprise. Mcgonagall doesn't look like she thinks he's lying. Which is more credit for her common sense than trust in him, because any idiot can look at Draco and tell that he can't very well afford to be 'hostile'. Towards anyone. Dumbledore sleeps behind her, in his Portrait, and Draco tries not to look at him. "Professor Lane was understandably...anxious."

Draco can think of a lot of choice words other than  anxious.  'Terrified', comes to mind. 'Seemingly fearing for her life' is another great one. Like Draco was going to spontaneously stand and scream  mudblood!  with a curse or two. He hadn’t even known she  was  a muggleborn until she ran out screaming.

"Rest assured," Mcgonagall says, pursing her lips. "She's refused to let you back in her class."

Draco suddenly feels cold.

"But," he says, looking at her desk, trying to breathe evenly. "If I don't get classes for it, I won't be able to fulfill my Probation Criteria. And that would mean - "

Azkaban. 

"I'm afraid I cannot help," Mcgonagall says, heavily. "I've tried, but Professor Lane is adamant on the issue. I suggest you find help, from a muggleborn classmate - "

Draco tries not to laugh helplessly at the thought. As if any Muggleborn would help  him.

" - or any Professor with a Muggle background," she finishes, peering at him above her glasses with something akin to pity. He hates it, immediately. "I don't have much knowledge on the subject, myself, and since it's mandatory for you to qualify an exam based on it, it would be advisable to seek help. As soon as possible."

And that's that.

Draco walks down from her office (Dumbledore's Office, still) and runs a list in his head, of all those with muggle backgrounds.

There's Granger, of course, but that's also a hard no, because she would never help him, and he has more dignity than to ask a question he knows the answer to. There's Thomas, another Gryffindor, and if Draco remembers right, he was in the Manor Cellar, for some time. That's another  no  on the Muggle Studies, then. Tracey Davis isn't back, and neither is  Millicent Bulstrode, who were possibly the only Half-Bloods in Slytherin - and, and if he can't find anyone -

"Malfoy, you fine?"

Draco blinks and realises that he's almost walked into Weasley. Ginny Weasley, that is. She's a surprisingly good sort, considering all of Draco’s experience with her brothers.

"Yes," Draco answers, clears his throat. "Yeah, yes, I'm fine."

"You're not," she says, flatly. 

"I'm not," he shakes his head, and leans on the wall. She laughs, and leans next to him. He laughs, because this is not where he imagined he would be, ten years back. He's here, though. 

"I need help, Weasley," he says, and she eyes him for a second.

He tells her, all of it. Muggle Studies, Azkaban, the Probation.

She doesn't even pause before suggesting Potter.

"As in -  Harry  Potter?" Draco blinks. Blinks again. Weasley still looks sincere. "Are you - are you insane?" he sputters, when she doesn't react, "You want me to ask Potter? For what? The public humiliation in being turned down? And for something so  obviously  impossible?"

"Nothing's impossible," Ginny smiles, like she's remembering something. "If you've got enough  nerve."






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