Draco Malfoy and the Heart of the Lion

by aTangledSkein

Summary:

As the Golden Trio hunts for Horcruxes, Draco Malfoy is on his own quest. His journey for redemption will turn up truths long hidden about the Black brothers and the Marauders.

[Excerpt]
His wand lit up. Carved into the lid appeared to be an address, “12 Grimmauld Place, London.” With his free hand he opened the lid. Inside, twinkling in the light, lay a golden snitch. He reached out a finger and tentatively stroked the orb. As he did so, he saw a faint flash of light squiggle across the surface. He picked up the snitch and held it closer. The flash of light appeared again, brighter this time, and in its wake, in delicate, cursive script he saw a word appear on the golden surface. “Regulus.”

Notes:

• Inspired by Choices by MesserMoon
• Inspired by All the Young Dudes - Sirius's Perspective by Rollercoasterwords
• Inspired by All the Young Dudes by MsKingBean89

Part 1 of this story (chapters 1-37) is complete. Part 2 is a work in progress. My original goal was to post a chapter every Tuesday, and for a year and a half, I pretty much did. Now I post when I can.

Chapter 1: Fire and Pain

“Run,” shouted Professor Snape.  “Draco, run!”

Draco’s legs were weak beneath him, but he did as he was bid and made toward the gates of Hogwarts.  Once they were out they could disapparate.  The sky was dark and the acrid smoke from the fire consuming Hagrid’s cottage stung.

Bellatrix laughed with glee during their flight across the school grounds.  He believed she was truly deranged.  How could she rejoice at the death of a human being…

Oh Merlin.  Dumbledore was dead.  Draco’s steps faltered.  In an instant he felt a hand close around his arm and jerk him forward.  He whipped his head around to see Snape.  His mentor.  The man that had killed Dumbledore. 

The gate loomed ahead and soon they burst free.  Snape did not release him, but side-alonged him away.  Hogwarts disappeared in a whirl and Draco landed hard, the pain of it running up his legs.  The Manor.  He knew the place by instinct alone.  He sank to his knees.  His stomach caught up with him – both after the shock of the night’s events and after apparition.  He retched.

“Worthless boy,” taunted his aunt.  “Weak – just like your father.”

Draco closed his eyes and tried to control himself with deep breaths, but he couldn’t.  What the hell had he done?  What had Snape done?  His insides heaved.

“Weak,” Bellatrix repeated.

“Enough,” said Snape harshly.  “His mission has been completed.”

“No thanks to him,” replied his aunt.  “Dumbledore would still be alive if not for you.”

Draco felt his body begin to shake.  The most powerful wizard of the age was dead.  He knew that he was supposed to be rejoicing, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t be glad at the death of the man who offered him clemency even after knowing all of his faults. 

He retched again.  Albus Dumbledore was dead.  Who would stop the Dark Lord now that the headmaster wasn’t there to stand in his way? 

Bellatrix bent down to his level.  He didn’t look at her.  She grabbed his chin and forced his face up to hers.

“The blood of the House of Black runs in your veins.  It can be treacherous.  It’s been known to produce weaklings and traitors.  If Snape hadn’t been there to clean up your mess, where would you and your family be now in the Dark Lord’s estimation?”

Draco tried to twist out of her grasp, but she didn’t release him - her nails dug deeper into his skin.  He hastened to close his mind off from her.  He couldn’t let her see that he’d lowered his wand - that he hadn’t been able to do it.  That Dumbledore had offered him mercy…

“Bella,” said the clear voice of his mother.  “Release my son.”

Bellatrix’s eyes darted away from him and back again.

She leaned in closer – her wild hair tickling the side of his face.  “I’ll be watching you boy.  We can’t have another Sirius on our hands,” she whispered before dropping her grasp.

Draco’s gaze fell back to the floor.  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Stand up,” said his mother. 

He tried to rise, but his body did not want to obey.  He was a weakling.  Just as Bellatrix said.  Just as his father had always said. 

“Draco,” said his mother.

He drew a deep breath and rose.  His mother stood before him, elegant as ever, but her face was an unreadable mask.  He’d grown used to seeing her like this and he hated it. 

“I’m taking my son to his room,” his mother announced before taking his arm and guiding him to the wing where his family resided.  The Manor didn’t feel like his home anymore - hadn’t felt like his home since it had become the Dark Lord’s headquarters.  His mother had set up wards and silencing charms in the family wing, but really, what good were those efforts against the Dark Lord?

Narcissa propelled Draco away from the entry vestibule toward a grand staircase.  At the top of the stairs they turned into the East Wing.  For a moment he felt resistance from the wards, and then they were through.  Within moments she and Draco were alone in his bedroom.

“Mother, I – ” Draco began, but his mother cut him off.

“No.  Not a word.”

“But - ”

“No,” she said, with a slight shake of head for emphasis.  She leaned in closer, and whispered right in his ear, “We are not safe.  Don’t speak of this.  Let Snape do the talking.  He made an unbreakable vow to keep you safe.”

“But he - ”

“Enough.”

Draco felt himself begin to tremble again.  He wasn’t safe in his own room with his mother.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had been safe.  He choked back a sob. 

“The Dark Lord will be here soon.  I’m sure Bella will have summoned him by now.  Make yourself presentable Draco.”

Draco looked in his mother’s eyes.  He felt himself begging without words.  He wanted this to end.  He wanted to feel safe – to be saved.  His mother stared back at him with eyes so like his own – a cool grey.  The Black family’s eyes.  She did not speak, just held his gaze for a long moment before walking out of his room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

He sat down on the floor and held his head in his hands.  Dumbledore was gone.  Mere hours ago Dumbledore had offered to save him and his family.  Who would save them now?

His suit felt constricting.  He wrenched it off of his body and with clumsy, numb fingers undid the buttons of his shirt and pealed that off as well.  He looked down at his hands.  How much blood was on them?  Who had been killed or maimed by the Death Eaters he’d gotten into Hogwarts?

His mind kept repeating the word, “weak,” over and over.  He’d always been weak.

Dumbledore had been wrong.  He wasn’t worth saving.

Potter had known this.  Potter had always known he was weak.  Draco ran a hand across the silvery scars that traced across his shoulders, chest, and abdomen.  Potter, after all,  hadn’t tried to save him – no – he’d cast a spell that had sliced Draco open.  All the dittany in the world couldn’t erase the scars the Chosen One had inflicted on him.  And Draco hated him.  Hated that he had never known how to act around Potter so that he would ever look at Draco with anything other than disgust.  And in that bathroom as Draco had cried to Moaning Myrtle, he’d looked up to see Potter’s emerald eyes glaring at him in the mirror.  In an instant, Draco had read the scorn and revulsion in the other boy’s face and he’d lashed out in his pain and humiliation, sending an unforgiveable towards Dumbledore's golden boy.  Moments later, his body had seared with pain and he lay gasping and choking in a puddle of water as blood had swirled around him.  Potter had stared down at him, and it had felt like an eternity of fear and pain before Professor Snape had found him and bound his wounds enough to get him to the hospital. 

Oh yes, Draco hated Harry Potter.  Hated that the boy whose attention he had always sought had looked at him that day as if he were foul and not worthy of a moment’s kindness.  Potter who was brave and kind, and was the predicted savior of the wizarding world had not saved Draco.  He had not even tried.  And Draco hated him for it.

Crack.  Draco looked up to see a house elf dressed in an old pillowcase.

“Mistress Malfoy says Master Draco is to be ready for an audience with the Dark Lord in half an hour.”

Draco looked at the clock on the mantel and did the math.  Midnight.  He was to see the Dark Lord at midnight. 

He nodded at the house elf.  “Tell my mother I’ll be ready.”

With another crack, the house elf was gone.  After a moment, Draco hauled himself to his feet and walked to the ensuite bathroom.  He shed the rest of his clothing and stood in the immaculate shower and tried to imagine the hot water rinsing away his fear and exhaustion.  He wondered if this would be the last time he showered.  If these would be his final moments on earth.  He clamped down on these thoughts and tried to school his mind to be blank.  The Dark Lord would be able to read his fear and doubt if Draco let him.  Bellatrix was a mad woman, but she had at least schooled him well in Occlumency.  The Dark Lord hadn’t wanted Dumbledore or the staff at Hogwarts to find out about Draco’s assigned mission and had ordered Bellatrix to teach him how to protect his mind.  Draco, however, found the skills he’d learned just as useful in his dealings with other Death Eaters and with the Dark Lord himself. 

He turned off the shower, dried himself with a charm, and buttoned himself into a clean black suit.  The Dark Lord and his father favored robes, but Draco liked the ease of movement that a more minimalist suit offered.  He avoided looking at himself in the mirror.  He knew what he’d see – a pale face with dark smudges beneath his eyes.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept.

There was a rap at the door.  His Aunt Bellatrix’s voice drifted through the door.  “Little Draco.  He is here for you.”

He pulled at his sleeves, straightening his jacket.  The knob of the door turned, but didn’t open.  Bellatrix snarled.  The wards on his room at least appeared to keep her out even if she was able to prowl through the family wing.  He allowed himself a small smile at this, before emptying his mind of emotion and walking to the door. 

“Aunt,” he said.

“The Dark Lord is most displeased with you.”

He said nothing, but followed behind her as she led the way to the dining room, where the Dark Lord liked to convene his acolytes.  He felt like his mind was drifting above him and watching his body from afar.  He’d discovered that when he really closed off his mind that he had these out of body sensations.

He came to a stop behind Bellatrix at the foot of the table.  The Dark Lord remained seated at the head.  Standing to his side was Snape.  Seated to his left, were his mother and his father.

Draco’s head snapped up.  His father looked disheveled and was still dressed in a prison uniform.  His shoulders were hunched.  Gone from his face was the aloofness and arrogance that Draco had been taught defined a Malfoy. 

“Father?”

Lucius did not lift his eyes or acknowledge that Draco had spoken except for the slightest tremor in his posture.

“I am disappointed in you Draco,” said the Dark Lord.  “I gave you a task to prove your worth and you failed me.  I had so thought you would want to bring honor to me and your family.”

Draco tried to control a flinch as he felt a heavy weight slide past his leg.  He glanced down to see the Dark Lord’s great snake make its way down the length of the dining room to its master. 

“I honored you with the Dark Mark boy, and you, like your father, have repaid me with failure.”

He concentrated on breathing.  He would not think about the day he had been marked – he could not hazard a memory into that minefield of emotion.

“You had so much promise Draco – with your Malfoy and Black lineage.  So much potential.  Such a pity you have been a waste of my time and esteem.”

The Dark Lord rose then and stepped toward him, followed by his snake.  Draco didn’t meet his eyes but stared resolutely at the floor. 

“Your father clearly failed in his duty in raising you to be a trusted and valuable servant.”

Draco darted a quick glance to his mother.  Her eyes met his for a moment before he heard, “Crucio!”

Pain coursed through Draco’s nerves and he hit the floor.  He opened his mouth but no sound came out.  The pain was overwhelming.  His body lurched and convulsed as currents of electric torture pulsed through him.   Bellatrix had used this curse on him before, for mere moments when he failed to live up to her standards of instruction, but those times paled in comparison to this.  This was like nothing he’d ever known.  He’d take Sectumsempra again and gladly.

He felt the onslaught of pain stop.  He was raw and his body tingled with the memory and after effects of the curse, but it was no longer spasming through his body.

Lord Voldemort took a step closer to him and leered down.  “No more chances for you young Malfoy.  Crucio.”

He convulsed on the floor.  The pain was impossible.  He tried to free his mind from the pain, but he couldn’t.  It was too much – too much to bear.

“Draco!”

His name ripped through his consciousness and the pain stopped.

“You dare to question the Dark Lord?” he heard his aunt say.

Draco rolled to his side and strained to open his eyes.  Through the haze of lingering pain, he saw that his mother had risen, she held her hands outstretched and imploring.

“He is my only son my Lord,” she begged.

“And what a burden he must have been for you,” said the Dark Lord sounding almost bored.

With what little strength and focus remained, Draco sought to establish a mental connection with his mother.  “Don’t,” he pleaded.  “Please.”  He’d done so many horrible things over the past year to protect her, he couldn’t risk her now.

He saw Narcissa give a slight shake of head before saying, “He is my child.”

His mother was ignored.  The Dark Lord instead turned to Snape and said, “He was once a favorite pupil of yours Severus.  How could that be when he was so clearly undeserving.”

“If I may, my Lord, he did not fail you.  Not completely,” said Snape in his rich voice.  “There was the issue of Harry Potter.  He was there, at the astronomy tower.”

Lord Voldemort turned swiftly.  “Harry Potter was there?  Bellatrix, you did not mention this.”

“My Lord, it is true the Potter brat pursued us, hurling insults and ineffective curses, but what does that have to do with Draco failing you?”

Draco closed his eyes and for one moment allowed himself to think of Potter.  He wondered if the Dark Lord had ever reduced him to a sniveling mess.  Draco doubted it.  Potter was all defiance – the very poster boy of Gryffindor foolhardiness.

“When I arrived at the tower,” continued Snape.  “Potter was concealed below the viewing platform.  He was held there by a spell undoubtedly cast by Dumbledore.  He could see and hear everything.  If Draco had killed Dumbledore as ordered, it would have been one school boy’s word against the other.  Your plans, my Lord, are too important to get mired down by Potter’s accusations.  You have plans for the ministry and the Prophet.  It will be much easier to control any fallout when Potter accuses me of Dumbledore’s death.  After all, it is well known that he loathes me.  So much easier to say that the boy is confused and keen to blame a professor he never had a chance of swaying despite all of his fame and celebrity.”

Draco closed his eyes.  He wanted to give in to the pain and despair.  Harry Potter had seen everything.  Potter knew that Dumbledore had offered him mercy and he would have seen that for a moment before the others arrived that Draco had considered it – that he had wanted to believe that he could be redeemed.

“You disobeyed me Severus.  The death of Dumbledore was Draco’s task.”

From the floor, he cracked his eyes open to see Snape bow his head in ascent to the Dark Lord’s words. 

“However, I see the wisdom in your actions.  Potter must not derail my plans. And you,” said the Dark Lord pointing his wand at Draco.  “You must learn to obey without question.”

With a flick of Lord Voldemort’s wand, Draco felt his body hurl across the floor.  His stomach lurched.  He had no control over where he was going.  He couldn’t even raise his arms to shield himself before he was slammed hard into the wall.  His whole body shuddered at the impact before he slid to the floor.  His vision was blurred, but he saw the dark smudge of the snake slide across the room to its master.

“A prisoner is being brought here Draco.  You will be charged with ensuring he does all that we ask of him.  Do not fail me again.”

The wretched man that held his life in his hands exited the room in a swirl of black robes.  Draco shut his eyes, and let his mind drift away from his broken body.

 

 

Chapter 2: Dark Memories

Notes:

* One section of dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” Chapter 24.

Bellatrix gripped him tightly by the arm.  “With your father in Azkahban in disgrace, it falls to you to do your duty and protect the honor of your family.”

Draco shook his head, “I’m not of age.”

“Do you think that matters to the Dark Lord?  Regulus Black took the Mark at sixteen.  He made his family proud that day.”

He winced.  It was all too much.  His father’s imprisonment had devasted his mother.  His family name had meant something in the wizarding world, and now people looked at him with undisguised distain.  He knew his family expected him to follow the path his father had started, but now that the moment was here he was hesitant.  His father had angered the Dark Lord and he’d been left to suffer imprisonment in Azkahban.  And Wormtail, groveling creature that he was, had lost an arm in his devotion to the Dark Lord - what price would Draco be asked to pay?  It was too soon.  He’d hoped his age would buy him time.

“What if I’m not ready?” he asked his aunt.

"The Dark Lord has no use for weaklings and those too inept to serve him.  If you can’t fulfill his call, then you will have no place in this family, Just like Sirius.  He wouldn’t do as his family bid – he refused the Mark.  And what did it get him?  Imprisonment.  Death.  Nothing less than the blood-traitor deserved.”

Bellatrix’s face displayed no affection or sympathy for him as she spoke.  For all that he was her sister’s son, her devotion to Lord Voldemort meant more to her than he ever would.  He had no doubt that she’d watch him die with very little regret.  After all, for the majority of his life she’d been confined in Azkahban.  His mother had been allowed to visit her once a year, but Draco had never gone.  He realized now that he had been shielded from her as much as possible.  He wished she was back in the prison in the middle of the North Sea.

“So my choice is to become a Death Eater or…or be disowned?”  As a young child he had dreamed of being like his father.  Lucius had always seemed so strong, so assured of his place in the world.  He’d rarely seen the Dark Mark on his father’s arm, but he’d known it was there, and it was whispered of in pride.  Lucius had been chosen to bear the mark of the most powerful wizard of the age.  Of course, Draco hadn’t really ever thought Lord Voldemort would come back.  His return had caused nothing but upheaval in Draco’s life.

“No little Draco,” said his aunt, “Turning your back on the Dark Lord is death – for without him you are nothing.  He brings glory to his followers and death to all those that do not stand with him.”

Death.

His aunt’s eyes had a slightly unfocused quality that he’d learned to be cautious of.  He had no doubt that the Dark Lord would dispose of him if he was of no benefit.  In their fourth year Potter had returned with the dead body of Cedric Diggory sobbing that Lord Voldemort had ordered him killed for being a spare.  Diggory, for all that he was a Hufflepuff, was everything that a young man was supposed to be – brave, clever, and strong.  If his life had held little worth to Lord Voldemort, than Draco doubted very much his would be of much value.

Bellatrix’s grip on his arm sharpened.  “You must have known all summer this was coming Draco.  If you don’t rise up to this moment, you will leave your mother alone.  What do you think will become of her?  She doesn’t bear the Mark.  The Dark Lord tolerates her as a Death Eater’s spouse.”

He felt a chill sink through his entire body.  “You’d turn your back on your own sister?”

His aunt shrugged, “I’ve done it before.  Family that is not loyal are not family at all.”

Oh Merlin.  She’d cut Andromeda out of her life – his whole family had.  And Sirius…  He’d heard stories that she had killed him, her own cousin, a person she’d grown up with and known as a child.

“I’ll do it,” he breathed.  He couldn’t risk his place in his family, and he wouldn’t risk his mother.  “I choose to serve the Dark Lord.”

A smile flashed across Bellatrix’s face, but it brought him no joy.  “I am so proud, Draco.  You will bring honor to your family.”

He heard voices in the distance.  He tried to focus on them for a moment, but the effort only reminded him of the pain twining through his body.  He let himself drift again, and the memories swirled around him.

The setting sun caused the hedges to cast long shadows.  The flowers of the Manor’s gardens were in their full summer glory. 

“Remember this is an honor, Draco.  Stand up straight and proud and do not shame this family,” said his aunt. 

Narcissa stepped toward him and adjusted the collar of his suit.

"Mother…”

His mother met his eyes.  He tried to keep his face even.  He didn’t want her to see that he was nervous.  He willed himself to feel proud – proud of fulfilling his father’s wish and becoming the person he’d been born and bred to be, but by going through with this, his childhood would be over.  If he didn’t join Lord Voldemort, however, he risked being disowned and leaving his mother to fend for herself.  It wasn’t much of a choice – not really. 

A door leading from the manor opened.  Greg Goyle’s father stepped out and walked toward them, as did the Carrow siblings.  It seemed a small audience of Death Eaters would be in attendance.

"Since your father could not be here,” said his aunt, “I want you to know how proud the family is of you – the Malfoys, Blacks, and Lestranges.”

Draco swallowed hard.  For all their pureblood nobility, the Lestranges were not a family he was wildly pleased to be related to.  After the Lestrange brother’s had been broken out of Azkahban a year ago, he’d read in the Prophet that they, along with his aunt, had tortured Neville Longbottom’s parents until they went insane from the pain. 

“I remember the day your cousin took the Mark,” said Goyle, with a glance at Narcissa  “Regulus was the same age as Draco.  What an honor Narcissa, to have raised Draco to follow in such noble footsteps.”

Any reply his mother was expected to give was cut off by the appearance of Wormtail and the Dark Lord.  The serpentine man led the way to the group in the garden and Wormtail walked behind, his silver arm catching the light in strange, unnatural ways.

“Draco Malfoy – my faithful servant Bellatrix tells me that you wish to serve my cause and that you are worthy to bear the Dark Mark.”

Narcissa’s hand found his at his side, and she clasped it tightly for a moment.

“Yes, my Lord,” he said looking into the alarmingly red eyes of the Dark Lord.

“You may kneel when ready.”

Bellatrix leaned over and unbuttoned the cuff of his left arm and rolled back the sleeve to expose his virgin skin.  Draco kneeled on the grass, never taking his eyes off of Lord Voldemort.  He tried again to feel proud – this was an event he had long been groomed for.  Despite his efforts, he was tense with nerves.

“Swear your allegiance,” commanded Lord Voldemort in his shrill voice.

Unbidden, the words of the oath expected of him filled his mind.  “I swear that I will now and forever in the future be faithful to his Lordship.  I shall never cause him harm and will serve him faithfully and vanquish those who stand against him.”

“Those that keep true to this oath will be rewarded with our favor.  Oath breakers shall be repaid with our judgment and our dreadful wrath.  Give me your arm Draco.”

He held up his left arm.  He felt a slight breeze rustle his hair.  Lord Voldemort leaned forward and grasped his wrist with sharp nails, turning his arm until the underside of his forearm was exposed.  The tip of the Dark Lord’s wand touched his skin.  Pain seared across his inner arm and then shot through his entire body.  Before his eyes black lines coiled and twisted on his flesh.  As the lines spread it felt like the point of a sharp knife was being traced across him.  He wanted to bow down with the pain, but he knew he couldn’t.  The lines continued to spread until at last, a skull with a coiled snake was emblazoned on his skin.  One last surge of pain spread through his body, and then the Dark Lord raised his wand. 

“You are now one of my legion, Draco.”

Draco drew a shaky breath before saying, “Yes, my Lord.”

He felt a moment of disappointment.  He’d thought, once, that this event would focus on honor and destiny, but instead it had focused on pain.

“You will show me you are worthy and, that unlike your father, you can follow orders.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco said again. He stared at the Mark on his arm before lightly brushing his fingertips over it.  His skin stung from the contact and it felt hot to the touch.

“You will return to Hogwarts.  You will attend to your classes and all of your normal school activities to avoid suspicion.  No one is to see this Mark,” said Lord Voldemort. 

Draco was relieved.  Returning to Hogwarts would be a return to his normal life.  Surely the Dark Lord would not ask too much of him.

“And there, Draco, you are to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

His body stiffened.  “What?”

Narcissa took a step toward him, “My Lord, he is a child.”

Lord Voldemort fixed his read eyes on his mother.  “He is a Death Eater.  Surely you aren’t questioning my judgment in the matter, Narcissa?”

The fresh Mark still burned.  What had he done?  What had he promised?  If he failed Lord Voldemort, what would be the consequences?  He followed the Dark Lord’s gaze to his mother’s face.  If he disobeyed his orders, what price would she bear?

“My Lord…” started Narcissa.

“I’ll do it,” said Draco, drawing Lord Voldemort’s attention back to him.  “I’ll kill Dumbledore.”

The voices called to him, buzzing in his ear.  They grated, and caused the pain in his head to flare up.  He retreated away from them.  He was adrift.

He was grasping the lavatory sink. “I can’t do it,” he choked.

His shoulders were hunched and he felt a surge of panic flood his body.  He was a failure.  He was weak.  He’s attempts to complete his mission had failed, and he wasn’t making any progress in fixing the vanishing cabinet.  The ghost of a teenage student hovered by him, but she brought him no real comfort.  If he couldn’t do the task Lord Voldemort had assigned, the consequence may very well be that he pay with his life – or his mother’s life.  But what if he was successful?  Oh Merlin, that didn’t bear thinking about.  Could he do it?  Could he take a life?  He’d heard that if you committed murder your soul would be ripped past repair.  He was afraid that wasn’t something he could bear living with.

“No one can help me,” he said, as hot tears ran messily down my face. “I can’t do it…I can’t…It won’t work… and unless I do it soon…he says he’ll kill me…”

His whole body shuddered.  He couldn’t breathe – he was overwhelmed by his failure and his fear.

He heard a noise, and his head jerked up instantly.  Two green eyes reflected back at him in the mirror.  He felt relief for a split second and then he saw the expression of the eyes change.  The eyes looked at him with anger and with loathing.  It was no more than Draco knew he deserved, and he hated this knowledge.

Drawing his wand, he swung around to face the green-eyed Gryffindor.

“Draco.”

The voices again.

“It is time to wake up Draco.”

The voices niggled at him, pulling him to consciousness.  He tried to swim against the tide and drown himself in slumber.

“Draco,” said a clear voice calling him awake.

Oh Merlin the pain.  He struggled to open his eyes.  Everything was hazy.  He closed them again.

“You’re safe my son,” he heard his mother’s voice intone, before a heard a rush of whispered words he couldn’t catch.  The pain started to ebb from his body.  The throbbing in the back of head eased. 

“He’ll never be safe,” he heard his father say.

The whispered words stopped.

“And whose fault is that?  Who chose this life for our family?” he heard his mother snap.

“Enough,” said Lucius. “Keep your mind on him.  Heal him properly.”

The incantation began again and Draco felt his body relax as the last of the excruciating pain dissolved.  He shifted slightly.  He was still sore, but it was bearable.  He opened his eyes.

Blue and silver bedcurtains framed the silhouettes of his parents.  His mother stood over him, her wand raised from healing him.  She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed and clutched one of his hands.  He squeezed her fingers.  “Mother.”

“Draco,” she said with a brief, small smile.  She reached out her graceful fingers to stroke his cheek.

“Don’t do that again,” he said.  “Don’t try and protect me.”

“We should have protected you far better than we have,” said his mother.

“Narcissa – don’t.  We can’t say these things,” whispered Lucius.  “It isn’t safe.”

“Nothing is safe anymore,” his mother replied.

In his heart he agreed with his mother.  His world and his position in it had crumbled at the end of his fifth year when his father had been imprisoned.  Until that point, he’d acted like a princeling, certain of his superiority.  In the last year, he’d known fear – real fear – not just the stress and worry about not performing well in his classes or of embarrassing himself on the Quidditch field.  He’d no longer taken pleasure in bullying those younger or weaker then himself.  He’d had a taste of what it felt like from his aunt, other Death Eaters, and, of course, from Lord Voldemort himself.  The Dark Lord was quite adept at making Draco understand exactly how inept and useless he was considered.  Draco had no doubt of his worthlessness after being ordered to kill Dumbledore or be killed along with his family.  Being inflicted with the Crucio curse had further cemented his understanding of where he stood in Lord Voldemort’s view.

He pushed these thoughts away.  He was a Slytherin to the bone, and he could be resourceful and calculating.  He’d become used to compartmentalizing his feelings and locking those he didn’t want to deal with away in a locked box in his mind.  The problem was when the lock on this imaginative box failed, like it did the day Potter found him in the girl’s bathroom with Moaning Myrtle, it failed spectacularly.

“Your first shift with the prisoner starts at dawn Draco,” said his father.  The man who had always personified strength and privilege now didn’t even meet his son’s eyes when delivering this news.

“That is mere hours away Lucius.  He needs rest,” said his mother.

“It is the Dark Lord’s order,” said Lucius. 

No one said anything to this.  There was no point.  Draco might be beyond tired, but if he didn’t perform the task he’d been set, he knew he’d suffer torture – or worse – watch as his mother was put through the agony of the Crucio curse.

Narcissa turned to Draco.  She drew her want over the length of his body, murmuring the words to another healing spell. 

“Sleep now Draco.  You will need your strength,” she said.

His mother had never been overly demonstrative.  It was not her nature.  She also did not sugarcoat facts.  She knew that Draco would have to follow the Dark Lord’s order, so she wasted no more breath arguing or bemoaning something that was unchangeable.

“The prisoner will be in the dungeons Draco.  He has been instructed to perform a task for his Lordship.  You are to see that he does this.”

The dungeons were not a place in the Manor where Draco had ever spent much time.  They were a cold and dark historical relic – he’d never dreamed that they would be used again for the purpose for which they had originally been built. 

“Who is the prisoner?” Draco asked.

“Garrick Ollivander.”

Chapter 3: The Wandmaker

Notes:

*Descriptions of the properties of wand elements are from pieces originally published on Pottermore on August 10, 2015.

Draco suppressed a shiver. The dungeon, even in summer, was chill. The subterranean space was also damp. He’d woken not long ago to his mother’s light touch on his shoulder. As soon as he’d opened his eyes, she pressed an Awakening Potion into his hands. He’d tossed it back. He was still exhausted from the stress of yesterday. His body ached from the pain it had endured as well as from lack of sleep and – he suspected - from guilt and grief. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep today. His next mistake could be his last.

He walked through the cavernous space, stopping before a cell where Selwyn was standing, undoubtedly waiting for him.

The older Death Eater gave Draco a curt look, and he almost felt the man’s gaze rake over his white-blond hair and black clad form. He knew what he must look like – young, pale, and quite frankly, overwhelmed.

“I’m surprised the Dark Lord is trusting you with this task young Malfoy. But then again, it is hard to lose a prisoner locked in a cell with bars and magic.”

Draco willed himself to focus just on this man and this moment, letting all other thoughts and doubts fall away. He met Selwyn’s gaze and held it. He couldn’t show weakness, not to another Death Eater.

“So I’m to keep watch on the prisoner?” he asked.

The other man laughed once. The sound rang hollow in the dungeon. “Yes, and you are to…encourage the prisoner to complete his work. Assist him in any way that he tells you.”

“Wait – I’m to take orders from the prisoner?” asked Draco. He kept calling the huddled mass that he guessed was Ollivander ‘the prisoner’ as if he thought of him as human – as the man that had helped him select a wand when he was an eleven year old boy, he didn’t think he’d be able to remain calm.

“Within reason. He’s supposed to be making a wand for Wormtail. He’s been at it a long time. Lord Voldemort also has questions for him about wandlore and the old man is being less than forthcoming. The Dark Lord is losing patience. If he doesn’t deliver a wand soon or break his silence, then it’ll be over for him.” Selwyn spared a glance at the captive. “It would be a shame too. He made my wand. He’s a true craftsman.”

“So what am I to do?”

“Fetch supplies that he needs. Talk to him. Reveal nothing. If you do need to fetch something for him, get one of the Carrows to watch him in your place. Your shift ends at dusk.”

Selwyn turned and made his way out of the dungeon leaving Draco alone in the space.

There was a chair against the wall, he guessed it was for the guards, but he his body was coursing with too much nervous energy to sit. The potion he’d taken was at least working.

He stepped closer to the cell. The prisoner did not move. Draco couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. He also couldn’t decide if he should wake the man up or let him sleep. If he had a task to do, he should get it well and over with, but then again, if the man was as exhausted as Draco was, he’d probably do better with sleep. It had been almost a year since the wandmaker had gone missing. Where had he been all that time? What had they done to him?

Time crawled by and Draco remained undecisive. He did know, however, that he didn’t like it here. The Slytherin common room and dormitories were in the old dungeons of Hogwarts, but they didn’t feel miserable like this place for all that it was located in his own home. The Slytherin rooms were luxuriously decorated and lit by the green glow of light filtering through the lake. It was calming – the light rippling and shifting. The torches here provided the most rudimentary of light, and this light did not reach the corners of the cells. The space was also spartan, devoid of anything that would offer comfort. It looked as if the prisoner had a bed of straw with the thinnest of blankets. A pot in the back corner served as the lavatory. Merlin it was miserable.

The mass under the blanket shifted, then shifted again. Draco heard a groan before the blanket fell away and he saw a bedraggled looking Ollivander sitting on his mound of straw. Draco stood motionless. He didn’t know what to say.

“Hawthorn wood, with a unicorn hair core,” said a halting voice that caught and broke more than once.

He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet to try and relieve some of his tension.

“I remember every wand that I have ever sold Draco Malfoy.”

“Yes,” he said, clutching for his wand in the holster he wore on his right forearm.

“Curious, very curious,” said the old man.

“What?” asked Draco, feeling stupid as he had apparently been reduced to one word responses.

“Your wand was a paradox. The properties of the wood and the core were seemingly conflicted.” Ollivander slumped against the wall of the cell. “So you are to be my jailer now.”

“I am to make sure you finish making a wand for Wormtail.”

The old man huffed out a sound that Draco couldn’t properly consider a laugh.

“And watch me the whole time,” said the prisonner.

The man peered through the cell bars at Draco in a way that he found unsettling. This was, after all, the man who had revolutionized British wand making and crafted the item that Draco found most precious in all the world.

“I can’t let you go.”

“Let me guess – if I leave on your watch, your life is forfeit?”

Draco held silent. He couldn’t let this man know the truth – that he was but a pawn of no value. He hated admitting this fact to himself, and there was no way by word or movement he would betray it to anyone.

“Your silence speaks volumes, Mr. Malfoy.”

“You’ve been ordered to complete a task by the Dark Lord,” said Draco. “Best get on with it. What is it that you need?”

“I’ve tried to explain to your…predecessors…how complex of a situation this is. I can’t just make a wand for Pettigrew – or at least a wand that will work well - the wand chooses the wizard. If you all had but let me back into my shop with the man, he would have had a new wand long before now.”

“But this is Wormtail. Surely he doesn’t need a top notch wand.”

The wandmaker made a face that Draco guessed was supposed to be a smile.

“I have made Pettigrew – Wormtail – five wands already. They were all deemed inadequate. I’ve tried various core materials with woods that seemed most likely to suit the man.”

Curious, Draco asked, “What have you tried?”

“Based on his history and character, I’ve tried elm, redwood, and yew. I was especially hopeful with the yew wands as that wood is said to endow its owner with the power of life and death. I understand through what I’ve overheard while…I’ve been held, that it was Pettigrew that revealed the location of the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Potter said he also slew the Hogwarts champion Cedric Diggory.”

“Even more evidence of why yew was a promising fit, but no, it was not to be,” said Ollivander. He paused for a moment, “Of course I have not tried alder, apple, black walnut, fir, or pear – as based on his character, the properties in these woods are most inappropriate.”

He felt as if he was in a lecture at school. The old man was clearly knowledgeable in his field. Draco latched on to one of the woods he’d named and asked, “What’s wrong with pear?”

“Pear, you understand, performs best in the hands of the generous, wise, and warm-hearted. I believe it is safe to state that Pettigrew cannot be considered to have any of these attributes. Further, I cannot think of a single example where a pear wand has been wielded by a Dark wizard.”

“So you’ve had no success?” asked Draco. It seemed to explain why the man was being kept in such squalid conditions and why the Dark Lord was not pleased with him.

“I believe I have at least narrowed down the core. Dragon heart string, as these wands are the easiest to turn to the Dark Arts.”

“So try it with another wood.”

The man closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “I need to think on this some more.”

“You are running out of time.”

The wandmaker did not respond. It was as if Draco hadn’t even spoken. Time dragged on, and by noon he dropped down into the chair outside the cell. He realized he was starving. He’d not had breakfast. Then again, neither had Ollivander. Was he supposed to ensure that the prisoner was fed?

He stood and stretched before summoning a house elf. The smaller being bowed low.

“Bring food and tea for two, Mip.”

The house elf returned bearing a tray with plates of sandwiches and hot tea. Draco dismissed her, poured the tea, and then slid a plate and teacup through to the prisoner. The man did not move.

“Food is here,” he called, trying to get the man’s attention.

Nothing.

He uttered a curse under his breath before taking hold of his wand and casting a warming charm over the cup of tea. He sat in the chair and ate his own sandwich, careful not to get crumbs anywhere. Even in a dungeon it would not do to have poor table manners.

Draco lost track of time. He wished he at least had a book, but then if he were caught reading instead of observing the prisoner he could guess that his punishment would be severe if not deadly.

At last the man moved and pulled the dishware towards him. He raised the cup to his lips.

“Chestnut,” he said.

Draco felt his eyebrow arch. “Chestnut?”

“I think the best wand wood for Pettigrew will be chestnut. When paired with dragon heartstring its best match are those who are less than scrupulous.” The old man took another sip of his tea before saying, “The trees were brought here by the Romans and are practically native now in southern England. Should be easy to find here.”

“Here?”

“Wiltshire. I know where I am young Mr. Malfoy. They apparated me just outside your gate and I had a clear view of your manor before being led down to these…accommodations. You will collect some wood for me. A live cutting is preferable.” Ollivander set down his teacup. “What day is it?

“Why is that important?”

“What day is it?” repeated the wandmaker.

“The first of July.”

“We will be a bit early, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Draco, feeling himself become exasperated with the old man. The potion keeping him awake was wearing off, and he could feel the fatigue and stress of the last forty-eight hours leaching through his bones.

“The new moon. It will be on July 4th. The new moon symbolizes new beginnings – it is the most propitious time to harvest wood for wands. But I understand I am on a deadline that expired ages ago, so the wood will have to be yielded now.”

“Fine. Chestnut wood,” said Draco.

He summoned a house elf and asked that one of the Carrows be fetched. He didn’t care which one. When the surly looking male Carrow arrived. Draco left him watching the wandmaker and walked up out of the dungeon. The chill that had clung to the air vanished once he climbed out from the subterranean nightmare. He made a detour through the kitchen to grab a knife and made his way out to the grounds. The afternoon sun warmed his skin.

He’d grown up at Malfoy Manor. The house, with all of its relics and artifacts – some quite deadly – wasn’t the best place for a young boy to run wild, so he’d spend a fair bit of time out of doors. His mother had taught him to fly here. He’d been very small then, and he had a broom for young children that was spelled to only rise a few feet off the ground – a training broom really. Draco had loved it. Loved the freedom of moving through the air. His father had watched him soar, but he’d been a prefect, not a Quidditch player, so he’d left the lessons to Narcissa. Draco’s mother had been a seeker during her time at Hogwarts, and he’d loved to watch her fly – her beautiful hair whipping behind her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her fly…

At the end of the garden, he spotted the ancient chestnut tree he’d climbed and lain under throughout his childhood and summer holidays. Branches covered with deeply furrowed bark spread out from the tree’s trunk to create a canopy. He clutched the knife handle in his hand. He hated to think that this beautiful tree would have to sacrifice anything to benefit Wormtail. But wasn’t that the way of it? Anything beautiful in his life had been corrupted once the Dark Lord had returned. Why should this be any different?

Notes:

Thank you for reading! The last two days have been a flurry of writing. Looking forward to posting more chapters in future.

Chapter 4: Hawthorn and Chestnut

Notes:

*Descriptions of the properties of wand elements are from pieces originally published on Pottermore on August 10, 2015.

It took the wandmaker three days to finish the wand after Draco had brought back some lengths of chestnut.  It didn’t take long for Draco to realize that the conditions of the dungeon were no place for a master craftsman to undertake the delicate work of wand-making.  The light for one, was appalling.  He made arrangements to bring the man to the a room on the ground floor to complete this work.  He also ordered the house elves to ensure that proper food was provided to the prisoner.  Wherever the older man had been kept prior to being brought to the Manor could not have been good, as he looked thin and entirely too unkempt.  Draco couldn’t stand to see the man who had made his wand and helped him select it all those years ago reduced to the ruin that Lord Voldemort had made him.

It was on the second day that Ollivander worked on Wormtail’s wand that Draco read about Dumbledore’s funeral being held the evening before.  He heard the Carrows talking in satisfied tones about how they’d have loved to have seen “the great beast Hagrid” with tears running down his face as he lugged the former headmaster to his final resting place. 

Draco didn’t eat anything that day.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep food down if he tried.  He thought of all of the students, faculty, and staff of Hogwarts collected together in their grief and sadness.  He missed them – his friends and peers.  But he also knew that he had caused their pain.  If Draco had never cornered Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower and disarmed him, he’d be alive today.  While Draco had lowered his wand, he’d still been the one to render the headmaster helpless, allowing Snape the opportunity to…take his life.

“My competitor, the wandmaker Gregorovitch, believes that hawthorn is full of paradoxes as the leaves and blossoms have healing powers while the cut branches smell of death.”

“What?” asked Draco feeling rather stupid.  Ollivander had drawn him back to the present.  They were in a small drawing room on the ground floor with floor to ceiling windows that infused the space with natural light.  Draco had spelled the room heavily to ensure the wandmaker could not escape - not that there would be much point.  Even if the man got out of the room, the house and grounds, like Hogwarts, were warded so that people could not apparate. 

“Hawthorn.  Wands made with the wood are intriguing and complex.  They are most at home with wizards with a conflicted nature or passing through a period of turmoil.  They are well suited to healing but are also adept at curses. ”

Draco clutched at his wand again.

“Hawthorn is not easy to master, and should only be placed in the hands of wizards with proven talent.  When mishandled, their spells can backfire.”  The captive did not look up from his task of carefully threading a length of dragon heart into a piece of chestnut wood.  “Yours, Mr. Malfoy, is one of the most curious wands I have ever sold.  The wood and the core seem out of balance.  For while hawthorn can backfire, unicorn hair produces the most reliable magic.”

The wandmaker paused for a moment and continued to work on the wand before him.  He had it in a vice, holding the wand wood steady while he used wandless magic to carefully hollow out a channel and insert the core.

“Wands with a unicorn core are the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts and are the most faithful of all wands, remaining attached very strongly to their first owner.  If mishandled, however, the core may die.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Wands select the wizard Mr. Malfoy.  In your case, I think the wand’s characteristics very much match the wizard.”

“You think I’m conflicted?”

The older man didn’t respond to this question, remaining focused on the wand he was crafting.

Mishandled.  A unicorn hair wand core could die if mishandled.  Draco wanted to laugh.  Mishandled was an understatement for how he was feeling.  Maybe he and his wand wouldn’t survive this war, despite everything he had done to protect himself and his family.

“Do you remember the day the wand chose you?” asked the wandmaker.

Of course Draco remembered.  He’d stood in the dusty shop surrounded by boxes and boxes of wands.  He’d tried several until at last, there had been a surge of magic and power when he’d held this wand in his hand.  He remembered the excitement he’d felt.  He remembered the look of pride on his mother’s face.

“You father favored an elm wand with a dragon heartstring core, like his own.  Elm wands are favored by pure-blood wizards and dragon heartstring wands produce the most power.  To oblige him, I tried a wand made of these same materials first, and then wands with elm and others with dragon heartstring.”

Draco didn’t remember this part, not completely.  He thought he remembered his father trying to guide the process until his mother had told Lucius that the wand would choose Draco and that it wasn’t for Lucius to choose the wand.  His father had been silent after that.

“Those, wands, to your father’s surprise, and if I’m honest, to my own, did not suit you.  Rather you were destined for this wand full of paradoxes – symbolizing life and death, light and dark, and inconsistency and reliability.  It is a difficult wand to understand and master.”

“I know what you are doing.  It doesn’t matter how much I sympathize with you.  I can’t let you go,” said Draco.  “If you do what you are asked, you are important enough that you will survive.”

The older man turned away from the chestnut wand and looked at Draco for the first time.  “I know that Mr. Malfoy.  I know you can’t let me go.  I understand.  I understand the position you have been put in – I understand your turmoil.”

Draco couldn’t keep looking the man in the eye.  He dropped his gaze. 

He felt his heart race.  He struggled to get control over himself.  This was the second time in a few days that a great wizard had offered him understanding.  It was too much.

“This is a position,” continued the wandmaker, “That no child should be put in.”

He raised his eyes back to the man, “I’m not a child.  I’m of age.”

“Only just I’d wager,” the other man replied.  He turned away from Draco and started back in on the wand.  There were only a couple of inches of heartstring left to feed into the wand.

“I’m the same age practically as Harry Potter,” said Draco, unable to help himself.  “The whole wizarding world expects him to be the chosen one.”

“Both of you are expected to do terrible and great things.  That doesn’t make it right or fair.”

He murmured a final incantation and with his hands outstretched around the wand.  The last of the core disappeared inside.  The wizard bowed over his project.

“That is enough for today.  I’m not in practice anymore and I am more easily tired.  I will finish it tomorrow and we can see if it takes to Pettigrew.”

“Why are you helping Pettigrew – helping Lord Voldemort?”

Ollivander’s head remained bowed.  “Like you, I am afraid of what comes after.  I’m not yet ready to cross beyond the Veil.”

That evening, before Draco was relieved from guard duty, he had the house elves rummage in the attics to find a change of clothes for the wandmaker.  And, when no one was looking, he placed a cushioning charm on the pile of hay that served as the prisoner’s bed and charmed his thin blanket to be warmer.  Draco told himself he was doing these things so that the craftsman would be better able to complete his task, but deep down, he knew that this was not his only motivation to extending some small courtesies to the man.

On the third day, Draco was back in the drawing room watching over Ollivander, who was bending over the wand again, hands splayed in the air around above it.  The man stopped and stretched for a moment.

“Why aren’t you using a wand to direct your magic?” Draco asked.

“Wizards of this Isle didn’t always use wands Mr. Malfoy.  The first wands were crafted by wizards who did not possess them, they had to use wandless magic to fashion a wand.  A wand  focuses and channels our magic, but it is not the source of our magic.  My family has been making wands since 382 BC, and while we have refined the craft with each generation, we have always used wandless magic to craft our wands.”

When Draco was with Ollivander in this room, he could almost forget the reasons they were here.  There were moments when he felt like a student learning from a master.

The wandmaker leaned back toward the wand, continuing his spells binding the core and the wand together.  After several more minutes, the old man sat back in his chair.

“It is done.  I fear that the characteristics of the wood and the man together will produce a brittle wand, but it is done.  You had best summon Pettigrew.”

Merlin.  The rodent-faced man was always with Lord Voldemort.  Draco doubted very much that he could get out of this without seeing the Dark Lord.  Still, he didn’t have to be the one to do the summoning.  The Carrows were always around, it was as if they had bloody well moved into his home.  He sighed, then called upon a house elf.

“Mip, have one the Carrows send word to Wormtail – er – Pettigrew, that a wand is ready for him to test.”  The elf bowed low before disapparating.  Draco turned to look at the wand maker.  He should probably get the man back down below to the dungeon while they waited, but he didn’t want to take the man back down into that dismal hole.  He didn’t particularly want to wait there either.  This room, filled with natural light and comfortable furniture, was far more inviting. 

Ollivander was still sitting in a chair, his head leaned back and his eyes closed.  Even if Pettigrew came immediately, it would take at least ten minutes of concerted walking from beyond the gate up the drive to the Manor.  He would let the older man rest here until they arrived.  He summoned Mip again, and asked that he be informed the second Pettigrew or Lord Voldemort entered the grounds.

He walked over to where the wand rested, still in the vice.  It was a simple wand, looking very much like the natural, twisting branch of the tree it was made from – nothing like the highly finished and adorned wands of his parents, nor even as polished looking as his own simple wand.

The wandmaker’s eyes opened.  “It is not perhaps, my finest looking effort, but well…it is for Pettigrew.  And under the circumstances, it is hard to feel like putting much artistic creativity into the work.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.  The man was bold to make that statement in front of him, a Death Eater.  He looked back at the wand. 

“Sir, may I?” asked Draco, startling himself that he had used an honorific to address the wand maker.  He realized that he respected this man, and try as he might to think of him as a prisoner and a lesser being, he could not.  This was a skilled wizard who didn’t deserve the conditions that he was now in. 

With a wave of his hand toward the wand, Ollivander signaled his consent, and Draco carefully loosened the vice and took hold of the wand.  The wand was marginally shorter than his own.  He examined it closely.  It weighed more now than the branch portion Draco had harvested.  The wand had heft.  He supposed the core infused the wood not only with the ability to be a conduit for magic, but with weight as well.  He gave the wand a practiced flick toward a book lying on an end table.

“Accio!” he called.  

With an ungraceful lurch the book jolted off the table, hovered for a moment, and then landed on the floor with a thud.

“The wand clearly does not choose you, Mr. Malfoy.  Nor have you exerted mastery over it by taking it from another wizard.”

“What do you mean exerting mastery over - ,” but Draco was interrupted by a loud crack.  Mip stood before him.

“Mr. Pettigrew and his Lordship have arrived Master Draco.”

Bugger it all.

“We must get you back down below.  It will be better for you if you are seen to be in the dungeon rather than here,” said Draco.  He grabbed the new wand and motioned the older man toward the door.  It was a tense few minutes making their way down to the dungeons.  Draco believed he had a credible reason for having the wandmaker craft the wand in a room filled with natural light, but he doubted he could keep the man in the space now that his task was done without serious repercussions for them both.

The dankness of the place hit him as soon as he pushed open the heavy door at the bottom of the stone staircase leading to the lower level.  He urged the old man back into the cell and locked the door with his wand.  The lock was spelled to only open and close for specific wands, so he doubted the man could use his wandless magic to open the door.

He walked to stand by the wall across from the cell and resisted the urge to pace.  He felt his heart hammering in his chest.  The last time he’d seen the Dark Lord, he’d been punished for his failure.  Draco now had a wand for Wormtail to try, but he didn’t feel proud.  He still felt like a failure. 

He heard the heavy door open.  Selwyn emerged into the gloom of the dungeons. 

“Draco – you are wanted in the drawing room.”

He nodded and glanced quickly at Ollivander before ascending back up the stairs.  He tried to walk at normal speed across the grand hallways, not wanting to appear like he was stalling.  But he wanted to stall.  He wanted to turn and run.  He loathed this man who threatened his mother’s life.  He hated that the man even threatened his worthless father’s life. 

He entered the room.  It was no longer the elegant place it had been…before.  Lord Voldemort stood before the fire staring into the flames and Wormtail stood away from him, in the shadows of the room.

“My Lord,” said Draco, bowing his head.

The man turned to him and fixed his red eyes on Draco.  Draco straightened his spine.  He was a Malfoy.  He couldn’t appear weak.

“The wand was completed?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he answered holding out the chestnut wand.

Wormtail took a couple of steps toward him and then stopped.

“Always so fearful,” sneered the serpentine man.  “Test the wand.  You are useless to me now without one.”

The other man did as he was told and crossed the rest of the way to Draco.  “What’s it made of?” he all but squeaked. 

“Chestnut, with a dragon heartstring core.”

The man nodded and extended his hand.  Draco turned the wand and passed it over with the grip side toward the rodent of a man, whose pale, stubby fingers closed around it.  After a moment, his eyes opened wide.  Draco guessed he felt the thrill of magic running up his arm that would signal that this wand had chosen him.  The wandmaker had been right, then, about the combination of materials.

“We shall test it,” said the Dark Lord, moving past them and out of the room, “In the dungeon.  Come.  You too, Draco.”

Wormtail and Draco followed.  He worked to stay calm and not let his fear bubble through his calm façade.  Lord Voldemort stopped outside of Ollivander’s cell.  The old man had been sitting on what passed as his bed.  He stood and took a step back when he saw the Dark Lord.

“Tell me, wandmaker, why Harry Potter’s wand reacted as it did to mine.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t know, not for sure.”

“Your theories then, what are those?”

“I don’t - ”

“Do it Pettigrew,” said the Dark Lord.

Wormtail extended his arm holding his new wand out and said, “Crucio!”

The old man tumbled to the floor of the cell.

Draco started forward, and then stopped.  The Dark Lord must have seen him out of the corner of his wretched eyes, and broke the curse.  He turned to Draco.

“What information has he shared with you?” demanded the Dark Lord.

“Nothing, my Lord,” said Draco, keeping his face a mask behind the wall he constructed to seal off his thoughts and emotions.  “Nothing about Potter’s wand, nor yours.”

He felt an insidious probing of his mind.  He resisted the urge to drop his defenses, and focused on keeping Lord Voldemort out.  The probing ceased.

“What did the prisoner tell you?”

“He spoke of the materials he was thinking of trying to craft Wor – Pettigrew’s wand,” answered Draco truthfully.  He neglected to mention the comfort the older man had tried to offer him. 

He could tell that that Lord Voldemort was angry, as the Mark on his arm burned.  He felt his jaw tense, but he remained still.  Merlin, but he had learned to control pain since he been a prat of a child in his second and third year of school.  The robed dictator swung back to Ollivander, who was still lying on the floor. 

“Did this boy assist you as instructed?”

“Yes…yes,” coughed the prisoner.

“You made his wand as well, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“What is it?”

“Hawthorn . . . with a unicorn hair core.”

Draco could see the Dark Lord’s face in profile, and the sneer that distorted his face before he spat out, “Unicorn hair.  That is for the soft and the weak.”

Ollivander shook his head.  “No, you over simplify.”

“Do I?”

The Dark Lord turned back to Draco. 

“Choose Ollivander – tell me what I want to know, or the boy suffers.”

Draco raised his chin – trying to look proud and disdainful.  “I am nothing to him my Lord.”

“We shall see,” he said with a nod of his head toward Wormtail.

 “Crucio!” cried Wormtail.

The jolt of pain seized his body, and Draco dropped to his knees.  The curse lifted.  He took a deep breath, and raised his eyes to look through his fringe of hair at the wandmaker.  He’d merely gotten a pulse of the curse, and his nerves were still singing with tremors of shock.

“Must we repeat the exercise?” said the Dark Lord in a voice barely above a whisper.

Draco closed his eyes, and braced for the curse.  Ollivander owed him nothing.  The spell hit him hard, and this time he fell to the floor.  His body started to thrash against his will and all he could think of was the pain and the singeing feeling that overwhelmed every part of him.  He started to scream.  For a brief moment, he thought of green eyes, and the curse ceased.

“Stop – stop,” he heard yelled over and over.  His arm continued to shake and twitch. 

“It’s the cores – the cores are twins!”

He struggled to open his eyes.  He saw Ollivander, hair wild, clutching the bars of the cell.  With a swish of robes, the Dark Lord stood before the wandmaker and blocked him from Draco’s view.

“What do you mean?”

“The phoenix feathers – they came from the same phoenix – only two feathers were collected from this bird.  I believe that the wands are reacting to each other as the cores – they are aligned.”

Draco propped himself up on one arm, and tried to peer around the Dark Lord.  He tried to shake his head at Ollivander, but the man kept speaking, “A different wand may overcome this.”

“A different wand?”

“Yes, a different wand – preferably with a core that is not a phoenix feather to be safe.”

Lord Voldemort turned away and back to Draco, looking down at him as if he were scum.  “This is why I keep you around boy – to appeal to the emotions of the weak.  Even Snape wasn’t blind to you and your…neediness, stepping in to do what you could not.”  The man walked away and calling over his shoulder, “You are relieved of your guard duties.  Get back upstairs and out of my sight.” 

The heavy dungeon door banged closed.  He sat fully up, his body still throbbing.  The wandmaker was kneeling on the floor now, looking defeated and older than he had just a short time ago.

“Potter,” Draco rasped.  “You sold him out.”

“I – I couldn’t let him – I couldn’t let hurt you,” said Ollivander.

Draco stared at him. 

“He would have had you killed,” continued the older man.

“But he will kill Harry Potter.”  Why did he care?  Potter was his enemy – had torn him to shreds and not paid a price for it.  But he did care.  As long as Potter lived, there was a chance that the Dark Lord could be stopped.

“Harry Potter has survived He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s wrath before he even had a wand.  I believe he will continue to survive.  But you – I think you would have died this night.”

“Why do you care?” Draco asked, his eyes stinging with tears he refused to shed.

“I remember you the day you came to my shop as a young boy.  And I am not blind to the kindnesses you have shown me.  You are, I think, more than you appear to be.”

He heard the outer door of the dungeon open.  “Be careful, Ollivander.  Be quiet – for Merlins’ sake, be quiet.  Don’t give them a reason to…to destroy you,” he said, staggering to his feet.  “And remember, I am nothing.  I’ve always been nothing.”

The inner door of the dungeon opened, and Selwyn appeared followed by Wormtail.  “You are to leave, boy – Wormtail will be on guard now, with his shiny new wand.”

Draco nodded, gave the wandmaker one last look, and walked slowly away, his limbs heavy and unwilling.

 

Chapter 5: Death in the Manor

Notes:

* Portions of dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” chapter one.

Draco sat rigid in his chair.  Suspended above him was a woman he had seen in passing at Hogwarts.  Her face was pinched in pain.  She revolved slowly above him.  He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

The Dark Lord’s high voice cut through the room, greeting Snape and another Death Eater who had just arrived and bid them where to sit.

“My Lord,” began Snape, “The Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall.”

Almost everyone around the table leaned in at this news.  The Dark Lord’s red eyes glowed.  He and Snape carried on a brief exchange before the other late arrival, Yaxley, joined in.  Draco, however, was distracted by the moans that came from the woman above him.  Merlin, she was a professor.  He’d never taken her classes, but still, she was a professor at Hogwarts.  He watched her open her mouth.  No sound came out this time.  She moved her lips again and he shrank back in his chair.  He was certain she had mouthed his name.

Lord Voldemort’s words pulled him back to the gathering.  “I shall attend to the boy in person.  There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is concerned.  Some of them have been my own.  That Potter lives is due more to my errors than to his triumphs.”  His Lordship’s wretched eyes rose to the woman hovering in despair above the table.  “I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans.  But I know better now.  I understand those things that I did not understand before.  I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be.”

A wail erupted from below.  The dungeons.  Draco felt himself blanch.  Ollivander.  Damn the man, but Draco had warned him to be quiet.  He couldn’t do much to protect the wandmaker, but he’d tried his best to tell him how to protect himself.

“Wormtail,” said Lord Voldemort in a calm voice, “Have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?”

The pinched-face man gasped and sputtered an answer before scurrying out of the room.  Draco spared a thought for the old man below, and hoped that he wouldn’t anger Lord Voldemort further.

“As I was saying, I understand better now.  I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter,” said the Dark Lord scanning the room.  “No volunteers?  Let’s see – Lucius.  I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore.”

Draco watched his father look up from his seeming stupor.  He still didn’t look healthy even though it had almost been a month since he’d been broken out of Azkahban. 

“My Lord?” said his father in a voice that sounded worn and not at all like the voice Draco remembered.

“Your wand, Lucius.  I require your wand.”

“I….” his father’s voice trailed off.  He looked at Narcissa who was sitting straight and tall and staring straight ahead. 

Draco clutched at his own wand concealed in the sleeve of his right arm.  A wizard without a wand was incredibly vulnerable.  He knew his family had sunk low in the Dark Lord’s eyes, but this command crystallized just how low they had fallen.  He knew in that moment that they were alone.  Really and truly alone.  They were shunned by those supporting Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and they were considered lower than low by Lord Voldemort and thus by the other Death Eaters.

After a moment, Lucius held up his wand.  Draco heard the cold, serpentine man ask his father what the wand was made of.  He knew the answer by heart - elm with a dragon heartstring.  He knew that the wand has chosen his father when he was eleven years old, before he had been about to embark to Hogwarts.  Draco had never seen Lucius separated from the wand until his imprisonment in Azkahban.  And when his mother had been melancholy, it hadn’t been to pictures of Lucius she had turned to for solace, rather she’d pulled this wand from the warded chest of drawers where she kept it safe and cradled it in her hands.

Draco saw his father make a start toward the Dark Lord’s wand.  Lord Voldemort was malicious.

“Give you my wand, Lucius.  My wand?  I have given you your liberty, Lucius.  Is that not enough for you?  But I have noticed that your family seem less than happy of late…What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?”

“Nothing – nothing, my Lord!” said his father in a voice a little too eager to be convincing.

“Such lies, Lucius.”

Draco heard the sound of hissing.  Merlin, that beast of a serpent was on its way.  It emerged from beneath the table, slid up the Dark Lord’s chair, and rested its great body across his shoulders where it was stroked lightly by its master’s fingers.

“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot?  Is my return – my rise to power – not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?”

He willed himself to keep breathing as he listened to his father’s protestations that his family desired this cruel man to take over their home.  Draco watched the father who had always stood so tall in his memories shake and sweat with stress.  Bellatrix, in her usual manner of trying to wrest Lord Voldemort’s attention to herself, professed that it was an honor to have him in their home.

“There can be no higher pleasure,” she enthused.

“No higher pleasure.  That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you.”

His aunt’s face brightened with this attention as she further professed her earnestness.

“No higher pleasure,” repeated Lord Voldemort, “Even when compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?”

Draco darted a look toward his parents.  He knew of no happy event – couldn’t remember the last time there had been a happy event in his family. 

Bellatrix stuttered and stammered her confusion, and was interrupted by her master, “I’m talking about your niece Bellatrix.  And your’s Lucius and Narcissa.  She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin.  You must be so proud.”

Laughter broke out around the table.  Draco realized that the Dark Lord must be speaking of his Aunt Andromeda’s daughter.  He’d never met his aunt – she’d been disowned and her name, like that of Sirius and others who had disgraced the Black family, had been blasted from the family tree.

His Aunt Bellatrix snarled her distain for this lost relative, “She is no niece of ours, my Lord.  We – Narcissa and I – have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood.  This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries.”

Red eyes turned on Draco. 

“What say you, Draco?  Will you babysit the cubs?”

He heard the other Death Eaters laughing.  He glanced around the table at their cruel faces before turning toward his parents.  His father did not meet his gaze and his mother gave a slight shake of head  - keeping her face blank in the mask he knew too well.  Nymphadora Tonks had married Remus Lupin.  If her mother hadn’t already assured that her line was disgraced, this act would have done it.  What had possessed this cousin he didn’t know?  She would be ridiculed and scorned – not just by Death Eaters – but by all of wizarding society. 

He realized with a slight flare of relief, that the conversation had continued without waiting for his answer  He heard Lord Voldemort say, “Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time.  You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy?  Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest.”

His accursed aunt of course enthusiastically agreed.  No surprise there.  Draco bowed his head.  He wondered at what point the ax would fall on himself, his mother, or father?  How much lower could their standing go before they were deemed unessential and disposable?  Would he become nothing but a blast mark on the family tree?

He heard groaning above him and looked up.  The woman suspended above twisted and called for Snape’s aid.  Snape shrugged her off with barely a reply.

The red eyes turned to Draco again.

“And you, Draco?  But you would not have taken her classes,” said the Dark Lord before speaking for the rest of the room, “For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Tears streamed down the woman’s face, and Draco’s eyes were riveted on her.  She continued to beg Snape for help and Dark Lord, in a voice filled with scorn, accused her of being a blood traitor.  Her tears continued to flow.  Oh Merlin he wanted to look away.  He couldn’t bear to watch this woman suffer.  What the hell was wrong with everyone in this room that they thought this was okay.  Weren’t the grownups supposed to know better?  Was this what they planned for everyone that was Muggle-born or supported them?  He didn’t like being outshone by Granger, and he wanted to see her and her like brought down a peg, but this?  This was vile.  This isn’t at all what he envisioned when he was younger of what it meant to be a follower of the Dark Lord.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light filled the room and with a crash, Professor Burbage fell to the table.  Draco pushed back in his chair as the woman’s face fell right beside him.  The chair tipped, and he landed hard on the floor.  Her eyes were open, but he could tell that they were empty of any spark of life.  Her now lifeless face was still wet with tears.

“Dinner, Nagini,” said Lord Voldemort in a voice that did not betray the awfulness of the event that had occurred.  The serpent slithered off its master toward the dead woman. 

Draco felt his body start to shake.  He jerked when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned to see his mother kneeling beside him.  She drew his eyes away from the grotesque scene and pressed his face against her shoulder.  He clung to her.  He knew it made him appear weak before the others, but Merlin, he was just seventeen.  How was this his life?

“Come Draco.  Come away,” his mother said, pulling him to his feet.  She didn’t release his hand as she guided them toward the door.  With her free hand, she sought out Lucius, and similarly towed him away from the room.  She hurried them out the hall, up the stairs, and to the family wing and didn’t release them until she’d brought them to a small sitting room and closed the door.

“Narcissa I – I – My wand - ” stuttered Lucius.

His mother gripped his father by his face and brought his eyes to hers.  “Hush love.  Hush,” she said.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother sound so tender. 

“I can’t protect you.  I can’t protect you without my wand.  How will I keep you both safe?” said his father in a voice barely above a whisper.

Narcissa folded Lucius into her arms for a moment before drawing back a pace.  “Even with your wand we weren’t safe.  None of us are while Lord Voldemort has us within his grasp.”

She turned to Draco and pulled him in for a similar brief embrace.  She started to speak, but was cut off by the opening of the door.  Bellatrix stood framed in the doorway.

“Interrupting a family moment I see,” said his aunt.  She walked further into the room, the heels of shoes ringing off the floor until she stepped onto the rug in the center of the room.  She inclined her head at Draco.  “You had best keep an eye on this one Cissy.  Can’t have another of this generation bringing shame to our family.  I can’t believe that our useless sister produced a child that was a Hufflepuff and married a half-blood cur.  Her grandchildren will be mongrel brats!”

Narcissa turned her back on sister to guide Lucius to a chair by the fire.  With a wave of her wand a fire kindled and blazed, filling the space with a cozy warmth.

“Andromeda could hardly control who her daughter married,” said his mother.

Bellatrix laughed.  It was not a pleasant sound.  “Well what ever did she expect having children with a filthy Mudblood.”

Draco winced.  It was a word he heard all the time – had used himself in the past – but since Dumbledore had called him out for using the word, even as he faced death, Draco had been uneasy about saying or hearing it.  Granger – despite all he disliked about her – was a muggle-born, and she was the smartest witch at Hogwarts.  His father had often taken him to task in the past for being bested in subjects by the girl.  But surely, if a girl born of Muggles could be so gifted, then perhaps magic wasn’t based on blood alone.  And Potter – Potter’s mother had been Muggle-born, and he had always been powerful.

Narcissa rang a bell, breaking his thoughts and summoning a house elf for tea.  She patted his father on the shoulder, “I’ll dose it with something stronger when it arrives.”

“You aren’t paying attention to me Cissy.  This is serious,” said Bellatrix.

“I don’t see what you want me to do Bella?  I have no control over Andromeda or her daughter.”

“And that werewolf.  What possessed him?  After all that he carried on with Sirius,” said Bellatrix in a malicious voice.  “It was the worst kept secret of the wizarding world.”

“Enough.  Not in front of Draco,” said his mother.

Bellatrix sauntered over toward him.  “No, not in front of little Draco.  Wouldn’t want to corrupt the boy.”

He choked a cry when his aunt jerked his face toward her by his hair.  He hurried to shut his mind away from her and her prying.  He’d had too much of her presence in his mind when she was teaching him Occlumency.  He saw her eyes blaze when she realized what he was doing.  She leaned in closer to him.

“It’s too late for that Draco.  I’ve already seen your darkest, most horrid little thoughts and desires.  I know what you are hiding.”

There was a loud crack and a house elf arrived bearing a tea tray. 

“I saw what lurks deep inside.  I know that you dreamed of boys in Quidditch gear and other such unnatural things,” she whispered, before giving his hair one last hard tug. 

“Fetch me a cup of tea.  Milk.  No sugar,” she said to him before crossing the carpet to sit down in a chair opposite Lucius.

Notes:

The words keep on coming. The draft has grown to over 50,000 words and chapters still remain to write. I've never posted a story without completing it in its entirety first, so this is a new, thrilling (and frightening) experience for me.

Chapter 6: Slighted

Notes:

*Portions of article quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” chapter two, and portions of dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” chapter six and “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” chapter five.

Draco was bleeding.  He clutched the gash on the back of his left hand and shouldered his way into his bedroom.  He’d caught himself on jagged metal while in the dungeons.  Salazar he hated it down there – hated that a wizard was being held captive in his family home.  But he had to keep going.  He’d been reassigned to guard duty – much to his disgust and relief. If he wasn’t around, he couldn’t be sure that Ollivander would be fed, or that he’d be warm enough.  And then there was the matter of the Dark Lord exacting vengeance on Draco and his parents if he did not guard the prisoner for the majority of the day as ordered.

Once inside his room, he pulled out his wand and cleaned and healed his hand.  The scrape disappeared and in its place was the shiny skin of a new scar.  Within a day or two, this would fade as well, as the injury had not been the result of dark magic.  If he was better at repairing wounds, there would have been nothing left now to show he’d hurt himself.  He supposed he should probably study up more on treating injuries.  A war was on, and he was not favored by either side at the moment.

He flopped down on his bed in a most ungraceful way that would surely have appalled the portraits of his long-dead relatives if any of them had been hung in his room.  He stretched and heard something rumple underneath his arm.  He fished the item out from under him.  It was that morning’s Daily Prophet.  As crazy as his life was at the moment, it struck him as odd that mundane things like his subscription to the newspaper still came through like clockwork.  He unrolled the paper.  On the front page, he saw a brief announcement that Charity Burbage had resigned as the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts.  Resigned…He took a deep calming breath and forced himself to scan the other headlines. 

The calming breath didn’t help.  A line on the front page advertised an article about Albus Dumbledore on page ten. 

Merlin and Morgan le Feye.  He turned the pages, dreading what he was about to see.  Albus Dumbledore Remembered by Elphias Doge. 

Holy dragon breath.  He couldn’t help himself – he read the entire remembrance - it was not what he had expected.  Surely some facts were wrong - Dumbledore’s father couldn’t really have been imprisoned for attacking Muggle children.  If it were true, how had Dumbledore grown from the son of a man capable of such violence on Muggles to the Muggle-loving headmaster he had become?  He read the last line again, “He died as he lived: working always for the greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day that I met him.”

Unbidden Draco remembered when, on his first day of Hogwarts, he’d extended his hand to Harry Potter.

“It’s true?  They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment,” Draco said standing in the door of the train compartment gazing down at a boy dressed in Muggle clothes with unruly dark hair.  The boy looked up at him – his brilliant green eyes partially obscured by the glare of his round glasses.  Draco remembered seeing this boy at Madame Malkins being fitted for robes earlier this summer.  If only he’d known then that he’d been standing beside the Boy Who Lived. 

“So it’s you, is it?” he asked, full of wonder.

“Yes,” said the other boy.

He was thrilled.  Harry Potter.  Harry bloody Potter was going to be with him at Hogwarts.  He’d heard about the boy for so long.  This boy had defeated Lord Voldemort when he’d been little more than a baby.  He wanted desperately to impress this boy – to have the chance to become friends.  His whole life he’d only been surrounded by the children his parents had deemed worthy, but Draco wanted to be his own person – choose his own friends.  Attending Hogwarts would give him this chance.  He remembered that he was flanked by Vince and Greg – the children of friends of his father. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle.  And my name’s Malfoy.  Draco Malfoy.  

He heard a cough.  The redheaded boy sitting by Harry Potter was smirking at him.  He felt himself flush with embarrassment.  Merlin the redhead must be a Weasley.  His father always spoke disparagingly of the family, but to his shame Draco was always a bit envious of hearing about a family filled with children as he’d always wanted a sibling.  He lashed out.

“Think my name’s funny, do you?  No need to ask who you are.  My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

He glared at the Weasley boy before turning back to Harry, his face relaxing.  He used the words he often heard his father say over the dinner table when lecturing Draco.  “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others Potter.  You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.  I can help you there.”

He’d held out his hand to the Boy Who Lived – hoping that this was his chance to forge a different path than what his parents expected of him. 

The green-eyed boy didn’t take his hand.  Rather, he’d looked at Draco with scorn and said, “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”

Draco felt himself flush with shame at the rejection, his hand still held out, waiting…

He shook himself away from the memory.  It all went downhill from there.  He’d lain in to Potter, insulting the memory of his parents.  Salazar, how did it all go so wrong?  Would his life be different if Potter had told him he was a royal prat but taken his hand?

He buried his face in his hands.  Dumbledore was dead and it was his fault.  And the man had, on his last day, stretched out his own hand to Draco and offered him mercy.  And because it was all his fault, Potter despised him.  There was no changing that fact.  He wiped at his eyes before turning back to the paper.  An article featuring Rita Skeeter advertised that she’d written a book about Dumbledore that would be available next week.  He’d be constantly surrounded by the dead man’s name and his fame.  He realized that each reminder would shake him every time.  Merlin.

His Mark swirled and stung with pain.  He was being summoned.  He checked for his wand – though fat lot of good it would do him – and descended to the drawing room.  He walked as lightly as possible, not wanting to hear his footsteps announcing his presence.  He sidled into the room he had been avoiding since Professor Burbage’s death and sat in a chair as close to the door as he could manage.  About half the seats were taken and more people were flowing in the door.  They sat in silence awaiting their master.  Draco kept his eyes down.  No one acknowledged him until Professor Snape entered.

“Draco,” he said, inclining his head toward him and sitting down beside him.  Draco realized that until Snape had come along, the seat next to him had been avoided.  It was like he had the bloody dragon pox and the other Death Eaters were treating him accordingly.

The Dark Lord entered at last, his dark robe trailing behind him.  Everyone rose.  His great serpent appeared to be absent today.  He went to the head of the table and stared down at his followers before sitting.  They all followed suit.

“Potter will be moved from his location in a few days’ time.  He will not yet be of age and Snape’s intelligence suggests that the Order will be relocating the boy to a safe location in advance of his birthday.  To avoid detection caused by the Trace they will fly him from his current location to a new one.  Members of the Order will take Polyjuice Potion so that several people looking like Potter will be in the sky going to different points.”  Lord Voldemort scanned the room.  “I will take a group of loyal Death Eaters and Confounded dispensables to blast the Order members from the sky.  Harry Potter is not to be interfered with.  He is mine.”

The Dark Lord tapped his fingers against the surface of the table.  “Who amongst you will prove your worth and accompany me?”

Unsurprisingly, Bellatrix raised her hand.  She cast her husband a meaningful glance and his and his brother’s hands raised in the air.  Others hands joined these three.

“Draco will go, my Lord.  He is a Seeker at school and is a strong flyer,” said Lucius.

Draco froze.  His father was still trying to  use him to try and curry favor with Lord Voldemort?  It was true that when Draco wasn’t so busy paying attention to Potter on a Quidditch field, he was a strong and fast flyer.  No one in the Slytherin House had been able to unseat him for the position of seeker.  But flying – flying made him feel free.  It brought him joy.  Chasing after Potter in a battle of life and death would be the opposite of joyful.

The Dark Lord laughed.  It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Lucius you volunteer your son and not yourself? Oh, that’s right, you are wandless – what good would you be in battle?”

Lucius shrank in his chair. 

“And as for Draco,” sneered the Dark Lord.  “He hasn’t proven capable of such a weighty task.  He will remain here and guard Ollivander.  Even he can’t fail in that duty.”

He inhaled sharply at the insult.  Lord Voldemort thought him incompetent, and this in a twisted way, would spare him from having to try and capture Potter.  And after this brief exchange, Draco was ignored for the rest of the meeting as the Death Eaters flying with the Dark Lord were given further instruction.  He was ignored for days leading up to the planned capture.  He didn’t see the group kick off on their brooms, and it was just as well.  It would likely have been an imposing sight – the air filled with dark wizards and witches.

“Why are you here?” asked Ollivander as Draco approached the cell.

Draco didn’t answer. 

“Something is happening isn’t it?  You’re never assigned to watch me at night.”

He stood straighter and kept his face expressionless.  He channeled his thoughts to places away from the raid – away from Harry Potter.  It was safer for Ollivander if he was in the dark.

“The quiet treatment, eh?” said the prisoner.  “No use trying to outwit an old Ravenclaw.  It must be very bad indeed.”  Ollivander moved away from the bars and sat down on his pile of straw and blankets. 

Draco chanced a glance at the old man.  He still looked disheveled, but perhaps not as gaunt as he had once been.  His clothes, while too big for him, were at least cleaner than the ones he’d been brought to the Manor in.  The house elves were following his covert instructions.  If the elves were asked who gave the order that the wandmaker was to be fed three square meals a day, they were to say that it was the rule of the house that guests were to be well-fed.  Draco hoped that this would avoid punishment for both himself and the elves.  Oh Merlin – he was turning into bloody Granger – house elf lover that she was.

The stillness stretched on for longer than Draco had expected.  He wasn’t sure if this meant things had gone according to plan or if they had gone terribly wrong.  Was Potter still alive?  He hated the arrogant Gryffindor, but yet . . . yet he couldn’t imagine a world – his world – without Potter existing at least somewhere in it.

The door to the dungeon banged open and the Dark Lord slithered in.  His red eyes seemed to flash and Draco fought to resist shrinking back.  The man flicked his wand and the cell bars dissolved to nothing, and he walked in wand pointed at Ollivander.

“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”  Snarled the Dark Lord before letting a Crucio curse fly.

Ollivander screamed in pain.  Draco’s knees buckled.  The sound was worse than it had been the first time he’d seen the wandmaker cursed.  The older man collapsed onto the floor, and the scream didn’t stop, it kept going and going until Draco thought the man must surely die of it.

The Dark Lord lowered his wand.  The wandmaker gasped, sucking for air, before begging for mercy, but Lord Voldemort would have none of it, and accused him of trying to help Potter.

“Explain then, what happened.  Lucius’ wand is destroyed!” raged the Dark Lord.

“I cannot understand . . . The connection . . . exists only . . . between your two wands . . . Please . . . I beg of you . . .”

Ollivander’s pleas went unheeded, his body spasmed as another curse was aimed at him by the Dark Lord. 

“Useless.  Useless old man,” sneered Lord Voldemort over the man’s screams.  He stopped the curse and said, “You  will rot down here before you ever see the light of day again.”

He uttered the curse again, and again the man screamed, the sounds tore at Draco.  Merlin the Dark Lord was deranged.  This isn’t how a human being was treated.

The screams stopped as the Dark Lord lowered his wand.  He turned his gaze to Draco, seeming to notice him for the first time.

“Clean up this mess,” he said, with a wave of his hand indicating the lack of cell bars.  He swung back to face the crumpled man at his feet.  “I may still have use for you wandmaker, so you shall be spared . . . for the moment.  He turned and made his way back out of the dungeon, the door closing behind him with a heavy bang.

Draco ran to the man and dropped to his knees beside him.  “Ollivander?”

The man’s eyes blinked open.  He opened his mouth but nothing came out.  Draco scuttled to the water bucket and came back with a cup of water.  He propped the man up – it felt to easy to hold him, he was still too slight – and held the cup to his lips.  Ollivander made an attempt to drink, but most of the liquid ran down his chin.  Draco pulled the cup back a bit.

“Harry - Harry Potter still lives,” croaked the man gripping Draco’s arm.  “He lives.”

And Draco felt his heart soar.

 

Notes:

Only two more chapters to go until Draco returns to Hogwarts - I'm looking forward to expanding the cast of characters. I've written a draft up through chapter 22 and have a rough sketch of about 10 more chapters beyond that point. I've also sketched out some chapters for the next work in the series.

Chapter 7: A Bequest and a Curse

Notes:

*Some dialogue from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” chapter nine.

Posting a chapter a couple of days early - will post another as scheduled on Tuesday.

The day had turned out to be quite lovely.  Naturally.  It was Harry Potter’s bloody birthday.  Every man, woman, and child in their world knew that July 31^st was the day the Boy Who Lived was born, just as they knew that October 31, 1981 had been the day a mere baby had brought down the Dark Lord. 

He’d barely touched the food he’d been brought – either today or in the weeks prior - and his always thin frame had grown almost gaunt.  He knew his mother worried after him, but what could he do?  He didn’t feel like eating, not with a crew of Death Eaters wandering almost free range throughout his family’s ancestral home.  Never, in its almost thousand year history had the Manor ever been so sullied – and that was saying a lot considering the ancestors he had buried in his family tree.

He’d spent the day holed up in his room, and the shadows outside were lengthening with the setting sun.  Something big was happening.  He heard the whispers among other Death Eaters, but he’d not been included in any meetings since his father had offered him up to help abduct Potter.  The Dark Lord did not think enough to include him in any plans and had even removed him from guarding Ollivander after that horrible day when the Dark Lord had tortured the wandmaker. 

He ran his hand over his sleeve, the Dark Mark lay beneath.  It made him ill to think about how it marred his skin.

He wondered, briefly, what Potter was doing on this birthday.  He’d come of age today – seventeen.  Draco’s own seventeenth birthday had passed with barely an acknowledgement.  He’d been weighed down with his abominable task and his father had been in Azkahban.  His mother had sent him an owl at Hogwarts with a note, and that had been it.  He hoped, despite himself, that Potter’s birthday was better than his own.  Potter, for all his faults, and there were many, knew how to make loyal friends.  Draco had always hated him a little bit for this.  When he wasn’t in too self-pitying a mood he knew that the emotion he really felt was jealousy.  He was jealous of the love and loyalty that Potter inspired in others. 

The crack of an apparition in his room made him snap his head in alarm at the direction of the sound.  He hadn’t summoned a house elf and the wards should protect him from others being able to apparate into his room.  His gaze caught on a small being wearing a green sock and a yellow sock.  It wasn’t a Death Eater in the room with him, nor one of the Manor’s house elves, but it was indeed a house elf.  He peered at the figure – he recognized him.  It had been years, but he knew this being.

“Dobby,” he said.  He’d never expected to see this freed elf again, not after how his father had treated him.  But then again, it wasn’t surprising that the elf could still gain entry to the Manor – the magic of house elves was legendary and largely unknown to wizards.   “What are you doing here?”

Dobby held a wooden box out to Draco.  “Dumbledore left this for you.  He was afraid your family wouldn’t let you have anything he left you, so he asked me to bring it to you.”

Draco felt his eyes smart.  “He asked you?  When?”

“The week before he died.”

The elf held the box out further and Draco reached out a hand that he couldn’t keep from trembling and accepted the gift.  Dobby met his eyes, nodded once, and was gone with another crack.

Draco felt his legs give way and he dropped to the floor.  He put the box down and clasped his hands over his mouth as dry sobs racked his body.  His stomach churned.  Dumbledore had left him something?  Him of all people.  Draco had tried to kill him - had let murderous Death Eaters into Hogwarts.  What had the old man been playing at?  Draco had never been loyal or kind to Dumbledore.  Draco had preened under Snape’s attention, but Potter had always been Dumbledore’s man, not Draco.

With effort, he gained his composure and took deep breaths to try to further calm his body.  He knew he’d already locked his door in addition to warding the room, but he didn’t feel safe.  He grabbed the box and climbed up into his bed.  It was childish he knew, but he felt better pulling the curtains closed, further shielding him from view.  He cast a few more charms to silence and seal his bed before whispering, “Lumos.”

His wand lit up.  Carved into the lid appeared to be an address, “12 Grimmauld Place, London.”  With his free hand he opened the lid.  Inside, twinkling in the light, lay a golden snitch.  He reached out a finger and tentatively stroked the orb.  As he did so, he saw a faint flash of light squiggle across the surface.  He picked up the snitch and held it closer. The flash of light appeared again, brighter this time, and in its wake, in delicate, cursive script he saw a word appear on the golden surface.  “Regulus.”

His breath caught.  Dumbledore had sent him a snitch with name of a Black relative who had died before Draco was born.  He’d heard the name in whispers infrequently.  It was as if this man, along with his older brother Sirius, had never existed as far as his family was concerned.  Why in bloody hell did Dumbledore send him this?  And what was the significance of 12 Grimmauld Place?

He traced the tip of his finger across the script.  “Regulus,” he whispered.  The snitch’s wings fluttered for a moment and then were still. 

Merlin, he couldn’t think about this – what it all meant.  He ached wondering what Albus Dumbledore of all people had meant by leaving him something.  He changed into pajamas and tried to sleep because if he was sleeping he couldn’t be thinking about the snitch – at least not consciously.  He tossed and turned.  Well past midnight he admitted it was no use.  He crawled out of bed and hunted in his school trunk for a bottle of potion he’d been trying to avoid.  At last his hand closed on a bottle of Dreamless Sleep.  He’d read that if taken too often, it could become addictive and a person wouldn’t be able to sleep without it.  He wasn’t sleeping much at all now and perhaps it wouldn’t matter if he became reliant on the stuff.  He tipped a hefty dose back before hiding it in the bottom of trunk again.  He climbed into bed and grabbed hold of the damned snitch again.  It didn’t take long to feel the potion tug at his consciousness.

He woke hard.  It was dark in his room.  His hands were empty, and with a pang of fear he started searching the bed for the snitch.  He found it beneath his pillow.  He ran a fingertip gently over it again.  He wanted to ask his mother about Regulus and the address, but he didn’t quite dare.  He was afraid he might shatter the reserve that he knew she was working hard to maintain.  And talking to Bellatrix was completely out of the question.  Then he remembered the Black family tapestry.  He looked toward the clock on its mantel.  It was just past nine o’clock at night.  He’d slept for over eighteen hours.  How much bloody potion had he swallowed?

He dressed quickly, stuffed the snitch and its case in his pocket and he padded down the hall of the family wing to his mother’s sitting room.  Hanging on the wall was the Black family tree woven in a tapestry of infinite detail, its golden threads gleamed in the soft light of the lamps.  His mother had told him that it was an exact replica of the original that hung in the Black family’s main house.  She’d told him that even the magic had been duplicated so that as new generations were born they would be added to the tree.  Some names were marred by dark shadows – his mother had explained that these names had been blasted from the original family tree and the magic of the duplicate tapestry mimicked the original.  He skimmed his fingers briefly over his mother’s name and then traced over to another branch.  A shadow marred Sirius’s name and beside it, pristine and unmarred, was the name “Regulus Black.”  Above them were the names of their parents, Orion Black and Walburga Black.  He traced their names back.  Merlin, both Orion and Walburga had been Blacks from different branches of the tree.  Purebloods really did keep to their own.  He shuddered, thankful he didn’t have any cousins he needed to worry about marrying – especially as Andromeda’s daughter had run off with the werewolf.  Not that he really wanted to think about marrying at all.  He stared at his own name, all alone beneath his parents’.  Would their lines end with him?  There were days he doubted that he’d live to see eighteen. 

“Draco?”

He turned around in surprise.  His aunt entered the room.  He stood straighter.

“Studying the family tree little Draco?” she asked. 

She walked up to the tapestry and ran her hand along the darkened marks.  “Seven names gone,” she said, “Seven traitors to the House of Black – blood traitors, Mudblood-lovers, homosexuals – all deviants unwilling to carry on the line as they should.  None able to understand the responsibility to stay pure.”

He shifted where he stood.  He didn’t think his aunt was really expecting him to comment.  She turned to smile at him – her face was sweet for a moment, which was not natural on her - before morphing to her usual smirk. 

“My aunt removed the last traitor’s name, Sirius Black.  He turned his back on this family in every possible way.”

“What about his brother?” asked Draco, wanting to know about the man enough that he hazarded asking Bellatrix.

His aunt shrugged, “He was close with you mother.  But then, she always had a soft spot for weak things,” she said with a sly smile. 

“I’m not as weak as you think,” said Draco, his anger flaring.

“We’ll see little Draco – I think you are exactly as weak as I believe.  But now is your chance to prove me wrong.  Come with me.”

He followed her out of the family wing down to the sitting room the Dark Lord favored.  The Dark Lord was there, seated by the crackling fire while a Death Eater he recognized as Thorfinn Rowle was on his knees, beseeching his master.

“We found them, we did – Potter and two others.  But they . . . they did something to us.  I can’t remember.  Why don’t I remember?  When we woke up they were gone.”

“Yes, Dolohov had even less to say than you on the matter,” Lord Voldemort murmured.  “The Carrows are entertaining themselves with him now.”

The red eyes turned to Draco.

“Here is your chance,” said the Dark Lord.  “Prove you’re worthy of my Mark.  Rowle has let Harry Potter slip through his fingers.  Instead of bringing him back to me as ordered he has come back empty-handed.  He must learn from his mistakes.”

Draco swallowed.  He was afraid of what was coming. 

“The Cruciatus curse, little Draco,” his aunt clarified practically prancing with excitement, “Practice.  On him.”

He looked at the kneeling man.

“That’s not necessary, my Lord,” said Rowle.

“I shall decide what is necessary,” said Lord Voldemort, turning his attention back to Rowle.

“Do it Draco,” urged his aunt.  She walked toward Rowle and kicked him to the ground.

He felt sick.  He stared at the man sprawled before him, his blond hair spilled across the floor.

“He has to learn there are consequences for failure,” said his aunt.

He glanced over to the Dark Lord.  The man’s eyes weren’t on the Rowle, however, but were on him.  This was a test.  A test of his own failure – not Rowle’s.  If he didn’t do as he was asked there would be consequences for him and for his parents.

Draco raised his wand, painfully aware that he was taking short, panicked breaths.  He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on emptying his mind of everything.  He opened his eyes and said, “Crucio.”

The Death Eater on the floor lurched and let out a small groan.  Bellatrix laughed – high and loud.

“Pathetic, Draco, do it again,” said his aunt.

He uttered the curse again, and this time the man screamed for a moment.

“Like this you fool,” said Bellatrix brandishing her wand.  Rowle writhed on the floor, screaming.  Draco watched as the man’s eyes became unfocused and overwhelmed with pain.  Bellatrix lowered her wand.

“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini?  Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time . . . You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again?  Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure.  Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!” ordered the Dark Lord.

The red eyes burned into him and the space was so silent that he could hear a log shifting and settling in the fireplace. 

“You have to mean it little Draco,” purred his aunt.  “It won’t work if you don’t mean it.  You have to mean to inflict pain – you have to want it.”

His stomach turned.  He didn’t want to inflict this kind of pain.  He knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end - knew how the shock of it blazed through every inch of your body.

“He needs to understand how displeased his Lordship is that he failed to capture the Potter brat.”

Potter.

Harry Potter.

The man had tried to capture him. 

Rowle would have brought Potter here – brought him to the Dark Lord.

Potter would have been tortured – would likely have died.

Rowle tried to hurt Harry Potter.

An intense vision of green eyes flashed in his mind.  He raised his wand again. “Crucio!” he roared.

The man on the floor writhed and screamed.  Bellatrix clapped her hands in delight.

And he felt it.  Merlin help him, but he felt it.  Pleasure.  Pleasure at causing this man pain.  Fuck.  He wrenched his wand down, sick and fearful of what this meant.  He fought to close off his mind again.  Fought to banish those green eyes.

Bellatrix walked over and patted his shoulder, in what he supposed was meant to be reassurance.  “Don’t worry little Draco – you’ll get there.  That was a brilliant effort.  I didn’t think you had it in you.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes were still on him.  “Yes, Draco – I am almost . . . pleased.  Leave us now.”

Draco nodded and walked carefully out of the room, through the hallway, and up the stairs to his room.  He took measured steps, but once the door of his bedroom was locked and sealed, he collapsed to the floor.

This was too much.  He stomach turned again and his mouth filled with the taste of acid.  He staggered to his feet and raced toward the bathroom.  He bent over the toilet and retched and heaved until his stomach emptied.  He wiped his hand across his mouth and sat down on the floor, leaning his head against the wall.  The tiles felt cool on his flushed body. 

He slid a hand into his pocket, his fingers coiled around the box he’d only received a couple of days ago.  Waves of calm washed through him.  He thought again of those green eyes.  Merlin, what would Potter think of him?  Then again, did it matter?  Potter already despised him.  How much lower could he really sink?  Whatever Potter might think of him, which was probably nothing at all, it wouldn’t distress the other boy enough to send him crashing to the bathroom.

Chapter 8: The House of Black

There was a smart wrap on the door. Draco hastily shoved the snitch back in its box and plunged the box in his pocket.

“Yes?” he called.

“Draco.” His father’s voice was muffled by the door. “You are being assigned a task. I’ve been asked to summon you to the Dark Lord.”

He stared down at his arm. His Mark hadn’t burned. He opened the door. His father was richly dressed, his black and silver robes looking as elegant as ever, but his eyes were sunken and his hair was limp and slightly straggled.

“Why wasn’t I summoned through the Mark?”

Lucius gave a small smile mirthless smile, “I think it was meant to help me understand my place – summoning my son - a menial task.”

Draco said nothing. What was there to say? It was not as if Draco was held in high esteem by the Dark Lord. It had been made perfectly plain to him that he was close to worthless.

“He’s in the drawing room, as always,” said a father, with barest hint the arrogant drawl Draco remembered.

“What’s he want of me? Should I be bidding mother goodbye?”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Macabre thoughts?”

Draco raised an eyebrow in return.

“That is likely wise,” said his father, “No, you are going to be tasked with watching the old Black Mansion with others.”

“Why?”

“As you know,” said his father with some heat, “Sirius Black left it in his will to Harry Potter. It’s a matter of public record – the will is on file at the Ministry. Despite Sirius being a convicted murderer, his last will and testament held. Stole the place away from you – the last legitimate Black heir. Cost me some money challenging it, to no avail.”

“You challenged the will? Did Potter know?”

His father sighed, “Doubtful. Dumbledore handled all of the legal affairs on the boy’s behalf.”

“I hope it didn’t cost you too many galleons.”

“Draco, it is poor taste to discuss specific sums of money,” said his father.

Despite himself, Draco was amused that in the midst of their home and their lives falling apart, his father was still lecturing him on how to be a proper pureblood gentleman. Draco rather thought the time for that had passed, but his father had so little about his former life left that he kept these thoughts to himself.

“Of course, father,” he said, a shadow of the proud and dutiful son he’d been a little over a year ago. He glanced around the room and grabbed his suit jacket off the bed and shrugged it on.

“I have every hope that this exercise will be rather uneventful for you,” said Lucius.

Draco looked up from buttoning the jacket, “Why?”

“No one can see the house.”

“Excuse me?”

“It appears to be under a spell. Probably the Fidelius Charm and possibly some protective magic left over from the Blacks. If it is under the Fidelius Charm, unless the location has been revealed to you by the secret keeper, you won’t be able to find it.”

“Then what are we watching?”

“Well, we can get close. We know where the house used to be after all. And they may slip up and arrive outside the house’s barrier and be spotted. It’s a bit of a stretch I grant you, but it is a home that the Potter brat owns, so there is always a chance that he is there.”

Lucius exited the room and Draco followed. In the corridor, a portrait dressed in clothing from two hundred years ago said, “I never thought I’d see the day that a Malfoy cowered in fear in his own home.”

“Quiet,” said my father, “Or I’ll make it so you cannot speak again.”

The ancestor in the portrait put his hands on his hips and sneered in a very recognizable way – a very Malfoy way - before saying in a clipped, precise manner, “And with what wand shall you silence me you degenerate weakling? You are a disgrace to the Malfoy name and to this house.”

“I still know how to use a blade,” snarled Lucius, his eyes wild.

Oh for Merlin’s sake. The man arguing with a painting had once been his peerless father. Draco didn’t think he could witness much more of this.

“Father,” he said, catching his attention for a moment, then he gave the older man a nod before heading to the drawing room. He stopped to compose his thoughts before entering. The Dark Lord was there, along with the Goyle, the male Carrow, and Rowle. The great snake curled around the Dark Lord’s chair and Draco gave it wide berth. The other Death Eater’s gave Draco nods in acknowledgement of his arrival, but Rowle did not meet Draco’s eye. The disgraced man’s time in purgatory was apparently over, and he was being given relatively menial tasks. At least Draco assumed the task was menial if he was included in it.

“If any of you see Harry Potter,” ordered the Dark Lord, “Summon me. You shall not pursue him. I must be the one to handle him.”

“Yes, my lord,” Draco murmured along with the others.

With a wave of his hand, Lord Voldemort dismissed them.

As the group exited the hall to walk outside of the Manor’s wards and anti-apparition zone, Draco asked the senior Goyle, “Where are we going.”

“To the old Black mansion.”

“I don’t know where that is,” said Draco.

The older Goyle gave him a puzzled look before asking, “Didn’t you ever go there? Walburga Black was still alive when you were young. She was your mother’s aunt.”

Draco shook his head, “No. I think my mother went to see her occasionally, but I don’t recall that she ever took me.”

Goyle chuckled, “Well, Walburga was a few sickles short of a galleon toward the end. Not long after her son Regulus died her husband passed, and their deaths really took everything out of her.”

The sun was warm on his back. He was starting to think he’d over dressed for an August outing in his black suit. He might have to cast a cooling charm. The estate’s white peacocks ambled about near the drive, their feathers draping across the lawn.

“Did you know Regulus?” he asked.

“Not well. He was a behind me in school – knew him a bit after he left Hogwarts of course. Excellent potions brewer. Brilliant mind from what I’ve heard. Both of the Black boys were rumored to be exceptionally intelligent. He was also a fine duelist and knew more hexes and curses than anyone that young I’d ever met.”

They reached the gate and pushed through. Carrow and Rowle disapparated almost immediately.

“Where are we going?” Draco called out, afraid he’d get left behind.

“London, 12 Grimmauld Place,” said Goyle before disapparating himself.

Draco stood alone. Merlin, really? Twelve Grimmuald Place, London. Oh hell. That was what was written on the box Dumbledore had left him. It was the address of the Black family ancestral home – the home that Regulus grew up in. Why had Dumbledore left him this address?

He took a moment to calm himself before focusing on the location. He felt everything go dark and his body was pressed from all sides – breathing became difficult and he felt his body being squeezed tightly as if being forced through the eye of a needle. At last he stood gasping on a sidewalk by a small park. A row of townhouses were across from him. He hated apparition. He hoped he’d get used it to the more he did it.

“Can only see numbers 11 and 13,” he heard Carrow complain. “Even Bellatrix couldn’t see it for all she likes to brag about being a Black.”

He stared in the direction where the others were looking and saw a multistoried home with the number 11 on its door, flanked by another house directly beside it labelled 13.

“Well, find a spot to be comfortable and inconspicuous to keep watch of the area,” said Goyle.

Draco gasped. A door was starting to press its way between numbers 11 and 13. These houses shifted to make room, and a house grew between them. It too, was a multistoried structure, the style and detail of the home spoke of a grand past, but the paint was peeling off the brickwork and the windows were covered in grime. A tarnished plaque affixed to the brickwork close to the door proclaimed that this was number twelve.

Draco blinked. The house was still there. Twelve Grimmauld Place was still there in all of its shabby glory. He turned to look at his companions. They didn’t mention the sudden appearance of the house. He rubbed his eyes, but it didn’t change what he was seeing.

“Draco,” said Goyle to his right, “Do you see someone?”

Draco looked at his friend’s father. The man was looking back at him, his square face intent. Draco concentrated on sealing off his mind.

“No,” Draco said, “I don’t see anyone.”

“Well, you know best among us what Potter looks like, and you know what do to if you see him.”

He nodded, his gaze riveted by the house – the Black family house. The others were starting to stare at him, so he reluctantly turned away and scanned the street.

The Death Eaters spread out around the square. Draco stood by a stone pillar at the park’s entrance. Wrought iron fencing ran around the green.

He kept reminding himself to be calm and to breathe. Why could he see the house and the others couldn’t? Was it because he was a Black? But then why hadn’t Bellatrix seen it? The box – the bloody box from Dumbledore had the address carved on the lid. Had Dumbledore been the secret keeper for the Fidelius Charm? Had he revealed the location to Draco? But that didn’t make any sense. Why in the hell would Dumbledore reveal the location of Harry Potter’s house to him of all people in the Wizarding world?

He knew he should tell the others that he could see the old mansion. He knew that was what was expected, but he didn’t want them to know. Dumbledore, curse him, had trusted Draco with this information, revealing the charmed and protected house to him. He groaned internally. The dead man had offered him mercy and Draco didn’t want to betray the trust he’d bestowed on him. He rather thought the trust was misplaced, but the man wasn’t around to argue with.

Even as his thoughts were jarring through his head, he became conscious of Muggles going about with their lives. They walked up and down the street, and cars drove by. He noticed that most of the passersby were gawking at the other Death Eaters, who were dressed in dark robes. Draco was probably the most inconspicuous member of the group, but even he stood out from the Muggles – or at least the Muggles who appeared to be his age. They were dressed rather more casually then himself. Potter had been raised by Muggles. If he was in the Black House, he’d be able to look out the street facing windows and tell in an instant that the house was being watched. This whole outing was striking Draco as being more and more ridiculous.

The day dragged. Draco started to stroll the street. There was no sign of Potter or of anyone going to and from the Black Mansion. The Muggles never gave it a glance. He doubted that they could see it any more than the other Death Eaters could. Muggles did, however, stare at him. He heard snatches of whispers, “Must be coming back from a funeral.”

Draco looked down at his suit again. It was rather severe he supposed. Merlin, he wasn’t coming back here dressed like this again.

At dusk, there was still no sign of Potter, however, other Death Eaters arrived to relieve them. He disapparated back to the Manor and promptly closed himself in his room. He called for Mip and made sure that meals were still being regularly taken to Ollivander. Then he sat down in front of his trunk and rummaged around to pull out a pair of jeans and a navy t-shirt. He’d bought some casual Muggle-style clothes during fifth year when he, Blaise, and Theo had snuck out from Blaise’s during Christmas break to go to a Muggle cinema. On a lark and a bit of a dare, they’d gone to see a film called, “Dumb and Dumber,” which he had found to be disgusting and nonsensical. But Blaise had been adamant that they dress the part for seeing the film and had taken them on a shopping expedition to Muggle London. They’d had to stop off at Gringotts to exchange galleons for strange Muggle money. Blaise had helped them make selections as he regularly wore Muggle clothing, insisting it was trendy. Draco thinks it was more likely that Blaise wore the clothes as a form of rebellion to annoy his mother.

The clothes were almost two years old now, and he’d grown since he’d last worn them. He couldn’t fasten the jeans and they were inches too short. The shirt was also rather too tight – particularly in the chest and shoulders. He stood before his mirror and cast the few spells he’d learned from his mother, who insisted that every gentleman know the basics of having a tailored wardrobe. After about ten minutes and several swear words, the clothes were passable and at least fit him now. He’d also spelled the sleeves of the shirt long – he didn’t want his Mark showing. Muggles wouldn’t know what it was, but there might be wizards interspersed amongst them.

He took another look in the mirror with a sigh. He doubted he’d ever look as casual as Muggle teenagers who didn’t have to share a house with a Dark Lord who regularly threatened to kill them and their family, but he hoped he’d look less conspicuous standing around Grimmauld Place.

He slept fitfully again. He’d dearly wanted to take some more Dreamless Sleep, but he knew it could become highly addictive. As he stared at the dark circles under his eyes, he wondered how long it would be until he reached a point that he didn’t care. It wasn’t as if his life was stellar now, how much worse would it be to be a Dreamless Sleep addict? He donned his Muggle clothes and descended the stairs to meet the others apparating to 12 Grimmauld Place at the appointed time. Goyle and Rowle were giving him grim looks. He guessed they didn’t like his attire.

“Where’s Carrow?” he asked.

Bellatrix strode into the hall and said, “He has another assignment today. I’ll be coming with you.” She wrinkled her nose at Draco, “You look a disgrace wearing filthy Mudblood clothes.”

“I’m trying not to be noticed unlike some of us,” he said sweeping his eyes up and down his aunt’s all black, corsetted, and rather tight ensemble.

“Do not forget who you are speaking to little Draco,” she said.

He didn’t want her to be anywhere near him at Grimmauld Place. There was a chance she’d be able to tell that he could see number twelve. He couldn’t, however, help but rub it in that she couldn’t see the house.

“Why are you being assigned to such a trivial task dear aunt?” he asked. “It’s not as if you can see the mansion or get in. As the oldest Black descendant not removed from the family tree, why is that?”

She took a step toward him, her face pale with fury.

“Sirius was oldest surviving male. The house went to him. Old, ancient magic woven in to the home undoubtedly favored him despite his defects,” she said. She grabbed him by his shoulder, her nails digging in. “Be careful nephew. You are the last male descendant of the Blacks, yet I think you are going to be just as bad as Sirius and Regulus. Traitors and cowards. Think of what will happen to your mother and your spineless father if you turned tail and ran like they did. I was there the day Sirius left. He was nothing but a sniveling mess, unwilling and unable to do his duty.”

Draco kept his mind closed to her. He would not let her see his worry or his fear. He would not risk his mother by dropping his defenses.

“Unhand me aunt. I do believe we have a duty to the Dark Lord right now. One that I don’t intend to shirk.”

“What do you know of duty? You are as bad as those on the other side when it comes to shirking duties. Did you know, the werewolf appears to have left Andromeda’s daughter. Not that it will help that line – blood-traitors that they are. I supposed I should be pleased. Maybe I should send a nice note.”

“I said unhand me.” He shook himself free and headed out the door and down the drive. He made sure his steps were purposeful and that his breathing was steady. He would not give Bellatrix the satisfaction of seeing him anything less than composed. He was a damned Malfoy – and a Black – and she could go right to hell if she didn’t like it.

Once outside the gates, he apparated to Grimmauld Place without a backward glance at the others. Once again, number twelve appeared in front of him. He found a park bench this time with a view of the house and sat down to watch. The other Death Eaters arrived shortly after, and as he predicted, they stuck out horribly. Wizards were unaccountably daft sometimes, it was truly mind-boggling. Bellatrix in particular stood out. She made no attempt to blend in. Her sole concession had been to wear a cloak with a hood, but Draco rather thought the hood was to shield her from other wizards, not from Muggles, as she was technically an escaped convict from Azkahban.

He watched the house. The day wore on and he ignored the ache in his stomach. Even if he had food in front of him, he doubted he’d eat much of it. His eyes were drifting down the street, Muggle watching, when a flash of movement caught his eye. He drew a breath. He looked over to the doorstep of number twelve. He didn’t see anything, but the moment before, he thought he had seen a flash of – well - something. He blinked. The door of the house opened and suddenly there was Potter standing inside the doorway. It was definitely Potter – he’d recognize the unruly black hair and the frame of the boy anywhere. Potter turned to look out across the street briefly. Draco thought he could almost see a flash of his green eyes. Merlin, those eyes. Would they ever stop haunting him?

Potter turned away and shut the door firmly behind him.

It was only then that Draco remembered he was supposed to have reported seeing Potter. He sat up and scanned down the street. The other Death Eaters were still facing the place where number twelve was supposed to be. None of them gave so much as a sign that they’d seen the Chosen One.

His heart started to hammer. He’d just let Harry Potter go. It hadn’t crossed his mind for a moment while he’d seen the other boy that he should stun him or bind him. He hadn’t thought of reaching for his wand at all. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Potter loathed him and he loathed Potter in return. That’s how it had always been – how it always could ever be. He slumped against the back of the bench. He was a disaster of a Death Eater - he couldn’t be anything else when he was secretly glad that Potter was alive and free.

Notes:

This is the last summer chapter - looking forward to Draco's return to Hogwarts.

Chapter 9: The Silver Watch

Notes:

Hogwarts bound at last!

Draco’s school trunk was packed. The green snake of the Slytherin house adorning the lid no longer sparked the feelings it once did. Looking at it now he couldn’t help but think of the Dark Lord’s great snake. He’d grown up on stories of Hogwarts and the noble house of Slytherin, and it had been the only house he’d wanted to be sorted in to. Both his parents had been Slytherins - as had all the Malfoys and the Blacks… Well except for Sirius, but he’d never been spoken of in any but the most derogatory of fashions and always in hints and whispers. It was as if the man hadn’t existed. Neither of the Black brothers were really mentioned. He knew of them only vaguely, and he had of course seen their names on the tapestry of the Black family tree his mother had brought with her to the Manor when she’d married his father. He knew nothing of them as people. He got the sense that Sirius wasn’t often mentioned as he was considered a family disgrace as a Gryffindor and a blood traitor. Regulus, however, he was a different matter. He’d been the heir after Sirius was disowned. He’d gleaned bits of information about him over the years, mostly comments from his father and more recently from Bellatrix. Draco knew his mother’s cousin had been a Slytherin and, like Draco, had been Marked at sixteen.

He patted his trouser pocket checking for the box with the snitch. He exhaled with relief as his hand closed around the familiar shape. He was afraid he would lose it and carried it with him always.

He’d packed pretty much the same things he had every year for Hogwarts. There was very little new in his trunk. He and his mother hadn’t gone out shopping to Diagon Alley. The shops were half empty, and until the recent news of Snape’s appointment as headmaster, Draco wasn’t sure he’d be welcome back at Hogwarts. He knew Potter would have told everyone what he and Snape had done on the Astronomy Tower, but somehow, whatever Potter had said didn’t matter, and both he and Snape would be returning. He also hadn’t been sure if the Dark Lord would let him return to school, but Lord Voldemort had ordered that he go and be another set of eyes and ears there. He’d grown a bit over the summer, and he’d used magic to lengthen all his robes, trouser legs, and sleeves a bit. It would do. Besides, if there was anything he needed once he got back to school, he’d owl for it.

While he was relieved to be leaving this house behind, he was worried about Ollivander. He’d rarely been assigned to guard the man since he’d been tortured by Wormtail at the Dark Lord’s order. He’d ordered Mip to make sure Ollivander continued to be fed three meals a day, but someone else in his family could always order Mip to stop while he was away. Merlin, he didn’t want to leave the wandmaker behind in this hellscape. He would be glad to leave off from watching 12 Grimmauld Place. It had been trying not to slip to the others that he could see the damn house. He’d not seen Potter since that second day he’d been assigned there. He’d both hoped and feared he'd catch another glimpse of the boy.

There was a wrap at the door. “Draco?”

“Come in mother.”

Narcissa let herself in the room and glanced at his trunk.

“I can’t believe it will be your final year at Hogwarts. I’m so very proud of you Draco.”

He couldn’t help but rub the spot on his left arm that bore the Dark Mark. “Are you really?”

Narcissa paused. For a moment, her mask of indifference fell and she looked sad.

“I wish you had been able to have different choices,” she said slowly. “I am happy you are going back to Hogwarts. With Severus as headmaster, you will be safe there. Safer than…”

Even without finishing the thought he knew that she meant safer than here – at his ancestral home. Neither of his parents could protect him here. He was both relieved and afraid to be returning to Hogwarts as well. All summer he had worried if he would get to go back, or if the Dark Lord would require him to remain at the Manor to prove his usefulness. While he wanted to be out of this house and the horrors it came to possess, returning to the school where he’d plotted Dumbledore’s death filled him with dread. How could he focus on NEWTs with the War raging and worrying about what part he would be expected to play in it?

Narcissa stepped closer to him and held a hand to his cheek for a moment before holding out a small box.

“I brought this for you.”

He took the box in his hands and opened the lid to find a silver pocket watch.

“You should have gotten a watch on your seventeenth birthday, but…”

But he’d been at Hogwarts, under threat of death unless he brought down Dumbledore and his father had been in Azkahban. He picked up the watch by its chain. Initials that were not his own were engraved on the lid.

“R.A.B.,” he read aloud.

“Regulus Arcturus Black. My cousin,” said his mother.

Draco’s breath hitched in recognition – Regulus – Regulus Arcturus Black. He ran his thumb over the watch and pressed the button springing the lid open. Instead of watch hands circling the face, there were stars.

“It was his. With everything as it is, your father and I weren’t able to get you a new watch as we’d once planned. Your father was set on getting you a gold watch – Malfoy tradition,” she said. “But Regulus - the last time I saw him - he gave this to me. He asked me to give it to you. I thought you should have it now, before you go. It’s probably more fitting for you than what your father had once planned.”

He looked at the watch face again and stars appeared in the center. They swirled before his eyes before forming the shape of the constellation that was his namesake.

“It’s really a nice bit of a magic,” said his mother. “When Regulus owned it, the constellation that appeared was Leo, of which his star was the brightest.”

Leo the Lion. The star of Regulus was the constellation’s heart.

“He meant for me to have this? He knew about me?”

His mother turned from him and walked toward the window overlooking the grounds. Her voice drifted back to him, “Before he disappeared, I told him I was pregnant. I’d always been close to him. He was the younger of my Black cousins, but unlike Sirius, he was proud of what the House of Black stood for. We were also in the same house at school. I’d asked him to be your godfather,” she said before pausing. When she spoke again, her voice was even softer, “The day before he was last seen, he came to me and brought me this watch. He asked that I give it to my child – to the next Black heir.”

Draco twisted the watch chain in his fingers. “You never speak of him. I’ve heard…I’ve heard that he was a coward who ran away from the Dark Lord. But I also heard he was loyal to the Cause. I don’t know what to believe.”

Narcissa turned to look at him. “Some things are too hard to speak of. I’ve never believed Regulus was a coward. He protected his family with everything he did – he protected you. I’m certain of it.” She drew a deep breath, “And you my son – for all that you bear Malfoy locks – you remind me so much of him.”

She walked back to him and took the watch from his hands and fastened it to him. “You have his eyes,” she said as she tucked the watch into his pocket. “Be safe my son.”

Draco held his mother’s hand for a moment, meeting her eyes. “You too, mother.”

She nodded at him before summoning a house elf. Mip appeared with a crack. “See that Master Draco’s trunk gets delivered to platform 9 and ¾.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said the elf before disapparating with the trunk.

Draco took one last look around his room. He’d always felt secure in this space, until this last year. He turned to the door, and standing in the doorway was his father. He looked hunched and drawn.

“Do whatever Severus asks of you,” said his father. “He’ll see you through.”

Draco nodded. Lucius gave him one last, long look and then turned away toward his own rooms, offering no words of farewell or solace.

“He loves you Draco,” said his mother, giving him one final squeeze and departing. He knew neither of them would be seeing him to the station. His father was technically an outlaw as a prison escapee, and was confined to the Manor, trading one prison for another. While Dementors were wretched creatures, he couldn’t help but think that Lucius’s life was likely in more danger here with Dark Lord than it had been in prison.

He descended the stairs. He had a half an hour to walk down the long drive and out the gates, where he could disapparate to the train station. Plenty of time. As he crossed the hall, his aunt sauntered out of the drawing room, and called out to him.

“Darling boy,” she said in a tone that did not match her words, “Off to school are we?”

He paused out of a sense of politeness that had been ingrained him by his parents. “Yes, aunt.”

She drew closer. “You are of age now Draco. Your choices will have consequences.”

“I am aware,” he said, willing himself not to think of all the wretched choices he’d already made in the days after his seventeenth birthday.

His aunt darted out her hand and grabbed hold of his watch chain and pulled the watch free. She held it in her hand for a moment, tipping it so that the light caught on the engraving.

“This was Regulus’s,” she said, before staring Draco directly in the eyes. “The Black brothers weren’t worthy of the name. Sirius especially was a disgrace to the blood. And you, little boy, if you aren’t careful, you’ll end up just like him.”

He plucked the watch from her palm and tucked it back into his pocket. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She smiled at him, her teeth bared. “You forget yourself. I spent entirely too much time sifting through your thoughts when I taught you Occlumency.” She ran a hand across his shoulders and chest. He held his breath even as his skin crawled at her touch. “I know what you desire Draco – your mind in its innermost recesses longs for lean, masculine frames. I’m afraid you are impure – like Sirius – unable to do his duty to the family because of his…weaknesses. You are the last legitimate heir of the Blacks and Malfoys. You have a duty to continue the lines despite your…tendencies.”

She patted his cheek. “Be mindful Draco. Remember how Sirius ended up.” She tossed her head, her hair rioting around her face, before she walked down the hall, laughing.

What the fuck. He exhaled a shaky breath. He couldn’t deal with this right now. He had enough he was already dealing with, and his – whatever his desires were – they were not on the list. He clenched his jaw and marched toward the door. He needed to get out of here now.

He arrived at King’s Cross Station breathless from his almost run down the Manor’s drive. In his haste, he’d nearly splinched himself, the skin on his arms felt tight, but he seemed to be all there. He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on breathing for a moment. He could do this. He was Draco Malfoy. It was his final year at Hogwarts and he could do this. He walked with purpose to Platform 9 and ¾ and when he emerged through the gate and saw the scarlet train waiting for him, he felt his heart lift for the first time in months.

The platform was filled with students and families. He could easily pick out the new students – they seemed so tiny. Had he really been that small at eleven? But this year, the joyful babble of voices was absent. Families huddled together, silent or speaking barely above a whisper. The only people that seemed to be conversing at a normal volume was Longbottom and his grandmother, and he wasn’t sure if it was because they were foolhardy or if it was because she suffered from hearing loss.

He made his way through the groups of people. He saw people turn to stare at him before quickly looking away. He thought he heard someone whisper, “Death Eater,” but he couldn’t be sure. He held his head high and mounted the steps to the train. Once aboard, he searched the compartments until he found one with Vince, Greg, Pansy, and Theo. He nodded in greeting before sitting down beside Pansy. He’d have to go the prefects meeting shortly. He couldn’t help but think that it was such a sham that he was a prefect after everything he had done. He hadn’t help make Hogwarts a better a place, no, at the end of last term he’d let his mad aunt and Fenrir Greyback into the school among others.

The compartment door pulled open, and Blaise Zabini stepped in. “They’re saying that Potter isn’t on the train. Neither are Granger or the last Weasley boy.”

Draco’s breath caught. He’d known Potter would likely not return to Hogwarts. With the Dark Lord in charge of the school by proxy, the castle would no longer be safe for the Chosen One. And with the Prophet calling Potter the most wanted wizard for questioning about Dumbledore’s death, Potter was likely not safe anywhere. He shuddered to think of what would happen if Potter was found and made to talk about that night on the Astronomy Tower. Draco would be hated. He’d failed to be loyal to his headmaster, and he’d failed to be loyal to Lord Voldemort.

“Good riddance,” said Pansy, breaking through his thoughts. “They always thought they were better than everyone else.”

“Coward, that’s what Potter is,” said Vince.

“He’s not a coward,” said Draco, surprising himself by his admission.

“What’d you say?” asked Vince.

Draco looked around the compartment at the faces of his friends. They all looked older than their seventeen years – harder.

“Potter is many things, but he’s not a coward,” he said. Draco remembered how the boy had pursued him and the other Death Eaters across the grounds of Hogwarts alone after Dumbledore had fallen from the Astronomy Tower. How he had sent curses after Snape and declared him a traitor and a coward. He remembered also all the times his father had wondered aloud that the boy had fallen through the Dark Lord’s clutches. Potter hadn’t even been of age any of the times he’d faced the Dark Lord. If he’d been a coward he’d have turned his back on the wizarding world and attempted to disappear years ago.

Across the aisle Vince kicked him in his shin. “What about you Draco? My father says you and your father are in disgrace with the Dark Lord. Are you a coward?”

Draco was careful to keep his face neutral. Never before had Vince questioned his authority. He had fallen far for the burly boy to do so. He raised his chin in an imitation of his former self, “Don’t speak of what you don’t know.”

The train gave a warning whistle. He pulled out his watch. The train would be departing any minute.

“Things are changing Draco. Soon those who are loyal to the Dark Lord will be in favor. Dumbledore’s gone. Potter is missing. No one will be standing in our way,” said Vince, and Greg sat beside him nodding his head.

“You question my loyalty?” asked Draco. “What about you both? Neither of you bear the Mark.”

Vince scowled. “You didn’t earn your Dark Mark Draco. It was thrust on you to make up for your father’s failures. Greg’s father was there – he told us.”

Greg nodded his round face in agreement again and then stilled suddenly. He’d always followed Draco’s lead. This turn of events was probably wreaking havoc for him..

“Besides,” said Vince, cracking his knuckles as he spoke, “We’ll have the chance to earn our Marks this year with Snape in charge and the Carrows on staff.”

“Good luck with that,” said Blaise coolly.

“What?” asked Vince.

“By all means, do what you must, but I’ll not be seeking the attention of either side in this war,” said the tall boy, stretching out his limbs elegantly.

“You a coward as well?” asked Vince, his tone accusing.

Blaise shrugged. “It benefits myself and my family to be as close to invisible as we can be. I’ll do my best to keep it that way. That’s not cowardly, rather it is very Slytherin of me to be concerned about my own self-preservation.”

The train engine blew two sharp blasts, and within moments, the train started to move away from the platform.

Theo spoke up from his spot wedged between Greg and the wall. “I doubt I’d much benefit the Dark Lord. Whatever my father thinks, I’m with Blaise on this one. My mother is too. She thinks my father is a git. I think they’re only still married to avoid the gossip – and so my mother still has access to his magnificent vault.”

Pansy turned to Draco and ran her hand over his left arm. He resisted the urge to shake her off as he needed allies, but he’d been stupid to tell her about the Mark at the beginning of last term.

“We all know how much responsibility Draco was given last year,” she said. “I don’t think anyone can question his loyalty.”

He slowly drew his arm away from the girl and crossed it over his chest. She’d said her piece, and he didn’t want her touching the Dark Mark. He wanted, most days, to forget that it was even there, but it was as permanent as the scars that laced across his chest. He thought for a moment that if instead of offering him mercy, Dumbledore, had cursed him that wretched night on the Astronomy Tower, that his pale body would bear the scars of the three most powerful wizards of this age.

Damn Dumbledore, and his kindness.

He shook himself free of his thoughts and pulled out his pocket watch. “I have a prefects meeting to get to, best come along Pansy. Vince – it’s been lovely,” he said, trying his best to sound bored. He stood and slid open the door and let Pansy exit before him.

“Wait – Draco,” said Vince, who stood and rummaged in a bag for a moment before drawing out a wrapped package. “Saw this and thought I’d get it for you.”

The package was wrapped in green paper. “You got me a gift?”

The taller boy smirked. “It’s nothing really.”

He took the package, unsure of how to respond. Finally his manners kicked in. “Thanks…”

He slid the door closed and stuffed the parcel in case. He’d open it somewhere private. For all he knew it could be a box with a poisonous snake.

The train where the prefects met looked near empty. As the students gathered, it became clear that others besides Granger and the Weasley boy had not returned. Those two had been shoe-ins for Head Girl and Head Boy with all of their Gryffindor self-righteousness. Who would take those roles now? Everyone else in his year seemed to be there – Patil, Goldstein, Abbot, and MacMillan. He wondered if these meeting would go faster without Granger to prattle on and Weasley to back her up. This hope was dashed, however, when Alecto Carrow entered the carriage flanked by her brother, Amycus.

All the students hushed to stare at these unknown adults. Draco, of course, knew them, and he couldn’t say he was pleased to see them.

“As you may have heard, there have been changes in the leadership of Hogwarts,” said Alecto, without bothering to greet the students. “Headmaster Snape will be assisted by myself and my brother,” she nodded her head toward the severe looking man. “We shall be in charge of discipline at the school.”

There were some murmurs among the students – namely those who were not sorted into Slytherin.

“The Mudblood Granger has not returned. And Ronald Weasley, we understand, is bed-ridden with illness. No new Gryffindors shall be appointed to replace them,” said Alecto.

“Who will be Head Girl and Boy?” asked Patil.

“Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson,” said Amycus.

He felt his stomach drop, but he remained perfectly still, even as he saw the glares of the Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Gryffindors directed at him.

“Any infractions are to be reported to us immediately,” said Alecto. “We will determine appropriate punishments and we will look to you to mete them out.”

“You mean we’ll have to sit for detention with students who break the rules?” asked Patil.

“You’ll find that we be replacing those…more ineffective methods of punishment with methods that will have more lasting impact,” said Alecto.

“Corporeal punishment,” said Amycus, “Was sadly discontinued under Dumbledore’s leadership.”

“You want us to…to hurt other students?” asked MacMillan. “That isn’t right.” Draco was impressed that the Hufflepuff had dared open his mouth, however, MacMillan had always taken his duties as prefect seriously.

Alecto stalked towards MacMillan. “You will do your duty as a prefect. If you refuse, you will be replaced by a student worthy of the position.”

MacMillan met the woman’s stare. He didn’t look away. Draco couldn’t help but reflect that the Hufflepuff had more of a backbone than he’d ever possess. He wondered for a moment what Potter would have done if confronted with the Carrows. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t have gone well. Potter had rebelled under Umbridge in her brief stint as Headmistress, and he doubted the Gryffindor would have stood for whatever horrors the Carrows had planned.

“You are all dismissed,” seethed Alecto when it became clear that MacMillan was not going to look away. The woman turned on her heel and sped out of the carriage. Her brother gave the group a last look and followed in her wake.

“This is your fault,” said MacMillan turning toward Draco and Pansy.

“Our fault?” said Pansy.

“This is all you Slytherins have wanted – to rule over everyone,” said the Hufflepuff boy, “I hope you’ll be happy.”

Everyone was glaring at the group of Slytherin students, causing them to draw closer together. Draco lifted his chin in an imitation of the haughty boy he’d once been. “Come along Pansy – we apparently, have to go plot what we’ll do with all the power that has been thrust upon us.”

He held the door to the carriage open and made sure every Slytherin student had exited. He met MacMillan’s eyes, reached for his trademark smirk, and walked away.

Chapter 10: A Subdued Sorting

The train shivered to a stop in billows of steam. The first year students were whisked away to cross the lake, but instead of being met by Hagrid, it had been McGonagall who greeted them. The older students awaited their carriages. Slytherin House students stood in a group, while the other three houses mixed together, leaving a wide and obvious breach between them and the students adorned in green and silver ties.

“They’re all just jealous,” said Vince standing beside him.

“Right. Jealous,” said Blaise.

Draco doubted that Vince was nuanced enough to catch the sarcasm in the other boy’s tone, but he hadn’t missed it. He looked around at the other students, many of whom were casting hard, furtive glances at the Slytherins, while others purposefully looked away. No, these students weren’t jealous - they were a mix of livid and scared. The whole world had changed over the summer. Dumbledore’s downfall and Voldemort’s ascension had upended the natural order all of these students had grown up with.

As the carriages arrived, Draco started. They were being pulled by creatures he’d never seen before. They looked like winged-horses in form, but their skeletal appearance and taught, stretched skin made them look reptilian. He saw steam rising up their nostrils. They were terrible, and yet, somehow beautiful in their darkness.

Vince and Greg muscled their way into the lead carriage. In a sign of how the times had changed, they didn’t bother wait for Draco to lead the way, nor did they invite him along. This was fine by Draco, he was still staggered by the creatures pulling the carriages.

“You see them this year, don’t you,” asked Blaise quietly.

Draco turned to the other boy. “What are they?”

“Thestrals. You only see them if you’ve seen death.”

Draco worked quickly to shut off his mind, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid seeing flashes of Dumbledore’s and Burbage’s faces. He remembered, from a time that seemed long ago, Hagrid talking about thestrals in care of magical creatures class. That had been when? Fifth year? He hadn’t seen anything then, and had thought perhaps the giant of a man had been having them all on, except some students had said they could see them.

“Who did you see die?” asked Draco.

“One of my step-fathers,” said Blaise, without offering any other additional information. Draco left it at that. He knew the other boy’s mother had a reputation for marrying extremely wealthy, and often older, men who all had the habit of dying mysteriously.

Blaise looked at him a moment, but didn’t ask whose death Draco had seen, and for this, he was grateful.

“Come on Draco,” said Pansy, flouncing toward the next carriage. Despite his reservations, he found himself ensconced with Pansy, Blaise, and Millicent in a carriage being pulled toward Hogwarts. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the thestrals. As a Malfoy and Slytherin, he’d always been fascinated by dark magic and dark creatures. These creatures were no exception. He hated that he could see them though. It was one more confirmation of everything that had changed – that a part of his life had been ripped away.

The group of students entered the castle together and found the Great Hall lit with suspended candles just like always. The Slytherin table filled first, and the other three house tables filled in waves as the students of other houses arrived. He glanced over at the Gryffindor table and had a moment of shock when he saw Longbottom, Finnigan, Brown, and Patil sitting at the end of the table as head of the oldest students. The boy that Finnigan always chummed around with was absent, but not seeing the golden trio was truly jarring. Potter had always been with Granger and that red-headed Weasley. Not seeing them with the other Gryffindors unsettled him more than he liked to admit.

As the final students took their seats, the professors arranged themselves at the head table. Hagrid was gone, and so was Firenze. The half-breed and creature loyal to Dumbledore certainly wouldn’t be allowed back to Hogwarts now. And of course, Burbage was absent.

Sitting in the Headmaster’s chair, dressed in unrelieved black, was Snape. He didn’t look out at the students with a half-smile on his face the way Dumbledore had. No, his face was as dour and unwelcoming as ever.

He sat back to watch McGonagall shepherd the first years and a handful of older students to the front of the hall to be sorted. He noticed that there weren’t as many new students this year. Muggleborns weren’t permitted to attend anymore, and those of mixed ancestry had to prove that at least one parent was a known witch or wizard. He wondered if class sizes would shrink to the point that Hogwarts could no longer sustain itself, then he retreated from that thought. Death Eaters weren’t supposed to think that way he reminded himself.

After the sorting, five very young looking children joined his table at the far end, and an older boy hovered around the middle of the table for a bit looking uncomfortable before finding an empty space. Draco watched as the new, young Slytherins marvel as their ties striped themselves in green and silver. As the last of the exclamations of wonder died away, Snape rose.

Everyone hushed. He noticed Longbottom sit up straighter.

“I have been appointed Headmaster due to the regretful passing of Albus Dumbledore,” said Snape.

Draco heard Vince and Greg snort.

“I take this appointment seriously, and here at Hogwarts we are committed to imparting you with a solid magical education. In that vein, there have been changes to the staff. Older students will recognize Professor Grubby-Plank. She will be leading all Care of Magical Creatures classes. Muggle Studies will be taught by Professor Alecto Carrow and Dark Arts shall be led by Professor Amycus Carrow. After due consideration it has been determined that Muggle Studies is a class of great importance, and as such, will be compulsory for all students.”

Greg nudged him with an elbow. This news was unexpected. Muggle Studies? Mandatory?

“In addition to new first-years, due to the Ministry’s change in school attendance requirements, some upper level students have transferred in from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, or are matriculating to school for the first time after learning at home. They have been sorted into their houses and I trust they will be made to feel welcome.”

Draco turned to glance at the new Slytherin. He had brown hair that curled slightly at the top of head. He wondered where the new boy had gone to school previously.

“As always, the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden,” continued Snape. “Curfews shall be strictly adhered to. Rule breaking will be dealt with appropriately. I urge all students to follow the rules expected and to be diligent in their coursework. If those simple tasks are followed, much will be achieved this year.”

You could have heard a wand drop. Snape’s words lacked the levity and zest that Dumbledore’s always had.

Snape gave a lazy wave of his hand, and the tables filled with the customary feast. The roar of voices he remembered in past years was mostly absent. Only the Slytherin table seemed to be in festive spirits. Draco filled his plate out of habit, but he pushed most of the food around rather than eat it. He stared down at the new boy who looked rather lost.

Pansy nudged him, drawing his attention to her.

“What’s wrong with you Draco? Last year I get that you were stressed as hell, but this year – this is your year,” said Pansy with a shake of her head. “Your wretched scarred nemesis isn’t even here, and Slytherins are in charge – and you - you are practically the lord of Slytherin.”

Draco looked away from his friend and resumed pushing his food with his fork. He didn’t want to think of the word “lord” being associated with him. He’d had quite enough self-proclaimed lords in his life thank you very much.

“I mean it Draco – you should be loving this. I missed you last year – I missed your biting wit. I hope that version of you comes back soon.”

He took a deep breath. “I’d like that too Pans, I would but…it’s all just off right now.”

Pansy dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Fine. Well, I’m off then.” She rose from the bench, and beckoned the first years to hear. “I’ll see you in the common room. Do try to make an effort Draco.”

He watched her go in a swish of robes. He should get up and help her with the first years, but he didn’t feel like it. He wished he could still be the boy she remembered before sixth year, but he couldn’t. Not now. Maybe never again. Too much had happened. He’d seen and done too much. Before sixth year, he’d have agreed with her – he should be reveling in his final year of Hogwarts. Slytherins were ascendant, and Potter and his friends were not around to stop his fun. He kept looking over at the Gryffindor table for the bespectacled boy whose magic snapped with power. In a weird way that he couldn’t really understand, Potter had kept him grounded. He’d been a constant presence in Draco’s life – often an annoying one – but he’d always been there – light to Draco’s dark. Now with Potter absent, he feared that there was nothing and no one to balance him, and he didn’t like that kind of power. He feared that a part of his mind would be looking for Potter everywhere in this castle.

He glanced up at the head table. Snape was gone. If there was one thing he didn’t want this year, it was prefect duty. He’d seen and felt enough punishment at the hands of his fellow Death Eaters, and he didn’t find the prospect of delivering punishment appealing.

He rose and headed up toward the third floor, away from the other Slytherins who were making their way to the Dungeons. He’d rarely been to the headmaster’s office, but he remembered where it was. He found the gargoyle that marked the entrance and realized he didn’t know the password. Hell. He slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. This might not even be Snape’s office. Umbridge had not been admitted to this office, it had barred her entry. Maybe the magic of the school would bar Snape as well. He’d killed Dumbledore, surely the headmaster’s office would deny him entry.

“Draco,” said a languid voice.

He opened his eyes and saw Snape.

“Sir, I – ”

Snape gave a slight shake of his head and motioned for Draco to follow him. He paused at the Gargoyle and barely breathed the word, “Lilium.”

Draco gasped as the statute turned to reveal a spiral staircase. The school had accepted Snape in a way it had never accepted Umbridge. What did that mean? Without a word, Draco followed Snape up the stairs, and he heard the stone gargoyle slide back into place, barricading the stairs.

The headmaster’s office looked much like he remembered it, except that the great red phoenix and its stand were gone. A large and ancient looking pensieve took up pride of place in the circular room.

“And why aren’t you leading the Slytherin first years down to the dormitory?” asked Snape.

“Sir, I’ve been appointed Head Boy,” said Draco. “I wanted to… It’s too much. I can’t do it. I can’t. The Dark Lord, he can call me away at any time.”

“That is exactly why I have appointed you Head Boy, Draco. I need you here. You will answer to me now.”

“But Lord Voldemort, he -”

“He agrees that you are young and have much to learn. You will benefit from my tutelage, so he has placed you in my charge. You are to remain here at Hogwarts and finish out this year. Much will be expected of you as Head Boy – you will be entirely too busy for any errands that his Lordship may have for the others.”

Draco lifted his head. “I’m to stay here? All year?”

“Much will be different this year at Hogwarts. Students will look to you.”

He smirked. “No one will be looking to me, sir. I’ve fallen far.”

“I have faith in you, Draco,” said Snape, who turned to look at the portraits on the wall.

Draco realized with a start that the portrait that had pride of place was an empty frame with a plaque that read, “Albus Dumbledore.” Snape turned back and observed him looking at the previous headmaster’s frame.

“Remember, not everything is as it seems,” said Snape. “And you are welcome here, Draco, whenever you need. You heard the password I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape nodded. “No one is privy to that password. No one. Not even the Carrows. I must be summoned through the statute, and then I can grant admittance. But you, Draco, I am trusting you with this information. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand. I will tell no one.”

“Good. That is enough for tonight. You will have a full-day tomorrow.”

Draco nodded and turned to leave.

“Use you power wisely, Draco,” Snape intoned. “The Carrows, they are…eager…to bring reforms to this school. As Head Boy, you have the responsibility of deciding what merits being passed on to them.”

“They told us all on the train that they wanted everything reported to them.”

Snape shrugged, “Surely they don’t need to be informed of every trifling event. As new professors, I’m sure they will need time to focus on their . . . curriculum. And despite what they may have told you, I am the headmaster here. Understand?”

“I think so, sir,” said Draco, who understood very little of what Snape was talking about.

“Good night then, Draco,” said Snape with a wave of his hand dismissing him.

He walked back to the Slytherin dormitory. He noticed that all the other students he met in the halls walked in groups and pairs. No one else was alone. They were frightened he realized. He heard someone say, “Snake,” but he couldn’t be sure of who.

He stood outside the entrance to the dormitory. It dawned on him that he didn’t have the password here either. He leaned against the wall again. It wasn’t his night. He scanned the corridor. It was empty. He could go in search of Slughorn and get the password from him, but he didn’t really want to be alone with the professor. Draco hadn’t been good enough for old Sluggy last year, so he sure as hell wouldn’t be good enough for him this year now that he was . . . broken.

“Draco.”

He looked up and saw Greg walking toward him.

“Went looking for you. Didn’t think you’d been told the password.”

“I’m surprised you could be bothered to try and search for me.”

The larger boy stopped in front of him and shrugged. “Vince and me, we’re not the same right? I’ve known you forever.”

Draco lifted one shoulder in a bored manner. He restrained himself from displaying how relieved he was that Greg still valued him a little.

Greg turned to the bare wall that every Slytherin student knew marked the entrance and said, “Betelgeuse.”

The wall opened, revealing the common infused with green, wavering light. Draco was a bit surprised that Slughorn had veered away from potions ingredients as passwords, but he nodded his thanks to Greg and walked in.

Pansy was just finishing speaking with the new first years. She raised an eyebrow at Draco as he strode for the stairs, but she said nothing.

Once in his dorm he sank down onto the bed. His bed was the furthest from the shared lavatory door, as it always had been in all the years he’d shared a room with the four other Slytherin boys in his year. His trunk was at the foot of his bed, and his bag was resting on the desk beside it. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He supposed he should unpack so that he’d be ready for courses tomorrow. He walked over to his bag and started to rifle through it for his favorite quill when he found the package Vince had given him earlier.

The wrapping was still lovely, if a bit worn at the corners from having been tossed about in the bag. Draco pulled it out a peeled away the paper. He froze. It was a book. “The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter.”

That bastard.

That bastard had given him a book about Dumbledore.

Did he know? Did Vince know Draco hadn’t been able to kill Dumbledore – that he’d lowered his wand? But he couldn’t know. Only Potter knew that. But Vince’s father surely knew that Snape had used the killing curse on Dumbledore. He suspected that all the Death Eaters had knew that Snape had stepped in when Draco couldn’t finish the task the Dark Lord had given him.

Vince thought Draco was weak, and he was rubbing it in.

He hurled the book in the drawer of the night stand.

Fucking Vince.

He willed himself to let go of the panic and the pain, and thanked Merlin that Occlumency was a skill he had thoroughly mastered. Not only did it seal his mind from others, it helped him become . . . detached. He turned away from his night stand toward his trunk. He needed to get ready for classes tomorrow.

Notes:

I think everyone has realized that this will be a slow-burn fic. It is cannon (or as close to cannon as my memory and research allow) up through the final chapter before the epilogue of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." The epilogue and "The Cursed Child" do not exist in this story's timeline.

Chapter 11: The Dark Arts Professor

Draco sat at the breakfast table staring down at his schedule. In addition to classes he’d have prefects meetings which he was expected to lead as Head Boy. He’d have to help Pans create a schedule and add patrolling in to the mix. If he played Quidditch this year, practices would get added on as well. He saw that he was indeed enrolled in Muggle Studies, a class he’d never taken before. Super. At least he’d dropped Care of Magical Beasts after OWLS. That left him with Transfiguration, Potions, Astronomy, Charms, Herbology, Ancient Runes, and Dark Arts. Thank Merlin, in the course summary it looked like he wasn’t expected to try for a NEWT in Muggle Studies as it was considered “an elective.” He snorted.

“This is rubbish,” sniped Blaise to his right. “I have enough to do this year with my regular coursework and Quidditch practice and now they add on a mandatory bloody elective? How the hell can an elective be mandatory?”

“At least you don’t have prefects meetings and patrol.”

“That’s your own fault Malfoy. That’s what you get for being a tosser,” said the other boy without any heat.

“You are always so good for morale Blaise,” he said.

A pair of arms draped around his neck. “Morning Head Boy,” said Pansy.

“Shove off Pans. I can’t handle this level of invasion into my personal space before I’ve had my morning tea.”

Pansy laughed and sat down beside him. “Fair,” she said.

“Looks like we’ve got Dark Arts first off,” said Blaise. “So are we learning Dark Arts now?”

Draco shrugged. “With your mother being who she is, you probably know enough Dark Arts to teach the class.”

“Same could be said about your family, Malfoy,” Blaise retorted.

“We’re stuck with Gryffindor for that class. Are they trying to cause the War to break out here pairing us with them for that course?” asked Pansy.

Draco filled his teacup and added a lump of sugar and a splash of milk. Perfect.

“Do we have Gryffindor with us for any other courses?” asked Blaise, peering down at his schedule.

“Looks like we have Ravenclaw for Potions and Transfiguration – good – they’ll keep us on our toes, and Hufflepuff for Herbology and Charms. Only other class with Gryffindor is Muggle Studies. The rest of the classes are so small it’s a mix of any other seventh years taking the course,” said Pansy.

He sipped his tea. He stared down the table and saw the new older student sitting with the sixth years. It looked like he was studying his school schedule, his head was bowed over the parchment and Draco spend a moment contemplating the shade of the boy’s hair – an almost coppery brown.

“Muggle Studies and Dark Arts with Gryffindor?,” muttered Blaise, drawing Draco’s attention. “They really are trying to start the War here.”

He looked down at his schedule. It looked pretty intense, but at least the Astronomy practical component wasn’t scheduled until Thursday night, and then he didn’t have anything really taxing on Fridays, as Charms and Herbology weren’t scheduled until right before and after lunch, so he could sleep late if wanted. Dark Arts and Transfiguration were on Mondays and Wednesday, and a Potions double lab filled his entire morning on Tuesdays. Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes took up Wednesday, and the coursework portion of Astronomy was Tuesday afternoon. He could make this work.

After breakfast he made his way to the Dark Arts classroom with Pansy and Blaise. Theo, who was always a late sleeper, caught up with them right outside the door.

“Can’t believe I missed breakfast on the first day,” he mumbled.

Other students were already in the room. He took a seat toward the middle of the class, not wanting to appear too eager but also not wishing to appear uninterested and earn a scathing report to the Dark Lord from Amycus.

The Gryffindor students chose seats at the back of the class. Vince and Greg came in last, and smirked to see that they were stuck sitting in the front row.

The back door of the classroom opened, and Amycus approached the front of the class. He was a stocky man, not overly tall. He stood in front of a lecturn, and looked out at the students.

“Welcome to the first Dark Arts class to be taught at Hogwarts in centuries. Dark magic has been maligned for generations. Almost any spell has the ability to be used with malicious intent, and some spells commonly considered dark can be used for the greater good,” said Amycus.

The way the professor was talking made Draco suspect the man was reading off of parchment. He wondered if Alecto had prepared the remarks for him. From his experiences with the man this summer he didn’t expect much from him in the way of intellect.

“My goal this year, will be to provide enlightenment on this subject, and make sure that the Dark Arts and their practitioners are as respected as the so-called Light Magic,” continued the new professor before pausing to say, “Yes? Mr. . . .”

Draco turned to see Longbottom with his hand in the air. “Longbottom. Neville Longbottom. Isn’t it true that some dark spells can tear apart your soul?”

“The evidence on that is mixed.”

Longbottom shook his head. “No – it’s really not. And shouldn’t we be learning about defensive spells to protect us from magic with malicious intent? There is a war on. Will that be part of the course’s curriculum?”

“As a student of Hogwarts that won’t be necessary. You will be quite safe without such. . . knowledge.”

“Professor,” said Longbottom, inflecting the word with a tone of disrespect, “I disagree. I’ve been in duels with Death Eaters. Defensive magic helped me survive.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No. I’m not,” said Longbottom.

Merlin when had Longbottom gotten so brave? Was the bloody Gryffindor spirit rearing up in him now that Potter wasn’t here to do the job?

“I was there,” continued Longbottom. “In the Ministry. Malfoy’s relatives were there too, and a bunch of others. They attacked me and other students. I’ve still got the scars.”

A hush fell over the room. Amycus drew himself up to his full – if limited – height.

“You will remain after class Longbottom. I will not tolerant insolence and lies in my class. Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

“You think we care about points when there is a war on?” asked Finnegan from his seat beside Longbottom. “You think we’re just going to sit back and be okay with all the changes and rot we’re going to be fed here at Hogwarts now? We’re only here because its mandatory and we don’t want our families to suffer.”

“And you are?” asked Carrow with a look of disdain.

“Seamus Finnigan.”

“You will also remain after class today Mr. Finnegan. Another twenty points from Gryffindor,” Amycus’ hands gripped at the sides of the lecturn. “And don’t think for one second that my punishments will be restricted to taking away points and making you copy lines during detention. I think you’ll find me . . . much more creative.”

And Merlin help him, but Draco actually saw Longbottom smirk.

“And if you are so concerned about your families, you better mind your behavior here. Your actions, children, have consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Longbottom.

Amycus snarled, raised his wand, and hurled out a curse. Wisps of smoke wrapped around the two Gryffindors’ faces and turned into semi-translucent gags, silencing them.

Despite himself, Draco gasped. He’d never seen a punishment like this used at Hogwarts. He stared back at the pair. They could no longer speak, but their eyes spoke volumes. They were seething at Amycus.

Vince started laughing, followed by Greg. No one else joined in.

“You will remain . . . respectful. . .and silent until the end of the class. Should your behavior repeat itself, understand that this will be the natural consequence,” said Amycus. “Now, class, open your texts to the first page. You shall read chapter one, ‘A Beginner’s History of the Dark Art,’ and I expect a report next week on how the Dark Arts have been falsely represented and unfairly sullied since the Age of Enlightenment.”

Draco tore his eyes away from Longbottom and Finnegan. Merlin the Carrows weren’t bloody joking about the punishments they meant to dole out.

Pansy raised her hand beside him.

“How long should the report be Professor?” she asked.

While Draco considered this to be a valid question as professors always set a length, he couldn’t help but think that Pansy, as always, was incapable of reading the room. No one else was the least bit concerned about their homework assignment.

Amycus shrugged, “Write until you feel you’ve answered the questions.”

Clearly the man had never been a professor before. Draco doubted Vince and Greg would turn in more than a paragraph without a set length. He turned to regard the Gryffindors. Their faces were stony. Amycus would be lucky to get a complete sentence out of them.

For the remainder of the class, Draco tried to read chapter one, but he couldn’t focus. He’d try reading it in his bed later with the curtains drawn and spells set. Amycus’ words about the Dark Arts weren’t necessarily wrong. He’d been raised in a family that had a respect and appreciation for the Dark Arts. He agreed that this type of magic had been maligned. Any magic could be used with ill-intent. He did, however, disagree with Amycus’ delivery. Not a single Gryffindor would change their mind with him at the helm. Likely not a single Hufflepuff either. Some Ravenclaws, with their love of logic and truth at practically all costs, might be swayed.

At the end of class the Slytherins packed quickly to leave, while the Gryffindors tarried.

“Everyone is dismissed but for Longbottom, Finnegan, and Malfoy,” said Amycus.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Merlin. What could the man want with him?

Draco finished packing his bag, slung it on his shoulder, and turned a carefully blank face to Carrow.

“You two will report to detention tomorrow evening. Malfoy has a prefects meeting tonight, do you not?”

“Yes, professor,” he agreed.

“Malfoy, as Head Boy, will help administer the detention,” continued Amycus. “There shall be no further spreading of lies and disrespect in this classroom. Understood?”

Finnegan and Seamus were still mute. They did not, however, even nod their heads in ascent.

“I’ll be sending owls to each of your parents.” Amycus flicked his wand and the gags dissolved.

“Better send it to my Gran,” said Longbottom. “Death Eaters already got to my parents.”

The boy turned on his heel and left the room followed closely by Finnegan. Draco met Amycus’ eyes for a moment and then left as well. He wasn’t thrilled to have to sit through a detention. Merlin, this is not how he wanted to be spending his time at all.

The Gryffindor pair was waiting for him when he exited the classroom.

“Pleased about this Malfoy?” asked Longbottom.

Draco regarded the boy. He’d grown a lot over the summer – gotten taller, filled out. Gone was the small, slightly pudgy boy of long ago. This version of Longbottom, was not to be trifled with.

“I’m not pleased, actually,” said Malfoy, trying his best to sound bored.

Longbottom looked surprised.

“Minding you in detention is not the best use of my time,” continued Draco. “How simply Gryffindor of you to charge in with your swords waving when some. . . subtlety. . . would have served you better and still allowed you to get your point across.”

“Harry wouldn’t have stood for it,” said Finnegan.

Draco regarded the pair. Did they seriously think they were responsible for carrying Potter’s mantel? He couldn’t imagine them filling the void. They did, he granted them, look determined.

“Well Potter isn’t here. And if I recall, charging into situations half-cocked did not always serve him well. Maybe that is something for you to think on,” said Draco, before turning and walking away.

He didn’t really want to give Gryffindors pointers on things like cunning and stealth – something a Slytherin would have known, but he also didn’t want to be sitting in detention with them for the rest of the year. They were Gryffindors, after all. They’d rage and fight against the changes at Hogwarts – there was no question about that, but at the very least, they could damn well do it in a way that didn’t tie up all of Draco’s time.

He managed to sit down with Pansy in the afternoon to work out a patrol schedule for prefects monitoring the hallways for the hour before and the hour after curfew to make sure all students got to their dormitories by ten o’clock at night. With Weasley and Granger gone, there were fewer Gryffindor prefects left, but he didn’t want to pair them together. All that were left of that house were three prefects - Ritchie Coote in sixth year and the two new fifth year prefects Archie Prewett and Jemma Campbell. The girl sixth year prefect for Gryffindor did not return. She’d been a Muggle-born.

“I’ll take Friday nights,” said Draco with a sigh. It was the least popular night to be on curfew patrol. He figured as Head Boy he should take that shift.

“Fine, then I’ll take Saturday. Nobody can say we Slytherins are shirking our duties,” said Pansy. “And let’s put Archie Prewett with you.”

“Why?”

“Surely you know your pure-blood genealogy? Prewett – they are relatives of the Weasleys – the biggest blood-traitor family there is.”

“Well everyone in the Sacred Twenty-Eight is related at some point Pansy. I think one of my Black ancestors ran off with a Weasley generations ago. She was blasted from the family tree of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Pansy. “But still, best keep an eye on him.”

“Don’t we want shifts to be boy-girl – you know, in case someone needs to check the toilets?”

“Not enough girls,” said Pansy. “One of the Hufflepuff girls was Muggle-born and didn’t come back either.”

“Fine,” said Draco, “Pair me up with the Prewett.”

The prefects meeting that evening, went about as well as he expected – not well at all. There was dissent among all the prefects except those belonging to Slytherin about reporting rule breakers to the Carrows. It didn’t help that the Carrows had added some new rules for this year that merited punishment. Anyone voicing support for Harry Potter, Muggle-borns, or Muggles would be in violation of the Carrows’s new rules.

Draco remembered Snape’s words to him.

“Report all infractions to me,” he’d finally said.

“But the Carrows said - ” a younger Slytherin started to object.

“I know what the Carrows said. Headmaster Snape,” said Draco, name-dropping, “Told me that the Carrows were far too busy to have every infraction reported to them. So, bring the offenders to me and I’ll pass on those to the Carrows that need a more heavy-hand.” He turned to survey the Slytherin students, “After all, we wouldn’t want to defy Headmaster Snape, former head of Slytherin House.”

There were murmurs of agreement. He was nervous about this, but he knew that Snape outranked the Carrows with the Dark Lord. If they questioned him, he could always tell them he was following Snape’s orders.

As the students filed out, Pansy drew closer to him. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

“Trust me Pans.”

She gave him a hard look. “That’s what you said last year,” she said, before disappearing with a swish of her robes.

Fucking Snape. Making him feel like bloody double agent. But he didn’t trust the Carrows. There was something about them that reminded him too much of his Aunt Bellatrix. What would they do if they got their hands on a first year student? He’d play this out a bit and see how things went. Maybe he had no reason to be concerned.

Chapter 12: Dumbledore’s Letter

Notes:

*Albus Dumbledore’s letter and other portions of text quoted from “Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows,” chapter eighteen.

 

Posting an extra chapter this week. I've charted out 32 chapters to take us through the timeline of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." This could change, of course, and after that we'll be off into a brave new world.

Damn it all, he had every reason to be concerned. The Gryffindor students were glaring at the Slytherins as they entered the classroom for Muggle Studies. Draco had to sit in the front row, which he was not at all pleased by. He’d never taken Muggle Studies before. He had no idea what to expect. He had seen Muggle films and read Muggle books before - on the sly, of course. He was curious what all the fuss was about. But he knew bugger all about things like electricity and combustion engines, or how Muggles cleaned their homes without house elves and magic. Would he have to learn that?

Alecto Carrow entered the classroom. She wasn’t as stocky as her brother, but she was rather washed out looking in complexion. Her black robes seemed to suck what little coloring she had out of her. She took attendance and made a point of glaring at Longbottom and Finnegan when she called their names. She must have spoken to her brother and marked them as trouble makers. Draco was not looking forward to detention tonight. He wondered if he could work on his course work while they copied lines or cleaned trophies or did whatever menial task Amycus had in store for the two Gryffindors.

“In this course, we will learn all the ways that Muggles, by their very existence, have eroded and polluted our magic. Muggles are inferior to us in every way, and for their own good, need to be ruled by wizards,” she said.

Draco’s back stiffened. He could almost feel the waves of displeasure radiating from the Gryffindors in the back of the class. He recalled that Finnegan’s father was a Muggle. This couldn’t be going over well with him.

Alecto clapped her hands and piece of parchment appeared on every desk.

“Today, to introduce us to this subject, I have provided you with a primary source written in 1881,” she said. She looked down at her class list and said, “Zabini, Blaise – read the text aloud to the class.”

Blaise started to read in his usual self-assured voice. Draco followed along with the text.

Gellert –

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD – this I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met).

-Albus

His eyes widened. Albus? As in. . .

“Are you saying Albus Dumbledore wrote this letter?” asked Blaise once he reached the end of the letter.

“I’m not saying anything of the sort,” said Alecto. “I don’t need to. It is in fact his letter, word for word.”

“Not possible,” murmured a voice from the back.

“And Gellert – it can’t be . . .” wondered another student aloud.

“I think you’ll find that it is very important to rely on primary sources. This is an exact reproduction of a letter that Albus Dumbledore wrote in 1898 to his friend Gellert Grindelwald,” said Alecto. “Even Dumbledore, for all of his mushy, mixed-up ideas, understood the proper place of Muggles.”

“No way,” said a boy’s voice from behind him. He thought is sounded like Finnegan.

“Dumbledore had a reason to distrust Muggles,” continued Alecto, ignoring the commentary, “His sister, as a young child, was viciously attacked by a group of Muggle children. His father, sought appropriate justice against his daughter’s abusers and was imprisoned in Azkahban for his heroic actions and died there. Based on this history, it easy to understand why even Dumbledore thought Muggles were low and base beings.”

A murmur of discontent arose from the back of the class.

“Silence,” bellowed Alecto. “Fact is fact. Any disagreement will be unfruitful and I doubt you want me to resort to the methods my brother was recently compelled to use on loud-mouthed liars.

Draco lowered his head to his hands and cradled it. He hoped like hell that the Gryffindors would just shut up. He didn’t want to be sitting through any additional detentions. He had a life to lead – well – sort of. His life was admittedly pretty much shit at the moment, but it would be even more shit if he had to spend any of it stuck in detentions with righteous little Gryffindors.

He felt Pansy prodding him in the side. He sat back up and stared resolutely ahead.

The murmuring stopped.

“Excellent,” said Alecto. “Now, for the remainder of the class, I want you to write out a list of ten things we can do as wizards to rule Muggles for the greater good.”

Draco was relieved to shove a list at her at the end of class and retreat to his dormitory. One of his items had been taxation. It wouldn’t hurt to build up Wizarding Britain’s coffers with some Muggle money.

He threw his bag on top of his trunk and stretched out on his bed. Merlin he was tired. He wasn’t sleeping well. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had slept well. Fifth year maybe, before his father was arrested?

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw Vince rifling through the contents of his trunk. He hoped an Acromantula jumped out of the box and bit him.

Vince. Wait – Vince had given him a book on Dumbledore. Prat. But maybe it would give him answers.

He sat up and pulled the book out of the drawer in his bedside table. He read the title again, “The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.”

He drew his thumb across the edge of the pages, fanning them out. Was it true what Alecto had said? Had Dumbledore really thought Muggles needed to be controlled for their greater good? If so, the man must have changed. The Dumbledore he knew had been more concerned with Draco’s use of the slur for Muggle-borns then of the possibility of his impending doom.

He sighed and ruffled the pages again with his thumb. He caught sight of a photograph that made him pause. He flipped back through the pages, finding it again. It was of two young man, standing close together, laughing. He read the caption, “Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death, with his friend Gellert Grindelwald.”

Grindelwald? It must be true then, that letter from class. Dumbledore had been friends with the greatest dark wizard of this century to proceed Lord Voldemort. He looked again at the photograph. Dumbledore looked so young - probably of a similar age to Draco - and Grindelwald was undeniably handsome. They both were, which pained Draco to admit.

He flipped through the pages of the book and found a chapter on Dumbledore and Grindelwald. As he read, he felt himself stiffen. It seemed that Dumbledore had once believed in the superiority of wizards over Muggles. But what really struck him, was the intensity of the friendship between the two men. Skeeter never said that it was a romantic relationship, but Draco couldn’t help but wonder. He might be reading between the lines too much, but still . . . Dumbledore had never had a wife. Grindelwald, prior to his imprisonment, had never had one either. Was it possible? Had they been more to each other than just companions?

Blaise caught his eye from his bed across from him.

“Really bought that Muggle-studies class didn’t you, reading that book,” said the other Slytherin.

Draco snapped the book close. “Not really. Vince gave this to me as a gift.”

The other boy raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Must have been the first time he ever bought a book that wasn’t required for school.”

Draco laughed despite himself.

“Anyway, its complete rubbish,” said Blaise. “Even if Dumbledore thought badly of Muggles once upon a time, that wasn’t what he was like at the end. I think Professor Carrow is really stretching to try and sell us on the idea that we should hate on Muggles cause old Dumbledore did. No one who ever had to sit through one of his little unity speeches would think the man was anti-Muggle.”

He tossed the book back in his bedside drawer. He didn’t really want to think any more on this subject. It was all too . . . disconcerting.

“I’ve got to get down to the dining hall for dinner and then to the other Professor Carrow’s classroom to help him monitor detentions.”

“And it’s confusing as hell having two Professor Carrows. Snape should really have thought of that before he hired both of them,” Blaise griped.

“Not sure how much choice he had,” Draco frowned as he straightened his tie in the mirror.

“Try and look more cheerful mate. At least it’s not Slytherins who have detention,” said Blaise.

Chapter 13: Detention

Draco leaned against the wall outside of Amycus Carrow’s classroom. He was a couple of minutes early, and he didn’t fancy waiting with Amycus for the Gryffindors to arrive – Amycus wasn’t his idea of a good time. He wished that all the Death Eaters disapparated to Siberia and stay there – his father included.

At exactly seven o’clock Longbottom and Finnegan appeared. He quite understood why they hadn’t wanted to arrive early.

“Let’s go and get this over with,” he said. “And do a better job keeping your noses clean – or at least your mouths shut – in classes. I don’t want to be babysitting Gryffindors in detention every night.”

“Missing out on a hot date Malfoy?” asked Finnegan.

Draco shrugged, “Sitting with a basilisk would be preferable to sitting through detention with you.”

“Makes sense,” said Longbottom. “Slytherins have a thing for snakes.”

Draco turned and led the way into the classroom. Amycus was waiting, his black robes flowing around him.

“Boys,” he said, “Give me your wands. You will not be using them during detention.”

The Gryffindors scowled, but fished out their wands. Amycus collected them and shut them in a drawer in his desk.

“Since you appeared to have such little respect for the Dark Arts in class yesterday,” said Amycus, “I think it is high time you gained a healthy respect for them. Are you familiar with the Cruciatus curse?”

Draco swore he saw Longbottom blanche. Then he remembered – his crazed aunt had been sent to Azkabahn for torturing Longbottom’s parents with that curse until they went insane.

“Well tonight, we’ll be practicing with it. Mr. Malfoy, raise your wand.”

He turned to face Amycus and said, “Excuse me . . . sir?”

“As a prefect and Head Boy, it is your duty to dispense with the punishments that I see fit. You shall be practicing the dark spell of Cruciatus on these two delinquents.”

“You’re not serious - that’s an unforgiveable curse,” interjected Finnegan. The boy grabbed Malfoy by the arm and spun him toward him, “Did you know about this?”

Draco shook the other boy off of him.

“You will find that I am in earnest Mr. Finnegan,” said Amycus. “I take misbehavior seriously. Lessons must be learned.”

“Professor, I don’t think - ” began Draco.

“Do it Mr. Malfoy. That is a direct order.”

He looked at the other boys’ faces. Longbottom seemed to have recovered slightly, and both were looking at him in a way that made him not want to be caught out alone with them in an empty corridor any time soon. He turned back to the professor.

“Sir, I deeply apologize, but Headmaster Snape was very clear that I reported directly to him and that he was responsible for me. I will not undertake to use an unforgiveable curse at the school without his express permission.”

“Are you questioning my authority?”

“No sir. I am questioning my authority to carry out this form of punishment,” he said. He leaned in closer to the professor and more quietly said, “Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”

“Wait here,” snapped the professor at the Gryffindor boys before storming toward the door at the back that connected to an office. Draco followed. He worked to tamp down his fear. He was worried what would happen if word got back to the Dark Lord that he hadn’t done what Amycus asked of him. He hoped Snape’s name was enough to protect him. But he didn’t want to curse anybody – well – at least he didn’t want to use the Crucio curse on those two stupid Gryffindors. He knew now what the curse felt like, how it ripped through your body in a torrent of pain.

He shut the door to the tiny office. It was relatively spartan. He didn’t fancy that Amycus spent a great deal of time planning lessons and didn’t see many books in the space that would prove otherwise.

Amycus scowled at him. “I had hoped you could follow basic instructions better than this Malfoy.”

“Again, my apologies sir. Perhaps we should take the matter before Headmaster Snape?” said Draco, trying to sound conciliatory while stressing the word “headmaster.”

The professor’s face grew even more thunderous.

“Besides,” said Draco, trying to cut the man off, “If word got out that an unforgiveable curse had been used on students, there would be an uproar. I’m sure that must be avoided, at least until control is more cemented at the Ministry.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the school year has just begun. The Ministry is just starting its reforms. Perhaps you – we – should wait before enacting these types of punishments until things are more secure.”

“You’re just a weakling who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, just like your father.”

Draco glared at the man and said as calmly as he could, “Not get my hands dirty? I’m the one who fixed a vanishing cabinet that got Death Eaters – including you - into the school last year. I’m the one that cornered Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower. I also used the Crucio curse on Rowle after he failed the Dark Lord over the summer. I think I’ve proven that I’m willing to get my hands dirty.”

He didn’t like running through the list of things he had done. They were all so horrible. And they hadn’t brought him pleasure. But Amycus didn’t need to know that. These past deeds would hopefully make him look good in the other Death Eater’s eyes.

“I just think we should be more judicious about flexing our power at Hogwarts until it is secure. This is only the second day of classes,” Draco continued.

“What do you suggest?”

That drew Draco up short. He honestly didn’t know what to suggest. He had a feeling that copying lines and cleaning school property wouldn’t do it for this man. He didn’t want to cause pain – or at least severe pain – but the effects had to be wretched or embarrassing enough to satisfy Amycus. What would embarrass Draco if he were punished?

“The Calvario curse,” he said after a moment. “It will remove their hair and mark them throughout the school. You can make it be known that there will be unpleasant consequences for reversing the spell.”

Amycus stared at him, one eyebrow raised in seeming contemplation.

“It is a curse, sir,” said Draco, trying for polite formality to help his cause, “And it would be an excellent beginning spell to discuss in Dark Arts.”

Amycus waved his hand, “Fine. I’m not well pleased, but perhaps you have a point Malfoy. I will consider what you said about reserving more appropriate punishments until things become more. . . settled.”

Draco inclined his head, “Very good Professor.”

“Get on with it then,” said Amycus, dropping into his desk chair and waving Draco away. All the fun of the evening had apparently been stolen from the professor.

Draco left the office, quietly shutting the door. Longbottom and Finnegan still waited in the center of the classroom.

“Back to torture us Malfoy?” asked Finnegan.

“Not with the Cruciatus curse I’m not,” he said.

“So . . . you’re getting us off?” asked Longbottom.

Draco raised his wand at the boy. “Don’t be foolish Longbottom. I’m not a hero.”

Chapter 14: Attack on the Astronomy Tower

Notes:

*Remembered dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” chapter twenty-seven.

Posting an extra chapter this week. My goal is to post every Tuesday, but when I'm in the mood and have material ready, I can't resist posting on another day as well.

Please remember there are no content warnings. Draco is clearly going through some serious shit during his seventh year at Hogwarts.

The presence of two bald Gryffindors was disconcerting the next day. Even though Draco was responsible for the hair removal, it still was a damned awkward sight. Word quickly spread that their lack of hair was a result of their punishment from one of the Professor Carrows, and that Draco had carried it out. Draco tried to ignore the gossip, but it was hard to avoid all the eyes on him and hear people whispering as he passed by. Vince even managed to smile at him that day at lunch.

He desperately wanted to speak with Snape, but couldn’t find the time until after dinner on Thursday just prior to his Astronomy Class. He gave the password to the gargoyle and ascended the spiral staircase.

He heard voices above, but as Draco neared the top, the voices stopped. He emerged to find Snape alone in his office. Draco glanced around at the portraits of all the prior headmasters. Perhaps they had been talking.

“Draco?” asked Snape.

“Sir, I came to discuss the punishments the Carrows want to enact. I wanted to make sure they had your approval.”

Snape stared at him and said nothing, so Draco continued, “At detention the other night, Amycus asked me to perform the Cruciatus curse on Longbottom and Finnegan.”

One of Snape’s black eyebrows rose, “I take it by their appearance of late that you did not follow Amycus’ directions?”

“I did not, sir. I used the Calvario curse instead. I didn’t want to use an unforgiveable curse at Hogwarts – er – not without checking with you at least.”

“I see,” said Snape.

“I was afraid the uproar would be detrimental to you, sir – at least until things become more fixed.”

Snape’s black eyes bored into him. “That was wise, Draco, and for now that is surely the best course. As the Dark Lord’s power increases, however, there will no longer be a need to hold back the Carrows. The Wizarding World will be reshaped in Lord Voldemort’s image.”

Draco shuddered. He didn’t think that world would be a pleasant place to live in.

“It is, however, a good idea, to break in those who are opposed to this new world slowly. Neville Longbottom, for instance, comes from a long line of pureblood wizards. He could have a place amongst us if he could but learn.”

Draco resisted the urge to shake his head. Of all the people he knew that had a reason to detest the Dark Lord, he couldn’t think of anyone other than Harry Potter that surpassed Longbottom. Just like Potter, he was growing up without parents because of the Dark Lord and his influence.

“Continue to keep me informed of the Carrows, Draco.”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco. He was clearly dismissed. He pulled out his pocket watch. He didn’t have long to get to class. He let himself out of the headmaster’s tower and walked toward the Astronomy Tower. He reached the steps and started to climb. He hadn’t been up these steps since . . . since that night.

He willed himself not to think about. He ran his hand over the cool stone of the wall to try and ground himself. He emerged at the top of the tower below the viewing platform. He felt his breathing quicken. He climbed the final stairs to the platform and emerged to a clear view of the night sky. Other students were there as well, and others were still ascending.

He turned to look for his friends and he became riveted by the spot where Dumbledore had stood before he fell. He felt himself start to shake.

Dumbledore stood across from him, tall and calm, his long hair and beard caught for a moment in the breeze. Draco couldn’t understand why he was so calm. Didn’t he know what Draco had to do?

“I haven’t got any options!” he said, feeling the blood rush from head. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!”

“Draco?” said Blaise, standing beside him. Draco hadn’t noticed him approach. “Draco, are you all right?”

Draco shook his head. Of course he wasn’t all right.

“I can help you, Draco,” said Dumbledore gently.

“No, you can’t,” said Draco. His wand hand was shaking very badly. He tried to still it, but couldn’t. “Nobody can. He told me to do it or he’ll kill me. I’ve got no choice.”

“Draco, mate, sit down,” said Blaise.

His felt like his heart were constricting. His body still shook. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

“Come over to the right side, Draco,” said Dumbledore as if they were having a nice chat over tea. “You are not a killer.”

Draco had stared at the man. Merlin knew he didn’t want to be a killer, but then he thought of his mother, he thought of her large grey eyes filled with pain. He couldn’t risk her.

“But I got this far, didn’t I,” he said. “They thought I’d die in the attempt, but I’m here . . . and you’re in my power . . . I’m the one with the wand . . . You’re at my mercy.”

Dumbledore shook his head and quietly said, “No, Draco, it is my mercy and not yours, that matters now.”

He couldn’t speak. Dumbledore was offering him mercy – offering him a way to save his mother and even his accursed father. Should he take it? Should he trust this man he’d been raised to doubt?

Dumbledore’s blue eyes met his.

Draco lowered his still trembling wand hand.

Hands pushed on his shoulders trying to get him to the floor. Theo was on one side of him now, along with Blaise. He let himself be forced to the ground, sitting down hard.

“Please,” he murmured. “Please.”

Snape surged past him, using his body to push Draco back. The other three Death Eaters fell back, all of them looking to Snape who stood silent, staring at Dumbledore.

“Severus . . . please . . .”

Snape raised his wand, pointing it at the headmaster.

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Please,” Draco said again. He could barely talk. He couldn’t breathe – couldn’t fill his lungs, and his body was shaking. One of the other boys, grabbed him by the back of his head and forced his head between his knees.

“Breathe, Draco. Breathe for fuck’s sake,” he heard Theo say.

He tried. He really did, but he couldn’t. He was gasping, choking and he couldn’t get enough air.

He heard Professor Sinatra telling all the other students to leave. She came and bowed down in front of Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy, focus. You can do this. Focus.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t take this anymore. He couldn’t.

He felt something nudging at his thoughts. She was trying to get in. Trying to calm him with thoughts. But his walls wouldn’t budge.

“Focus, breathe,” she repeated.

He felt Blaise and Theo grip his shoulders more tightly.

“Draco, breathe,” urged Blaise.

He threw his head back and looked at the night sky. The stars were scattered above him. He tried to concentrate on them. His vision blurred for a moment and then his eyes fell on the brightest star in the night sky. Arcturus – one of brightest stars in a September sky. He focused on it and tried again to breathe. Air rushed into lungs. He coughed, but didn’t take his eyes off the star. He spluttered and coughed some more. His friends continued to clutch him. His body slowly stopped shaking. He leaned into Blaise. He was utterly exhausted.

“Thank Merlin,” said the professor. “Any longer I would have stupefied you. I’m not a medi-witch and it was the best I could think of.”

She placed a hand to his forehead. He had sweated through his clothes. He started to tremble again, but this time from cold chilling the sweat on his body.

“Take him to the hospital wing,” she said to his friends. “Can you manage that?”

“Yes, professor,” said Theo.

“Good. You are excused from class. Stay with him until he is settled.”

The two Slytherins helped him to his feet. It was a long way down the tower to the hospital wing. A group of students stood at the base of the tower, and Draco did his best to walk on his own until he was well past them. Throughout it, Theo and Blaise didn’t press him. He was grateful. Once they reached the hospital door, Pomphrey took one look at him and raised her wand. He felt a gentle cleaning charm remove the sweat from his body.

“This bed, here,” she said. With another swish of her wand privacy curtains enclosed the bed. “You’ll find clean pajamas on the chair.”

Draco nodded. Blaise helped lower him to sit on the bed, before leaving the space to give him privacy. His fingers felt stiff and numb as he unfasted his clothes. He managed to pull the pajama pants on, but he couldn’t get the buttons of the shirt fastened despite his best efforts.

“You okay in there,” he heard Blaise call.

“I can’t fasten the buttons,” he said, embarrassed.

One of the screens was pulled ajar and Blaise stepped in. “I’ll help.”

The boy bent down and started fastening the buttons from the bottom. He paused when he reached the buttons around Draco’s chest.

“Draco, what’s this?”

Draco looked down. Did he have something on him? There was nothing he could see except . . . except his scars. They practically gleamed in the light, spidering across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

“Like hell it’s nothing. What happened to you?”

Draco wiggled, trying to release Blaise’s grasp on his shirt, but the other boy didn’t let go.

“I don’t want to talk about.”

“Fine. Don’t. But it’s not nothing. Looks like some fucking dark magic was used on you.”

He didn’t deny it. It was the truth after all.

“Decent?” called Madame Pomphrey.

Blaise hurried to finish the last few buttons, and then said, “Yeah, he’s descent.”

She appeared through the screen beside Blaise with her wand in her hands. She pulled back the bedcovers and urged Draco to lie down. He did. The hospital bed was surprisingly comfortable.

“I’m going to cast a basic diagnostic spell,” she said. “Were you with him Mr. Zabini? Did you see anything?”

His friend nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

While Blaise talked she drew the wand around in the air above his body.

“It seems like you had an attack Mr. Malfoy,” she said.

“An attack?” asked Blaise. “You mean someone hexed him?”

“No, no one did this to him. I believe it was a panic attack. Any idea what could have brought this on?” she asked.

Draco remained silent, staring at the ceiling.

“Right,” sighed Madam Pomphrey. “Well the best thing for you will be a good night’s sleep. I’ll bring you a bottle of Dreamless Sleep and you should feel much better by morning.”

She bustled out and then Theo stuck his head in, “Salazar, Draco, you gave us a scare there.”

Draco shrugged. It hadn’t been intentional. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that undone. He’d been pretty bad off the night Dumbledore had . . . And then there had the night he’d been in the girls’ toilet when Potter had caught him crying to Moaning Myrtle. Great. How could he face the other students? They’d all seen him gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Pomphrey appeared again with a bottle of potion. “Drink up,” she said.

Draco took the bottle in his hand and threw it back in one go. It tasted pretty good – better than the one he’d snuck from his mother’s cabinet at home and hid in his trunk – there was a lavender after taste to it.

“That should take effect soon,” she said. “You boys are welcome to stay until he is asleep.”

She summoned another chair and his friends sat down awkwardly. They didn’t seem to know where to look and didn’t meet Draco’s eyes. It was like they knew that he didn’t want to be seen like this.

“You guys can go,” he said. “The potion will knock me out soon.”

“You sure?” asked Blaise.

“Yeah.”

They stood.

“Good night, Draco,” said Theo. “We’ll be sure and let everyone know you got hexed on the tower.”

Blaise agreed.

They were protecting him – shielding him so that the student body wouldn’t know that he – the heir and scion of the Malfoy family was reduced to a trembling mess by his own mind.

“Good night,” he said after a pause where he’d worked hard to regain control of his vocal chords. “And . . . thanks.”

The boys nodded at him and disappeared beyond the screen. He took a couple of deep breaths and then leaned over reaching for his pile of clothes. He pawed around for his trousers and fumbled for the pocket. He pulled out the snitch. He clasped it tightly in his hand before leaning back against his pillow.

“Regulus,” he murmured. “Regulus Arcturus Black.”

He continued to repeat the name in his head until he felt the potion pull him under.

Chapter 15: The Headmaster's Proposal

Draco tried to attend astronomy lab the following week. He couldn’t even make it up the stairs before he felt his heart constrict and his breathing become labored. He turned and fled. At breakfast the next morning, he received a summons from Snape to meet him at his office after dinner. Draco crumpled the note and crammed it in his pocket.

He was, however, punctual.

“Professor Sinastra has reported that you did not attend her class last night, and that a week ago, you were struck with a fit and had to be taken to the hospital wing,” said Snape as soon as Draco presented himself in the headmaster’s office. “Is this correct?”

“It is, sir,” said Draco, looking at the floor.

“What is going on Draco?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Try, Draco. Use your words.”

Draco felt himself flush. His mother had always told him that when he was child and it made him feel infantile.

“The tower – that tower – it . . . I can’t go there.”

Snape paced toward Draco and stood directly in front of him.

“Why?”

Draco still didn’t look up. He was ashamed. Snape would think him weak. “Dumbledore died there, sir. Because of me.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. It wasn’t that they weren’t true, but to pretty much confess both his guilt and regret to a fellow Death Eater was surely not the best idea.

The silence stretched on. At last Draco hazarded a glance up at Snape. The taller man’s dark eyes were staring fixedly at him. Once Draco met his eyes, Snape said, “Draco, you didn’t kill Dumbledore. You were ordered to, and you didn’t. It was a task you were too young, and dare I say, too innocent to be given.”

He shook his head, he couldn’t agree and seem to be disloyal to the Dark Lord.

“Dumbledore’s death is not your fault,” continued Snape. “Your soul, is still intact.”

He was confused. “My soul?”

“If you kill a person for malicious reasons, your soul will be torn. Some magical theorists believe once a soul is ripped in that way, it can never be healed. Others think that through regret and repentance, it is possible for redemption,” said Snape. He turned away from Draco, toward Dumbledore’s empty portrait frame. Draco wondered why he kept a portrait of the man he’d killed in this office. But then, maybe Snape didn’t have a choice and there was some magic tying the portraits of former headmasters to this room. Perhaps that’s why Dumbledore never appeared to be in his frame, maybe his likeness was avoiding Snape.

“Even if you’d wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t have let you,” Snape continued, not looking back at him. “You were barely of age - a child still by many standards of reckoning - and I couldn’t let you risk your soul like that.”

“What about your soul, sir?”

Snape seemed to stiffen. “That is my business.”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco, feeling abashed.

The man in black turned back toward him. “I don’t think you should continue with Astronomy this term – at least not the practical portion of the course on the tower.”

“But, sir, I’ve got NEWTs.”

“From what I know of your work in that course, I think you’ll be able to sit for a NEWT in the subject without taking the course at all. I don’t think it is wise for you to continue to try and visit the Astronomy Tower only to keep drawing attention to yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll spend that time independently studying. You may use this space to do so. This tower is, admittedly, not as tall as the Astronomy Tower, but I think it will suffice.”

“Thank you, sir. But what do I tell the others? I know even other Slytherins will have questions.”

“Tell them you are working on a special project for me. All questions should cease after that.”

Draco nodded his understanding.

“Harry Potter was seen you know,” said Snape.

“What?” he felt his heart constrict. Surely if Potter had been captured news of it would have been all over the place

“Last week. Yaxley spotted him as well as Granger and Weasley at the Ministry. Grabbed ahold of them as they disapparated. They arrived at one of the addresses the Dark Lord had monitored this summer.”

“Which one?” he asked, his voice sounding hollow even to himself.

“The old Black mansion – 12 Grimmauld Place.”

Potter had been there – or at least had been going to the location Dumbledore had shared with Draco.

“But they got away,” Snape said, “Threw off Yaxley and disapparated again. He told others about finding Potter. The place must have been under a fidelius charm. He reports he wasn’t able to see the location before. He in turn took Bellatrix there, revealed the location to her, but neither of them could get in the house. Bellatrix didn’t take it well. It descended into chaos after that – I hear that Yaxley was bruised from by some of the curses she lobbed at the front door that bounced back onto him. The Blacks, of course, were an ancient family and the house appears well protected, and no one has been able to gain admittance.”

“Not even the Dark Lord?” asked Draco.

Snape raised an eyebrow, “If he tried to access the house he hasn’t shared it. Regardless, Potter is long gone. That is a stale avenue.”

Draco could imagine the Dark Lord’s fury if he tried to enter 12 Grimmauld Place and was not able to. If he had tried and failed, Draco doubted he’d tell anyone of his failure. Potter slipping through his fingers so many times was already bad enough…

“Where is Potter now, Sir?” asked Draco..

Snape shrugged, “Who knows. The Dark Lord has continued to have the Black mansion monitored, but I don’t expect that to last long. Potter is many things, but he isn’t entirely stupid – and Ms. Granger, much as I dislike to own it - is definitely capable of rational thought. He’ll not go back there, and I imagine our resources can be better spent elsewhere instead of monitoring an empty house.”

Draco released a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Snape sighed and said, “I realize you are under a lot of pressure Draco. You have duties to this school, to your family, and to the Dark Lord. If you ever need to . . . leave for a bit . . . to get some distance for a few hours, that could probably be arranged.”

“I . . . I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” said Draco, his fingers instinctively wrapping around the golden snitch in his pocket. Had Dumbledore intended him to visit Regulus’s home? If not, why else would the man have shared the address? He’d need time to do that if he did decide to go on this errand – probably a fool’s errand – that Dumbledore had left him. Would he even be able to get in? Yaxley and Bellatrix – and who knows, maybe even the Dark Lord - hadn’t been able too.

“Have you considered whether you shall be playing Quidditch this year?”

Draco tilted his head. Was he supposed to be thinking about that? He loved to fly. But he had missed some games and practices last year. And without Potter around to watch and compete against, did the sport even matter? As much as he loved to fly, he loved to watch Potter more. The boy was fearless on a broom, sitting astride it with an easy confidence. He wasn’t a showy flier – not like Draco was sometimes – no, Potter flew with an effortless grace. The other boy was so much more graceful on a broom then he was on the ground. Draco had watched him fly with a determined set to his shoulders and his arms and legs holding on to the broom in a way that showed off every muscle. It was better than flying, watching Potter soar with his hand outstretched to catch a snitch.

“As the seeker for Slytherin, you will be high profile,” said Snape, snapping Draco out of thoughts - he felt his face heat. “You need to be careful Draco.”

“But – But I . . .” Draco stammered in a way that he knew would shame his ancestors.

“Just think on it Draco. No decisions need to be made today. You have at least another week – perhaps more until tryouts,” said Snape. “I don’t want to deny you Draco. I’ve seen you play – I’ve seen you fly. I know what it means to you. If the joy of it outweighs the risk, then you need to take it – take the joy you can. I just want you to make an informed decision. It is hard enough for you to maintain a low profile as a Malfoy and Head Boy.”

“Then why’d you make me Head Boy?” Draco asked with a little more bite to his words than was wise.

“I was heavily influenced to appoint Slytherin House in the head prefect positions,” Snape replied.

The Dark Lord.

Of course the Dark Lord had wanted Draco as Head Boy. He’d wanted him to assist the Carrows with their perverted schemes. Merlin, he was such a disappointment. How much longer could he survive being a fucking failure to Lord Voldemort?

“I’ll think about it, sir. Quidditch. I will think on it.”

Snape nodded before saying, “I will make sure that I am out of my office for you next Thursday night. Make the best of this situation, Draco.”

He affirmed his understanding, and left. As he walked the long stretch of castle down to the Slytherin dormitory, he couldn’t help but reflect on how much he had changed – and maybe not for the better. Once, he’d mercilessly hounded Potter for his reaction to Dementors – creepy dark fuckers that they were – and now he was reacting worse to a tower. He’d feel like utter rubbish if someone were to taunt him about his fears – which were now many – the way he had once bullied Potter. Merlin, no wonder Potter had lashed out at him in the lavatory. What reason had he ever given the other boy to think there was anything about him worth saving?

On the way to the dungeons, he saw graffiti on the wall outside of Alecto’s classrooms. “One Muggle is worth more than 100 Death Eaters,” it read. For a moment he was unexpectedly pleased. It appeared the Gryffindors – or someone else – had taken his advice and had started a more covert resistance. But he was a Death Eater, and that meant he was worth less than dirt to many students – and likely much of the faculty – in this school. He’d never get away from the choices he’d made. He pulled at the sleeve on his left arm, making sure it was pulled all the way down.

In his dormitory, he pulled out his potions homework and started writing an essay on the properties of lady’s mantle when used in potions, as opposed to agrimony. Despite being from the same plant family, the results when used in potions were vastly different. After the first couple of paragraphs, however, his mind drifted. He thought of Ollivander. He hoped the man was warm and fed and. . . alive.

Shortly before he had to leave to begin his Friday night rounds as prefect, his roommates arrived. Greg complained of freezing his bollocks off while they were outside trying to gather specimens for herbology.

“That’s because you’ve never learned a proper warming charm,” said Blaise. “Apply your brain sometimes, not just your brawn, and you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Theo laughed, “Imagine if he spent as much time in the books as he did lording it over little first years? There’d be no stopping him. He be a right Granger and be top of the class.”

Draco turned to his friends, with a smile on his face.

“Where were you, Draco?” asked Vince. “You have another nancy boy fit?”

He stiffened.

“What the bloody hell did you just say?” demanded Blaise. “Did you really? You know I have an uncle that’s gay you manky arsehole.”

Vince held out his hands, “Easy, easy. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he said, before turning back to Draco, “But really where have you been? You weren’t in astronomy yesterday either.”

He was suddenly very grateful for Headmaster Snape.

“I had a meeting with Snape,” he said. “I’ll not be in astronomy lab this year, as he has a project for me that requires my attention. It will keep me quite busy.” He tried to deliver this with an air of importance. Two years ago it would have been easy to sound smug and puff himself up. This year he felt like an actor reaching to fill a role beyond his capabilities.

“Good luck then, Draco,” said Greg kindly, and Draco, surprised, smiled at him. Greg used to hang on his every word. Now Greg followed Vince’s lead. It was nice to know that Greg still thought well of him, even if his star had dimmed.

“Snape’s trusting you with an important project?” asked Vince.

“Is that really such a surprise?” asked Draco, trying for his trademark drawl of past years.

Vince snorted. “Yeah, it is. You’re not in favor anymore. Neither is your father. The Dark Lord really should have known better – history repeats itself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco.

“You were swanning about at the beginning of last year – look at me, I’m the youngest person Marked and have an important mission for the Dark Lord. Right. So important. My dad told me you cocked that up. He said you had a relative – an uncle or something – that was Marked just as young as you back in the first War, and he turned-tail and ran.”

Draco felt his body course with rage. He summoned his wand and in an instant he had it pointed at Vince’s chest.

“One more word,” he said. “One more word Vince and I’ll curse you into next week. You know I can too. Useless as you think I am, I assure you, I’ve been well versed.”

Vince raised his chin. “You know the wards won’t let you use a dark curse on a roommate in the dorm room.”

“You had best hope those wards hold,” he said, his voice full of ice.

“Draco, lower your wand,” said Theo. “We all know Vince is an utter knob – ‘specially this year.”

He didn’t lower his wand. He met the bulkier boy’s gaze, and poured everything he had into it. He would not be cowed. Not by Vincent Crabbe. He was a Malfoy – and a Black – he was not to be trifled with. After a prolonged moment, the other boy looked away. Only then did he lower his wand.

“Don’t you ever forget who I am,” said Draco, grinding out the words.

Vince’s eyes snapped back to him with a glare for an instant before he mumbled something about getting ready for bed and disappeared into the lavatory.

“You can be right scary when you want to be,” said Blaise airily. “Good thing I’m the most likeable person in this dorm so you’ll never want to curse me.”

Theo made a mock retching sound before saying, “You? The most likeable? How do you figure that one?”

The pair continued bantering while Draco put away his wand, glanced in the room’s mirror to straighten his tie. With one last look at his mock-bickering friends, he left to go meet Prewett. The younger boy barely spoke to him, keeping all conversation to a minimum. This suited Draco just fine. He couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to say to the Gryffindor.

Their patrol of the castle was thankfully incident free. No one was snogging in an empty classroom or closet and no one was in the halls past curfew.

He entered his common room and saw that it was mostly empty. The new boy – the sixth year – was sitting alone and staring into the fire. The flames, like the rest of the Slytherin dormitory was tinged green.

Draco didn’t really want to go up and see Vince again – just thinking of the boy soured his mood. He walked over to the new student and held out his hand.

“Draco, Draco Malfoy,” he said.

The boy looked up. He had large blue eyes and Draco was momentarily arrested by them.

“Rory Kelley,” said the boy, taking his hand and giving it a quick shake.

“You transferred here, right?”

The boy nodded. “I went to Beauxbaton. My da didn’t want me to go to school at Hogwarts and learn to be English,” said the boy, his Irish accent reminded Draco strongly of Finnegan.

“Hogwarts is in Scotland,” said Draco.

The boy shrugged.

“But he was okay with you learning to be French?”

The boy smiled, and Draco couldn’t help but notice that he had one dimple.

“I guess he figured French was better than English,” Rory looked back into the flames. “It’s colder here at Hogwarts,” he said. “And I miss my friends.”

“Is Scotland all that much colder or is it the Slytherin dormitories?”

Rory laughed. “Both. Having rooms under the surface of a lake doesn’t help things feel warm and cozy.”

“If you’d wanted warm and cozy you should have sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.”

“It’s okay. I only have two years to get through here. I expect I’ll survive.”

Draco felt for the boy. It must be hard to be away from all of his friends and the school he knew. He wondered about Potter for a moment – was he lonely being away from Hogwarts?

“If you need anything Rory, let me know, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Draco took a last look at the boy sitting by the fire. He was handsome in an understated way. Then Draco mentally shook himself. Those weren’t the thoughts the last male heir of the Malfoys and Blacks should be having.

Once back in his room, he changed, climbed into his bed, and drew the curtains. He lit a gentle Lumos charm with his wand and reached into his pocket and withdrew the snitch. He traced the name on it, following the beautiful curls of the script with his index finger. He wondered if Regulus had really been a coward and a turn coat like Vince claimed. That must have been the relative he’d been talking about, there was no one else that he could think of. His mother never mentioned that Regulus had run, but then, she’d rarely ever mentioned him at all, but he’d heard whispers of rumors.

“Regulus,” he said softly to himself in the dim light. “Who were you?”

Chapter 16: Hogsmeade Heartache

The days lost the last hint of golden summer and turned chilly. Students started wearing their house scarfs when out on the grounds. Longbottom and Finnigan’s hair had started to grow back, and while still unfashionably short, they looked far better this way than bald. The first Hogsmeade weekend was coming up to follow the Halloween festivities, and the older students were busy making plans.

Draco decided to play on his house Quidditch team. It would be his last chance to play the sport in a semi-professional way. He knew he wasn’t good enough to go pro, but he loved to fly. He figured that if he didn’t play it would draw more notice than if he did. Practices, prefect duties, and classes filled his days. Every Thursday night he reported to Snape’s office to view the heavens. Once a week, like clockwork, he received a letter from his mother. The letters said nothing of significance. He sent her reply owls that were equally devoid of anything but the most mundane topics.

The Carrows continued to give detentions, but they hadn’t asked Draco to sit in. They had opted to dole out traditional punishments for the time being. He overheard Longbottom complaining of having to clean the chalkboards and floors without magic in Alecto’s classroom for refusing to turn in homework. Much of the student body continued to seethe in the Carrows classes, but their rebellion was more subtle than that first day of classes. They showed their displeasure by never volunteering to speak up in class, doing the bare minimum of homework if any at all, and, apparently, undertaking a more stealthy and covert resistance. Graffiti opposing the Carrows, the Dark Lord, and Snape continued to appear scrolled across the castle’s walls, but the perpetrators were not caught. And, based on the level of shield charms and hexes Draco sometimes observed used in the corridors by even young students, he believed there was extra-curricular defensive – and probably offensive - training going on. Merlin knew they weren’t learning those skills in Amycus’ class. Both the Carrows classes turned out to be a joke. There was no real substance to either class, rather, they relied heavily on vitriol and propaganda. Draco thought the Dark Arts class could actually have potential but Amycus wasn’t even trying to enable a healthy debate on the place of dark magic. He wondered if there were wizards that grudgingly supported Lord Voldemort because there was no place for the use – even the non-malicious use – of the Dark Arts with the other side.

No one really bothered Draco. All the students outside of Slytherin House pretended he wasn’t there. He was pointedly and purposefully avoided. It was an odd feeling after having Potter constantly watch him last year. He still found himself looking up in the Great Hall expecting to find a pair of green eyes focused on him. It was a loss that he felt uncomfortable thinking about. He still had his Slytherin friends, and Rory had started stopping by to chat with him in the common room or to sit with him in the library while they studied.

He did, however, feel like a shell of his former self. His mental walls were always up. His emotions were always closed off. There were some things he tried not to even think about – as much as possible – such as Dumbledore and Potter. It hurt too much. If he caught himself thinking about these forbidden people, he would try and fill his head with other thoughts – homework, Quidditch, anything to take his mind away from dangerous ground.

Currently his thoughts were being sidetracked by Rory. The other boy had sat down beside him at the breakfast table, and they apparently made up the border between the sixth and seventh years.

“Going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” asked the blue-eyed boy.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Draco truthfully.

“I’m going,” said Rory. “I’ve never been before. We’ve got a similar village – actually a couple – in Ireland, so I want to see how this compares.”

“Been to Diagon Alley yet?” asked Pansy, leaning across the table toward them.

Rory shook his head.

“Not worth going now really,” said Theo. “It’s not like it was. But Hogsmeade should hopefully be okay. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes isn’t there, but Zonko’s isn’t bad.”

“You shop at the Weasleys’ shop?” asked Pansy.

Theo shrugged, “The twins were always pretty funny. And they make great stuff.”

Pansy huffed.

“What about you, Blaise, are you going?” Theo asked.

“Almost no point,” sighed Blaise.

“Why?” asked Draco.

“Hogsmeade’s great when you’ve got a date – or I suppose some shopping you have to do. I’ve got neither.”

“Struggling for a date?” Theo teased.

“Who in Slytherin isn’t?” asked Blaise. “I mean honestly, no one in the other houses will look at us. We’re lower than dirt – always have been, but especially so this year. And no offense,” he continued, turning toward Pansy who sat by Millicent, Daphne, and Tracey, “I’m not asking anyone from Slytherin. I’ve known and lived with you all since we were snot nosed kids. I don’t think any of us find each other appealing in that way.”

“A Ravenclaw might see past our . . . unfortunate image,” said Theo. “Or a bleeding heart Hufflepuff.”

Blaise started spreading jam on his toast. “Doubtful. We frighten the Hufflepuffs to death, and do you really want to take a Ravenclaw to Hogsmeade? They’d talk about homework with you the whole time – it would be like taking Granger on a date.”

Pansy snorted with laughter. “I wonder if that’s what that youngest Weasley boy was subjected to. Or Potter.”

“Nah,” said Theo, “Potter and Granger never fancied each other. Never got that vibe off them. He was after Cho fifth year and the Weasley girl last year.”

Draco was unaccountably irritated by being reminded of who Potter had fancied.

“Anyway,” said Blaise slicing his toast in half, “It’s too bad you were sorted Slytherin, Rory. You’ll not get anyone from another house to look twice at you. So be prepared for a serious case of blue balls.”

Pansy reached around Daphne to smack Blaise on the back of the head.

“Do you have to be so crude Blaise? You’re going to scare Rory right off of us.”

Blaise shrugged before taking a bite of toast.

The new boy laughed, “It’s okay. It’s not like I know anyone from any other houses that I’d want to ask anywhere anyway.”

“I’m still a little miffed you don’t fancy me, Blaise,” said Pansy.

It was Blaise’s turn to snort.

“Right. Besides, if you’re going to be miffed at anyone it should be at Draco. He took you to the Yule Ball and then barely gave you another glance.”

“That was in fourth year,” Draco almost choked.

Pansy tossed her hair. “I’ve gotten over Draco. I know he doesn’t love me anymore,” she said in a teasing tone. “Besides, he was all caught up with Potter stalking him last year and had no time for me.”

This time Draco really did choke – his tea went down wrong. He thumped himself hard on the chest.

The group around him laughed – even Greg and Vince. After a few moments, Draco recovered. The conversation carried on around him, switching to the latest Quidditch picks.

Rory leaned in close to him and just above a whisper said, “You should go to Hogsmeade with me, show me around. I don’t know where to go there and could really use your advice.”

Draco blinked and then turned to look into those blue eyes. The other boy looked sincere.

“Sure – I guess I could show you around,” said Draco.

The boy smiled, and Draco was reminded that he had a single dimple. He wondered what it would be like to run his thumb across it.

“Great, thanks, Draco. I’m looking forward to it.”

 

The Halloween feast that Thursday was subdued. The food was abundant as ever, but the levity of past years was gone. Draco sipped his pumpkin juice and found himself wondering what Potter was doing. It had to be strange knowing that while everyone else celebrated one of the biggest holidays of the Wizarding year that it was also the day your parents had been . . . well . . . murdered. How could a person revel in the joy of the day having that thought always in the background?

On Saturday morning, Draco stretched in his bed. He’d slept well last night for a change. He must have been good and tired after his prefect patrol on Friday night. He opened the curtains and saw that most of the other beds were empty. He drew his watch off the night stand. It was past nine in the morning. He had less than hour to meet Rory to go to Hogsmeade.

A pillow smacked him in the head.

“What the hell?” He turned to see Blaise grinning at him in the next bed over.

“Morning sunshine.”

“It’s too damned early to be that chipper Blaise – well – at least it’s too early on a Saturday.”

Blaise stretched luxuriously in his bed. “I might just stay up here all day and be good and lazy. You?”

Draco pushed back his covers and lurched toward his wardrobe. “Nah, I’m meeting up with Rory. He asked me to show him around Hogsmeade.”

He rifled through his clothes and took out a black suit.

Blaise slid out of the bed rather more elegantly than Draco had managed and came to stand beside him.

“Rory asked you to go to Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah,” said Draco with a shrug. “He’s never been before.”

“Right, yeah. But he asked you – not one of his fellow sixth years.”

“He did. So?”

Blaise scowled at him for a moment before saying, “Well you can’t wear that – not a suit. Wrong impression.”

“But I always wear suits – or my school uniform,” protested Draco.

The other boy knelt down by Draco’s trunk and went to flip it open. It was locked.

“And you are always giving people the wrong impression of you,” said Blaise. “Now unlock this blasted thing.”

Draco sighed and waved his wand. The lock unlatched. Blaise immediately started rummaging around and withdrew some of the Muggle clothes he and Draco had purchased together - a pair of dark jeans and a soft grey jumper with the merest flecks of ice blue.

“Wear this,” he said, shoving the clothes at Draco.

“Jeans?”

“Yeah. I bet you look good in them.”

Draco felt himself blush. “Look Blaise, this isn’t a bloody date.”

The taller boy sat back and looked up at him. “You sure about that?”

He opened his mouth to say something and closed it shut. Oh Merlin. It wasn’t a date was it? No, it couldn’t be . . . Rory didn’t think of it as a date . . . did he?

Blaise stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Look mate, even if it is a date, it’s okay. It’s all okay. You know that, right?”

Draco looked in his friend’s face, expecting a smirk, but the other boy was being serious. Draco didn’t know what to say. Blaise gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and then went back to his bed and burrowed under the covers.

“Have fun Draco. And for fuck’s sake, if you don’t wear those jeans I’ll hex you into next week.”

Draco stood still for a moment, the clothes hanging from his arms.

“Tick, tock,” said Blaise.

That snapped him to. He headed toward the toilet to shower, taking the clothes with him. What the hell, it really wasn’t a date, Rory just wanted to hang out and see Hogsmeade. No big deal. And why not wear the clothes Blaise had picked out – no harm in being comfortable while banging around the village.

He was right on time to meet Rory at the main entrance to the castle. He’d thrown on a navy wool coat and wrapped a Slytherin scarf around his neck. Rory was lounging by the door, also dressed in jeans Draco noticed. When he saw Draco, he smiled.

“Thought you were going to be late,” he said.

“I’m always perfectly punctual,” Draco replied.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” grinned Rory.

They set off to Hogsmeade interspersed with groups of other students. During the walk Rory talked of missing Beauxbaton. Draco learned that he’d played Quidditch there as a chaser, but he hadn’t wanted to try out for the team here. He asked Draco some questions about his home, but Draco kept his answers vague. What could he tell Rory about the Manor now? He couldn’t come out and say that his home was infested with Death Eaters, the world’s most feared dark wizard, a horrible beast of a snake, and that the dungeons were currently in use.

As they entered the village, Rory’s eyes lit up.

“What do you think?” Draco asked.

The other boy worked to contain his expression and gave a most Slytherin-like smirk before saying, “Not bad. The magical village close to my home is bigger, but I suppose it will do.”

“Right.”

They went to Dervish and Banges to check out Quidditch gear. They compared the latest broom models and bantered over which was the better broom maker – Nimbus or Comet. Rory wanted to see Zonkos, and Draco tagged along while the other boy exclaimed over some of the products. He seemed particularly amused with the frog spawn soap and said he might need to purchase some in future to send to a cousin.

After they exited back onto the high street, Rory nodded toward the Three Broomsticks and asked, “Want to grab a butterbeer or something?”

Draco paled. He hadn’t been outright banned from the establishment, but then again he hadn’t been back since he’d Imperious cursed Rosmerta last school year. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome.

He pointed toward the Hog’s Head. “I’m up for a butterbeer, but let’s go there instead.”

“Lead on,” said Rory.

Once he was sitting down at a table with the other boy, Draco realized his error. Without any merchandise to look at he couldn’t avoid looking at Rory. And Merlin, Rory was worth looking at. The boy was fit.

“You should have tried out for the Quidditch team,” Draco said.

The blue eyes stared at him, “You’ve never seen me play.”

Draco swallowed. He felt his eyes linger on the younger boy’s biceps – a chaser’s arms. He covered by taking a swig of his butterbeer.

“Could have been fun.”

Rory shrugged, “Maybe next year.”

“I’ll be gone then.”

The other boy tilted his head a bit. “True. That’ll be a shame.”

Oh Merlin, was Rory . . . no. He was reading into things, surely.

“So,” said the other boy, “What else is there to see? I’ve heard that Britain’s most haunted building is here.”

Draco smiled, “Yeah, it’s on the outskirts of town, closer to the castle. We can go there if you like.”

Rory drained his butterbeer. “Let’s go.”

Draco hurried to tip back the last of his drink, threw on his coat and scarf, and headed out. The shack was deserted when they got there. The doors and windows were still boarded shut.

“Impressed?” asked Draco with a hint of laughter. For all of its reputation, the Shrieking Shack was nothing to look at.

Rory nudged his shoulder against him, “Is this what the English think of as a tourist attraction?”

“I’ll remind you we are in Scotland,” said Draco, exaggerating his upper crust accent.

“I bet you bring everyone here.”

“Not really.”

Rory turned to face him. The other boy was standing so close.

“Everyone here keeps talking about you and Harry Potter – the famous kid – the one The Quibbler is always on about. Did you bring him here?”

Draco shook his head, “I never . . . brought him here.”

“People talk about how he followed you around last year. Sounds intense. Were you . . . was he your boyfriend?”

Draco started. “What? Me and Potter? Merlin, no.”

The other boy looked at him thoughtfully. “Right. Okay.”

“Seriously – there was nothing between me and Potter. Less than nothing.”

Rory reached out a hand “So, you are single then?”

Draco froze. Rory was . . . what? Trying to call him out? Ridicule him? Or was he . . . was he interested in him? He fixed the other boy with his most disdainful stare, drawing around himself all the armor that he could.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

Rory rested his hand on Draco’s arm. His blue eyes were level with Draco’s own. He leaned in toward him.

“I think you do,” he said.

Oh. Oh – so that was it. Wait. What the fuck? This type of thing didn’t happen to Draco.

Rory smiled – soft and sweet. Merlin, sweet people didn’t get sorted into Slytherin, but damn, there was no other way to describe the look on the other boy’s face. He leaned in even closer until he was a breath away from Draco. Draco didn’t move away. He wanted this. Wanted this moment. He didn’t dare to breathe. Rory’s lips brushed against his own. It was the merest hint of a kiss.

His heart hammering, Draco moved closer to Rory and pressed his lips against the other boy’s. Fuck it was good. Or at least he thought it was – he didn’t really have much to compare it too. Rory lifted his other hand and rested it on Draco’s other arm, drawing them closer. As the boy’s hand closed on his forearm, Draco gasped and pulled back. Rory’s hand was only two layers of fabric away from the Mark.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rory. The boy’s face looked worried, almost scared. “Did I get this wrong?”

Draco shook his head, “No, you didn’t – er – I don’t think you did. I don’t know.”

“Draco?”

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, horrified with the admission.

Rory smiled, that sweet smile again. “It’s okay. I have.”

The boy leaned back in and kissed Draco again, this time his lips opened against Draco’s and he felt the merest flick of a tongue on his bottom lip. Draco pulled back.

“I – I just . . .” he trailed off, not knowing what he really wanted to say.

“It’s nice though, yeah?” asked the boy with a smile, his single dimple on full display.

Draco nodded, sure that it was nice, but unsure if he should think it was.

“I won’t tell anyone,” said Rory. “We don’t have to tell anyone anything. This can just be ours.”

He ran his hands up the undersides of Draco’s arms – against the Mark. Draco tried to suppress a grimace. This poor boy didn’t know. He had no idea what Draco was.

Draco stepped back. He ran his hand through his hair. “Look Rory it’s not you. You’re – well fuck – you’re . . . nice. Really nice. And I’m . . . not.”

“Not nice is fun sometimes.”

“No. You don’t understand. I’m into some heavy shit. My family is all enmeshed with the Dark Lord,” he said. Should he have said that? Maybe not, but it wasn’t like it was a secret. It was common knowledge that the Malfoys and the Lestranges were supporters of Lord Voldemort. “I . . . I can’t let you get close to me. I’m dangerous. I’ll hurt you. You will get hurt.”

Rory stepped back, “You’re serious?”

Draco looked at those eyes. They looked wider now, almost fearful.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I’m sorry Rory. I wish I wasn’t so fucked up. But I’m a mess. You shouldn’t become involved with me.”

Rory took a step back toward him, “But - ”

Draco stepped away, “No Rory. Just no. I’m sorry - Merlin, I really am.”

He turned and left the boy – the fucking fit and sweet boy – alone and walked quickly back toward Hogsmeade.

His pace quickened as his mind whirred. What had Rory been thinking kissing him? Didn’t he know what Draco was? How could he not know? Everyone knew damn it – everyone knew he was an evil bastard.

He looked toward the castle in the distance. His heart sank. He couldn’t go there. Rory would be returning there. And Draco would see him – maybe – in the common room or in the Great Hall at dinner. He couldn’t face the boy. Draco had turned down Rory, but he hadn’t really wanted to. And oh hell, what did that mean? Was he . . . was he all the horrible things his aunt hinted at when the other boy’s angled body appealed to him more than the soft curves of any of the girls he knew?

And then there was Blaise. He wasn’t near ready to go back and be grilled – even good naturedly – about his date which Draco had been so sure wasn’t really going to be a date. But then it had been a date, hadn’t it? And it had felt so nice – so normal talking with someone his age about everyday things. Not talking about the War, the Dark Lord, or the way Hogwarts was changing in troubling ways - it had been, well, lovely. Then Rory had gone and kissed him. Draco’s hand flew up to his lips for a moment. It hadn’t been his first kiss. He’d kissed Pansy after the Yule Ball because he thought he was supposed to, but it had been brief and awkward and he’d not repeated it. The kiss with Rory had been brief, but it had definitely not been awkward. It had been . . . well it had gotten his attention and damn he really wished he could repeat the experience.

He stomped a bit as a walked. Merlin, he could most definitely not go back to the castle and have Blaise either tease him or sympathize with him about how his not-date that really had been a date that had ended in disaster. And he really couldn’t be having that conversation if Vince and Greg were around. He couldn’t have anything personal about himself getting back to their parents and thus to the Dark Lord. It would be used against him. Bellatrix, curse her, was already making havoc with what she thought she knew about Draco’s inclinations.

He turned into a side street of Hogsmeade and leaned against the exterior wall of a business, hoping the slight shadows would hide him a little from others. His heart was still pounding. What were his inclinations? He hadn’t really thought about that much. He knew he had . . .well . . . thoughts sometimes. But he hadn’t really dug into what they meant. He’d been busy last year, trying not to die, trying to avoid Potter, trying to complete his horrible mission – he hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about . . . well . . . this.

He ran a hand through his hair again. It was a nervous gesture he tried to avoid - as if he were honest - he was quite particular about his hair. Right now, however, it couldn’t be helped.

He reached into his pocket. The snitch was there, cool to his touch. He needed to get away – needed to go anywhere but back to the castle. Snape had told him he could go away for a bit now and then if he needed it, and Merlin, he needed it. He took off toward the village owlery at close to a run. He’d owl Snape and then go. He’d go to 12 Grimmauld Place and figure out what the bloody hell was so important that that Dumbledore had disclosed the location to him. He’d go to number twelve and forget all about Rory’s green – no – blue eyes – definitely blue.

Notes:

This chapter marks the end of what I consider to be the introductory phase of the story. Things start moving faster for Draco hereon out. I'm really enjoying exploring Draco's perspective - his hopes and fears - and the struggle between duty and desire that he finds himself in.

Chapter 17: 12 Grimmauld Place

Rain had turned the sky grey. He stood in Grimmauld Place between numbers eleven and thirteen and waited.  After a moment, the house he had watched so long during the summer while forced on surveillance duty emerged out of nothing to stand between its neighbors.  It had clearly been a grand home in its day, but it looked neglected now.  It was nothing to the Manor where he’d grown up, but then he supposed that his maternal bloodline had perhaps had more sense of taste than his flashier paternal side.

He scanned the street and seeing no one, he cast a disillusionment charm on himself before walking to the house.  He hesitated on the stoop.  He knew the place was not likley still under constant surveillance by his side, apparently Potter had been sighted here in the beginning of term, but after having no sign of him for weeks, the Dark Lord had reportedly ceased expending people to watch the place.  Despite this, he didn’t know for sure that no one loyal to Lord Voldemort wasn’t still assigned here unbeknownst to Snape.  He also didn’t know what wards or protection spells might be in effect, or if the other side was keeping watch.  He cast a Specialis Revelio charm and detected nothing hostile or dangerous either around or on the door.  He mounted the steps and stood before the black door.  A silver door knocker shaped like a coiled serpent captured his attention for a moment, before he reached out to grasp the doorknob.  He held his breath.  The knob glowed slightly in his hand but caused him no pain, rather he felt a tingling sensation.  He could sense old magic at work – perhaps blood magic or something similar.  The glowing ceased, and the door opened.  He smiled.  The house had allowed him entry and Draco crossed the threshold of 12 Grimmauld Place and let the door close behind him.

He took a shaky, giddy breath.  He hadn’t been sure if he’d be able to get in.  He’d learned through Snape that Yaxley had told the Death Eaters that Potter and his friends had disapparated from the Ministry to the Black family’s ancestral home, but he hadn’t gotten in.  None of the other Death Eaters had either, which he heard had especially infuriated Bellatrix who had shrieked that she was an heir to the House of Black.  Knowing what he did now, he was glad he hadn’t been pulled away from school and forced to try and get in.  Why after all, would the house allow him, a wizard who’d barely come of age entry, when its obvious successor was the eldest descendant of the Blacks who had not been disowned?  Bellatrix, psychotic as she was, was the ultimate embodiment of the motto Toujours Pur. 

The house was legally Potter’s now.  This fact had also incensed Bellatrix, as well as his father, when they had discovered this, but there was old magic at work here.  Draco was the last living male descendant of the once proud line.  The house had been built, and likely originally spelled, in an era when being male mattered.  Draco guessed he’d been allowed in because he was the male heir to the bloodline, Sirius’s bequest of the house to Potter be damned.

He took another step forward.  He heard voices, “Welcome.  Welcome child of the House of Black.”  He realized with a start that the portraits were calling to him. 

Then another voice rose above the rest, “Severus Snape?”

From the end of the hall a figure appeared and started to glide toward him.  He raised his wand and then realized it was Dumbledore.  Oh fuck.  But . . . but the former headmaster was dead.  He took a step back, he felt his heart hammering in his chest.

“Severus Snape!” said the voice again.

Dumbledore picked up speed, Draco took another step back, and then another.  His back was against the door, and still the figure of Dumbledore approached.  He couldn’t tell what is was – this Dumbledore was gray, his face was sunken, and most terrible of all, his eye sockets were empty.  He raised a withered arm and pointed at Draco.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, his eyes stinging.  “I’m sorry I killed you.”

Just as the wretched outstretched arm was about to reach him, the figure exploded leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust.

He bent over, his hands on his knees for support as he took a long, shaky breath.  He shouldn’t have come here.  This was insane.  Why had he come? 

He heard a crack and a very ancient house elf snapped into the space right in front of him.  He lifted his head to regard the smaller being.

“You must leave.  Out.  The Master would not like you here.  Out.”

Draco swallowed.  This must be Kreacher.  He’d heard his mother mention this elf.  He dropped to one knee to put his face at the house elf’s level.  He looked into the wizened face and said one word, “Regulus.”

The house elf stiffened.

“I’m Draco Malfoy.  I am here because of Regulus.”

Kreacher’s hand flew to a silver locket that hung from his neck, grasping it tightly.  “You have come,” he said.  “Master Regulus said one day you would come.”

Draco shook his head.  “How could he have known that?  He died before I was even born.  He never met me.”

“Miss Cissy told him.  She told him she was going to have a child.  He worried for you Master Draco.”

“He worried . . . about me?”

Kreacher nodded.  “Before he left he ordered me to watch for you.  To help you when you came.”

“Your Master Potter won’t like it.”

“I serve him, and I am loyal.  But I served Master Regulus first.  He gave me orders.  I will not fail him.”  Kreacher swept  his arm in the direction of the interior of the house.  “You are the one Master Regulus told me to wait for, and you are Miss Cissy’s child.  The House let you in. When Master Harry left, the House sealed itself up.  Only the true master can enter.  The House recognizes two – Master Harry and you.  Master Harry by legal right and you by right of birth.”

Draco rose.  The elf turned and led him deeper into the house.  It was a somber place, but the furnishings and trim spoke of former days of wealth and glory.

“Master Regulus grew up here,” said Kreacher.  “His room is on the third floor.  Go on up.”

Draco mounted the stairs.  After his second step Kreacher called, “Mind the cursed step near the top.”

Cursed step?  How paranoid had his Black ancestors been to install a cursed step? 

He made his way to the third floor.  One of the many closed doors had a sign that read, “Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.”  He paused.  He had never met this man.  His mother rarely spoke of him except in her more melancholy and nostalgic moods.  On those rare occasions, she told him that he reminded her of Regulus.  He also knew that Regulus had been Marked the summer between his fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts – the same as Draco.  They were both the youngest wizards to ever bear the Mark.  Draco had been terrified to be Marked.  When he’d been younger, he thought he’d be proud to bear the same mark as his father, but when it came time, he had been scared, not proud.  The Dark Lord frightened him.  Draco had wanted power and respect but not the bloodshed that the Dark Lord ordered in his name. Lord Voldemort had a crazed cruel streak inside himself, Draco knew this, and it overwhelmed and sickened him.  From what he’d heard about Regulus, that boy had been excited to bear the Mark and carry out the work of the Dark Lord.  If that were true, Draco doubted that he and Regulus were really all that alike.

He willed himself to open the door, and he entered a room that was dominated by a large bed of carved, dark wood.  The walls were papered in stripes of green and silver and matching, heavy drapes hung in the window.  Behind the bed he saw a collage of yellowed paper and painted above were the words, “Toujours Pur.”  Drawers from the grand chest that matched the bed, as well as from a desk and bedside table, were strewn about the floor.  The mattress had been tossed, and a host of objects and paper littered the floor.  The room had been searched.

Kreacher appeared beside him.  Draco did his best not to flinch at the crack of sound, but he knew he wasn’t successful.  He was tense and the smallest noises caused his heart to race.

He took a deep breath before asking, “Who did this?”

“Snape.”

“Severus Snape?  He was here?  What was he looking for?”

“I don’t know Master Draco, maybe he found it.  Maybe he didn’t.  He searched the whole house.”

Draco felt uneasy.  If Snape had come here, who else had come – or could come?  Snape hadn’t mentioned that he’d been in this house.  What the hell was going on?

“Who else has been here?”

“Master Harry and his friends, but that was after Snape.  Before that, Master Sirius could hardly bring himself to look in this room.  And before that, no one but the Mistress, except for James.”

James?  Who the bloody hell was James?

Draco took careful steps deeper in the room, trying his best not walk on anything.  The clothes strewn about were almost universally black.  It seemed to be an unspoken requirement that a Slytherin and a Death Eater had to wear black.  And this room had clearly belonged to a Slytherin.  The color scheme and the serpent painted on the trunk were a dead giveaway.  He spotted a photograph on the wall.  Inching closer, he saw what looked to be a team photo of a Slytherin Quidditch team.  He leaned in.  A younger looking Slughorn sat posed with the team.  He scanned the faces.  He was startled to see one that looked like his own, possessing high cheekbones and steel-grey eyes.  The hair was the only real contrast.  It was dark – perhaps black – and it fell in gentle waves skimming the young man’s chin.

“Was this him?” Draco asked, pointing at the photograph.

“Yes, Master Draco.  Regulus loved to fly.  He was a seeker.”

A seeker?  Just like him.

“Will the young master be staying tonight?”

Draco froze.  It was Halloween weekend.  He’d been granted permission to leave the grounds by Snape, but he didn’t know how far that liberty extended.  He doubted Snape had meant he could leave for more than a couple of hours.

“If I stay, could you go to Diagon Alley for me with a message to owl?” asked Draco.  He felt a twinge of guilt asking Kreacher to run an errand for him, but he was afraid that if he left he’d be spotted and may not get back in.

“Of course Master Draco,” answered Kreacher.  “A guest room is just the next door over.  You can stay there tonight.”

Draco thanked the old elf and made his way downstairs in search of parchment.  He found a study on the main level and quickly jotted out a note to Snape saying that he had an errand that was taking longer then expected and he’d be staying in London for at least the night.  Kreacher took the message and immediately disapparated. 

Draco made his way back up to the third level to Regulus’s room.  He took another look around.  Books and parchment were strewn about the space in addition to the clothing.  The yellowed paper stuck to the wall turned out to be newspaper clippings all about the Dark Lord.  Regulus had been a Death Eater.  Was that what his whole family was?  A bunch of fucking Death Eaters?  Sirius had gone his own way – but where had that gotten him?  Twelve years in Azkaban and an early grave.  His mother didn’t have the Mark, but both her husband and son bore the screaming skull and twisting snake on their forearms.  And Bellatrix – there couldn’t be a more fervent follower of the Dark Lord than his aunt.  She was unhinged in both her loyalty and her cruelty.  It chilled Draco to the bone whenever he was alone with her without his mother to run interference. 

He glanced back at the Quidditch team photograph.  Regulus had looked so young – and probably had been Draco’s age or close to it when the picture had been taken.  Kreacher said he’d loved to fly.  Once he’d joined the first War for the Dark Lord and left childish games behind, had Regulus missed the feel of the wind whipping his cloak and hair as he stretched out his hand to catch a snitch?

The snitch.  Draco reached in his pocket and pulled out the snitch Dumbledore had sent him.  The script reappeared as Draco held the golden sphere in his hand. 

“Regulus,” he whispered.

Draco heard a small click, and the snitch slid open.

What in the hell?  Draco peered inside the open snitch and saw a small roll of paper.  He pulled it out with his thumb and forefinger.  It looked like a tiny scroll.  He unrolled it, and sure enough there was miniscule writing.  He withdrew his wand and said, “Engorgio.”  The scroll grew in size until Draco could read it. 

Draco –

Once, long ago, I gave up on a young man – a child really.  I believed that he had made his own choices and when he denied my offers of aid, I washed my hands of him.  I believed his heart was dark and twisted.  I was wrong.  Beneath the mask of arrogance and disdain was a tortured soul and the heart of a lion.  He was flawed, as are we all, but his heart was pure – always pure.  His kindness and bravery granted our world the key to redemption. 

Yet when this child needed me most, I could not see him – not the real him – and I turned away.  I’ve tried not to repeat this mistake.  I saw you my child - I saw your heart.  Its beat is pure. 

Every night since I learned of my error, I searched the stars for the heart of the lion.  May his star guide you now.

Albus Dumbledore

Kreacher found Draco sitting in the wreckage of his deceased master’s bedroom, his face stiff with dried tears.  He helped Draco to the bedroom next door.

Draco stripped down to his undershirt and pants and climbed in to the bed clutching the snitch to his chest.  With the mood he was in it had taken great effort to concentrate enough to reduce the parchment back to a size where it would fit back in the snitch, but he had done it. 

He huddled in the bed and recalled Dumbledore’s words.

I saw you my child. 

Saw.  Past tense.  Had Dumbledore known?  Had he known he was going to die and would be dead when Draco read his letter?

Had he known his death was supposed to be at Draco’s hand? 

Always pure. 

The Black family motto had always been preached to him to represent the purity of his magical bloodline.  But Dumbledore had used it in a different context – speaking of the inner workings of one’s heart.  The Malfoy family motto – Sanctimonia Vincet Semper – Purity will always conquer – had also always been taught to represent blood purity.  But again, what if the word purity stood for something else?  Purity of the heart – purity of the soul?  Was that the true meaning and his family had twisted it over time?  Did it matter what the true meaning was if he could reclaim the phrases for himself to mean something different?  Something promising?

The heart of the lion. 

Regulus.  The brightest star in the constellation Leo - the heart of the lion.  Draco, like many of his family, was named after the stars, just as Regulus had been before him.  Dumbledore had turned away from Regulus, believing him to be twisted and evil, but something had changed his mind.  Something that he thought Draco could at least emulate. 

But surely it was too late for him?  His forearm bore the proof of that.  He wasn’t a good person - had never been a good person.  What did Dumbledore honestly expect of him?  That he’d turn over a new leaf and die for his efforts?  That’s why he’d left Rory and fled here – he wasn’t good enough for the other boy. 

And oh Merlin – boys.  Boys?  Did he like boys?  Oh fuck, he thinks he does . . . like boys.  This was too much.  It was all too much.  Now wasn’t the time to be having a crisis of identity.

He coiled himself into a tighter ball in the bed.  He was just seventeen years old.  How in the hell had his life gotten here?

 

 

Notes:

We are finally here! Scenes from this chapter as well as the scene of Draco being given the snitch were what started me on this journey.

Chapter 18: Heir of the House of Black

Grey light bled in through the room’s single window.  It was another dreary day.  Draco stretched out in the unfamiliar bed.  He ran a hand through his hair.  He’d have to go back to Hogwarts today.  Merlin he didn’t want to go back, but if he fled, his mother and father would suffer.  The Dark Lord would punish them for Draco’s betrayal, and for all he knew the Dark Lord could find him through the Mark on his arm – Karkaroff had been found after all.   

He rooted around on the floor for clothes.  He made sure the snitch was firmly back in his pocket before exiting the room.  He paused again at Regulus’s door.  Was his destiny going to be the same?  Filled with fear and hate and then obliterated by an early death?  He stepped in and went to look at the Quidditch photograph.  The face and the eyes were so startlingly similar.  They were almost mirror images of one another – one light and one dark.

“Master Draco,” said a voice behind him.

Draco turned to find Kreacher standing in the door clutching something to his chest.

“Snape and the others didn’t find everything,” said the house elf.  “My brave Regulus left this for you.”

He held out a letter, sealed with black wax with the impression of a snake.  Draco stepped toward the smaller being and reached out for the offering. 

“Thank you Kreacher.”  The letter felt heavy.  He cracked the seal, and a key slid out.  He recognized the make.  Gringotts.  “Regulus had a vault at Gringotts?”

“Yes.  His own vault – separate from the Black family,” said Kreacher.

“Regulus. . .” Draco murmured.

“He died a hero,” said Kreacher.

Draco felt himself shiver.  “No one talks about him hardly at all.  They never mention his death.  I’ve heard . . . rumors.  That he betrayed the Dark Lord and was killed.”

“He died for love,” said Kreacher.  “He saved me, Master Draco.  He died trying to save us all.”

Draco stared down at the letter and unfolded it.

December 21, 1979

To the heir of the House of Black:

Orion is clear in the night sky.  When I am lost, I look to the stars.  The stars remind me who I love and who I have lost.  They remind me that even when I am gone, a part of me will continue to exist.  My eyes often search the heavens for Sirius.  I wonder if my brother does the same and searches for my namesake in the sky.  As often as I look for the dog star, I also search for an ancient constellation of the Picts.  The constellation of Scorpio was unknown to the ancient Druids, rather a great stag graced their night sky.  I trace its shape with my mind’s eye. 

I lost my brother years ago.  And I lost James.  I lost them - the two people most dear to me when I chose to remain with my family.  At first I blamed the Mark on my arm, but they would have forgiven me that mistake if I’d had the courage to leave.  It was the compounding of my choices that they could no longer bear.  The price I paid was too high.  The honour and pride of the ancient and noble House of Black was not worth the loves of my life.

Although I crave the chance to live, my greatest fear is not death, as I’ve died every day since I chose to be a Death Eater.  No, my greatest fears now, are for you.  I worry that another Black child will be sacrificed on the altar of pride and hate.  I’m afraid that you will be raised as I was – to fear and loathe those who are different – those who are not “pure.”  I’ve loved my enemy and know well the lies that Lord Voldemort and his ilk tell.  I hope that you too know the joy of a love that is pure and redeeming. 

That love carries me forward now, helping me find the courage to do what I must to bring down the Dark Lord.  I don’t believe I will return or that I will have the chance to see you grow.  When darkness finds me, I will think of Sirius.  I will think of James.  And I will think of you.  May your star burn bright and true.

  Regulus 

He was shaken reading the letter.  Regulus knew he was going to die.  Knew he wouldn’t come back and he’d written Draco a letter.  What did he mean about loving his enemy?  Did he mean Sirius?  And who the bloody hell was James?

“Thank you Kreacher,” he said, his voice low and thick even to his own ears.  “Thank you for keeping this safe.”

The ancient house elf nodded his head.

Draco took another look around the room.  Amongst the debris on the floor, something caught his eye.  He knelt down and picked up a photograph.  It showed two young boys who looked very much a alike.  One was a bit taller than the other.  Kreacher peered at the photo.  The children looked to be standing on the doorstep of this house.

“Master Regulus and Sirius,” said Kreacher.  “It was taken right before Master Regulus left for Hogwarts the first time.”

Draco looked closer.  The boys had the same black hair and grey eyes – his own eyes.  Sirius’ school uniform sported Griffindor accent colors, while Regulus’s was still barren of any house affiliation.  He’d not yet been sorted.  The boys had arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.  They looked pleased with themselves, about to set off to Hogwarts together. They stared at the camera, and then Sirius would turn and grin at his younger brother.  Draco wondered if they’d stayed as close after Regulus went to Slytherin.

“May I have this?” he asked.

Kreacher shifted from foot to foot, seemingly uncertain.

“I only ask as I don’t have any photographs of Regulus.”

The house elf’s eyes already large eyes seemed to grow larger still.

“No photos of Master Regulus?  Miss Cissy has shown you none?”

“She hasn’t.”

With a crack the elf disapparated from the room.  Draco stood, unsure of what this sudden exit meant.  In a moment, however, Kreacher reappeared and held out another photograph to Draco.  He took it and saw a photograph of Regulus in his school uniform looking older.  This time he wore a green and silver striped tie.

“This was taken at the beginning of his sixth year at Hogwarts.  Sirius had disgraced the family and run off by then.”

Draco looked closer – Regulus would have been Marked by then and was recognized officially as the heir.  The boy turned toward the camera, his expression bored, but he held himself straight and tall as would be expected of a Black or of a Malfoy.  There were dark smudges under his eyes and a sharpness to his face.  Being Marked didn’t seem to have agreed with Regulus any more than it agreed with Draco.

“Take them both,” said Kreacher.  “It is good that Master Regulus be remembered.”

Draco thanked the smaller being again and turned toward the stairs.  He paused after a couple of steps and turned back to Kreacher, “What of you?  You won’t stay here by yourself will you?”

“No – Master Harry – when he isn’t in residence, he has me at Hogwarts.  I came here when you entered the house.  The house’s magic alerted me.”

“Hogwarts,” Draco repeated before descending the stairs.  When he reached the door, he turned to look back at the house. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

Outside at Grimmauld Place he checked his pocket again for the snitch and the bank key.  Finding them where they were supposed to be, he sighed.  He’d have to visit Gringotts another day, as the bank was closed on Sundays.  There was nothing for it.  He had to go back to Hogwarts and face Snape and . . . Rory.  Rory and his blue eyes.  It wasn’t Rory’s fault that Draco was a mess – that he wasn’t worth Rory’s time or attention.  Just as it wasn’t the other boy’s fault that the only person Draco really wanted would never want him – and it definitely wasn’t Rory’s fault that Draco could never get Harry Potter’s green eyes out of head.  He ducked his head against the stares of passersby and made his way to a safe place to disapparate.

Snape, he discovered, was waiting for him at the gate of Hogwarts looking grim.  “Draco?”

“Sir, I had to leave.”

“When I told you that you could leave from time to time, I did not mean for overnight excursions,”  said Snape.  “I can only protect you if you work to protect yourself.  I can only make excuses for an absence for so long.”

Draco bowed his head.

“You are lucky this time.  The Dark Lord and the Carrows did not ask after you, and your dorm mates think you were in the infirmary.”

“What do they think was wrong with me, sir?”

“Clearly something didn’t agree with you at Hogsmeade.  I left the details vague.”

The gate closed solidly behind him.  Snape turned and started the long walk across the grounds.  Draco walked slightly behind him.  The day was cool – much chillier here than in London.  He wrapped his coat more tightly around himself.

“I have to go away again, sir.  For an hour – maybe a little more.”

“I think you’ve had enough time away Draco.”

“I came back sir.  I will come back.”

Snape stopped and turned to look at him, his dark eyes offering Draco nothing.  “Why?” he asked.

“I need to go to Gringotts.  I couldn’t go today.  I need to go during the week while they are open.”

“No, my question is why will you come back?”

Draco stared at the older man.  For a moment all of his walls dropped, and the words that came tumbling out were the truth, “Because this is my home.”

Snape studied him for a long moment before he resumed walking toward the castle, “I’m sure you can make whatever monetary arrangements you need with Gringotts by owl.”

“Sir, I can’t,” said Draco, his heart sinking. 

“You have a free afternoon on Fridays.”

“Yes,” said Draco, daring to hope.

“Perhaps I can arrange some . . . business for you in London.  Potions ingredients that will need in-person selection.”

“Thank you, sir,” breathed Draco as they started to ascend the steps of the castle. 

Snape gave him one last look before leaving Draco in the entryway.  It wasn’t until Snape’s black-clad form had passed from his view that Draco realized the man had not asked him where he had been.

Draco glanced longingly at the Great Hall.  He had missed breakfast and it was too early for lunch, so the space was empty.  There was nothing for it, but to go to the Slytherin common room.  He really didn’t want to see Rory and relive how he’d left that boy alone.

As soon as he entered the Slytherin sanctuary, Blaise called to him from a sofa by the fireplace, “Draco – Pomfrey let you out of the infirmary?  What happened to you?”

Blaise wasn’t alone.  Seated around him were the rest of the seventh year crew.  Off in an alcove, however, he saw Rory.  He may have just imagined it, but he thought he saw the boy stiffen.

“I’m fine,” said Draco.  “Must have had something at Hogsmeade that didn’t agree with me.”

“Disgusting,” said Pansy.  “Where ever did you go so that I can avoid it?”

Rory rose and made his way to the dormitory stairs.

Draco shrugged.  “I was lots of places Pans, I couldn’t really say.  Took me out of commission for a bit.  I think Pomfrey was worried I’d picked up something contagious,” he lied.  “Made me stay in isolation to protect you lot.”

“Our hero!” sing-songed Blaise and Theo together.

He glanced toward the stairs.  There was no sign of Rory.

“I’m going to head up, I need a shower, and I’m still pretty tired.”

“If you don’t come down for lunch I’ll send Vince and Greg up to bodily drag you down,” said Pansy.  “Can’t have you wasting away.”

“That sounds . . . pleasant,” said Draco.

“More pleasant for you than for us,” said Vince.  “We’d be the ones lugging your arse.”

“Too right,” said Greg with a grin.

Draco turned his back toward his friends and started to climb the stairs.  He was tired.  But he didn’t need to lie down.  He just wanted to get away for a bit – think about what he’d found at 12 Grimmauld Place.  Instead, he finds Rory standing outside of the door leading to the dorm for the sixth year boys and a part of him wants to let his eyes linger on the boy.  He wonders what it would be like to run his fingers through those soft curls while another part of him, just as strong, wants to turn back down the stairs and never look back.  He wills himself to climb the final steps to face Rory.  He’d shared a house with Lord Voldemort, he could surely handle speaking with Rory Kelley.

“I was what disagreed with you at Hogsmeade,” Rory said.

He ran a hand through his hair, “Merlin, Rory, like I told you.  It’s not you.  It’s me.”

Rory huffed, “If you say so.”

“I don’t want to hurt you Rory,” said Draco, which was the truth.  He didn’t want to hurt the other boy.  He could only imagine what the Dark Lord would do if Draco failed him again and he was involved with Rory.  Rory would become another piece of leverage - another target.

“Look, just don’t tell anyone, okay,” said Rory, not meeting Draco’s eyes.  “About me.  It could be dangerous for me.”

“Of course I won’t tell anyone.  If I told anyone I’d be telling them about me.  I was there too you know.”

“Yeah, for a moment there, I did think you were there . . . with me,” said Rory.  He tilted his head back to look up at Draco, his eyes were so impossibly blue that for a moment he felt lost in them.  “It’s too bad.  You seemed nice.”

Draco laughed, it sounded rueful to his own ears.  “I don’t think anyone has ever said I seemed nice.”

“Maybe they don’t see you as you are now.  You were nothing but nice to me,” says Rory.  He gives Draco a smile so small that it doesn’t reveal his dimple.  “See you around,” says the younger boy before he disappears into his room.

He leans hard against the wall.  Merlin, he doesn’t think his nerves can take much more today.  He climbs the last stairs up to the seventh year dorm and sheds his clothes down to his pants and heads toward the ensuite.  He needs a shower badly.  He relishes the feel of the hot water sluicing the sweat and dried tears from his skin.  He stays in the water until his skin is pink from the heat.  After he’s dried, he rummages for clean clothes.  He’s standing by his bed buttoning up his customary black shirt when Blaise comes in the room and lounges on his own bed beside Draco.

“You weren’t in the infirmary,” said his friend.

“And you know this how?”

“I went there.  Thought you might need help buttoning your pajamas again.”

Draco shot his friend a look.

“What really happened Draco?  Did something go wrong with Rory?  The boy wouldn’t even look at you when you came into the common room.”

Draco walked away to stand in front of a mirror while he finishes buttoning his shirt.  Blaise was far more observant than Draco wanted to acknowledge.  “Nothing happened.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You fucked off for an entire night Draco.  Something happened.  I haven’t told anyone you were gone,” said Blaise.  “Were you . . . summoned . . . by You-Know-Who?”

“I can’t talk to you about this.”

The other boy flopped back on his bad.  “You’re a right pain you know that?  I was worried about you okay?  Worried you’d got stuck on some dark mission and wouldn’t be coming back.”

Draco scoffed, “What are you my mother?”

“No you prat, I’m your friend.  If you don’t want to tell me anything fine, but don’t make me worry about you, all right?”

Blaise rolled off his bed and started for the door.  Every instinct in him urges Draco not to say anything – reminds him that he can trust no one.  But he’s so tired . . . Merlin, he’s so tired of being alone.

“Nothing happened with Rory,” said Draco just as Blaise’s hand reached for the door.  “Nothing much.  I . . . I couldn’t.  I don’t deserve anyone Blaise.”

“That’s absolute shit Draco.”

Draco couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes, “It’s not.  I don’t deserve anything nice.”

The other boy made no move to approach Draco and spoke in a gentle tone as if afraid Draco would bolt, “You have to work on that.  Thinking you don’t deserve anything nice.  Work on being the kind of person that does - you know - deserve nice things to happen to them.”

He can’t deal with this advice right now.  What is he supposed to do to be a better person?  He had the fucking Dark Mark branded on his arm.  “Anyway, I was a bit of a mess after and took off for a bit is all.  Snape knew, okay?  I was fine.”

“You know God invented owls – send me one next time you wanker.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “Fine.”

His friend gestured towards Draco’s hair, “And hurry up and do something with that, I know how fussy you are – we’ve got to get going.  It’s almost lunch and I’m starved.”

Chapter 19: Distant Constellation

Draco's trip to Gringotts and Diagon Alley had gone more smoothly than he expected.  There were few shoppers out, and no one stopped him.  It had been jarring to see several of the businesses boarded up, and there had been a tricky moment when ministry security wizards posted outside of Gringotts had searched him with a probity probe.  All they’d found for magical objects was his snitch, which he’d covered for easily by explaining that he played Seeker in school.  The vault, number 737, had been full of galleons, but Draco had swept the area looking for more.  All he’d found was a small wooden box.  Nestled carefully inside, on a bed of dark green velvet, were three small vials.  He’d pocketed the box and quickly made his way to Knockturn Alley to collect Snape’s order of potion supplies.

Now back at Hogwarts after the walk from the school gates, he made his way to the headmaster’s office and whispered the password.  Once inside he called out for Snape, but received no response.  He stepped quietly across the floor and set the potions package down on the desk.  He took another glance around to ensure he was alone, and then he pulled the box he’d recovered from his pocket.  Opening it, he tried lifting out the middle vial but it wouldn’t budge.  He tried the others, and discovered that only one could be removed.  He held it up – the light here was better than in the vault – and saw the telltale swirl of milky silver inside.  Memories.  Regulus had left memories.

He looked longingly at the pensieve.  He wanted to see what memories Regulus had preserved and left behind, but did he have enough time?  How long would Snape be gone?  He turned to the portraits, Dumbledore was still absent from his frame, thank Merlin, but he had a Black ancestor that had been headmaster once upon a time.  He searched the frames until he found one with a plaque reading, “Phineaus Nigellus Black.”

Draco walked up to the portrait – the man was wearing dark colored and old-fashioned wizarding robes.  His hair was also dark but liberally sprinkled with gray.  He appeared to be sleeping.

“Headmaster Black,” Draco said.  The portrait continued to slumber.  He reached out a long, pale finger and prodded at the canvas, “Headmaster Black.”

“What – who?” asked the groggy portrait.  Phineaus’s eyes opened and seemed to alight on Draco, “You puffed-up popinjay, what in the name of Salazar are you doing?  Were you raised in a barn.”

“I am sorry, sir.  I needed to speak with you.”

“And who are you?”

“Draco – Draco Malfoy.”

The figure in the portrait sat up a little straighter.  “Your mother was a Black was she not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a child of the most ancient and noble house of Black and a child of the exulted Slytherin House.”

He resisted the urge to sigh.  It wouldn’t do to upset his pompous ancestor.

“How may I be of service my child?”

“Headmaster Snape, when will he be back?”

“Oh, him.  For a Slytherin he has always been alarmingly embroiled with Gryffindors – that girl and Dumbledore – filling his mind and taking up his time.”

Draco had no idea what Phineaus was on about.  What girl?  He focused on the business at hand. 

“I need to use the pensieve, but I don’t want to disturb the Headmaster if he is going to be back anytime soon.”

“He’s off on a fool’s errand, scouting out around a campsite to ensure it is secure.  He’ll likely be gone yet for hours.”

Campsite?  Phineaus was making no sense.  Draco wondered if the portrait’s canvas had perhaps been stretched too tight.

“Right . . . Thanks.”

He walked away from the portrait toward the pensieve.  He heard Phineaus remark, “Look at that posture – excellent.  Befitting of his noble heritage.”

He ignored this comment and pulled out the only vial he could free from the case.  He stared into the still liquid of the basin.  What would he see?  He pulled the stopper, poured in the contents, and watch them swirl in long, wispy strands.  It was mesmerizing – he was drawn closer – not wanting to look away - his face sinking lower.  He took and held a breath and his face broke through the surface and the memory lapped at his skin and then his mind. 

He opened his eyes and the strands of memory swirled and then . . . then he was in a room – a room with green and silver wallpaper.  He turned.  He’d been here before . . . Regulus.  It was Regulus’s room, but tidy, not a mess of debris.  Everything looked pristine and organized.  In one corner he saw a stack of blocks, a stuffed dragon toy, and wooden snake with a pull cord.  Toys.  This was the room of a child.

“Come, child,” he heard a voice say.  He turned to the bed and saw a man with dark, gently waving hair sitting on the edge of the ornate bed.  Draco started for a moment, but the man didn’t see him.  Draco had never viewed a memory before and vaguely recalled hearing that while viewing them you couldn’t be seen. 

The dark-haired man pat a pale hand on the bed covers beside him.  A small boy with equally dark hair ran across the room in striped pajamas and climbed up onto the bed.  He was so small he almost didn’t make it up on the first try, but he hoisted himself up to sit by the man.

Neither of them noticed Draco lurking in the room – he was invisible, which made sense to him as this was a memory – a moment of time captured, not life playing out before his eyes.

“Tell me a story, Papa,” said the young boy.

The man turned down the covers and the little boy scurried in and was promptly covered up.

“As you know, my son, we are descended from a long and ancient line of wizards.  Being a member of the House of Black carries honor but also brings great responsibility.  The eyes of the wizarding world are always upon us – we must bear ourselves nobly, as befits our station.  Do you think you can do this my son?”

“Of course, Papa,” chimed the child.

Draco couldn’t help but remember similar conversations he’d had with his father when he was younger.  It had been ingrained in him that he was a Malfoy – that the name meant power – that he was practically nobility.  He’d thought himself so much better than everyone and anyone.  And now where was he?  Marked and an outcast – unwanted by either side in this cursed War.  He wanted to shake the older man and tell him to stop filling the child’s head with rot.

“All Blacks have a duty to protect the family and keep the world of magic pure.”

“What does that mean?”

“Wizards are strongest – best – when they come from long lines of magic.  Magic can be thinned out to nothing if not kept pure,” said the man.  “Our magic is stronger – better – than those who claim to be wizards born of Muggles.  Magic is carried in our blood.”

It hurt Draco to hear this type of talk.  It was so similar to what his father had told him – likely would still tell him.  And what was the truth?  Was Granger any less brilliant for having been Muggle-born – was her magic any less powerful?  He didn’t think so.  He seen too much of her abilities to think her magic was weaker than a pureblood’s.

“To remind people of our noble heritage and exalted status, we often name our children after the heavens.  You, my child, bear the name of noble ancestors and some of the brightest stars in the sky – Regulus Arcturus.  Great things are expected of you – great things – but I have no doubt you will make the family proud.”

“Do I make you proud, Papa?”

The man reached down and ruffled the boys hair, “You will child – one day.”

Draco felt a lump in his throat.  This felt so familiar– wanting a father’s approval and being told that he would have it one day – never today – but one day, always one day in the future.  Everything he’d done had been to please his parents – most especially his father – to live up to the ideal of what it meant to be a fucking Malfoy – and for what?  To have his arm mutilated by a cruel master?  To be used as a pawn in a game over which he had no control?  And here it was – all on display before him – a small child being taught that he was superior to everyone else but at the same time being told he was not yet worthy of praise.

The room swirled – the memory was shifting, changing – he was in a dark room, richly furnished.  A handsome desk took up pride of place.  Heavy drapes in the deepest green covered the windows, and only slivers of light pierced through to stripe across the ornate carpet.  He’d thought memories viewed in a pensieve were of one event, but this memory seemed to run into another.  Had Regulus left him a string of glimpses into the past?

The same man he’d seen earlier was kneeling before a black marble mantel.  Then, a larger version of the boy he’d seen stood before the man holding out his palm which was streaked with thin red welts.

“What did you do to displease your mother?” asked the man, his deep voice low and gentle.

The child sniffled, “I . . . I cried – when Sirius left for Hogwarts.  She said it was unmanly and not becoming for a Black.”

The man gently folded the child’s hand and closed and kissed the curled fingers.  “You must listen to your mother.  She knows best.”

The caress spoke of affection, but Draco couldn’t help but notice that the man didn’t seek to treat the child’s wounds.

The child looked up into his father’s face, his eyes large and grey – tears streaked his cheeks.  “But Papa, I miss him.  I miss Sirius.”

“You’ll join him next year at Hogwarts, Regulus.  And the Blacks never reveal emotion that can be called weak.  Your mother is teaching you a valuable lesson.  The face you show the world is a mask, my son, a carefully constructed shield – your real feelings – you keep those close, you keep them inside.”

Draco’s stomach shifted.  Had his parents and Regulus’s parents followed the same outline on how to raise a proper pureblood child?  This could have been a conversation he had with his mother – Lucius would have been the one to dole out the corporeal punishment, but his mother always explained it away as being for Draco’s own good.

“You can do it my child.  Someday you’ll make us proud.”

“Yes, Papa,” said the boy not meeting his father’s gaze. 

The man rose and turned his attention to the flames in the hearth.  The little boy walked slowly out of the room with a hitch in his step.  Draco followed the child out into the hall where the boy leaned against the wall outside of his father’s line of sight.  Regulus bent with a grimace to pull up one trouser leg.  On the back of his leg Draco saw more red welts going up and down the child’s calf.  Clearly his mother’s punishment had been more extreme than the child had revealed to his father.

Draco took a step toward the boy, wanting to take hold of him by the shoulders and tell him that everything he was being taught was not true – not healthy – but the image before his eyes burst and scattered and he was in a dining room – a large table gleamed beneath silver dishware.  At one end of the long, formal table sat three figures – a beautiful woman with dark hair, the same man, and Regulus looking much as he had in the last memory.  All were dressed richly in fine clothes for dinner as befit a family like the Blacks – like the Malfoys.

A house elf shuffled in to the room, bowing low.  He didn’t look up as he said, “An owl arrived for you Mistress Black.”

“You know better than to interrupt us at dinner, Kreacher,” said the woman, her voice like ice.

“It is from your niece, Bellatrix.”

The woman extended her thin arm and the house elf placed an envelope with a green seal in her hand before bowing even lower and walking out of the room.

The woman opened it, her eyes scanning the contents.  “No,” she gasped.

“What is it my dear,” asked the man.

She crumbled the letter in her hand and muttered, “Incendio.”  The parchment burst into flame in her hand and dissolved to ash.  “Sirius – he was sorted into Gryffindor.”

The man shook his head, “No, there must be a mistake.”

“Our niece was quite clear.   Our son has sorted into the House of Gryffindor – the first Black ever sorted to a house outside of Slytherin.”

The boy dropped his cutlery in his plate with a clatter.  His parents paid him no mind.

“Of course it would be him, Orion, having to defy us at every turn.  He’s always lacked the proper respect for this family and his position in it.”

“He’s young Walburga, we have time to mold him,” said her husband in a tone meant to be soothing.

“And how we will do that if he constantly surrounded by Mudblood brats in Gryffindor?  He’ll be further corrupted.”  She motioned toward the ash on the tablecloth, “Bellatrix writes that he already seems to be chummy with the Potters’ child – worst blood-traitors in the land – with a name like that they probably sprang from tainted blood as well.”

“He will learn,” said Orion.

Walburga looked up at her husband – the soft lighting of the room highlighted her pale, smooth skin.  Her face would have looked radiant but for her eyes – they were cold and hard. 

“You’ve coddled him enough.  He has to learn.  He is the heir.  He must rise to his station and this . . . this sorting is an abomination.”  She turned to look at her younger son, “You shall learn from your brother’s mistakes.  You’ve always been the more obedient child.  We expect more from you Regulus.”

The boy nodded his head, his eyes downcast, “Yes, mother.”

Walburga pushed her chair away from the table.  “I’ve lost my appetite at this news.”  She stood and smoothed out her elegant robes.  “I’ll be in the study composing a howler.”

She turned on her heel and left father and son sitting mutely at the table.

Before she reached the door to the dining room, she faded along with the room.  The setting shifted.  He was in another richly furnished room with the drapes drawn.  Orion sat in a wing-back chair in front of another ornate fireplace a tumbler with amber liquid in one hand.

“Papa,” said an older looking boy.

“Regulus, come,” beckoned Orion.

Regulus crossed the room – he had the slightly gangly look of adolescence.  He was perhaps fourteen, maybe fifteen.  But he still looked so young.  His black hair seemed to absorb the darkness of the space.  He knelt before his father, who placed his free hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You – you shall be the heir,” said his father solemnly.  “You mother and I have decided.  You shall be the heir of the House of Black.”

Regulus’s eyes widened, “But Sirius - ”

“He left – he left us,” said Orion.  “He refused to do his duty to this family and has fled to the Potters.”

Draco felt his own eyes widen – Sirius had gone to the Potters of all people?

“His friendship with their cursed son has corrupted him – led him astray.  We must be toujours pur, Regulus.”

The boy placed a hand on top of his father’s, “He could come back, Papa.  Someday.”

Orion shook his head, and swirled the liquid in the glass he held.  “He is gone.  Forever, Regulus.  Your . . . your mother has already removed his name from the family tapestry.”

“She can’t have – she can’t – he is your son – he is my brother,” Regulus choked. 

“Shh, child.  You must never speak about this to your mother,” Orion gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze.  “Do you understand?  Never.  Sirius is gone, he is no longer a member of this family and he cannot avail himself of our protection.”

The boy opened his mouth for a moment and then shut it again. 

Orion ran a hand over his face and then met Regulus’s eyes, “You are the heir.  You have a duty, and I have no doubt you will perform it.  You must . . . you must promise me you will not leave as your . . . you must not leave, my son.  I could not take it.  A man should not have to lose a child and I couldn’t bare it if I lost both of my sons.”

Regulus squeezed his father’s hand, “I will not leave you, Papa.”

The space fragmented in shards of dark colors that turned pale and then realigned.  He was in a garden, he could smell the scent of roses in the air, the sun was sinking.  He gazed around at the blooms – it was late summer.  He turned at the sound of voices.

“With your brother bringing disgrace to our family, it falls to you to do your duty.  You must protect our family’s honor,” said Walburga.  Orion stood beside her and nodded her head as his wife spoke.  Regulus stood tall, but his face was fearful.  They were all dressed in fine black robes.

“But mother, I’m not yet of age.”

Walburga reached out and smoothed the boy’s robes across his shoulder.  “You are a Black.  Your age does not matter.  The power of your family name is what is important.  That is why the Dark Lord has chosen you to bear his Mark.  It is a badge of honour.”

Draco’s mouth went dry.  Oh no.  Fuck no.  He didn’t want to see this.  He turned and started to walk away, but he couldn’t.  The memory only went so far and once he hit its edges, he could go no further.  He remembered his twisted pride and the constant fear leading up to the day he was Marked, and he remembered the pain that followed.  He couldn’t watch another child be branded.  He pushed against the barrier of the memory – pushed hard – but it wouldn’t budge.

“The Dark Lord believes you will serve him well, Regulus,” said Orion.  “Your mother speaks the truth.  This is indeed the highest of honours, especially for one so young.”

He couldn’t get away from their voices. 

“What if I’m not ready?” asked the boy.

Draco wanted to cover his ears.  He’d asked the same question and not a single adult in his life had come to his aid – no one had shielded him.

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” he heard Walburga say, “You are not a weakling.  And if you refuse – if you so dishonour this family by failing in your duty - you will be no better than Sirius.  You would be nothing without this family.  Nothing.  Remember that my son.”

“Of course I want to honour this family – I want to make you proud.”

“And you shall make us proud Regulus, one day,” intoned Orion.

“Ah yes, they are coming,” he heard Walburga say.

He couldn’t help it, he turned his head – and oh Merlin – it was his parents – had to be.  Their pale hair positively gleamed in the light.  Behind them were Bellatrix and the man at her side must be a younger Rodolphus Lestrange.  Others were coming too.  He recognized Vincent and Greg’s fathers, and then there were others he didn’t know – faces he’d never seen and assumed did not survive the First War.  He realized that his own initiation ceremony had been bare bones – just a handful of witnesses.  This was a big event – by allowing this much of a spectacle, the Dark Lord had clearly wanted Regulus to join his ranks – wanted the backing of the powerful Black family to be complete.  Draco hadn’t been seen as a valuable addition – the Dark Lord had Marked him and given him a task he’d known Draco would likely fail at as a punishment to Lucius.  The Lucius that stood in the circle now looked young and confident.  This Lucius knew his place both in the world and in Lord Voldemort’s estimation.  He had not yet acquired the haunted, gaunt look that he would achieve after his failures and by being a prisoner in both Azkaban and in his own house – stripped of his wand and pride.

With a crack and a wisp of smoke, a black robed figure appeared in the center of the circle.  He pushed his hood back and it took Draco a moment to recognize that this was Lord Voldemort.  He looked like a man – he did not yet possess his more serpentine features.  His eyes were a normal color, and he had brown hair touched with grey.  He looked strong – strong and dangerous.

Draco looked at Regulus’s face, and for a moment he saw the mask of calm indifference drop.  Just for that one moment, Draco recognized a look of fear, but within a heartbeat, his face was controlled once more.  He recognized the look – it was the look he constantly wore behind his own mask of apathy – his face carefully schooled not to show emotion beyond looking bored.  It was the look of Occlumency at work.

“Come forward, Regulus Black,” said the Dark Lord in a voice much less nasal then Draco was familiar with.  “I have been informed that you wish to serve my cause and that you are worthy to bear the Dark Mark.”

Draco’s felt his heart rate quicken.  The words were almost exactly what he remembered from when he was Marked.

Regulus stepped forward to stand in the middle of the circle across from the Dark Lord.  He looked so young – too young.  Why was no one stopping this?  Why was he being asked to become a child solider?

“I believe I am ready, my Lord,” said Regulus.  “I hope to be worthy of you and bring honour to you and to my family.”

“Kneel when you are ready,” said the Dark Lord.

Walburga stepped forward, undid the cuff of Regulus’s left arm, and rolled up the black sleeve before stepping back to stand beside her husband.  The dark haired boy knelt. 

“Swear your allegiance.”

Draco dropped to his knees as well.  He covered his ears, but he still heard Regulus give the same oath he had sworn a year ago.  Then he watched as Regulus held up his virgin arm. 

“No!” Draco shouted.

No one heard him – no one glanced his way.  He pulled himself up and staggered forward, threw himself into the circle, and reached for Regulus’s arm to pull it away.  His hands went right through the boy.

“Don’t do this,” Draco begged.

Regulus didn’t take his eyes off Lord Voldemort. 

“Please,” Draco said, his face wet tears.

The Dark Lord lowered his wand until it touched Regulus’s skin.  Draco saw the flash of pain across the other boy’s face and the rigid set of his body as black lines emerged and twisted across the pale flesh until, at last, they formed the familiar shape of a skull with a coiled snake. 

Draco was kneeling in the grass beside the other boy, gasping at the remembered pain.  Not again – not again.  Another child lost – another soul ruined.

“From this day forward you are one of my legion.  I expect great things of you Regulus,” intoned the Dark Lord.

Regulus turned and stared at his father.  Draco knew the look well – the boy was begging for his father to be proud.

Walburga leaned in to her husband and said in a low voice, “It should have been Sirius.”

Orion looked away from Regulus’s gaze, leaving the boy grasping for approval he would never find.

The image faded, the colors of the garden washing away and growing pale and gray before turning to black.  He had a brief vision of the constellation Orion before he was spluttering and pulling his face from the basin.

He sank to the ground, bringing his knees to his chest.  Oh Merlin.  Regulus had been sixteen just like him when he’d been Marked, and he’d died before Draco had been born.  That meant the boy he’d seen in the last memory only had another two or three years left alive.  His life had been cut short – and for what?  To be remembered in whispers?  Was that going to be his fate?  Would everything he had done to keep himself and his parents alive mean nothing in the end?  Would there be anyone left to miss him?  He yanked up the sleeve covering his left arm and stared down at the Dark Mark on his arm.  It was vivid against his pale skin – as vivid and vicious as it had looked on Regulus’s arm.  He cradled the Marked arm against his stomach.  Why were the children in his family asked to shoulder more than they could bear?

Chapter 20: The Brothers Black

It had felt like an age before Draco had been able to pull himself up off the floor and collect Regulus’s memory back into the vial.  As soon as he replaced the vial in the case he noticed the middle vial jostled.  He could lift it now.  The last vial still wouldn’t budge.  Regulus must have had a sequence to the memories.  Draco had been too exhausted to even contemplate viewing the next memory. 

He attended classes, practiced for Quidditch, and did his best to keep things normal with Rory.  The other boy didn’t outright avoid Draco, but he no longer sought him out - no longer sat beside him at the dining hall.  The loss hurt him more than he had expected.  He’d not known the younger boy long nor all that well, but the hint of normalcy Draco had experienced in Hogsmeade – the possibility of what his life could have been – filled him with regret.  He’d never get that experience – would never deserve it.  The Mark on his arm guaranteed it, as did the things he had done.  And if the Dark Lord was triumphant, any life he would have seemed far too miserable to contemplate.  Blaise and Theo – and to some extent Pansy – did their best to draw him out and include him, but he needed to sit with his thoughts.

In his free time, he’d searched the library and found an obituary for the cousin he’d never known.  It had been short, just a few lines long.  The dates had been what had stood out, “June 18, 1961 – December 22, 1979.”  Regulus had only been eighteen when he died.  Draco had studied the date, and on a hunch had consulted a calendar for 1979 – his Black cousin had died on winter solstice – the longest night.  He found it strangely fitting that the man who had been named after the stars in the sky ceased to exist on the day when the stars were visible the longest.

On Thursday evening he made his way to the headmaster’s office.  Just outside the door he found a huge letters painted on the wall that read, “Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting.”  He shook his head, bloody Gryffindors.

“Lilium,” whispered Draco, after glancing around the corridor.  He darted up the stairs as soon as the gargoyle slid out of the way.  The office was empty, Snape was absent as promised.  The great pensieve lay in the middle of the room.  As he walked toward it, he caught sight of an issue of The Quibbler on Snape’s desk.  The paper was becoming more and more outspoken in its support of Harry Potter.  He spared a thought for the dark-haired boy before he drew the second vial Regulus had left from his pocket.  He peered at the glassy liquid of the penseive, and he took a deep breath.  He’d done this before – he had - but those memories had been difficult to watch.  What would these memories bring?  He unstopped the vial and poured the memory in.  He watched the memory waft its way through the pensieve, sending out curling spirals in its wake.    He took another deep breath.  Fuck – his heart was pounding.  He tried to calm himself by clearing his mind, and then he lowered his face into the cool liquid.

Like before, the memory nudged at him before pulling him in.  In the work of a moment he found himself standing on a lawn.  He turned and saw the back of a multistoried home.  The shape and color of the home looked familiar.  He guessed it must be the back garden at 12 Grimmauld Place.  A small boy with dark hair ran across the grounds.  He was little more than a toddler.  He laughed as he stretched out his hands in front of him.  A butterfly flitted just ahead of him.  The child reached high, but the butterfly evaded him.  The boy stumbled and fell.  His bare knees collided hard with ground, and he cried out in pain.  Draco took a step toward the boy, reaching out for him. 

“Reg,” called a voice. 

Draco turned to see a taller child running toward the boy who was now crying.  His hair was dark, and his skin was just as pale.

“Shhh, Reg,” said the other boy bending down and wrapping his arms around the younger child.  He lifted him up to a sitting position.  “Shhhh, it’s alright.”

“The butterfly . . . I fell down,” said the boy that Draco realized was Regulus. 

“Shhh,” crooned the older boy.  “You’ll be fine.”

“Mama doesn’t like it when I cry, Sirius.  Neither does Papa.”

“Well they’re not here.  I’m here.  And I say you’re just fine.”

Regulus wiped a hand across his face and sighed.  He turned and hugged tight to Sirius.

“I’ll always protect you Reg.”

“I almost had the butterfly,” whispered Reg.

“You’ll be a seeker yet,” Sirius laughed, hugging his brother back.

The garden swirled away.  Draco felt dizzy for a moment as the surroundings changed and settled into focus.  He was inside now.  It looked like a library.  A boy was spread out on the floor with dozens of books open around him.

“Who made this mess?” asked a women’s voice.

The boy looked up.  He wasn’t very old, he likely wouldn’t be old enough for Hogwarts for a few more years. 

The woman walked further into the room.  She was rail thin and had black hair swept up on top of her head in a complicated way while an elegant set of robes swept the floor.  Draco recognized Walburga Black.  She peered down at the boy and the books.

“Muggle books?  Where did you find those?”

The boy’s eyes grew large.  Draco stared closer at the child’s face – he couldn’t be sure if it was Regulus or Sirius – their features were so similar.

“I. . . I. . .” stammered the child.

“It was my fault, mother,” said another boy crawling out of a large leather chair in a corner of the room.  “I found Uncle Alphard’s old books on a top shelf.”

The woman darted forward and grabbed the second boy by the arm.  This boy looked taller, his face a little thinner, having less of the baby roundness to it as the first boy.  The woman jerked the boy toward her.

“Sirius, you know that the books on the top shelves are forbidden to you.  How dare you disobey me.”

Sirius met the woman’s gaze.  “I was curious, mother.”

“Hold out your hand,” said the woman. 

The boy held out his hand, palm up.  His mother withdrew her wand, whispered a spell, and proceed to raise her wand up and swish it back down in the air.  As she did, an unseen force collided with the boy’s palm.  A red welt appeared, thin but extending across the width of his pale palm.  The boy flinched slightly, but did not retract his hand. 

Draco flinched too. 

The wand rose up and down, one, two, three, four more times.  Five angry marks that looked like inflamed burns covered the older boy’s hand. 

“Put the books away,” she ordered after she lowering her wand.  “I’ll not have your nasty habits pollute your younger brother.  And if I even hear a word that you asked Kreacher to help you, you’ll find yourself offering me your other hand.”

Sirius nodded.  His eyes were bright, but no tears rolled down his cheeks.  The woman swept out of the room.

“Sirius,” whimpered Regulus, sitting up.

Sirius walked over to him and sat down beside him.  He wrapped the arm with his uninjured hand around the younger boy’s shoulders.  “It’s all right Reg.  Everything’s all right”

Regulus looked up at his brother, his eyes still wide and his face pale, “It was my fault,  I took down the books.”

“Shhh, Reg.  I’m fine.”

“Why’d you tell her that it was you?”

Sirius hugged the smaller boy tighter, “Because I’m your big brother.  Because I can take it.”

The smaller boy buried his face into his brother’s shoulder.

“I’ll always be here for you Reg,” soothed Sirius.  “I’ll always protect you.”

The library and the two boys dissolved.  Draco reached out for them for a moment, not wanting to leave such small children behind, but the memory paid him no heed and he found himself in an entry hall.  He looked around, recognizing 12 Grimmauld Place.  A black trunk with a green, coiled snake painted on it stood by the door.  It looked startlingly similar to his own school trunk.  A boy with dark hair sat perched on the lid.

“Think you’re coming with me?” asked another voice. 

The boy looked up as a slightly older child walked into the space.

“I’d pack you in there with me if I could,” grinned the older boy.

“I want to go with you, Sirius.”

Sirius sat down on the trunk beside the child that was obviously Regulus.  “I don’t want to go anywhere without you Reg.  I don’t.  But I have to go to Hogwarts.  I have to make something of myself – learn something.”

“I know,” mumbled Regulus.

“And it will only be a year.  Just one year.  Then we’ll be together.  All the time.”

“A year is so long.”

Sirius sighed.  “It won’t really be a year.  I’ll be home for summer and holiday breaks.  And I’ll write you all the time, Reg.  I’ll tell you everything.  You’ll have so many owls from me you won’t know what to do.”

“It won’t be the same,” said Regulus looking up, his black locks tumbling out of his face. 

Sirius wrapped an arm around his younger brother’s shoulder.  “No, it won’t.”

Regulus leaned against his brother’s side. 

“You’ll always be my brother,” reassured Sirius.  “Always.  No one could ever replace you.”

Regulus nodded once.

Sirius leaned closer, his voice dropped.  “And I have to go, Reg.  I can’t. . . stay here.  They’re always mad at me – punishing me.  I need to get away.”

The younger boy clung to the older child.  “I know,” he whispered back.  “I know.”

The memory shifted again.  Draco felt disoriented by all the changes, he found himself in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.  Four long tables were filled with students, and the pendants of each house fluttered above the respective tables.  He turned and peered over to the Slytherin table and saw a flash of white blond hair.  His heart lurched.  He staggered forward to get a closer look and stopped short.  Sitting at the end of the table with a prefect’s badge fastened on his robes was his father.  He must be in his seventh year and the same age as Draco.  He looked down the table, searching for his mother.  He knew she’d been behind his father in school by a year.  He held his breath when he saw her – young and fair.  Her light golden hair was pulled back into a braid down her back.  He wondered who else he’d see at this table, maybe Snape.

“Black, Regulus,” called a familiar voice, drawing Draco away from his search of the Slytherin table.  He turned toward the front of the hall.  Professor McGonagall stood by a stool holding the sorting hat.  She looked familiar, but younger, not having yet acquired the fine lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

He watched as a young boy with hair as black as night approach the stool.  The boy turned and searched the room for a moment, his face pointing toward the Gryffindor table.  Another dark haired boy – Sirius – thought Draco, lifted his chin and shot Regulus a grin.  Regulus nodded back and sat down on the stool.  McGonagall lowered the familiar looking battered hat onto the his head.  The Hall was silent, waiting.  Seconds ticked by and the hat said nothing.  Regulus sat rigid.  At last a booming voice called out, “Slytherin!”

A cheer erupted in the hall.  Regulus stood as soon as McGonagall pulled the hat off his head.  The younger Black boy shot an anxious glance at the Gryffindor table before turning and walking toward the Slytherin table.  By the time he reached his table, his tie was striped in green and silver.  Sirius rose, and walked carefully across the hall, ignoring the calls of classmates that Draco thought must be his friends.  He came to stand behind his little brother.  Regulus turned to face him.  Sirius took his arm and led him away.  A couple of the students at the table called, “Bring back our new Slytherin!”

McGonagall called out another student’s name, “Crouch, Bartemius.”

Draco didn’t watch this student make his way toward the sorting hat, rather he followed behind the pair of Black brothers.  Sirius didn’t stop until he was outside of the Great Hall and had pulled Regulus into an alcove. 

“What happened, Reg?”

“Nothing happened, Sirius.”

Sirius looked crestfallen, “But. . . we were supposed to be together here at Hogwarts.”

“We are together at Hogwarts.  Just in different houses.”

“But you were supposed to be with me.  Not with them.”

“I’m sorry, Sirius.  I. . . I’m not brave like you.  And everyone in our entire family has been sorted into Slytherin.  I don’t know why you are surprised,” said Regulus.  “I think . . . I think it is where I belong.”

“That’s just what our parents tell you.  But we belong together.  Us.”

Regulus smiled, a tremulous smile, “It’ll always be us.  You’re my only brother.”

The older boy grinned, “Yeah, all right Reg.  I guess I’m stuck with you for life.  I still think you’d have looked better in crimson and gold, but what the hell, green and silver will have to do.”  Sirius turned to look toward the Great Hall.  “I think the feast is going to start soon.  You don’t want to miss it.  Trust me.”

The boys started to walk toward the hall, and Sirius gave his brother a teasing nudge with his shoulder on the way.  “Just remember, here at Hogwarts, I’m the coolest member of the Black family.”

Regulus laughed as they crossed the threshold. 

The familiar background of Hogwarts faded and once again Draco found himself back in the same library in the Black mansion as an earlier memory.  He recognized the Black brothers – they were older – teenagers, Sirius was still a little taller than Regulus, but not by much.

“They want me to take the Mark,” said Sirius, with his head bowed towards his brother.  He spoke quickly, “They want me to pledge myself to their Dark Lord – turn my back on my friends.  Remus’s mother is a Muggle.  He is brilliant and kind.  I can’t agree that he is lesser than us because he’s a half-blood.”

“It is expected that we join.  They’ve always expected us to – especially you – you’re the eldest,” said Regulus.

“But we don’t have to do what is expected.  What they expect is wrong.  It is hateful.  We don’t have to go along with them.”

Regulus tilted his head, confused, “But you know what they’ll do if you don’t toe their line.  Look at Andromeda – they disowned her.”

“So?  She’s probably much happier now away from this messed up family.”

Regulus took a step back, “But we aren’t anything without our family.”

Sirius shook his head, “No, that’s just what they want us to think.  Besides – I have James, Remus, and Peter.  I have a family.  I don’t need this one.  Uncle Alphard left me money – I can leave.”

“You’d leave?” asked Regulus, his eyes growing wide.

Sirius grasped his younger brother by the shoulder.  “You could come with me Reg.  James’s parents would take us in.  They’ve told me so.  We can be safe.  We can be together.  I’ll take care of you.”

The younger boys hands flew up to his temples as if he were fighting a headache.  “You want me to leave everyone?  Everyone I’ve ever known?  And what will I do at school?  I’m not a Gryffindor like you.  I won’t be insulated by my friends.”

“We can talk to Dumbledore – ”

“No!” Regulus almost shouted.  “No.  What has that man ever done for us?  He knew – he knew how mother hurt you – years ago – and he did nothing.”

Sirius shook his head, “He didn’t know, I never told him.”

The younger Black lifted his head, “He knew because I told him.  This year when she punished you so badly right before we went back to school, I begged him to do something and he said it was a family matter.  He didn’t lift a finger for you – and you’re a golden Gryffindor.  He wouldn’t do anything for me.”

The older boy stiffened – clearly stunned by this revelation.  “But . . . but . . . Well you know.  You know what our family is capable of.  So you have to come with me Reg.  I can’t protect you here.”

“But father – he’s not like she is – he’s not like mother.  And Cissy – she’s always been kind to me,” Regulus said, a begging tone in his voice. 

Sirius shook his head, “No.  Father has always stepped back and let mother do the dirty work.  He never once tried to intervene or protect us.  And Cissy has gone and married that ponce Lucius Malfoy.  He’s an ambitious, arrogant man.  He’s already aligned himself with their Dark Lord.  She’s so in love and devoted to the idea of family loyalty she’ll likely go wherever he leads.  And Bellatrix is beyond hope.  We can’t stay here.  They’ll turn us into soldiers.  I can’t raise my wand against my friends.  I can’t use my magic to hurt Muggle-borns.”

“But, I - ” started Regulus, but he cut himself off as the library door opened.  Walburga was standing in the doorway.  She entered the room followed by her husband, Orion Black.  Draco drew a breath when he saw who followed behind him.  It was his aunt, Bellatrix.  She was younger, but he’d recognize her anywhere with her riot of hair and expression of disdain. 

“Sirius,” said Walburga.  “We have an important matter to discuss with you.”  She turned to  her younger son, “You are dismissed Regulus.”

“No.  I want him with me,” said Sirius.

Bellatrix laughed, short and high.  “What?  You think little Regulus is going to protect you?”

“If you do what is expected and bring honour to this family, you won’t need protection,” said Walburga, turning back to Sirius.  Regulus edged to stand behind his father, seemingly forgotten.

“I won’t take the Mark,” said Sirius, lifting his chin.  Draco knew the boy must be afraid, but he hid it well.  He looked arrogant and self-assured, a mask familiar to Draco.

“You will do your duty to this family,” said Walburga.

“Voldemort isn’t my family.  I owe him nothing,” said Sirius.

“The family has decided that pledging our allegiance to the Dark Lord is what is best.  He will bring glory back to the purest of magical lines, and he will ensure that our proper place in the Wizarding world is restored,” said his mother.

“Father?” asked Sirius, a hint of a tremor in his voice.  “You can’t agree with this.”

Orion lowered his face.  Draco noticed that he didn’t – or perhaps couldn’t – look his son in the eye as he spoke, “Your mother has spoken the will of the family.  This is for the best.”

“And if you refuse to do what you are told, I will help you see reason,” said Bellatrix, sounding all too pleased with herself.

Sirius squared his shoulders and took a step back.  “I won’t do it.  It isn’t right.  I’m a Black, but I won’t be a minion of your Dark Lord.”

Walburga withdrew her wand and pointed it at her son.  “I had hoped you would see reason,” she said.  “I can’t say I’m surprised.  You always were such a disappointment.  Crucio!”

Sirius started, and fell to his knees with a groan.  Draco flinched.  He knew well the pain that the boy was experiencing.  He looked at the woman who had cursed her own son.  He couldn’t believe a mother could be so hateful to her own child.

“Father?” Sirius asked, still on his knees, with one hand splayed on the floor in front of him. 

Orion looked away.  Walburga uttered the curse again, and this time Sirius thrashed out with a scream and fell fully to the floor.  Walburga lifted her wand.

“Will you see reason, my son?  You can make it all stop – all the pain, all the disappointment.  You can make us all so proud.”

The boy shook his head.  “No.”

This time Bellatrix raised her wand as well as Walburga.  She smiled as she cried “Crucio,” at the same time as her aunt, the pair cursed him together.  Sirius’s body thrashed and writhed.  He started to scream – the sound piercing the room and filling the space with his agony.

Draco covered his ears.  It was all he could do not to fall to his own knees seeing Sirius being tortured by his family.  The screaming continued.  With horror, Draco realized that Sirius was screaming a word – no – a name.

“Reg!  Reg!”

The curse stopped.  Sirius lay twitching on the floor for a moment, and then lay still.  Walburga walked to her son and peered down at him. 

“You have one quarter of an hour to think about your answer.  You are the heir of this house.  You will do what is required of that position,” she said before sweeping out of the room. 

Bellatrix smirked at her cousin before following in her aunt’s wake.  Orion took a step towards his son, and then with a sigh, turned away.

As soon as all of the adults were out of the room, Regulus lurched toward his brother and fell to his knees beside him.  He drew Sirius’s head up onto his lap.

“Sirius?  Sirius?”

“Reg,” Sirius groaned.

Tears streamed down the younger boy’s face.  “You have to do what they ask.  You have to.”

Sirius shook his head again. With another groan he rolled to his stomach and then fought to push himself up to all fours.  He started crawling to the fireplace.  When he reached it, he clung to the sides of the mantel and tried to haul himself up.  His limbs shook.  He made it to his knees but couldn’t seem to get his legs up under him.

“You didn’t stop them,” whispered Sirius.

“I – I’m sorry.  I’m afraid.  They’ll hurt me too.”

“They’ll kill me Reg,” he panted.  “I won’t take the Mark and they’ll kill me for it.”

Regulus continued to cry, but said nothing.

“I have to go.”  Sirius turned his grey eyes on his brother.  “Help me?”

The younger boy nodded through his tears and walked over the fireplace.  He picked up an urn from the mantle and lowered himself to his knees beside his brother.

“Come with me?” Sirius pleaded. 

“I – I can’t,” he stammered.

The older boy closed his eyes for a moment.  His face the picture of despair.  Draco hardly recognized the boy that had looked so cool and haughty minutes earlier.  He looked exhausted, dark shadows were under his eyes and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat.  He opened his eyes.

“I’ll wait for you, Reg.  I’ll wait for you forever.”

Regulus threw his arms around his brother and a sob broke from his body.  Sirius managed to get one arm up around his brother, and clutched the back of his hair with his hand for a moment before pushing away.

“I have to go.  You need to get out of this room.  You didn’t see anything.  You didn’t see how I left.  You didn’t help me.  Understand?”

Regulus nodded as Sirius took the silver urn from him and threw off the cover.  He plunged a hand in and withdrew a fist full of floo powder.  He gave his brother one last look before he threw the powder onto the flames and said, “The Potters of Godric’s Hollow.”  The flames roared up and Sirius tumbled in head first, before vanishing from sight.

Regulus covered his mouth with his hand, but his cries of anguish still escaped as strangled whimpers.  Draco took a step toward the grieving boy and then the image lost focus.  The flames blurred and then expanded until he was standing in a place he knew well - the sidelines of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. 

The stands circled the field and were decked in the colors of the four houses.  He looked up and saw flashes of green and blue robes soar through the air.  Slytherin was playing Ravenclaw.  He scanned the broom riding figures until he saw a boy in green robes with black hair circling the pitch.  He flew in an effortless manner – with grace and power.  Regulus Black.

Regulus flew high over the Quidditch pitch.  His Slytherin game robes whipped in the air behind him.  There was a flash of gold and the boy hunched lower over his broom handle and he dove for the snitch at an incredible speed.  Draco held his breath.  Despite the boy’s speed, he reached out his hand toward the golden sphere.  After a few more agonizing moments, his fingers closed, plucking the snitch from the sky.  The crowd in green erupted, while the spectators in blue groaned.  The younger Black brother descended and was almost knocked to the ground by his teammates in their merriment.  He laughed, and allowed himself to be manhandled.

“Good game, Regulus,” said another boy clad in Slytherin colors.

“We’re a shoe in for the cup now,” said another team member. 

Regulus nodded and traded banter with the others.  He kept looking furtively over to the stands that sported Gryffindor colors.  After a few minutes he made excuses and started to weave his way out of the throng.

“We’ll be celebrating tonight,” shouted a Slytherin.

“I won’t miss it,” Regulus called back over his shoulder.

More calls promising an epic party that night rose above the other voices.  Draco distanced himself from the noise as he followed the boy who was making his way over to the stands.  Regulus stopped to glance around before swinging behind to the back of the stands.  He swiveled his head around again.  Draco looked too.  No one was back here.  Regulus reached out his hand and drew back the crimson fabric, and started to step into the space beneath.  Who was Regulus meeting?  Draco knew that the concealed space under the Quidditch stands were a popular place for couples to meet. 

Regulus stopped suddenly.  Draco almost bumped into him – or rather, would have if the memory was solid.  He craned his neck to look over Regulus’ shoulder.

He could make out two figures in the gloom.  One was pushed back against a support beam and the other was pressed into them.  Draco smirked.  It appeared that Regulus had caught two people snogging, likely hijacking the other boy’s ability to make use of the space himself. 

He heard Regulus gasp.  The top most figure pulled back, clearly startled by the noise.  They turned their face to Regulus.

Now Draco gasped.  It was Sirius, and beneath him, looking equally startled was another teenage boy with golden brown hair and the traces of scars across his face that gleamed white in the gloom. 

“Reg!” said Sirius, who instantly tried to shield the other boy with his body.

Regulus shook his head.

Sirius took a step toward him, still trying to use his body to block out the other boy.  “Please, you can’t tell.”

A hand took hold of Sirius’s arm from behind and the other boy came to stand beside him and looked at Regulus.  He was taller and lankier than Sirius.  His face, though ravaged with scars, was handsome, but the expression on it was hard as he looked at Regulus.  “You can’t tell your family,” said the other boy.  “It wouldn’t be safe for Sirius.”

Draco’s stomach flip-flopped.  Sirius had liked boys?  So that meant that he wasn’t. . . Maybe he wasn’t . . . an anomaly.

Regulus turned his face away from the pair for a moment and then turned back.  “Like they don’t already know,” he said.  “After Sirius left that’s all I’ve heard.  Don’t be like your brother – don’t shame the family like he did with his proclivities.”

Sirius drew a deep breath his nostrils flared.

“What do you take me for Sirius?  You left me,” Regulus’ voice cracked.  “You left me.  But I’d never . . . I’d never judge you for who you loved.”

“You – you won’t tell them?” breathed Sirius.

“For all of my dark tendencies,” said Regulus in a voice like ice, “I don’t care who you kiss – even if it is the sanctimonious Remus Lupin.”

Regulus stepped back and Draco instinctively jumped out of the way. 

“Reg,” he heard Sirius call, but Regulus dropped the fabric and tore off without a backward glance.

The memory swirled, and the Quidditch bleachers and pitch disappeared.  He resurfaced in a dark alley. 

Draco didn’t know where he was, exactly, but he smelled fire.  He peered over the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and not far away, he saw unnatural green flames lick up toward the sky.  Magical fire.

“What the fuck are you doing?” said a man’s voice.

Draco jumped and turned toward the voice.  A cloaked figure had a man pinned against the wall.

“Saving you,” said the person in the cloak, giving the other man a shake against the wall.

The pinned man reached up and pushed back the hood of the cloak.

“Reg!”

Draco drew closer.  He recognized the Black brothers.  Sirius was taller than Regulus, but their hair looked almost identical in the dim light.  They’d both grown since the last memory.  Sirius had filled out some – his shoulders were more broad.  But Regulus – Merlin – Regulus was built like himself, tall and slim.

“You knew about this!  You knew about this attack!” shouted Sirius.

“Of course I knew!  And when I saw you I - I couldn’t let you go in that building.”

“So you fucking stunned me from behind and dragged me here!”  Sirius struggled against his brother and craned his neck toward the flames.  “Let me go Reg, I have to help the others.”

“It’s too late Sirius.  It was a planned attack and Lestrange was to blow up the house when it was done.  It is over now.”

“The Prewitts!” yelled Sirius.  “You grabbed me and left Fabian and Gideon to die!”

“You’re my brother,” said Regulus.

Sirius pushed, using the wall behind him as leverage and overpowered his brother, barreling them both across the alley and slamming Regulus against the opposite building.

“How could you Regulus!  How could you become this!”

“You know how we were raised,” panted the smaller Black brother.  “You know.”

Sirius shook his brother hard.  “And you had choices.  I left.  You could have, you didn’t have to become a fucking soldier for a monster.”

“What choice did I have!  I was a child.  You left me behind.  You left me Sirius.  You were my world and you left me.  I was never strong – never brave like you.  What did you expect?”

“More than this,” shouted Sirius.  He drew Regulus away from the wall only to hurl him back against it. 

“I saved you,” Regulus cried.  “I saved you!”

Sirius laughed.  “And you left the Prewitt twins behind.  What if it had been my friends from school?  Peter?  Or James?  Or Remus?  You’d have left them to die and burn too, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Regulus shook his head.  “I couldn’t . . . I would never leave . . . him . . .”  The younger man’s voice trailed off.

Draco recognized the pain in Regulus’ voice.  Who couldn’t Regulus leave? 

Sirius shook the other man one more time before releasing him.  Regulus slid slowly to the ground.

“Do you remember how many times I asked you to come away with me?” Sirius said quietly.  “More times than I can count.  But I won’t ask you now Reg.  I’m afraid for you.  I’ve been afraid for you for so fucking long – afraid of what was happening to you – afraid of what you might become.  If I asked again, you’d turn me down, and I – I couldn’t take that again.  You’ve made your bed and I’ve made mine.”

Sirius took a step back, and then another.  Regulus lifted his head and followed his brother’s every movement with his eyes.

“Don’t worry.  I won’t tell the family that you saved me.  They’d never forgive you.  Remus will be pleased, but I’m sure he doesn’t rank high with the most ancient House of Black.”

The taller man turned away, quickly putting distance between himself and Regulus, then he broke into a run.  As he reached the end of the alley, Draco was almost positive he saw the man’s outline morph into . . . Into a great dog?  He blinked, but Sirius was gone.  Regulus remained sitting against the wall.  Draco walked over to him and crouched beside him.  Regulus looked so young.  He had to be Draco’s age or not much older.  His skin was as pale as Draco’s, and the eyes.  Merlin, his mother had been right.  Draco had the same eyes.

“I wish you’d asked,” Regulus whispered in the darkness.  “I wish you’d have asked me. . . one more time.”

The memory swirled, and faded out, until there was nothing left – everything was black – and then he saw what looked like the stars of the night sky – one star in particular was brighter than all the rest – Sirius, the dog star. 

Draco pulled his head back above the surface of the pensieve.  He clutched at the sides of the vessel, his breath coming out in gasps.  They’d loved each other – the Black brothers had loved each other.  And then they’d been pulled apart.  He ached for both of them.  Had Sirius known what Regulus had done?  What he had sacrificed?How he had been redeemed?

And Regulus – he’d chosen the rest of his family over Sirius and lived to regret it.  Draco ran his hands over his face.  Merlin what a fucking mess.

He dropped his hands and glared up at the empty frame where Dumbledore’s portrait hung.  Is this what the mad old man had wanted for him when he’d sent him off in search of the truth about Regulus?  Redemption?  Not bloody likely.  It was too late for him.  He wasn’t Regulus.  He didn’t have a brother’s love to cling to.  His once powerful parents were practically helpless in the snake’s clutches.  And Regulus was the poster child of why one didn’t turn away from the Dark Lord.  He’d ended up dead at eighteen.

Notes:

This chapter broke me a bit to write. I may have been wearing my Regulus Black seeker sweatshirt while I drafted much of it...

Chapter 21: The Lion and the Stag

Notes:

This is a bit of a long one, but I didn't have the heart to break it up.

“You should eat,” said Theo looking across the breakfast table at Draco.

“You’re gonna need your strength,” said Greg. Draco, as always, was secretly pleased whenever Greg showed him kindness.

“Can’t have Hufflepuff best us,” said Vince, grudgingly agreeing with the others for the sake of Quidditch. “Game nerves aren’t stopping the rest of us.”

Vince, blast him, was right. He and Greg were busy emptying their plates and Blaise was reaching for seconds.

“Nervous?” asked a voice to his left. He turned to find Rory sitting down beside him. The younger boy gave him a tentative smile – kind, but not wide enough to reveal his single dimple. “It’s going to be the first game I get to see at Hogwarts. Wouldn’t want to disappoint me.”

Blaise tossed a couple of sausages on Draco’s plate. He stared at them. He’d never really regained his appetite since the summer – and it showed. While he was taller than he’d been before his father’s arrest, he was skinnier proportionally.

“Eat you drama queen,” said Pansy placing a slice of toast spread thick with butter and honey on his plate beside the sausages.

He sighed and dutifully took a bite of the toast.

“It’s going to be great,” said Blaise, the team’s captain, “As long as you get your head out of your arse and focus on the game. Forget all the other shit that’s going on.”

Draco swallowed his toast and took a sip of tea. He thought of Regulus – whose life had been cut short – what wouldn’t he have given for another chance to fly? From the way he’d flown, there was no doubt he’d relished it.

“You’re getting lost in your head even now,” said Theo. “Eat for Merlin’s sake.”

After being cajoled into eating more than he normally did at breakfast, Draco found himself soaring in the sky above the Quidditch pitch. The November day was grey, and he could see the trees barren of leaves stretching out in the Forbidden Forest in the distance. He was grateful they were playing Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor for their first game. He didn’t think he could stand the absence of Potter as their seeker.

As it was, he and the Hufflepuff seeker, a tawny haired boy named Summerby were circling the pitch in pursuit of the snitch. The Hufflepuff chasers weren’t the best, but their keeper was quite good and their beaters, while not as brawny as Vincent and Greg, were more strategic. Draco had already had to dodge a handful of well hit bludgers. In fact, he seemed to be the primary target of the Hufflepuff beaters.

He rose higher, trying to put some distance between him and the other players. The wind whipped at his robes and stung his cheeks. His broom was easy to maneuver. He was flying the same Nimbus 2001 from second year. Newer models had come out, but his father hadn’t been as interested in making sure Draco had the best in everything since the Dark Lord’s return.

He scanned the air beneath him and saw a flash of gold by the Hufflepuff goal posts. He feinted in the other direction, rolling down and toward the Slytherin posts, increasing speed until he was sure the Hufflepuff seeker was following him. He looped around the Slytherin posts and then hurtled toward the ground, skimming just above the pitch before pulling up. His hands were tight on the broomstick, as he caught sight of the snitch again. Distantly he heard the announcer roar that, “Malfoy is off – likely caught sight of the snitch – look at that dive – for a snake it can’t be denied that he flies well.”

He drew closer to the snitch, all of his focus was on the golden orb when his thigh exploded with pain as a bludger slammed into him. He was jostled off course, but he corrected, ignoring the pain – he’d known far worse. He extended his hand, shaking slightly as he worked to control his broom, and caught hold of the snitch. The whistle blew.

He heard shouts of triumph – likely only from those in the Slytherin house, followed closely by jeers. The announcer was shouting that Slytherin had won, the words echoing around the pitch. He felt himself grin, the pure joy of the moment overwhelming everything else. He held the snitch in awe. He was happier than he could remember being in a long time. He’d done it. Then the bludger struck him, shattering both the moment and his arm. The snitch fell from his grasp.

The force of the hit caused him to careen through the air. He lost control of his broom and started to freefall – began to spiral. His stomach lurched as the ground grew closer. The fingers of his right hand didn’t want to respond, but he fought through the pain and numbness to regain control of his broom. He pulled and fought to get a semblance of control, at least enough to avoid a direct impact with the turf. He still came down too fast and he rolled trying to lessen the impact, crying out from the pain as he landed on his side, and rolled onto his injured arm.

He lay panting. Everything hurt, but he was glad to have the stable ground beneath him.

“What the fuck Smith,” he heard Blaise yelling.

“So he got hit,” he heard the Hufflepuff captain say back.

Draco tried to sit, and felt sick from the pain in his arm and in his thigh – and Merlin everywhere else.

“Stay still for a bit,” he heard Greg say to his side.

He turned his head and saw Greg staring down at him. Greg worked to untangle him from his cloak and to pull the broom away from him – it was tangled up in his legs.

“The game was over – there was no cause for your beaters to send that bludger at my seeker,” Blaise continued to shout.

“They didn’t know the game was over,” said Smith.

“Like hell,” said Blaise. “I fucking saw Branstone club that ball at Draco after the whistle blew – after the game was called. It was intentional.”

Greg put a strong arm behind Draco and helped him sit up. His head spun for a moment before he saw Blaise practically chest to chest with Zacharias Smith.

“So what if it was intentional?” said the Hufflepuff captain. “Who’s going to fucking care? It’s bloody Malfoy we’re talking about. He deserves everything he gets.”

Draco saw his friend erupt, shoving Smith hard. The Hufflepuff fell to the ground and Blaise launched himself on him and struck the other boy in the face. Blood spurted from Smith’s nose.

“Blaise!” shouted Draco. “Blaise, stop!”

But his friend had already connected his fist with Smith’s face again and was pulling back to punch him again, when he froze.

“Enough,” said Snape, his wand pointed at Blaise. “Mr. Crabbe, remove your team captain from Mr. Smith.”

Vince obeyed, but the look on his face showed he took no pleasure in helping out Zacharias Smith.

Without Blaise’s weight pinning him down, Smith sat up and wiped blood from his face.

“Mr. Smith and Mr. Malfoy will go to the hospital wing. Mr. Zabini, you will accompany me to my office.”

Blaise nodded tightly. He looked at Draco for a moment before turning his gaze to Smith. He walked over to the boy and offered his hand. Smith glared at him for a long moment before taking his hand and being helped up. Snape had already turned and started walking off the pitch. Blaise used the moment to lean in to the Hufflepuff and say, “If you ever encourage a finger to be laid on Draco again this will look like a walk in the park. Never, ever fuck with a Slytherin. We protect our own.” He turned and left Smith looking pale.

Greg helped Draco up. Draco put his uninjured left arm around Greg’s shoulders and gingerly made his way to the hospital wing. Once upon a time, when he’d been younger and ever so spoilt and entitled, he’d have milked his injuries for all they were worth. Now he just wanted to get away from all the staring eyes and disappear.

As Madam Pomfrey bustled up to him, he was relieved the injury had been to his right forearm as there was no Mark to see there.

“Now then Mr. Malfoy, hold out our arm,” she said, waving her wand above him, and his arm instantly felt numb. “There, no reason for you to be in pain while I work.”

She continued with her diagnostic charms and pronounced, “Combined fracture of both the ulna and radius bones. Takes a great deal of force for this type of injury. Bludger was it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Nasty sport Quidditch – I swear there would be next to no need for me if not for it,” she said. “Now young man, this is going to take a bit of time and will not be comfortable, so it would be best if you find something to focus on and keep your eyes on that while I work.”

He let his eyes wander the space, skimming over the other hospital beds. Down the center aisle, he saw a few droplets of blood. Smith’s nose must of still been bleeding as he come in to the hospital wing. Mercifully, Pomfrey hadn’t put them in neighboring beds. Draco focused on the crimson drops. Someone should really clean up the blood – blood magic was powerful – and it didn’t do to leave your blood behind for anyone to wreak havoc with. He heard a snapping sound and his arm stung despite the pain control charm.

“Merlin,” he said, jerking his arm to his chest and cradling it.

“The bones have been knit back together Mr. Malfoy. Now, I understand you have an injury on your leg as well?”

“My thigh.”

Pomphrey took a look at him for a moment and then summoned some privacy curtains to surround the bed.

“Right, remove your trousers Mr. Malfoy and we’ll take a look.”

He stared at her.

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” she sighed. “If you’d rather, I can fetch one of the male professors to assist.”

He didn’t relish the thought of having Snape or Amycus with him while clad only in his pants, so with a grimace he quickly stripped off his trousers and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Sure enough, there was a large purple to blackish bruise on his outer thigh.

“Nasty hematoma you’ve got there. I’ll have you right in a moment,” assured Madame Pomfrey, making short work of the injury. Afterwards, she did a full body scan and declared he had cracked ribs and then righted them as well.

“Your arm is going to be weak for a bit,” she continued. “You won’t be able to put much strain on it or you could cause it to fracture again. You’ll need to stay the night here. Change into pajamas and get some rest young man. I’ll leave a sleeping draught for you.”

After she’d gone, he carefully pulled his remaining Quidditch kit off and slid into the familiar hospital pajamas. They fit him perfectly, and he imagined they were charmed to fit each patient exactly. After he settled in, he downed the sleeping potion. As his eyelids grew heavy, he wondered what Snape would do to Blaise. He didn’t want his friends sticking out their necks to defend him. He didn’t deserve it, and he didn’t want them making sacrifices for him. His mind drifted back to the drops of blood on the hospital floor…

He awoke early in the morning, or at least he thought it was morning based on the pale light. He started when he saw a shape in the chair beside him. He grabbed for his wand and cast a quick, “Lumos.”

The figure lurched in the chair.

“Oh fuck, Blaise, it’s you,” he said extinguishing the light.

“This is how you treat a friend? Blinding them?” grumbled Blaise.

“You gave me a heart attack.”

“Well what do you think you did to me, falling from the bloody sky yesterday. Fucking drama queen you are.”

Draco dropped his wand onto the bed and leaned back. Once his eyes adjusted he could see that Blaise was still in his Quidditch uniform.

“Did you sleep in that chair all night?”

The other boy shrugged.

“And what happened with Snape?”

Blaise shrugged again, “Not much. He said it was commendable that I was looking out for an aggrieved teammate, but he said the way I went about was not becoming of a Slytherin. I think I’m being punished for charging in like a damned Gryffindor more than anything else, honestly.”

Draco couldn’t help but grin, “You were quite something. Didn’t know you knew how to throw a punch.”

“One of my step-fathers insisted I learn. All macho that one. He didn’t last long.”

Draco picked at the blanket, pulling at non-existent lint as he said, “You shouldn’t do that Blaise – don’t defend me okay? I don’t want you becoming a target on my behalf.”

“You could have been killed Draco.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to shrug.

“Besides,” said Blaise, “As the best looking Slytherin in our year, I’m already a target. Jealous bastards from the other houses never leave me alone.”

“Merlin, Blaise,” said Draco trying not laugh. “Don’t say things like that. My arm and ribs are still sore and it hurts to laugh.”

His friend just grinned at him, “The truth hurts.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “So what’s your punishment?”

“I have to report back to the headmaster’s office at three this afternoon. Snape said he’d be out until then, and then I’m to listen to a lecture from some dead fucking relative of yours in a portrait on behavior becoming of a Slytherin. I think I’d rather scrub cauldrons.” Blaise stood and stretched his arms and back. “I’m going back to the dorm. Just meant to check on you last night but you were out and then I fell sleep. Want to have a bit of a lie in in my own bed.”

He let Blaise turn away from him before saying, “Thanks.”

His friend turned back to him and met his eyes, “Anytime.” And then it was just Draco alone in the space. He looked at the bedside table and saw the clothes he’d left in his locker in the changing room laid out for him. A house elf must have brought them. He slid out of bed and pulled on black trousers and a soft black jumper. He fumbled for a bit with his socks and shoes as his right hand was still weaker than his left. He reached for his wand and cast a charm to tie his shoes. He’d just finished tying the second shoe when one of the screens slid open. Madam Pomfrey stood in the space.

“And where do you think you are going?”

“I slept all night, just like you asked.”

She gave him a hard look for a moment, before saying, “Fine, but you’ll need to wear a sling for the next few days.”

She conjured up a sling and made a few alterations so that it fit him correctly. It was white and stood out like a beacon. She took another look at him, and with a slight quirk to her lips whispered a spell that changed the sling’s color to black.

“That seems more in line with your . . . color preferences, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “Now, if you could kindly keep out of my hospital for the duration of the school year, I’d be most grateful.”

She bustled off and he walked as quietly out of the wing as he could. He considered making his way back to his dormitory in the dungeon level, but stopped at the third floor. On impulse he walked toward the headmaster’s office. If Snape was going to be gone all day, he’d use the chance to see the last memory Regulus had left.

The office was dark upon his entry, but the lights flared to life when he stepped further into the room. He called out to Snape twice, but received no response. He crossed to the pensieve and dug in his pocket, relieved to find the box and the snitch there. He pulled out the last vial and with one hand awkwardly loosed the memory in the basin before lowering his face and allowing the tendrils of the past to pull him under.

The ground shifted and rocked beneath his feet. He was on a train – on the Hogwarts Express. Two boys came down the corridor. He recognized the Black brothers. They walked through him, causing him to shiver, before sliding open a compartment door. He followed them in.

“Reg, meet my friends,” said Sirius.

Draco looked around the crowded train compartment. The brothers stood side by side in the doorway. They looked so young.

“This is Peter Pettigrew,” said Sirius pointing at a slightly chubby blondish boy, “Remus Lupin,” he continued pointing at a tall, skinny boy with sandy colored hair and a scar across his face, “And this absolute nightmare is James Potter. Everyone, this is my brother, Reg – Regulus Black.”

Draco looked at the last friend Sirius had introduced in the compartment and he almost couldn’t breathe. The boy looked so much like he remembered Harry Potter looking all those years ago. This boy also wore glasses and had unruly black hair that stuck up, especially in the back. The eyes were different though. James had brown eyes, soft and warm.

James smiled, and Draco knew he had seen that smile before – never directed at him of course – but at others worthy of Potter’s time and affection. The boy held a hand out, “Nice to finally meet you Reg. Sirius won’t shut up about you. No pressure or anything.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Regulus stiffly, shaking the other boy’s hand.

Sirius threw himself into the seat beside James, “Don’t be so formal Reg. These are going to be your best mates when you sort into Gryffindor.”

The younger Black brother blanched.

Peter squished closer to Remus, making room for the new boy. After a moment, Regulus sat down in the space looking rigid and uncomfortable. His eyes glanced around the compartment for a moment before settling on James Potter. James was animated, and clearly used to being the center of attention – he was in the midst of telling a story from summer break when the door slid open. A girl with long, blond hair stood in the doorway. Draco recognized his mother, clad in her school uniform with Slytherin colors and a shiny prefects badge on her robes.

“There you are Regulus,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. Aunt Walburga asked that I look after you and not let you mix with the riffraff.” She raised her eyebrows as she looked at the group of boys in the train. “Clearly she was right to be concerned.”

“Oh shove off Cissy – these are my friends,” said Sirius.

“Come along Regulus,” said Narcissa, acting as if Sirius hadn’t spoken.

Regulus shot an anxious glance between his brother and his cousin.

“You are welcome to stay Reg, if you want to,” said James. “You haven’t heard the end of my story yet, and you wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“We won’t corrupt him Cissy,” said Sirius. “What could possibly happen on the train?”

Narcissa shot the older Black brother a displeased look before turning to Regulus, “I’m in a compartment on the first carriage if you change your mind and wish to socialize with more appropriate peers.”

She turned in a swirl of robes and blond hair.

James smiled broadly at Regulus, “Don’t worry Reg, we’ll watch out for you. You can trust us.”

The shifting of the train under his feet steadied, and Draco realized the memory had changed and he was standing on firm ground. He looked around and recognized the grounds of Hogwarts leading down to the lake.

“Look at the Black baby – can’t reach his books,” said a taunting voice.

Draco shifted round and saw two boys in Gryffindor ties with books levitated above their heads. Regulus was sitting at the base of the tree. He rose to his feet.

“I was reading those,” he said.

“Not anymore,” one of the boys said. He looked older than Regulus, taller and more broad.

“I’m warning you, you had better give me my books back.”

“Or what? You going to curse us? Bet a Black knows all kinds of nasty curses. You are all a bunch of dark wizards.”

Regulus drew his wand.

“What are you two doing?” asked a voice.

The Gryffindors turned to see James Potter standing behind them.

“Just having a bit of fun,” said one of the pair.

James cocked his head, “Doesn’t look like Regulus was having much fun.”

“You sticking up for a Slytherin?” asked one of the older boys.

“Yeah, I am. He’s a first year and you two are fourth years. You should know better.”

“If he wasn’t your best mate’s brother you wouldn’t care a bit.”

James sighed. He looked beyond unimpressed.

“I care because this is about him. I don’t need a reason beyond that.

“Fine – and I thought you had a sense of humor,” said one of the older boys, dropping the books in a heap on the ground.

“Mind yourself, snake,” said the other member of the duo before they left in the direction of the school.

“You didn’t have to do that, I could have handled it,” said Regulus.

James knelt to pick up the books, “Doesn’t mean you should have to handle it.”

The older boy passed the books to other boy.

“You know we’re here for you, right? The Marauders will look out for you.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, “The Marauders?”

A faint blush colored James’s face before he said, “Yeah – that’s what we call ourselves – Peter, Remus, Sirius, and I. I think your brother is the one who came up with it. He prides himself on his excellent vocabulary.”

Regulus laughed, and James smiled – wide and broad. The Slytherin smiled back for a moment before he seemed to remember who he was smiling at.

“Yeah, well – don’t think you have to be all Gryffindor and swoop in all the time. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know, but again – just because you can do things alone doesn’t mean you have to,” said James still smiling at the younger boy.

The golden afternoon sun faded and the grass beneath him morphed to flagstones. He was in a corridor at Hogwarts. He looked closer and knew he was just outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts – or rather – the Dark Arts classroom. He caught sight of a dark haired boy with Slytherin robes walking away from him.

“He misses you, you know?” called a voice.

The Slytherin stopped and turned to face the boy – a Gryffindor - addressing him in the empty corridor. Regulus’ grey eyes were cold as he looked at James Potter.

The older boy looked so much like Harry Potter that Draco was shocked anew. The appearance had been uncanny before, but now that James was closer in age to Potter as Draco had last seen him, the resemblance was even more staggering. Potter had the same build as his father Draco realized, the same wiry frame with a hint of broad shoulders. James looked like he was the taller of the two though, and a little more rugged. And the way he stood – the way he carried himself – he seemed much more self-assured then Potter ever had been at that age.

“Excuse me?” asked Regulus.

James shifted his school bag on his shoulder. “Sirius. He misses you. All the time actually.”

“He has a funny way of showing it – ignoring me – pretending I don’t exist.”

The other boy pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I think it hurts too much – seeing you. I think you miss him too.”

“Think you are an expert on all of us Blacks since Sirius is your dorm mate?”

The other boy shrugged his shoulders. “No. I’m not claiming that. But I watch you, and you watch him all the time. I think you miss him.”

“You watch me,” said Regulus, a sneer on his lips.

“You’re hard not to watch Regulus,” says James softly.

Regulus stepped toward the other boy. As he drew closer, Draco could see that James is taller than Regulus, his shoulders a little broader.

“You have no business watching me. You think because you helped me one time that we are friends now?”

“Do you want me to stop – watching you that is?”

“I . . . I . . .”

James took a step toward the younger boy and said, “I think you are . . . interesting. I can’t figure you out.” The Gryffindor brushed Regulus with his hand – it was a touch so small that it could have been passed off as accidental. “But here’s the thing Regulus. You watch me too.”

Regulus looked up and down the hall before turning to James, “Not here. You can’t say those things to me here.”

The taller boy scanned the hall as well before grabbing the other boy by the sleeve of his robe and pulling him through the door of the Dark Arts classroom. Draco followed and was just able to get in before James closed the door. Draco looked around, the classroom was empty.

“Why do you watch me?” asked James.

“I don’t,” said Regulus, his face the picture of aloofness. “I think you are really stretching the truth here Potter.”

“You think that face means something to me? I’ve shared a dorm room with Sirius for going on six years. I know what that look is. It’s a mask.” James stepped closer. “Why is it that whenever I’m in the Great Hall or flying on the Quidditch pitch I feel your eyes on me?”

The younger boy said nothing, just looked at the other boy, his eyes growing wide.

James stepped closer, “I think you find me interesting as well.”

“I find you insufferable.”

The Gryffindor laughed, but took one more step closer – they were almost chest to chest, “That’s not mutually exclusive.”

“You’ve . . . you’ve always been kind to me,” said Regulus, looking for all the world as if the admission hurt him. “I don’t know why.”

James tilted his head, “You don’t know why?”

“No.”

“You’re a human being Regulus. Deserving of kindness until you prove otherwise through your actions. You’ve never done anything to me – never given me a reason not to be kind.”

“You don’t know me,” breathed the Slytherin. “You don’t know what I’m like. You don’t know how I . . . How I let Sirius fight all of our battles – shoulder all the blame.”

James let his hand drift to brush the side of it against the other boy’s again. “You’re right. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in that house. I don’t know what it was like . . . for you.”

Draco shrunk towards the wall. This was too much. Too much emotion. He was so used to sealing off his feelings – hiding from them – that seeing them on display now was physically painful.

“I do watch you,” said Regulus.

“Why?”

“Because I . . . because I can’t look away,” said the younger boy, who flinched as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

James raised a hand to the other boy’s cheek and held it there. Regulus started, but didn’t draw away. His grey eyes grew impossibly wide. Draco wondered for a moment if this is what he’d looked like with Rory.

The Gryffindor stepped forward then, drew Regulus against him and kissed him. Draco looked away, it was too much – too strange – watching Harry Potter’s father kiss a boy – a relative of his for Merlin’s sake. Fucking Gryffindors always charging in without thinking. Didn’t James know how this would end? They’d both be dead in a few years – there would be nothing left of them nothing except . . . except Harry Potter and Draco himself. Oh fuck.

He heard Regulus say, “You can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Think about it. We are always watching each other. We could have this – if you want it,” he heard James say just as the classroom faded and Draco was in a new space. He was outside again, and the light blinded him for a moment. He realized he was standing outside of the Slytherin changing rooms by the Quidditch pitch. He saw James Potter lurking by the door. Slytherin players started to emerge dressed to play. The last player out was Regulus, and James pulled Regulus’s sleeve as he went by and dragged him behind the building.

“What are you doing!” said the younger boy, trying but failing to whisper.

James grinned at him, peered around again before he leaned in and kissed the younger boy on the cheek.

“I had to see you before the game – have I mentioned how much I like seeing you in your Quidditch kit?”

The Slytherin blushed.

“I also love watching you fly. You look so free – powerful and free.”

“I have to go,” said Regulus, “Someone could see me.”

“Couldn’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy could you? Wouldn’t be seemly for the Slytherin Seeker – pride of his house – to be speaking with the exceptionally talented Gryffindor Quidditch captain.”

“Don’t swell your head James, it’s big enough.”

James laughed and caught the younger boy’s hand, “Meet me after the game – after you beat Ravenclaw. I’ll meet you under the Gryffindor stands. I want to push you up against the beams and kiss you properly – it’ll be even better that it is in your enemy territory.”

“You’re mad,” said Regulus.

“Yeah,” agreed James with a grin.

“Which of the Gryffindor stands?”

“The one I’ll be sitting in during the game,” said James, playfully squeezing the other boy’s hand, “You’ll find me in the crowd. You’re a seeker after all.”

“Fine,” said Regulus, sounding as if he was long suffering. “I’ll see what I can do.”

James’s grin erupted into a smile that covered his whole face, all lopsided and familiar. Regulus pulled away, and hurried after his teammates.

The light faded again and shifted to realign in a courtyard at dusk. Two boys were seated on a bench.

“Would you do that to me? Turn me upside and pants me in front of the whole school?” He heard Regulus say.

“What? Whatever you do, it’s not comparable to Snape,” answered James.

“Are you sure? You know how I was raised. Do you know the words my family uses at the supper table? My mother was quite fond of the word ‘mudblood.’ What will you do to me when I disappoint you?”

“But you – you couldn’t – you couldn’t disappoint me Regulus.”

“I will, James. I’m always disappointing someone. Someday, it will be you. You know what side of the War my family is on. You know what is expected of me. With Sirius gone, I’m all that is left. I am the heir. All of the expectations that were placed on him are now mine. All of them.”

“But you don’t believe those horrible things your parents say. You just don’t.”

“Really James? Be careful. I’ll hurt you someday – someday I’ll do something that you won’t be able to forgive.”

The older boy pulled the younger boy into his arms, “Shhh…don’t say that. I’m – I’m sorry about Snape okay. It was impulsive and . . . and okay it was cruel. I fucked up. But you aren’t like him. There is nothing you could ever do that would make me turn away.”

The boys blurred and disappeared before coming into focus again. This time the pair was standing in another empty classroom. James’s hair looked a little more disheveled than usual.

“James, what happened?” asked Regulus.

“Sirius . . . he . . . hurt someone.”

“Who?”

“Remus. He did something stupid – beyond stupid – reckless, and placed Remus in danger – betrayed him.”

Regulus shook his head, “No. He left his whole family – left me - for you lot. He’d never do anything to hurt any of you.”

James sighed and ran his hand through his hair making it even more wild. Draco was reminded of how the gesture was so similar to Potter.

“Look, he’s messed up okay? He was torn up after he left your house during the Christmas holidays. He’s been upset and lashing out. He did something awful, and he feels awful about it. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

The younger Black tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face.

“It sounds like you . . . sympathize with him. You’re going to forgive him?”

James laughed, “I’m royally pissed off at him at the moment, but yes. Of course I’ll forgive him. He’s sorry. I have no doubt he’ll feel guilty about this for the rest of his life.”

Regulus still look confused, “He did something awful – betrayed your trust – and you’ll still forgive him.”

The older boy nodded, “Yes. It’s not like he doesn’t know he did something wrong. He is very much aware. And that’s what you do, Regulus, you forgive those you love if they earn it.”

Draco wondered if he’d ever earn forgiveness. He doubted it very much.

James glanced at his wristwatch. “Merlin – I’m supposed to go meet Peter in a few minutes. He’s sitting with Sirius now.”

“But you only just got here,” said the Slytherin. “Stay.”

James stepped toward the younger boy and ran his fingers down one cheek, “Alright. I’ll let Peter know I’ll be there in a bit.”

The Gryffindor pulled out his wand and cast, “Expecto Patronus!”

A stream of silver light burst from his wand and erupted into a glittering stag, which pranced around the room. It walked up to Regulus, graceful and sure footed. It bowed its regal head at the boy.

“It’s lovely,” breathed Regulus.

James snorted inelegantly, “It’s my doppelganger.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind.” He turned to his patronus, “Find Peter and tell him I’ll be with him as soon as I can.”

“Is that why your friends call you Prongs? Because of the stag?”

“Partly.”

Regulus stepped even closer to James, leaning his head against the taller boy’s shoulder. “Sirius isn’t the only Black that needs your attention you know.”

The older boy grinned, all lopsided and familiar, “I know.”

Regulus stood up and said in crisp tone, “And I’m not done with you yet.”

James’ eyebrows rose, “What do you have in mind.”

The Slytherin smiled, slow and sure. His hand slithered up the other boy’s chest and latched ahold of his crimson and gold striped tie. He pulled the Gryffindor closer.

“I have some ideas.”

Before the vision could turn indecent, the room and its occupants slid away and Draco was back in the courtyard, Regulus and Potter stood with the bench in between them. As the memory sharpened, he could hear the tone of their voices – it sounded like he was catching them in an argument.

“You don’t have to follow him,” said James, his voice raised. “You don’t have to do this. You can leave.”

Regulus shook his head, “I can’t leave – it’s not just him – it’s my family too.”

“Sirius left,” said James. “You could too.”

The other boy stiffened, “I’m not my brother!”

James stepped back a fraction. His face grew sad. “I know you’re not your brother,” he said softly. “I know that Regulus. I do. I know because . . . because I don’t love him the way that I love you.”

Regulus head snapped up. “You . . . you love me?”

James walked around the bench and closed the distance between them, they were half a pace apart. He grinned and for a moment looked just like his son.

“Haven’t you been able to tell? Of course I love you, you arrogant, pain in the arse. You are lovely,” James traced a the tips of his fingers across Regulus’s jaw and up his cheekbone, “And so kind and almost . . . almost delicate when no one is watching.”

“But people are always watching,” Regulus protested.

“This is real,” said James, wrapping a hand around Regulus’ hip and pulling him even closer, holding the younger boy against his chest. “We are real.”

James leaned in a to press a kiss to Regulus’s lips. Draco looked away, embarrassed to witness something so intimate and private between the pair. When he looked back, Regulus was grasping the Gryffindor as if he were a drowning man and the other boy was only thing in the world keeping him afloat.

James broke the kiss, and whispered in Regulus’ ear, “Leave. Come with me.”

Regulus jerked back as if burned by the words. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can.”

The grey-eyed boy pulled away completely then, putting distance back between himself and James.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything.”

James’s face grew hard. “Then tell me Regulus. Tell me what you don’t think I understand.”

The younger boy trembled for a moment, and then his face took on the smooth, aloof look that Draco was very familiar with. With his right hand he unbuttoned the opposite cuff. Draco wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He was afraid even though he knew what he was about see. With a tug at his cuff, Regulus exposed his left arm. The black lines of the skull with the twisting snake stood out sharply on his pale skin.

“Regulus,” James breathed. “No.”

“I can’t come with you. You can’t save me. I have a master that demands unyielding loyalty. If I leave, I risk death – I risk the death of my family.”

“When?” asked James, his eyes glistening. “When did this happen?”

“This summer. August. Not long before school.”

Draco almost swayed on his feet remembering that memory and his own Marking. He’d been Marked at around the same time – the same year of his life. Was his life on a parallel course as this Black cousin he’d never met?

James stepped closer. Draco watched as Regulus’s body tensed. The older boy reached out his hands and gently caught hold of the wrist of the other boy’s marred arm. He raised the arm up and gently pressed a kiss to the Mark. Regulus whole body shuddered.

“This Mark isn’t you,” said James softly.

“It was my choice,” said Regulus flatly.

The Gryffindor looked Regulus straight in the eyes. He didn’t drop his gaze as he said, “You are free to make other choices now.”

“I can’t turn my back on my family. They are all I have. I am nothing without them.”

“That is what they want you to believe Regulus. But you aren’t alone - you have me,” said James.

The younger boy shook his head, “No. I don’t. I never will. Not since I pledged my loyalty to the Dark Lord. Our families – they are on opposite sides. This has been a dream James. A lovely dream, but it won’t work – we can’t work. I can’t come with you and you . . . you won’t come with me.”

“No, I won’t,” said James. “I can’t support Voldemort or his hate. How can you?”

“My family – they support him.”

The bespectacled boy reached for Regulus’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I’d be your family.”

“And you think the world would accept that? You think it would accept two wizards being together? We’d have to hide what we are. And the Dark Lord, he’d target you, and he might kill Cissy. Since Sirius left she has been there for me. She loves me.”

“I love you.”

Regulus’s eyes glistened as well, “I’m sorry James. All we’ve had is a stolen moment. Don’t you see that? We were doomed from the start – we were never meant to last. We can’t . . . We just . . . And if I left for you – do you think they’d let you go? That they’d let us go? I can’t . . . I can’t risk you.”

“I can protect myself.”

“No. You haven’t seen what I have seen about the Dark Lord. You can’t protect yourself. None of us can,” said the younger boy. “And do you think they’d have let Sirius go if I wasn’t there to take his place as the heir of the House of Black? If I leave, they’ll hunt not just me – but him. By doing what they expect of me, I buy his freedom.”

“Come with me,” James said – his eyes pleading.

“Don’t make me say it again, James. Don’t make me.”

James took a deep breath and lifted his chin high. “You’re ending this.”

The other boy nodded as if unable to speak.

“Do you love me? Did you ever?”

A tear spilled down Regulus’ cheek, “Always James. Since the day I saw you on the Hogwarts Express I wanted to know you. I’d been prepared to hate you – Sirius talked about you all the time his first year and I was so bloody jealous. But I couldn’t – I couldn’t hate you after I met you. I’ve - I’ve always loved you, but I always knew you could never be mine – not really.”

“So . . . we love each other. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m sorry,” Regulus said again.

“James,” a voice called, “The Halloween party is about to start. Sirius has a bottle of Ogden’s that he’s threatening to pour into the punchbowl.”

A teenage Remus Lupin appeared in the doorway holding what looked to be a map in his hand. He glanced between the two boys, likely taking in their pained faces.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

The Slytherin squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, and in a moment, controlled his face. “Nothing,” he said. “We are done here. Goodbye . . . James.” Regulus turned and started to walk away.

James called the younger boy’s name before darting after him. He took hold of Regulus’s shoulders, spun him around, and kissed him – thoroughly. He wrapped himself around Regulus and for a moment, Regulus responded, standing up on his tiptoes to better reach the taller boy. When James pulled back, his face was distraught.

“Goodbye Regulus,” he said, his voice catching. “I’ll remember. Always.”

The younger boy nodded, meeting the other boy’s eyes for moment and then took a shaky step away and then another. He turned away and headed for the door. He didn’t look back.

The courtyard filled with smoke as it dissolved. Draco was outside again. It was dusk and dark smoke surrounded him. He peered up and his mouth went dry – the Dark Mark floated in all of its vicious glory above him. What was this place? He heard a noise beside him and turned to see a Death Eater stumbling and coughing in the smoke – their dark cloak billowing around them. The Death Eater pulled the silver mask off his face and threw it to the ground. It was Regulus.

“What are you doing here?”

Draco turned at the same time Regulus did to see James Potter amidst the wreckage.

“James?” Regulus said, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

James strode toward Regulus and the boy backed away. As he did a curse sailed through the air toward James – whose eyes had been intent on Regulus. The curse just missed James, and the Gryffindor uttered a charm, strengthening his protections, but another curse bombarded him. He swore and dug his feet into the ground. He swiveled his head, looking for his attacker.

Another Death Eater emerged out of the smoke – his mask still very much in place.

Regulus must have seen the assailant as he called out, “Wilkes, leave this one to me.”

“And let you have all the fun Black? No, I don’t think so.”

Wilkes released another curse at James, who wove away – his chaser’s reflexes on display – and hurled out a desperate “Expelliarmus!” Wilkes easily deflected this and a jet of green flashed from his wand and James just managed to dodge away, as he did, his foot stuck in the rubble and he fell to his knees, hard.

The Death Eater laughed – loud and cruel. He raised his wand, “Avada Ke –”

The man was hurled off his feet before he could finish the curse and was rocked to the ground. Regulus stood, his wand pointed at the fallen Death Eater, his sides heaving. James struggled to his feet – grunted in pain – and sank back to the ground.

Regulus approached his fallen comrade, his wand at the ready. Draco followed. The man was sprawled on his back, his eyes open. He was writhing on the ground, and blood was streaming at his throat. Draco looked away – trying desperately to forget the sight of a twisted spike of metal jutting out of the mans’ throat.

“Oh fuck,” he heard Regulus say.

“Regulus,” he heard James call.

They both turned to see the other man clawing his way to his feet again. Regulus hurried toward him. James stepped back – wand raised. Draco couldn’t miss the shattered look on his relative’s face. Regulus stopped in his tracks.

“I’d never hurt you James.”

James didn’t lower his wand.

“You’re dressed like them – you are one of them – I can’t – I can’t trust you.”

Regulus tore at his cloak and dropped it to the ground. He was dressed in black clothes beneath and Draco couldn’t help but notice that he looked taller than the last time he’d seen the boy, he looked to be taller than James now – but if anything, Regulus looked gaunt. His eyes had a sunken look about them, and his cheekbones stood out in stark relief.

“You need to get out of here James. More are coming. Wilkes and I were the scouting party.”

“I can’t leave without – without my friend.”

Draco noticed that James had avoided using a name, likely not wanting to out his comrade.

“He’s dead,” said Regulus. “Wilkes dispatched him first thing and then blew up the house. Whatever the Order wanted to protect in this location has likely been blasted to bits.”

“Charming company you keep. I’m guessing your murderous friend won’t be pleased with me leaving.”

“Wilkes is dead,” said Regulus.

James’s eyes widened, “You killed him.”

“Not – not on purpose. But I would have. To save you I would have.”

“Regulus - ”

“No James. You have to go. I won’t be able –” he choked on his words. “I won’t be able to protect you when the others come.”

James’s eyes stayed on the other man. He limped forward. The knees of his pants were torn and bloody. He didn’t stop moving forward until he was right in front of Regulus.

“Why?” James asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Regulus reached out and ran his hand across the other man’s face for a mere moment. James did not flinch.

“You know why,” Regulus breathed. “Now go.”

James nodded, his eyes glistening, and then in a moment, he was gone. Regulus stood looking at the spot where the other man had disapparated from and whispered, “I remember.”

The smoke thins and the Dark Mark blurs until it is nonexistent. As the new space takes shape and crystallizes, he recognizes it – Regulus’s room. The room is beyond tidy – not like the mangled mess he’d seen when he’d been there in person. He turned and saw Regulus seated at the desk, bent over a piece of parchment, quill in hand. Draco steps closer and his eye catch on a sealed letter with the words “Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts” written across it in immaculate cursive script. He looks down and watches as Regulus works on composing another letter. He reads it over the other man’s shoulder, feeling like he is intruding the whole time, but he can’t look away, can’t not read it.

December 21, 1979

My dear James,

Thank you for loving me once. It seems so very long ago now, but I still recall what it felt like to be loved by you.

Thank you for trying to save me. I want you to know that you did save me - not soon enough for us, but hopefully, soon enough for me.

I do not believe I will ever see you again. If I were granted one last wish, it would be to see your face, to hear your voice, and to have the chance to tell you a final time how much your friendship has meant to me. I wish I’d allowed it to be my guiding star earlier, but it guides me now. I want to be the man you always believed I could be. I want those who come after us to have the chance to live and love without fear.

I wish I could say that I am unafraid, but I cannot. For so long I thought bravery and courage meant to be without fear. But I was wrong. Bravery is doing what you know to be right even in the presence of fear. I fear a world without you, without Sirius, and without hope.

I hope to show myself that you were right about me – that you were right - that I could be redeemed. By once believing in me, you give me hope now.

I have loved you more than I can possibly say, and my memory of you will be in my heart - always.

Regulus

After the last strokes of his quill, Regulus folded the letter, melted black wax, and sealed it with his signet ring. The letter “B” surrounded by a twisting snake lay imprinted in the wax. He set the letter down on the desk, before carefully writing “James Potter, Godric’s Hollow.” His face was so pale – so sad. Draco ached for the young man. How lonely had he been without his brother and without James in his last year? Regulus reached out his hand and ran his fingertips across the name he’d just written. The action struck Draco as reverent.

“Goodbye, James,” whispered the former heir of the House of Black. “I’ll remember. Always.”

The image of Regulus started to blur and Draco knew the memory was shifting – ending. He reached out for the boy, afraid this would be the last time he would see him. He didn’t want to leave him here – not here – not on the eve of his death, for that surely is what this memory was of – Regulus saying goodbye. He reached for the boy trying to take hold of his wrists, but there was nothing to grab – he couldn’t gain purchase.

“No!” Draco shouted, the word tearing from his throat. “Regulus!”

The boy and the room disappeared and for a moment he floated in darkness – as if suspended with the stars – and he saw the constellation of Scorpio – no – not Scorpio – the great stag of the Picts, and then he was gasping for air, pulling his face away from the pensieve. He gripped the sides of the basin with his good hand, using its solid weight to keep himself upright.

Oh Merlin. Oh fuck. This was too much. James Potter had loved Regulus Black? Regulus Black had loved James Potter? That meant . . . that meant . . .

Oh shit.

That meant everything he’d ever been taught about the War – about his family – about the other side – it was all a lie. Regulus had loved his enemy and had what? Died trying to save him – trying to save them all? What did this all mean? What did it mean about him?

There was only one person left he could ask, and fuck it all, but he really didn’t want to ask them. He pushed away from the pensieve and set off. If he hesitated for even a moment he was afraid he’d back out. He hurried through the corridors and up the stairs to the owlery. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbled off a note from a shelf just inside the owlery door. The penmanship he produced with his left hand was terrible, but it would do. He reread his words and the coordinates and hastily underlined the last line, “Meet me at dawn.”

He selected a non-descript and unremarkable looking school owl, and without allowing himself time to either think or change his mind, he attached his letter and let the owl fly.

Chapter 22: The Wolf at Dawn

He felt the ground connect hard with his feet. His knees buckled and he staggered for a moment before he was able to focus on his surroundings. He recovered his balance and took in the lonely stone cottage on the moor. Once upon a time it had been a hunting lodge. He wasn’t sure which ancestor had procured it, but it hadn’t been used in several generations for its intended purpose. Long ago, his mother had brought him here on a picnic as part of her campaign that he visit all of the Malfoy properties so he’d understand the scope and breadth of the estate he would oversee one day.

Draco raised his wand and disabled the wards except for the basic ward that kept Muggles away. He doubted anyone was up here in the lonely landscape, but just in case, he didn’t want them stumbling in. As a child, he’d thought the moor gloomy. Today, in the pale light of morning, he thought it was more than gloomy – it felt barren and sinister. He walked toward the door and pushed it open. The room within was sparsely furnished. He stepped forward onto the flagstone floor. He scanned the room and saw no one. Merlin this had been a right stupid idea.

He started toward the adjoining room, but heard the front door creak. He turned and saw the tall outline of a man standing in the doorway.

“Draco Malfoy,” snarled Lupin with his wand pointed right at him.

Summoning a werewolf to meet had clearly not been one of Draco’s better ideas. He’d checked the calendar, and he knew tonight was not a full moon. The look on Lupin’s face harbored no doubt of the man’s distaste for him, and he was afraid, but he had questions he needed answered and Lupin was the only one left – or at least, the only one left he even had a hope of trusting. No way in hell would he go to Wormtail with his questions.

“Don’t,” Draco said, holding out his wand and flinging it away. He immediately felt naked. “I’m alone.”

“I know you are alone. I’m sure you know of my . . . condition. I have a heightened sense of smell. Yours is the only scent here.”

Lupin raised his own wand and a barrage of magic struck Draco. His body was shoved hard against the wall. The wind was momentarily knocked out of him. As he struggled to regain his breath, Lupin stalked toward him.

“Do you think this is a game boy?” The older man bent toward him, his face so close that Draco could clearly see the silvery white scars that streaked across it. Magical scars – similar to those Draco bore on his chest.

He couldn’t move his limbs. Try as he might to push himself off the wall he couldn’t. He tried to shake his head, but he was immobile. He knew he’d been spelled, but he wasn’t sure with what. He tried to speak, and his voice came out in a whisper, “Not a game. Not a trick.”

“Your message said this was about Tonks.”

“You left her,” gasped Draco. “You left her alone and she is having a child – your child.”

“What have you filthy Death Eaters done with her?” Lupin bellowed.

Draco smarted at that. Filthy Death Eater. Yes. That was what he was to this man – to the world - and it hurt. Lupin flicked his wand and the sleeve of his left arm rose up. Draco struggled to try and stop it, but he remained glued to the wall. He stood there panting as the Dark Mark was exposed.

“Harry said you’d been Marked. Proud of yourself Draco?”

“Do you think I wanted this?” Draco’s eyes stung. “I was sixteen years old. The Dark Lord threatened my life – my mother’s life. Do you think I had a choice? Do you think Regulus did?”

The name had the effect Draco had hoped as Lupin pulled back. Draco felt whatever spell that held him loosen. He was still pinned to the wall, but he could move slightly, and he covered his arm, hiding the Mark away.

“What do you know of Regulus?”

“I know he died trying to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“Like hell he did. Has your mother been telling you fairy stories to make the ancient and noble house of Black more palatable”

Draco smirked. “With the Dark Lord around do you think my mother would spin tales of a relative trying to thwart him? She hardly ever speaks of him.” Draco reached down and pulled at his watch chain and held his pocket watch up for Lupin to see. “This was his. I . . . I’ve been learning about him. And I saw . . . I saw memories of him and . . . James Potter.”

Lupin’s face drained of color.

“And you,” continued Draco, barreling on before what little courage he had faded. “Of you and Sirius Black.”

“That’s not possible,” Lupin murmured.

“Regulus left the Black heir – me – memories. It is possible, and you, you are the only one left to ask. I need to know.”

“You saw Regulus’s memories of James?”

“Yes, and I don’t understand. Regulus was a Slytherin and Death Eater. Potter’s father was a bloody Gryffindor.”

“Opposites attract. James was…. Regulus was…. James didn’t confide much in me about Regulus – it was all so very complicated. There was the War, and Regulus took the Mark.”

“But James married Lily. He had a son.”

Lupin gave Draco a small smile. “He did. And he loved Lily Evans. But they didn’t start seeing each other until later in seventh year. James and Regulus were . . . well whatever they were to each other before that. They were over shortly after the start of James’s and my last year at Hogwarts.”

“And you and Sirius?”

Lupin fixed his eyes on Draco, his expression unreadable. “Why do you want to know this?”

“I . . . I’m supposed to get married and have pureblood heirs. It’s what I’m supposed to want. But I don’t. I don’t want it. I want - ” Draco stammered. He couldn’t do it. What had made him think he could ask this man these questions or reveal anything about himself.

Lupin’s eyes widened. With a flick of his wand he released Draco fully from the wall. Draco took a staggering step forward.

“You want to know if it’s alright that you feel the way you do?” Lupin asked in a gentle voice.

He nodded.

“Of course it’s alright Malfoy – Draco – attraction and love aren’t crimes.”

“In my house they are,” he said. “And when I saw those memories I thought if it was true, if others in my family had followed their hearts - or inclinations - or whatever, then maybe. . . maybe I could as well.”

A small smile flitted across Lupin’s face. “It wasn’t just Regulus and Sirius, Draco. They had an uncle, Alphard Black, that lived his adult life with a male wizard – romantically that is. He left Sirius the funds that helped set him free.”

“So it’s true.”

“Yes. James and Regulus cared for each other for a time. And I don’t know, maybe they never stopped. And Sirius – well, he was everything to me. First loves are powerful. You never forget them.”

“But what about Tonks? You loved him – you loved Sirius.”

“Until the end. Yes, I did. And I love him now. Always.”

“Then why did you marry her? She deserves to be loved.”

Lupin looked again at Draco with those strange amber eyes of his. Draco wondered if they had always been that color or if they’d changed when he’d been turned into a werewolf.

“Draco, she knows. She knows what Sirius meant to me. She saw us together during the brief time we had after Azkaban. Yet she still loved me – loves me. She wanted me with as little as I have to offer - she wanted me and I couldn’t deny her. I care for her. I do. And I do love her, just…” Lupin trailed off.

“Just not as you loved Sirius.”

Lupin turned toward a window and gazed over at the rising sun. His voice, when he spoke, was halting. “I met him when I was eleven – on the train to Hogwarts.” Lupin ran a hand over his face. “Merlin, we were so young. He was brilliant and charming - arrogant at times - and yet utterly alone. He rebelled against his family’s beliefs and found a family in us – James, Peter, and I. He was flawed, but he was beautiful, so beautiful. And he was mine. As I was his.”

Draco didn’t know where to look. The rawness in Lupin’s voice pulled at him. “I’m sorry.”

Lupin turned back toward him. “Maybe you are more like him – and Regulus – than I thought.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not…I’m not brave like them.” He felt his eyes sting with shame.

“You came here. You reached out to me. That took courage.”

“My family…”

“If what you’ve said about Regulus is true, then both of the Black brothers defied your family.”

Draco choked out the words, “And they are dead. Regulus and Sirius are dead.”

Lupin looked at him with what Draco supposed was pity.

“I’m seventeen years old,” said Draco – willing the older man to understand. “I don’t want to die. But I’m so tired. I’ve lived in fear for so long. Not just for me – for my mother. And for my father. Their choices are their own, but they’re still my parents. He’ll kill them. I can’t… I can’t openly defy him.”

The older man sighed. Draco knew the man wasn’t even forty yet, but he looked older and so weary.

“That is what the Dark Lord does. He pits people against each other with fear – by twisting us with those we love.” He looked at Draco. “Peter was like a brother – to all of us. And yet he was turned. He was made to believe that the love we bore him was lesser than it was. Maybe he’d always wondered – doubted – but he was one of the people in the world I cared most about.” He looked away again. “I lost the three people I loved the most the day James died.”

“So you understand the danger,” said Draco.

Lupin’s gaze turned back toward him. “I also know what it did to me. I didn’t seek the truth. I believed the worst about Sirius – I believed he - ” his voice broke. He wiped his hand across his eyes. “I believed he betrayed us all to protect his family – maybe even to protect me. And I – I left Harry alone. My best friend’s orphan child – I did nothing. I raised not a finger to help him until I met him at Hogwarts. I was too broken.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

Lupin smirked, “You apologize a lot for a Malfoy. But I don’t want that for you – for anyone. I don’t want you regretting what you could have done but didn’t have the courage to do.”

Draco looked away now. The sun was casting pale rays of light across the desolate landscape. It wouldn’t be safe for him to stay much longer.

“We will all die one day. Every one of us,” said Lupin. “And we seldom get to choose when. All we can do is try to live a life that we don’t regret.”

Pain seared through Draco’s body. He drew up his sleeve and bared his left arm again, the Mark was dark and savage on his pale skin. “I think I’m past that point.”

Lupin walked over to him and reached out his fingers and gently drew down Draco’s sleeve, covering the Mark. Draco watched in silence, stunned.

“You are little more than a child Draco. I of all people won’t judge you for decisions made that were beyond your control. All you can do is move forward. Redemption is a powerful thing Draco, as powerful as magic.”

He was shaking. “What about you? What about your redemption?”

Lupin met his eyes but said nothing.

“You’ve left your wife and she’s having a child – a child with the blood of the Black family in its veins. Your leaving another Black child alone in the world.”

He watched as Lupin drew a deep breath.

“You’ll regret it,” said Draco. “You regret not being there for Potter, and you’ll regret this.”

Lupin’s eyes and voice became distant. “You are not what I expected.” He took a step away, his amber eyes meeting Draco’s. “You are too young for all of this Draco – much too young.”

Draco raised his chin, “I’m the same age as Potter, and everyone expects him to be the Chosen One.”

“All of you are much too young,” said Lupin quietly. “I’m – I’m sorry that we didn’t do a better job protecting all of you from this. It is – it is too much to expect you all to know the right choices to make when those of us who are older are quite obviously failing.”

“You have a choice,” urged Draco. “Choose your child. Don’t leave another child alone to be raised in hate and fear.”

Lupin stepped further away, the light from the morning sun started to shine through the window and glint on the scars crisscrossing his face. “Harry said much the same thing to me the last time I saw him . . . Be safe, Draco. You best get back now.”

The older man walked out the door and disapparated, leaving Draco alone. He realized after several moments that he was shaking. He took deep breaths and stared out at the rocky craigs that were becoming more visible as the sun climbed higher. He focused on the stillness of his surroundings and worked to control his body - he needed to calm himself if he wanted to avoid being splinched. He took another deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Would Lupin listen to him, or would another child be left alone in this world? Potter had been alone since birth, and Draco felt so very alone right now. He wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone. But perhaps the answers that Lupin had given him made him feel a little less alone. Maybe this trip to the moor hadn’t been a total fucking catastrophe.

He took another steadying breath before exiting the cottage. He reset the wards and disapparated before the sun had fully risen.

Chapter 23: Christmas with the Dark Lord

Notes:

*Signage text quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” chapter seventeen.

“Can’t wait to get home,” said Blaise, sprawling out in a seat in the train compartment.

“Move over you ingrate,” said Pansy, poking him in the ribs with her wand.

Blaise yelped and pulled his limbs in closer, making room for Pansy who gave him an impressive smirk before flouncing into the seat beside him followed by Millicent.

Theo and Draco sat across from the trio in to the remaining bench. Vince and Greg did not join them. They were likely off in another compartment holding court with younger Slytherins who looked up to the pair.

“Where’s Daphne and Tracy?” asked Millicent.

Pansy shrugged, “Daphne said something about sitting with her sister, and you know how she and Tracy are joined at the hip. But never mind them, what is everyone’s plans for the holidays?”

“My mother has been without a husband for almost a year,” drawled Blaise. “She’s been hinting at a serious suitor in her most recent letters. I expect when I’m not gorging myself on food and nicking liquor from the cabinet I’ll be working on running off the poor fellow.”

“He’d be lucky if you did run him off,” muttered Theo.

Blaise raised an elegant eyebrow but did not deign to respond.

“Well I’ll be pretty much stuck at home this year,” said Pansy. “No one is having any balls or parties. But Millicent will be coming over for a few days and likely Daphne and Tracy as well. And our house elves make the best holiday biscuits. Mother also promised to take me shopping for new clothes over the break.”

Millicent nodded along with Pansy, but didn’t add any comments of her own.

“I’ll be at home with mother trying my best to avoid father,” said Theo stretching lazily. “He’s officially an Azkaban escapee but we never seem to be rid of him. He’s a right bastard even on a good day, but he does his level best to ruin holidays any chance he can get. He knows how it distresses mother. I hope the bugger drunkenly splinches himself worse than he did the last Christmas he was out of prison.”

“And what about you Draco?” asked Pansy.

He started. What about him? If he’d had his choice he’d have stayed at Hogwarts during the holidays, but his mother had been clear in her letters that his presence was requested at home. She didn’t say who requested his presence, but she didn’t have to. And then the evening before break, Snape had called him into his office and asked him if he were ready to go home – if his mental defenses were sufficiently strong to withstand Bellatrix and the Dark Lord. What did Snape think Draco had to hide? Draco knew he had a fuck ton to hide, but what did Snape know of that? And then the headmaster had tried to sift through Draco’s thoughts – Draco had felt it, and he’d slammed his barriers down. Instead of being upset, Snape had granted him something close to a smile before commending his Occlumency skills. For all her faults Bellatrix hadn’t been a total shit teacher he supposed.

He sat mulling over all this and still trying to decide how best to answer Pansy’s question when he felt the temperature in the compartment drop. A horrible feeling of dread started to spread throughout his body. He looked out the frosting window and saw a black shroud swooping by.

“Fucking Dementors!” shouted Blaise standing to his feed with his wand drawn.

The train ground to a halt. Draco stared out the window and saw more shapes gathering. Oh fuck. There were more Dementors – then wisps of dark smoke as people clad in black, hooded robes with silver masks appeared. He felt his eyes widen. Death Eaters – four of them. And from the masks he had a pretty good idea of which ones were out there. He saw them raise their wands and point them at the train. He started to duck when there was a huge booming sound from further down the train – its vibrations jostled them all and Blaise lurched from his feet to land on top of him.

He heard screaming and shouting. He pushed Blaise off of him and tripped over the other boy’s long limbs on the way to the compartment door. He threw it open and made his way out to the hall.

Who were they here for? Was it him? Had he failed Lord Voldemort for the last time?

“Let her go!” he heard a girl shriek.

He heard more shouting.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Stupify!”

He felt so cold – so hopeless. He forced his legs to move. He staggered and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Theo, who nodded at him to keep going. They made their way down the corridor.

From the other side he saw the Carrows rushing forward, pushing students out of their way. They threw open the door of a compartment and within a moment were pulling the Weasley girl, Longbottom, and Finnegan out. Finnegan was bleeding down the side of his face, an eye swelled shut, and an arm of Longbottom’s jumper was torn and bloody. The girl had some scratches on her face, and she looked wild.

“Those monsters took Luna!” she yelled. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“That’s enough,” said Alecto, shaking the girl by the shoulders. “Who do you think you are using spells on adults?”

“They took Luna!” she shouted at them in chorus with Longbottom.

“They took her after blowing a hole in the train!” shouted Finnegan, adding to the din.

“It is for adults to handle, not the likes of you,” said Amycus.

“And what are you going to do?” the girl almost roared, her red hair flying as she shook with rage.

“We will of course alert the authorities and repair the damage caused to the train,” said Alecto coldly. “You had best find another compartment.”

The professor flung the girl away from her, and the girl landed hard against the wall of the corridor. The professor graced her with a last, vicious look before disappearing back into the compartment. Amycus took hold of Longbottom and Finnegan and pushed them down the hall toward the front of the train, mumbling something about getting them medical aid.

Draco started to feel the coldness that had invaded his whole being start to ebb. The train shivered and shook and then started moving again. All the students in the hall looked pale. A couple started to cry silently and one threw up in the corner.

The Weasley girl’s eyes met his. He realized her eyes were green – the wrong shade – more pale than the green eyes that haunted his thoughts, but they jarred him nonetheless.

“Happy, Malfoy?” asked the redhead. “Was your father one of them – bet you are proud? Takes a lot of courage to kidnap a schoolgirl from an undefended train.”

“Shut it, Weasley,” he ground out, reminding himself not to raise his wand a cause a scene. He knew her family had been aligned with Dumbledore and linked to the Order of the Phoenix. He also knew that she’d been important to Potter – probably still was. All that fire and Gryffindor self-righteousness that exuded from every inch of her undoubtedly appealed to the Chosen One.

“Jealous you weren’t part of it?” she spat at him.

He took a deep breath. His fingers itched on his wand, and he couldn’t resist the pull. He raised the wand and pointed it at the girl, “Watch your mouth. You have no idea who you are talking to.”

The girl pushed herself away from the wall, swept her hair from her face, and drew herself up to her full height.

“Or what?” she asked, “You’ll tell your father? Guess what Malfoy, I know exactly who I am talking to, and I already survived your big bad father my first year when he slipped a cursed book in with my school supplies. Harry Potter dealt with it then – killed a Basilisk – and you had better believe that Harry is going to deal with all of you very soon.”

Her eyes flashed at him before she turned on her heel to stalk down the train in the direction Longbottom and Finnegan had gone.

“Should have hexed her,” he muttered.

“Nah – she’s the Boy-Who-Lived’s girlfriend. Not worth it,” said Theo. “You’ve got enough shit going. You don’t need to paint another target on your back.”

Pansy appeared at his side looking at the students in the hallway. She shook her head, “Well, as prefects I suppose we should make sure this lot are all right.” She turned to Draco, “Go find the snack trolley and get some chocolate, that should help.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Provide comfort to the suffering, Draco.”

He cocked his head at her. Pansy was not the warm and cuddly type. He doubted very much that she would provide all that much comfort, but on balance, he’d prefer to fetch chocolate than try and convey a semblance of empathy.

“Fine,” he said, “Come on Theo, let’s go commandeer some chocolate.”

 

The Manor stretched before him. As usual, no one had been at the station to greet him. The rest of the train journey had been subdued. Students had huddled together with wide eyes. Draco had distributed chocolate to all the prefects to pass out, but it was clear that there was more causing the student body’s malaise than the after effects of Dementors.

His friends had tried to put on a show of levity at Platform 9¾, but he could tell even they were shaken. Blaise’s laughter was a little too forced, and Millicent was even quieter than usual. Everyone was wondering who could be next. He wondered where the Lovegood girl was. He hoped she was okay. He didn’t know the Ravenclaw at all, he just knew she was in the year behind him and he could only imagine her terror at being physically ripped off the Hogwarts Express. The school and the Express were supposed to be safe – children were supposed to be safe in those places. He realized that this was a naïve idea. No one had been safe anywhere for a very long time.

He straightened his shoulders and mounted the steps to the Manor. A house elf opened the door for him. He stepped in and out of the chill and saw his parents waiting for him just inside. Both looked pale – more than usual. His father’s hair was still straggly and his eyes were a bit vacant. His mother’s face was calm, but she looked thinner. While he’d been off at Hogwarts worrying about fairly trivial things, what had they been through as prisoners in their own home?

“Welcome home, Draco,” said his mother with a tight smile.

“Yes, welcome home,” his father said in a voice that was a shadow of his former self.

“Ah – the happy little family reunited,” said a voice Draco knew well.

The Dark Lord glided into the space followed by Wormtail. Draco scanned the area, but saw no sign of the great snake. Perhaps that would be his Christmas gift – getting to do without Nagini.

“I have received promising reports from Severus about you. You are following his orders,” said the Dark Lord without any warmth in his voice. “Perhaps you will do you parents proud yet.”

He swallowed, “Yes, my Lord, that is my constant hope.”

The Dark Lord fixed his eyes on him, and Draco worked to keep his mind and face blank. His master turned and started to walk away before saying, “I may have need of you while you are home Draco. Do not go far.”

Wormtail scurried after his master.

“Let’s get you to the family wing, darling,” said his mother, embracing him now that their audience was gone. She led the way through the house which was devoid of the holiday decorations he remembered from years past. In another time – in another life it seemed – the Manor would glisten with gold and silver decorations. His parents would be busy entertaining important guests and Draco would soak in the holiday atmosphere and wonder what gifts awaited him in the pristinely wrapped packages beneath a large tree in the drawing room so heavy with ornaments it was almost obscene. Last year, without father, they hadn’t really observed Christmas. His mother had placed a small tree in the sitting room upstairs and made sure he had a few packages to open on Christmas morning, but it had been very subdued.

This year as he followed his mother to the family wing, he saw that the sitting room had not a single decoration. It was probably just as well, how did one make merry with a house full of Death Eaters?

His mother’s eyes swept the room and said, “We can get a small tree, my dear, brighten up this room.”

“He is not a child anymore Narcissa,” said Lucius. “He has put childish things behind him. Haven’t you Draco?”

Draco sighed, “Yes, father.”

He lingered with his parents for as long as he could stand before retreating to his room. He didn’t like seeing them this way. He spent the next few days leading up to Christmas away in his room for as much time as he felt he could get away with. He didn’t go down to the dungeons to check on Ollivander – he was afraid it would draw too much attention to the older man, and he hadn’t been assigned any tasks or given any missions. He hoped that the Dark Lord had forgotten he existed.

Late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve Draco sat alone in his room. He imagined he could hear the drunken shouts of Death Eaters and sympathizers of Lord Voldemort in another part of the house. He knew he actually couldn’t hear them, but when he’d passed through the ground floor of the Manor earlier in the day to briefly be seen, he’d heard the sounds or revelry from the drawing room. He’d given it a wide berth.

“Draco, what is wrong?”

“Nothing mother,” he said, “It is wonderful sharing the house with . . . guests during the holidays.”

His mother threw up a silencing charm.

“You forget that I am your mother. You might be skilled at hiding your thoughts from others, but I know you. What is wrong?”

It was eating him from within – wondering what his mother would think if he told her that he . . . that he thought he fancied boys. Would he get cast out? Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad, if he was disowned by his family maybe he wouldn’t have to be a Death Eater anymore. But no, if he was no longer a Death Eater the Dark Lord would simply kill him. And to the world the Mark on his arm would always make him a Death Eater.

“Draco?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He was so fucking scared, but he’d been scared for so long. He didn’t want to be scared around his mother – she was the only person in his life at home he had any trust in – the person he wanted to protect more than anything. Was it protecting her by not telling her the truth about himself, or was it protecting her to let her see him – the real him?

“Draco?” she said again.

He felt himself flush, and his suit felt much too warm. She put her hand on his cheek and her pale blue eyes met his.

“Did you know,” he began, forcing out the words, “Did you know about Sirius and Regulus . . . that they . . . that they liked . . . men?”

She dropped her hand, “Who have you been talking to?”

He shook his head, “Doesn’t matter. Did you know?”

She was quiet for a moment. His heart was pounding. It was so loud in his ears, surely his mother could hear it.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I knew.”

“Why didn’t you . . . why didn’t I ever know? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge of it. She spent a bit of time smoothing out her robe before she answered, “We don’t speak of them in this family.”

“Because they liked men?”

“No, because they . . . they betrayed the family. Sirius threw everything this family offered him away with both hands, and Regulus – Regulus he disappeared – supposedly he ran away and the Dark Lord caught him and punished him. But I never mentioned their . . . preferences, because it didn’t matter.”

“Because they were traitors?” said Draco, looking at the floor.

“No. Because what difference does it make to me who someone loves?”

He looked up at his mother, her eyes were intent on him. He watched as the mask of features she showed the world softened. She pat the bed beside her, and he walked forward and sat down next to her.

“You think you are like them?” she asked.

He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at her face and see the disappoint that was bound to be there. He nodded, unable to say the words aloud.

She took him by his chin and turned his face toward her, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, “Oh my darling, how scared you must have been. Is this the secret Bellatrix has been alluding to?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

His mother pulled away and smoothed his hair, her touch gentle. “Regulus was like the brother I never had. I loved him, and yet I . . . I failed him. I don’t want to fail you.”

“You aren’t . . . you aren’t upset?”

“I’m worried. Your life has not been easy. And many will despise you for liking – for loving – as you do.”

He held up his left arm, “I think I’ll already be quite hated by plenty of people for this. Other Death Eaters think I haven’t lived up to the Mark and Potter sympathizers see me as scum.”

She pressed his arm back across his chest.

“I don’t know where our paths lead. I don’t my son. But know this – I will always love you. Nothing you can do will ever change that.”

“But – but I’m supposed to marry - have an heir – if I live. That’s what I’ve been told, aren’t you upset?”

“You are quite young to be worrying about heirs. Do you think I married your father for heirs? I married him for love. I’d rather have you happy and safe than live a life that isn’t of your choosing and be constantly hiding a part of yourself from the world. You’ve,” she faltered for a moment, “You’ve already – are already – forced to do that. It is enough.”

“But father -”

“I think your father has had more than his share of making decisions for this family, don’t you?”

“It probably helped that your choice was to marry the pureblood heir of an ancient family,” he said. “We both know what your family would have done if you’d made a different choice.”

“You are right, Draco – my choice was traditional. And my life was easier for a longtime because of that – and I went along with everything. I took the path of least resistance and followed the teachings of my family and the wishes of my husband - mostly. But it hasn’t been easy of late. When I was young, I thought I had the world at my feet – had security based on the decisions I made. That has all been stripped away. There is no guarantee, Draco. None at all. I’ve come to accept that your path will likely be different from mine and your father’s.”

He was speechless. His mother always supported his father. Always. But now . . .

“And as to your father,” his mother continued, “I don’t think it will be wise to say anything to him – at least now. He is desperate to regain the Dark Lord’s favor. He isn’t as careful with his thoughts or his words as he should be.”

“But Bellatrix, she knows . . . about me.”

His mother shrugged. “Have you told her anything?”

“No, but she’s . . . she’s been in my mind – seen my thoughts.”

“I think it is safe to say that no one thinks of Bellatrix as a reliable narrator. She is a bit . . . unhinged.”

They sat in silence, side by side. He couldn’t remember the last time he and his mother had really talked. It had been so long. It hadn’t been safe. Probably wasn’t really safe at the moment, but he couldn’t – wouldn’t – take it back now.

“Is there . . . is there someone special in your life Draco?”

He laughed. “No. What do I have to offer anyone? And if there was someone I’d put them at risk. They would be hated – be in danger.”

She squeezed his hand. “Someday my love. Someday things could be very different.”

He turned back to her, “Why did you say you failed Regulus?”

Her face froze. She took a deep breath. “I can’t speak of this. Not here.”

She lifted her wand and summoned a vial from the shelf where he kept some of his potions supplies, catching it deftly with her free hand. It reminded him that she too, had once been a seeker. She raised her wand to her temple and then pulled it away. A silver strand clung to the wand’s tip. A memory. She sealed it in the vial. She clutched it to her heart for a moment before placing it in his hand and wrapping his fingers around it.

“I believe Hogwarts must have a pensieve. View it when you get back. It will be safer. Don’t judge me too harshly, when you’ve seen it,” she said, her eyes glistening. “I failed Regulus, your father, and you. I knew what Regulus went through and I . . . I still let you take the Dark Mark.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me.”

“I should have tried harder to protect you Draco. I should have . . .”

He shook his head, “Stop, mother. Stop. You can’t . . . you can’t say these things.”

Her lips became a hard line on her face. She took one breath and her face was composed again. She looked cool and poised. She was once again the untouchable Narcissa Black Malfoy. She so rarely dropped her mask of indifference that he’d forgotten what she really looked like when she was . . . soft and unguarded.

He slipped the vial into his pocket. So many memories in this family, so many hidden truths. What would his mother’s memories reveal?

“I wanted to give you his name you know. I’d wanted to name you Draco Arcturus Malfoy. Your father vetoed the use of his middle name. He said we’d already honored the Black side by naming you after a constellation. I should have held my ground on that and a lot of things to do with you.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, before murmuring, “But just a few more days my darling, and then you’ll be back at Hogwarts and you’ll be safe.”

He started to respond when his left arm rippled. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the Mark and the snake was twisting and coiling beneath his skin, the movements became more and more agitated to the point of being painful. He was being summoned. He locked eyes with his mother for a moment and then threw on a cloak and rushed out of the Manor and down the drive. Other Death Eaters were hurrying around him – with varying degrees of success depending on how much alcohol they had consumed – to make it through the gate and the wards so they could disapparate. His arm pulsed with pain – as the snake continued to writhe. He jostled through the gates and felt the pull at his navel and he was hurtling through space. He landed on pavement.

“Find him – find him!” He heard a high, cold voice cry. “Find Harry Potter!”

He turned and looked at his surroundings. He was in a small village, the street lights were glowing warm as the daylight fled to darkness. Colored fairy lights were strung throughout.

“Find him!”

“He’s apparated surely.” He heard someone else say.

“Search the village – be sure,” ordered the Dark Lord from the front of an unimposing residence. “Nagini attacked him – drew blood. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

Draco doubted that was likely – Potter had a knack for getting away – especially when aided by his friends. He had no doubt the Granger and Weasley had been in the thick of it with him. They never left his side.

“But my Lord,” began Alecto before she was struck down by a curse from the Dark Lord himself.

“Do not defy me. When the Dark Lord gives an order it is to be obeyed.”

Alecto gasped on the ground for a moment before her brother helped her up. No one else questioned Lord Voldemort, and they fanned out searching the village. Draco turned and put distance between himself and his irate master. He walked along the sidewalk, peering into the windows of houses and shops. Then he saw it – a cottage behind a wild hedge, covered in ivy with part of its roof and second floor blown off. He paused in front of the gate and sign rose out of the ground in front of him. With mounting trepidation he read:

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

Oh Merlin. Godric’s Hollow. He was in Godric’s Hollow – where it had all ended – or all began. No wonder the Dark Lord was wild. And then as he peered at the sign, scribbles appeared. One line of graffiti jumped out at him, “Long live Harry Potter.”

He looked back at the house. It was a ruin. He felt his stomach turn. Potter’s parents had died here – died trying to protect their son. Potter had lost everything that day – his parents and a childhood of being raised in the Wizarding World. He felt ill looking at the destroyed home – how many times had he taunted Potter about his dead parents? Seeing the carnage that was left of their home made it all too real – too visceral.

Draco’s left arm still throbbed. Would his father have sacrificed himself for Draco? Would he now?

“Did you see something?” Amycus Carrow asked appearing at his side.

“No, nothing of interest,” he said.

He took one last look at the home that should have been Potter’s and then kept moving, kept searching, but he knew in his heart that Potter was long gone and had evaded the Dark Lord’s clutches yet again. He could think of no finer Christmas gift.

Chapter 24: Surprise in the Dungeons

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. The Dark Lord had run his followers ragged searching Godric’s Hollow, Hogsmeade, Ottery St. Catchpole, Little Whinging, Grimmauld Place, and Diagon Alley – any place that had the slightest connection with Potter. The boy hadn’t been found and Lord Voldemort was wild. Anyone who hesitated in following his commands for even a moment felt his displeasure. Draco had kept his head down and stayed out of the way. He’d spent a miserable few nights standing outside of 4 Privet Drive in the most mundane looking of Muggle neighborhoods imaginable. Every house looked like a mirror image of its neighbor. The sheer monotony of it all seemed to sap at Draco’s magic. Was this really where the Boy-Who-Lived had grown up? How could the supposed Chosen One have come from such a bloody ordinary place? It didn’t seem possible.

He’d stood in the winter cold watching a house that was clearly abandoned. He’d had to keep recasting warming charms, and even then his toes had grown cold and stiff. He’d stared up at the house lit only by the streetlamps and light spilling from neighboring homes and wondered which window had belonged to Potter’s room. In the end, he decided it likely didn’t matter, the view from either the front or the back of the house was likely to be the same amount of bland.

He pulled his pocket watch from his nightstand and sprung the latch. The gentle glow from the charm of his constellation lit the watch face. It was just before six in the morning. He’d only been in a bed a couple hours and now he was on to his next task. He’d been assigned guard duty. On the one hand, he dreaded seeing Ollivander again – he was worried about the state the man would be in, but on the other, it would give him the opportunity to check up on him.

He stretched, trying to work the stiffness from his body, but it was too deeply engrained. He scrubbed at his face again and forced himself to get out of bed. He skipped the shower, he was cutting it too close for time, and pulled on a pair of black wool trousers, a black sweater, and thick socks. The dungeon after all, had been chill in summer, and he imagined it would be far worse in winter. With this in mind, he threw a heavy black cloak on. He slipped a bottle of Wideye Potion in his cloak pocket and then, after a moment of thought, a bottle of Pepper Up potion. Ollivander might need it.

He checked and a double-checked for his wand – a nervous habit he had noticed he was developing – and emerged from his bedroom. The Manor was quiet at this time of day. The sun wouldn’t rise for over an hour and most of the residence’s inhabitants were likely still asleep.

He was met at the inner dungeon door by a tired and surly looking Mulciber. The man hadn’t even bothered to wait for Draco to walk to the cell before he’d bolted. The pervasive cold of the place struck Draco immediately. This was not a place of comfort.

He walked toward the cell, his steps ringing in the space.  As he drew up to the cell’s bars, he heard a sing-songy voice, “Hello, Draco Malfoy.”

Oh holy hell.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he blurted out.  Ollivander was in the cell, but so was Lovegood, the Ravenclaw that had been abducted from the train.  She looked dirty, her long, blonde hair was unkempt, and her clothes had rips.

Oh fuck.  They’d brought her here.  Those fucking Death Eaters had kidnapped a fellow student – a child – and brought her to his house.  And the Dark Lord had assigned him to watch over this girl – a girl who should have been home with her family and should be heading back to Hogwarts in a few days-time, same as him.  He retched.  Everything in his stomach staid put.  He felt dizzy, and couldn’t stop another gasping noise from escaping.

“I don’t understand why you are here,” said Luna, ignoring Draco’s earlier question and the distasteful noises he was making.

He worked to gain control.  He covered his mouth and swallowed hard before saying, “This is my home.”  He swallowed again, and gained more mastery over his voice.  “I’m on guard duty.  You know why – I’m sure Potter told you his suspicions about me.”

“You might be a Death Eater on the outside,” said Lovegood, “But I don’t think you are one on the inside. I can see it in your aura.”

Luna had come to stand by the cell bars when she spoke to him, but Ollivander lay still on the straw.

“Ollivander?” he called.

The man’s prone form shifted slightly, but he did not sit up. The older man started coughing, and he curled in on himself. The cough sounded deep and settled.

“How long has he been ill?” he asked.

“He’s been sick since I came,” said Lovegood. “And he has been getting worse.”

He reached in his pocket and dug out the bottle of Pepper Up potion.

“Give this to him,” he said. “It’s Pepper Up potion – it’ll help.”

“Trust him,” said a rasping voice from the floor.

Lovegood reached a hand through the bars. Draco passed her the bottle. While she knelt beside the wandmaker and helped him swallow the potion, Draco summoned a house elf.

“The prisoners need breakfast.”

“I am very sorry, Master Draco, but I’ve been ordered to bring them their bread and water at noon and only at noon.”

“Well I’m ordering you to bring them breakfast now.”

“I have also been ordered to tell Mistress Lestrange of any deviations from the schedule she has ordered, Master Draco.”

“My aunt is not the mistress of this house,” said Draco.

“The Dark Lord had Mistress Malfoy order us to follow Mistress Lestrange in all things, Master Draco.”

Draco resisted the urge to growl. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Fine, I order you to bring me a large breakfast. Huge. I am completely famished.”

“Of course, Master Draco,” said the elf with a low bow before disappearing.

He turned back to the cell. Ollivander was sitting up. “Hawthorne and unicorn. Curious,” he rasped.

“How long has it been this way?” he asked the wandmaker. “Since they stopped bringing you regular meals?”

Ollivander drew in a wheezing breath before saying, “I – I can’t be certain. But a long time before Luna arrived.”

With a crack, his breakfast arrived carried by an elf on a silver tray. Draco motioned for the elf to set the tray on the floor. It was loaded with toast, fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp rashers of bacon, plump sausages, and fried tomatoes and mushrooms. A teapot still had steam wafting out of the spout.

“That will be all,” said Draco to the elf. The elf nodded, and disapparated.

Draco lifted the pass through door of the cell and slid the tray in. Lovegood crawled over from Ollivander’s side and reached toward the tray and poured the tea, offering her compatriot the filled teacup. Ollivander took it and sighed after his first sip. The girl stared through the bars at Draco. Her gaze startled it him – it was somehow both direct yet unfocused.

“Hawthorne and unicorn, indeed,” she murmured. “I should have noticed this long ago, how very absent minded of me.”

For the remainder of the week Draco had morning guard duty. Once he would have been annoyed at having to get up before dawn to do much of anything. For over a year, however, sleep had not come easy to him, and he often awoke in the early morning hours and was unable to go back to sleep, so getting up at such an unholy hour wasn’t the problem it would have been in the past. It also gave him the chance to make sure Ollivander and Lovegood got at least one good, solid meal a day. He also reinforced the cushioning charms on the straw and worked warming charms into the blankets. He wished he could bring Lovegood some books, but he didn’t know how to hide them in the cell without them being discovered. He did, however, continue to bring potions down to Ollivander, and the man’s cold seemed to be improving.

While Draco stood watch – which really was a complete farce, as neither the wandmaker nor the Ravenclaw were in a state that would allow to them escape – Ollivander would wax on about the properties of different materials used in wand making.  He said he was sharing his knowledge with them as he could tell that they were kindred spirits – keen to learn new things – but Draco knew it was more likely that Ollivander found comfort in focusing on topics he knew so well to help keep him sane and hold his fear at bay.

When he wasn’t on guard duty he engaged in the dangerous game of balancing being seen just enough by other Death Eaters and hiding in the family wing. He taken to sitting in the family’s private sitting room and pouring over the names on the Black family tapestry. Two names in particular always stood out to him – one slightly dimmed and the other as bright as the day the name had been magically stitched into the tapestry. This was where he was when his aunt caught him the Sunday evening before he was to return to Hogwarts.

“I’d ask you which names you are studying, nephew, but I think I know,” she said. She came to stand beside him and tapped her fingers on the names of Sirius and Regulus. “Degenerates – just like you.”

Draco buried his thoughts and emotions deep. He turned a bored gaze at his aunt, “I really have no idea what you are on about, aunt.”

She leaned in a bit and smiled at him, “They are saying that the half-blood cur of a werewolf has returned to his wife.”

He kept silent.

“All that time playing house with Sirius – who does he think he is fooling?” she said before her eyes met his. “Is that what you will do someday? Marry a woman in a desperate attempt to shove down your baser instincts?”

Her eyes sought out his, but he still did not speak.

“And my sister’s mudblood husband was caught be snatchers.  To think, he left her behind in a misguided attempt to protect her.  What a pathetic excuse of for a wizard he was – couldn’t even survive for more than a few months away from his pureblood wife.”

“It has been a pleasure like always, aunt,” he said, starting to turn away from her, but she grabbed him by his arm, her nails digging into him even through his sleeve.

“I’m not done with you – and you’ve been avoiding me since you got home. Don’t think I can’t tell – always scampering off to your room like the scared little boy that you are.”

He jerked his arm out of her grasp. “No – but I am done with you. You must be really worried about your standing with the Dark Lord if you are wasting your time on me.”

He started toward the door, walking as tall as he could – unwilling to betray any emotion to her. The door slammed shut just as he reached it, and he heard the lock click. He turned to find Bellatrix with her wand raised.

“No, no, little Draco. We aren’t finished yet.”

He lifted his chin, working to swallow his fear. Bellatrix was his own blood relative, but he didn’t trust her. He’d seen her torture Sirius in Regulus’s memories, and he’d felt her Cruciatus curse before. She smiled again and his stomach clenched.

“Legilimens!” she cried with a slash of her wand, and then he felt her – felt her slicing through his thoughts, sifting through his memories as if she were using red-hot pokers.

He cried out from the pain, unable to control it. She drew closer, her eyes fixed on him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on shutting down his thoughts, forcing her out. He clasped his hands to his head – the pain and the pressure in his mind was tearing him apart

He heard her shriek with delight when she caught hold of a memory of him looking at Rory across the table at the Hogshead, a soft smile on the other boy’s lips. She tore at the memory, clamoring for more and he cried out again and dropped to a knee. He slammed down hard on his mental defenses. She shrieked again and he felt her scissor through his thoughts, grasping and pulling. She caught hold of a memory of him watching a dark-haired boy flying on a broom, his face turned away in pursuit of a snitch – a boy’s identity he must never reveal. A harsh, guttural sound ripped from his throat as he pushed her back – out of his thoughts. She clawed back, shredding at his barriers.

“I taught you this skill boy – think you can keep me out!” Bellatrix howled. “You are weak – weakness will not allow you to be loyal to the Dark Lord. It can be used to turn you from the true path and I will have an answer!”

He swayed from the effort of fighting her. He fell further, now on his hands and knees. She hurled herself against his mental walls – tearing – screaming. She ripped one last thought free from him – a vision of green eyes.

“Get out!” he cried as he forced her out of his mind – walls slamming down – denying her entry, and with one last barricade, she was gone.

He was panting – his mind in agony. Fuck she had hurt him. He opened his eyes with effort and saw Bellatrix standing in front of him, breathing hard, her hair wild about her face.

“Legilimens!” she yelled again.

But this time he was prepared for her onslaught – prepared for the pain – and he wouldn’t let her in – she would not have access to anymore of his mind. Never.

She must have ended the spell as the barrage stopped.

“Think you’ve beaten me?” she asked her voice high. “You are still weak, Draco. Worthless and weak. Crucio!”

His arms gave out from under him at the rush of pain. His face fell hard to the floor. He could barely feel the sharp pain in his nose as all the nerves in his body caught fire. He thrashed trying to escape the agony, but he couldn’t – it was there – it was everywhere – singeing him. He started to scream. He tried to hide within the barriers of his mind – tried to run from the pain – but before he could, it ended with a loud thud.

He lay tremoring on the floor. Embers of pain pulsed through is body. He became aware that he was drenched in sweat, and his face was hot and sticky. His nose stung. With effort he rolled to his side to see what had happened – to see why the pain had stopped.

Bellatrix lay writhing on the floor – bound from mouth to ankle in thick ropes.

“Don’t you ever hurt my son again,” he heard a cold voice say. He looked up and through the stupor and fog shrouding his mind, he saw his mother standing beside him, wand pointed at her sister. Her face was hard, her familiar mask of cool indifference gone. He’d never seen her look like that – like she would set fire to the world.

“Do you hear me, sister,” she said, spitting out the last word as if it tasted bitter. “You shall never hurt my son again. Never.”

With a flick of her wand, she levitated her bound sister up off the floor and hurled her through the door. With another spell she slammed closed the door. He heard Bellatrix land with a thump in the hall.

“Oh, my boy,” she said kneeling beside. She ran her hand over his forehead, and smoothed his damp hair away from his face. He raised a hand gingerly to his nose – and winced in pain. He pulled it away, and it was smeared red with blood.

“Episkey,” she said, pointing her wand at his face.

His nose grew almost painfully hot, and then swung wildly to the other extreme and felt bitterly cold.

“We must get you out of here,” she said.

“I go – I go back to Hog – Hogwarts – tomorrow,” he stammered, unable to control his voice.

“That is not soon enough.” His mother snapped her fingers and a house-elf appeared with a crack. “Master Draco’s school trunk is almost packed. Finish packing it and then bring it to me.”

The elf bowed low. “Yes, Mistress Malfoy,” the smaller being said before disapparating.

He felt her hands push under his arms, urging him up. He sat up and, with help, rose. He felt shaky on his legs. “Where am I going?”

“To your friend Blaise’s. His mother is between husbands. You’ll be free of both this house and Death Eaters at least for the night.”

“I can last a night,” he argued even as she pushed him gently toward the tapestry.

“No, Draco – I’ll not have you here. I’m not risking you. When Bellatrix gets free of that Incarcerous spell she will be wild. You shall not be here for that.”

She reached past him and lifted the tapestry. He felt his eyes widen. Behind it was a door he didn’t know existed. She muttered a spell, pushed the door open, and pulled Draco through. He emerged into his parents’ bedchamber.

She hurried to a closet and pulled out one of his father’s cloaks. She threw it around Draco’s shoulders.

“I can’t leave you – I can’t leave you with – her – all alone,” he said.

His mother lifted her chin, “Do not underestimate me my son.”

The house elf reappeared with a crack, holding a handle of Draco’s trunk with one hand. Narcissa turned to the elf, “Escort Master Draco and his trunk to the residence of Callista Mauritius.”

“Mother?” Draco said.

Narcissa put her hand on his cheek, “You’ll get past the Manor’s wards – house elves possess magic wizards can’t even begin to understand.” Her eyes met his, “Be safe my son.”

“Come with me,” he begged.

She shook her head, “I chose this life Draco – now I must live it.”

He held up his left arm, “I made a choice too.”

“We both know that choice was never your own.”

She dropped her hand and nodded at the house elf who took hold of Draco’s arm with his free hand. He looked at his mother, his eyes pleading.

“Mother - ”

With a crack he felt the pull of disapparating at his middle, and then the Manor was gone – his mother was gone. Cold shocked his senses. His nose – still sensitive – stung with the influx of chill air.

He was standing on a drive of crushed stone. In the distance he could see a Georgian style mansion – its symmetrical windows lit with light. There was no gate, but Draco felt the invisible barrier of the wards. With another crack a house elf appeared on the opposite side of the magical barrier, it was clad in a tidy length of linen belted with a silver cord.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” he said to the elf. “I’m a friend of Blaise’s.”

The elves nodded at each other before they both disapparated and Draco was left standing alone in the near dark.  He waited in near darkness and tried to calm his hammering heart.  The adrenaline that had been surging through his veins was dissipating, and he his limbs felt heavy with fatigue.  Merlin, he didn’t want to leave his mother with his fucked up aunt, even though his mother had been very clear that she could handle her sister. 

After several minutes he heard the crunching sound of footsteps.  He looked toward the house and saw the tall form of his friend approaching.

“Hell, Draco, is that you?” called his friend.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What did I send you for a Christmas gift then?”

“You’re testing me?”

Blaise shrugged, “Can’t be too careful.”

“Fine.  You didn’t send me anything for Christmas you cheap bastard.”

His friend came to a stop in front of him and grinned. “It’s you.  Besides, what would I get a Malfoy – everything in your house is probably made of gold.  You lot were always a bunch of flash tossers.”

Blaise extended his hand through the ward, took hold of Draco’s, and pulled him through.

“Fuck, Draco, your face is covered in blood. What the hell happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

Blaise gave him a long look before saying, “Right. Nothing. Just like the curse scars on your chest.”

“Look Blaise I . . . I need a place to stay tonight before the train takes us back to Hogwarts.” He looked at the ground, unable to look his friend in the face. “May I stay with you.”

“Yeah, mate. Of course.” He snapped his hands and the house elf reappeared. Blaise instructed it to take Draco’s trunk to a guest room before turning back to Draco. “It’s bloody well freezing out here. Let’s get in and you can get cleaned up. My mother’s entertaining tonight. Can’t have you look like you just came from a bar fight.”

They started walking toward the house.

“Entertaining?”

Blaise shrugged, “Some prat thinks he is auditioning for the role of my next step-father.”

“Umm . . . ” said Draco. “I’m not really sure what to say in this situation.”

“Not much to say,” said Blaise before nudging Draco with his shoulder. “Besides, what my mother gets up to looks much tamer than whatever you’re going through. She ends up wealthier and more powerful with every marriage – you however – seem to end up with new scars and fresh blood whenever I see you.”

He followed Blaise up the steps of the house. As his friend reached for the door Draco said, “Look Blaise . . . it . . . thanks.”

Blaise smiled, “No worries. Now let’s go put this suitor of my mother’s through his paces, yeah?”

Chapter 25: The Cousins

His mother had been right. He did feel safer at Hogwarts, but he worried about his mother and even his father. He worried about Ollivander and Lovegood in the dungeons. He wished he could tell someone, but who? He couldn’t go to Snape – Snape was a Death Eater, and if he said anything to one of the other professors, what would they do? Storm the Manor? And if he told someone, odds were the Dark Lord would know Draco had betrayed him. Linked to the Dark Lord as he was with the Mark, he doubted there was anywhere on this earth he could run where his master wouldn’t find him. And even if he was able to run, that still left his parents behind and powerless at the Manor. So he had to keep the secret of where the wandmaker and sixth year Ravenclaw were even though the knowledge and grief of it festered in his soul.

He settled into his first class of the day, Dark Arts. As much as he was pleased to be back at school and out of the Manor, he was worried about what things would be like under the Carrows now that Christmas break was over. He’d heard rumblings while at the Manor - that they intended to roll out their “reforms” now that the Dark Lord’s power over the Ministry and Hogwarts was more consolidated.

Amycus was several minutes late arriving to start class. Teaching was really not the man’s priority and it showed. He strode up the to the lectern and turned to address the room of Slytherins and Gryffindors.

“Please note that there will be changes now that we are all assembled together again after the holidays. Disciplinary measures had been lax at this school for quite some time. Consider that problem to be remedied. More appropriate forms of punishment will commence immediately.”

“Will prefects be expected to assist with this punishment?” asked Pansy from her seat in front of Draco.

If anything, Amycus’s dour face appeared to frown even more.

“Headmaster Snape has decreed that professors and students that volunteer will assist with the disciplinary improvements.”

“And what will those measures be?” asked Longbottom from the back row.

“I’m sure, Mr. Longbottom, that you will find that out in the not too distant future if your behavior during the fall is anything to go by,” said Amycus fixing the back row with a hard look. “That goes for you as well Mr. Finnegan.”

“As for the subject of the Dark Arts, I expect each of you to research a type of magic associated with the Dark Arts and write a comprehensive term paper. You will find that the restricted section in the library is no longer restricted. There is no reason to curtail the use of books pertaining to such a noble and fascinating subject. You must meet with me individually so that I may approve your topic of choice. Once you have gained approval, I will expect no less than five feet of parchment on the subject and the papers shall be due before the Easter holiday. Are there any questions?”

By the posture of the students, nobody looked particularly thrilled at this news.

“Yes, Ms. Patil?”

“You mean the school is giving us unsupervised access to the restricted section? There are really dangerous books in there.”

Amycus shrugged, “There is no danger in acquiring more knowledge.”

Draco looked behind him and saw that other Gryffindors had raised their hands as well. The professor brushed this all aside by announcing, “You will spend the remainder of class time today in the library to help narrow down your research topics. I expect each of you to meet with me with topic ideas within a week. You are dismissed.”

The professor promptly disappeared into his office behind a shut door.

Draco gathered his things, as he did, he heard mutterings behind him, “The Slytherins must love this – all that unrestricted access to horrible curses,” and “What do they need access to the unrestricted section for, they’re all children of Death Eaters, they are already well-versed in all things dark.”

“Say it a little louder,” said the normally unruffled Theo turning to look toward the students in the back of the room, “It must be bloody convenient for you to have a whole house you can blame for all of your troubles. What would you Gryffindors do without us? Persecute the Ravenclaws?”

“Don’t act like you’re not pleased,” said Brown, her hair pulled back from her face with a sparkly headband.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” said Theo. “About any of us. You’re happy with the stories you tell yourselves about the wicked Slytherins. Well do you know what I think about that? I think you can take your Gryffindor nobleness and shove it up your arses.”

Theo grabbed his bag and practically marched out of the room. Draco could almost see steam rolling off the other boy. He grabbed his own bag and hurried to catch up.

“Theo,” he called.

His friend didn’t stop, rather he increased his speed.

“Theo,” he said, almost jogging to catch up to his friend.

The other boy gave him a look that almost shattered him. He grabbed his friend’s arm, “Right, we’re ditching the library. Come with me.”

He practically dragged the boy all the way to the Slytherin common room. It was empty as everyone was in classes.

“What’s wrong?” asked Draco as soon as they’d sat down on sofas opposite of each other in front of the fireplace.

Green ripples of light played across Theo’s face from the underground windows. The boy bent his head, and for a bit all Draco could see was his slightly wavy brown hair, but after taking a shuddering breath he looked up – his warm brown eyes meeting Draco’s.

“Father was home for Christmas,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco. He knew Theo and his father didn’t get on. Draco was not a fan of Mr. Nott himself – he was rigid and cold – seemingly even more so than his own father.

“He wants . . . he wants me to take the Mark.”

Draco felt all the air exit his lungs. He stared wild eyed at his friend for a moment before saying, “What the fuck? Is he absolutely insane?”

“That’s what I said – or close to it. Mother was horrified, but then he . . . he . . .” Theo looked away toward the fire before saying very softly, “He used Crucio on me.”

Fury pulsed through his body. He damn well knew what that curse felt like and the idea that a parent used it on their own child was monstrous – as unforgiveable as the curse itself. For all of his father’s faults, he’d never used that particular curse on him no matter how displeased he was with Draco.

“That bastard,” said Draco, not able to formulate anything more articulate or meaningful at the moment. “That right fucking bastard.”

Theo didn’t say anything, he just kept looking at the flames.

“He can’t make you take the Mark. You have to agree.”

Theo shrugged before softly saying, “I know my family history. I know what is expected of me. I’m a purebood – hell I’m descended from the pureblood that compiled the list of families for the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I’m supposed to believe in everything the Dark Lord is selling – but I . . .”

“But you don’t.”

The other boy shook his head and finally looked back at Draco. “No, I don’t. How can I? The Muggle-borns at Hogwarts – or at least the ones that used to be here before they were essentially expelled - they were just as bright and talented as I am. And I’ve seen what’s happened to you Draco. How the Mark has chewed you up and spit you out. Following the Dark Lord can’t be the right thing to do – not after I’ve seen how you’ve been used and treated. Only a mad man would enlist a child to his cause.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be silent. What could he say to this? Theo was right. He knew it, and Regulus had known it before him.

“He wants me to take the Mark during the Easter holiday,” said Theo. “And if I don’t agree of my own free will, he’ll make certain I agree under duress.”

Draco rose to his feet, “I’m going to go have a conversation with Snape about this. I don’t know if he can do anything, but it is worth a try. I’ll stop by the library and send Blaise down. Alright?”

Theo leaned back into the sofa as if all his energy had drained from his body. “Yeah, fine.”

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

The other boy nodded.

Draco hurried out. When he found Blaise he encouraged the other boy to stop by the kitchens for tea and anything else that might appeal to Theo. The boy had missed breakfast again, late riser that he was. When he entered the headmaster’s office, he heard the sound of voices drifting down the stairwell. When he emerged into the office proper, he found Snape alone. Did the man spend all of his time conversing with the bloody portraits?

“Good morning, sir.”

“What brings you to my office this morning Draco?”

Now that he was here, he didn’t know quite what to say. Snape was a Death Eater. Surely he wanted to increase the ranks of followers loyal to the Dark Lord. But then again, Snape had always watched out for Draco. He’d surely want to protect his students from more than they could bear.

“I believe a direct approach would be best,” said Snape in the face of Draco’s silence.

“Theo’s father wants him to take the Mark over the Easter holiday.”

Snape raised a dark eyebrow. “And what does the younger Mr. Nott want.”

“He doesn’t want to take the Mark yet, sir. He thinks he is too young,” said Draco, improvising a reason that wouldn’t put Theo in a bad light.

“You were younger,” observed the headmaster, “When you were Marked.”

“And look how well that turned out . . . sir.”

Snape regarded him with his dark eyes. He leaned his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. Draco clung to his training and to the rigid posture he’d been raised to exhibit so as not to wilt under the older man’s gaze.

“I see,” said Snape at last. He leaned back against his chair. “There is some . . . merit to what you say. It will not benefit the Dark Lord’s cause to have an army of children. I know that your friend Crabbe is anxious to be initiated to the Dark Lord’s inner circle, but the Dark Lord, after his experiences with . . . Regulus Black and yourself, is not planning on taking on any new Death Eaters until they have at least completed their studies at Hogwarts. I’m sure the Dark Lord is anxious not to repeat any . . . mistakes.”

He resisted the urge to lower his gaze in shame. It hurt to know that his friend would likely be granted a slight reprieve based on Draco’s own failures and inadequacies. But then again, if he bought Theo time, he’d relive those failures in a moment.

“You should start coming to my office on Thursdays an hour sooner so that we may train in dueling. The Carrows are . . . anxious to have you assist with detentions, but I am of the opinion that you need training more . . . nuanced then you would get with them.”

“Of course, sir, if that is what you think is best.”

“It is. Is that all, Draco?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Snape rose in a fluid movement from his chair. “I have business that will take me away for the remainder of the day. While I am out, I will endeavor to speak with the boy’s father and impress upon him the Dark Lord’s determination on the matter of Marking students. You may alleviate the younger Mr. Nott’s concerns on being inducted while still a student and a child.”

The older man came to stand in front of Draco. Draco stared resolutely at the buttons on his robes.

“Look at me Draco.”

He obeyed even though he didn’t want to. He lifted his eyes and met Snape’s.

“It is . . . natural to want to protect those you care about. Just make sure when the time comes that you do enough . . . so that you don’t later have regrets,” said Snape.

And then something shifted in Snape’s face, and just for a moment his features softened. A flash of green eyes tore through his mind – eyes as green as emeralds. It took all of his self-control not to stagger - not to flinch - not to look away from Snape. And then Snape was himself again – his face stern and unreadable – always unreadable. Oh Merlin – of course – Snape was an Occlumen as well. What was he hiding beneath his austere exterior? And those green eyes – Draco hadn’t been thinking about them had he? Had they been his vision or Snape’s?

“You are dismissed, Draco,” said the headmaster.

Draco nodded, still dazed, and showed himself out of the office. Once at the bottom of the stairs, he withdrew into an alcove and stood in the shadows and waited. The pensieve in the office was calling to him. He’d thought he’d have to wait until Thursday night to see the memory his mother had given him, but it seemed he’d have the chance today. Plus, if Snape was going to be giving him private dueling lessons now, he couldn’t be sure he’d have the space to himself any longer. He wrapped his fist around the vial in his pocket. Perhaps he imagined it, but he could almost feel the memory pulsing with anticipation. He should go right to Theo. He should. And he would go, but first he needed answers.

After a few minutes, Snape emerged and walked in the opposite direction down the corridor. Draco remained still until the headmaster was well out of sight before stepping back up the gargoyle and whispering, “Lilium.”

Once he was before the pensieve, he went through the now familiar motions of releasing the memory into the basin and lowering his face beneath the cool surface of the liquid charged with the tendrils of whatever secrets his mother had shared. The strands pulled at him – at his mind – and he was swept away to a place of light and green. It took him only a moment to recognize the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Two figures circled on brooms overhead – one with long blond hair and the other with black hair that gleamed in the sun.

“If you think you are going to replace me next year when I’m gone, you’ll need to do better than that Regulus,” called a female voice. He watched as the blond swept to the ground and landed gracefully. It was his mother, looking so young and as pale and almost as fair as he was. She looked like she had barely exerted herself, but then, everything his mother did was graceful.

The boy with dark hair – Regulus - landed beside her. He looked young, maybe a second year, and he looked flushed.

“We’ve been flying for an hour Cissy,” he said. “And you keep besting me. I get it – you are an amazing Seeker. There? Happy?”

His mother laughed, “You will be amazing too Regulus. You just have to want it.”

“I do want it,” said the boy.

She held out her hand, a golden snitch lay on her palm, its wings unfurled and in a mere moment it was zipping away, and soon it had disappeared in the sky without a wink of gold to show where it was.

“You know how to fly,” said his mother. “I haven’t seen anyone with a better seat. Your problem Regulus, is you are only looking for the snitch. You have to see everything – you have to observe everyone. All the other players will be playing off of each other. Being a seeker is solitary. You are part of the team, but you operate largely alone. You have to be the chess master of the game. You have to know how everyone will move and where they’ll be – you need to know when to end the game. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, “It sounds incredibly hard.”

Narcissa lifted her chin and fixed her cousin with a cool gaze, “It is, but you aren’t trying to be a flashy chaser, or a keeper confined to the hoops, you are aiming to be a seeker. I think you can do it Regulus.”

The met his cousins gaze, “You do?”

“I wouldn’t be spending my time practicing with you if I thought anything less,” she said. She kicked off from the ground in one elegant push, “Now beat me to that snitch!”

Regulus laughed and joined her in the sky, quickly ascending far above the ground. The cousins soared through the air together, matched for speed. They made it look effortless. He couldn’t take his eyes away – they were amazing to watch. He didn’t know if he’d ever flown like that – like he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was always a bit self-conscious when he flew in a match – worried he’d do something to shame himself and look bad. Could he fly like this? Could he let go and just find peace in the sky?

The memory shifted – faded and refocused. He was in a large room filled with mirrors. A large chandelier blazed overhead and the space was filled with people. He realized he was in the ballroom at the Manor. It had been years since he’d seen it resplendent and in use.

“I miss him Cissy.”

He turned to see Regulus standing a bit apart from other people but for his mother.

“No, Regulus. This isn’t the place.”

The boy sighed, “It’s been a half year – since Christmas. I thought he’d come home by now.”

Narcissa turned to look her younger cousin in the eye, in profile, he could see that her pale hair was swept up in an elegant arrangement. Jewels gleamed at her throat – she was the perfect vision of what a Black and Malfoy was meant to look like to the world.

“Did you really think Sirius would come back?”

“No,” said Regulus so softly Draco almost didn’t hear him. “But I had . . . hoped.”

She placed her hand gently on her cousin’s arm, “I know you miss him. But he is never coming back. He’s stubborn – a family trait. You need to let him go.”

“I’m sorry Cissy – it is your day. You look beautiful by the way. I’ve never seen a bride look as lovely as you.”

“It is my day and I thank you for the compliment,” she said, leaning her head closer, “But I know what it is like . . . I miss her – Andromeda – I miss my sister every day, but especially on days like this.”

Regulus’s grey eyes glistened. He nodded. The two cousins, light and dark, looked so similar in their shared emotion.

Lucius swept forward, emerging from the crowd, looking young and richly dressed as befitted a pureblood on a day like this. Seeing his father and Regulus standing so close, Draco knew his mother was right – except for his hair, he looked far more like the Black family.

“My dear,” he said, offering Narcissa his hand, “You really must come and welcome the Minister and his wife with me.”

His mother took Lucius’s hand and smiled up at him, looking painfully radiant. Standing together, they looked like pureblood royalty. When had it all gone to hell? Had his father already taken the Mark by the time of his marriage?

“Of course, husband,” said Narcissa before leaving Regulus standing alone staring after her. He looked lost – it was a look Draco was all too familiar seeing reflected in the mirror.

The ballroom burst with light and then fell away like a shower of fireworks. The streams of light started to swirl and then reassemble into a crackling fire. He turned from the fire and saw the Black tapestry. He recognized his mother’s sitting room in the family wing. The furniture was largely the same. His mother, still looking young, was seated in a sofa. Standing beside the fire, leaning against the mantel and staring down at the flames, was Regulus.

“I have news, cousin.”

The young man turned. His face was very pale, and dark smudges were visible beneath his eyes. He looked thinner than he should – his high cheekbones were a little too prominent.

“Yes?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t play the bored pureblood with me Regulus. I knew you when you were still short trousers.”

The young man merely lifted his chin in reply.

“Regulus,” said Narcissa, her tone pleading.

He immediately dropped his haughty persona. He tried his best to grin at his cousin, but wasn’t quite successful. “What is it Cissy? I’m listening.”

She smiled at him, soft and gentle in a way Draco rarely saw anymore. “I’m going to have a child.”

Regulus’s eyes grew larger and the slight smile that had been playing at his lips dropped.

“A baby?” he said in a hushed tone.

“Yes, a baby,” she said. “Honestly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. This is good news.”

“Is it?”

She leaned back from him, her expression fierce. “I need you – I need you of all people to be happy for me. This is a baby not a death sentence.”

Oh shit. Him. They were talking about Draco.

Regulus ran a hand across his face and sighed. “I’m sorry Cissy. I just . . . I just worry – about you. Now I’ll worry about the baby.”

Her smile returned to her face, “You don’t need to worry about me Regulus.”

Her cousin came to kneel in front of her and grabbed her hand and held it to his heart. “I always worry about you. You . . . Lucius is in so deep. I’m afraid your family will never get free. And now the baby . . .”

Narcissa raised her free hand to Regulus’s check, “Shhh… I’m fine. We’re fine.” She dropped her hand to her stomach. “New life brings hope. And this baby – this baby will be so loved. Lucius is so excited – a Malfoy heir.”

“You tell that husband of yours that just as much Black blood will run in the child’s veins. The Malfoys are all flash Cissy,” he said. “Hey – don’t turn away. You know it to be true – and this child will be as proud of your family’s lineage as they will be of Lucius’s.”

Her eyes flashed with mischief, “I’d like to see you say that to Lucius and Abraxas.”

Regulus lifted his chin again, “Name the place.”

Narcissa smiled and motioned for Regulus to sit beside her on the fire. She swept her robes closer to herself to give him space to sit.

“When will I have the pleasure of meeting this undoubtedly exceptional offspring of yours?” he asked as he dutifully took his seat.

“The end of May or early June. We’re telling the rest of the family in a few weeks – at Christmas. I wanted to tell you sooner because I have something I want to ask you.”

Regulus seemed to stiffen a bit. “And what is that?”

“I want you to be the child’s godfather.”

The young man’s face dropped. “You can’t – You don’t want me Cissy. I’m – I’m not a good role model for anyone.”

Narcissa fixed her younger cousin with a cool glare, “You love fiercely, you are loyal, and you are a Black. I can think of no one better to be this child’s godfather.”

“Oh Cissy,” Regulus breathed. “I’m not . . . I’ve given up on people – walked away. I’m not the person you think I am.”

Now it was her turn to lift her chin, “You’ve never given up on me and I know you will never give up on this child – this Black heir. You are right – they will be as much a Black as they are a Malfoy and they deserve the best our family has to offer.”

He raised his eyebrows, “So you’re asking Bellatrix to be the godmother?”

“A viper would be a better godmother.”

Regulus laughed for a moment and then his face grew serious again. “What do you want me to say Cissy?”

“Say yes. Promise you’ll keep them safe.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, a brief expression of pain flitted across his face. When he opened his eyes again, his face was calm once more. “Yes. I’ll keep them safe. I promise.” he said, and Narcissa’s whole face lit up with joy.

The room faded until the only portion remaining was the glow of the fire until this at last was gone. Out of the darkness, colors started to emerge and align. He was standing on a gleaming marble tiled floor. He spun around and knew he was in the atrium of the Manor, the home’s elegant staircase stretched out behind and gliding down the hall came his mother clad in fine robes.

“What is it Regulus? We have guests. Lucius is entertaining and he will not be pleased if I’m called away for long.”

“I need to speak with you Cissy,” said Regulus, the young man’s face was, if possible, even more gaunt than the last time Draco had seen him.

Narcissa took a long look at her cousin and said, “Not here.” She turned and headed toward the study. Her heels clicked across the tile. As soon as Regulus was inside the room she shut the door and cast a silencing charm. “What is wrong?”

“I had to say goodbye Cissy.”

Narcissa froze. “What do you mean? Are you going somewhere? Is the Dark Lord sending you on a mission?”

“I’ll go on no more missions for that man. He will no longer have my loyalty.”

His mother took a step back, “You can’t say those things. Not to me.”

“You are the only real family I have left Cissy. If I can’t tell you, who is there?” Regulus turned and started for the door, but then spun back around. He ran a hand through his hair. “I stayed in this family not just for me but also because of you. For you. I wanted to be safe - I wanted to belong - I wanted you to be safe. But Lucius is high in the Dark Lord’s favor now and yet he has also kept his name clean with the Ministry. Whatever I do – whatever becomes of me – I think he will keep you safe.”

“Cousin . . .”

“What the Dark Lord preaches isn’t right Cissy. It is not true. What our family has told us for years is a lie. Our blood makes us no better than anyone else. It is our actions that speak for us and will continue speak for us after we are gone – not the blood in our veins.”

“You have to stop,” said his mother crossing her arms over her chest.

“No. I have to stop him. Lord Voldemort’s twisted his soul Cissy. I stumbled upon his secret. I had suspicions, and the Black library is nothing if not well stocked in ancient texts on the Dark Arts. And then when the Dark Lord took Kreacher – I knew. It all came together. He has fractured his soul and is using the shards to make himself immortal.”

“Enough Regulus. I am leaving now,” she started for the door, but Regulus grabbed her wrist and held her fast.

“This is goodbye Cissy. I don’t think I will ever see you again.”

Her eyes grew large – they were different from her cousin’s, a pale blue.

“I wanted . . . I needed to see you one last time. I needed you to know that I’m doing this for you, for your child, for Sirius, and . . . and for him.”

“Him?” she asked, confusion furrowing her brow. “You’re doing this for Lucius?”

Regulus shook his head, “No. I’m doing this for . . . for the man I loved . . . love. I . . . I lost him because of who I’ve become and I need to be the man he thought I could be.”

Narcissa’s hard expression faded, leaving only concern in its wake. “Oh my darling, you must have been so afraid keeping that secret. But you don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. I know your worth.”

The young man choked as if holding back a sob. “No, I have no moral worth. But it’s not too late for me Cissy. I hope yet to be redeemed.”

He dropped her hand and fumbled at his pocket for a moment before drawing out a silver pocket watch on a chain.

“Give this to your child. Give this to the heir of the House of Black.”

Draco’s mother made no move to accept the watch, so Regulus pulled her hand forward and pressed it into her palm.

“Protect the child Cissy. Raise them as we were not. Raise them with love and teach them acceptance of those that are different.”

Draco’s heart tightened. That was absolutely not how he had been raised. Differences had been highlighted and vilified. He’d been taught the superiority of his own family based on the supposed pureblood that ran in his veins.

“Tell him or her that I cared for them. That I left to make the world better for them.”

Now Narcissa caught her cousin’s hand, “You aren’t leaving Regulus. I won’t let you. I’ll stun you if I have to. You promised. You promised you’d be a godfather to this child - to protect them.”

“You’ll let me go,” said Regulus, his eyes glistening with tears that remained unshed. “Because your job is to keep that child safe. You’ll let me go because by leaving I’m doing exactly what I promised to do. You’ll let me go so that they might live - well and truly live.”

Narcissa raised a pale hand up to her cousin’s face for a moment before she nodded her head in silent ascent. Regulus engulfed her in his arms and clung to her as his shoulders shook. He pulled away and pressed a kiss to her forehead before he left the room without a backward glance. His mother looked small and alone in the study watching her cousin disappear for what Draco knew would be the last time. She would never again see his form lounging in her elegant home or see those grey eyes alive with intelligence. Despite all his family’s power and his own gifts, nothing would save Regulus Black from his fate. Perhaps Draco mused, Regulus’s end had been written in the stars. Perhaps his own was as well.

The memory faded to darkness and was gone. He pulled his face from the pensieve. How many more traumas from the past was he expected to endure?

And his mother - his mother had tried to stop Regulus - not just from leaving - but from speaking. She hadn’t wanted to listen to the man when he’d spoken against the Dark Lord. Her first reaction had been to turn away. As much as it saddened him to think about, he wasn’t surprised. It’s what she’d been taught. The family had turned away from Andromeda and Sirius. It’s the black hole of doubt and worry he always carried in his heart - that his family would cast him out if he ever was less than the perfect pureblood son.

But his mother hadn’t turned him away even when he’d revealed one of his biggest secrets to her. She’d sat with him and stroked his cheek and tried to offer him comfort and hope. And then when his aunt had tortured him, she had protected him and smuggled him away. His mother, he realized, was not the same person she had been as a young woman. There was a softness to her beneath her icy façade. Perhaps Regulus both in life and in death had brought that piece of her out.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned.

Several voices from the portraits admonished him for his language, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care what a bunch of shadows of dead headmasters thought of him. He’d like to see how well they handled everything he was dealing with.

He bottled up his mother’s memory, then pulled out his watch - Regulus’s watch - and checked the time. Morning lessons were almost over. He’d head straight to the Slytherin common room and let Theo know he had a temporary reprieve. He patted at his pockets again just to be sure he had both the vial and the golden snitch. He did.

Notes:

I will be away next Tuesday and likely won't have access to the internet. I will try and post chapter 26 early if possible to make up for this.

Chapter 26: Terror at Hogwarts

Notes:

Posting a chapter early as I will not be posting on Tuesday as I will be away and likely without internet (for a fun reason). Enjoy!

He sat at a table in the back of the library near the formerly restricted section. Draco wasn’t keen on completing any schoolwork for Amycus Carrow, but the perfectionist in him wouldn’t let him turn nothing in. After wandering the stacks of the Dark Arts section for inspiration, he’d settled on the topic of blood magic. He kept remembering how the Black Mansion had responded to his touch – had welcomed him into the home – and despite his feelings for Amycus, he did want to know more about the subject. What bound him to the 12 Grimmauld Place? How did blood magic work? Amycus had approved his research topic with a lazy shrug during his meeting with the man earlier in the week. The professor had been more interested in discussing the new methods of discipline that were being introduced. Draco had caught sight of a disturbing glimmer in the man’s eye as he described affixing chains to the back of his classroom that Filch had kept buried away somewhere from times of old. Amycus had, however, been unable to keep the disappointment from his voice when he said that Snape had instructed that Draco was not to administer any of the darker curses for discipline. “Headmaster Snape is saving you for something special,” the professor had told him. Draco shuddered a bit remembering this conversation – worried about what that something special could possibly be.

He leafed through a table of contents in a compendium on blood magic by Balthazar Brown that had been published shortly before Draco’s birth. Since the topic was considered relatively taboo, Draco doubted many copies were in existence. He’d started to pine for the Manor’s secret library filled with the types of books Dumbledore and his lot deemed dangerous, but then he’d remember who resided at his ancestral home and became more satisfied with the materials Hogwarts had to offer. The title of the last chapter caught his eye, “Blood Magic in the Last Century,” and he turned there. He discovered that blood magic was rarely used anymore – no surprise there – as it was perceived to be a Dark Art. Blood magic that had been known to be used in this century was usually in the form of protection spells on property, and there was one rumored, but not verified, instance of a blood pact. At the end of this line about a blood pact there was a footnote stating “Unpublished letter to Newt Scamander from unknown author, January 1, 1933.”

Curious. Scamander was a well-known and well-regarded author – if a letter to him had noted the existence of a blood pact, why hadn’t Brown been able to verify the event referenced in it? The man would only have had to ask Scamander. He turned to the appendix and noted that Scamander’s older papers and letters were stored at the Hogwarts Library. He felt excited in a way he hadn’t for a long time and after braving Madame Pince’s displeasure, acquired the volume of unpublished letters referenced in the compendium. Thankfully, they were listed in chronological order, and he quickly found the letter.

January 1, 1933

My Dear Newt –

With the dawning of the New Year, I find my thoughts turning to the past even as I contemplate the future. You have been a true friend, and I will forever be in your debt for the faith you have placed in me and for the discretion you have shown. Years ago – a lifetime it now seems – when I was seventeen, I made a blood pact with the man I admired above all others. Did I make this most sacred vow out of love, naivety, or arrogance? Time may one day reveal the answer – but I suspect it is likely it is a blend of all three.

Your assistance in helping me recover the vial where my blood and his merged, will, I believe, be instrumental in bringing safety to our World. There are, I must confess, still times when my heart grieves that our blood is no longer mingled together for eternity. The failure of that most sacred promise will haunt me for the rest of my days. I hope one day to find peace – both in our World and in my soul. Until that time, thank you for continued friendship. I am truly honoured.

-A

Who in the world was “A”? Scamander surely knew of the existence of the blood pact – he may have even held the vial in his hand and would surely have been able to feel the strength of the magic. Yet he hadn’t confirmed this to Balthazar Brown – hadn’t revealed the people involved. Blood pacts were frowned upon – he knew from other readings that they had been a popular part of marriage vows once upon a time, but they had fallen out of favor as any magic that used blood was seen as taboo. Taking and using someone’s blood against their will was considered a most egregious crime and arranged marriages were often based on power, and were rarely consensual in all the ways a marriage was supposed to be – at least by modern standards. But this letter implied that the blood pact “A” had entered into had been of their own free will – even if the reasons and future ramifications had not been fully thought out. Draco could understand this. At sixteen he’d given his oath to the Dark Lord not fully understanding everything that bond would entail.

He stared again at the letter – the penmanship looked familiar. He tapped his fingers on the table and then with a hasty look around to make sure Madame Pince wasn’t nearby, he pulled out his wand and cast a revealing charm. The script on the page did not so much as shimmer. Someone had gone to some effort to conceal their identity.

Too bad. It would be interesting to discover the author’s identity, but it was not necessary for his research. He scribbled some notes on his parchment, cast a charm to duplicate the letter onto it, and then turned back to the compendium.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Draco looked up to see Vince standing by his table with Greg a few steps behind.

“I wasn’t aware you knew the school had a library,” said Draco as the other two Slytherins pulled out empty chairs and took a seat.

Greg lifted his chin at him with a slight smile, “Good one.”

Vince gave a cursory glance at Draco’s pile of books and rolls parchment. “Studying for NEWTs already?”

“I’m working on my research project for Dark Arts,” said Draco.

“Go on, what’d you pick?” asked Greg. “I picked everyday hexes. They aren’t dark like curses, but they can be dead useful.”

“Right. I’m researching blood magic.”

“Theoretical rubbish then. Figures,” said Vince. “You should have sorted Ravenclaw.”

“And what are you working on that is so wonderful?” asked Draco, a bite in his tone.

Vince shrugged. “My old man suggested I study curses that aren’t so common and aren’t unforgivables – he gave me the name of one – fiendfyre. Think I’ll look into that. Anyway, enough of this talk on bloody homework. The Carrows are giving detentions tonight. Alecto caught a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor – both fourth years - out of bed after hours. She thinks they might be behind the fucking graffiti on the walls.”

“Did Alecto catch them writing on the walls?” asked Draco.

“Nah. But they were out after curfew and there was new graffiti on the walls. It’s enough for the Carrows,” said Greg.

“But what if it wasn’t them? Did they check the graffiti for magical signatures?”

“What are you, a fucking bleeding heart Hufflepuff? What difference does it make?” asked Greg, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “They broke a rule and they belong to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. They’re half-bloods, too. Who bloody cares if they wrote on the walls.”

Something twisted in his gut. He’d always hated it when Potter had been shown favoritism by Dumbledore, and this smacked of the same thing only in reverse – students being singled out for punishment instead of praise just because of who they happened to be. Sure, Potter had done some pretty incredible things, but Dumbledore had always believed in the Boy-Who-Lived - always supported him. No Slytherin student had ever felt as valued by Dumbledore as even the most unremarkable Gryffindor student.

“So, you in?” asked Greg.

Draco lifted his quill and pressed the tip to his parchment, trying to single an end to the conversation. “You know that I answer to Snape. He is training me for a mission. He doesn’t wish to have me engage in . . . trifles.”

Vince snorted. “More like he can’t trust you not to fuck it up. You and your father – you’re not riding high anymore. Fallen from favor you have.” Vince pushed his chair away from the table and rose. “Must be hard for you, to be down in the muck after you lorded yourself about for years.”

Draco felt his jaw clench and he reached instinctively for his wand.

Greg rose as well and put a hand on Vince’s shoulder and gave a tug toward the door. “Lay off. He’s our friend.”

“Some friend he’s been. Wouldn’t let us help him last year – wanted all the glory for himself and he came out with nothing.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. He knew Vince didn’t know what he was talking about – not really. Vince didn’t have to share a home with the fucking Dark Lord, his parents weren’t prisoners in their own house, and he’d never felt the torture curse surge through his whole body. All Vince saw was the power – power he likely wouldn’t get through other means as the boy wasn’t a gifted student or athlete, nor did his family have connections at the ministry and their bank vault had dwindled in recent generations. Still, he wasn’t going to take much more of this. Despite his fall from grace, he was still a Malfoy and the fucking heir of the house of Black.

“Best run along to the Carrows like a pair of well-trained crups,” he unrolled his parchment. “I have better things to do then waste time with children playing at being adults.”

Vince took a step toward him, but Greg took hold of the other Slytherin’s sleeve. “You are both being prats, and I’m bloody well tired of being in the middle. One of these days I’ll let you have at each other.” He towed a glaring Vince out of the library.

Draco took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on his research, but he couldn’t. He pulled out his watch and saw that it was dinner. He didn’t feel much like eating and it was a Thursday. He had a dueling lesson with Snape. It would be his second session and with the headmaster, and if his first lesson was anything to go by he wouldn’t want a full stomach as he got knocked about the floor of the headmaster’s office. For a supposed Death Eater he felt monstrously underprepared. His father had taught him some spells for dueling, but that had been before his fifth year - before everything had all gone to hell. And the only things Bellatrix had wanted to teach him had been unforgivables. The Crucio curse had always backfired on him spectacularly – torturing Rowle had made him physically ill, and his body would forever bear the brunt of his punishment when he had aimed the curse at Potter. The Imperious curse made his stomach bubble to even think about how he’d used it last year, and the killing curse didn’t even warrant thought.

Shouldn’t training be a requirement? Before a child was recruited to be a fucking soldier, shouldn’t they be taught some basics? He’d not really had much in terms of self-defense lessons since Lupin had been a professor, apart the few shield charms his mother had shown him after he’d been Marked. Merlin, he had to advance past Serpensortia and Expelliarmus.

He pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and started writing down the names of all the offensive spells he knew followed by all the defensive. The act of listing everything out increased his confidence a bit. There were more spells listed than he’d thought there would be. He checked his watch again. He should get a move on. He sorted his books, putting several on hold much to the consternation of the sour-looking librarian, before shoving his parchment and quill in his bag. He made his way up the stairs to the third floor. He passed two students, a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor, in the corridor heading in the opposite direction. They fixed him with hard stares as he passed. They were likely the students heading off to detention with the Carrows. Vince and Greg were probably already waiting for their arrival in the Dark Arts classroom, giddy with excitement. Shit, he hoped the Slytherins were as crap with curses and hexes as they were with most all of their school work.

He did his best to force the unlucky younger students from his mind as he climbed the stairs to the headmaster’s office. He was a few minutes early and when he arrived Snape was still setting up wards to protect the space as well as placing cushioning charms on the floor. Draco set his bag down by the door.

“I know from last week,” said Snape jumping right in without bothering with a greeting, “That your father had given you some instruction before his unfortunate stint in Azkaban. You are from a long line of expert duelers, Draco. I believe you are merely lacking in confidence.”

Snape positioned himself at one side of the space and assumed what Draco knew to be the proper dueling stance. Draco followed suit, and stood across the room facing his headmaster, his right foot forward and both legs slightly bent at the knee. He held his wand arm out front, his wand at the ready.

“Remember, you are a Slytherin. You don’t charge in to fights blindly. You observe, you learn. You study your opponent for weaknesses and then you act. Offensive spells alone aren’t enough, you need to know when to use shielding charms – self-preservation is paramount.”

Draco wanted to make a smart comment, but he kept his lips sealed. He didn’t think he’d be likely to find a weakness in Snape – the man was clever and cunning – the walking embodiment of a Slytherin. But his father had told him that everyone had a weakness, one just needed to know where to apply the pressure.

“Dueling in battle is nothing like the elegant dance you see when it is engaged in as a sport. It is dirty, it is desperate. You must keep your wits about you if you want to survive.”

He swallowed. He’d been surviving for almost two years and it was fucking exhausting. His odds in battle weren’t something he wanted to think about.

Snape raised his wand. “Tonight we will work on your defense. Last week you displayed a rather impressive array of offensive spells. I’d wanted to see your repertoire and it was better than I’d hoped for. Now we build up your confidence, which, I must say, is not something I’d ever imagined saying to a Malfoy.”

Draco lifted his chin slightly. That had smarted. And then he realized that was the point. Snape was trying to needle him. Pride had always been a weakness of Draco’s and the headmaster knew it. He focused his mind and mentally braced himself.

“Everte Statum!” Snape cried.

Draco danced to the side and parried the incantation with a shielding charm, avoiding being hurled back several feet. Snape shifted, causing Draco to move as well in order to remain facing the older man. A stinging hex thundered toward him.

“Salvio Hexia,” Draco said, deflecting the hex. He continued to circle the room, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

“Flipendo,” Snape cast. Draco avoided this jinx easily, keeping his feet firmly on the ground. It was one of the first spells his father had taught him.

And so it continued, Snape hurling hexes and jinxes at him, while Draco dodged and shielded. His arm started to stiffen from his rigid grip on the hawthorn wand, and he could feel himself start to sweat. His shirt clung a bit uncomfortably to his back and shoulders. He countered a jinx that would have slowed him down, but he was surprised when Snape followed this by rapidly firing off another stinging hex. He managed to deflect much of it with a shield charm, but some of the spell still struck him on the shins. He felt himself grimace in pain.

“Really, Draco,” said Snape, his voice resonating in the space, “Do you think Potter would have let such a simple spell affect him?”

Fucking Potter. Why’d Snape have to go and drag him into this. As if this situation wasn’t stressful enough.

But of course – that was the point. Potter had always been a weakness of Draco’s. Snape would have to have been blind for the last seven years not to know, and in fact, the headmaster had sometimes fed that rivalry for his own purposes. It didn’t take a bloody Ravenclaw to recognize that Snape had detested the scarred Gryffindor.

And then he understood – Snape’s weakness – or at least a weakness. He and Draco shared an Achilles’ heel, and Draco had spent years watching Potter – watching him with loathing, envy, regret, and want. He also had the advantage of Regulus’s memories and he knew Snape had a history with James Potter. He repressed a grin. Snape would never best him on this front.

“And what would you know of Potter’s dueling skill?” called Draco. “He never needed you for a teacher in that regard. Got that help from others didn’t he? Lupin and Sirius – friends of his father.”

Another jinx hurtled at him, Draco blocked it, and stepped toward Snape, causing the other man to shift at last. He felt himself smirk. It felt good to be taking control.

“Potter was always Dumbledore’s favorite,” Draco continued. “Could get away with anything, just like his father.”

Another jinx came at him, which he again deflected.

“The Potters always thought they were above everyone else – from what I hear Potter is just like his father. You went to school with James Potter. Old chums were you?”

This time it was a hex that Draco parried. He was starting to get under Snape’s skin.

“And for all of that,” continued Draco, “Potter’s father couldn’t even protect him or his mother. Died wandless from what my father told me.”

“Petrificus Totalus!” roared Snape, his eyes bright.

Draco dodged the curse and then surged forward, shouting, “Levicorpus!”

Snape’s face froze for a moment before he summoned a shielding charm and narrowly avoided being hoisted in the air by an ankle.

“Enough,” Snape bellowed.

Draco froze. He’d gone too far. Something he’d said or done had hit to close to the bone.

“Sir,” said Draco, lowering his wand, “I . . . I’m sorry if I . . . ”

Snape waved a hand at him, silencing him. The headmaster was breathing hard – harder than he should have been from the exertion of the duel. Draco felt his palms prickle with nerves. This wouldn’t be good.

Snape turned his back on him and faced the empty portrait of Dumbledore, “You did well Draco,” he said after an uncomfortable silence. “You defended yourself and saw the moment to go on the offensive. Perhaps you will no longer need my instruction.”

“I’m not ready, sir. I . . . I got lucky this time, that is all.”

Snape turned to face him at last. “No, I don’t think that is it at all. I think you are skilled at reading people and you used that skill to your advantage – just as you must in battle.”

Draco nodded.

“At the very least, that is enough for this evening. You will go Draco. Your astronomy work will need to wait for another night.”

“Yes, sir.” Draco turned and walked toward the exit, feeling awkward as he stooped to collect his bag. He imagined Snape’s dark eyes on his back until he at last descended the stairs enough to be out of view.

Once he was past the gargoyle, he leaned heavily against the wall. Merlin, that had been even more wretched than he had thought possible. He’d ostensibly done what he’d been told to do – had done it well even – but like everything else in Draco’s life it had turned to shit.

He pulled out his pocket watch. There was still a half hour before Astronomy Lab started for his housemates. He could duck into the library until after it started and hopefully avoid any questions from his fellow Slytherins.

He walked down the corridor, sticking to the shadows. He was approaching the Dark Arts classroom when he heard a scream, followed by a sob. He stopped in his tracks, feeling deathly cold. The sounds were beyond familiar – someone was being tortured. Then he heard laughter before another cry wrenched the air. The students he’d passed earlier were being punished, and excessively from the sound of it. His eyes darted around the hall – no one else was present.

What the ever loving fuck could he do? If he went in the classroom, he couldn’t stop what was going on and would probably be forced to participate. And who could he tell? Snape surely knew about the punishments the Carrows had planned and likely condoned them. McGonagall would raise a cry and fuss, but if she hoped to keep her place at the school and continue to try and shield her little Gryffindors what could she really do?

He should walk away – show some self-preservation like a proper Slytherin.

“Not like that Greg,” he heard a voice say – Vince’s voice, “You have to mean it. You aren’t doing much besides tickle them. Do it like this. Crucio!”

A wail blasted through the closed door.

Vince fucking meant it alright.

He couldn’t let this go on. He couldn’t. He knew what that curse did to a person – knew how it felt to singe through one’s every nerve. And while a part of him still was urging him to clear out, he couldn’t. What were those students? Fourth years was what Vince had said. That made them what – all of fourteen? This was fucking criminal torturing fourteen year-olds.

He glanced around. The classroom next door was empty – the door open. He walked in and levitated a wooden desk out and deposited it as gently as he could against the Dark Arts classroom door. Then he piled books and parchment on top. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself and then pointed his wand at the desk littered with material and cast, “Incendio.”

Flames sprang to life amidst the parchment. In a moment it had spread to cover the top of the desk and the wooden surface started to smolder and catch with the enchanted fire. In the distance he heard Peeves cackle and declare, “Fire in the castle. Watch it burn, burn – watch the nasty Carrows burn.”

He was thankful he’d had the foresight to cast the hiding charm. He moved quickly away from the classroom. As he reached the stairs he heard shouting and the sound of scraping.

“Fire,” he heard Vince shout.

“Put it out your fool,” he heard Alecto order.

He lowered his head and hurried down the steps, not stopping until he was on the floor below. He didn’t dare continuing on the stairs, afraid he’d be heard, so he ducked into a room he knew would be empty – Moaning Myrtle’s girls’ lavatory. As soon as he crossed the threshold the room seemed to press in on him. He kept his back to the sinks. He didn’t want to look at the mirror where he’d glimpsed Potter’s eyes filled with loathing reflected back at him.

He also didn’t want to see where he’d almost bled to death on the floor – he didn’t – but still he was drawn to spot, crossing the space to stand where he’d been struck down. Nothing remained to tell the tale – at least nothing remained on the washroom floor. He raised a hand to his chest. He couldn’t feel the scars through his clothes, but he knew they were there. Like the Mark on his arm, he would carry Sectumsempra on his body and in his soul for his entire life. Potter hadn’t been wrong about him – not really. But Draco had hoped that the other boy would see the fear Draco always carried with him – fear of failure, fear of being disowned, and fear of who he was. But Potter hadn’t seen.

He knelt on the cool tile. Potter hadn’t seen him except to curse him. But Draco knew he had never given the Boy-Who-Lived a chance to see any side of himself that wasn’t worthy of the Gryffindor’s loathing. He’d hoped that the Chosen One would really see him and understand, but Potter that night, as it turned out, had just been a boy. Just a boy – not the Chosen One. Draco understood now the weight Potter had carried since he came to Hogwarts. Draco had always had the weight of his father’s expectations on him, but it paled in comparison to the unbearable pressure he’d been under since the end of fifth year. He knew now how hard it was to make decisions when it felt like everything one did had the potential to hurt somebody.

He sank further to ground, sitting fully on the floor. This last decision – did it even matter? Were the fourth years still being punished? Had his little stunt with the fire done anything but delay and thus prolong their suffering? Merlin, what else could he have done? He thought of his mother – he thought of her eyes still and lifeless. If he were found out, would that nightmare vision become a reality?

He ran a hand through his hair. What the fuck would Regulus Black have done?

Chapter 27: Through Kreacher’s Eyes

Draco had lost track of time sitting on the spot where he’d been cursed. When he’d pulled himself up and descended to the Slytherin dormitory his fellow seventh years were returning from Astronomy lab. As he’d changed for bed he overheard Vince telling a very uninterested looking Theo that some renegade student – likely a fucking Gryffindor – had set a fire outside of the Dark Arts classroom and interrupted the detention he’d been helping with.

“Helping’s the word you are using to describe torturing other students?” Blaise asked.

“We’re Slytherins,” said Vince, “We are naturally on the side of the Dark Lord.”

“I missed that memo,” said Blaise reaching in his wardrobe for his pajamas. “I thought we were supposed to be clever and ambitious. You said the student were chained. I don’t see what is so lofty about using curses on the defenseless.”

“That type of talk could get you hurt with the Dark Lord,” said Vince.

Theo turned to Vince and asked, “You said you used the Crucio curse. You ever felt it?”

“Nah.”

“I have. It’s terrible. The pain makes you go out of your mind.” Theo produced his wand and pointed it at the bigger Slytherin. “Maybe I should practice it on you.”

Vince scowled. “You two are as bad as Draco.”

Draco paused from unpacking his school bag. Did Vince suspect he’d been involved in setting the fire?

“Bunch of pushovers. Too scared to take what is rightfully ours,” Vince continued.

And no, Vince did not suspect him, he was just annoyed that Draco wasn’t stepping up to his full potential as a Malfoy and a Slytherin. It all sounded very much like what his father had told him repeatedly before his stint in Azkaban.

“Maybe we sound like Draco cause the prat went and developed a beating heart sometime in the last year,” said Blaise.

“Hey,” said Draco, not quite sure if he should feel complimented or offended.

Blaise gave him a cool stare, “You know I enjoy you Draco, but you can be an arsehole. Not that I didn’t get my laughs seeing you spar with the likes of Potter, but you aren’t the swaggering little pureblood bigot you used to be.”

“It’s got to be hard to hold on to those beliefs when the Dark Lord has taken over your family home and that great snake of his is stinking it up,” said Theo. “When he wasn’t cursing me by word and by deed my old man told me what it’s like at the Manor these days. Of course, he’s fucked up enough to think it’s a wonderful vision of what our world will become. I think it sounded like hell.”

Draco had never realized before how brave Theo and Blaise were. They didn’t act brave with their fists like Vince and Greg, but now that he’d seen more of the horror of true violence, he knew that Theo and Blaise’s brand of bravery was of the finer, truer kind. Here they were, standing up to their friends and fellow Slytherins in a way that could spell disaster for them in the future if the Dark Lord was victorious. He’d always thought of Theo as a bit of a wallflower, and of Blaise as a showman, but he understood that those were only facets of their whole selves - facets that allowed them to survive. Theo blended into the background to endure a childhood at the hands of an abusive father, and despite this, he still wouldn’t bow to a hateful ideology. And Blaise played the part of a pampered playboy, but he too wouldn’t subscribe to the message the Dark Lord was selling even if it likely would have served him better to do so.

“I’ll tell my father about this,” said Vince, causing everyone in the room to do a double take. That had, of course, been Draco’s line right up until the end of fifth year. How the tables had turned if Mr. Crabbe was in higher standing in the world than Lucius Malfoy. Draco, clearly, wouldn’t be telling his father any of this, nor could he let Vince make this type of threat unchecked.

“You could,” said Draco, “But remember Vince, the school years not over yet. You’ll be sleeping in a room full of snakes through June. Might be better for you to keep on the good side of those physically closer to you for a while yet.”

He watched as his former compatriot narrowed his eyes, then Vince’s face hardened. Even he saw where the line in the sand was being drawn, and he knew that Draco was not in lockstep with him or his views.

“It’s late,” said Greg. “I need to sleep.” He rummaged around under his pillow before pulling out a set of striped pajamas. “I’m just doing what my old man wants me to. I don’t ask a lot of questions - he’s my father.”

The large boy lumbered through the dorm to the lavatory. As he passed Draco, he heard the other boy mutter, “Not like I’m all that good at it.”

And Draco knew just how he felt. Lucius Malfoy had once been the center of his universe. He’d done everything he could to please him and he’d never been good enough. And then when he’d stepped into the role of Death Eater himself, he’d not been good at that. Now he straddled the line – he wasn’t a rabid Death Eater, nor would he be embraced by the Order of the Phoenix, and every step he made was uncertain and likely not right. He lived a shadowed existence and he knew that one day he’d have to pay for all of his missteps, no matter which side prevailed.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, he too readied for bed, and none of boys said much more before the lights in the room were put out.

 

Draco’s mind became no less clear as Friday dawned and crept along into evening. He wanted nothing more than to climb into his bed, draw the curtains, and block out the world, but he still had to make his prefect rounds, so he begrudgingly went to the Great Hall to meet Prewett. The other boy looked as pleased to be there as he did.

“Malfoy,” said the Gryffindor.

Draco nodded at him in return and they started off through the never-ending corridors of the school. They poked their heads in classrooms to make sure they were empty. When they reached the third floor, where the bulk of the classrooms in use were located, Prewett made it clear there was something on his mind.

“Crabbe and Goyle are assisting the Carrows now. Volunteering,” said Prewett. “What the fuck Malfoy – that’s sick.”

“That’s nothing to do with me,” said Draco.

“Come off it – everyone knows they are your minions – they wouldn’t lift a finger without your say so.”

Draco turned to the boy. He was taller and he used it to his advantage to crowd Prewett up against the door of a broom closet.

“Don’t speak of things you don’t know,” he warned. “You don’t -”

He stopped and cocked his head, he thought he heard something.

“Did you -” started Prewett.

“Shhh!”

Draco pulled away from the Gryffindor so that he was no longer confining him. They stood side by side with their ears close to the door, and yes, he heard the sounds of quiet laughter, a pause, and then a muffled sound of pleasure.

He exchanged a look with Prewett. The other boy pointed at himself, and Draco nodded.

Prewett reached forward and threw open the door, saying “Breaking curfew are we?”

“Lumos,” Draco said, and his wand lit up the space. Two shocked faces turned to meet him – he was eerily reminded of Regulus’s memory of stumbling upon Sirius and Lupin. But tonight, staring back at him were Rory and another boy he couldn’t quite place. Then he saw the flash of yellow and black on the tie the other boy sported. After a moment of shock, his first thought was, “Well good for Rory. He’s gone and found a Hufflepuff. Best thing he could of done.”

He heard Prewettt gasp beside him.

Draco turned to the other prefect, and said sharply, “Not a word.”

“Draco, I can explain,” said Rory, trying to shield the other boy from the light.

He lowered his wand, dimming the space. “Not a word,” Draco repeated. He turned to Prewett, “Escort - er – the Hufflepuff to his common room. You are not to say a thing about this to anyone. Understand?”

Prewett nodded.

The Hufflepuff gave Rory one last look and, Draco was pleased to see that the other boy squeezed Rory’s hand before silently following Prewett down the corridor.

“Draco I - ”

“Not here,” he interrupted. “It’s not safe here.”

He looked around. He didn’t see anyone out and about, but nowhere seemed safe in the castle these days. He only hoped he and Prewett could get the boys delivered back to their common rooms without the Carrows finding out. What the hell were they doing on the damned third floor? There were so many spaces in the lowest levels of the castle that would have been a better place for a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff to meet up. Fuck, for a Slytherin, Rory showed a surprising lack of self-preservation.

He picked up his pace, heading in the direction of the dungeons. He urged Rory on. After a few more minutes of determined walking, the wall of the Slytherin common room loomed before them. Draco gave the password and practically pulled the younger boy inside. He glanced around the room, it was still pretty full with upper years as it was a Friday night. He marched to an alcove. The space was surrounded by the dark waters of the lake. He cast a silencing charm.

“Merlin, Rory, what if had been anyone else that had found you?”

“I know, I know,” said the other boy. “It was foolish, I’m sorry.”

Draco ran a hand over his face. He really hoped Prewett wouldn’t say anything. He doubted he would – being a bloody noble Gryffindor and all.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Rory asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco looked at him, all disheveled from his time in the broom closet – his face drawn and scared.

“Of course I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “What do you take me for?”

“Sorry,” the boy apologized.

“Doesn’t anyone else . . . um . . . know?” Draco asked. “Well, besides me and the Hufflepuff . . . and now Prewett.”

Rory nodded, “My older sister. And a my closest friends at Beauxbaton. My father doesn’t know yet – I . . . well I haven’t told him that I’m . . . that I’m gay.”

“Would he be upset that you are snogging boys in general, or only upset that they are English boys?” Draco asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

Rory did laugh, but grew serious again.

“He doesn’t know I fancy boys. I’m not sure if he’d be okay with it or not. He’s not a very . . . well we don’t talk about feelings or things like that.”

Draco sighed. He understood. Merlin, he really understood. He looked at Rory, the boy still looked nervous. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“My father doesn’t know either,” Draco admitted. “My mother – she knows. We danced around the subject at Christmas. I don’t know how my father will take it either. In his mind I’m supposed to marry a pureblood girl someday and produce heirs.”

Rory gave him a nod of understanding.

“Rory, if you’re going to meet that boy again – or well – any boy really – don’t break curfew. This school isn’t safe right now. For anyone. The Carrows are looking for any reason to punish people. They’ve been avoiding punishing Slytherins, but I don’t know how they feel about . . . about . . .”

“Homosexuality?”

“Yeah. So don’t chance it, alright? Use a locking spell – at least buy yourselves some time before doors are flung open on you. Try for empty classrooms, bring some books, then you can at least look like you are studying.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

Now Draco laughed, somewhat bitterly. “Actually I haven’t given it that much thought. Having anyone be a part of my life like that isn’t a luxury I can afford . . . nor is it something I deserve. But we are Slytherins Rory. We must be pragmatic and exercise some survival instincts. Understand?”

“Yes,” said the boy, blushing. He looked back up at Draco, and for a moment, Draco remembered the pull of those blue eyes and what it had been like when Rory’s lips had been on him and not some nameless Hufflepuff.

“Thanks, Draco. Really,” said Rory, before turning and walking toward the stairs to the dorm rooms.

Draco watched the lovely boy he’d let go of until he’d disappeared out of sight. Salazar, it was so hard to live in a world where those closest to your heart didn’t really know you. He couldn’t think of anyone that knew all of his secrets and Merlin, it was lonely. Is this how Regulus had felt? Had anyone ever known all of him? Had James Potter known what Regulus did at the end – the ultimate sacrifice he had made?

And he had to know. He had to know about Regulus – had to know if James fucking Potter had known all of the young man who’d sold his soul to try and please his family only to later seek redemption for that act. He strode out of the common room toward the one spot in the castle he could think of where he could be alone – the damned second floor girls’ lavatory. He didn’t even bother with a disillusionment charm, he was the Head Boy – he had a reason to be out after hours.

The light in the room was muted, as if the room knew the events that had happened here and refused to flood the space with the garishly bright light that filled the other communal lavatories in the castle. He checked the stalls and called for Moaning Myrtle to make sure he was a alone. Neither a mortal nor the ghost of the teenage girl answered him. He figured she must be peeping in the prefects’ bath – he knew she was rather too fond of that from unfortunate personal experience.

Merlin, he hated this room, and he’d been in it twice in the span of roughly twenty-four hours. He willed himself to be calm, and walked to stand in the free space in front of the sinks and called, “Kreacher.”

He held his breath, but then a crack sounded and the elderly elf stood before him wearing a clean tea towel embroidered with the Hogwarts crest and a silver locket, polished and gleaming, hanging from a chain around his neck. He almost smiled, the blood magic that had recognized Draco at the Black Mansion bound Kreacher to him as well.

“Master Draco,” said the elf with a bow.

Draco knelt down on one knee so that he could look the smaller being in the eye, “Kreacher – Regulus – he wrote letters the day before he died. One to Dumbledore and one to James Potter. What was in his letter to Dumbledore.”

The house elf shook his head, “I don’t know Master Draco. He said that he’d found something – something that would destroy the Dark Lord. Said the Dark Lord had hurt me – would hurt his friends – would hurt everyone. He wrote Dumbledore about what he had discovered. Master Harry knows too, and he is trying to finish what Master Regulus started.”

“And James Potter - did James get his letter?”

“I posted both letters by owl myself. Yes, Mister James, he got the letter.”

“How do you know?” asked Draco.

The house elf closed his eyes for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “I never told you how Master Regulus died. I told Master Harry, but I left something out. But I did be telling Master Harry what Regulus did.”

“I don’t know where Potter is, and even if I did, he and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now,” said Draco, “It’s not like I can ask him.”

“Most unfortunate. Both of you are such good boys,” said Kreacher. “Master Regulus, he discovered what the Dark Lord was doing – forcing pieces of his soul into objects. The Dark Lord – he hid one object in a cavern by the sea – had me go with him – had me drink a horrible potion in a basin and hid a locket in it. The young master ordered me to take him back there, and he – he - ”

The house elf burst into tears and bowed his head.

“Will you tell me? Please?” asked Draco lowering his head closer to Kreacher’s.

The elf started to sob louder, “Master Draco is being so kind – so kind!”

Draco didn’t feel kind at all. He was asking the elf to talk about a memory that clearly distressed him.

“I can’t – I can’t tell you,” the elf said as he wiped his eyes with a corner of his tea towel. “But I can show you.”

He reached out a hand wrinkled with age and work. He peered up at Draco with large eyes. Draco held out his own hand and wrapped it around Kreacher’s.

A flash of light seared his eyes. He gasped as he was suddenly jerked out of his body – out of Hogwarts – and was sitting in a boat in near darkness. The vessel was surrounded by black and still water. But this memory wasn’t like the others he’d seen - he didn’t exist separate from it - it wasn’t him sitting in the boat. He tried to turn to look around, and he couldn’t. He tried to shift and stand and couldn’t do that either. Oh Merlin - he was seeing what Kreacher had seen - he was seeing the memory as the elf had, from the elf’s vantage point. He could feel his body - but it felt detached and a miles away. He had no idea this was even possible. Wizards were really shamefully ignorant of the power wielded by house elves.

Ahead of him in the boat was Regulus, looking pale and worn. A greenish glow lay ahead. Kreacher must have looked up, and Draco realized that there were no stars above him, no moon either. The air was still and Draco remembered that Kreacher had mentioned a cavern – that surely was where he was in – in a vast cavern. After several moments, the bottom of the boat ground against land. Regulus climbed out of the boat, his wand raised, before he turned back and offered Kreacher his hand and helped him out onto shore.

Kreacher must have turned in a circle, because Draco could see that they were on a small island and the greenish light was coming from a stone basin set on a pedestal. Regulus walked closer to the basin and Kreacher must have as well, as Draco could see that the basin was full of green liquid that glowed strangely in the darkness.

“What is it?” asked Regulus.

“Poison,” said Kreacher, his voice shaky. “Horrible poison. The Dark Lord made me drink it - it made me think horrible things - nasty things.”

“And the necklace you saw the Dark Lord leave behind?”

“It is in the basin, master, under the poison.”

Regulus reached a hand forward to reach into the basin, but he couldn’t seem to lift anything out of its depths.

“It has to be drunk then? I can’t scoop it out.”

“It must be drunk, master.”

Regulus raised his wand and conjured a dipper out of the air. He grabbed ahold of it and lowered it toward the potion.

“No, Master Regulus,” said Kreacher, “It will hurt you. Let me drink it for you.”

The wizard shook his head. “No, Kreacher. You’ve already suffered that evil based on my carelessness in letting you go with the Dark Lord. You’ll not be tortured for my mistakes a second time.”

He dipped into the potion, held the glowing liquid to his lips for a moment, and drank. The man’s eyes closed and his mouth twisted. He sputtered before filling the dipper and drinking again.

Regulus choked and then clutched a hand to his chest. “It is terrible . . . vile and foul.”

A shudder ran through the man’s body, but he refilled the dipper and drank again. And Draco watched as Regulus kept drinking, the wizard’s breathing became more and more labored. He drained the dipper again, and then bent sharply at his waist. His dark hair fell into face, and he started to sob.

“Please Master Regulus, stop now,” he heard Kreacher say. “It is poison!”

The young man shook his head, “I can’t . . . I must . . . keep going. I don’t want to . . . I don’t want to . . . but I . . . I must.”

Regulus raised a dipper of liquid to his mouth again and drank some more. It was agony for Draco to watch the young man shrink in on himself and grow even more haggard as he consumed the loathsome potion of the Dark Lord. As he finished off yet another dipper, Regulus started to moan, “Stop hurting him! Stop mother. Stop Bella. You’ll kill him.” His eyes were unfocused. He was somewhere else - seeing something else.

The young man steadied himself, scooped some more of the substance, drank again, and with a whimper said, “It wasn’t him. It was me. Don’t hurt him.”

He tore at his hair but then recovered enough to scoop more liquid from the basin. His hands trembled, but he brought the vessel to his lips and drank, tears running down his face as he did so. “James,” he moaned. “I’m so sorry James.” He flung the dipper from his hands and sank to his hands and knees. “I can’t . . . I can’t,” he cried. “I’ve failed. I’m so sorry.”

His shoulders shook and then he repeated more forcefully, “James,” before dragging himself on his hands and knees to the basin, grabbing the dipper on his way. He clutched at the pedestal and then the sides of the basin and hoisted himself back up and filled it with the last of the potion and drank deeply. When the last drop was gone, a locket appeared gleaming in the basin. Regulus dropped to the ground, his wand clattered away from him.

“Thirsty,” Regulus groaned. “So thirsty. Need water.”

Then his eyes met Draco’s - or rather Kreacher’s and Regulus spoke, his voice halting and weak, “Kreacher, take the locket and . . . and replace it with . . . with the one I gave you.” Regulus reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment. “Here. Put this . . . inside.”

Kreacher took hold of the scrap of parchment, and then the basin drew closer and Draco saw the elf’s hand pick up a necklace before another necklace with a locket was put in its place. The basin began to refill with whatever rancid potion it had contained.

“Take us . . . home, Kreacher.”

“Yes, master,” the elf said taking hold of his master’s wrist and with a crack Draco was standing in what looked to be a kitchen all alone. And then he was back in the cavern with Regulus. The elf tried again to take his master with him and Draco’s brain spun as he flashed once again to the kitchen and back to the gloom of the island. While Kreacher could disapparate, it was clear that something was binding the wizard here.

Regulus was dragging himself toward the water, “Thirsty, so thirsty.”

“Don’t master!” cried Kreacher as the wizard cupped his hand and broke the glassy surface of the water. As he did, the lake began to ripple with movement.

Draco watched as a white, skeletal looking hand reached above the water and grabbed Regulus’s wrist. The wizard cried out and jerked back. Kreacher must have spun in a circle again, as he saw a glimpse of bony hands emerging out of the water all around the island, before turning back to Regulus who was pushing himself back from the water toward the center of the small rock of land.

As if from a great distance, Draco could feel fear and revulsion course through his body. White hands start to break through the water - heads with sunken eyes and straggling hair started to emerge - heads he realized in horror belonging to men, women, and even children.

“Dead things!” Kreacher cried.

“Inferi,” said Regulus, who was pawing at the ground, searching for his wand. But his movements were jerky, gone was the graceful boy Draco had once seen. He clearly hadn’t recovered from the poison. He heard a groan and Kreacher turned toward the boat, which was sliding away from the island, pulled by skeletal hands. The elf darted toward the boat, but as soon as Draco heard his feet splashing into water, Kreacher looked down to see a hand pulling at his ankle. Kreacher cried out and jerked back. He ran toward the wizard.

“Master, what do we do?”

Regulus shook his head. His face was beyond pale - likely from both fear and the poison seeping in his veins.

“I don’t want to die,” Regulus said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Draco wanted to look away, but he couldn’t, Kreacher’s eyes remained focused on the young man and Draco was bound to the elf’s vision of the memory. He didn’t know how to get away from this hell, and he realized with a sinking feeling, neither did Regulus.

The elf went to stand beside the wizard, the inferi were dragging themselves up on land, coming closer inch by slow painful inch. Regulus still hadn’t recovered his wand. The young man’s mind didn’t seem to be fully with him.

Kreacher bent low and Draco saw the elf’s hands scrabbling on the ground before grasping a slender wand, which he handed to Regulus.

“Your wand, master.”

Regulus grasped the wand with trembling fingers. He tried to cast Lumos, but no light appeared. The potion seemed to still have hold of him. The wizard tried again and again to summon the light, but the darkness remained.

Then, in the distance, a light appeared, hazy at first, but growing brighter as it grew near. Regulus lifted his head, tears still streaked his cheeks as he saw the light, and then it emerged in full - a silver stag skimming over the water. And Draco knew that it could only mean one thing, James Potter had sent his patronus to Regulus.

The stag circled the island in a graceful arc - the inferi drew back from the silvery beast - withdrawing from the island and sinking back into the water. The stag came to stand in front of Regulus. The man looked up at the elegant creature, its antlers stretching proudly above it.

“James,” he murmured.

A voice echoed from the stag, “I believe in you Regulus - I always have. Whatever path you are on now, I believe in you. Wherever you are, know that I love you - I never stopped - I never will. I remember you always.”

The stag bowed its regal head at the wizard and then faded away, the loss of its light intensifying the darkness.

Regulus ran a hand across his face. Fresh tears did not replace those he’d scrubbed away. A small smile played at his lips.

“Master?”

“I order you to go home, Kreacher,” Regulus said, his eyes still not fully focused. “You will never tell my mother or my family what I have done. And you must destroy that cursed locket. I trust you to do this Kreacher.”

“Don’t master, don’t make me leave you,” begged the elf.

“No Kreacher. It’s alright – James made everything alright. Everything is alright now. You have to go home,” said Regulus struggling to his feet. He gained his balance after a moment and then held out his hand to the elf. Kreacher hesitated a moment before extending his own. Regulus took his hand and shook it. “Thank you Kreacher, thank you for always being kind to me and for being loyal to the last.”

Regulus dropped the elf’s hand and started walking toward the water, saying, “I won’t wait for them to come to me.”

“Master, no!” wailed the elf.

Regulus turned back to look at Kreacher and said, “It is alright now. This is the end of my story - I believe it was written in the stars. Tell James - tell him he saved me - tell him he saved me when I needed him most.”

The young man turned away and walked into the water. He walked until the water was past his knees and starting to engulf his thighs before hands started to grasp and pull at him. Regulus kept walking, struggling through the bony grips until at last, when the dark water was up to his chest, he staggered. He lurched forward another step, but cold hands covered him, and he was overwhelmed and pulled under. Draco wanted to scream - needed to scream - but he couldn’t. He could only watch as the water rippled in the spot where Regulus Black had once stood - watch for a span of time that seemed to have no end until the ripples stilled and the lake surface was once again as smooth as glass.

And then he was gasping, sprawled across the tiled floor of the lavatory. He started to tremble. He wasn’t sure if it was from the out of body experience, the horrible memory he had seen, or perhaps both. His cheek was pressed against the cool tile – he tried to focus on this as his body continued to rebel against him. Slowly, he became aware of the sobbing house elf close beside him, banging his head against the wall.

Draco raised his head from the floor, “Stop that, Kreacher, stop that.”

“I didn’t save him,” the house elf cried.

Draco pushed himself to his hands and knees and pulled himself over to the house elf. He took hold of the being’s thin shoulders and drew him away from the wall. He gazed into Kreacher’s large eyes, needing the elf to understand him.

“You couldn’t save him Kreacher. You tried. I saw you try. You were so good - you did everything Regulus asked of you.”

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t,” he choked. “I didn’t destroy the beastly locket.”

Oh Merlin - whatever the thing was that the Dark Lord had valued enough to protect in the horrible ways that he had must be a truly awful magical artefact.

“Where is it?” he gasped, his heart racing.

“With Master Harry,” said the house elf.

“Oh thank Salazar,” said Draco.

“He said he would destroy it - that he would carry out Master Regulus’s work.”

He slumped between two sinks with his back against the wall. The trembling had stopped, but he was uncomfortably aware that his body was covered in sweat. The house elf sat down beside him underneath a sink, his ears grazing the pipes. The being must be as exhausted as Draco felt as he got the sense that Kreacher was nothing if not formal in his interactions with wizards.

“Did he know?” asked Draco turning his head toward Kreacher. “Did James know how he – how Regulus died? That he died trying to defeat the Dark Lord?”

“Mister James – Master Regulus’s friend – he came to 12 Grimmauld after Master Regulus disappeared. No one in the family knew what happened to him - Master Regulus had ordered me not to tell them – that’s why I had to show you. When Mister James arrived, the mistress, she turned him away – refused to let him in the house for all that the man pounded on the door. She screamed at him that he was the reason Sirius ran away. Tried to curse him too she did but he was quick with his wand and shielded himself.”

He leaned his head back against the wall. James hadn’t known. He felt the disappointment of this in his bones.

“The young man didn’t leave,” Kreacher continued. “Sat on a bench in the park all day and into the night. The mistress and master went out for a meeting that evening, so I . . . I let him in. I had to punish myself later – ironed my hands.”

“Merlin, Kreacher,” said Draco.

“I showed him up to Master Regulus’s room and he stood there looking for a long time. And I told him that Master Regulus had died a hero – had died for him – for all of us.”

He sat up, “So he knew?”

The elderly elf nodded, “Yes, Master Draco. He knew enough. I’d only been ordered not to tell family. In his room, Master Regulus had a photo of the two of them together from school – he always kept it hidden away – but I knew where it was. I . . . I gave it to Mister James. I had to punish myself for that as well.”

He reached over and put a hand on the smaller being’s shoulder, “Kreacher – you did the right thing. You did exactly as Regulus would have wanted you to do – you did everything right. Thank you.”

The house elf’s eyes met his before he burst into fresh tears.

Chapter 28: Ravenclaw Rescue

He was utterly drained after his experience with Kreacher. It had taken a lot of convincing for the house elf to retire to bed and Draco had pleaded with him to report sick tomorrow morning so he could at least sleep in. The house elf had been determined he would do no such thing, so in the end Draco had ordered him to get the rest he so dearly needed.

Merlin, why was he so invested in events that happened before he was born? Watching Regulus suffer and walk to his own death had been wretched. He’d never get the vision of those skeletal faces waiting to pull Regulus to his death out of his head. But the look of rapture on his lost cousin’s face when James Potter’s patronus had stood before him in all of its elegant glory had also not been lost on Draco. The Gryffindor may never have truly known the hope he’d given to the doomed Slytherin in his last moments, but Draco knew. And he knew it had meant something to Regulus – it had freed him.

He spent the weekend after mostly to himself, lost in thoughts of Regulus and researching blood magic. The more he read, the more he knew that the idea of pureblood superiority was total rubbish. From all of his readings, he knew that there was no difference between the power of the blood of Muggle-borns, half-bloods, or purebloods when used in blood magic. The blood of Muggle-borns and half-bloods, he read, was just as effective. Magic it seemed, was not based in a person’s blood.

And the knowledge burned. Everything he’d been taught about his noble status was a lie. And it was a lie that had been debunked with knowledge long available to the Wizarding World. Why hadn’t the Hogwarts curriculum taught information like this instead of burying it deep in the restricted section?

The days lengthened as the sun claimed more time in the sky. The Easter holiday was approaching and he was sitting at breakfast pondering what the hell he’d write in his report for Amycus – the Death Eater wouldn’t be pleased if he cited anything he’d learned about magical blood. He hadn’t been paying much attention to what his classmates were saying around him, or to his breakfast, and his toast had grown cold. He was snapped back to the present when Greg elbowed him.

“Draco – aren’t you listening – the Carrows are giving a first year Ravenclaw detention tonight.”

“They’re what?” he asked, his mind whirling to pick up the thread, “They’re going to Crucio a little child?”

Vince shrugged as he shoved a danish into his mouth in one bite.

“That’s wrong that is,” said Blaise from across the table. “Nothing that kid could have done would merit that.”

“He refused to do any of the homework Alecto was assigning since Christmas,” said Vince talking with his mouth full. “Said it was all bigoted rot in a classroom full of first year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.”

“The kid has balls,” said Blaise approvingly.

“Perhaps,” said Theo. “But it didn’t do him any favors. What the hell is wrong with the other houses? Do they have no sense of self-preservation? A fucking Slytherin would never be so rash.”

“Who cares,” said Vince rising from the table, his front covered in crumbs. “Little git is getting what he deserves.” He grabbed his school bag and turned to Vince, “Come on, let’s go. I want to get up to the owlery before class. If I don’t write my mum every week she doesn’t send me any sweets.”

Draco noticed that Theo kept his eyes on the bulky pair until they exited the Great Hall. As soon as they were gone he turned toward Draco and said, “This is madness.”

Draco shook his head at his friend. “No. Not here.”

Blaise leaned in and in a low voice said, “Draco’s right. We’ve got to be smart about this.”

“I know a place,” said Draco. “After our last class, come find me on the seventh floor by the hideous tapestry where some wanker is trying to teach trolls ballet.”

At the end of classes he climbed the staircases to the seventh floor. It took commitment to find the Room of Hidden Things – especially for a Slytherin with so many floors to ascend. Draco hadn’t been back to the secret room since that horrible day he tried never to think of – the day Dumbledore fell – the day he’d let Death Eaters into the castle.

Blaise and Theo were already waiting for him by the appointed tapestry. He nodded at them and started walking back and forth down the hall, willing the door to the room to appear, willing the room to let him in so he could speak with his friends in safety.

At last an ancient looking door appeared that he knew well. He heard Theo gasp behind him. He reached out his hand an turned the knob. The door swung inward. He blinked. He wasn’t greeted by a cavernous room filled with the hodgepodge of centuries. Instead he saw a small, cozy room with a fire and three green easy chairs arranged around it. Above the fire hung the crest of Slytherin House. He shook himself. Who was he to argue with the magic of the castle.

He walked through the doorframe, beckoned the others in and then shut the door.

“Bloody hell,” said Blaise. “What is this place? What type of magic was that?”

“I called it the ‘Room of Hidden Things’” said Draco. “I’ve never seen this room before.”

“As amazing as this is,” said Theo, all business and settling into one of the chairs, “We have serious matters to attend to. What the fuck are we to do about the Carrows?”

Draco felt his jaw tighten. He couldn’t be caught working against the Carrows. His mother’s life depended on him appearing to toe the Dark Lord’s line.

As he sat, Blaise said, “You can trust us, Draco. We won’t say anything. And we won’t get caught. We aren’t bloody Gryffindors trying to charge in. We’ll be stealthy – as befits our house.”

He nodded, unable to speak. What was there to say? They knew his life hung on their discretion. He went to stand by the fire, his back to the pair.

“Torturing a first year is not okay,” said Theo. “We can’t let this happen. The fucking Carrows were Slytherins and all the other houses will think it’s because they sorted into our house that they are like this. We aren’t all monsters.”

“No,” murmured Draco, “Just some of us.”

“Salazar, Draco, don’t be like that. You aren’t a monster,” argued Blaise.

Draco turned towards his friends. He felt a cruel smile on his lips. He carefully unbuttoned his cuff and drew up the sleeve of his left arm exposing the Dark Mark. At the start of sixth year he’d told them about the Mark, so they knew about it, but he didn’t think they’d ever seen it. He was always careful to keep it covered. The snake twisted out of the gaping skull – the image violently clear on his pale skin. He felt their eyes on him, honed in on his shame. “Maybe,” he said, “But I bear the Mark of one.”

He slid his sleeve back down, and grasped the cuff. “We can’t free the boy,” he said.

“But we can’t let a child – all of what – eleven - maybe twelve – get fucking Crucio’d,” said Theo, his voice raised.

Blaise sat forward on the edge of his seat. “Draco is right. If we free the kid the Carrows will know. They’ll make him suffer more later.”

Theo looked between them, “Then what do you propose we do?”

“We shield him,” said Draco. “Theo, you’re good at protection spells. You cover that little bugger with them at dinner. Blaise will flirt with a Ravenclaw – doesn’t matter which one - and Theo will tag along behind and plaster the kid while he is at the table. Make a show of whoever you chat up Blaise, so that all eyes will be on you.”

“He’ll still feel something. Crucio is an unforgivable,” said Theo.

“Right, yeah, but I bet it’ll feel a damn sight better than a full-blown Crucio,” said Blaise. “And what will you do Draco? Anything? Or will you sit this one out?”

Draco turned back to the fire and buttoned his sleeve securely around his wrist. Coward that he was he wanted to sit this one out, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let a child suffer the way he and Theo had – the way Sirius Black had. It was unspeakable.

“I’m going to visit the Dark Arts classroom after dinner. If Amycus is there I’ll ask him for guidance on my research paper. I’ll cushion the chains and manacles with charms. Hell, I’ll cushion the fucking wall if I can. The kid will still be chained, but he won’t be in agony. And the Carrows should be none the wiser. They’ll have made an example of him.”

Blaise rose and stretched his long and lean body. “So you and Theo will be doing actual spell work and my contribution will be to make an arse of myself with some Ravenclaw bird. Well doesn’t that beat all.”

Theo didn’t say anything, but he blushed furiously. He was too shy to try putting on the ostentatious show that Blaise would.

Draco actually huffed a laugh. “What? You want to switch with me? Think any girl is going to give me the time of day with my reputation?”

His friend grinned at him, “Point. And we all know I’m the fittest guy in our year. Guess I’ll have to take one for the team. But I’m picking a pretty one. I will only sink so low to help a sodding little Ravenclaw.”

 

His mind stuttered into wakefulness. Someone was shaking him.

“Draco,” whispered a voice. “Draco, wake up.”

He reached under his pillow for his wand and then rolled over to peer through the dark. “Lumos,” he cast. “Greg?”

The boy’s round face was hovering at the edge of his bed. Draco grabbed his pocket watch from the bedside table, it was just past two in the morning.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Vince wanted to stop by the Dark Arts classroom after Astronomy Lab to see how the first year was making out with his detention. Alecto didn’t curse him or nothin’ he’s just a kid, but she was going to leave him chained up there all night in the dark.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment thinking about a child being bound in the dark all night long. And yet somehow, the Carrows had considered this a mercy.

“Anyway,” Greg went on, “Alecto must have had the same idea – to check on the kid – but she beat us to the classroom. I guess she caught an older student from the first year’s house unfastening the kid from the chains. Corner – Michael Corner, seventh year – is who it was. Anyway, she started punishing Corner – punishing him awful – and she had Vince and I help.” He hung his head and couldn’t meet Draco’s eyes. “It was pretty awful. They . . . we . . . hurt him. She had us keep at it until not long ago and then told us to take care of the mess. But I – I think he’s hurt real bad.”

Draco sat up in bed. “How bad?”

Greg shook his head, “I don’t know. But he’s bruised and bloodied all over and he stopped talking much sense a while ago and now he’s not talking at all.”

“Merlin, he was tortured for what? Hours? Is he breathing?”

The other’s boys face crumpled, “I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do. My dad wants me to help the Carrows, but this is bad Draco. Real bad. What if he dies?”

He pushed himself up out of bed and scrambled around for his shoes. He didn’t bother trying to pull on any other clothes. If Greg was worried enough to have come for Draco then he didn’t have time to waste. As he hurried through the corridors, he couldn’t help curse the fucking Ravenclaw under his breath. What had he been thinking? Theo, Blaise, and Draco had pulled off their plan to perfection – watching Blaise make a fool of himself as he flirted in an over-the-top manner with Padma Patil was surely one of the highlights of his desolate year. And they’d done it – they’d helped the first year in a secretive manner that would have kept him safe from further retribution. It wouldn’t have been pleasant for the first year to stay the night in the Dark Arts room, but he’d been protected by Theo’s charms and the environment had been made more comfortable thanks to Draco. And then the Corner kid had gone and shot everything to hell. Weren’t Ravenclaw’s supposed to be smart?

“Where’s Vince?” asked Draco as he climbed the last set of stairs, Greg following in his wake.

“He stayed with the Corner kid.”

“Right.”

Draco strode down the third floor corridor and entered the Dark Arts room. It was well lit and he could see the first year still chained to the wall. The younger student’s face was red, his nose was running, and tears streaked down his face. With his arms bound, he couldn’t wipe his face.

“You made the child watch?” asked Draco incredulous.

“Part of his punishment,” said Vince, rising from where he’d been crouched on the floor. Beside him, lay Corner, prone. Draco walked over to him. Greg hadn’t been lying – the Ravenclaw was covered in bruises – both of his eyes were black – and blood was caked around his nose and mouth. There were multiple cuts on the exposed skin Draco could see – his face, neck, wrists, and hands.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” he breathed.

Vince cocked his head, “Nothing he didn’t deserve.”

Corner didn’t stir at the sound of their voices. Draco knelt down beside the unresponsive boy and checked to see if he was breathing. He could vaguely see the Ravenclaw’s chest rise and fall, and he felt warm breath on his hand when he held it in front of the boy’s mouth.

“Leave, Vince,” he said, without looking up. “You can’t be here.”

“Alecto told me to deal with the mess,” Vince argued behind him.

“And so you have, by summoning me. I need you gone.”

Vince grumbled behind him, but Draco could hear his footsteps heading away.

“Greg, go free the first year.”

“But -”

“I said to free him!” Draco said, his voiced hard.

He heard the sound of clanking chains and the muffled cries of the first year. Draco worked on positioning Corner fully on his back. He used his wand to cut him free of his robes which were tangled around him. He folded the boy’s arms on his chest to keep his limbs from being jostled and banged during transport, but the pose only made the Ravenclaw look like a corpse.

Once done, he rose and walked over to the child, who’d wiped his face on both his sleeves. He was small for his age – his sandy colored hair was sticking up in all directions. He knelt down, the cold of the floor bled through his thin pajama pants. “What’s your name?”

“Isaac – Isaac Hamilton,” stammered the boy.

“I know what you saw here was bad. And I know you saw Goyle here do some of those things. But I can’t have you out in the halls by yourself at this hour, yeah. Goyle is going to escort you to your common room – he’s the only person I can send with you, there isn’t anyone else. If he so much as sneezes out of turn, you let me know and I’ll deal with him. I have to get your housemate to the infirmary.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered the child, darting a glance at Greg, who to his credit, tried his best to look unimposing.

“You can’t say anything about what happened here,” said Draco. “Do you understand? The Carrows – they will punish you. And I don’t know what they’ll do to you another time. You don’t want to end up like Corner do you?”

Isaac shook his head, “No, sir.”

“My names, Malfoy, not sir,” said Draco, trying his best to sound gentle. “Now go along with Goyle here, and I’ll make sure Corner gets help.”

The boy nodded, and dutifully followed Greg out of the room. He did, Draco noticed, keep a large gap between himself and the much larger Slytherin. Once the mismatched pair was gone, Draco cast a levitation charm on Corner and guided him up a flight of stairs and down a corridor to the hospital ward. The boy’s dark hair hung from his head as he floated in the air. While they were in the same year at school, Draco had never had much to do with Corner. He’d always struck Draco as a conscientious student, which befitted a Ravenclaw, and he’d noticed him hanging out quiet frequently with his housemates, Boot and Goldstein. He also recalled seeing the boy often in the Weasley girl’s company for a time. He looked again at the other boy’s face, which on top of the black eyes and the dried blood, was starting to swell. What had possessed him to go and be a hero? Wasn’t like he was damned Gryffindor.

As he neared the entrance to the hospital, Draco made sure his mental shields were in place. He couldn’t tell Pomfrey what had really happened – there’d be hell to pay for him if he betrayed Alecto, a fellow Death Eater. He took a deep breath before levitating the boy through the doors. The wing was lowly lit and most of the beds were empty. His entrance must have tripped a magical alarm, as within moments Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of a side door. He was impressed at how she kept her calm despite the Ravenclaw’s ghastly injuries. She clearly saw all kinds of accidents and injuries here at Britain’s only school of magic.

“Mr. Malfoy, what happened here?”

“I’m not sure Madam Pomfrey,” he replied. “As Head Boy I heard a report that there was an injured student in one of the empty classrooms on the third floor. I’d already gotten ready for bed, and I thought for sure it was someone playing a prank on me, but I went to investigate. I found him unconscious and alone. I’m not sure if he had a terrible accident with a self-transfiguration spell, or what happened – he’d been talking about trying to transform himself earlier this week – I thought it was only theoretical until I found him like this.”

Pomfrey paused to meet his eyes for a moment before she motioned that Corner be settled on the nearest bunk. After the boy was safely deposited, she began casting diagnostic spells. She ignored all of the superficial injuries for the moment, as she was clearly scanning for internal damage.

He stared down at the boy in the hospital bed. His face, where it was not bruised and bloodied, was almost as white as the sheets. Whatever the Ravenclaw had hoped to accomplish could not have been worth this. Pomfrey continued her work and Draco didn’t know what to do with himself. He should slink away back to his dormitory, but he also didn’t feel quite right about leaving until he knew if Corner was going to be all right.

After several tense minutes, a little color creeped back into Corner’s face, and then his eyes fluttered open. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before croaking out, “Warn . . . Neville . . .”

His eyes closed again, but his breathing looked more regular. Pomfrey sighed, “He should make a full recovery, but it will take time.” She looked pointedly at Draco, “I’ve seen lots of magical accidents in my time, and I’m not convinced that this was an accident.”

Draco met her gaze and said, “If it wasn’t an accident I couldn’t say what happened to him. I found him like this alone.”

“And if we tested your wand Mr. Malfoy?  Would we be able to back up your story?”

He clenched his jaw for a moment before pulling out his hawthorn wand, “You want to check it? Be my guest.”

Pomfrey sighed. “That won’t be necessary at the moment, but don’t be surprised if you’ll be asked to corroborate your story with an examination of your wand at a later time. For now, I expect you to report to Headmaster Snape’s office. He must be informed.”

“Of course,” he said, before taking one last glance at Corner and exiting the room.

He’d just descended the staircase to the third floor when he was met by Snape himself, dressed head to toe in his customary black robes. Draco shifted a bit, self-conscious that he was only in his pajamas.

“I was on my say to see you, sir.”

“I received a patronus from Madam Pomfrey. I’m not sure if she trusted that you would actually show up to my office.”

Draco frowned. Of course he wasn’t to be trusted. He’d dragged an unconscious, severely battered student into her ward and hadn’t offered an explanation that truly kept him above incrimination. Not his finest work, but it was the damned middle of the night and it had been a matter of urgency that Corner receive medical care.

Snape waved his wand and cast, “Muffliato,” even though no one else was around at this hour.

“How bad was it?”

Draco couldn’t help but grimace. “It was bad, sir. Corner was unconscious and bruised and bloodied. I think he had internal injuries, but you’d have to ask Madam Pomfrey to be sure. After she did something, he started breathing easier and woke for a brief moment.”

“And the first year?”

“I sent him back to his dormitory. I didn’t see the point of leaving him there all night – he’d seen enough . . . sir.”

And then he saw Alecto striding down the hall, a night robe fluttering behind her. At least he wasn’t the only one that would be congregating with the headmaster in his night clothes. Snape dropped the muffliato charm.

“What’s this I hear from Crabbe about you releasing Hamilton,” she said, striding right into Draco’s space. “His detention was to last the entire night. And I specifically put Crabbe in charge of dealing with the Corner situation and then I hear you barreled in and took over.” She sneered at him. “Just like your father – full of your own self-importance even when you hold no power.”

“Professor,” he said, in his most controlled and authoritative voice, “I couldn’t leave Corner in the state I found him. He could have died. If there’s a dead student at Hogwarts there will be an uproar and I don’t think the Dark Lord will be pleased to have undue scrutiny on the school and his followers here.”

Alecto opened her mouth to say more, but Snape cut her off, “Malfoy is right. You went too far in this instance. If Malfoy hadn’t attended to the boy it is highly likely he would have perished. I wouldn’t have been able to contain that – even the sham of the Ministry would have had to investigate. And do you think I could have spun tales that would have satisfied the likes of Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Flitwick. You would have been exposed, and thus the Dark Lord’s future plans for this school would have been delayed.”

“Well that doesn’t explain sending the younger student back to his dorm,” she persisted.

Snape drew himself up to his full, imposing height and looked down his nose at Alecto. “Considering the shambles you left the situation in, I consider any decisions Malfoy made as Head Boy to be more than satisfactory. You are fortunate, Alecto, that he was here tonight to clean up your mess.”

Alecto’s face tinted with pink. “How dare -”

“I think you have forgotten who has the ear of the Dark Lord,” said Snape nastily. “And I think we all know that it isn’t you. You may go with me to your office and we will continue this discussion outside of the presence of young Malfoy.” Snape turned his dark eyes onto Draco. “Return to your dormitory and salvage as much sleep as you can.”

Draco nodded and started to walk away. He chanced a look back and saw Alecto, looking hunched and small, walking toward her office while Snape followed, his black cloak trailing behind him.

The next day the school rumor mill went wild. Before breakfast was even over he’d heard four different theories about what had happened to Corner. Greg looked pale and kept his head low. Crabbe, he knew after listening to him gripe about it as they were getting ready for the day, had already received a missive from the headmaster instructing him to keep his boastful mouth shut.

From across the Great Hall, Draco could make out little Isaac Hamilton sitting at his house table. The boy looked exhausted, but he was there. He looked up, and saw Draco, and for a moment their eyes met. The first year nodded his head at him in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to his peers.

That, however, was the only positive interaction Draco had all day with a member of a different house. Many of the rumors blamed Slytherins for what had happened to Corner, and, as the alleged prince of Slytherin, a large portion of these rumors implicated him. He was struck by a half dozen stinging hexes to the back of legs before lunch and he heard snide comments as he passed groups of students. Theo had finally pulled him aside and cast a shielding charm on him. “Salazaar, Draco,” said his friend. “You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

After lunch, Draco saw Longbottom ahead of him in the corridor. Corner’s only words while Draco had been with him had been of Longbottom. He’d long suspected that Longbottom was a ringleader of the students that were rebelling against Snape and the Carrows. A group that called itself Dumbledore’s Army had rebelled against Umbridge during fifth year. From the graffiti on the walls this year, it seemed as if the name had been rekindled.

Draco picked up his pace so that he was walking along side Longbottom. “I have to talk to you,” he muttered at the other boy.

“Not likely,” responded the Gryffindor.

Well fuck that. Draco grabbed Longbottom by the elbow and steered him to the side of the corridor.

“You dumb bastards can’t do this shit anymore,” hissed Draco, shoving Longbottom against the wall.

“Why? Cause we’re standing up against everything you believe in?” said Longbottom, meeting Draco’s eyes without flinching.

Merlin, where had the soft little boy from years past gone? And when had Longbottom grown into this determined young man?

“Scared we’ll ruin your Death Eater plans, Malfoy?”

Draco shook him hard, “No you stupid Gryffindor – that Corner kid is in the fucking hospital. The Carrows are not messing around. Your missions – your plans – whatever you are doing, it has to stop. Someone is going to get killed.”

The boy shoved Draco off of him. Other students were slowing to stare at them, but Longbottom kept his voice low, intended only for Draco. “Why do you care? I know what you did at this school last year. I know you let those fucking Death Eaters in – even that deranged werewolf – you don’t give a damn what happens to anyone in this school.”

Draco felt his face blaze with shame and before he could stop himself he ground out, “I care.”

The hard look on Longbottom’s face flickered.

“I care,” Draco repeated. “I don’t want to see any more students almost fucking maimed or worse.”

“Some things are worth dying for,” said Longbottom.

He shook his head, “Not this. School pranks aren’t worth dying for. You have to survive – something bigger is coming – something bigger than the Carrows. You Gryffindors are all the same – rushing in without looking ahead. What good will you be to anyone if you’re fucking dead?”

Longbottom held Draco’s gaze and said, “What good is living if you have to turn into a monster to stay alive?”

Draco felt his blood burn. Merlin, he hated Gryffindors when they were all obstinate and noble. There was no reasoning with them. The only one he’d met that had an ounce of sense was fucking Granger and she was who knows where – likely with Potter trying to keep him from doing foolhardy shit that could get him killed. He took a deep breath, stepped back, smoothed his school robes, and straightened his tie.

“Have it your way Longbottom. But when more of your merry band wind up injured, don’t blame me.”

He turned on his heel and strode off.

Chapter 29: Easter at the Manor

Notes:

Much of the dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” chapter 23.

Corner, the foolhardy Ravenclaw, remained in the hospital right up to the Easter holiday, and from what the Slytherins could hear by way of school gossip, he was going to remain in the hospital at least through the holiday if not longer. Draco never went back to the hospital to see Corner. There was no point. Corner wouldn’t appreciate Draco’s presence, and what could Draco say – sorry a fellow Death Eater and my dorm mates almost killed you? So he did his best not to think about the Ravenclaw recuperating in the castle and instead focused on his school work. He finished his report for Amycus, but the final product was watered down – he didn’t dare commit to parchment everything he’d actually learned while researching blood magic. He’d also had no more dueling lessons with Snape. Whatever he’d done when he’d invoked Potter and his father had been more than the headmaster was willing to put up with.

Unlike Corner, Draco would not be spending the Easter holiday at Hogwarts. He was expected home. Theo, through some miracle, had been allowed to stay at the school, and Draco was glad for his friend. He supposed that since Mr. Knott wasn’t going to be able to see Theo inducted as a Death Eater he didn’t feel the need to set eyes on his son.

Draco was not so fortunate. His own father was very much around during the days away from school and it was not pleasant. Lucius had continued to decline, he startled easily and seemed to be constantly plotting out ways to reverse his fortunes to no avail. Wandless and powerless, he would sit before the fire, unseeing, with a drink clutched in his hand.

Draco found himself one evening sitting before a crackling hearth with Lucius. The Manor was fairly quiet with the Dark Lord away and most of the other Death Eaters were scattered on various assignments. Draco, of course, hadn’t been assigned anything important to do. With the house practically empty, Lucius had called upon Draco to sit with him in the drawing room. It felt like such a farce - his father playing the part of lord of the manor, but Narcissa had given Draco a pointed look, so he had complied. He and his father, however, didn’t really speak. What was there to say? They were both utterly inconsequential in the world they had created for themselves. Was this how he’d made other students feel when he’d bullied and badgered them in prior years?

As he watched the flames he thought of Ollivander and Lovegood in the dungeon. Ollivander was deteriorating. It was becoming more and more obvious, and the medicine and food he snuck in wasn’t going to pull the wandmaker out of his decline. Lovegood was young and strong and seemed like she was physically well. Her mental state, however, left something to be desired, with her talk of wrackspurts infesting the Manor’s cellars. Confinement, he thought, was taking a heavy toll on her as well.

He looked up from the fire when mother entered the room. Her face was its usual cool mask except for her eyes – she was nervous about something. The mystery was solved a moment later when Greyback appeared along with other snatchers. Loathsome creatures - snatchers. Great. They’d be bringing more people to populate the dungeons – more people he’d have to have to worry about and try and tend to while he was home. A small group of bound people, including a goblin, were herded into the room.

“They say they’ve got Potter,” said his mother, her voice sounding toneless. “Draco, come here.”

He felt his body stiffen and his heart squeeze. This couldn’t be happening. Potter couldn’t be in his home – couldn’t be a fucking a captive in his home. His mother met his eyes, pleading with him. Finally he started to rise and he saw a dark-haired boy being forced to stand directly beneath the chandelier by Greyback.

“Well boy?” asked the werewolf, his face vicious in his delight.

Draco swallowed hard and then took a step closer, willing himself to turn a glancing look at the person’s face. Before him stood a young man with black hair whispering at his shoulders. Round glasses sat on a face that look distorted and distended, and something that may have been a scar stretched across a wide forehead. The eyes were almost swollen closed, but fuck, he knew those eyes, inflamed as they were – they were the eyes that haunted him. Waves of fear pulsed through his body and flooded his veins. He worked to build his mental walls - worked to betray nothing. He couldn’t let on that this was Harry Potter – the Boy-Who-Lived - the boy Draco had watched across the Great Hall and the Quidditch pitch for years – the boy Draco would know anywhere.

“Well, Draco?” said his father, sounding alert for the first time Draco could remember since he’d returned from Azkaban. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

Draco turned away and looked toward the fire – watched the flames dance – tried to let the greedy licks of fire hypnotize him and transport him away from this hell. The Dark Lord would be summoned and then what? What would become of Potter? And what would become of the two people in this world that Potter cared about the most? For it was Weasley and Granger amongst the group of captives with him – he couldn’t miss them for their hair. Their locks made them almost as identifiable as Draco’s own silver-blonde hair made him.

“I can’t – I can’t be sure,” said Draco, still not looking at Potter.

His father made another exclamation – asking Draco to look closer. Draco barely turned his head toward the other boy.

“Draco,” said his father, his voice rushed with excitement, “If we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv-”

Greyback cut him off with a snarl, reminding Lucius who had caught the possible Boy-Who-Lived. His father and Greyback argued about the state of the captive and circled him closely. It turned Draco’s stomach to have the werewolf so close to Potter. His father peered closely at the other boy’s face and then beckoned Draco over, sure he could see the famous scar.

Draco feared that his distance was only confirming Potter’s identity, so he shut away his panic – tried to bury it deep in his mind and he approached the captive. The light from the chandelier lit the boy’s face. The captured boy was slightly shorter then him, and Draco tried to make a show of looking at his face. Their eyes met for a moment, and Draco saw the boy’s fear. And of course it was Potter. The most Gryffindor of Gryffindors was here in the den of serpents. He reinforced his mental walls – he could betray nothing – not even the slightest flicker of recognition.

“I don’t know,” he said before turning back toward the fireplace and walking away. He couldn’t deny absolutely that it was Potter – there were enough similar physical characteristics apparent that the others thought it could be him. He hoped if he clung to uncertainty it would buy the other boy time. If Potter were in the dungeon, maybe there was something he could do.

He felt his mother’s eyes on him.

“We had better be certain, Lucius,” he heard her say before reminding his father they had to be completely sure before they summoned the Dark Lord or they would suffer for their mistake.

“What about the Mudblood, then,” he heard Greyback snarl as he forced the other prisoners forward. Potter was shoved aside. As the group was reshuffled, he saw that another Gryffindor was present – Thomas – who’d been absent all year and who Finnegan was adrift without. He wondered if Thomas had been with Potter’s band. He didn’t have long to ponder this, before Granger was brought to stand beneath the full light of the chandelier.

He heard his mother exclaim, “Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”

He glanced over his shoulder, he felt so distant from everything. He closed off his mind even more. He saw Granger’s face framed by her curly wild hair. Fear radiated from her. “I . . . maybe . . . yeah.”

“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” his father practically shouted walking up to the tall ginger boy bound to other far less famous captives. “It’s them, Potter’s friends – Draco, look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning, his back to everyone. “It could be.”

And then he heard a voice that spelled doom.

“What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?”

His aunt had joined the scene. Bellatrix prowled the room and took in the prisoners. He worked again on sealing off his mind – and he felt strangely detached from everything going on around him. As if from a distance he heard his aunt and father arguing, heard the rasp of Greyback’s voice, and the voices of unknown snatchers. He heard something about a sword. He was starting to drift – his mind lost as he closed himself away – before he was painfully snapped back.

“Draco,” said his aunt. “Move this scum outside.” His eyes followed her as she pointed to unconscious snatchers lying on the floor. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me.”

His mother’s eyes flashed with anger, “Don’t you dare speak to Draco like – ”

Bellatrix screamed in frustration, silencing the room. “Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem! If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed. The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself . . . But if he finds out . . . I must . . . I must know.” She was pacing, muttering the whole time. “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”

His mother argued with her sister before asking Greyback to take the prisoners to the dungeons.

“Wait,” said his aunt, “All except . . . except for the Mudblood.”

“No!” shouted Weasley, “You can have me, keep me!”

Draco’s veins turned to ice. He heard the pain in the red-headed boy’s voice and he was ashamed. This boy was willing to give his life for the person he clearly cared about most in the world. And what had Draco given his life for? A cause of hate? A family with a past not worth defending?

Bellatrix approached Weasley and back-handed him across the face. Draco barely contained a wince. His thoughts weren’t controlled. He was swinging wildly back and forth between being too removed and too present. He tried to control his breathing while Bellatrix continued to spew her vitriol – he had to gain control of his feelings if he were to be any use to his family – to Potter – to anyone.

The prisoners were all forced away by the werewolf but for Granger. Wormtail scurried close to the door and his aunt ordered the grasping and fawning excuse of a wizard to remove the snatchers from the hall before she dragged Granger to the middle of the room by her hair.

“You need to practice, Draco – Crucio the Mudblood,” said his aunt, her wild eyes meeting his.

“No,” said Narcissa. “You have no authority over my son. You will not make him do your dirty work.”

Bellatrix smiled even as she shook Granger roughly, her claw-like fingers buried in the girl’s scalp. “If you insist, sister.” She flung the girl away from her and brutally cast, “Crucio!”

He watched as the brightest student in his year writhed on the floor and screamed. He heard someone from below yelling, “Hermione!” over and over as the girl’s screaming continued.

Finally his aunt lowered her wand and said, “Tell me, Mudblood, where did you get this sword?”

The Gryffindor girl whimpered, and mumbled something Draco couldn’t catch. His aunt spat at her and cursed her again. The cries from below continued and so did the screaming and his aunt’s accusations. And he couldn’t breathe. He swayed on his feet. He felt a grip on his arm and turned to see his mother. Her face was pale and her eyes met his. He shook himself. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t do this.

“Enough aunt,” he said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “You need to give her a chance to answer. You’ll get nothing if you kill her.”

Bellatrix turned her eyes on him. “Weak.”

She ignored Draco and turned back to her prey. The girls’ screaming tore through him – as if her cries were lashing at him – flaying his sanity.

“It’s a copy, just a copy,” he heard Granger plead, her body stretched across the floor.

“A copy?” his aunt said, “Oh, a likely story!”

“But we can find out easily,” said his father. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not.”

His father walked to him and gave him a prod toward the door. Draco closed his eyes for a moment to try and get control over himself. He jerked a nod and walked out of the room toward the dungeons. As he descended the stairs he felt his stomach churn. He doubled over and heaved. He shuddered as he wiped his mouth before quickly vanishing the sick on the floor. He wondered again how his life had brought him here. How in the hell was any of this happening? When had the Manor stopped being his home and become a torture chamber? He shook away his questions and pulled himself up before descending the steps. As he entered the dungeons he saw all of the prisoners with their eyes on him, including Potter and his fucking green eyes. He pointed his wand at the captives.

“Stand back,” he said, his voice shaking despite all of his efforts at control. “Line up against the wall. Don’t try anything . . . or I’ll kill you!”

The cell was brighter than Draco remembered, and then he heard a click and balls of light seemed to disappear. He watched the figures inside shuffle to stand against the back wall before he opened the door and walked inside. He couldn’t look at Potter. Couldn’t look at the other boy’s face, knowing full well what he’d see there – disgust. He grabbed the little goblin by the arm and pulled him along with him up out of the dungeons and back to the drawing room. With every step he felt his mind withdraw more until he was convinced that his body was nothing but an empty husk. He heard Granger scream as he approached the door to the drawing room and it echoed around in the hollow shell that was all that was left of him.

Bellatrix didn’t look up as he dragged the goblin into the room and Wormtail hovered by the door, his task complete.

His aunt was focused on the Gryffindor girl sobbing on the floor. He stared down at the girl. She was wearing muggle jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was wild about her face and as she thrashed it tangled and twisted about her. Bellatrix hurled out the torture curse again and he watched the girl’s body bend at an almost impossible angle as she screamed.

He shrank further back into his mind, burying himself behind thick walls.

The screaming continued. He doubled the walls.

A new scream sliced through the air.

He blinked.

The sound of pain lingered in the space.

Was he here? Did he exist anymore? He couldn’t really feel his body. Or could he? He wasn’t sure.

He thought he heard his father call his name . . . but maybe he didn’t . . .

He saw Wormtail scuttle away. . . How long had the rat of the man been in the room? He couldn’t remember.

The girl’s screams continued. He should do something . . . but . . . he couldn’t move his arms. Should he be concerned that he couldn’t move his arms?

The goblin was hauled away from him and thrown to the floor beside the girl. There were voices. They were so far away. What were they saying?

The girl screamed again. The noise of it filled the room and then rippled away. Could he drift away like the sound? If he did there would be nothing left of him. Maybe that would be fine . . . just fine.

Bellatrix was yelling at the goblin. And then she drew up her sleeve and held her wand to the Mark on her arm. He swayed on his feet. He was breaking. He was sure of it. He was so far adrift he knew he would become untethered at any moment.

And then there was a roar. He thinks he turned and saw a red-headed boy burst in the room shouting “Expelliarmus!” His aunt’s wand arced through the air and was caught by another - a boy with green eyes. Green eyes.

His eyes.

His green eyes.

Potter’s green eyes.

He slammed back into himself, gasping.

“Stupify,” yelled Potter, brandishing Bellatrix’s wand. Potter looked far more like himself then earlier, and Draco’s father collapsed to the floor.

His mother and Greyback drew their wands and started casting. On instinct Draco cast a shield spell around his mother. Potter could do whatever the fuck he wanted to Bellatrix, but Draco wouldn’t let him touch his mother.

Potter rolled to the floor and found cover behind a sofa.

“Stop or she dies!” Bellatrix screamed.

Draco turned to see his aunt holding a limp looking Granger with a small silver knife held to the girl’s throat.

“Drop your wands,” hissed his aunt. “Drop them, or we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Nobody moved.

“I said, drop them!” she ordered, shrill and obscene. A bead of blood formed at Granger’s throat.

“All right,” he heard Potter shout before hearing a wand clatter to the floor. Weasley followed suit, throwing down his wand.

“Good. Draco,” she ordered. “Pick them up.”

He walked to Weasley first and picked up the wand he recognized as the one Ollivander had made over the summer for Wormtail. They must have disarmed the rat. Then he approached Potter and picked up his aunt’s pilfered wand as Bellatrix hollered with glee, “The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter. Your death approaches.”

He stood and saw the fear in Potter’s face. Knowing what a Gryffindor the boy was, Potter was probably more worried about his friends then he was for himself. Draco turned back to his aunt to return her wand as his aunt was telling his mother they should tie up the “little heroes” and assured Greyback that he could have the Mudblood. His stomach rolled at this – he had no doubt what Greyback intended to do to Granger and it would leave her broken and likely dead in the end.

How the hell could he get them all out of this? What could he do? His father was out cold. Could he stun both Bellatrix and Greyback? Which one first? Who needed to be taken out first? Probably Bellatrix.

He heard a strange grinding sound. He looked up to see the chandelier tremble. The crystals jostled against each other for a moment before the fixture began to fall. He frantically threw a shield over Granger and the goblin before his vision exploded. Shards of glittering light surrounded him. His face streaked with pain. He belatedly covered his eyes with the back of his fists still clutching the wands. He could feel warmth spread across the back of his hands – blood.

And then Potter was on him, barreling him over and pinning him to the floor, grasping at the wands – Wormtail’s, Bellatrix’s, and his own. Draco thrashed for a moment and then caught sight of Potter’s face – caught sight of those eyes. He stilled. The Dark Lord was on his way. Potter would die. Potter would die here in Draco’s home. The light in those eyes would dim in Draco’s drawing room.

He couldn’t live with that. It was too much. It was too fucking much.

He looked in those eyes for one last second and then let go. He let go of the wands. He let go of any hope for himself so that Potter could run. And Merlin, the Gryffindor did not disappoint. Potter threw a spell at the fucker Greyback that caused the beast to fly into the air, slam into the ceiling, and crash hard to the floor. He could feel Potter’s magic – he could feel the power – he could feel the hope. The light from the spell caught on the shards of crystal and for a moment the room was awash in reflected prisms of light. He was sure he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

And then he felt hands on him. He jerked away, until he realized it was his mother. She wrapped herself around him and started to drag him away. His aunt screamed and he saw her pull herself from the twisted wreckage of the chandelier.

“Dobby!” he heard his mother scream as she released her hold on him. He shuddered as the sound tore through his already fragile mind. She pointed her wand at the elf. “You – you dropped the chandelier!”

Draco craned his head and saw the house elf that had visited him all those months ago – his eyes large and his stance defiant.

“You must not hurt Harry Potter,” said the elf pointing his finger at Narcissa with a slight lift of his chin.

“Kill him, Cissy,” his aunt cried. His mother lowered her wand a fraction, and then with a crack, it flew from her hand to the other side of the room.

“You dirty little monkey,” raged his aunt. “How dare you take a witch’s wand, and how dare you defy your masters?”

The house elf drew himself up and said, “Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!”

And Draco felt something like euphoria flood through his body. Potter would be saved.

He turned to the Boy-Who-Lived and saw him stagger while clutching at his forehead before righting himself to throw a wand at Weasley while shouting, “Ron, catch – and go!”

Potter bent to grab the goblin who was holding a sword before grabbing Dobby’s hand. Weasley hoisted Granger over to the elf before grabbing hold of Dobby’s other hand. A streak of silver flew through the air from Bellatrix’s direction and with a crack they were gone. Thank Merlin, they were gone. He bowed his head – he wished he could have gone with them. Wished once again that Potter had saved him as well – wished that he could save himself.

Bellatrix howled with rage. He heard his father start to stir while his mother retrieved her wand from the wreckage on the floor.

“Where are they?” he heard Lucius mumble.

No one answered him. Bellatrix continued to descend into chaos, hurling words and furniture throughout the room. His mother bent before him and started working on healing the cuts on his face. He had no idea what he looked like and wondered how bad it was.

“That rotten elf – we will all suffer because you foolishly freed him Lucius,” his aunt cried.

And then he heard footsteps treading across the hall. All eyes in the room, even the heap that was Greyback, turned to the door to face Lord Voldemort.

Chapter 30: Captives in the Manor

Draco was well acquainted with pain. Despite the nonsense Potter spouted back in third year, that rabid hypogriff of Hagrid’s had hurt him. Falls from broomsticks and collisions with bludgers ranked fairly high, but then of course, in a separate category, was Sectumsempra. That pain had been violent and he’d known within moments of being struck with that curse that his life was about to leech out of him. He’d never known Harry Potter could him cause such pain – until now.

Every nerve in his body felt burned. He couldn’t take a breath without feeling pain. He’d experienced the Cruciatus curse before, but he’d still not been prepared. For their failure in keeping hold of the Boy-Who-Lived, the Dark Lord had been liberal in the use of the torture curse. His mother had tried to shield Draco with her own body but it had been no use. The Dark Lord had been vengeful and no one had been spared. It had been harder for Draco to hear his mother’s screams as the curse surged through her then it did to bear his own physical pain. He suffered because he’d let Potter go, and despite everything, his own pain was tempered by the knowledge that Chosen One had gotten away. Every time the curse flooded him with pain he clung tight to the vision of green eyes. The last memory he had was of his mother screaming while the image of Potter’s eyes flashed through his mind.

He hesitantly propped open his own eyes. That single movement made him wince. His back and legs were stiff and cold. His arms ached and his wrists were sore. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and with all the willpower he possessed he opened both his eyes back up wide. Oh fuck. If he didn’t think the pain from it would have killed him he would have laughed. He was in the dungeon sitting against the back wall of the cell. His arms were chained above him. Perfect. He heard a groan and he turned his head – the movement caused his vision to blur for a moment. His father was chained further down the wall. He slowly swiveled his head in the other direction and saw his mother shackled on his other side. They must have made a pretty family picture lined up in a row in their own cellar.

“Draco?” he heard his mother whisper.

He tried to answer her, but it took him a moment to get his mouth to work. “Mother,” he said at last, his voice sounding rough. Speaking hurt his throat. It was raw. He wondered how long he’d been screaming before he’d lost consciousness.

“Lucius?” whispered his mother.

His father groaned again.

“Lucius?” she repeated.

“Here. I’m here,” said his father, his voice hoarse.

“Are you alright, mother?” he asked, ignoring the pain.

“I . . . I think so. You both have been out for so long.”

Metal clinked again stone beside him, softly at first and then more loudly. “Reduced to a prisoner in my own house,” he heard his father hiss. “Where is your bloody sister? I don’t see her down here with us.”

“I don’t know. The Dark Lord . . . he was . . . more angry with her and Greyback.”

“Yet I am chained to a wall,” said his father trying for, but not quite achieving, his signature drawl.

“Who knows where he has her,” said Narcissa.

Draco personally hoped that his aunt was in the deepest circle of hell. He couldn’t think of a single redeeming feature that she possessed. He supposed it made sense that the Dark Lord’s wrath was more focused on his aunt and Greyback. His father, after all, had been wandless, Narcissa wasn’t one of the Dark Lord’s minions, and Draco was – well – he was a pretty miserable excuse for a Death Eater all in all.

He stretched a little. Merlin but his arms ached.

He shifted a bit against the wall and in the far corner by the bars he saw a body lying on the floor. The light from the torch in the corridor glinted on silver. Wormtail. Had to be. No one else ran around wearing a silver arm.

“Wormtail’s here too,” he said.

“He’s dead,” said his mother.

He jerked a bit, rattling the chains above him.

“I do so love spending time with corpses,” said his father. “I believe I’ll find his manners improved.”

“Lucius,” said Narcissa, her voice reproachful.

“Darling, I don’t know if I will ever leave this hellhole. If I don’t make light of it I can’t trust the little that remains of my sanity to remain intact,” said Lucius.

Why were they chained here? Why hadn’t Lord Voldemort disposed of them earlier when he’d had them prostrate on the floor?

“Don’t say things like that,” said Narcissa. “Not in front of Draco.”

“It’s quite alright mother. For once I agree with father. I haven’t had much hope of living to see eighteen for a long time.”

He heard his mother’s chains scrape against the wall. “I’m so sorry my darling. We . . . I should have protected you . . . from all of this.”

“How do you propose we have done that?” asked Lucius, his chains rattling a bit as well. “When the Dark Lord came back if I hadn’t sworn fealty that would have been the end of us. Remember what happened to Igor Karkaroff? That would have been all of us.”

“Wait,” said Draco, the words coming hard as a thought stumbled in his mind. “You didn’t think the Dark Lord would come back did you?”

“I had hoped that that part of my life was over. It was . . . useful to use his name and speak of his return. It struck terror in others and I used that terror to my advantage. But did I really want all of this? Of course not. Do you think I want to see my wife and son reduced to this?”

“But you – you supported him the last time.”

He heard Lucius sigh. They had never really spoken about this. The official story was that his father had been under the influence of the Imperious curse during the last war.

“Draco,” his father began, “During the first War a lot of -”

The door to the cellars banged open. Footsteps, cocky and sure, rang through the space.

“Look at the happy family,” said Thorfinn Rowle stopping just outside the cell. “What a turn of events. I was punished for losing Potter in London and you couldn’t even hold him in your home when he was wandless and locked in a dungeon. What an unfortunate catastrophe for your family Lucius.”

“Yes, well, it seems the boy was rather more resourceful than Bellatrix gave him credit for.”

Rowle smiled as he let himself into their cell, and Draco knew they were in for trouble.

“Yes, well, the Dark Lord is personally dealing with Bellatrix. She was such a favorite of his. I can only imagine his . . . disappointment,” said the Death Eater. “I was sent to deal with you.”

Draco closed his eyes for a second and groaned silently. Fuck. This was going to hurt. He’d been responsible for Rowle’s suffering back in the summer. Of course the Dark Lord would order him to carry out his punishment, Rowle would only be too pleased to get his revenge.

“Do you think you really have it in you?” Draco heard his father ask in a tone that hinted at a raised eyebrow.

“Always the pretentious peacock weren’t you Lucius? I’m looking forward to wiping the smirk off your face.” Rowle raised his wand and Draco stiffened, preparing for the pain that would surely follow. “Crucio!”

His mother screamed beside him. He angled toward her as best he could while bound to the wall and saw her thrashing against her bindings. Her beautiful face was contorted, and he saw a line of blood run down her exposed forearm as her wrists ground mercilessly at the shackles that held her.

“Stop!” yelled Draco. “Stop it Rowle. You’re fucking mad at me, not her.”

Rowle lowered his wand. Draco heard his mother gasping for air.

“Any other smart-mouthed comments Lucius?” asked the other Death Eater.

Draco turned to see that his father’s face was ashen and blank. What little bravado he’d possessed earlier had fled.

“No,” hummed Rowle, “I didn’t think so.”

He raised his wand again.

“Don’t you dare,” Draco breathed.

“Such a mamma’s boy,” said Rowle. “I’m not stupid. I know that sun rises and sets on Narcissa for both of you. The best way to get to you, is through her. Crucio!”

He heard his mother’s shrill cries split through the air. He lurched against his chains, but he was bound tight. If he’d had a wand he’d knew he’d have tried to kill the man. He felt his helplessness turn into rage – his whole body was on fire with it – he could feel his magic thrumming through him. He closed his eyes and focused. He pulled hard at his chains and for a moment, he felt his weight taught on them before the tension snapped and he was falling. He caught himself, hands splayed on the stone floor. Manacles were fastened around each wrist and a few links of the chains dangled from each one.

Rowle jumped back in surprise. He heard his mother’s screaming stop with the break in the other Death Eater’s curse. Holy fuck. How had he done that? Had he done that? He hadn’t done any accidental magic in years and he’d never done any wandless magic of this magnitude before.

The Death Eater rounded on him, wand pointed at Draco. He lurched forward, his limbs weren’t cooperating well – he was numb and stiff and his muscles ached, but at least the bastard’s focus was on him and not his mother. He dug his fingers into the stone floor and hurled himself forward – pushing himself through the pain just as Rowle started to utter the torture curse. Draco slammed into the man and by dumb luck brought him to the ground, the sound of the man’s wand clattering across the floor was music to his ears. He heaved himself on top of the other Death Eater, using his weight to try and hold him down. He wished he was heavier. Wished he wasn’t so sore. Wished he knew what the hell he was doing as he swung a fist into the man’s nose. His fist exploded in pain. Shit that stung. He’d rough housed with Crabbe and Goyle before, but having them as friends and being a Malfoy meant other students hadn’t used him as a punching bag. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually punched someone. First year during the Quidditch game when Weasley and Longbottom had defended Potter’s honour maybe?

He drew back his fist to strike again, but Rowle seemed to recover himself and thrashed Draco off of him. Draco tried to roll away, but Rowle grabbed him and drove a knee into his stomach. He gasped and then the man was scrambling for his arms, threw a leg over his midsection and pinned his arms at his sides.

“Little bastard,” panted the older man, “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? I’ll take pleasure in making you pay.”

Draco struggled but couldn’t get traction. Rowle was taller and heavier than him. Rowle also probably hadn’t spent the last half a year filled with guilt and barely eating. The man’s eyes were small and cruel and Draco knew this wasn’t going to be good but whatever happened to him was better than having his mother suffer.

Rowle dragged Draco’s hands above his head and tried to pin his wrists in one hand. He was clearly trying to free up a hand and Draco used the chance to get one of his own hands free. He reached up and grabbed hold of the only thing he could, Rowle’s blonde hair, and he pulled mercilessly. The older man actually growled at him and letting go of Draco’s hand completely he reared back and slammed a fist into Draco’s eye. He felt his head rock to one side even as his vision exploded. He jerked his hips up from the ground hard and threw the older man forward. On instinct Draco reached up and grabbed hold of the man’s throat and twisted, jerking the man to the side and off of him enough so that Draco could wedge himself out from under him. He kept his hands on Rowle’s neck and drove him into the unforgiving floor, using his weight and momentum to press hard. Rowle grabbed at Draco’s wrists, but Draco didn’t let go. The man’s eyes grew large with panic. He raked his nails across Draco’s face, but despite the pain, Draco didn’t let go – didn’t lose focus.

His blood was pounding and he could hear it - hear the throb of his own pulse in his ears. Rowle grabbed at his wrists again, his face contorting in terror and still Draco leaned on his windpipe with everything he had.

“Draco!”

He shook his head, still focused on ending the fucker that had hurt his mother.

“Draco!”

It was his mother. It was her calling his name.

“Stop it! Draco, you aren’t a killer.”

He looked down again at Rowle’s face and then chanced a look up. His mother was still chained to the wall, her pale face luminous in the half-light.

“Draco, let go. Don’t do this,” she intoned, her blue eyes finding his. “You are my son, and this isn’t you – it never has been.”

He looked back down at Rowle. The man’s eyes were bloodshot. And fuck it all but he didn’t want to fracture his soul for this waste of a human being. He released the man and let him inhale a gasp of air before grabbing a fistful of his hair to pull him up and slamming his head down against the stone floor hard. The man groaned – hurt, but most definitely still alive.

“Don’t you fucking move,” said Draco as he pulled himself off the man and tried to stand. Everything hurt. He hobbled around the cell, looking for Rowle’s wand. He spotted it in the shadows by a side wall and stepped toward it when he heard a man’s voice say, “That’s quite enough, Draco.”

He turned to see Dolohov’s burly frame standing outside the cell with his wand pointed at him. Fuck, did these two always come as a pair?

He saw purple flames start to spout from the other Death Eater’s wand. He tensed in anticipation of whatever horrible injury was about to descend on him, when he heard a resonant voice say, “Flipendo,” and Dolohov was knocked back and the purple flames were extinguished.

“I don’t believe your orders were to kill my student,” said Severus Snape, stepping into view. “Expelliarmus,” he said and then neatly caught Dolohov’s wand. He flicked his wrist and the manacles still on Draco’s wrist dropped to the ground, clanging as they hit the stone floor.

“Sir?” asked Draco.

Snape subtly shook his head. He addressed the two Death Eaters on the floor who were both mumbling sounds of pain and confusion.

“The Dark Lord has had enough of your time wasting antics. You are to report to him in the drawing room for further instruction.”

Snape waited until the pair had clambered up from the floor and exited the dungeon, slamming the door behind them, and then he cast a silencing charm.

“Their orders were to question you about your former house elf’s whereabouts. I take it they engaged in sport instead?”

Draco nodded, still stunned to see his headmaster. When he found his voice he said, “Rowle was torturing my mother.”

Snape flicked his wand again, and Lucius and Narcissa were released from the wall. Draco limped over to his mother and grasped her hand. She managed to nod her head at him.

“We don’t know where that deranged house elf is,” said Lucius as he fought his way to his feet. “The creature hasn’t been a part of this household since Draco’s second year at school when Potter cheated me into freeing him.”

“He was working at Hogwarts until two days ago,” said Snape. “He has not returned.”

“Well if he isn’t there, how the bloody hell should we know where the elf has gone?” said his father who had come to crouch down by his wife as well.

“The Dark Lord is angry at Harry Potter’s escape. He is, however, inclined to be . . . merciful. He understands that you did not have a wand Lucius and that Draco was following Bellatrix’s orders. As such, she is carrying much of the blame.”

Narcissa took hold of the hand Lucius offered her, and between them they helped her stand.

“Draco is to immediately return to Hogwarts with me. His Lordship believes that Potter will be making his way to Hogwarts – it is the place the wretched boy considers home. Draco is to be there ready to help apprehend Potter and hand him over to the Dark Lord. Should he fail in this task – this final opportunity to redeem himself – the Dark Lord will no longer be merciful,” said the headmaster. “You two,” he said turning to Lucius and Narcissa, “Are to remain at the Manor.”

He was to . . . help apprehend Potter if the boy returned to Hogwarts? He was to turn over Potter, knowing that his parents remained in the Dark Lord’s clutches? Is that what it would come down to? A choice between the Boy-Who-Lived and his parents? Fuck. He thought he’d already made that choice, but no, the universe it seemed, wanted to put him through that agony once again.

“My son has no wand,” said Narcissa. “It was taken.”

Draco felt his face grow hot. The wand hadn’t been taken exactly. While he didn’t regret releasing the wand so that Potter could escape, he did feel a pang of loss. His wand was his most cherished possession. It had chosen him at eleven and he hadn’t been apart from it since.

“And the blasted wandmaker is gone now too,” observed Lucius.

Draco felt his eyes widen. He hadn’t thought of that, but yes, Ollivander, Lovegood, and Thomas were gone – Potter had managed to free them as well. Oh thank Merlin.

“Surely in this grandiose monstrosity you call a home there are wands that belonged to others in the family?” asked Snape, his voice dripping with incredulity.

“All Malfoys are buried with their wands,” said Lucius. “It’s tradition.”

“Draco would be in considerable danger without a wand,” said Snape. “He will also require one for his schoolwork.”

Narcissa lifted her chin. “I will see that he has a wand. When will you leave with him?”

“As soon as possible,” said Snape.

“He will be ready within an hour,” said his mother. She turned to Draco, “I didn’t get to finish healing the cuts on your face from the chandelier. And there are other bruises we need to see to before you leave.” She held her hand out to him. He hesitated for a moment before he took her hand and let her lead him out of the cell. His father followed behind. His mother’s gate was determined and her steps were sure. She walked with her held head high, and nothing in her movements suggested she had spent many hours chained against a stone wall. He realized that of all them, his mother was the strongest.

She deposited him in his room and urged him to shower, saying it would be better for her to heal him once he was clean and the filth of the dungeon was off of him. He’d done as he was told, and had gingerly bathed his face by dabbing at it with a wet washcloth. He had to keep his face out of the direct spray of the shower, as the water pressure was too painful, but the jets of water had felt glorious as it kneaded into his aching back and shoulder muscles. After he turned off the taps and wrapped himself in a towel, he stood before the mirror hanging above the bathroom sink. His face was a disaster. Cuts ran down one cheek, on the bridge of his nose, and even across his lips. It looked as if his mother had managed to heal one side of his face and his forehead before the Dark Lord’s arrival had interrupted her. In addition to the cuts, one of his eyes was swollen and turning a revolting shade of blackish purple. There were scratch marks down his face and neck courtesy of Rowle, his wrists were red and raw from the manacles, and half-moons where fingernails had broken the skin were all around his lower arms. Thank Merlin Blaise wasn’t here to see him like this. The bugger was already worried about him and this would put him right over the top. He secured the towel more tightly around his waist and emerged into his room. He immediately felt chill outside of the steamy, warm air of the bathroom, so he quickly pulled on some clean clothes. Just has he was pulling a dark jumper over his head, he heard a knock on the door.

“Draco,” called his mother, “May I come in?”

“Yes,” he called back.

His mother entered, looking like she had showered and changed as well. “While you were in the shower I had the house elves pack your trunk. You’ll leave for Hogwarts with Snape immediately – no need to wait for the train.”

He nodded.

Narcissa stepped forward and took hold of Draco’s chin. Holding him steady she worked slowly and precisely to heal the injuries on his face and arms. He felt the lingering sting of the wounds lessen and then disappear.

“Anywhere else?” she asked.

He twisted his arms a little and tilted up his head, revealing his neck. She made a face before proceeding to heal these wounds as well. When she was done, she lowered her wand and took hold of one of Draco’s hands. She pressed her wand into it. “I want you to take this with you.”

“No,” he said, trying to push the wand back to her. “I’ll not leave you here defenseless. I’ll get another wand – there must be spares at Hogwarts, or I’ll go to Diagon Alley and get one from one of Ollivander’s competitors.”

Her pale blue eyes met his. “My darling boy, whether or not I have a wand will do nothing to ensure my safety here. What will happen to me, will happen regardless. You – you have a chance, and you will take it. It will mean more to me knowing you have my wand than anything else in this world.”

Draco shook his head, ready with excuses, “I’ll worry about you. And it probably wouldn’t work for me anyway.”

“You’ve already done too much trying to keep me safe. You are a child, Draco, my child. It is my job to protect you – something I haven’t been much good at. You will grant me this request.”

“It still doesn’t mean the wand will respond to me.”

Narcissa smiled at him. “It is ebony with dragon heart string. From what I know of dragon heart string, it will bond strongly with its current owner. It should serve you well enough – better in fact than it would serve me here at the Manor.”

“Don’t make me, mother,” Draco pleaded.

She shook her head at him, her eyes sad. “No matter what happens my son, you are always in my heart. From the moment you were born – before even - you meant everything to me. If you love me, you will not deny me. I owe you. I owe Regulus. I made a promise and it is time I fulfilled it.”

He bowed his head, unable to look her in the face. She knew what she was asking would tear him up inside, but she had weighed the costs and her verdict was that Draco would have her wand. His mother must have known she had won, as she said, “Keep it safe. Keep yourself safe.”

He grasped the handle of her wand in his hand. It didn’t feel like his, but it didn’t feel entirely foreign either. He hefted the wand again before looking back up, “You too. Keep safe. And mind father.”

She nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Best get downstairs to Snape.”

Chapter 31: The Warning

Hogwarts was not the homecoming he’d once imagined it would be. He’d come back with Snape before classes resumed and didn’t get to take the train back with his friends. There were other students who had stayed at the school over break, but there weren’t any that Draco was close with besides Theo, and Theo was spending much of break holed up in the library in preparation for NEWTs.

Draco felt even more like a shell of himself. The wand in his hand felt foreign and his sleep, long troubled, was now practically nonexistent. As soon as he closed his eyes he could hear Granger’s screams, see Potter’s frightened eyes, and feel the pain of the torture course tear through his body.

During his many wakeful hours, when he wasn’t berating himself for not thinking of having Kreacher help Ollivander and Lovegood out of the dungeon, he tagged along with Theo to the library. While his friend wasn’t the most talkative, his quiet presence and support eased Draco’s mind.

Draco had already handed in his parchment on blood magic, but the topic had fascinated him, so while Theo made outlines for NEWTs, Draco read deeper on the topic. The more he read, the more he understood that everything he had been taught about magic being in one’s blood was absolute rubbish. History was full of Muggle-born wizards that had used blood magic with results equal to supposed pureblood wizards. Magic, he now believed, was tied to a person’s very soul and was therefore ingrained in every fibre of a person’s being, transcending anything as base as blood. The terms used to describe blood status – pureblood, half-blood, and mudblood - were not based on any magical scientific evidence that he could find.

It gave him a bit of a pleased thrill to think about what some of his ancestors would think of him now. He had, however, read that in times now long distant, the Malfoy family had not always been blood-purists. Until the Statute of Secrecy Act had been imposed, Malfoys had mingled in the world of Muggles, seeking favor, fortune, and power. It seemed that the Malfoy line for most of its thousand year history in Great Britain had been more concerned with power than with blood.

His research was interrupted the day the rest of the student body was on the Express bound for Hogwarts. The Carrows had summoned him. He felt naked without his wand. His mother’s wand had responded to the basic spells he’d tried casting with it thus far, but it wasn’t his hawthorn wand and he ached for it. Regardless of his wand situation, he could still make sure his Occlumency walls were fully up before entering Amycus’s office. He was perfectly composed when he presented himself at the appointed time. Alecto was present, idly running her fingertip along the few book titles on her brother’s shelves.

“I wasn’t sure you would join us Malfoy,” she said, giving him a brief glance. “Thinking you are a bit beyond the rest of us Death Eaters these days I suspect.”

“I report to Snape,” said Draco in a bored tone. “If you have problems with what I am tasked with, take it to him. I think you’ll find I’m not given much of a voice as to my assignments.”

“Perhaps,” said Alecto turning away from the books to sit in a chair across the desk from her brother. It was the only other chair in the room, which suited Draco fine as he preferred to remain standing in their presence.

“I’m sure you know about that business with the Ravenclaw, Luna Lovegood,” said Alecto, the sarcasm in her tone unmistakable. “It is most unfortunate that she was allowed to escape.”

Draco clenched his jaw. He’d paid quite a bit for the Easter debacle, but he couldn’t help but be glad that Lovegood, Ollivander, and even that Thomas boy were free. He hoped they were someplace safe.

“Yes,” chimed in Amycus, rubbing his chin, “It was useful to have the Lovegood girl contained. We knew she was going to be taken from the train, of course. You weren’t told so that any surprise you showed wouldn’t be feigned. Old Xeno Lovegood was far too outspoken in The Quibbler. The publication had become little more than a love letter to the Potter brat. Taking her shut off that problem – kept him in line – kept him publishing what we needed him to print.”

“I see,” said Draco.

“Our focus now is in this school. That disgraceful Gryffindor, Longbottom, has never complied with our expectations. All the other riffraff follow him – disgraceful students from less noble houses than ours – Corner, McMillan, Goldstein, Boot, Finnegan, and even the girls – Brown, the Patils, and that Weasley girl. For a pureblood Longbottom is a disgrace and a disappointment. We had hoped he could be swayed when he was made to understand the advantages of embracing his blood status. He has failed to do so.”

Draco swallowed, “I’m not surprised. His parents were tortured by Death Eaters. He’s practically an orphan because of our past actions.”

Alecto shrugged as if this was of no consequence to her.

“We believe he is the one behind the propaganda graffiti that has been showing up in the school. Dumbledore’s Army messages and all that rot,” said Amycus. “That band of troublemaking students of like mind follows him and he is the likely ring leader – him and that Weasley girl. Nasty little Gryffindor blood traitors both of them.”

“The Weasleys have always been . . . sympathetic to Muggles,” Draco said, trying to seem agreeable without agreeing with everything they said.

Amycus slapped the top of his desk. “Well we won’t have it in this school. Not anymore. Soon the whole of the Great Britain will bow down to the Dark Lord, and Hogwarts will no longer tolerate such treason.”

“We need you to keep an eye on Longbottom when he returns,” said Alecto. “Snape has agreed. We won’t ask you to get your precious hands dirty, but you will fill us in on his whereabouts as best you can. As Head Boy you should be able to do this by using the other prefects – at least the Slytherin prefects.”

“And what am I watching for?” asked Draco, willing himself to stand tall and aloof.

“You are going to make sure he is complying with our expectations. We will be giving him an incentive to do what he is told shortly upon his return,” said Amycus.

“And what will that be?”

Alecto smiled – it was not a warm or pleasant smile. “Taking the Lovegood girl hostage worked very well for our cause. We think Longbottom needs similar . . . motivation. He lives with his grandmother. We plan to snatch her as soon as the boy crosses the gate to the school. He won’t be able to apparate to help her even if she were able to get him a message. With her in our grasp he will have to toe the line or she will suffer the consequences.”

Oh fuck. He himself was bound to the Dark Lord by oath and by Mark, but the real reason he was tied to his master was because Narcissa was within his grasp. Now Longbottom would know that pain. He didn’t know much about the Gryffindor’s grandmother other than she was a pureblood who’d raised a son that had been a powerful Auror. He recalled his mother telling him that before the first War, the woman had been invited to all high society events and was known for her strong opinions. After the War and the torture of her son and daughter-in-law, she had pointedly refused attending any events hosted by anyone that was purported to have been loyal to Lord Voldemort or what he stood for.

“And once we have that doddering old lady in our clutches, we will have him. And you will let us know if you even hear a hint about him disobeying us. Understand?”

“Of course,” said Draco.

“We are pleased to hear this,” said Alecto. “We will leave the discussions with the prefects to you. You are dismissed.”

He nodded at the siblings and let himself out of the office. He waited until he’d rounded a corner in the corridor before he pulled out his pocket watch. The train would pull up to the station at Hogsmeade in about half an hour. The older students would get loaded onto the thestral carriages and would be arriving in about an hour’s time. Merlin what was he to do?

How in the hell could he warn Longbottom? He couldn’t get a message to him on the train. Nor could he race down to the station, that would look far too suspicious – he and the Gryffindor never spoke to each other – not willingly anyway. In their younger years the boy had been small and pudgy and inclined to mishaps of both the magical and physical variety. Draco had made him a target of his bullying – subjecting the boy to the treatment he himself was now used to receiving at home – belittlements, taunts, and being told he wouldn’t amount to anything. In recent years Longbottom had grown into himself – he was a force to be reckoned with. Gone was the bumbling boy. In this last year, with the absence of Potter and Weasley, he’d grown into a leader and was well respected by most of the student body sorted into houses other than Slytherin.

If he couldn’t get to Longbottom and warn him, then he’d have to warn his grandmother. He started to race toward the owlery, but would an owl get there in time? Where was it the Longbottoms lived? They were a pureblood family – they must have an estate – but where? He’d never really paid attention – until recently he’d only paid enough interest in Longbottom to torment him. Merlin, he had no idea how far an owl would have to fly. What if the family was someplace remote – like the bloody Orkneys? He stopped. He didn’t have time for a fucking owl. He closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind. Kreacher. Of course. House elves could go almost anywhere. Dobby had almost single-handedly rescued all the prisoners at the Manor. And as the heir of the House of Black, Kreacher would do as Draco bid.

He darted into the first empty classroom he found and then summoned the house elf, who arrived with a crack, clad in a clean tea towel with the Hogwarts crest, his silver locket polished and gleaming on his thin chest.

“Master Draco?”

“Kreacher – I need your help.”

The house elf bowed low, “It would be an honour to serve Master Regulus’s heir.”

“I need you to go to Longbottom’s grandmother’s house – shit – what is her name?” He wracked his brain, trying to remember the family trees of pureblood families his father had made him study before it came to him. “Augusta Longbottom. Warn her that Death Eaters are coming for her. They want to take her prisoner so that they can hold her grandson hostage. Tell her to flee. For Neville Longbottom’s sake she can’t be caught.”

“Yes, Master Draco. Anything else?”

“I . . . I order you not to tell anyone that you have done this or that I asked you to. I can’t be found out.”

The wizened house elf bowed low and with a crack he was gone, leaving Draco feeling panicked and breathing hard in the classroom. He pulled out his watch and kept checking it. The minutes passed. He couldn’t look away from the second hand pacing its way around the dial. After over eight grueling minutes the house elf returned.

“Did you find her?”

“Kreacher had to ask an elf that works in the Hogwarts student records Department where the Longbottoms lived. That elf was terribly slow in giving Kreacher the address.”

“But you got to her in time?”

The elf nodded, “Oh yes, Master Draco. She is a proud woman, and stern. Reminded Kreacher of Mistress Black.”

“So she’ll run?”

The elf shook his head, “Oh no. Terribly proud she is, like I said. She means to put up a fight. I could feel her magic and her rage. She’ll not go down lightly. A force to be reckoned with that one.”

He ground his fists in frustration. What the ever-loving fuck! The woman was supposed to flee. She was a bloody grandmother – what business did she have fighting Death Eaters. He growled his wrath aloud, “I can’t fucking do anything right! I try to serve the Dark Lord and I fucking fail – I try to help Potter’s fucking fan club and I fail!” He kicked at a desk and it skidded away. Not satisfied he drew out his borrowed wand and started levitating and hurling the remaining desks and chairs around the classroom, relishing the sound of them colliding with the stone walls. Splinters of wood flew throughout the space.

“Kreacher is sorry to have displeased you Master Draco.”

Draco hurled the last desk against the wall with even more force and watched it shatter, then panting from the strain he knelt on the ground before the house elf.

“You were brilliant Kreacher. I . . . Thank you.” He dropped his wand and pressed his hands to his temples. “I just never get anything right. I’m not brave like your Master Harry or like Regulus. I’m not brilliant the way my cousin was either. Nothing I ever do is enough. All I do is trivial bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything.”

The house elf stood at his side, silent.

“He has my mother,” he said, feeling himself break down. “He has my mother. What can I really do while he has her? I try and I try and nothing I do makes a fucking bit of difference. I’d have you go get her, but I don’t think she’d leave my father, and he won’t go, not while there is a chance to restore himself to glory. And where would they go that the Dark Lord wouldn’t find them? Where?”

He felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. Merlin, he was useless. What good did crying about things do? He raised his hands to his face to wipe away his tears and he noticed that his hand was bleeding from a splinter protruding from his skin.

“Master Regulus struggled as well. Kreacher thinks . . . I think . . . he would be proud of Master Draco.”

He felt a light touch at his shoulder and turned his tear-streaked face to the ancient house elf. The elf pat his shoulder one more time and then withdrew his hand.

“Thank you Kreacher. Master Regulus was very lucky to have you. So is your Master Harry whether he realizes it or not.”

The elf nodded.

Draco wiped a hand across his face again before saying, “You best get back down to the kitchen before you are missed. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Of course, Master Draco,” said the elderly elf, who bowed low before vanishing with a crack.

Alone now, he pulled the shard of wood from his hand and watched blood pool at the wound before trickling in a thin ribbon down his wrist. His family’s belief in the supposedly superior blood that ran in his veins is what had originally bound him to the Dark Lord’s cause. He ran his fingertips through his blood, streaking it in a crimson smudges across his skin. His blood didn’t look any more special – any more pure - than he imagined anyone else’s would.

By the time he collected himself enough to leave the classroom and made his way down to the Slytherin dorm the students returning on the Express had arrived. This didn’t leave him much time to find the fucking Gryffindor. Then he remembered that Corner was still in the hospital wing. Longbottom, being the kind-hearted git that he was, would likely go there first thing to check on his friend. Suppressing a groan, Draco, hauled himself back up the stairs and loitered by the hospital’s entrance. Every time he heard footsteps, he looked up, and after a few false alarms, he at last saw Longbottom.

“Longbottom,” he called.

The taller boy inclined his head, “Malfoy.”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t think we do,” said Longbottom.

Draco felt his face grow hot. He fucking hated dealing with self-righteous Gryffindors. And he really fucking hated that they were often correct in their self-righteousness.

“Listen,” he growled, as he stepped in closer to Longbottom, blocking his way, “This is important.”

“Everything all right there gentleman?”

Draco half turned to see Madam Pomfrey standing in the doorway to the hospital.

“Just fine,” said Longbottom. “Malfoy here was just leaving.”

Draco turned back to the lousy Gryffindor and scowled – really putting effort in it, before stepping out of the way. The taller boy walked past him toward Madam Pomfrey.

“Have a pleasant evening, Malfoy,” Longbottom called back as he crossed the threshold of the hospital.

Draco had fumed the whole way back down to the Slytherin dormitory. He’d sat amongst his friends before the fire in the common room, but even their chatter couldn’t draw him out of his dark mood, and Salazar knows that Blaise and Pansy put a real effort into it. Theo, always less bold then Blaise and Pansy, and very astute by nature, had sat beside him in silence, but had reached out and squeezed his shoulder. That gesture had done the most for Draco, but he still was battling his feelings after they’d all ascended to the Great Hall for dinner. Even if he’d had a chance of recovering, Greg shot it all to hell by asking everyone what they had done over Easter break.

He couldn’t focus on any of the answers his friends gave, as his mind was caught in a loop remembering Granger’s screams, Weasley’s desperate cries of despair, Potter’s look of fear, and the shards of fractured light as a chandelier crashed to the floor. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to calm himself, but he heard again the sounds of his mother’s pain as she was tortured. He felt the flickers of pain through his body from the memory of being cursed with Crucio, and his fingers itched as he thought of how they’d wrapped around Rowle’s throat.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

His eyes snapped open. For a moment he couldn’t focus on anything.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

He took a breath and turned to see Alecto standing behind him.

“Now that I have your attention,” she said, a hint of disapproval in her voice, “I require you to meet me in my office after dinner.”

The witch didn’t give Draco a chance to respond, before she strode off. He turned back to his plate and stared at the food he’d not had an appetite to eat.

“Draco?” he heard Pansy ask across the table from him.

He looked up to find her eyes intent on his face. He glanced around and saw that all of his friends were looking at him with concerned looks – well except for Vince. The boy seemed oblivious and was still shoveling food from his plate to his mouth.

And he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take their sympathy – their pity – their support. Whatever it was they were offering he just couldn’t take it. He didn’t deserve a scrap of kindness, not after everything he’d done – not after he’d watched as Granger had been viciously tortured by his aunt and had done nothing but let himself drift away from reality and sink into numbness.

He pushed his plate back and rose from the table.

“You need to eat something Draco,” said Blaise, a crease of worry settling between his brows.

“I’ve no appetite. Besides, best see what I’m in store for with the Carrows.”

“Not sure why they’re summoning just you,” said Vince between bites of his meal. “Greg and I have done more for them lately than you ever have.”

Draco sneered, and the gesture felt both familiar and satisfying. “If you have problem with their choices Vince, ask them about it.”

It didn’t take him long to reach Alecto’s office after he’d left his classmates behind in the Great Hall, and he found her brother there as well.

“Our plan has changed,” said Alecto from her spot seated behind her desk. Amycus was settled into one of the two chairs in front of his sister’s desk, but neither of them invited Draco to sit.

“What plan?”

“Auror Dawlish – the one under the Confundus Charm – was sent to collect that old Longbottom hag. She fought him. He must be a useless Auror if a decrepit woman could land him in St. Mungo’s.”

Draco resisted the urge to grin. So Augusta Longbottom had been more than the Carrows and the Death Eater controlled Ministry had bargained for.

“So without her, we have no control over her grandson, “ said Alecto. “I suppose we could take his parents, but they don’t know him from Godric, so it’s not like we’d have hold of anyone worthwhile in his life.”

Draco begged to differ, but he wasn’t going to explain to the Carrows that just because Longbottom’s parents weren’t capable of knowing who their son was didn’t mean that the Gryffindor didn’t love them or wouldn’t try and protect them. Draco’s father was a broken down shell of a man, and Merlin, he’d done a lot to try and protect him. The Carrows didn’t seem able to comprehend devotion and love.

“So the plan has changed,” continued Alecto.

“If we are having a Death Eater meeting,” said Draco, achieving a passable imitation of a bored drawl, “Shouldn’t Headmaster Snape be present?”

Alecto waved her hand, “Snape has made it clear that he is far too busy to concern himself with this matter.”

“But you’re not?” asked Draco.

“Mind your tone, Malfoy,” said Amycus.

“We know that you are Snape’s little pet project - or perhaps pity project is more appropriate,” said Alecto, her eyes meeting his. “We know that Snape doesn’t want you getting your princely hands dirty, but your role in our concerns will be regulated to your duties as Head Boy.”

With the remnants of his pride he lifted his chin at the stocky woman and held her gaze. He wouldn’t let this miserable excuse of a professor bully him into betraying embarrassment. “If you have a problem with how Snape is handling me,” he said in his frostiest tone, “Then I suggest you take it up with the Headmaster.”

The woman actually looked away. He flexed his shoulders a bit, grounding himself in the moment.

“Longbottom will be serving a detention with us tonight,” said Amycus, seemingly not observing the power play between his student and his sister.

“What for?” asked Draco.

“He visited his friend in the hospital wing this afternoon and stayed past visiting hours.”

“That’s a rule?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s a rule if we damn well say it is,” snapped Amycus, his temper flashing to the fore.

“We will deal with him appropriately,” said Alecto. “While he is serving his detention, you, as Head Boy, will search his room to find out if there is any incriminating evidence linking him to Potter or the Order of the Phoenix - he must be a member – he was at the altercation at the Ministry and he is a known friend of Potter and his crew. He may even have a letter letting him know where Potter is.”

Draco felt his brows lift. He very much doubted Longbottom – or at least Longbottom as he was now - would keep such incriminating information in his room even if he possessed it. “And how am I supposed to get into Gryffindor tower? I doubt a Slytherin has ever gone there in a thousand years. Merlin knows that McGonagall would never willingly reveal the password.”

“Before the holiday we came to an arrangement with a third year student who has a Muggle for a mother,” said Amycus with a smile. “I think we can be assured of having the correct password at our disposal.”

Draco was pretty certain he knew what had prompted the third year to give up the proverbial keys to Gryffindor tower. He hoped the student’s mother was alive and unharmed.

“And what happens to Longbottom?”

“He will start to understand his place in the new world order that the Dark Lord is bringing.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Alecto shrugged, “Then I’m sure that it won’t take long for him to be given another detention before the week’s end. Insolent boy that he is, it will be no trouble finding a rule he violated.”

“And if not, we’ll make something up,” said her brother.

“We will use our . . . time with Mr. Longbottom to convince him to set aside his blood traitor ways and embrace his pureblood ancestry. And let’s just say that if he doesn’t cooperate with us fully,” said Alecto with a smile, “There might soon be three Longbottoms in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s.”

 

It had taken all the reserve Draco had been taught and all the strength of his Occlumency not to show how much he loathed the plan the Carrows had sprung on him. He’d waited until a quarter of an hour past the time Longbottom was to report for detention before he made his way all the way up to the seventh floor and the entrance of Gryffindor Tower. At last he stood before the portrait of a large woman in a silk gown of pale pink in a style fashionable over a hundred and fifty years earlier. The woman was older, with fine lines on her face and hints of silver in her light brown hair that was curled and primped to match the era of her dress.

As Draco stood before her, she lifted a single eyebrow, “A Slytherin? I do not recall ever admitting one of your house before.” She peered at him from her canvas, narrowing her eyes. “You have the look of another I admitted at many a late hour. Black was his name, Sirius Black. You have his eyes.”

When Draco said nothing to her remark, the portrait shrugged and queried, “Password?”

“Unitum stamos,” Draco supplied.  

The pink lady’s eyes widened in surprise, and then, after a delicate wave of her hand, the canvas door noiselessly swung open.

Draco took a deep breath and then stepped in to the forbidden territory of the den of the lions. And fuck – the room screamed that it was the Gryffindor common room. All the upholstered furniture, pillows, rugs, and tapestries were crimson and gold. The couches and chairs looked comfortable and inviting, and a fire crackled merrily – Salazar help him, merrily – in the hearth of a large fireplace. As his gaze swept the room the chatter of students suddenly stopped. All eyes were on him.

“What the bloody hell?” said a voice he recognized as Finnegan.

Draco turned toward the boy, who rose to his feet from a seat by the hearth. The prefect Prewett, stood as well.

“How did you get in here?” asked Prewett.

“I was given the password by the Carrows. I’m here on official Head Boy business.”

“No way,” said Finnegan. “No prefect from another house has ever come into this common room before. Houses handle their own. And I don’t think a Slytherin has ever darkened our door.”

“I didn’t ask to come to this room where your house colors have been vomited on every surface. I was assigned a task as Head Boy and I will carry it out,” said Draco giving a glance he hoped was withering.

“Right,” said Finnegan striding toward him, “I’m sure you were only too eager for this – whatever the fuck this is. If Harry were here you’d not take another step. He’d see to you and the damned Carrows.”

Draco made a show of shrugging his shoulders. “Well Potter isn’t here now is he?”

“Do you know who else isn’t here?” asked Prewett. “Ginny Weasley. She wasn’t on the train.”

Draco’s mind whirled – he couldn’t recall any mention of the Weasley girl being snatched – or any plan involving her being taken.

“Wouldn’t know anything about that would you Malfoy?” asked Finnegan coming to a stop directly in front of him. “Any mates of yours involved?”

Draco met the other boy’s eyes. Finnegan was stockier than him, but Draco still had a height advantage.

“Watch it Finnegan. I don’t care for what you are implying.”

Now it was the Gryffindor’s turn to shrug, “Not implying anything at all Malfoy. Why ever would you think that?”

“Stand aside,” he said as icily as he could. “If you don’t, the Carrows will hear about this and they will not be kind when doling out discipline.”

The Gryffindor’s brows drew together, “I’m going to find McGonagall. She’ll put a stop to this. Watch him Prewett.”

The boy started away from Draco toward the exit door. “I wouldn’t if I were you Finnegan. There’s nothing McGonagall can do. Not really. Not anymore. Best for everyone to just let me get on with it.”

Finnegan glared back at him as he paused in the doorway, “We’ll see about that.”

After the other boy left Draco found himself to still be the center of attention. He lifted his chin and said, “Get back to whatever trivial things you were doing.” He turned to Prewett, “Show me the way to Longbottom’s room.”

Prewett stared at him and Draco could tell the boy was about to deny him.

“Fine. I imagine I can find it Prewett,” he glanced at the two stair cases undoubtedly leading higher up the tower to the students’ rooms. One stairway had a cluster of girls hanging about the entrance, while a slack-jawed boy was descending from the other, his eyes on the Slytherin in their midst. “Boy’s dormitory – top floor as a seventh year I’ve no doubt. Ten points from Gryffindor for your failure to assist me.”

“But I’m a prefect,” spluttered Prewett.

“Yes,” retorted Draco. “And I’m the Head Boy – I’m in charge of all the prefects and you failed in your duties to me.”

Draco turned away from Prewett and headed toward the stairs. He pointedly ignores the gasps as he starts to ascend to the boys’ dormitories. Prewett clambers after him, spouting about the unjustness and impropriety of a Slytherin prefect entering the Gryffindor dormitory and taking away house points. At the top of the stairs he opens the door. He finds five beds with crimson canopies and curtains. This couldn’t be Longbottom’s room. He’d only be sharing with Finnegan this year. And then he realized. The school knew five boys were supposed to be here and it had prepared for them. Potter, Weasley, and Thomas hadn’t shown up at the start of the year, but the school – as if it were sentient – knew that they belonged here at Hogwarts.

For a minute he felt wretched thinking about how Longbottom and Finnegan must feel encountering three empty beds and spaces in their room every day – a constant reminder of their absent friends.

“You really shouldn’t be here Malfoy,” said Prewett from behind him. “After how you handled things that night when we found the Slytherin and Hufflepuff students together in the broom closet, I’d thought more of you. Guess I was wrong.”

Draco spun around and pulled the other boy into the room and slammed the door. He pressed the Gryffindor hard against the wall.

“Enough Prewett. Didn’t you hear me in the common room? I didn’t ask to be here – I’m under orders from the Carrows. I’m to search Longbottom’s room – nothing more. If I’d refused, what do you think they’d do to me?”

Prewett, for a noble Gryffindor, made a passable effort at sneering at him. “What they do to the rest of us Malfoy. Might be good for you Slytherins to get a taste of your own medicine.”

“I’ve had my fair share of discipline,” said Draco, leaving his retort at that. He wasn’t about to tell the other prefect how he’d been tortured over the Easter holiday.

He let go of the other boy. Now you can either help me so I can be out of your fucking noble Gryffindor hair sooner or you can at least stop stalling me. The Carrows aren’t going to be pleased if I’m delayed and I don’t want your name to be thrown into their mix.”

Prewett’s eyebrows raised in what Draco imagined to be surprise. “You’re serious aren’t you? You don’t want to see me punished.”

“If you’d experienced what I had, you wouldn’t want anyone punished in the same ways.”

“Malfoy, I . . . I never thought. I’m so-”

“Enough,” said Draco, cutting the younger boy off. He couldn’t deal with apologies or expressions of sympathy or kindness. Salazar knew he didn’t deserve it. “You have my word that if you accidentaly Incendio anything while you are assisting me that I won’t report you. Hell – I won’t even have seen the deed. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” said Draco turning toward Longbottom’s space. He knew it was Longbottom’s as plants were crowded atop the chest of drawers and a Remembrall rested on the nightstand. He remembered that artefact. Potter had won himself a spot on the Quidditch team in first year after Draco had cruelly taken it. Merlin, he’d been such a wanker. Was still a wanker really.

He opened the top drawer of the stand and found some items common to a teenage boy that he cared not to think about. The next drawer, however, contained something even more alarming. Inside was a photograph of a young couple that Draco could only presume to be Longbottom’s parents. The man was tall and broad – a lot like Longbottom himself, but the young man Draco knew clearly got his coloring from his mother. The woman was a head shorter than the man, and she cradled an infant in her arms. The young couple’s faces were captured in a moving loop as they gazed at the baby with wonder and adoration before looking at each other, their faces alight with smiles. Fuck. This was the family that his aunt and in-laws had destroyed. His fucking extended family had robbed Longbottom of the chance to grow up with loving parents. He shut the drawer. He couldn’t look in it anymore. He’d glimpsed something too intimate. He turned away from the nightstand and saw Prewett going through the chest at the foot of Longbottom’s bed.

“Nothing in here but books and such,” said Prewett.

Draco nodded and turned toward the wardrobe. He found an assortment of clothes. Longbottom apparently had a thing for jumpers of the fair-isle variety, but he didn’t see anything more incriminating than that. Prewett had moved on to a chest of drawers and called over his shoulder, “Just socks and pants.”

Draco had no desire to search amongst Longbottom’s pants, so he left those drawers to Prewett. He knelt down and peeked under the bed draped in curtains so crimson they offended his eyes. Underneath was bare but for a small box. Draco pulled it out and it was filled with letters from Longbottom’s grandmother. He sifted through them and read a few lines from one. Merlin, the lady wasn’t the warm and cuddly sort judging from the words she wrote her grandson. Beneath the letters were snapshots of Longbottom with friends – mostly Gryffindors but some included the Ravenclaw girl that until recently had been a prisoner in the Manor. A few of the pictures included Potter and Draco willed himself not to focus on the black-haired boy and get through his task. He closed the box and shoved it back under the bed. Prewett was standing on the rug by the bed gaping down at him. Draco ignored the prefect and lifted the mattress. Nothing. He stood and pulled back the covers and looked under the pillows. Nothing.

“Did you check his desk?” he asked Prewett.

“Yeah, nothing but a bunch of quills, pots of ink, and reams of parchment for an herbology assignment.”

Draco nodded and pulled the desk chair over the edge of the bed. He stood on it to peak up above on top of the canopy. For some unfathomable reason there was a toad up there.

“Why is there a toad on the very top of Longbottom’s bed?” he asked.

The other boy shrugged. “It’s Trevor,” he said, as if that meant something, which Draco supposed it did to other Gryffindors, but not to him.

He climbed down off the chair and slid it back. He also put the pillows back where they belonged and pulled up the bed covers. When Prewett wasn’t looking Draco reached in his pocket and pulled out a vial of pain relief potion which he left on one of Longbottom’s pillows. He hoped the Gryffindor wouldn’t need it after his session with the Carrows, but Draco thought it more than likely that he would.

“Nothing to find here,” said Prewett as Draco turned toward him.

“Nothing,” Draco confirmed.

“The Carrows aren’t going to be happy.”

Draco shrugged, “Happy or not, I did what they asked and tossed Longbottom’s room.”

He quickly glanced at the empty beds and Finnegan’s space. He supposed he could search those as well, but he decided to follow the letter of the Carrows direction and confine his search to Longbottom’s things. That in itself was a blatant violation of the Gryffindor’s privacy – no point in adding to his crimes by searching Finnegan’s personal effects or invading the ghostlike spaces of the three absent students. He looked at the empty beds again and wondered which one had been Potter’s. Windows ringed the tower room. He liked to imagine that the window with the best view of the Quidditch pitch had been Potter’s. He could almost picture the Boy-Who-Lived peering out the glass toward the pitch as the sun rose and early morning haze covered the ground.

Draco shook himself from his mental wanderings and thanked Prewett for his assistance.

“Yeah, sure, ‘assistance’ is what we’re calling this,” said the boy. “I think of it more like being your chaperone. I’ll be able to let Finnegan know that none of his stuff was searched and assure Longbottom that you weren’t a filthy pilferer.”

Draco sighed, “Be sure to tell the noble prat that his toad is above the bed. I don’t want to be blamed for its disappearance.”

Prewett actually smiled at him. Draco hastily turned away and let himself out the door and down the stairs. He could have heard a wand drop as he walked the length of the common room to the exit. It felt like he was walking a gauntlet with all the hostile looks leveled at him. He’d no more than gotten out of the portrait hole door when McGonagall came surging down the corridor toward him, with Finnegan in her wake.

“What is the meaning of this Mr. Malfoy,” the professor demanded. “Never in all my years – never in all the years of this school – has a prefect of another house searched a student’s room. This is a gross and blatant violation of privacy.”

Draco held up a hand, “Professor, I did this under the orders of the Carrows who are deputy headmasters and in charge of discipline. I could not refuse them.”

“I really must insist - ”

“Then insist to them,” he interrupted. He didn’t want to listen to a lecture. “I took one of the Gryffindor prefects with me – Prewett – and he oversaw everything I did. He can vouch for me that I was a swift as possible and that I did nothing untoward to any of Longbottom’s things. I found this whole business unpleasant and beneath me. I hope not to repeat it.”

And then damn it all, but the professor’s face softened – softened at him. What the fuck was it with Gryffindors sympathizing with him today. He couldn’t bloody take it.

“Will that be all, professor?” he asked, keeping his tone impersonal.

McGonagall sighed, “Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Godric forbid that you allow yourself too much of a moment to be a real boy. Off to your dormitory you go.”

Finnegan looked fit to be tied to see Draco dismissed so easily, and Draco couldn’t help but smirk at the Gryffindor on his way by.

 

Longbottom made it all the way until Thursday the first week back from the Easter holiday before it all went to hell. On the first day of classes, the day after Longbottom’s detention, the boy had shown up to breakfast looking like he’d been pummeled, and judging by the pleased expression on Vince’s face as the Gryffindor had walked through the Great Hall, Draco guessed that was near to the truth. An owl had arrived for the bruised boy, which was out of the ordinary as Longbottom usually only received a letter at the end of each week. Draco had, he hated to admit, spent rather too much time sending guarded glances over at the Gryffindor table since his first days at Hogwarts. As he’d crumbled his toast to bits in his plate he’d seen a look akin to wonder flash across Longbottom’s face for a moment before he tucked the missive into his pocket.

Draco had been curious about the contents of the letter. Whatever it said must have rallied Longbottom, for he’d kept his head high and continued to defy the Carrows. He’d been careful at first, Draco gave him that, giving smiles and words of support to younger students in the hallways – urging everyone who didn’t sport a green and silver tie to remember that Potter would return and bring an end to their troubles. Things came to a head however, when a second year Hufflepuff had done something on her way through the corridors to anger Alecto Carrow. Longbottom had placed himself bodily between the young girl and the livid professor and had dared to raise his wand at Alecto and told her in no uncertain terms to pick on someone her own size.

Longbottom had instantly received a lash across his face that left a cut across one cheek and had been ordered to report to detention that night.

Draco hadn’t seen this encounter, he’d been in Potions with Slughorn at the time, but he’d heard all about it. It was the talk of the castle, how the brave Gryffindor had stood up against Professor Carrow. And Draco knew what the consequences would be - knew what the vicious siblings had in store for the boy whose heart led him to be courageous.

So when he should have been anywhere but skulking in the seventh floor corridor close to the Gryffindor common room door, Draco once again found himself lying in wait for Longbottom of all people. He took a deep breath. He’d told the prefects on patrol this evening to keep close to the Great Hall as there was a rumor that it would be targeted by vandals with graffiti. Draco had started that particular rumor himself, and he hoped that it would keep the patrolling prefects far away from this floor.

He glanced at his pocket watch. Only a few minutes remained before the hour. He peered out from the alcove he’d ferreted away in. He heard footsteps. Sure enough, it was Longbottom likely making his way toward the third floor and the Dark Arts classroom for his detention. Just as the Gryffindor was about to pass him by, Draco grabbed him by the arm, pulled him into the shadows, and slapped a hand over Longbottom’s mouth. The boy jerked, but Draco kept a firm grip and looked into the boy’s glaring eyes and said, “They’re after you Longbottom – the Carrows. They tried to snatch your grandmother, but she got away – did a number on the ministry official they sent to get her.”

Longbottom struggled in Draco’s grasp and then slammed his knee into Draco’s groin. Draco started to double over, but didn’t release his hold. The Gryffindor shoved at him again, and Draco ground out, “They wanted to hurt her.”

He met Longbottom’s eyes and then released his hold and slumped back against the wall. Longbottom, who was obviously a smarter bastard than Draco had given him credit for in the past cast a silencing charm in the alcove.

“I know. My Gran sent me an owl after. Why’d they want her?” asked the Gryffindor, his voice low and harsh.

“To control you,” answered Draco, straightening up. “If they had her, they’d have you in their power. But she got away. So now they are coming after you, and if you think what they did to Corner was bad, you had better believe that what they have in mind for you is fucking brutal.”

Longbottom raised his chin, defiant despite the bruises on his face. “Why should I believe you. Why would you ever warn me, Malfoy?”

He barely restrained himself from snarling at the other boy. Didn’t the fucker get it? This was urgent, he had to flee. “For fuck’s sake Longbottom, you’ve seen what the Carrows do to students who defy them. Who defies them more than you? Whether or not you believe me, you should be able to read the writing on the wall – they are out to make you suffer.” Longbottom’s face remained hard, so Draco said much more quietly, “They have my mother. I know what it’s like to be controlled because they have hold of someone you love.”

The Gryffindor’s eyes grew large, likely surprised by Draco’s honesty. The other boy swallowed, considering, before saying, “Godric, Malfoy, I must admit for a Slytherin and a Death Eater you’ve shocked the bloody hell out of me.”

“Just go Longbottom. Get out of here, yeah? I can’t – I can’t be seen with you.”

Longbottom nodded, “Right. Cause they’ve got your mum.”

Draco nodded, and then the Gryffindor went and shocked the bloody hell out of him by holding out his hand to Draco. Feeling his eyebrows lift in surprise, Draco stood frozen for a moment before he gingerly extended his hand. Longbottom grasped it and shook it, saying, “Thanks, Malfoy,” before dropping his hand and turning away.

They both froze for a moment as they heard footsteps in the corridor and the Carrows voices could be heard.  They must have come to fetch Longbottom to ensure he reported to his detention.

"Get out of here," Draco hissed, and the other boy didn't need any further encouragement.  He broke from alcove and ran.

Draco couldn't watch the Gryffindor's progress down the corridor as he had to remain hidden in the shadows of the alcove.  He heard the sound of quickening steps and shouting.  He held his breath, hoping that the Carrows didn't find either him or Longbottom.  As the footsteps passed him by, he hazarded a look out and saw Amycus was rapidly catching up with Longbottom while his winded sister lagged behind.  He lobbed off a stinging hex at the back of Amycus's legs.  The hex struck and Amycus skidded to the ground cursing loudly.  Draco dove fully back into his hiding hole and quietly cast a Disillusionment charm on himself.  He had no idea where Longbottom would go, but he hoped like hell it would be far away from the fucking Carrows and their perverted idea of justice.

Chapter 32: Snape Revealed

In the days after Longbottom’s disappearance, the student population continued to dwindle. Each morning fewer upper level Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs reported to the Great Hall for breakfast. At first it was a handful of boys that were missing, and then girls went missing too. The Carrows had been livid when Longbottom had evaded them and they’d summoned Draco and had him organize all the prefects to search the castle. The renegade Gryffindor hadn’t been found despite all the places the prefects had searched. Draco prided himself on being familiar with Hogwarts, but he’d found a few secret spaces and hallways he hadn’t known existed before, but none of these places sheltered Longbottom.

“The Patil girls are gone today,” said Blaise to his right. “Soon it will just be us Slytherins left.”

Draco fixed his tea before saying to Blaise in a low voice, “If it comes to it, you get out too. You, Theo, and the others. It’s not safe for you.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” said Blaise. “I’m safer than most.”

Draco shook his head. “No one is safe with the Dark Lord. If things go south, and you have the chance, you get far away. Understand?”

“You too. You get out too.”

Draco tapped at his forearm that bore the Mark. “There is no getting out for me Blaise, but it would mean a lot to me if I knew my friends were safe.”

Blaise opened his mouth to respond when the Malfoy family’s eagle owl swooped down to the breakfast table, a letter clutched in its talons. Draco reached up, and caught the missive. Across from him a letter arrived for Theo as well and the boy bumbled the catch, the letter landing in his breakfast plate. Theo looked over at Draco and glared, “Not a word you show off of a seeker.”

Draco smiled to himself as he broke the seal he recognized as his mother’s. The letter was brief.

My dearest Draco-

My sister Andromeda’s grandchild has been born to her daughter and son-in-law. I understand they have named the child Edward Lupin after my sister’s deceased Muggle-born husband. The Dark Lord and Bellatrix are not joyous about the news of another child with Black blood in this world.

Be safe my child.  Each night I search for your namesake in the sky.

Love,
Mother

He clutched at the parchment for a moment before he spelled it ablaze. Pansy jumped at the sight of the letter scorching to ash in Draco’s fingers.

He ignored the curious glances of his friends and housemates, and brushed the soot from his fingertips onto his napkin.

Lupin’s child had been born. He had a cousin – a cousin with the blood of Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and werewolves commingling in his veins, along with the blood of the Blacks. Of course Bellatrix would be incensed – she would think of the child as an abomination. The Dark Lord would likely think this as well, but he'd also despise the child as the baby represented hope to the Order of the Phoenix – a new life born to those who resisted all Lord Voldemort stood for.

The month of April ground on. Students and staff were tense. Everyone sensed that things were coming to a head, and more students disappeared. On the last day of the month, Snape summoned Draco to his office. Draco had barely seen the headmaster since his return from the Easter holiday. He’d been left to deal with the Carrows on his own, let alone any issues he may have developed after his imprisonment and torture in his own home.

Just before curfew, Draco walked up the stairs to the office, wary and on alert. Snape appeared to be looking out one of the windows and as soon as Draco was in the room, the headmaster turned to face him. The man looked exhausted – his face was drawn and there were dark smudges under his eyes. Draco stood in silence, and restrained himself from shifting under Snape’s gaze.

“It is time, Draco, to make a choice. Where will you stand during the final battle?”

Draco met the other man’s dark eyes.

“Make no mistake,” continued Snape, “The final battle is coming. And when it does, you will have to decide to whom you are loyal.”

Was this a test? The answer was supposed to be the Dark Lord. Of course that was the answer Snape was looking for. But in his heart, Draco knew that wasn’t his answer. He was loyal to his mother, and curse him, he was also loyal to his wretched father - mostly for his mother’s sake. Draco may never have been, and would likely never be, the heir his father had hoped for, but he knew his mother meant the world to his father.

“Potter will return. It won’t be long now,” said the headmaster.

The fucking chosen one. It was always about him – had been for as long as Draco could remember. The Gryffindor was always on Draco’s mind. What had Potter done to him? Why could he never get the blasted boy out of his head?

“This is your chance Draco,” said Snape, his dark eyes turned on him. “This is your chance to redeem yourself in his eyes.”

He clenched a fist at his side. “I don’t think I’ll ever redeem myself in his eyes, sir.”

Snape tilted his head a fraction. “Who do you think we are speaking of?”

Draco felt his eyes widen. Surely they were speaking of Lord Voldemort. Who else did Snape expect him to be loyal too?

“When I was young – not much older than you – I made a choice. I chose hatred and fear over love. It cost me . . . everything. I am haunted now by that choice – haunted by green eyes – her eyes.”

“Sir?”

“He has her eyes you know. Whenever I see Harry Potter’s face, I see Lily Evans’ eyes staring back at me, reminding me of who I should have been – what I should have done.”

Draco dearly wanted to sit down, but he hadn’t been invited to. “I . . . I don’t understand, sir,” he stammered.

Snape turned away for a moment to regard the empty frame belonging to the portrait of Dumbledore. “You were born during the first War. I’ve watched you – known you – for your entire life. I know you are haunted by the same eyes.”

He grasped at his self-control. He couldn’t betray his feelings – not to Snape – not to a Death Eater who had the ear of the Dark Lord.

The headmaster turned back to him. “Dumbledore understood the conflict inside of you. Inside of me. Potter is a rare person. When it matters most, he will always choose the light.”

Draco swallowed, thinking of the scars crisscrossing his body, and he wasn’t so sure if he agreed with this version of Potter.

“You and I, Draco, and Dumbledore as well – there is a darkness within us. We struggle. We are . . . fundamentally human and flawed. We make the wrong choices. We misplace our loyalty. In my case, and in Dumbledore’s, we both lost someone we loved by placing our trust in another who did not deserve it. You still have a chance. Will you stand with the Dark Lord? Or will you stand with the light?”

He took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists. “You can’t . . . You . . . You're a . . . spy?  Are you are loyal to the Order of the Phoenix?"

"A double agent," Snape confirmed.

"You want Potter to win," Draco breathed, struggling to understand why the man would support the boy he'd always seemed to despise.  "Why?”

“He’s his mother’s son. I . . . failed her. I . . . owe it . . . to her – to her memory.”

“Lily Evans,” he breathed. By all that was holy – Lily Evans – she had meant something to Snape. She had given her life to protect her son and Snape was risking his life for her – for her son. The password – Lilium – it was for her – everything about Snape was apparently for her. “How long?”

Snape lifted his wand and intoned, “Expecto patronum.”

A stream of silver arced forward and took the shape of a graceful doe. It stepped lightly around the office before coming to stand in front of Draco. It was beautiful. The doe tossed its head and then shimmered away.

Shit. Snape could cast a patronus. He’d been told that Death Eaters weren’t capable of summoning a patronus. Merlin knows Draco had never been able to, not even a noncorporeal patronus. And here was Snape, a man who bore the Mark on his arm, just like Draco, casting not only a patronus, but a patronus that was the match to James Potter’s stag patronus.

“Always,” said Snape, his voice low and resonant.

Salazar, was there no end to the secrets? Snape had loved Lily Evans – Lily Potter. Had cared for her enough that he was not a loyal Death Eater – couldn’t be if he could summon a patronus. Cared enough for her that he was a double agent – risking his life for her son.

“What are you asking of me?”

Again those dark eyes met his. “Potter will need to come back to Hogwarts if he has any chance of defeating the Dark Lord. You are under orders to try and turn him over to Lord Voldemort. When the time comes you will have to decide if you will be obedient.”

Anger rushed through him, intense and raw. He felt his face heat with it.

“All this time – all this bloody time you were – you were loyal to Potter – to Dumbledore? And you didn’t tell me? You just let me, what, take the Mark? Let me fucking hurt people? Stood by as I let Death Eaters into this school? I’ve been trying to avoid helping the Carrows carry out their viscous war on students, and you didn’t fucking tell me – tell me any of this!” He was shouting now, he couldn’t help it. And then an image flashed through his mind unbidden and then another. A wave of nausea hit him. “Potter – I could have betrayed him at the Manor. Ruined all your plans because you didn’t tell me anything. And then Burbage,” he almost gagged on the professor’s name, “You – you let her die.” Tears pricked at his eyes, and his vision blurred. “My mother had to drag me out of the room so that I didn’t have to see her body get eaten by a snake. I’ve been tortured – cursed by the Dark Lord and Bellatrix – and you let it happen – let me be surrounded by them knowing the whole time what fucking monsters they are.”

“Draco, dear boy,” said a voice that drew him up short. He turned wild-eyed to the portrait of Dumbledore, and there in the painting was the headmaster he’d last seen on the Astronomy Tower.

He felt his nostrils flare with shock. Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles as if trying to get a better look at Draco.

“You are right. We failed you. It was all done for the greater purpose of ensuring that Harry Potter stood a chance of defeating Voldemort.”

He closed his eyes against the barrage of pain those words lanced through him. Of course it was all for Potter. It had always been all about Potter. Draco had been expendable. He’d been left in the Dark Lord’s clutches. To what? To fuck up and buy Potter time? Or was his life given over to the mad dark wizard in exchange for Potter’s? Isn’t that what Regulus had done? Sacrificed himself on the altar of his family’s pride and ambition so that Sirius could be free.  Had that been the whole point? The reason Dumbledore had set him on a path to learn about his late Black cousin?

He took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

“Are you alright, Draco?” asked the portrait of Dumbledore.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The shadow of such a purportedly wise man was incredibly daft to ask such a bloody stupid question.

“Of course I’m not alright. I’ll never be alright. You knew. Both of you knew – the whole time. Hell – you probably knew from the day I was born what my fate would be. And you left me to it.”

“You had a family, Draco,” said Snape, standing as still as stone. “It wasn’t our place to step in.”

He laughed again. They were such fucking morons. He turned toward Dumbledore’s portrait. “Isn’t that what you told yourself about Sirius and Regulus? That the abuse they suffered was a family matter? Look how well that turned out – they are both dead. And apparently that’s what you’ve had planned for me. You’ll sacrifice me – let me die – so that Potter can live.”

Portrait Dumbledore shook his head, “No, that was never my intention dear boy, I - ”

Draco cut him off, “Don’t you ever call me that. Ever. I am not your dear boy.” He drew the sleeve of his left arm up and revealed the Dark Mark forever seared into his skin, and for all he knew, into his very soul. “I might not have deserved much – not with how I’ve acted – but even I . . .” his voice broke, “Even I didn’t deserve this.”

He turned to Snape, the man his mother always said would keep him safe. Wasn’t that rich? Snape’s real mission was to protect Potter, no matter how much he seemed to loathe the Gryffindor.

“I trusted you. You could have – you should have trusted me.” Snape just stared at him, silent as a dementor. “I let him go. Potter – I – I let him go. And him,” he said pointing at the portrait of the prior headmaster, “I lowered my wand. And you – you cursed him to death.”

“I was dying,” said Dumbledore, his portrait eyes looking sad. “Severus showed me mercy.”

“More mercy than either of you ever showed me.”

The shelves filled with books and artefacts felt overwhelming. For such a large area, he felt confined. He felt the familiar signs of panic start to prickle. He wanted to go – needed to go.

“The past cannot be changed,” said Snape. “Will you help Potter now?”

His chest was almost heaving. Was the man serious? Would Draco help Potter? What the actual fuck did Snape think he’d been doing? None of the things he’d done were bold gestures – bold didn’t exist in his vocabulary since the Dark Lord held sway over his parents’ lives – but surely all the little things added up to helping Potter. Didn’t they?

“Draco?” asked his current headmaster.

Merlin, did they really think he’d ever get those damned green eyes out of his head? Out of his heart? He couldn’t. He’d tried. He’d done everything he could to be the pureblood son his father had wanted him to be. He’d been arrogant and cruel, he’d taken the Mark, he’d betrayed his school, and yet . . . yet he’d always been haunted by Potter’s eyes. Even when he’d lain bleeding on the grotty lavatory floor thanks to Potter’s vicious spell, he hadn’t been able to avoid the dark-haired boy’s eyes.

“I think, Severus, that Draco and Harry are two-sides of the same coin. Harry might not realize this – may never understand this – but Draco does. They appear to be exact opposites, but in the end, they both will make the right choice.”

He pressed his fingers to his temples. Fucking great. Wasn’t it just bloody perfect when portrait Dumbledore was talking as if he could read Draco’s soul – could read his future? He dug his fingers in to the pressure points on his skull, seeking release. Had Dumbledore sent him the snitch so that he’d learn of Regulus’s sacrifice because that was Draco’s destiny? Was he destined to sacrifice himself as well? Regulus had died for James Potter. Was Draco doomed to die for his son? Everything he’d done to stay alive – every despicable thing he’d done – had it all been pointless?

“Draco?” repeated Severus.

He ignored the man, remembering how Snape had come to check on him when he’d lain in the infirmary last year, bandaged from his shoulders to his hips, with deep cuts that resisted healing treatments covering his torso. Snape had told him that it would do no good to complain about Potter to Dumbledore or the Ministry – that Potter was precious to them – clearly more precious than Draco – and to let it go. Potter, Snape had said, claimed he didn’t know what the curse did, and Dumbledore had believed him. Draco had lain in the bed, his eyes smarting as badly as his cuts, as he’d tried to hold in his tears. Potter had hurt him – had almost killed him – and no one had cared. He knew for a curse to work you had to mean it. He knew he had aimed a Crucio curse at Potter, but he doubt it would have even caused the other boy’s skin to tingle. Even then those fucking green eyes and trim form had haunted his thoughts no matter how hard Draco had tried to deny it to himself. But Potter’s curse – it had struck home – the other boy had meant it. The Gryffindor may not have known what the curse did, but he had meant to harm Draco – had meant to hurt him – and the curse had wreaked its damage on his body. And he had listened to Snape. His own mother didn’t even know the extent he’d been harmed. The only person that knew about his scars besides Snape and Pomfrey – and likely Dumbledore – was Blaise, and that had been by pure accident.

He lowered his hand from his still throbbing temples and turned to the portrait. “Who did you trust – who did you lose?”

Dumbledore looked away, not meeting his eyes. “I loved indiscriminately in my youth – made a sacred vow. I only saw the goodness, and either ignored or too blindly accepted the darkness of the other person.”

Words and ideas pummeled through Draco’s mind. Dumbledore had loved someone in his youth. Dumbledore had made a sacred vow. Grindelwald. A vow. The letter to Scamander. The copy of the letter in Skeeter’s book. The penmanship. “A”. Albus. Fuck. It had been Dumbledore. Dumbledore had made a blood pact with Gellert Grindelwald. And now the shadow of the man was lecturing him on light and dark?

“Enough. I’m done listening to either of you. I need . . . I need to leave.” He turned to go, his eyes focused on the stairway that would grant him exit when he heard Snape call, “We need your assurance that you will not betray any of this to the Dark Lord or his followers.”

Draco stopped and turned to face the man he’d thought of as a mentor. He drew upon on all his upbringing to stand tall and impassive. He felt himself spark with anger. They didn’t trust him. Never would. He would always be a slithering snake to them. Well fuck them. Before he could think better of it, he blurted out the truth, “You think you are the only people to suffer from lost and unrequited love? You think you own that pain – that you are part of a special club? How dare you question me.” He brandished a finger at Dumbledore’s portrait, “You knew. You knew my heart. That’s why you sent me to find out about Regulus Black. You knew that when it came down to it, I could never – never betray the fucking Chosen One. So what is it you want from me? An unbreakable vow?” He felt himself sneer before he said, “Or perhaps a blood pact? I know about your fondness for those Headmaster Dumbledore. What? What more can you want from me?”

Snape looked at him, his face grim, but it was Dumbledore who spoke, “You have spoken with your heart Draco. There is nothing more binding.”

Draco gave a curt nod and turned his back on them both, hastening down the stairs. As he walked down the corridor he couldn’t help but long for the Room of Hidden Things. He’d have loved to go curl up in a space all alone without fear of being found, but he was pretty damn sure that Dumbledore’s Army was camped out in whatever version of a room the space had created for them. So instead he started the climb up the stairs to the owlery hoping to find peace searching the heavens.

The night sky stretched out before him. Almost by instinct he sought out the constellation of Leo and found its heart. Regulus. Where was the youngest Black brother now? Had he and James found each other in whatever came after this life? And what of Sirius? Were the brothers together for eternity just as their stars were together in the sky for all of time?

As he gazed up at the stars, his mind wandered down avenues of memory that he was not proud of. He couldn’t change his past, and his future prospects were bleak. He’d been groomed to think of himself as superior and worthy of adoration, only to wind up in the powerless position he now found himself in. One thing he knew for sure, was that if Potter came back to Hogwarts, Draco would not betray the boy. With his life and the lives of his parents in the Dark Lord’s hands, he didn’t know if he could outwardly help Potter, but he knew he’d not turn the Gryffindor over to his doom.

He pulled out his pocket watch. It was just past midnight on the first of May. As a child he’d looked forward to the May Day celebrations held at the Manor. His mother had told him that the day was also known as Beltane and traditionally marked the beginning of summer. She’d also shared that it was the day that hawthorn trees bloomed in Wiltshire, and he’d believed her as the proof were the trees themselves, filled to bursting with delicate white blossoms.

He clutched his mother’s wand and hoped that his hawthorn wand was serving Potter well wherever the Boy-Who-Lived was on this day. A part of him ached to have his own wand back again, but he knew he’d never regret ceding his wand to Potter if it meant he’d helped the other boy, no matter how slightly.

He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up, exposing his forearm. The Dark Mark caught in the moonlight, the lines bold on his pale skin. He’d seen the Mark on his father a few times as a child and he’d thought the image had depicted strength. He knew now that choosing to brand his body and soul for the Dark Lord showed nothing but weakness. He’d been too afraid to follow a different path and it had led him here – to a place of loneliness and regret.

“Stay safe, Potter,” he whispered to the stars.

Chapter 33: The First of May

Notes:

Some dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” chapter thirty-one.

This chapter was hard for me to write. Only a few chapters remain before the conclusion of "Deathly Hallows."

Draco awoke to the sounds of stirring in his dorm room. He’d finally crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning and fallen into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the Dark Mark in the sky, a giant snake, and green eyes. He scrubbed at his face and pushed his hair back from his forehead before he pulled back the curtain. Blaise was up rummaging through his wardrobe and a still sleepy looking Greg was starting to climb out of his bed. Vince’s curtains were open, and he guessed the boy was in the lavatory. Theo’s curtains were still drawn tight, and he knew the notorious late sleeper would miss breakfast unless roused.

Draco lumbered out, catching for a moment in a tangle of his sheets, before dragging himself over to Theo’s bed. He rattled at the bed frame. “Get up, mate. Breakfast.”

“Not yet,” he heard a muffled voice beg. “I had astronomy lab last night – not yet.”

“Yes, yet, you lazy tosser. Up!”

Breakfast and the majority of his day passed in a blur of normalcy. Charms had always been an easy class for him, and with the weather so fine, it was pleasant to walk out to the greenhouses for herbology. He’d been pleased to see Prewett in the Great Hall at lunch. He wouldn’t have to go on prefect patrol by himself this evening. He’d been worried Prewett would disappear like many of the other upper year students, but he’d stayed. Draco thought he was likely filling a void in the Gryffindor House left by the removal of all their seventh years. They were all gone: Brown, Patil, Granger, Thomas, Finnegan, Longbottom, Weasley, and of course, Potter. The lower years were probably looking more and more to Prewett now.

At dinner, his normal day shattered when he is once again summoned to the meet with the Carrows. This time, Vince and Greg were included in the summons.

He led the way to the office. He could feel Vince’s displeasure, but Draco would be damned before he acted the part of Vince’s lackey. Alecto bid all three of them in, and once they are inside, she took the additional precaution of protecting the space from eavesdropping.

“There has been a break in at Gringotts,” she said.

Draco’s brows lifted. Gringotts was supposed to be one of the most protected spaces in the world. He recalled reading about a break in during his first year, but the goblins had added even more security measures since that time – as had the Death Eater controlled Ministry of Magic.

“It was Potter,” continued Alecto. “He and accomplices stole something precious to the Dark Lord and they are likely on their way to Hogwarts even as we speak.”

“Potter broke in to Gringotts?” asked Vince, likely struggling to wrap his mind around the idea.

“If Potter should come here,” said Alecto, ignoring Vince’s redundant question, “You three are to find him and bring him to the Dark Lord. You will bring favor to yourselves and your families if you provide Lord Voldemort with such valuable service.”

Vince puffed up his chest, pleased to have been included.

“You are not to harm Harry Potter,” said Amycus, inserting himself in the conversation before he appeared to think better of that statement, as he shrugged and amended, “Well if he is roughed up a bit, that can’t be helped, but he is to be turned over to Lord Voldemort alive.”

“You, Crabbe, and you, Goyle, have worked to be faithful servants to the Dark Lord. You will surely earn your places at his side and become part of his inner circle and bare the Dark Mark if you continue on the paths you have started.”

Draco was relieved had closed himself off mentally, as otherwise his true feelings on being part of the Dark Lord’s “inner circle” would surely have exposed him as the traitorous Death Eater he was. As much as he recoiled at the idea of Vince and Greg wanting to be Marked, he understood why they did. That had been him until two years ago. They, like him, wanted to please their fathers. They had also been raised to believe in their pureblood superiority and it played to their egos to have their efforts praised – they were rarely praised for their schoolwork or their athleticism. Draco, too, had been starved for praise. His mother had always bestowed words of pride and affection on him, but his father had withheld such remarks – always finding fault – always comparing him to others or to a standard Draco could never seem to obtain. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Lucius tell him that he was proud of him.

“The Dark Lord believes that Potter will come to Hogwarts in search of more items precious to the him, and that Potter will search a room called the Room of Hidden Things,” said Alecto. “I am not familiar with such a place in the castle, but Lord Voldemort was clear that you knew where to find this room, Draco.”

Draco met the woman’s gaze, betraying nothing.

“Draco spent a lot of sixth year there working on something,” said Vince, outing him, “He bragged about a mission he was working in that room.”

He cursed his younger even more pompous self.  At the time he’d told himself over and over that he was being favored by Lord Voldemort, trying to convince himself to do the horrible things he’d had to do to keep himself and his parents alive. Apparently he’d shared too much with his friends.

“So you will know the room to watch should it come to it,” said Alecto, giving him a hard look.

“Of course, professor,” Draco murmured, bowing his head in assent.

“Good,” said the woman, “Amycus and I have our own assignments from the Dark Lord, but you, Malfoy, are to take Crabbe and Goyle with you so that the three of you can work to secure the wretched boy should he attempt to enter that room.”

Beside him, Vince cracked his knuckles in anticipation.

“What if Potter has help?” asked the burly boy.

Alecto shrugged, “Feel free to dispose of them. Lord Voldemort’s interest is in Potter alone.”

Draco wished he felt surprised by Alecto’s decree, but he wasn’t. What did the lives of others mean to her if she helped bring glory to the Dark Lord?

“Now away,” she said, waving her hand at them in dismissal. “My brother and I must go have a chat with Professor Flitwick.”

Once they were out in the corridor, Draco told his pair of dorm mates that he’d see them later that evening.

“Where are you going? Scared?” asked Vince.

Draco felt his face harden. He turned back to the larger boy and said, “No you dense hippogriff, it is Friday. I have patrol duty.”

“If you see that arsehole, Potter, you be sure and tell us. Can’t have you getting all the credit.”

He felt his pride prickle. “Jealous, Vince?”

Vince gave him a look of contempt. “Of you? Maybe I was once, but not anymore. You’re nothing but a coward – you’ve never done anything to be worthy of the Mark except be a fucking Malfoy, and that doesn’t mean what it used too.”

He felt his eyes narrow and said, “That’s surprising to hear from you, Vince, after all the years you spent riding my coattails. Being friends with a Malfoy used to be your one claim to fame."

Vince tugged at his robes for his wand, and Draco started to draw his own borrowed wand when Greg stepped in between them.

“Knock it the fuck off both of you. We got enough to worry about tonight.”

“You keep that bastard away from me Greg until I’ve cooled down,” said Draco.

Vince scoffed and smirked at him. Draco turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor to meet up with Prewett. What was the world coming to when he’d rather see a bloody Gryffindor than one of his Slytherin housemates?

He met up with the other prefect outside the Great Hall. They passed most of their patrol in silence, the castle was eerily quiet. With only a quarter of an hour left of their patrol, Prewett pulled himself up onto a window ledge on the first floor.

“Give us a rest, Malfoy. The night’s almost over.”

Draco leaned against the wall close to the window.

“What are you tired for?” he asked. “You’re what, all of fifteen?”

“I’ve got a lot going on, minding all the younger Gryffindors. And I’m taking care of Longbottom’s toad, Trevor.”

Draco actually chuckled, “A toad – how hard can it be to take care of a bloody toad?”

“You’d be surprised. The bugger got into my sock drawer the other day. I almost had a heart attack when I reached in and felt him in there.”

He smiled at the younger boy. This felt altogether too normal – too nice – to engage in easy banter.

“Of course a Slytherin would find humor at my being scared to death,” teased Prewett. “I mean you fuckers live in a bloody dungeon – you must like a certain degree of pain and suffering.”

Draco was about to retort when the Mark on his arm burned and he could feel the ink lines writhe under his skin. And then he heard the Dark Lord’s voice in his mind, “Harry Potter has returned to Hogwarts. My legion are to meet me at the Dark Forest on the edge of the grounds. Snape shall make sure the wards are down.  Those within the castle know their duties.”

He clutched at his arm even as the burning stopped.

“Malfoy, what’s wrong,” asked Prewett peering up at him.

Draco felt flushed and sweaty. He looked at the younger boy, not able to find the words. Death Eaters were coming to Hogwarts. It would be like that horrible day Dumbledore died all over again, only worse – this time all of the Dark Lord’s followers would be here.

“You ill?” persisted the Gryffindor.

“Prewett,” Draco rasped. “You need to get back to your common room. Trouble is coming. I don’t think Hogwarts is going to be safe much longer – especially for you Gryffindors. Make sure the students are ready in case you have to evacuate.”

“But our shift isn’t over,” said the boy, confused.

“Forget patrol. This is more important. Get back to the Gryffindor Tower and make sure everyone is up and dressed. Make sure everyone is ready. Understand?”

The boy shook his head, “No, I don’t understand, but I’ll go.”

“Hurry,” Draco urged.

The boy turned and marched off. Draco watched him go for a moment before hurrying to his own common room. Once he reached the dungeon level he sprinted toward the entrance.

“Nirah!” he said the password and the wall opened for him.

He scanned the common room and found a group of some of his friends, including Vince and Greg, sitting close to the fire.

“You’re back early,” called Blaise. “Miss me that badly?”

“Vince – Greg – go find the Carrows. Scarhead is on his way,” he said, omitting that he already knew Potter was at Hogwarts. “Go confirm they don’t have him already.”

Vince jumped up with a smile on his face, “Tonight is the night!” he whooped as he headed toward the door with a much more somber Greg in pursuit.

“Draco?” asked Theo. “What’s going on?”

He pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head slightly. As soon as the pair of boys he’d sent after the Carrows were gone he turned back to his friends and cast a muffling charm.

“The Dark Lord is coming here – to Hogwarts – along with his followers. He’s after Potter, and Potter is somewhere in this school, or at least he was believed to be a few minutes ago.”

Theo’s face turned ashen. He knew his miserable father would be in the group. No seventh year left in the dormitory had parents who were Death Eaters besides Draco and Theo, but they all had extended family or family friends who were. Purebloods were nothing if not interconnected.

“I don’t think Potter or his supporters will go down without a fight. I think it is going to be bad. You have to get away from here if you have a chance. If you stay, the Dark Lord will press you into service. As Slytherins, he’ll expect you to comply. If you don’t he would likely dispose of you.”

Daphne and Millicent looked ill.

“Theo, cast protection spells on other students. Start with the youngest who are less able to protect themselves.”

Theo nodded, “Yes, of course.”

“Make sure no one is left behind. Slytherins protect their own.”

“And what about you?” asked Blaise, meeting his eyes. “And Vince and Greg.”

Draco smiled weakly at his friend. “I don’t get a choice Blaise. I lost that right when I pledged my loyalty. I stay.”

“Draco - ”

“No, Blaise, just no. You can’t help me. Not in this. But you can help yourselves and the younger students. Keep each other safe. Get as far away as you can. You won’t be trusted by Potter’s lot, and the Dark Lord will try and use you as weapons.”

Pansy shook her head, “Instead of running we should just find Potter and hand him over.”

“Pansy, no,” Draco sighed.

“No, Draco, you’re my friend – what does Potter matter to me? If the Dark Lord has him – has what he wants – then you are safe.”

Draco turned to his friend and put a hand on her shoulder. “Forget about Potter. Forget about me. Keep yourself safe. That’s all you can do for me now. Give me that, yeah?”

He dropped the muffling charm and called out loudly, “Wake everyone, and tell them to get dressed. All students need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Meet here, in the common room.”

He turned back to Pansy, “You are in charge of the other prefects. Do a head count. Leave no one behind.” She nodded at him. He can see she is not happy about the situation based on the face she is making, bu she still called to another prefect in the room and told him to start sending out the first years and so on. She starts for the girls wing to do the same.

“Draco, I know you – you won’t come with us. But you’ll be safe, yeah? No unnecessary risks?” asked Blaise.

“And you’ll try and keep those two goons, Vince and Greg, safe too, right?” asked Theo.

And he wanted to promise them – his friends – what they were asking of him. What they wanted him to say was so simple on the surface, but he couldn’t promise them anything.

“Draco?” pressed Blaise.

“I . . . You two . . . thank you. You’ve been my friends since before Hogwarts, but the last two years you’ve gone above and beyond.”

Blaise shook his head, his face tight, and Theo said, “That . . . that sounds like a goodbye, Draco, and I don’t like it . . . you saying goodbye.”

He smiled at them, a smile that he knew was weak, but it was the best he could muster. “In case it is, I . . . I want you to know . . . that you made my life of late . . . bearable. In all of the darkness, you were true friends.”

Blaise stepped toward him and folded him into a quick hug, thumping his back. After he pulled away, Theo, always more subdued and less effusive, shook Draco’s hand.

Draco felt his throat tighten. He worked to bring himself under control. He was thankful when the group of first year girls arrived, followed shortly after by the boys.

“Right. Theo, best get started with those protection charms,” he said, unable to avoid thinking that the reason that Theo was so good with those type of spells was because his friend had often had to protect his mother and himself from his abusive bastard of a father.

He turned toward the door, anxious to slip away, when their head of house, Professor Slughorn, entered.

“Oh, I see, the littlest ones are out of bed? Well, that is good, very good. All students and staff are to assemble in the Great Hall in about fifteen minutes,” said the professor.

“Pansy and the other prefects are seeing to it, Professor,” assured Draco.

“Excellent. Model Head Boy initiative, Draco. I am going to pop over to my rooms and . . . er . . . become more formally attired,” said Slughorn, wrapping his a housecoat tightly around what were clearly his pajamas. “I will be back in no more than ten minutes. Have everyone ready.”

Slughorn departed and Draco started to follow after him when he heard someone behind him say his name. He turned to find Rory staring at him with his guileless blue eyes.

“You were about to leave. Are you not coming with the rest of us? Professor Slughorn said we were to go to the Great Hall.”

He stepped closer to Rory, and said in a hushed voice, “You need to get to the Great Hall, and if you have a chance to get away from Hogwarts, you do that, Rory. Get to safety.”

“Draco? What is going on? Are you okay?”

The other boy looked so earnest – so sincere in his concern. Draco thought of how nice it would have been if he could have returned the boy’s interest back in the fall and wondered if in another life he’d have been able to be with Rory and been happy.

“The Dark Lord is coming. He may already be here,” said Draco. “You were sorted into Slytherin. All the other houses and the Dark Lord and his followers will assume you stand with Lord Voldemort. He isn’t . . . safe. I don’t want you – anyone – near him. So the moment you can, get out – you and the other Slytherins and your Hufflepuff - you go. Help watch after the younger students.”

“And you?” asked the boy, his eyes holding Draco’s.

“Like I told you this fall, I’m dangerous. People who are around me right now could get hurt. I’m going to get away from all of you.”

Rory stepped forward and pressed a brief kiss to Draco’s cheek. He stepped back, “I don’t think I could stop you if I tried, could I?”

Draco shook his head.

The lovely boy smiled, but not the full smile Draco had grown to covet that flashed his dimple. This smile was sad and resigned. “I thought not. Be safe, Draco.”

Draco nodded and said, “Be safe, Rory.” He gave the boy one last long look, wanting to hold his face in his memory before he exited the Slytherin dormitory. He wondered if he would ever see those rooms or people again. Surely this was similar to how Regulus had felt as he stared out the window of the Black House for the last time.

He heard footsteps, putting an end to his musings, and after a moment he saw Vince and Greg stalking toward him. Vince didn’t look pleased. When they met in the corridor Vince said, “The Carrows aren’t in either of their offices.”

“And everyone’s being summoned to the Great Hall,” said Greg. “We heard some of the professors talking. Don’t think they saw us, we were under disillusionment charms.”

“No more stalling, Draco.”

Draco sighed. He dearly loved being threatened by a boy that used to idolize him. “You seem to forget, Vince, that of the three of us, I’m the only one that is Marked. And I say I want to hear more from the Carrows. We’ll do one last check for them in their offices and then go from there.”

Vince scowled, clearly not happy, but Draco fixed him with a withering look. They cast disillusionment charms on themselves and ascended the stairs to the third floor. They had to retreat to the edge of a corridor to let a mass of Ravenclaw students pass by on their way to the Great Hall. Some of the students, especially the youngest who’d surely already been in bed, were still in their pajamas. They looked scared and confused. He recognized the first year he’d released from chains in the Dark Arts classroom. He hoped they’d all get through this night unscathed.

When they could walk through the corridor again they checked Amycus’s office first, rapping repeatedly on the door, but he did not answer. Their search of Alecto’s office also proved unsuccessful.

“Told you they weren’t here,” Vince griped.

Draco turned toward the other boy. He’d had enough of Vince. He knew his friend had a father who was a Death Eater, and so did Draco – hell – Draco was a fucking Death Eater, but that didn’t mean Vince had to revel in it.

”I know you are preparing to fight,” said the voice of his Master, filling his ears. He swiveled his head about, but it was still just the three of them. “Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.” The voice paused for a moment, letting the chill of silence sink in before saying, “Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school unscathed. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded . . . You have until midnight.”

Lord Voldemort’s voice stopped, but his eardrums are still ringing and his heart rate had quickened. The Dark Lord had arrived.

“Sounds like we may get to see some action in a fight,” Vince smiled.

Draco gaped at the boy for a moment. Vince had never seen fighting – had never seen people be injured or die – that much seemed certain or he wouldn’t be happy with the idea of what might come. But then he peered closer at Vince. Maybe the boy had seen such things and – Merlin forbid – he enjoyed it.

Draco mentally shook himself and pulled out his pocket watch. It was almost 11:30pm. There wasn’t long until the Dark Lord’s deadline.

“So where’s this secret room, Draco?” asked Greg. “The one the Carrows want us to watch.”

Draco started to think about where he can lead them that will be far enough away from the Room of Hidden Things when Vince said, “I bet it’s up on the seventh floor. Draco was always whining about having to up all the flights of stairs there during sixth year, and I doubt he was going there to visit the Gryffindorks in their tower.”

When the fuck had Vince become observant? Or perhaps he always had been and Draco had failed to notice it, as he was so convinced by his own supposed superiority.

“You going with us or will you cower behind? If you don’t come, we’ll be sure and tell the Dark Lord,” said Vince.

“I’m going you git. I’m not letting you nab Potter without me,” he said, knowing that if he had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be letting Vince nab Potter at all.

They refreshed their disillusionment charms and made their way to the seventh floor. After silently gesturing to each other, they hunkered down in an alcove to watch. Minutes went by and they see no one. He checked his watch. More minutes pass, and from down the corridor he sees a flash of black-hair. And it’s Potter. He knows it is Potter. He feels his whole body stiffen. The Boy-Who-Lived disappears through the wall of the corridor, the sound of a door closing behind him. Vince beelines to the spot and grabs at the door handle.

“It won’t budge,” he whined, and then he's grasping at air.  The handle and door have disappeared.

“Hide,” Draco ordered.

They reposition to stand against the wall facing the door, the shadows and the charms conceal them.  As they wait, Draco wonders how the fuck he’ll protect Potter. Maybe he could stun Vince. He doubts Greg would stun him back, but then again, maybe the other boy would. Greg had once followed Draco about like Draco walked on air, but this whole year he’d been following Vince, and Draco had pretty much checked out of both of their lives during sixth year, consumed as he was with the task assigned to him.

He hears Vince gasp as the door reappears in the wall, and an older looking lady, tall and proud looking, exits before heading down the corridor at a determined pace, her wand drawn and ready. The door starts to flicker and fade before it appears in full and a young woman with brown hair streaked with pink speeds out and runs over to a window looking out over the grounds. “Remus!” she calls out the window.

The door doesn’t even have a chance to disappear before the girl Weasley steps out and goes to stand by the woman at the window. The door flashes and throbs, and then is gone. A long moment passes. The women by the window both draw their wands. The woman with pink hair vanishes the glass and the pair rain hexes down on those below. Draco can hear the sounds of shouting in both anger and pain. After a span of several heartbeats, the door reappears and then he sees Potter, Granger, and the Weasley boy. Vince elbows him in the ribs, clearly excited and ready to lunge. Draco swiftly shakes his head and mouths, “No.”

He’d no sooner looked away from Vince when he freezes in place as Dumbledore comes running down the corridor, dust swirling around him, gray hair flying as he shouts at the Weasley girl, “Good girl!”

It took him a moment to realize it isn’t Professor Dumbledore, but someone who looks very much like him. He takes a deep breath, his heart still feeling squeezed and raw by the uncanny similarities with the fallen headmaster.

“Have you seen Remus?” shouts the woman with the pink streaks in her dark hair. She looks vaguely like Bellatrix.

“He was dueling Dolohov,” shouts the Dumbledore-look-alike, “Haven’t seen him since!”

The Weasley girl starts to say something but the woman with the pink in her hair – Lupin's wife and his cousin he realizes – was off and running with Dumbledore’s doppelganger.

“They’ll be all right,” he hears Potter say. “Ginny, we’ll be back in a moment, just keep out of the way, keep safe – come on!” Then he, Granger, and the Weasley boy, run back along a stretch of wall that Draco knows holds the entrance for the Room of Hidden Things. He watches them pace back and forth until an ancient looking door appears. Potter’s hand grasps the handle and the Boy-Who-Lived pushes his way into the room followed by his fan club. As soon as the older Gryffindors are out of the corridor, the Weasley girl runs off toward a window and aims another shower of hexes below before tearing off down the hallway in the direction that the others had gone.

And then it is just the three Slytherins in the corridor.

Vince nods at him and starts across the hall toward the door the trio of lions had gone through. Greg follows close behind. Fuck. They really mean to do this – they mean to try and bag Potter. He darts out of the shadows and followed his former friends. He can hear the sound of crashing and yells from outside. Vince and Greg disappear through the doorway. He pauses on the threshold, takes a deep breath, and crosses into the Room of Hidden Things.

Chapter 34: Fiendfyre

Notes:

*Some Dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” Chapter thirty-one.  Some slight changes were made in the dialogue from the book (punctuation, cadence, and added swear words) as this is from Draco’s perspective.

Once inside the hidden room, he could hear the echoes of the three Gryffindors in the cavernous space.  After spending the past school year looking for Potter out of the corner of his eye in all of the familiar spaces of Hogwarts it was surreal that the other boy was here in this fucking room of all places.  He shuddered.  He hadn’t been in here since . . . since he’d helped bring Death Eaters into the school.  He forced that thought away – he couldn’t – couldn’t – think about that day right now.

He focused on the space.  Long forgotten things were piled everywhere – furniture, books, sports equipment – anything and everything. 

“Accio Diadem!” he heard Granger cry. 

The trio was looking for something – a diadem.  This diadem was important enough to draw them away from the battle raging just outside Hogwarts’ entrance that it must be something precious to the Dark Lord. 

He could hear Potter’s voice, sounding slightly frantic.  Draco made his way deeper into the room, weaving through the piles of objects.  He passed by a grotesque stuffed troll and the cursed vanishing cabinet he’d repaired the year before.  Fuck, he’d never wanted to lay eyes on that again.  He quickly looked away from the wretched cabinet and toward his dorm mates.  Vince and Greg were fanned out on either side of him, picking their way through the maze of junk as they followed the sounds of Potter and his friends. 

He picked up his pace to match the other Slytherins and he saw Potter pointing toward a horrible stone bust of a warlock wearing a ratty looking wig topped with a tarnished tiara.  The diadem.

“Hold it, Potter,” he called.

The Gryffindor came to a jerky halt before turning to him, his face the picture of shock.  Vince and Greg came to stand on either side of him, shoulder to shoulder.  He could feel excitement swirl off the pair.  They felt so bloody important – sure of their Marks now they were.

Potter still looked thin and his face was smudged with dirt, but those green eyes met his without an ounce of trepidation.  Clutched in Potter’s hand was Draco’s wand – his wand of hawthorn and unicorn hair.

“That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,” he said, pulling out his mother’s wand to aim toward the Gryffindor, momentarily intent on regaining what was his.

The Chosen One tightened his grip on the wand and said, “Not anymore.  Winners, keepers, Malfoy.  Who’s lent you theirs?”

Now Draco tightened his own grip.  “My mother.”

Potter laughed, and it was not pleasant.  Fucking Potter, making him feel like even more of a failure than he knew himself to be. 

“So how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?” asked Potter, and Draco flinched hearing the Dark Lord’s name. 

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” said Vince, puffed up and proud.  “We hung back, Potter, we decided not to go.  Decided to bring you to him.”

Potter smirked – a look Draco had rarely seen on the other boy’s face in the years he’d been watching him from afar.  “Good plan,” said Potter in a mocking tone even as he began edging back toward his query.  “So how did you get in here?” he asked, and Draco knew the bugger was trying to stall for time and distract him. 

Maybe he could help distract Vince and Greg.  He kept the conversation going.

“I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year,” he said, willing his companions to stay put.  “I know how to get in.”

“We were hiding in the corridor outside,” interjected Greg.  “We can do Disillusion Charms now and then,” he said tripping over some of the words in his excitement, a broad smile on his face.  “You turned up right in front us and said you was looking for a diadem.  What’s a diadem?”

“Harry!” Weasley’s voice echoed in the space.  “Are you talking to someone?”

Vince suddenly broke rank and whipped out his wand and shouted, “Descendo!”

A veritable mountain of junk shuddered and then started to give way and crash into an aisle where Draco now saw Weasley standing.

“Ron!” shouted Potter.  A girl’s scream wrenched the air, and Draco almost doubled over.  He’d heard that scream before – fuck – and he heard it still in his sleep, tearing him awake gasping and sweating. 

“Finite!” cried Potter, pointing Draco’s wand at the pile, stopping more of the objects from toppling. 

Vince raised his wand arm and Draco grabbed it, “No!  If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!”  Might bury Potter.  Might bury Draco’s heart.

Vince glared at him and jerked himself free.  “What’s that matter?  It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about the diadem?”

Well if Potter cared about it, then the Dark Lord cared about it too.  And fuck it all, but if it was important to Potter then it was important to Draco.  He had to protect them both – Potter and the bloody tiara. 

“Potter came in here to get it,” said Draco.  He could hear his own annoyance in his voice.  “So that must mean - ”

“Must mean?” said Vince turning to him, his voice harsh.  He shoved at Draco’s shoulder.  “Who the fuck cares what you think?  I don’t take your orders any more, Draco.  You and your dad are finished.”  He shoved Draco again.

“Harry?  What’s going on?” Weasley called from somewhere on the other side of the recently toppled pile of rubbish.

“Harry?” copied Vince, his voice cruel.  “What’s going – no!  Potter!” 

Potter had lunged toward the stone bust. 

Vince aimed his wand at the boy and yelled, “Crucio!”

Draco hurled himself against the other Slytherin’s wand arm, throwing the curse off.  It missed the Gryffindor, but hit the bust, which flew into the air.  The diadem Potter had been after hurled upward and dropped into a mound of items.

“Stop!” Draco shouted, grabbing at Vince.  He couldn’t let him hurt Potter.  “The Dark Lord wants him alive -”

“So!  I’m not killing him, am I?” Vince yelled back at him, pushing Draco hard and freeing his arm.  “But if I can, I will.  The Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s the diff-”

A spray of scarlet light shot past Potter straight toward Greg.  Granger appeared behind the Chosen One, her wand raised.  Draco pulled at Greg, trying to get him out of Granger’s direct path.

Vince stepped forward, his face thunderous.  “It’s that fucking Mudblood!” 

Draco felt his stomach drop, as he heard his former friend shriek, “Avada Kedavra!”

An arc of green light roared out of Vince’s wand.  The fucker had meant it – he’d meant to kill Granger.  The witch dove to the floor.  Potter, surely reacting on rage and instinct, shot a Stunning Spell at Vince, who jumped away and slammed into Draco.  Draco staggered and felt his mother’s wands slip from his fingers.  He watched in horror as the wand skid across the floor before it rolled beneath the mountain of items.  He started to dash in the direction of the ebony wand, and then he saw Vince and Greg start toward Potter, their wands raised.  He forgot the wand and turned toward the pair.  He flung both of his arms out and tried to hold them back.

“Don’t kill him!” he yelled. “Don’t kill him!” he said again, pleading now even as he shoved against them.

“Expelliarmus!” he heard Potter cry.

Greg grunted as his wand flew from his hand into a pile of objects beside him.  The Slytherin jumped after it, trying to find it.  Draco barely had time to jump out of the way of another Stunning Spell sent at him by Granger.  He landed hard on his knees.  He looked up, and there was Weasley, aiming a curse at Vince, which the bulky boy narrowly avoided. 

Vince spun around and screamed, “Avada Kedavra!”  The red-head barely cleared the jet of green light.  Draco felt sick.  When had his childhood friend became a killer? 

Granger started toward the Slytherins and struck Greg with a Stunning Spell, freezing him to the spot where he stood looking for his wand.  He heard Potter and Granger yelling about finding the tiara, as he turned frantic eyes on Vince, his wand was raised, his lips moved, and Draco heard him utter, “Fiendfyre!”

Draco’s heart stopped just as a roar filled the space and fire billowed up in the mountain of tumbled objects.  Vince caught Draco’s eye for a moment and smiled, cold and cruel, before he started to run from the smoldering wreckage he’d created.  Weasley, seeing the flames springing to vivid life, started to run as well. 

“Like it hot, scum?” Vince roared as he ran, flames chasing him, growing in size unnaturally fast.

Potter tried to dose the fire with a jet of water from his wand, but the spray fizzled into steam as soon as it reached the flames. 

“Run!” yelled Draco, swinging an arm in the direction of the door.  He rose and wrapped an arm around Greg, who was still stunned and stiff as stone, and started dragging him away from the fire.  Vince turned back to face the others, his face registering at last with the gravity of what he’d done and the fury he’d unleashed.  The Gryffindors followed in his wake, but Draco couldn’t keep up, not with while hauling Greg. 

“Go,” croaked Greg through frozen lips. 

Draco shook his head.  A wall of flames advanced, the heat rippling toward them.  The flames seemed to take the shape of flaming beasts – a dragon soared above the rest before igniting in a burst and falling back into the chaos of fire.  More fiery beasts advanced and Draco knew he couldn’t outrun them.  A stack of furniture loomed to his right.  He hauled himself up on the first level with one arm and then braced his feet.  Reaching down he wrapped an arm under Greg’s armpits while he grabbed at the boy’s belt with his other hand.  He hauled the rigid boy up with him.  Greg cleared the floor just as flames circled about.  Draco reached higher and pulled himself up to the next ledge.  He was sweaty from the heat, and for one awful moment he thought he was going to lose Greg but by some fluke of luck he kept hold of the boy’s leather belt.  He continued to climb, resting the other boy on different levels as he strained to get them above the cursed fire.  His muscles and lungs were screaming from effort and smoke, when at last he reached the top.  He braced himself again and used both hands to drag Greg up with him.  Their perch was made of stacked desks, and he could see the base igniting and starting to burn.  Fuck, he’d hauled them atop a pile of tinder.  Everywhere he looked all he could see was flames.

And he knew there was no way out.  He hadn’t saved them – he’d just bought them time – agonizing time.

He heard someone scream, he turned and scanned the room and couldn’t see anyone.  He heard a scream again, but all he could see was flames.  He was breathing in the heat of the fire - he felt himself choking on it.  Fuck they were done for.  Of all the ways he’d thought his life could end, he’d not imagined this, not imagined being eaten alive by an inferno of flaming beasts.

“Accio wand!” he yelled above the roar of the flames, but he held little hope that either his or Greg’s wands would rise above the flames to him, and indeed, neither wand did.

“Hot,” choked Greg beside him.

A scream wrenched the air again, and he hoped like hell it wasn’t Potter – hoped the fucking Gryffindor had gotten out.  He and Greg lay across the top of a scarred desk, their bodies overhanging the surface.  For a moment he thought of calling Kreacher, but there was no room for the elf on their precarious platform and he wouldn’t chance having him land in the flames. 

The smoke burned at his lungs.  Their tower shuddered beneath them, he held Greg close, afraid the boy would topple over the edge.  He thought of his mother – of her grief – how just like with Regulus, she would never really know what became of him.  

Sparks landed on the back of his hands, his bare neck, and in his scalp – stinging and singeing him.  He looked over at Greg.  Sweat was running down the boy’s face from the heat.  Embers were likely landing on him as well, but the Slytherin couldn’t even wriggle from the discomfort the shards of flame caused him. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Draco.  And he was.  He was sorry he couldn’t save Greg, sorry he couldn’t tell his mother goodbye, sorry he wouldn’t live up to the shadow Regulus cast, and sorry that his life had amounted to so very little. 

The tower lurched to one side, and for one breathless moment Draco thought for sure it would fall into the flames, but by some miracle it held.  He looked up, away from the flames licking toward him – wanting to look anywhere but at the cursed fire.   And he saw him - he saw Potter astride a broom flying above the inferno – toward him.  Potter was flying toward him.  And then the Gryffindor dove toward down toward Draco’s perch.  Potter had come back – the Chosen One had come to save him.  Shocked and hardly daring to think this was real, Draco raised one arm toward the flying boy, keeping the other firmly around Greg.

Potter’s hand grasped his, and Draco felt his body tug upward for a moment, but the sweat between them was too slick and the other boy’s hand slid away. 

Weasley zoomed into view, Granger behind him on a broomstick, her arms wrapped around the red-head’s waist.  Weasley hovered beside Potter and yelled, “If we die for them, I’ll fucking kill you Harry!”  With a look of concentration, the red-head lowered down beside Greg even as a great lick of flame reached for him.  To his credit, Weasley didn’t flinch.  He and Granger reached out and grabbed Greg.  Draco help push the stunned boy toward them, the pair on the broom dragged Greg to drape between them.  They rose into the air, the ancient-looking broomstick heavily weighed down, but somehow Weasley managed it.  He was a far better flier than Draco had ever given him credit for.

The flames continued to rise higher, and Draco felt his precarious tower shift.  Potter flew beside him and held out his hand.  For a moment, Draco met his eyes before he took his hand and swung to sit behind the other boy on the broom.  As he pushed off from the burning stack, it toppled into the fiery hell below.  He wrapped both arms around the Gryffindor narrow frame, squeezed his legs tight, and Potter was off, flying at speed.

“The door, get to the door, the door!” Malfoy yelled in Potter’s ear, pointing in the distance over the boy’s shoulder.  He could hear his own heart pounding against Potter’s back.

Potter bent lower over his broom handle, and Draco in turn bent over Potter as they gained even more speed.  Thick smoke billowed around them, and it was hard to see – hard to breathe.  The only thing that he could be sure of was the feeling his hands wrapped around Potter.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ever touched the boy before and now he was hanging on to the Chose One for all he was worth. 

Draco peered over the Gryffindor’s shoulder and saw the door.  Hope sprang through him, and then Potter shifted on the broom, his face pointed below, before he swerved and dove.

Draco clung tight, almost choking on smoke as he yelled, “What are you doing?  Fuck, what are you doing, the door’s that way!”

And then Draco saw it – the diadem that had so captivated the Chosen One earlier.  Potter made as if to reach for it and for a brief moment he appeared to have it around his wrist, when a flaming serpent lurched toward them, its flaming jaw opening wide.  Potter swerved again, soaring high and then there was door again – a rectangular break in the wall.  The Gryffindor urged the broom forward.  Draco clung tight as the flames licked at the soles of their feet.  Smoke blotted out the spot they were flying toward and then they burst out of the room of flames.  Cool, clean air surrounded him and then he rammed into Potter as their broom crashed into the wall of the corridor outside the Room of Hidden Things. 

They rolled to the floor, a tangle of limbs before Draco came to a stop facedown.  His lungs burned and he was gasping for breath, coughing and retching as he tried to breathe.  His heart was still pounding.  Potter lay beside him on his side, chest heaving as he too struggled for air.  With a groan the Gryffindor rolled to his back and sat up.  His glasses were askew and his face was covered in soot.  He stared toward the room of flames.  Draco followed his gaze and the saw the waves of fire for a moment before the door disappeared and left an empty stone wall in its wake.  He lifted his head from the floor and saw Weasley and Granger panting with Greg laid out beside them.  The other Slytherin still looked stiff as a board, but his chest was moving up and down.  He looked around again.  Where was Vince?

“Vince,” he choked out.  Where was he?  “Vince Crabbe?”

Weasley shook his head at him.  “He’s dead.”

His heart felt like it was ripping open at those words.  Using occlumency, he’d spent so long detached and withdrawn from his feelings to protect himself that he’d sometimes worried if he’d ever really be able to feel again.  Now the pain was bursting through him.  Vince.  Fucking Vince.  He fought to suppress a moan, and bowed his head to the pain even as a series of loud bangs shook the castle.  And suddenly, a hoard of ghosts on spectral steeds surged past to join the battle raging in the castle. 

The golden Gryffindors huddled together – he heard the name “Ginny” more than once, but he couldn’t focus.  He thought of Vince.  Once upon a time the hard youth had been a young boy excited to board the train to Hogwarts for the very first time – his eyes wide with excitement and wonder.  What the fuck had happened to him?  What had happened to them all? 

Potter’s arm jerked up and he saw that the fucking diadem he’d risked their lives for was oozing a dark liquid, almost as if it was bleeding.  Then he heard the thing start to scream as it broke apart in Potter’s hands, pieces falling to the floor.  He barely resisted to urge to cover his ears.

When the screaming stopped he heard Granger say, “It must have been the Fiendfyre.”

“Sorry?” said Potter.

“Fiendfyre – cursed fire – it’s one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never – ever have dared use it.  It’s so dangerous.  How did Crabbe know how to -”

“Must’ve learned from the Carrows,” said the Chosen One.

Horcruxes?  What the fuck was a Horcrux?  Wait – Regulus had forfeited his life trying to destroy an artefact precious to the Dark Lord.  And he’d told Draco’s mother that the man was using pieces of his shattered soul to stay alive.  What type of Dark Magic was this?

He came back to the present as he heard Granger say, “This means if we can just get the snake –”

Then shouts and people filled the corridor.  Draco scrambled to his knees and grabbed fistfuls of Greg’s clothes and pulled him back against the edge of the corridor, not wanting his still frozen friend to get trampled. 

Two young men with red hair surged into the space – they looked like they were performing a dance as they hurled spells at masked assailants.  He recognized one of them as a Weasley twin – he couldn’t be sure which one – and the other had been the Weasley who’d been a prefect back when Draco had started at Hogwarts. 

“Hello Minister!” called the older Weasley brother. 

Draco looked, and bloody hell – it was the fucking Minister of Magic. 

“Did I mention,” continued the elder Weasley, “I’m resigning?”

“You’re joking, Perce!” hooted the Weasley twin, his voice thick with glee.  “You actually are joking, Perce . . . I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were -”

The space exploded and he saw Potter, the other Gryffindors, and two Death Eaters fly through the air.  On reflex Draco went to cast a shielding charm before he remembered he was fucking wandless.  He heard screams, and a chunk of debris struck him in the side of the head.  For a moment his vision blurred.  He reached up and felt at his temple, flinching from the pain.  His fingertips were streaked with blood.  He stared down at Greg, he looked unhurt.  Then he scanned the hall looking for Potter – looking for the boy with the fucking green eyes that were the bane of his very existence.  A portion of the wall had blasted apart.  Potter was laying beneath some rubble, but he was struggling up – that boy had never known how to stop – why would he now?

Then he heard it - a cry of unmistakable grief.  “No – no – no!  No!  Fred!  No!”

Potter’s Weasley and his older brother were slumped over the twin, who lay prone and unmoving – a smile still ghosted across his young face.

Chapter 35: The Waxing Crescent

Notes:

*Two lines of dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” chapter thirty-two and Voldemort’s dialogue quoted from chapter thirty-three.

Draco can’t watch the tableau of grief.  He turns away toward Greg.  Neither of them have a wand so he can’t reverse the spell on Greg, nor can he disillusion him, so he settles for pulling the boy along the wall toward an alcove and shoving him in.  “You’ll be safer here,” he whispers before he turns back to look at the Chosen One.  Potter and his friends are bowed over the dead young man.  Even in their pain they have each other – Potter and his friends have each other.  Potter didn’t need him – would never need him.

And suddenly it made sense – as if all the stars in the universe had aligned.  It wasn’t all about the Chosen One – Draco had other purpose.  Potter was beyond Draco’s help now – he had his friends and Dumbledore’s Army at his back – but Draco knew now where he had to be – where he belonged at this moment. 

He turns away from the stunned and mourning Gryffindors and flees down the hall toward the stairs.

Regulus hadn’t gone on his mission to the cave for James alone – no – he’d gone for a larger purpose – to save those who came after him.  Regulus had sacrificed himself for Draco – for children yet to come.  Draco realizes that he’s been acting like a chaser, with his eyes only on the quaffle, but he is a seeker, and he should have had his eyes on the larger picture.  If he couldn’t help Potter, then he’d help the Black child – he couldn’t let Lupin’s boy grow up alone – couldn’t risk having another child be ruled by fear.

He glances out the window, and a waxing crescent moon is high in the sky.  He knows this phase of the moon represents life and death, the changing of the seasons, and the ebb and flow of the tides.  It is time for him to let go of the fear he’s clinging to and embrace his fate.

And he’s running – running through the fray searching for the cousin he’s never met and Lupin.  He skids to a stop at the top of the marble staircase and peers down into the Great Hall.  He sees Death Eaters dueling with Hogwarts students, professors, and others Draco doesn’t recognize.  He’s sees no sign of the Dolohov or Lupin or a woman with pink streaked hair.

And then from further down the corridor he hears someone shout, “Remus!”

He starts in that direction when a masked Death Eater stops him and says, “I don’t think so.”

Fuck – the maniac doesn’t recognize him.

“Let me pass,” says Draco.

"Not sure if I want to."

"Don't you recognize me?" he says, trying without success to push his way by the wizard.  "Let me through."

The man’s eyes scan him and Draco represses a shiver.  “Fine, young morsel like yourself.  Why would I let you go?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m Draco.”  His stomach coils even as he says.  “I’m on your side.”

The man grabs ahold of him and raises his wand to Draco’s face.

And suddenly the Death Eater is blasted with a stunning spell and falls to the floor.  Draco turns to see who has saved him but sees nothing but air before he is punched hard on the mouth.  Surprised, he stumbles back and falls on the stunned Death Eater and then he hears what sounds like Weasley yelling,  “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight,  you two-faced bastard!”

He wipes a hand across his stinging lower lip and sees blood.  He pushes up off of the stunned wizard and after a few shaky steps he continues to race down the hallway in the direction he’d been heading.

The far end of the corridor is open to the floor below, a balcony running all along one side.  The area has been savaged by spells, large hunks of stone from the wall litter the floor.  He recognizes Travers lying unmoving and sprawled on the floor.  Further down he sees the Gryffindor, Dean Thomas, pulling a limp looking Patil twin – he can’t be sure which one - away from the area.

Two people are whirling, casting spells against Dolohov.  Lupin and the woman with the pink in her hair. 

He curses his stupidity – he’s fucking useless.  He should have grabbed the stunned Death Eater’s wand.

Dolohov starts to cast a curse towards Lupin, and the woman cries, “Remus!” before throwing herself forward, catching the full onslaught of the curse.  Her eyes grow wide, her mouth parts in surprise, before she falls to her knees.  Lupin shouts, “Tonks!”

The woman crumples to the floor.  Lupin snarls with rage and grief, and throws spells at Dolohov.  Draco’s eyes remain on the cousin he’d never known as she lies prone across the floor, her body unnaturally still – her arm outstretched and her wand clutched in her hand.  He runs to her, skirting stones and potholes.  He clambers down to her and presses his fingers to her neck.  He can’t feel a pulse.  He bends over, with his cheek above her mouth and feels nothing.

He pulls back.  Her eyes are open – unblinking – unseeing. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he reaches for her wand and pulls it from her hand.  He hopes it will respond to him – hopes it will help him save the father of her young son. 

The wand feels alien in his grip – it’s shorter than his wand and also lighter.  He looks toward the dueling wizards.

“Avada Kedavra!” hollers Dolohov, facing Lupin, slashing his wand viciously.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Draco cries, hovering a block of stone that had collapsed from the wall into the path of the curse.  The block shatters, and dust and stone scatter, pieces of it grazing Draco’s face.

Lupin sends a spell at Dolohov, striking him in the shoulder.  The Death Eater staggers but remains standing. 

Draco can tell by the way his former professor is moving that he’s been injured. 

Dolohov answers Lupin’s spell with a sweep of his wand and a curse.  Lupin throws himself out of the way and tumbles to the floor.

“Run, Draco!” yells Lupin.

But Draco doesn’t listen to him.  He was done listening to adults, no matter how well meaning.  He surges forward, hurling curses at Dolohov, drawing the other Death Eater’s attention away from Lupin and onto himself.  He uses Occlumency to block his fear.  He’s been afraid for so fucking long – so afraid that he had let it take over every part of his life.  But no more.  He won’t let his young cousin pay the price for Draco’s cowardice and complacency. 

Dolohov turns toward him and bellows with rage, “You fucking little traitor!  Always knew your family was a bunch of turncoats.”

Draco hurls off another curse – the wand isn’t as responsive as his or even his mother’s, but at least it is working. 

Dolohov dodges and sends the blasting curse at him, which Draco blocks.  Now that he’s caged his fear, his childhood training all comes back to him.  He’d been raised by a dark wizarding family – he knows a plethora of spells that he’s never put into practice.  Words, insults, and condescension were the Malfoy weapons of choice, and he’d used them efficiently, leaving physical attacks to Vince and Greg – but as a Malfoy, he’d been given an education worthy of his dark roots.  And he drew upon this knowledge now.

“Flippendo!” he thundered.  Dolohov’s eyes widened for a moment and then he was launched off his feet before slamming into the floor.

Lupin scrabbled to his feet.  “Draco, go.”

“You go,” he said.  “You have a son.  Your wife, she’s  – Your son is going to need you.”

He paced toward Dolohov and started to utter the Incarcerous spell to bind the bastard up when the Death Eater rolled across the floor and leveled a curse at Draco.  Draco quickly threw up a shield, but he wasn’t fast enough to cover himself fully and he felt a cut slice across his cheek.

And then Lupin is at his side, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. 

“Together,” says Lupin.  “I’ll cast, you shield.”

Draco nods and they advance on Dolohov.  The Death Eater had regained his footing.

“You will pay!” shouted the other wizard.  “You’ll be joining your bitch of a wife soon.  How she welcomed you, a fucking werewolf into her bed, I’ll never know.”

Lupin didn’t respond, didn’t let the vile words strike a target, rather he remained focused, lobbing spells at the wizard, forcing him to block and retreat. 

They were closing in on the Death Eater when a cry rent the air.  A Gryffindor girl, Brown, came tearing into the space, pursued by Fenrir Greyback.  Greyback barged toward them as he snarled after the girl, clipping Draco hard on the shoulder.  He stumbled and Lupin cried out. His former Dark Arts professor turned toward Greyback who had cornered Brown on a balcony and hurled a curse at Greyback’s back, sending the werewolf over the balcony.  As he fell, Greyback reached out and grabbed hold of Brown, her scream filled Draco’s ears as she tumbled over the rail with the beast of man to the floor below. 

Draco hadn’t yet regained his balance, and Dolohov used the moment of chaos to summon his purple flames and hurl them at Draco.  Draco threw himself out of the way.  The spot where he stood turned into a smoking ruin.  Dolohov laughed and sent another wave of purple flames toward Draco.  Draco rolled, the rubble on the floor scraping at him.

Lupin hurled a curse at Dolohov, which barely misses him.  Draco sees his former professor stagger – the strain of fighting and the loss of his wife likely catching up to him – along with whatever injuries he’d taken earlier.  He casts another spell at Dolohov and comes to Draco’s side, reaching down a hand and hauling him to his feet.  Dolohov slashes the air with his wand and cries, “Avada Kedavra!” sending the curse toward them.

Draco frantically throws up a shield in front of Lupin, but Lupin throws himself toward Draco and away from the shield, pushing Draco to the side.  Draco stumbles and falls hard to the ground landing on sharp pieces of glass and stone.  And the curse strikes Lupin in the back, and the man stills – his amber eyes meeting Draco’s before the light in them fades and he slides to the floor.

His Occlumency shields shatter.  Rage and despair flood his mind.  He drags his eyes from the wizard beside him on the floor and glares right at Dolohov.  He sees red.  He wants the Death Eater to die, but he remembers his mother’s words about him not being a killer, and damn it, he won’t split his soul for this man. He lifts up his wand arm and screams, “Expulso,” putting all of his anger and grief into the spell.  Still laughing from his victory over Lupin, Dolohov is struck with Draco’s fury and is blown back to the balcony and over the rail before tumbling to the floor below.

Draco lays panting before scrabbling on his knees to Lupin.  The man is laying on his side, and Draco turns him to his back.  And he knows.  The wizard who was the last of the Marauders, and the father of an infant with the blood of the House of Black in his veins, is dead.  He bows his head over the man, using all of his will power not to scream.

“You tried to save him.”

He looks up, it takes him a moment to recognize Thomas standing before him, his clothes torn and a bruise across his face.

“I saw you from down the hall or I’d never have believed it.  You fought with a Death Eater to try and help him.”

“And I fucking failed!” Draco grinds out.

“But you - ”

And then, clear as if he was standing beside Draco, the Dark Lord’s voice filled the air.

“You have fought valiantly.  Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.  Yet you have sustained heavy losses.  If you continue to resist me you will all die, one by one.  I do not wish this to happen.  Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.  Lord Voldemort is merciful.  I command my forces to retreat immediately.  You have one hour.  Dispose of your dead with dignity.  Treat your injured.  I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.  You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.  I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest.  If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences.  This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me.  One hour.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder.  He looks up into Thomas’s eyes.  He becomes aware that he was breathing in great gasps but that he wasn’t filling his lungs.  It was the fucking Astronomy Tower all over again.  Of course fucking Potter would go to the Dark Lord - the noble Gryffindor would pay for the safety of others with himself.  And of course Draco had failed in keeping Lupin safe – he’s fucking failed at everything.

“Breathe,” says Thomas.

And Draco tries.  He really does.  But everything is just too much.

Thomas turns Draco away from Lupin’s unmoving body and kneels down to his level.  His brown eyes meet Draco’s.

“Look at me.  Breathe.  I saw you.  You did everything you could.  I saw you.  Lupin made a choice.  He chose to save you.  Breathe.”

He shakes his head.  It is all too much.  It should have been him.  Why the fuck had Lupin not let it be him that was the one lying dead on the floor? 

“Malfoy, breathe.  I fucking mean it.  We have work to do.  The school and its students are under attack.  We have to help.  Breathe.”

Help.  The Gryffindor thought Draco could help?  He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t catch his breath. 

“Parvati is hurt.  I need to get her to help.  She needs medical attention.  Help me, Malfoy.”

Help. 

He closes his eyes and thinks of his friends.  Maybe someone was helping them now the way Thomas was asking him to help Parvati Patil.  He’d want someone to help his friends if they needed it. 

He opens his eyes and meets Thomas’s.  He concentrated on the other boy as he worked to gain control over himself. 

“Good job,” says Thomas.  “You can do this.”

He closes his eyes again and fills his lungs.  He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes again.  He nods at the Gryffindor. 

He struggles to rise.  Thomas places a hand under his elbow and helps him up.

“Looks like you could use some help too, Malfoy,” said the other boy.  “You’re covered in bruises and cuts and there are several . .  burns on you.  It looks like someone was putting cigarettes out on you.  What have those fuckers been doing to you?”

He looks away from Thomas’s concerned face.  How could he even begin to tell him that he’d done all of this to himself?

“Let’s get your friend to some help.”

Together with Thomas he turns away from the dead to focus on the living.

Notes:

Only two chapters left to go before we launch into a brave new, non-epilogue compliant, world. I'm petrified and excited. It will still be a slow burn.

Chapter 36: The Promise

Notes:

*Voldemort’s dialogue quoted from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” chapter thirty-six.

Draco knelt before Patil. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Her forehead was dappled with sweat. He scanned her body and saw that one of her legs was twisted in an awkward angle and was likely broken.

Her eyes opened and she took in Draco. She grimaced as she tried to push away from him.

“Hold up Parvati,” said Thomas.

“What the hell Dean? He’ll hand us over to the Death Eaters.”

“I don’t think so,” said Thomas.

“We have an hour – maybe a little longer – before something happens. You think this has been bad? Wait until the Dark Lord enters the battle. All hell is going to fucking break loose,” said Draco.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” asked the Gryffindor girl.

“We need to get you help,” said Draco, giving the girl an appraising glance. “We’ll either need you on your feet to fight or to help get you away.”

Thomas lifted one of Patil’s arms up around his neck. “Let’s get you to Pomfrey or someone who knows what they are doing. I picked up a few things from Ted Tonks when I was on the run with him, but I think you’d rather have someone else help you out.”

Draco’s heart stuttered for a moment. Thomas had been with Ted Tonks? And now that man and his daughter were dead.

The girl hissed in pain as Thomas hoisted her up. Draco cast a lightening charm on her.

“Get under her other arm,” said Thomas.

“If people see me with her, they’ll think I’m trying to turn her over or that I’m trying to hurt her.”

“Christ, Malfoy, just help. If I’m with you no one will question it, and if they do, I’ll tell them what the fuck the deal is.”

“He could turn on us,” said Patil, her eyes wide with pain and fear.

“He could,” said Thomas looking over Patil’s head to Draco, “But after what I just saw, I don’t think he will. I think if the Death Eater Malfoy just blasted the shit out of starts talking to his twisted little buddies that Malfoy is going to need us.”

He felt his eye twitch. Thomas had a point. If Dolohov said anything about what Draco had done he’d be branded a traitor. He probably should have killed the fucker, his soul be damned. Maybe his soul wouldn’t have fractured as the death would have been in self-defense. Too late now.

“Give me a second,” he said, and he made his way over to where Travers still lay. The miserable man’s chest was rising and falling, so the bastard was alive – something that was supremely unjust considering the dead that lay close to him. Draco muttered the binding spell and Travers was wrapped from shoulder to ankle in black rope. There. Even if the fucker woke up, he’d not wreak harm on others. For good measure Draco reached down and searched for his wand. He found it partially sticking out from under the Death Eater. He hauled it out, and saw instantly that it was snapped in two. The wood of the wand was hanging together by an exposed core. Draco twisted the ends savagely in his hands, severing the connection and he flung both pieces away to opposite sides of the space.

He walked back to the Gryffindors – Merlin, he seemed to be constantly involved with Gryffindors – Prewett, Longbottom, and of course, Potter. Thinking of the green-eyed boy caused him to falter in his steps. He worked to shove all thoughts of Potter out of his mind. He couldn’t help Potter now. But he could help Patil and Thomas.

Once he reached Patil’s side he dipped down a bit and hoisted her other arm up over his neck, then he wrapped an arm around her back.

She looked up him with a fierce expression on her face. He met her gaze and offered her nothing in return – not anger, not penitence, nothing.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

That comment did raise his eyebrows. “Never have a Slytherin this close to you before?”

She glowered at him.

“Well it’s your lucky day, Parvati,” said Thomas. “You’ve got the Slytherin Prince helping you hobble to first aid.”

“Lucky me,” she said. “And of course you’d have a sense of humor at a time like this.”

“Hex me,” said Thomas. “It’s how I keep going.”

And it was slow going. They had to pick their way over debris and around one body of a Death Eater to reach the hospital entrance. There was a line of people leaning against the wall outside of the double doors waiting for medical aid. Thomas flagged someone he knew down that was rushing down the corridor and told them where to find Lupin and Tonks so that they could be moved to rest somewhere with dignity.

“What’s that snake doing here?” asked a student leaning against the wall, cradling an arm that was bleeding profusely, his shirt stained crimson.

Draco looked closer at the student and recognized the Ravenclaw Stephen Cornfoot. He’d had little to do with the other boy despite their being in the same year. What he did recall of the Ravenclaw was that he was studious and hardworking in his classes, and normally was quite soft spoken. He wasn’t being soft spoken now. He must have seen too much in this round of fighting, and the anger and the hurt were overwhelming him.

He cast his eyes to the floor. He had no words with which to defend himself.

“He’s with me,” said Patil.

His eyes snapped to her face, and typical of a damned Gryffindor, she looked both fierce and earnest.

“He’s helping me.”

“Well of course he is,” said Pomfrey as she bustled out of the doors. “Put her here, toward the front of the line, we need to tend that leg.”

A handful of other adults and older students emerged from the hospital wing behind Pomfrey and started making their way down the rows of people along either side of the door.

“We’ve dealt with the hardest cases as best we can at the moment and will start triaging the other cases,” said the matron. She turned to Draco and Thomas, “You both could use some healing spells yourselves, but you look right enough. We need orderlies. Do you think you can manage that?”

They both nodded as they settled Patil to the spot Pomfrey had indicated earlier.

“Good, bring in Mr. Cornfoot, we need to stop that bleeding. And bring Ms. Moon, as well, she looks like she’s had a concussion.”

Draco turned toward Cornfoot as Thomas had already knelt down by a Moon. He didn’t want to draw his wand on the boy without warning – he knew it wouldn’t be taken well.

“I’m going to cast a lightening charm on you so it isn’t such a wrench to help you stand,” he said loudly and clearly.

Cornfoot lifted his chin and met Draco’s eyes. The Ravenclaw held his gaze for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to the blood seeping down his arm and dripping down his fingers to the floor.

“All right, Malfoy. If Madam Pomfrey trusts you, just go ahead and do it.”

Draco nodded at him and then drew out his deceased cousin’s wand and cast the charm. He put the wand away and stooped to help Cornfoot to his feet. Despite his care, the other boy gasped and shivered with pain. One painfully slow step at a time, Draco helped the injured Ravenclaw into the hospital wing. He was shocked to see how many beds were filled, and the sounds were indescribable. Some of the beds he saw, had sheets pulled all the way up over occupants that would never rise again. He found an empty bed, and as soon as Draco helped Cornfoot sit down Pomfrey arrived.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. The others will have triaged the patients. Start bringing in the ones closest to the doors and work your way down.”

And so it went. He helped well over two dozen people into the infirmary. As he was assisting the last of the waiting injured in, he was relieved to see a pale looking Cornfoot on his feet walking out of the hospital. The Ravenclaw it seemed, was rejoining the defenders of Hogwarts. After he helped the last patient to a bed he pulled out his pocket watch. It was just past 3:30am, past the hour of time the Dark Lord had required Potter to surrender himself. The Chosen One’s green eyes flashed through his mind and he hoped like hell that Potter is safe.

He stood uselessly by the hospital doors. He watched a pair of students lugging a limp person past the infirmary entrance. Dead. How many were dead? Why wasn’t he?

He didn’t belong here. He’d seen none of his housemates. All the injured were Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors, as well as some adults he didn’t know.

A girl he recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff approached him. Her name escaped him. She had spots of blood on her shirt - she must be helping Pomfrey.

“Malfoy, Lavender Brown is asking after you. Will come and see her?”

Draco gave her a look. Why in the hell would a Gryffindor girl he’d probably spoken a dozen words to be asking for him?

“She’s quite badly hurt. She was . . . mauled. It would be kind of you to talk with her.”

Kind. He was not known for kindness. And yet here was this Hufflepuff, whose name he couldn’t even be bothered to remember, asking him to be kind to a girl he pretty much knew on sight alone.

At last he nodded, and the girl turned and led him down the rows of beds toward a bed with screens placed all around it right outside Madam Pomfrey’s office. Brown must be badly injured indeed if she merited a spot right by the matron’s office.

The Hufflepuff pulled aside a screen and waved him in. Draco gave her a searching glance, and the girl ever so slightly shook her head.

He took a breath and walked in. The Gryffindor’s light brown hair was spread behind her on the pillow. He could see bandages wrapped around her arms and her throat, and cloth stained with blood covered one side of her face.

“You,” she rasped as her eyes focused on him. “You were there.”

While he’d never really spoken to her, he remembered often hearing her voice filled with excitement and laughter. She sounded nothing like that version of herself now.

“Professor . . . Lupin . . . He tried to . . . save me.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “He did try.”

The girl lifted a heavily bandaged hand a few inches from the bed, “You were . . . beside him.” Her hand fell back on the bed.

“I was.”

“Is he . . . is he . . . okay?”

He stared at her soft brown eyes. Her brow was furrowed, likely with pain. And he didn’t know what to say. How did he tell this wounded girl that the man who’d tried to save her died saving him? Died saving someone so undeserving. And if he told her the truth, the hope in her eyes might extinguish. His silence, however, must have spoken volumes, as the Gryffindor closed her eyes with a sigh. After a moment she opened her eyes and said, “He’s . . . gone. Isn’t he?”

His throat tightened. He saw a tear slip down the injured the side of her face and disappear beneath the bandage.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Lupin is gone.”

She met his eyes with her own. “Was it . . . you?”

He felt his own eyes sting. Brown probably had no idea how close to the mark she’d struck with that question. And it hurt him – hurt him to know that he deserved the lack of faith she had in him. He’d done nothing, after all, to earn any respect from her.

“Yes,” he whispered. “And no. I was . . . fighting with him. Not against him. He gave his life to save me.”

He watched another tear slide down her face. “You owe him,” she whispered back.

“I know.”

The girl nodded at him, and then flinched from the pain. He wondered how far below the sheets her wounds went. While Greyback had not been turned, he knew the wounds would scar. Draco could hide his scars. Brown would not be able to hide all of hers if she survived, which he fervently hoped she did as Lupin had wanted to help her.

“Promise me,” said the girl, her voice growing thick. Draco spotted an empty potion bottle on a small stand by the bed. He guessed a pain and sleeping draught was taking hold of her. “You won’t waste . . . his gift. Promise . . . me.”

He shook his head, tears finally falling from his eyes. He couldn’t make such a promise. He couldn’t. He doubted he would survive this night. The Dark Lord would surely kill him for his betrayal and his failure.

“Malfoy . . . promise,” the Gryffindor commanded even as her eyes drooped with exhaustion.

He made no response, and her eyelids fluttered open. The light overhead reflected in her eyes, and for a moment her light brown eyes gleamed in a way that reminded him of Lupin’s amber eyes. Lupin who had sacrificed everything for him – for a Death Eater.

“I promise . . . Lavender,” he said.

The girl sighed and closed her eyes. Draco stood by her for a few more moments but it was clear that she was asleep. He wondered if she’d ever wake again. Would he be the last person to have heard her voice? Why were so many priceless things squandered on him?

He rose and carefully brushed back a few strands of her hair that had slid down her pillow. He saw then that dried blood was streaked in her hair.

“Live,” he breathed before he turned and exited the curtained space.

He stood in the corridor of the hospital. He was surrounded by grief and death and he didn’t have any idea what to do with himself.

Then he heard the Dark Lord’s voice thundering through the castle, “Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”

And he was running – running through the hospital – running through the corridor – running toward the great entrance door – running.

“The battle is won,” continued the Dark Lord. “You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy-Who-Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist – man, woman, or child will be slaughtered - as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now. Kneel before me and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

The door was ahead, and still he ran. He heard the cries and footfalls of others as people rushed toward the courtyard – toward the horrible voice. He saw Professor McGonagall ahead of him – she flung the doors wide and he flew out, surrounded by others.

And there in the darkness lit by torches and the glow of wands – walking toward the entrance of the school that had once been a bastion of safety – was Hagrid, cradling a body in his arms.

Harry.

All was silent.

Notes:

Only one more chapter to go until we reach the end of "Deathly Hallows." The material after chapter 37 will not be epilogue or "Cursed Child" compliant. It will continue to be a slow burn as Draco will have some serious shit to get through after the War. As a spoiler alert, there will not be an 8th year for Draco. This makes me sad, as I love to read 8th year fic, but knowing the speed at which the (Muggle) criminal justice system operates, I don't think he'd even have a chance to have a trial by September 1st and the start of the magical school year. Still, there is much in store for Draco - including good things - which I am looking forward to writing.

Chapter 37: An Ending

Notes:

Dialogue between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, as well as dialogue of some other characters, quoted from "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," chapter thirty-six. The amount of quoted dialogue from this chapter is insane, but we are experiencing it through Draco's perspective and it has relevance for Draco (and Harry) later on.

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to look - but he couldn’t look away – couldn’t tear his eyes from Potter’s body, limp in Hagrid’s arms. No. It couldn’t be. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived couldn’t be dead. He felt his heart constrict. What had it all been for? What had the sacrifices and deaths of everyone been for if it was all going to end in Potter’s death before he even turned eighteen? Potter’s mother had sacrificed her life for him – and oh Merlin – the others . . . James, Regulus, Sirius, and Lupin had all died to help defeat the Dark Lord – to help Potter – Harry – live. And he couldn’t breathe – still couldn’t breathe. It was like his attack on the Astronomy Tower and by Lupin’s side all over again.

Harry. . .

Harry. . . dead . . .

Harry would never walk on this earth again. Harry would never again fly through the air on a broom. Harry would never get the chance to have the life he deserved.

And Lupin – oh fuck – his child – his son – at the Dark Lord’s mercy. All of them at the Dark Lord’s mercy.

He just couldn’t . . . He worked to close off his feelings – worked not think of the slain boy as Harry . . . no . . . Potter. . . had to think of him as Potter, his rival, not as Harry, the boy who deserved to live.

The silence broke, the early morning air filled with cries.

“No!”

“Harry! No!”

“Harry!”

“Silence!” cried the Dark Lord sending a flash of bright light with a clap of thunder above him. “It is over! Set him down Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs.”

The grounds keeper lowered Potter’s limp form to the ground.

“You see?” continued Lord Voldemort. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

Weasley took a step forward away the mass of onlookers and yelled, “He beat you!”

The crowd around him erupted in screams and shouts until the Dark Lord sent forward an even louder thunder clap.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle ground,” said the Dark Lord, taking obvious pleasure in his words. “Killed while trying to save himself -”

Longbottom broke free from the crowd with a shout, hurtling toward the dark wizard. There was another bright flash and a loud tear of thunder, and Longbottom hit the ground with huff of pain, his wand flying from his hand.

Voices buzzed around him – trying but never completely breaching the mental walls he’d hurriedly erected and quickly reinforced at the sight of Longbottom disarmed and vulnerable. From a distance he thought he heard as his aunt taunted the boy, calling him the son of the Aurors, while the Dark Lord affirmed that the young man was a pureblood and invited Longbottom to join him.

His walls slipped as Longbottom shouted, “I’ll join you when hell freezes over. Dumbledore’s Army!”

The crowd cheered. There was so little of the young boy Draco remembered from first year. This Longbottom was brave in a way that Draco wasn’t sure he could ever be. The boy still wore his heart on his sleeve, but now instead of it being a weakness, it imbibed Longbottom with strength.

And Draco knew that Longbottom was going to die just like Potter. The Dark Lord would not stand for this. He slipped back behind his mental barricade unable to watch the daring boy Longbottom had grown to be get struck down.

A bird swooped down to the Dark Lord with the bedraggled Sorting Hat in its talons. Lord Voldemort pointed his wicked wand at Longbottom, and cursed the boy, binding him in place before forcing the sad excuse for a hat on the Gryffindor’s head so that it covered his eyes. Draco sucked in a breath as the Sorting Hat burst into flames.

His mental fortress shook and then they shattered. This was too much. This was too fucking much. Longbottom was on fire . . . Vince had been on fire . . . Fire and death . . . He was surrounded by fire and pain . . . His life as he now knew it had begun in fire and pain. . .

Cries rumbled through the air and he turned to see hundreds of people swarming over the school’s outer walls and run hard towards the castle led by Professor Slughorn. A giant rounded the side of the castle shouting, “Hagger!” Arrows fell from the sky onto the group of Death Eaters surrounding Lord Voldemort and centaurs galloped from the trees readying their bows for another volley.

And Longbottom – glorious Longbottom – broke free from the Body-Bind Curse and he threw off the flaming Sorting Hat. As he did, he drew a sword from the hat, its silver blade flashed in the light from the flames. With two hands clasped around a hilt that sparkled with red gems, Longbottom swung the blade in a graceful arc until it struck Nagini. The head of the Dark Lord’s great snake flew into the air. Lord Voldemort screamed – the sound was terrible – it flooded Draco’s brain and he felt his Mark burn. The serpent’s headless body shuddered for a moment before it fell to the ground at its master’s feet.

And then Hagrid cried, “Harry – Harry! Where’s Harry?”

His eyes darted to the spot where Potter’s body had lain, and he was gone.

Madness reigned. The skies filled with winged creatures – thestrals and hippogriffs tore at the faces of the Dark Lord’s giants. Centaurs drove through crowd of Lord Voldemort’s followers, scattering them. People sought cover and ran through the school entrance to the Great Hall. Draco was jostled from all sides, and he moved his feet, following the tide of people.

For a moment he thought he heard his name being called.

The wave of people who had raced toward the school to join the fight burst into the hall led by Slughorn and a red-headed Weasley. Centaurs galloped into the hall, their hooves ringing on the stone floor. And then in marched an army of house elves brandishing deadly looking kitchen knives. Draco saw Kreacher leading the lot, his silver locket gleaming proudly on his chest as he called, “Fight – Fight! Fight for my master, defender of house elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!”

All around him Death Eaters were being pummeled to the floor and brought down. He watched as Weasley and Longbottom dueled with Fenrir Greyback. The pair overcame the beast of a man and he fell limp to the floor.

The house elves assaulted the Death Eaters, swinging and stabbing their fierce instruments as high up as they could reach. A Death Eater pointed his wand at Kreacher, whose back was turned, and Draco snapped forward and struck the wizard with a stunning curse so hard that the man slammed to the ground.

The sound was deafening. He was surrounded by noise and chaos. From a distance he thought he heard his name again, but his attention was caught when he heard a woman’s voice cry, “Not my daughter, you bitch!”

A redheaded woman – the matron of the Weasley clan - flung off her cloak as she sprinted toward Draco’s aunt, placing her body in front of Granger, Potter’s girl-Weasley, and Lovegood.

“Out of my way,” she shouted before she started to duel Bellatrix. She didn’t give his aunt an inch – the very air seemed to crackle between them.

His aunt tossed her wild hair, a sneer on her face as she said, “What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you? When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”

Draco felt that taunt like a punch in the gut. How could Bellatrix revel in the death of the Weasley mother’s son?

“You will never touch our children again!” the Weasley woman screamed before a flash of green arced from her wand.

His aunt laughed, a smile on her lips, even as she was struck with the curse directly on her breastbone. Bellatrix’s smile tightened and her eyes widened for a brief moment and then she crumpled to the ground in a heap of black robes and wild hair.

He heard the Dark Lord’s scream, and the man blasted his way toward the fallen Bellatrix – knocking right through McGonagall, Slughorn, and an Auror. He strode towards the Weasley woman his wand raised when the hall rung with the cry, “Protego!” Draco could see the glimmer of the shielding charm as it burst up between the Dark Lord and his prey.

And then Potter was there. Out of nowhere Potter was there – alive – standing in the Great Hall. Merlin, his heart couldn’t take anymore. How the fuck was Potter alive? Draco couldn’t take his eyes off of the Gryffindor. It was Potter – the way he walked, the way he moved – it was all Potter.

Cries and exclamations of disbelief rang out in the hall. Potter passed through the crowd, people parting to let him through, and came to stand across from the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord shifted toward him, and the pair begin to circle each other.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help. It’s got to be like this,” called the Chosen One, his voice filling the silence. “It’s got to be me.”

The Dark Lord glared at the Gryffindor who had seemingly risen from the grave and hissed, “Potter doesn’t mean that. That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”

The Boy-Who-Lived met the Dark Lord’s red-eyed glare and said, “Nobody. There are no more horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.”

“One of us,” said Lord Voldemort, his tone mocking. “You think it will be you, do you, the boy who survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”

Potter and the Dark Lord continued to circle each other, wands drawn, their faces intent on the other.

He felt a hand on his arm and he turned away from the dueling wizards to see his mother with his father standing a couple of steps behind.

“Draco,” she whispered, then gave him a tug as if to lead him away.

Draco shook his head and turned his attention back to the person that had always held it – back to Potter

“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me? Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?” Potter called.

Lord Voldemort’s wand arm trembled with rage and his voice was shrill as he screamed, “Accidents! Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!”

Potter’s face grew hard as he said, “You won’t be able to kill any of them ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people -”

“But you did not!” the Dark Lord shrieked.

“I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. You don’t learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed, “You dare -”

“Yes,” answered Potter. “I dare. I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make another mistake?”

The Dark Lord’s face contorted in a grimace, “Is it love again? Dumbledore’s favorite solution. Love Which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork. Love – which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter. And nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse.”

Draco took a step forward – took a step toward Potter – but he felt his mother’s grasp on him tighten and she tethered him to the spot.

“So what will stop you dying now when I strike?” asked the Dark Lord.

“Just one thing,” said Potter, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Lord Voldemort said, “If it is not love that will you save you this time, you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?”

“I believe both,” said the Chosen One.

A look like shock rippled across the Dark Lord’s serpentine face before the man began to laugh, cold and cruel. “You think you know more magic than I do? Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?”

Potter didn’t look away from the dark wizard as he spoke, “Oh, he dreamed of it, but he knew more than you – knew enough not to do what you’ve done.”

“You mean he was weak!” shrieked the Dark Lord. “Too weak to dare – too weak to take what might have been his – what will be mine!”

Potter gave a slight shake to his head. “No. He was cleverer than you – a better wizard – a better man.”

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”

Draco flinched, a vision of the former headmaster pinned atop the Astronomy Tower flashing through his mind.

“You thought you did,” said Potter, sounding for the world as if he were trying to be agreeable. “But you were wrong.”

Draco felt the people around him stir and then gasp as one.

“Dumbledore is dead!” cried the Dark Lord, his agitation clearly rising along with his voice. “His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle. I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return.”

If Potter were affected by the Dark Lord’s words, he didn’t show it. “Yes. Dumbledore is dead,” he agreed. “But you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying – chose it months before he died – arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.”

“What childish dream is this?” asked Lord Voldemort, still circling the Chosen One.

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” said Potter, enunciating each word. “Snape was Dumbledore’s – Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can’t understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus did you, Riddle?” Potter waited a moment for an answer that never came. “Snape’s Patronus was a doe. The same as my mother’s because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized. He asked you to spare her life, didn’t he?”

Snape. Snape had loved Lily Potter. Draco wondered when Potter had learned this. Had Snape and Dumbledore confided in him as they never thought to confide?

The Dark Lord shifted, still circling the Gryffindor. “He desired her, that was all, but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women – and of purer blood – worthier of him -”

And Potter smiled again – smiled at the snakelike man before him. “Of course he told you that, but he was Dumbledore’s spy from the moment that you threatened her, and he’s been working against you ever since. Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him.”

“It matters not!” screamed Lord Voldemort before letting out a mirthless laugh. “It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape’s supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand! Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me. He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand. But I got there ahead of you – little boy – I reached the wand before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago.”

Draco felt himself reel from this. Snape was dead? The Dark Lord had killed the man he’d thought to be one of his most loyal servants? For a wand? Wait – the Elder Wand. Sweet mother of Merlin the Elder Wand was real?

“And the Elder Wand,” continued the Dark Lord in his cold, shrill voice, “The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine.”

What hope had been ignited by seeing Potter alive again stuttered. If the Dark Lord had ahold of the fucking Deathstick – the wand of myth and legend – what chance did the Boy-Who-Lived have?

“Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong, Harry Potter,” said Lord Voldemort in a pleased tone.

Potter seemed to shrug as if unconcerned, “Yeah, it did. You’re right, but before you try to kill me I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done . . . Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle.”

The Dark Lord paused for a moment in his circling. “What is this?”

“It’s your one last chance,” said the Chosen One and Draco was struck by the seriousness of Potter’s tone. “It’s all you’ve got left . . . I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise . . . Be a man. Try. Try for some remorse.”

“You dare,” hissed the Dark Lord.

“Yes I dare,” thundered Potter. I dare because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on you, Riddle. That wand still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore.”

“He killed -”

“Aren’t you listening?” cried Potter as if Voldemort were a student not paying attention in class. “Snape never beat Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s last true master! If all had gone as planned the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him.”

“But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand! I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb. I removed it against its last master’s wishes. It’s power is mine!”

“You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you?” said Potter, his eyes flashing. “Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it - using it - doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard . . . The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance.”

Draco felt his skin begin to prick. Potter couldn’t mean . . .

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.”

Oh, Merlin. Master of the Elder Wand. Fuck.

For a moment, nobody spoke, then the Dark Lord recovered himself and said, “But what difference does it matter? Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand. We duel on skill alone . . . and after I have killed you I can attend to Draco Malfoy.”

He felt his mother’s grip on him tighten, but he still couldn’t look away – couldn’t leave – couldn’t take his eyes off the Chosen One.

“But you’re too late,” said Potter, almost sounding regretful. “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him.”

Potter gave a slight wave of emphasis to the hawthorn wand he held. His wand. His wand in Potter’s hands as he faced the most powerful dark wizard of their age.

But Draco knew – he knew that Potter hadn’t taken the wand by force. He’d let it go. Would that act be enough for his wand to recognize Potter as his master?

“So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it? Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

And then the Gryffindor was lit by the red-gold sun rising above him in the enchanted sky of the Great Hall. The color amplified everything about Potter, causing him to glow, while the light only highlighted the Dark Lord’s pallor.

And then their voices rang out.

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco was rooted to the ground as he watched their spells collide between them in a burst of sound – the green spell of the curse colliding with the golden spell of Potter’s disarming charm. And then wand in the Dark Lord’s hand flew out of his hand and up toward the rising sun of the enchanted ceiling, the green jet of the killing cursing arcing away from Potter. The Chosen One – seeker that he was – caught hold of the wand – and the curse that Voldemort had uttered against the Boy-Who-Lived turned toward him and struck the dark wizard where he stood.

The Dark Lord’s arms spread wide as he fell, crashing to the floor, his red eyes vacant as mortality finally caught up with him.

Pain seared through Draco’s arm – the Mark flared and burned – the pain burrowed deeper. He staggered. His mother’s grip on him tightened as she tried to help hold him upright. The pain blazed into his core – incinerating something dark and festering that had gripped his heart in a vice for so long that he had ceased remembering what it felt like before . . . before his oath. He gasped. Then as quickly as it had begun, the scorching pain dissolved, fading away to nothing but the tingling memory that it had been there at all.

He caught his breath and looked up, searching for Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived stood unharmed with a wand in each hand staring down at what was left of the wizard that had destroyed so much.

All was silent as everyone stared at the scene that was scarcely believable. And then the hall erupted in sounds of relief and joy. Weasley and Granger hurled themselves at Potter, and the trio clung to each other. Within moments Longbottom, Lovegood, and the she-Weasley joined the trio, their faces wide with smiles and covered with tears as they wrapped around the Chosen One.

Then Draco lost sight of Potter as more people swarmed him trying to reach him – trying to touch him. Draco turned to look at his mother. She eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“You are safe now,” she said as she wrapped him in her arms. He leaned in to her, resting his chin on the top of her fair head. His father hovered beside them, unsure. His mother pulled back from Draco and looked at Lucius – beckoning him with her ever expressive eyes. She held an arm to her husband and he came to them, wrapping around them both. They stood locked together as the sounds of the revelers continued around them. He lost track of time as he clung to his mother. The Dark Lord was gone. His parents were still alive. He was still alive. And holy hell Potter was still alive.

“We should go, Draco. We don’t . . . we don’t belong here,” his mother whispered as she continued to embrace him.

And he knew what she meant. They didn’t deserve to be here amongst the victors – they didn’t deserve to take part in the collective joy and grief. He looked around and saw that Lord Voldemort’s followers had fled.

“I’m so tired, mother.”

“We will rest,” she said. “We will all rest and then decide what to do.”

He nodded at his mother and then swept his gaze around the Great Hall one last time. Across the hall he could see Longbottom – battered and burned – sitting at a table eating – an older woman that Draco guessed was his grandmother at his side. The Gryffindor looked up for a moment and met Draco’s eyes. He gave Draco a slight nod and a small, brief smile, before he turned his attention back to his food. Draco was amazed, but not really surprised that Longbottom had an appetite after everything he’d been through.

His eyes continued to rove the space, searching for the boy he’d always looked for, and there, at the far end of the hall he saw Potter, Granger, and Weasley slipping away from the chaos. He nodded his head in Potter’s direction, a silent farewell, knowing that the Gryffindor would not see him. But he didn’t care. He needed this one moment of closure – this one moment to say goodbye – even if from a distance – to the boy whose eyes had haunted him since he was eleven years old.

He watched until Potter disappeared from view before he took a shaky breath, turned to his mother, and said, “There’s something I have to do before we leave.”

He walked toward the outer edge of the hall, where the dead lay, his mother and father trailing behind him. He walked along the rows of dead – horrified to see all the people who had made the ultimate sacrifice to help bring down Lord Voldemort. Many of the faces were far too young- he recognized one young Gryffindor, Creevey, that could not have been of age amongst the bodies. Further down he could see a cluster of red-heads – the Weasley family – huddled together, grieving their lost child and brother.

He looked away from the family and kept walking, coming to a stop at last before Lupin and his wife. They were laid out side by side, their hands almost touching.

Behind him, he heard his mother gasp in recognition. He remembered that once he’d known his cousin’s name, having heard it in snatches of derogatory conversation. But he couldn’t remember it now and that was wrong.

“What was her name?” he asked. “What was my cousin’s name?”

“Nymphadora,” his mother said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His cousin’s borrowed wand was still clutched in his hand. He looked at her face – she was young – younger than her husband, whose face bore the lines of a life filled with hardship.

He knelt down between them. He had failed them both – failed their son. He knew in his heart that he had willingly tried to sacrifice himself to save Lupin, but it hadn’t mattered – the noble man hadn’t let Draco give his life and Lupin had chosen to save Draco instead. And he knew that he wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth the gift that Lupin had given, and he wasn’t worth the loss Lupin’s son would suffer because of that choice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before he placed the wand back in his cousin’s cold hand where it belonged. “I’ll do what I can for your son.”

He rose and his mother’s hands clasped his. Her eyes sought his and he saw her pain. The loss his mother had avoided by his survival would be borne by her sister. And it wasn’t fair.

His mother released one of her hands from his and tried to lead him away. He took one last look at Lupin and Nymphadora before he allowed his mother to tow him away. His father followed behind him. She held his hand all through the Great Hall and out of the main entrance. He paused on the steps and turned to look back once at the school that had been his home for the last seven years. The great castle had been wounded, but it would survive. Would he?

His mother squeezed his hand, and he turned back to her and followed her along the path leading away from the school and his past and into an unknown future.

Notes:

And nine months of my life rewriting "Deathly Hallows" from Draco's perspective has come to an end. Thank you everyone for reading. I'm looking forward to finally - finally - having scenes between Draco and Harry with some real dialogue . . . and . . . er . . . other stuff.

Chapter 38: The Days After

Summary:

Part 2: Draco Malfoy and the Savior's Wand

Notes:

I'm keeping the stories together at this point, but may separate them in future. Part 1, "Draco Malfoy and the Heart of the Lion" consists of chapters 1-37. Part 2, "Draco Malfoy and the Savior's Wand” begins on Chapter 38 and is ongoing.

He clung to his mother as they apparated into a room he did not recognize. He’d had a moment of panic that she might be taking them to the Manor, but this was most definitely not the Manor. The room was richly furnished but seemed like it hadn’t been used for some time as the air felt stale. His father appeared beside him.

“Where are we?” Draco asked.

“The Rosier townhouse in London,” said his mother. “It was part of my mother’s dowry when she married into the Black family. It is mine now.”

“We should have gone to the Manor,” said his father. “The wards there would have protected us better.”

“No,” said his mother, not raising her voice, but making her disagreement crystal clear in her tone. “The Manor has been defiled, and Draco needs to rest. He won’t be able to rest there.”

She snapped her fingers, and with a crack, Mip appeared. All the house elves at the Manor had been bound to Bellatrix, but now with her . . . death, it appeared that they would once again be under his family’s authority.

“I need you to fetch the trunk I prepared that is in my room at the Manor. Bring it here, as well as the supplies necessary to keep us comfortable for a few days. Once you’ve returned, ready the second bedroom upstairs for Draco.”

Mip bowed before disapparating with another crack.

She turned to Draco, and brushed his fringe back from his forehead. He was exhausted but he was afraid to try and close his eyes – afraid of what he’d see.

“You need to rest my darling,” said his mother.

He shook his head. He was scared that if he tried to rest – let his guard down – that he would break. Everything that had happened was just too much. He was alive. The Dark Lord was dead. His parents and Potter were free from Lord Voldemort and yet he still felt like he was drowning beneath the weight of the fear he’d carried with him for the last two years. Was that his fate? To remain shackled to the Dark Lord forever by fear?

“And we need to see to your wounds,” said his mother, pulling him back to her and the present. He felt her eyes travel along the assortment of bruises and cuts on his face.

“You can’t,” he whispered, “I . . . I lost your wand. Vince . . . he cast Fiendfyre and . . . and . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He started to tremble thinking of Vince. He hadn’t liked Vince in the last year, but once upon time, Vince had been his friend. Now he was gone. Fred Weasley was gone. His cousin. Lupin. Gone.

And that Gryffindor girl, Lavender Brown, would she survive?

He felt hot tears streak down his face.

“Draco,” said his mother, reaching up to cradle his face with her hand. “You need to rest.”

He shook his head. His body thrummed with exhaustion, but he didn’t want to sleep. He was afraid of what he’d see in his dreams. Potter dead in Hagrid’s arms. Lupin’s amber eyes as he fell, struck by the killing curse. The flames from the cursed fire.

He felt his father’s eyes on him, likely disappointed by his display of emotions, but Lucius refrained from saying anything. Draco wiped a grubby sleeve across his face. It was poor etiquette, but needs must. His mother gave him a small smile before she ushered him upstairs to a bedroom decorated in the shades of the palest of blues and into an ensuite bathroom. The fixtures were dated, there was only a clawfoot tub and no shower.

“You need to wash,” said his mother.

He eyed the bathtub. He couldn’t begin to imagine submersing himself in it – his mind would have too much time to wander and remember.

“No,” he stammered.

His mother sighed, seeming to understand his concerns, “Then at least wash with a cloth.”

He nodded in agreement and she stood for a moment, but he nodded again and she left the small room, closing the door with a gentle click. He stripped off his clothes, grateful that she hadn’t insisted on helping him in his shattered state. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how he’d explain the curse scars that crisscrossed his torso to her.

As his shirt fell to the floor, he caught sight of the Mark on his left forearm. Fuck. It was still there. He’d hoped it would have faded and shriveled away like the dark wizard that had burned it into his skin, but no, it remained. The lines were perhaps a little less vibrant, but the Mark was still clear against his pale skin. Another scar he’d carry for the rest of his life – a constant reminder of the choices he had made.

He started the water in the bathroom sink and found a cloth that was stiff with age, but seemed clean enough. He managed to get a cracked looking bar of soap to lather and ran the soapy cloth over himself, rinsing it repeatedly as it became dirty with soot and blood and who knows what else. He winced as he patted it over his face. His lip still stung from where he’d been punched, and his cheek bore a cut across it courtesy of his duel with Dolohov, not to mention smaller cuts and scrapes from the rubble that had grazed him, as well as the burn marks from embers that had extinguished themselves on him in the Room of Hidden Things.

He looked in the mirror briefly as he washed and wished he hadn’t. He looked like hell - like a fucking Inferius – all pasty and gaunt with large black marks under his eyes. And his eyes – they looked dull.

He rinsed the cloth one last time and stood shivering on the tile. He wrapped himself in a towel that was also stiff from lack of use. He looked down at the clothes on the floor. He couldn’t put them back on – he would break if he even attempted it.

So he opened the door of the bathroom and hesitantly stuck his head out. The room was empty, but it felt better than it had. Mip must have been through. The bed was made and turned down and a set of pajamas was laid out on the bed. He walked over and sat down beside the night clothes. It was bright daylight outside of the bedroom windows. It took him a moment to gather the energy to dress himself. He was buttoning the last button on the pajama top when he heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

His mother entered, carrying a small bag with her. She pulled out a jar and unscrewed the lid, releasing a strong medicinal smell.

“Salve for your wounds,” she said. She sat down beside him on the bed and she gently spread the strongly smelling ointment over his face and neck and then turned her attention to his hands as they were also covered in cuts, scrapes, and burns.

“Anywhere else?” she asked.

“Embers burned my scalp,” he said.

She scooped some more of the salve out and rubbed it between her hands before massaging it into his scalp.

The medicine took effect quickly, and he felt relief radiate from his skin.

His mother reached back into the bag and pulled out a vial.

“Dreamless Sleep,” she said.

He met her eyes and she held his gaze. “You need to rest Draco. You do. And there will be no harm in taking this medicine now.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced, taking the vial from her and swallowing the potion down.

She pulled the covers of the bed further back and he dutifully climbed in. She flitted around the room, closing all the curtains, dropping the space into darkness. She approached the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep my darling boy.”

He lay there in the bed, which was a little lumpy from age, and prayed the potion would work soon. He was wrecked. He knew he needed release of some kind, but the tears that had flowed earlier wouldn’t come. And then he felt the potion start to tow him under and his last thought was eyes – not the green eyes that had haunted him for so long – but eyes that gleamed a soft amber.

 

The room came into focus. The curtains were still drawn and in the darkness he couldn’t get any sense of the time. And then it all came back – everything that had happened during his last days at Hogwarts. Thinking of Lupin was a stab wound to his heart.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to push back the covers and walk to the nearest window. He pushed back the curtain. His room looked out over a residential street. The nearby buildings were all graceful, multi-storied townhouses clad in white stucco. The light indicated it was late in the day. He looked around the room for his pocket watch and spotted it on a small table by the bed along with his snitch and the small box of Regulus’s memories. Mip must have retrieved them from his clothes on the bathroom floor. He clicked open the watch. It was just past 6:30. He scrubbed a hand across his face. How long had he slept?

He saw clothes laid out for him on a chair. He pulled on the black pants and jumper, and wrestled a bit with the socks before he stepped into shoes he found by the door. His room opened onto a hallway skirting a bannister to the floor below. He couldn’t recall having ever been brought here before. His mother had made an effort to make sure he visited every Malfoy property. But what was it she had said? This had been her mother’s – a Rosier property. Had she kept it secret from him all these years in case they needed a place to flee?

He descended the stairs. The sound of his shoes ringing on the steps was jarring in the silent house. When he reached the bottom, Mip appeared before him with a crack. It was all Draco could do not to flinch from the sound.

“Master Draco,” said the elf with a low boy, “Mistress and Master Malfoy are in the front sitting room.” Mip rose and flourished his arm toward a door.

Draco nodded his thanks and entered the room, which was decorated entirely in shades of cream and silver.

“At last you join us,” said his father sitting on a delicate looking armchair. He looked more like himself than Draco had seen him in a while. He was dressed in expensive clothes, and his hair was tidy and pulled back from his face and tied with a crisp black ribbon.

Draco gave his father a hard look before sitting on a sofa beside his mother.

“I’m glad you slept. You needed it,” said his mother.

“He missed an entire day,” said his father.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“May 3rd. In the time that you slept, Harry Potter has been declared to be the Savior of the Wizarding World and Kingsley Shacklebolt has been made the acting Minister of Magic. Death Eaters and dark creatures are being rounded up as a ‘new age,’” here Lucius’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “dawns on us all.”

Potter. The Savior. If this had been fifth year or earlier he would have scoffed at this title, but now he was just numb. Tired and numb.

“And where do we fit in this new age?” he asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer.

His father raised an eyebrow at him, “That, Draco, remains to be seen.”

His mother reached over and squeezed his hand. “My lawyer will be meeting with us first thing tomorrow morning. He and members of his firm will be coming here.”

“An attorney?”

“I fear that there will be . . . consequences, Draco,” said his father. “Our family aligned with the losing side.”

Draco felt the glare return to his face. “And we all know whose choice that was.”

Lucius shifted ever so slightly in his seat. “Yes, well, that can’t be helped now. All we can do is survive and find our footing once again.”

Typical. His father brushed off aligning with an evil shell of a man as an unfortunate inconvenience. Did he even feel regret? Would he ever?

“The law firm,” said his mother, drawing Draco’s attention back to her and way from his sire, “Is very well-respected. They assist in legal matters both in the Wizarding world and in the Muggle world. I retained them after your father . . . went away.”

Lucius sniffed, “Your mother wasn’t satisfied with the firm long used by the Malfoy family.”

His mother’s eyes flashed, “That firm is associated with representing dark wizarding families – Death Eaters -”

“Of which we are both,” Draco interjected.

His mother sighed before saying, “This family needs a fresh start. We need advice from those who will bring a new perspective.”

A fresh start? How could they have a fresh start when a past filled with darkness and death would haunt them forever? He regarded his mother’s face. She looked determined. She meant to drag him and his father into a future that he couldn’t even begin to envision.

“How many?” he asked. “How many dead at the school?”

“The Battle of Hogwarts is what it is being called now,” said his father. “The total for both sides so far is 102, but more bodies will likely be discovered in the Forbidden Forrest.”

“The funerals will begin this Saturday on the 9th,” said his mother. “The Prophet says that a collective funeral will be held for all of the fallen . . . heroes . . . with visiting hours for individuals the day before.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of Lupin and his cousin, Nymphadora. How was the aunt he’d never met bearing this loss?

“What of my . . . cousin’s child? What will become of him?”

“That werewolf’s cur?” asked Lucius, sounding bored and unconcerned. “I think we have more important things to worry about at the moment.”

Draco reached for a wand that wasn’t there, ready to hex the superior look off of his father’s face. When his hand came up short he hurled words instead.

“This. This is why our lives have been torn apart – you always chased after power and didn’t think about anything else. And look at us. Look at us!” he thundered. “We are nothing.”

He was almost vibrating with rage. Lucius had an infant nephew whose existence was inconsequential to him.

Narcissa reached over and took his hand again, and held it as he took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He shouldn’t react like that to his father. It wasn’t worth it. Lucius was unlikely to ever change.

“The child is with my sister, according to the papers, which also report that before they died, his parents named Harry Potter as his godfather. He will be well cared for.”

The Black child had Potter – the Savior – as his godfather. Merlin, Lupin had to have been insane or bloody brilliant. The outcome of the War had not been sure when the child had been born – and yet he’d tied his son to the Boy-Who-Lived. With Potter’s victory, the child would be safe. And knowing Potter and how loyal he was to his friends, the boy would be loved.

“And as to us – we are not nothing,” continued his mother. “We are a family. As flawed and broken as we are, we are a family.” She turned her pale blue eyes on her husband. “Aren’t we Lucius?”

His father nodded stiffly.

“I believe that your father and I have some . . . details that we need to discuss before our meeting with the attorney tomorrow,” said his mother. “If you could please excuse us, Draco.”

And he understood his mother’s tone. She was going to bully Lucius to submit to whatever vision she had for them. He was only too happy to get away.

He spent the rest of the evening after he’d left his parents in a daze. He’d managed to get down a little of the soup that Mip had brought him, but not anything more. He curled up in a window seat in his room and stared out the window until it was well past midnight. He thought of his young cousin. He thought of Lavender Brown. And of course, he thought of Potter, who for perhaps the first time since he was born, was safe now. What must that feel like for a boy who’d always carried the threat of the Dark Lord on his shoulder? Would he even know how to live without that darkness dogging him?

In the morning he managed to get down a slice a toast with some tea. His mother’s eyes had been on him across the dining table, clearly worried about his appetite, but she’d made no comment. Shortly after breakfast they’d assembled in the cream drawing room. His parents sat together on a sofa, while Draco sat in a chair angled close to beside his mother. They were all dressed in a way that exuded power and respect.

When had been the last time that the Malfoy name had garnered either power or respect? Two years ago? More? It seemed like such a farce, his family pretending to be highly regarded.

His heart beat loudly in his chest as Mip led a group of four people into the room. The house elf bowed and said, “I present Attorney Gwilym Meredith and his accompanying firm members.”

“Thank you, Mip,” said his mother. “You are excused.”

The elf disappeared and Draco observed the attorney and his team. Gwilym Meredith was middle aged, his dark brown hair had a few speckles of gray. His eyes matched his hair, giving the man a warm and approachable appearance, which was decidedly not what Draco had expected in an attorney selected by his mother to save them from their fates.

“Please, sit down Mr. Meredith,” said his mother, gesturing to the available seating in the room.

“I appreciate the speed with which you contacted my office after the events of May 2nd,” said Meredith taking a seat opposite his parents. The others in his group seated themselves around the room, the youngest member wound up in a seat closest to the door. “I understand that there is a degree of urgency for your family to resolve any legal issues likely to arise. I have brought two associates with me, Singh,” here he pointed to a woman, “and Roman,” he continued indicating the young man, “and a paralegal, Doyle, to assist me today.” Doyle was a man who looked to be older than Meredith. “They will largely be taking notes, but may chime in with questions as well.”

Meredith paused then, and regarded them, his gaze flicking from face to face of the Malfoy family. Draco looked away and focused on the carpet when the attorney’s eyes were on him.

“As your legal counsel, I will need to know your plans. Are you asking for assistance in disappearing, or shall you remain in Great Britain?”

“I will not flee,” said his father. “The Malfoys have been in Britain for almost a thousand years. The first of my line to these shores came with William the Conqueror, long before the Statute of Secrecy, back when wizards mingled in Muggle affairs.”

“Yes, the firm has done its research,” interjected the young man who had sat close to the door. “Your ancestor married an Anglo-Saxon witch and cemented his ties - both by blood and magic – to the land.”

“And so we will remain,” continued Lucius, barely sparing the young man more than a passing glance. “The Ministry is in shambles, but it won’t take long for the victors to pick up the pieces. I imagine we will all be charged. We’ve been spared a few days grace, but it shan’t be long.”

“The Ministry – despite all its current chaos - is already seeking you at the Malfoy properties. They likely didn’t know about this residence” said Meredith as he steepled his fingers. “You mean to stand trial then?”

“If I expect my wife and son to have a future here, then yes, I do. For them I will need to submit myself to the Ministry and the law. Besides, where on this earth could any of us run without being known as Malfoys?”

The attorney turned to his mother, “Your story has been in the papers. Harry Potter says you saved his life, making it possible for him to defeat Voldemort. How was it that the press spun it? A mother’s love spared Harry Potter a second time?” Meredith opened a dragon leather briefcase and pulled out some issues of The Prophet which he placed on the low table between him and Draco’s parents.

Draco flicked his eyes to his mother. He hadn’t read any papers while they’d sought shelter from the world and licked their wounds, he didn’t known what Meredith was talking about. His mother had done something so help Potter? Something that the world knew about but he didn’t?

He scanned the headline of the top issue, “The Savior Twice Spared by a Mother’s Love.” Below it was a picture of Potter looking bruised and battered, flanked on either side by Weasley and Granger in front of a damaged looking Hogwarts. Inserted beside this picture was a picture of Lily Potter and another his own mother.

“It was for my son,” she said, meeting the attorney’s gaze. “I lied to the Dark Lord so that I could get to my son at the castle sooner. My lie likely did save Harry Potter’s life, but it was for Draco.”

“Yes, well Potter has told the tale and now everyone knows that Narcissa Malfoy – wife and mother of Death Eaters saved the Savior,” said the young man whose name Draco had quite forgotten.

“The Savior,” scoffed his father. “What a title.”

“If you wish to remain,” said Meredith, taking back control of the discussion, “I suggest you turn yourselves in willingly. It will show that you intend to cooperate and that you respect the authority of the Ministry. It will also help us gain some . . . concessions . . . for your custody. I suggest that we push for a speedy trial for you, Mrs. Malfoy. I think once the facts of your assistance to Harry Potter are affirmed in court you will only benefit. And the good will from your actions highlighted at your trial will benefit Draco.”

“And what of my husband?” asked Narcissa.

The attorney sighed, “As a confirmed Death Eater in both wars and a previously escaped convict from Azkaban, I believe the Ministry will be keen to try him. I urge that we delay as much as possible. Quite frankly, from what I know based on what you shared with me in our prior communications Mrs. Malfoy, the facts of his case aren’t helpful for him and I very much doubt we can avoid a prison sentence.”

Draco turned and looked at his father. He sat tall and proud as befitted the man he had once been.

“The reason I advise a delay,” continued Meredith, “Is that the murkiest case will be Draco’s. The known facts about him are not . . . beneficial, but I suspect there are lot of other details that are not known that may be to his benefit. His youth will aid him, as will impressing on the Wizengamot the family loyalty that was bred into him from the time of his birth – we will push the fact that he was raised to comply with his family’s expectations. I believe the positive message that comes from Mrs. Malfoy’s trial will help soften public opinion on Draco. A mother’s love changed the course of the War and our world. If, however, Mr. Malfoy’s trial precedes Draco’s, I think it will be hard for the Wizengamot and the public to separate the son from his father.”

“And in the interim I assume I will return to being a guest of Azkaban?” asked Lucius, sounding almost bored.

“Serving out your original sentence, yes. But perhaps not right away. I understand the Acting Minister of Magic is making changes in the prison, but eventually, yes. Once your hearing begins you will be transferred to the Ministry’s holding cells, which are far more accommodating than Azkaban.”

Draco almost stopped breathing. His father was what - being asked to delay his trial, put Draco first, and voluntarily be held in the wretched island prison? He’d never go for it.

Lucius lifted his chin, a scornful smile playing at his lips, “Delaying my trial would be beneficial for Draco. That is what you are saying?”

“It is,” said the attorney.

“Then of course you shall press for a delay,” said Lucius, as if the matter were of no consequence to him. “And in the meantime, hint to the Ministry that I am perhaps willing to divulge any and all the secrets entrusted to me as a Death Eater. My cooperation, however, shall only be forthcoming upon the timely resolution of my wife and son’s cases. I do not want their cases delayed or dragged out unnecessarily. They need closure. They have lost enough time paying for my . . . decisions.”

Draco felt himself sitting up stiffly in his chair. Who the hell was this man and what had he done with his father? It certainly looked like his father and he couldn’t think of a single damn reason why anyone would Polyjuice themselves into Lucius Malfoy considering the place their family now found themselves in.

He watched as his mother reached across the space that separated her from her husband and squeeze his hand.

“I would also press that Mrs. Malfoy be held under house arrest pending her trial. It is my understanding,” said the attorney looking at his mother, “That you were not a Death Eater and were never Marked.”

“No. That honour,” said his mother, with cold sarcasm, “Was not extended to me.”

“Again, the tricky part here, is Draco. You were Marked?”

Draco’s right hand drifted to cover his left forearm. He couldn’t speak, and only barely managed a nod in affirmation.

“I will request that you also be under house arrest, but I have a feeling that that will not suffice. I would not be surprised if they retain you in the Ministry holding cells. They are a far sight better than Azkaban, which I am guessing will also be argued as a possible place to hold you.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his head. Azkaban. He’d never pictured Azkaban as his future, but then, for a longtime he hadn’t thought he’d survive the War. And now the War was over . . . and he had survived. He had no idea what that meant for him, but apparently it meant an end to his freedom – whatever the hell freedom was. He’d not known much of it.

“My son is not to be kept in Azkaban,” said Narcissa. “I will burn the world down – he will not know the misery of that place. It is bad enough that Lucius will be there.”

“As I said, the Acting Minister has called for immediate reforms of the prison. He has announced that the Dementors are to be removed from their duties as guards based on their betrayal of the Ministry and their loyalty to Voldemort. They are likely to be banished shortly, and only human guards will be used in Azkaban.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said his mother. “If there is a chance of Azkaban in Draco’s future he will run, no matter that Lucius and I choose to remain. He was just a boy when all of this started. And he is my boy. I failed to protect him then. I will not fail him now.”

His mother sounded coldly fierce. He believed her – he believed that she would set the world on fire for him at this moment. But he wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t. He’d served the Dark Lord – not well, and not always willingly – but he had served him. And now it was time for him to pay the price. Draco had very rarely had to suffer punishment for his actions – his family’s name and standing had shielded him – but the Malfoy name would not protect him any longer.

“It is alright, mother,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse even to his own ears. “It will be alright. I don’t imagine I will get much choice in the matter anyway.”

As he spoke he felt the attorney’s sharp and appraising eyes on him again. His mother extended her free hand to him, clasping his hand in hers, and he clung to her.

“We are prepared to follow your advice,” said Lucius.

“Very good,” said the attorney. “I suggest we begin preparing. I will want to interview you all separately. You will also have to sign waivers allowing my firm to represent all of you. Your interests may not always align and that could lead to a conflict. If it leads to a serious conflict, I will need to withdraw as counsel.”

“But we may consent to waiving the conflict of interest, correct?” asked Narcissa.

The lawyer nodded, “Yes, but it would be highly unethical for me to remain as counsel should such a conflict arise even with consent.”

“There shall be no conflict,” said Lucius sounding firm. “My goal is that this firm focus its attentions on my wife and son and work on clearing their names. I realize by necessity that will undoubtedly cast me in a negative light. I accept this and expect it. You are to spare nothing in their defense. While our assets are likely to be . . . temporarily frozen . . . we have the right to use those funds for our rigorous defense - better the money come out of our vaults than the Ministry’s pocketbook is the thought.”

The young looking associate said, “Not very Slytherin of you Mr. Malfoy, offering yourself up on a silver platter.”

Draco watched as his father turned and fixed the his gaze fully on the young man who had spoken. He looked at the associate as if he were something a kneazle had dragged in.

“How dare you,” said Lucius, his voice crisp and icy. “It also shows how little you know of my house and my family. Nothing could be more Slytherin of me than to protect and preserve my family. Draco is my legacy - my wife and son bear my name. I will use every tool at my disposal to protect and advance them - as I have always tried to do.” Here he turned back to face Meredith. “I only hope that your firm does a better job of it than I did. May I suggest that this . . . person,” he said waving his hand toward the associate, “Be assigned to a different matter - ideally as far away from me as possible.”

“Yes, you are excused from this meeting Roman,” he said to the associate. The young man quickly gathered up his things and departed, his face flushed. The attorney turned back to face Lucius, “There will be a lot of hard questions, Mr. Malfoy, in our work together. I will also tell you things you will not like to hear. You had best prepare yourself for that.”

“Understood,” said Lucius crisply with a lift of an eyebrow. “I fully anticipate this being the case, however, I will not have my motivations questioned by anyone.”

“Of course,” said Meredith smoothly. And somehow, despite the attorney’s placation of his father, Draco thought that the man would more than hold his own in a contest of wills. And for the first time in what felt like a long time, Draco had the urge to smile.

Chapter 39: Surrender

Owls flew for the remainder of the day between his parents and the law firm. Draco imagined that owls were similarly flying between the firm and the Ministry at a fantastic rate. His mother kept encouraging him to rest or eat, but he could do neither. That night, she guilted him into taking another dose of Dreamless Sleep, and it helped keep the nightmares he feared at bay.

By mid-morning on the 5th of May, Meredith was back in the Rosier sitting room. He took a seat and launched right in, “These are the terms that I have negotiated. I believe they are the best we can expect. If you surrender yourselves, there will be no fanfare – no reporters. A brief announcement will be made to the press by myself, stating that the Malfoy family has willingly availed themselves of Ministry justice and is fully cooperating. Mrs. Malfoy may remain here under house arrest. The Manor must be turned over to be thoroughly searched and will be held in trust until the conclusion of your trials. The Ministry was keen to possess it, but the magic of the place is old and rooted in blood. The estate must remain in Malfoy hands until the line expires or it will – how do I put this – disappear from the surface of the earth. A marvelous bit of magic that took a great deal of research earlier by my firm to souse out from the ancient deeds and writs.

“The Manor aside, Mr. Malfoy and Draco will be held in the Ministry holding cells, and once Azkaban has been fully fitted out with human guards, Mr. Malfoy will be transferred there pending trial. Mrs. Malfoy will be allowed to do interviews with the media – supervised by myself. This will help build public good will. Draco’s file is to be sealed until his trial as he was a minor when the events began. He will also be entitled to participate in services while he is held to help prepare him should he be released. Any other assets in the Malfoy name are to be seized and also held in trust, but your legal fees shall be paid from those funds. Under the terms of this arrangement, you are to surrender yourselves to the Ministry by four o’clock this afternoon. If you do not turn yourselves in, they will continue their search for you and none of the concessions they made will apply should they find you.”

Draco glanced at the clock on the wall. He had a little less than six hours left of freedom – or at least what passed as freedom in his life.

“So any assets in my name will not be seized? Those will be spared for our life . . . after?” asked Narcissa.

“That is correct. Accounts and properties that came to the family as Black inheritance are not to be touched. It was a condition I pressed for.”

“And our trials?” asked Lucius.

“Mrs. Malfoy’s will be first. Then Draco’s as we had wanted, followed by yours. With the disarray of the Ministry at the moment, I’m not optimistic that Mrs. Malfoy’s trial will be much before the new year. Draco’s would be sometime after, perhaps in the late winter or early spring.”

“My son is to be held in a Ministry cell until spring of next year?” asked his mother.

A jail cell. He couldn’t picture it. Well okay, he could picture what a cell looked like, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live for days on end in a cell. It was probably a far sight better than the Manor’s dungeons. If Ollivander and Lovegood could survive the Malfoy’s dungeons than he could surely survive the Ministry’s detention cells. How long would he be held? Months? Years? A lifetime? Was that what he deserved – to never see the world again?

The attorney nodded. “Yes. I advocated that he be allowed to remain under house arrest with you, but they would not budge – not with the charges that they will bring.”

“And what charges will he face?” asked Lucius.

“So far the Ministry intends to charge Draco with terrorism for fighting as an enemy combatant, the use of unforgivable curses, conspiracy to commit murder, three counts of attempted murder, and accessory to murder. If he is found guilty on these counts, he is looking at twenty-five years to life.”

He felt the blood rush from his head. Twenty-five years to life. He would be what? Almost fifty years old at the best end of the spectrum before he ever saw the light of day again?

His mother crossed the room to him and cupped his face in her hands. “You don’t have to do this. We can arrange other . . . options. We can get you out of this country – away from this continent.”

Draco shook his head at her. He had no doubt that if he fled he’d be hunted. He was Marked for Merlin’s sake, he wouldn’t be allowed to wander the globe and any place he could manage to escape to would have to be such an inhospitable spot that what would be the point? He’d be alone – alone for a lifetime.

“I am hopeful that we will be able to do better for your son,” said the attorney softly. “Once he sits down and speaks with me, I’m sure things will come to light that will show that he did not have the requisite intent for many if not all of these crimes, as well as revealing facts that will mitigate his sentencing.”

“Draco?” breathed his mother, her eyes glistening.

“I’ll be alright mother. You need to let me go.”

For a moment her face fell, but she worked to regain herself – likely for him – so that he could stay strong. What a fallacy that was – he’d never been strong – not really, but he would pretend for her.

“My cousin – he walked away from me – all those years ago,” said his mother, her eyes holding his. “He never came back. My last memory Regulus was of him walking away. That will not be my last memory of you. Do you understand? We will make more memories together.”

He nodded. Words failed him.

“If you decide to turn yourselves over to the Ministry today,” said Meredith, “Then we should prepare some paperwork to make sure your affairs are in order. I would like to meet with Draco first, if that is convenient.”

Both of his parents turned to look at him. He wondered for a moment what affairs he needed to see to for . . . well possibly a fucking lifetime.

“We will leave you two,” said Narcissa. She beckoned to Lucius. “Send Mip for us when you are done.” His parent exited the sitting room, his mother gifted him with a soft smile as she looked back at him, before shutting the door with a gentle click.

Draco raised his face to look at the man his family was entrusting with their future – with his future. He didn’t have a lot of faith in the older generations. He’d been born into and raised in a world that they had fucked up – forced him to make impossible decisions. And here was yet another impossible decision – flee or risk a lifetime in prison. Either way he wouldn’t be free, and quite frankly he was too damn tired to run.

“Do you have any questions for me, Draco?”

Questions. He probably had a million of them somewhere, in a part of brain that still functioned, but he couldn’t think of any now that he didn’t already know the answer to, so he shook his head.

“Are you sure? It’s a lot to take in – everything I’ve shared.”

He tilted his head a bit, as if that would jostle a question out of Draco. He supposed he did have one.

“Any inheritance through the Black family is protected, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I was left in possession of a vault that belonged to Regulus Black. I didn’t know about it until this last school year.”

“Then those assets won’t be seized or held. They will continue to be yours,” said the attorney, punctuating his words with hand movements. Draco wondered if the man always spoke with his hands and he just hadn’t noticed it at the first meeting.

“If something should . . . happen . . . to me. If I am sentenced for a lifetime – or close to a lifetime – or if I . . . don’t survive. I want the contents of the vault to go to Remus and Nymphadora Lupin’s child. Through his mother he has Black blood in his veins, and his father was the only adult person this last year who . . . saw . . . me,” said Draco, trying to keep his voice from wavering as he spoke of the dead. “I want to know that his child – their child – will be well looked after.”

“I can have the necessary paperwork drawn up,” said the attorney.

“I would also like . . . flowers to be sent to the funeral for the Lupins. Anonymously of course. They would not be well received if attached to my name.” He paused for a moment and thought of Lupin – thought of the life he’d once led – the love he’d once had. Had the man gotten to properly mourn Sirius? No funeral had been held for the elder Black brother – of this Draco was certain as the man had still been deemed to be an escaped, convicted murderer. He wondered if Lupin had found comfort looking to the night sky to find the dog star. Draco liked to think so. “Please make sure that whatever bouquet is chosen that the dog flower is included.”

“I will have my office take care of this,” said the lawyer, his keen eyes on Draco. “I must admit, that I am . . . surprised. Your first impulse was to make sure that other people are taken care of. What about for yourself, Draco? Anything I may assist with?”

Draco sat for a moment, mulling this question over. What was there to ask after for himself? He’d offered himself up the Dark Lord and done . . . unspeakable things. There had been moments where he’d tried – as best as he thought he was able considering the hold the Dark Lord had over him – to try and repair the damage he’d wrought. But it had been a foolish thought – the idea of redemption. Regulus had redeemed himself, but no one alive besides himself and Kreacher knew that – except maybe Potter. If anyone even spared a thought for the youngest Black brother it was to remember him as a Death Eater.

So no – there was nothing that this attorney who gave every appearance of being well-meaning could assist him with.

“No,” he said at last. But then he thought again of Regulus. “Wait.” He pulled his pocket watch, snitch, and box of memories from his pockets. He’d held them out to the attorney. “Keep these safe. Give them to Kreacher, the Black family’s house elf, if something happens to me.”

The attorney reached out and lifted the items away from him. Draco had a moment of panic – he hadn’t been parted from these three possession since he had acquired them. He’d carried them always on his person. He resisted the urge to grab them back. He couldn’t have them confiscated by the Ministry – especially the memories – those had been entrusted to him.

The attorney whisked the items out of sight. “Alright. Any friends you wish me to notify? Having their support while you are awaiting trial will help you. It is important that you maintain connections to the world outside. Having people write to you and visit you, as well as reading the papers – even if they are filled with rot – will help you.”

Draco looked up at the man and met his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be getting out. Not after what I’ve done – what I failed to do. I don’t see the point.”

“Draco,” said the attorney, his voice calm and almost gentle, “I do hope you will talk to me – tell me about events from your perspective. Your mother – she told me how you didn’t identify Harry Potter at the Manor at Easter when you had the chance. I’ve already started making inquiries, and you were seen helping at the hospital ward during a break in the Battle. I’m sure there is more that will be important for me to know.”

Draco shrugged, forcing himself to remain still. He couldn’t think of the injured he’d assisted to a hospital bed, nor could he afford to dwell on Potter or his eyes and how they’d looked at him with fear at the Manor. He had to work on sealing himself off from the pain and dread – especially with what was coming.

“My silence was hardly heroic. I didn’t do enough.”

“Please, Draco,” said the man, “Talk to me. I want to help you.”

He rose and looked down at the attorney. When was the last time he’d trusted an adult to help him? Snape? Trust wasn’t something he thought he was capable of – not now – maybe not ever.

“I think we are done here, Mr. Meredith. Have Mip summon my parents.”

He started to walk from the room when he thought of something else. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the older man. “A girl was injured at Hogwarts. Lavender Brown. I . . . I don’t know if she is still alive or not. If she is alive, please see to the costs of her medical care from my Black vault.”

“And if she is not?” asked the attorney.

“I want her to have flowers either way. Surround her in them. Anonymously.”

“Of course,” agreed the attorney.

Draco nodded and then left the room. His mind was in a fog of his own creation as he ascended the staircase and headed to his borrowed bedroom. For a long time he sat on the edge of the bed staring at his hands. Hands that had failed to save people that had deserved to be saved. At last he strode to the window and gazed out. The residential street was largely empty and a light drizzle fell from the sky. He wanted to feel it on his face. He wished he could fly one last time and feel the wind whipping at him as he soared on his broom.

Time seemed to stop as he stared out at the grey sky. He worked to build up his mental walls and separate himself from emotion. He doubted that his shields would hold completely, not with what was coming, but he wanted to be as prepared as possible. He heard a knock at his door and he ignored it. Later still Mip arrived with a tray of food. The smell of the meal roiled his nervous stomach. He dearly wanted to banish the tray and its contents, but without a wand he settled for sliding it out the door and into the hall before he returned to his solitary pursuit.

His legs grew stiff from standing, but still he remained, unable to face anything else but the view outside his window.

Knocking on his door followed by the call of his mother’s voice finally pulled him from his vigil. He crossed the room and opened the door. His mother’s expressive eyes locked on his and he knew. It was time.

“Mr. Meredith is here,” she said. “He is going to escort you and your father to – to his office where you’ll be met by Aurors from the Ministry. I am to remain here and upon his return Aurors will arrive here to . . . ward and guard the house.”

He nodded, unable to speak. Despite his efforts to seal his emotional self away, his mother’s obvious pain was breaking through. That had always been the way of it – his mother had always had a monopoly on his feelings. He’d sold his soul to the devil for her, and deep down he knew he’d do it again.

She reached a pale hand up to the back of his head gently pulled until their foreheads were touching. “I meant what I said before my darling boy. I’ll not lose you the way I lost him. You will come back to me.”

His eyes and throat stung as he nodded his head against hers.

“Remember, Draco, you are as much of a Black as you are a Malfoy. Their blood runs in your veins. And we Blacks, no matter our earthly perils, we survive for eternity – our souls are forever entwined with the stars in the sky. And every night that you are away, I will look for yours.”

She stepped back from him, her eyes deep wells of emotion. “I love you, Draco.”

He stepped to her, and wrapped his arms around her, and buried his head in her fair hair. “I love you, mother,” he whispered.

For a moment she clung to him, and he felt her body shake with silent sobs. She regained herself after a deep breath and pulled away. A single tear spilled down her cheek. She lifted her hand and cradled his cheek, before nodding and stepping away. He too, took a deep breath, and walked past her and down the stairs to the foyer where he could see his father and Mr. Meredith waiting. Like Regulus before him, he didn’t look back at his mother. He couldn’t. If he did, he would surely break. He wondered if Regulus had felt the same way.

He came to stand beside the waiting pair of wizards.

“We are going to apparate to my office. Aurors will be there, and they have arranged portkeys that will take you directly to the ministry detention level. You will be taken to different rooms and you will be processed separately. You are not to answer any questions without either myself or someone from my office present. This condition was agreed upon, but if someone does try to question you, you are not to answer. They will search you, and take your photograph. Do you understand.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over this before,” said his father, affecting a bored tone.

Draco merely nodded.

“Right,” said the attorney, holding an arm out for them both to grasp. Draco took another deep breath, and then wrapped a hand around Meredith’s arm. He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the sensation of apparition to wash over him. He opened his eyes. He was in a room lined with bookshelves. Aurors were waiting.

“My clients are here at the appointed time, turning themselves in willingly. They have no wands and will be fully cooperative,” said Meredith in an authoritative sounding voice.

A group of four Aurors approached. The shortest of them said, “Lucius Malfoy, please come with us.”

Draco watched as his father proudly lifted his chin and stepped forward. He was quickly surrounded and bustled from the room.

He swallowed. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t. And didn’t that just make him a fucking coward. Regulus had faced his fears and gone to his death. Surely he could surrender himself to the four remaining Aurors that awaited him without making a scene.

“One moment,” said his attorney as one of the Aurors took a step toward them. He turned to Draco, shielding him from view with his body. “I will visit you. I will write. You will not be alone unless you let yourself be alone. Do you understand? I will do my best for you.”

Draco tried to focus on the man’s face, but it was all too much – just like that day at the Manor when Potter and his friends had been captured. It was all just too fucking much.

“Draco?” pressed the attorney.

“Yes,” Draco finally managed. “Yes, I – I understand.”

The attorney reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You have faced worse than this. You can do this.”

He nodded and squared his shoulders. He shared a home with the fucking Dark Lord and his monstrous snake. He’d been Crucio’d – repeatedly. He could do this.

The Aurors stepped toward him.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he could survive this.

They surrounded him, and he felt hands patting him down while magic tingled on his skin, no doubt surging for magical artefacts. He resisted the urge to flinch as the hands checking him made him feel . . . uncomfortable. Then one Auror pulled out a pair of magical handcuffs.

He could do this . . . maybe.

The handcuffs closed around one of his wrists, while the other cuff snapped around the wrist of the lead Auror.

“This way, Mr. Malfoy,” said the man he was cuffed to, and he was led out of the room.

It was all a bit of a blur after that – the portkey travel was as unpleasant as always and the Ministry detention area was grey and drab. Once he arrived, even guards appeared as well as other Ministry officials. He thought it all a bit much for just him – the worst Death Eater in the history of Death Eaters. Didn’t they know what a colossal disappointment he’d been?

He was hauled into a smaller room where an Auror sat at small desk with a quill and parchment. A man holding a cameral stood close beside him.

Draco was lined up against a wall and photographed. For a moment he pictured his mug shot plastered up and down Diagon Alley the way Sirius Black’s had been or like Potter’s when he’d been known as “Undesirable Number One.”

Glancing down he saw his height and weight recorded on a parchment by the seated Auror. Other words started to fill in on the parchment – his hair color, the color of his eyes. One of the Aurors flicked his wand and he felt a pull at his core.

“Identifying your magical signature,” said the Auror. More notes were made on the parchment.

Then the Auror with the parchment asked, “Any identifying marks? Such as scars or tattoos?”

Four guards stood to attention at the back wall by the door. He knew more waited outside.

“He’s a bloody Death Eater,” said the youngest looking guard. “Of course he has identifying marks – he’s got the fucking Dark Mark.”

“Are you Marked?” asked the Auror with the parchment.

He felt his eyes widen. His attorney had said not to answer questions, but Draco didn’t think this is what he’d meant.

“I . . . I . . .” he stammered.

“Oh for Godric’s sake,” said the young guard striding toward him. The man grabbed ahold of his left arm. “It’s always on the arm that isn’t their wand arm. Who knows why.”

The man pulled at his cuff, and Draco felt the button pop. He tried to jerk is arm away, but the man held tight and he saw a camera flash as the wizard forced the sleeve up over his arm, exposing his worst fucking mistake to everyone in the room. The camera flashed again.

No one spoke for a moment, and then the wizard with the parchment said, “I didn’t think You-Know-Who would Mark someone that young.”

“He’s a Malfoy,” said the Auror still griping his arm. “He probably begged for this ‘honour.’”

Something sputtered inside Draco. He couldn’t call it pride, but that was the closest emotion he could compare it to. He glared at the man holding him. He had no bloody idea what he was talking about. Maybe when Draco had been thirteen or fourteen he would have begged to be Marked like his father – begged to have a place beside such power. But when he’d been Marked he’d been thinking of saving his family. Salazar knew that every day since then hadn’t been an honour – it had been hell.

“Right,” said the older Auror, jotting a note on the parchment. “Any other marks.”

Draco closed his eyes and thought of his Sectumsempra scars. Would they photograph those as well? Would he be stripped and photographed - all his scars on display.

The man holding him gave his arm a shake, “Well? Do we need to search you completely?”

He opened his eyes. He didn’t want that. The shame of it – the feeling of defenselessness would be too much. It was already too much . . .

“Scars,” he said. “Magical scars.”

“Where?” asked the man taking notes.

“Across my chest. And on the front of my shoulders. They go down to my hips.”

The quill paused for a moment. “Are there many?”

“Yes. Several.”

“Got those in the Battle did you?” asked the guard who at last released his arm. Draco drew his arms to his chest, and crossed them over himself.

“We agreed no questions of substance without his counsel present,” said the older man who didn’t look up from the parchment as he noted the scars. “Any other identifying marks?”

Draco shook his head, “No.”

“You know why you’re here? And you understand that you will be held here pending trial?” asked the older Auror.

“Yes.”

“You will be escorted to your room. First you will change into a Ministry issued uniform. We will clear the room but for two guards. We cannot grant you total privacy.” He furled the parchment and stood. “Rogers and Faulkner, you remain in here.”

He flicked his wand and a pile of folded clothes with a pair of shoes balanced on top appeared on the desk. “While you are here, you will be brought three meals a day,” he continued. “You will be able to receive correspondence. Mail you receive will be read prior to being given to you unless it is from your attorney marked as such. Visitors are permitted on Wednesdays during visiting hours if they register ahead of time. Conversations will be listened to. You may, however meet with you attorney outside of visiting hours, and you will be granted a private room to meet in. Your conversations with your attorney will be confidential. You will not mix with other persons being held here based on the seriousness of your charges and due to the very real concern for collusion of statements and testimony. This ban on mixing with other inmates includes your father. Do you have any questions?”

Questions? Fuck questions, he needed to lay down – needed to sink into oblivion by letting his mind drift too far away.

“Any questions?” repeated the wizard.

“No,” he managed to say.

The man nodded and the room emptied but for two guards. Draco was disappointed to see that one of them was the man who had exposed his Mark, because of course it had to fucking be him.

“Get on with it then, Malfoy,” said the self-same guard. “What are you, slower than an Arresto Momentum?”

Draco stepped toward the desk with the pile of clothes. They were a drab, tan color made of jersey material. He pulled the shirt out first. The guard that he rather did not like uttered a spell and the sleeves of the shirt changed from long-sleeve to short. Draco glanced up at him in shock. What the ever loving fuck?

“Don’t want to hide that pretty Mark of yours,” said the guard with a grin that could not be described as kind. “Want to make sure everyone knows exactly what you are.”

“Try and be professional Rogers,” said the other guard, but Draco noticed he did nothing to lengthen the sleeves of his uniform.

So this is how it was going to be? He didn’t even know why he was surprised, but he was. He felt his eyes sting, but he’d be damned before he showed any emotion to these bastards. He pulled upon his Occlumency skills and shut off his emotions from the guards and from himself. With leaden feeling fingers he slid off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. He felt sick. He’d appeared in a state of undress in front of anyone in two years – except Blaise on accident. He’d been so careful about changing and showering in his dorm – he’d never revealed his curse scars. His dorm mates had probably assumed it was the Mark he hadn’t wanted them to see, which was partially true, but of course hadn't been the whole reason. He unbuttoned the last button and started to turn to face the wall, but Rogers shook his head at Draco. Draco met the other’s man’s eyes and slid off his shirt. He saw the guard’s eyes widen. Perhaps he’d thought Draco had been exaggerating about his scars. Draco hurriedly yanked the tan shirt over his head and covered up the ruin of his torso. It took him moments to shed his shoes, socks, and trousers before donning the remaining clothes issued to him. Everything but the shoes were a little large on him as he was narrower than the clothes he’d been issued. He had no doubt that the guards could spell them to fit him better, but they didn’t bother.

The quieter guard gathered up his clothes and put them in a bag. “These will be held for you and returned upon your release,” the man explained.

“If you’re released,” amended Rogers. “I’d get comfortable learning to live in a cell if I were you.”

Draco didn’t answer, he was too far gone – too far inside himself.

He was magically cuffed around the wrists and ankles and shuffled out of the room. The eyes of the waiting guards were on him. The Aurors seemed to be all gone, leaving him exclusively in the care of the Ministry detention ward personnel. He was led through three magical barriers, his memory of freedom grew more distant the deeper into the unit he was taken.

He passed by other cells. The doorways were spelled in such a way that he couldn’t see who was inside. He wondered who else was here – wondered where his father was – likely as far away from him as possible. And then he caught himself wondering and he stifled further thought. Thoughts led to feelings and he couldn’t risk it.

At last he was brought to a stop in front of a cell. The magical barrier separating it from the corridor dropped and he was shuffled inside.

“Welcome home, Death Eater,” said Rogers.

Draco stared blankly at the small room. It had a single bed, a desk, a chair, and a sink with a lavatory in the corner. There would be no privacy here. He’d be on display to anyone that walked by.

Rogers unfastened his cuffs and then pushed him down on the narrow bed. “What are you going to do now,” asked the guard, “Without your Dark Lord to protect you?”

The guard withdrew and the magical barrier descended.

He was alone. Alone in a rectangular cell without a window.

And it was too much. He didn’t deserve to be alive, but he didn’t want to be here. He’d fought so hard – done so much – to live. And for what?

He cut off the thought. Thoughts were dangerous. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He drifted. He drifted further than he ever had before. And he knew peace . . . escaping from the pain . . . escaping from his reality.

Chapter 40: The Meeting

A guard rapped on the barricade of his cell. He expects in a moment that a letter will be slid through from his attorney. He knew in a vague sort of way that he’d received many letters owled to him marked, “Legal Correspondence,” but he’d ignored all of them.

“Malfoy, you have a meeting with your attorney,” said the man.

Draco sighed and shifted in his narrow cot. He pulled his mind more into the present. The mattress was thin and uncomfortable, but he knew it was better than what Ollivander and Lovegood had been provided in his family’s dungeon.

“Malfoy – meeting,” barked the guard.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before sitting up. He pushed his feet into the lace free shoes the Ministry provided and walked to the door, hands open and held in front of him. The guard nodded, opened the door, and fastened magical cuffs on him.

“Please sit in your chair,” said the guard.

Draco stiffened for a moment. What was going on? This hadn’t been part of the routine when he’d met with Attorney Meredith the last time. When had that been? Days ago? A week? Meredith had asked him lots of questions which Draco had barely responded to. It was exhausting to climb out of the place of non-feeling he had constructed in his mind, so he had not chosen to do it when meeting with the attorney . . . or much at all. How long had he been here? A month? Two? He’d been arraigned shortly after he’d arrived, having to appear before the Wizengamot with his attorney in his horrible uniform that exposed his sins for all the witches and wizards sitting in judgment of him to see. At least the session had been closed to the public – a concession Meredith had wrung out of Ministry based on Draco’s age. Still, hearing himself charged with horrible crimes, no matter how accurate, had been . . . well it had been similar to being Crucio’d, frazzling his nerve endings. His attorney had insisted that the Wizengamot reaffirm its grant of permission for Meredith to arrange services for Draco while he awaited trial. Meredith reasoned that based on Draco’s age he deserved a chance to engage in rehabilitative programs. Draco had, however, been denied bail – he was deemed too much of a flight risk – so here he remained in the Ministry detention area awaiting his trial.

“Sit,” repeated the guard.

He took another breath and did as he was told. They would make him comply if he didn’t.

After he sat, the guard fastened cuffs to his ankles as well. He was now thoroughly hobbled. Then the guard blasted him with a cleaning charm. It felt vaguely cold and scraped at his skin, but he guessed it was necessary. When was the last time he’d taken a shower? He couldn’t recall…

“All this to meet with my attorney in a conference room?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Not going to the conference room. Your meeting’s been arranged at an outside location. You’re gonna need to take a port key, and we can’t risk losing you while we take you there. And quite frankly, I didn’t want to stand that close to you without a cleaning charm.”

Another guard appeared at his doorway. “He ready?”

“Yeah,” said the first guard.

“Get used to where we’re going Death Eater,” said the second guard – his words and tone far less polite.

He rose and shuffled along with his two minders. He passed other cells, the cluster of conference rooms, the desk and office area for the guards, and was led through the doors of the Ministry’s detention area – doors he hadn’t passed through since he’d been taken out for his arraignment. They crossed the corridor and loaded him into an elevator and one of the guards pressed the button for the sixth floor.

He watched the numbers of the different levels flash by as they ascended from the bowels of the Ministry. When the doors opened at last he was swept down another corridor and into an office with a sign that read “Department of Transport.” Once inside the door they were greeted by a tall, skinny man dressed in robes.

“Don’t see why you couldn’t have set up the portkey in the detention area, Farrowfrost,” grumbled the surlier of his guards.

“And leave a portkey lying around for potential convicts to get ahold of?”

“Who cares,” said the same guard, “Where it’s going would have been more than appropriate if a detainee got hold of it.”

“Protocol’s must be followed,” sniffed Farrowfrost. “This way.”

He led the group through the entry area down a hall. Draco kept his head down, and for a fleeting moment he felt embarrassed that someone working in the Department would recognize him. He didn’t have to worry about this for long, however, as they were soon led to a small room that was barren but for a small pedestal table with a tarnished key.

“Here you are,” said Farrowfrost. “I trust you know what to do?”

Neither guard answered the ministry employee, rather they stationed Draco in front of the port key. The guards stood on either side of him. The magical bindings on each of his wrists grew an extra cuff, which attached to a wrist on each guard. He was bound to the pair of them. After the count of three the guards reached out a hand and touched the key.

He felt the familiar, but not entirely pleasant, tugging at his navel as he was pulled along with the guards – their contact with the port key traveling to him through the magical manacles. He closed his eyes. Port key travel had never been his favorite, he always felt like his head was under water as he was pulled toward his destination.

The sensation ended. Draco gasped and bent over. His stomach roiled from the mode of travel and he took a deep breath to try and work his way through it. He smelled the sea. He stood up straighter and looked at his surroundings.

Azkaban.

It had to be. Nowhere else could look like this place – feel like this place. Waves surged and crashed around the rocks, and a fortress of dark stone rose as if right out of the raging sea.

He was prodded forward down a short walkway to a door that he could tell was heavily warded – the magic of it seeming to snap and fizz off its surface.

The door swung open. He stopped walking. He didn’t want to go in. Not this place. But he was urged ahead and he could feel it – feel it in his bones.

Azkaban.

The place pulled at him, tugged at the despair, guilt, and shame that were never far below the surface. The Dementors, he’d heard, had been expelled, but their darkness lingered. The chill of the place took his breath away. He worked to control himself, but despite his efforts, his body was shivering and trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was from fear or from the misery of the fortress prison.

Was he being transferred here? Was he going to have to learn to live with this feeling of despair pressing down on him?

His guards ignored his discomfort, and he was signed in, searched with a probity probe, and led down a corridor before being brought to a stop in front of an unremarkable door. One guard unlocked the door and Draco was herded in. Inside, seated at a table was Attorney Meredith. On the other side of the table behind a rippling magical barrier sat his father, looking even paler than Draco last remembered. He didn’t remember if he’d been told when his father was transferred to the magical prison. Perhaps he had been, but seeing his father here was still a surprise.

Lucius’s pale blue eyes met and held Draco’s until Draco looked away.

“We’ll be just outside,” said one of the guards addressing the attorney as the other unshackled Draco from them, “You’re allowed to meet with your clients in private, but if you need assistance, say the safe word you previously designated aloud and the privacy charms will be shattered. We will come and assist you.”

The attorney nodded curtly at the guards and waited until they’d left and shut the door firmly behind them. He gestured at the table, and Draco sat in the available chair, his wrists and ankles still bound.

“I arranged this meeting here at your father’s request,” said his family’s attorney. “You, Draco, have been held in a holding cell at the Ministry. It is not pleasant, but it is where people are held prior to their trials when they are charged with serious crimes and either cannot make bail, or, as in your case, were denied bail.”

Draco looked up for a moment and met the older man’s eyes. What was Meredith getting at?

“Your father is here serving out the remainder of his previous prison sentence as he awaits his next trial.”

“I knew all of that,” said Draco.

“Knowing and feeling are two different things,” said Lucius. “I wanted you to feel this place – feel as it drains your spirit, crushes your soul, and eats away at your sanity.” He lifted his head and held Draco’s gaze, “You feel it even in this small amount of time. There is much of your mother in you. You have always felt things keenly.”

“And that always disappointed you I’m sure,” Draco said, his temper flaring. “I’m nothing but a source of shame for you, father.”

Lucius sucked in a breath as if Draco had slapped him. “You – that is not true, Draco.”

Draco laughed, and he sounded slightly mad to his own ears. He worried that there was more of Bellatrix in him than he’d like to acknowledge. “Of course father, why ever would I think that? Maybe it’s because you never failed to compare me to Potter - to Granger - to anyone that outperformed me in anything. I never measured up to your standards.”

Lucius took a deep breath before saying in his usual tone of voice, “I understand that in many ways I failed you – and your mother – and we can go through that rather extensive list another time. I asked Mr. Meredith to meet with us here today because I understand that you are not helping him with your defense.”

“You aren’t talking to me or my team, Draco,” the lawyer confirmed. “As I said when we first met together, I need you to tell me everything - everything – if I am to help you.”

Draco looked at the floor. What was there to tell? He’d not done a single heroic thing during the War. He’d done secretive things, little things, but nothing truly bold, and the one fucking bold thing he’d done hadn’t worked – the Lupin child was an orphan. If he were honest, he knew he’d tried to resist doing anything truly evil. He’d done horrible things yes – vile and horrible, but evil - no. Every horrible thing he’d done had been to try and save his mother, and by extension, his father. When he’d been asked – no ordered – to do evil – to kill - he hadn’t been able to.

“I have nothing to say,” he said, his voice low.

“Stop this. Stop this now,” said Lucius, his tone imperious and reminiscent of old. “Do you know what this is doing to your mother? Do you know how much it grieves her to think that you are just giving up?”

Draco looked at his father with distain, “Thank you for the pep talk father.”

Lucius banged his hand down on the table, shaking it, “Damn it, Draco, you survived. Despite everything you survived. And now you are wasting your chance to live – you are only eighteen years old – you have your whole life ahead of you.”

He registered that he had missed his birthday even as he felt heat rise up his neck. His icy control was breaking, he could feel it starting to crack.

“You deserve a chance to live,” said Lucius.

And his mental shields shattered – his emotions roiled out of him. “I deserve nothing!” he shouted. “People died! People were hurt! I stood back and let it all fucking happen because I was scared – scared to die – scared that you and mother would be killed. I don’t deserve anything!”

He rose from his chair, the manacles on his ankles pinched at him, and he could almost feel the grief and anger boil out of him, “People died – people younger than me – people who had children – people who had families who loved them. And they sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to them. They’re the ones that deserved to live – not,” his voice broke. “Not me.”

Draco sank back down in his chair. His emotions and the despair of the prison exhausting him. Lucius opened his mouth as if to speak, but the lawyer held up his hand, silencing the Malfoy patriarch. The man angled his body toward Draco, as if shielding him from Lucius’s visage. He spoke quietly, but with authority, “You take too much on yourself. You were a child, Draco. The adults in your life – they failed you in many respects. The fact that you feel such guilt – such anguish – shows me that you did not blindly adhere to a dark wizard because you were a true believer. And make no mistake, I will defend you to the best of my ability whether you lift a finger to help me or not. In the meantime, I think it would do you good to speak with someone – a therapist or mind healer. You are too young to be without hope.”

The man sat up again and turned back to Lucius. “I think we are done for the day.”

“As always, I defer to you in the matters of our defense,” said Lucius.

The lawyer rose and went to the door and murmured the safe word. Within a moment the guards entered the room.

“We’ve concluded the first portion of our meeting,” he told the guards. “I wish to speak with the younger Mr. Malfoy privately. Please escort Mr. Lucius Malfoy back to his . . . quarters.”

The guards nodded and exited the room. A moment later guards entered through another door on the side of the magical divide where Lucius sat. As the guards approached, Lucius rose to meet them. One clasped him by each arm and he was shuffled toward the door. Before he crossed the threshold, his father turned his head toward him and said, “Work with Mr. Meredith, son, if not for yourself, than for your mother.”

And then Lucius was gone. The door closed with a load bang. Draco remained sitting at the table, the sadness of the place pressing in on him.

The attorney sat back down at the table with him and looked at him. He could only imagine what he looked like. He hadn’t been sleeping well – hadn’t been eating much of the food the Ministry provided him – he was likely pale and wraith-like, with his too-blonde hair and the light khaki uniform further washing him out. Merlin, he probably looked like a watery reflection of his former self. For a moment he tried to remember the boy he used to be before – before the Dark Lord came back. He clung to that former vision of his past self to deflect the pain of the place.

“Brilliant plan,” Draco drawled. “Bringing me to this pit of hell. Quite a few of my family members have been residents here in recent years.”

“It was heavy handed I admit, and for that I am marginally sorry. I meant what I said, Draco. I will defend you to the best of my ability,” said Mr. Meredith. “Talk to me. Talk to my team.”

“I have nothing to say for myself.”

“I stand by what I said. You were a child. And as far as I can tell none of your family, nor the staff at school, protected you from situations that a child should never have been placed in.”

Draco laughed. “I was of age when I let Death Eaters into the school and cornered Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower.”

The attorney met his eyes, “Barely. You were barely of age. You were just seventeen. And I’ve spoken to your mother and to your father. You were under duress. Voldemort had threatened to kill you and your parents if you didn’t comply.”

He shrugged. It all seemed a lifetime ago now. “Even if you get me off, what is the point? I’ll always be Marked – I’ll always be Death Eater scum. I have no future – no one will trust me, I’ll be considered vile and low, and you know what Meredith? It’s what I deserve. I never . . . I never did enough.”

“Tell me,” said the attorney.

Draco shook his head. He couldn’t. He just fucking couldn’t. Reliving those days was too much. How could he ever express the terror, the guilt, and his utter sense of worthlessness?

Meredith sighed, “You don’t know how to trust, do you?”

And Draco laughed again. He couldn’t fucking help it. “Snape was supposed to be my mentor – supposed to be looking out for me, and the whole time he was a double-agent for Dumbledore, working behind the scenes to help Potter. He didn’t ‘trust’ me with this information until the day before Potter came back to Hogwarts, starting the battle. And Dumbledore knew the whole time what Lord Voldemort had ordered me to do, but he didn’t offer me sanctuary until it was too late for me to accept it. And my parents raised me to believe in my noble lineage, teaching me that I would one-day rule over those inferior to me, only to end up subservient to a mad man. So, yeah, I guess it’s a safe guess that I have fucking trust issues.”

“Despite all of this, I am asking you to trust me. Please. Tell me.”

The middle-aged man across from him was looking at him with such a look of genuine concern that Draco couldn’t stand it. He looked away. His eyes stung.

“Whether you talk to me or not, I will put on a case for you and defend you to the best of my ability. If you talk to me, I’ll have a better idea of where to begin – who to talk to. In the meantime, I will arrange therapy for you. And I’ll arrange for correspondence courses so you can study for and take your NEWTs. You should also be exposed to the Muggle world, I’ll sort that out as well.”

Draco kept his eyes trained on the floor. “Thinking that will paint me in a good light?”

“It can’t hurt,” said Meredith. “But that’s not why I’m asking you to do these things. I want you to be ready for your future life. You will need therapy for Merlin’s sake no matter the outcome of your trial. And if you are free, you need to be prepared to live in either the Wizarding World or in the Muggle one. Who knows, Draco, you might enjoy the anonymity the Muggle world has to offer. Your name and your looks will mean nothing there.”

He felt his throat tighten. This man was making him want things – making him hope – and in fucking Azkaban of all places. And Draco knew that having hope was bloody dangerous. But oh how he wanted to hope.

He looked up into the middle-aged man’s face. “I can’t . . .”

“Draco, you need to start planning – start doing. We have work to do.”

He tensed, what did this man expect of him? “I think you are confusing me for a Gryffindor – charging in – all bravado. There is nothing for me to be brave for – nothing for me to hope for.”

The attorney shook his head, “No, I know you are a Slytherin. And as such, you should have your sights set on multiple plans of action. You can’t keep retreating. There is hope Draco – trust me, there is – but only if you help yourself by helping me.”

“No – I can’t talk to . . . you . . . to anyone,” Draco said, his voice pained. “It’s . . . it’s too much.”

The other man nodded his understanding. “Show me then. Give me your memories.”

He shook his head. “I . . . There are things you can’t know. Things you can’t ever tell anyone.”

“I am you attorney. I owe you a duty of confidentiality and I took an oath to uphold my ethical obligations not only to the Wizengamot and Muggle courts – but to my clients as well. I take that oath very seriously.”

Draco smiled, and he knew it mustn’t look pleasant on his face. “I took an oath too. I was two-months over sixteen. I took an oath to the Dark Lord and will be forever marked by that choice.”

“You weren’t of age, Draco. Not in the Wizarding world, not in the Muggle world. From the parts I’ve pieced together after speaking with your mother and your father, I don’t think you were whole-heartedly committed to that choice you made as a child. You were forced to be a child soldier. That is so fundamentally wrong that I don’t even have the words to describe how sickened I am that that ‘choice’ as you put it, was thrust upon you.”

The man’s eyes were a light brown, and for a moment he was reminded Lupin – the only adult that had seemed to understand that he’d been a child as the horrors of the prior two years had rained down upon him. And he wanted to trust this man, but all evidence from his past screamed at him that he couldn’t.

“Show me. Show me, whatever you can – anything you can share. I’ll disclose nothing except what is relevant to your case. Anything you deem private will remain just that.”

He took a deep breath. And then another before asking, “Even from my parents? You’ll not share anything with them I don’t want you to?”

“That was part of my conditions when I agreed to represent your family.”

A wave of panic hit him. He felt himself start to sweat, but fuck it, he needed – wanted to try. His fool of a father had made at least one point – what was the point of surviving if he didn’t try and live? And he’d promised that Gryffindor girl, hadn’t he? He’d promised not to waste the gift Lupin had given him.

“I . . . I . . . “ Draco started and halted. He took another deep and steadying breath and clenched his hands into fists. “I will try and limit my memories to the War. But if anything comes through about Regulus Black’s memories, you can’t share those. They were . . . personal and meant for me and me alone.”

The attorney nodded, “Agreed.”

“And . . . my mother knows, but I’ve not yet told my father. I’m . . . gay. I’m not ready for him to know – or the world. I’ll tell people in my own time. Enough has been taken from me.”

“Of course. You deserve to have control of your life, Draco.”

He snorted out a breath. Control. When had he ever been offered that by anyone?

“You’d better do it now – take my memories – before I change my mind,” said Draco.

Meredith shook his head, “No. I’ll not rush you into anything. You’ve had enough of that. Besides, my wand was confiscated when I arrived. The guards don’t let visitors stay armed in case a wand is seized by an inmate. You will think on your decision. I’ll visit you in a few days and if and when you are ready, we’ll do this right.”

He felt his eyes prick with tears again. He couldn’t remember the last time someone he thought of as a grownup had given him this much consideration.

The attorney seemed to understand Draco’s feelings as he gently changed the subject, “In the meantime, I’ll set up all of the services we discussed.”

Draco didn’t want to talk about the services anymore. He had a more pressing questions now that his mind was freed from the purgatory he’d exiled himself to.

“Brown – Lavender Brown – the girl that Greyback attacked. Is she . . . is she alive?”

“Yes,” said his attorney. “And I made the arrangements you requested – both paying for her medical expenses and filling her room at St. Mungo’s with flowers. She has been released from St. Mungo’s and is receiving both mental and physical therapy as an outpatient. She has a long road ahead of her, but she will survive, Draco, as will you.”

Draco nodded his head and looked away, “Thank you.”

“I can’t get you out on house arrest –”

“I don’t want to be in the Manor and the Rosier townhouse is not my home,” Draco interrupted.

“Understood. But we can at least work on filling more of your days with productive things to do. I’ve reviewed your school transcripts, Draco, and it would be a shame to waste your abilities.” Meredith stood. “Now, I think it is time we get out of this hellhole. Don’t you?”

Chapter 41: Remembering

Meredith sat across from him in a conference room in the detention area of the Ministry. Beside his attorney sat a man he didn’t know with dark, almost black hair, and eyes a startling shade of blue. The magical barrier that had separated him from his attorney on previous occasions was not present.

“Draco,” said Attorney Meredith, “This is André Bergeron of Montreal, Quebec in Canada.”

The Canadian wizard inclined his head toward Draco.

“He is one of the most preeminent wizards in the field of memory magic,” continued Meredith. “Just about any wizard can extract a memory, but Mssr. Bergeron can help identify and capture specific memories when there are many to choose from across a large period of time. He is also an expert at viewing memories and determining if they have been corrupted. He will be able to certify that whatever memories you share today – if any – are indeed free from tampering.”

“Alright,” said Draco, glancing at the Bergeron again. The man’s gaze seemed to see within his thoughts without the need of a shared memory and a pensieve.

“By having Mssr. Bergeron work with you on this, Draco, if there are any memories that we wish to share with the Wizengamot, their authenticity will be beyond reproach. I only want you to have to go through this process once, so having an expert like Mssr. Bergeron involved, will help us achieve this goal.”

“Have you ever shared memories before?” asked Mssr. Bergeron with a very slight French accent.

He shook his head, “No.”

“It can be . . . jarring when many memories are shared,” said Mssr. Bergeron, his eyes intent on Draco’s. His eyes were such a dark blue they were almost violet and Draco thought again that the man’s stare alone could pierce his memories. “Some people,” continued the other man, “Describe it as having a heavy fog settle on their minds. With my experience in extracting memories, I believe I can minimize some of these physical after effect. There will, however, be an emotional toll.”

“I have arranged for a therapist, Alan Curtis, to come and meet with you tomorrow morning so that after you rest you can begin to process . . . well . . . everything,” said Meredith. “Of course, Draco, now that Mssr. Bergeron has described some of the effects of providing memories, you can decide whether or not you want to do this. The choice is yours.”

“But Mssr. Bergeron came here from Canada – it would be a waste of his time to have travelled so far if I declined.”

Meredith shrugged, “Mssr. Bergeron will be compensated for his time no matter what you decide.”

“The quality of memories shared will be better if it is done willingly,” said the French-Canadian wizard. “If you don’t want to do this, then it is better that you decline or your memories will be . . . fractured. Do you have any questions?”

Draco took a deep breath to calm himself. He didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t want to talk about everything that had occurred since he was Marked. He wasn’t ready to do that, but he knew Meredith hoped his memories would help the attorney build his case. Draco wasn’t convinced.

“You know why I want you to share memories, Draco,” said his attorney. “I think you can do this. I think once I have seen what you know, that we can do this.”

“You think there is hope?” he breathed, feeling weak and distinctly unlike a Malfoy to want reassurance.

Meredith nodded, “I do. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t have hope. I don’t sugar-coat things, Draco, but I also don’t make false promises.”

“I’m afraid,” Draco admitted. He shivered. It had cost him a lot to admit this. “If I . . . hope . . . and nothing . . . comes of it, I don’t think I could take it. I don’t think I’ll recover.”

“When was the last time you had hope in something or someone?” asked Meredith.

Draco’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two wizards. He was hesitant to share, but if he gave them his memories Meredith at least would know everything.

“When I saw Harry Potter in the Great Hall after he was supposed to be dead. I saw him and I . . . I hoped that he would finish it. That he would finish the Dark Lord – end the War.”

Meredith smiled at him, “And you have doubts about whether or not you are a Death Eater. I don’t think a rabid loyalist would have been pleased to see a resurrected Harry Potter.”

He closed his eyes and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to think of the green-eyed Gryffindor. He remembered how he’d felt to see the boy alive, striding into the Great Hall. He’d been reading issues of the papers – many had stockpiled while he’d been emotionally shutdown – and it was claimed that Potter had offered himself up to the Dark Lord and his killing curse to save . . . well . . . everyone. And for better or worse, one of the people that had been saved was himself. Perhaps it was time that he hoped – that he gave himself a chance to imagine a future. He owed it to Lavender Brown, to Lupin, to his mother, and fuck-it-all, to himself.

He opened his eyes and met the Canadian wizard’s gaze. “I’m ready, Mssr. Bergeron. Please – take them – take my memories – I’m ready to share them.”

The other man nodded and extracted a wand from his jacket. “I’m going to kneel beside you, Draco. I will place my wand at your temple. You must think back – think to the time that you want to share with Mr. Meredith and let the images unspool in your mind. You will feel a gentle tugging – as if from inside of your mind – it is very important that you don’t pull against it. Rather, you should greet it – it will help the memories gather and surface faster.”

“What if there is a memory I don’t want to share?”

“Imagine throwing the memory aside, or batting it out of the stream.”

“And how do I make it stop – how will you know when I am done sharing?”

“You will put a stopper in your mind. Envision yourself doing just that – stoppering a bottle – and the memories will cease to flow.” Mssr. Bergeron glanced between Draco and the attorney, “Any questions left?”

Meredith looked right at him, “Are you sure, Draco?”

Draco nodded, he needed to try. “Yes.”

Mssr. Bergeron nodded rose from his seat to cross the few steps to Draco. He knelt down beside him. “It helps if you close your eyes,” said the wizard.

Draco nodded, and shut his eyes. He kept them shut even when he felt the cool tip of Mssr. Bergeron’s wand press against his temple.

“Je me souviens,” whispered the wizard.

He feels the pull of the memories flooding his mind – images swirl. He concentrates, willing his mind back to that horrible day when he’d tried to follow the Dark Lord’s bidding. The gates he’d constructed to seal off the painful images burst, and once again he is there . . .

Dumbledore pleading with Snape on the Astronomy Tower . . .

Professor Burbage’s body landing on the table of the Manor . . .

Ollivander sprawled on the floor in pain . . .

Corner bruised and unconscious in the classroom . . .

Granger’s screams as his aunt tortured her, her body writhing on the floor of his home . . .

The Carrows chasing Longbottom down the corridor . . .

The roar of Fiendfyre ravaging through the Room of Hidden Things . . .

The light in Lupin’s eyes expiring as he was struck down . . .

Lavender Brown’s tears sliding beneath her bandages . . .

Potter’s body limp in Hagrid’s arms . . .

The rows of dead lain out in the Great Hall . . .

He gasps – his hands clutch at nothing – he wants to slam the walls back up – wants to barricade himself from all the pain, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to damage the memories he is sharing. He clenches his hands again, trying to hold on and then a hand clasps one of his. He grabs at it – using it as an anchor – holding on as the memories flow through him, slicing away at his sanity.

Regulus Black races through his mind – a shooting star eclipsing everything else. He concentrates on pushing the images of Regulus out of the flow of memories he is sharing, but he is arrested by a memory of Regulus smiling up at James Potter. Regulus and James. James and Regulus. Written in the stars . . .

He slams down on the flow of memories. Enough. He has shared enough. He feels himself sway and the hand holding him grasps him tighter.

“Draco.”

He concentrates on the voice.

“Draco.”

He opens his eyes and Meredith is kneeling before him, holding him steady.

“Come back, Draco. We are done. You did so well.”

“It’s done?” he asked, his brain feeling sluggish and slow. He realizes that his cheeks are wet with tears. More than his cheeks, really, as his cheeks and neck are also damp.

“Yes,” Meredith nodded. He pulls back a bit, but keeps his hand on Draco’s. “Look.”

Draco followed the man’s sweeping arm motion and sees Mssr. Bergeron standing close by, with vials upon vials levitated around him. All the vials contained swirls of silver.

“You’ll look at them – all of them?” he asks, suddenly afraid of everything he is handing over. It is all so personal.

“Only if you give me permission. You can change your mind. These can be stored under seal – no one need ever view them.” Meredith releases his hand and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and passing it to him.

Draco shook his head – while he was afraid, he had committed. “Just you,” he says. “No one on your team. Just you. I only . . . trust . . . you.” He wipes the handkerchief over his face. Tears even made their way beneath his shirt collar. How long had he been crying?

Meredith nodded at him, his eyes intent on Draco’s. Had the man been a Hufflepuff? He was always so . . . what was the word? His mind wasn’t connecting the dots clearly . . . Chivalrous – that was the word – Meredith was always so chivalrous in how he treated Draco and his decisions.

The Canadian wizard worked to carefully package each precious vile into a box with many padded compartments. He watched for a little while and then closed his eyes. Merlin, he was exhausted.

“Eat this,” he heard Meredith say.

He opened his eyes and saw his attorney holding out a chocolate bar.

“Thought that was just for Dementors,” Draco said, his voice sounding slurred.

“Works for them as well,” said his attorney with a smile.

“They let you bring that in to me – the guards?” he asked even as he reached for the chocolate bar. “They never do anything nice for me. They shrunk my uniform sleeves so my Mark would have to be exposed all the time.”

He fumbled pealing back the wrapper, but it was worth it – that first bite was . . . oh fuck it was wonderful.

“The guards did what?” asked Meredith, his voice sounded pinched.

Draco lifted his left arm up, “Made my uniform short-sleeve on purpose. Said I shouldn’t hide who I really was.”

“Right,” said Meredith. “Which guard.”

Draco chewed on his chocolate, his mind was still a mess. Who the fuck had it been? Riley? Reece? No… “Rogers,” he said, the name coming to him at last. “It was Rogers.”

Meredith smiled at him, “Thank you for sharing Draco. Mssr. Bergeron is going to pack up the vials and take them back to my office and prepare a letter of authenticity. I’m going to sit with you while you finish the chocolate. After that I encourage you to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll start you work with Mr. Curtis. Next week you’ll start with a caseworker named Christina Lewis.”

“Mhmmm,” Draco agreed around a mouthful of chocolate.

 

He stares at the man sitting across from him. He had brown hair and if Draco were to describe his looks he’d have said he was classically British. The man looked to be in his late thirties, or perhaps his early forties. It had been quite the day already and he knew the real work was just beginning. He’d awoken still feeling slightly fuzzy in his brain, and it had taken him a while to realize that his uniform now had long sleeves. There had also been a letter waiting for him from his attorney stating that he had rectified the “issue with your uniform,” and that the guard, Rogers, had been “reassigned” to another area within the Ministry. Not long after he’d been brought to a conference room where he now sat.

“So you’re Mr. Curtis?” said Draco.

“You can call me Alan,” said the man.

Draco couldn’t help but frown. He’d been raised to address older individuals more formally.

The man smiled, “I see that makes you uncomfortable. Mr. Curtis is fine if you’d prefer.” The man crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ll tell you a bit about myself. I’m a wizard. I was Muggle-born and sorted Hufflepuff when I attended Hogwarts.”

Draco resisted the urge to snort. Of course a therapist had sorted Hufflepuff. How stereotypical.

“I graduated from Hogwarts in the late seventies. I drifted for a bit. The War – the first one – it was . . . well . . . it wasn’t kind on people like me – or my wife – girlfriend at the time. I met her through friends in school. She was a squib from an old pureblood family. Neither of us were safe in the Wizarding world as the Dark Lord came to power. So we . . . left. We escaped and disappeared to live in the Muggle world. We went to university. She became a speech pathologist and I became a therapist. I specialize in working with survivors of trauma. I think your attorney sought me out because I have a magical background, so you can talk freely to me about magic and Hogwarts. I also have an understanding of the expectations many traditional pureblood wizards have because of my wife. But my mental health training and background in the Muggle word is far superior to what ‘mind-healers’ in Wizarding society are currently offering. Wizards have an unfortunate tendency of trying to solve every problem with magic – spells and potions – but not everything can just be magicked away. Therapy involves a lot of time, engagement, and a willingness to work on oneself.”

He felt his face freeze, as he considered one piece of information. “You were Muggle-born?”

The man nodded.

“And you’re . . . you’re willing to work with me? Meredith told you what I am right? That I’m a Death Eater?”

Curtis tilted his head a bit to one side, “Is that how you think of yourself, Draco? May I call you, Draco?”

He waved his hand, dismissing the question about his name, “I have the Mark branded onto my body. I’m in jail awaiting trial. Of course I’m a Death Eater.”

The man’s eyes met his. “That wasn’t my question. During our time together I’m going to ask you questions and I really want you to listen to what I am asking. I’m also going to push you – push your assumptions – push any thinking that is lazy – and I’m going make suggestions for coping strategies you can try when we aren’t together. So, I’ll ask again, do you think of yourself as a Death Eater, Draco?”

“I . . . I don’t want to, but I think it’s what I deserve to think about myself.”

“We’ll have to unpack that thought about what you think you deserve some more in future. But for now, let me ask you this, do you think that you can work with me?”

“I can try.”

“Do you have any doubts about working with me because I’m a Muggle-born and live largely as a Muggle? Except for housework,” said the man with a slight grin, “Magic was meant to lighten the load of housework.”

“I have doubts about . . . myself. About whether I can talk to you. Trust you.”

“Mr. Meredith told me a bit about you. I understand that you didn’t have a lot of positive adult role models in your life.”

Draco looked away, “You could say that again.”

The man unfurled his legs and leaned toward Draco. “So here’s the thing, I’ll do my best for you Draco. I will. But I can only work with what you give me. And it is fine if it takes time. And the skills I’m going to teach you, they won’t work right away. They are going to take practice. While you are in jail, there is only so much we can do to have you cope. Coping strategies work best when people feel safe, and jail is a constant stressor – it’s probably hard to feel safe here. But if and when you are out – I hope you’ll continue to work with me – and we’ll keep taking things as they come. With time. With practice. Okay?”

He looked up to the man’s face again, and the man looked so fucking earnest in only the way that a Hufflepuff could.

“Being here,” said Draco, waving his hand around the sterile meeting room of the Ministry holding center, “Is probably the safest I’ve felt in over two years. No one can get me here – no one can hurt me. I suppose the guards could, but they haven’t. They taunt me and say hurtful things sometimes, but they don’t physically hurt me. And the other Death Eaters – they don’t let us together – which works for me just fine. I wasn’t . . . committed enough for them – the Death Eaters. But because of who I was – how I was raised – I wasn’t ever going to be accepted by the Order of the Phoenix. I . . . I felt alone. For a long time. I’m alone here. I’m used to it. But no one here is using the torture curse on me or asking me to torture others. No one here is threatening me with my life or my mother’s life.”

“How old are you, Draco?”

“I turned eighteen a few weeks ago.”

“And you mentioned your mother. When was the last time you saw her?”

He swallowed. “I haven’t seen her since I was brought here.”

“And when was that?”

“May 5th. A month before my birthday.”

“And what are you here for?”

Draco laughed. “Are you serious? Because I’m a Death Eater. Because I did horrible things. Because I deserve to be here.”

“What horrible things did you do?”

He leaned back in his chair as if to put distance between himself and the therapist. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What things?” asked Curtis, his voice gentle.

He looked up at the man’s face and then looked down at the floor. “I didn’t help people. I . . . I didn’t keep people safe.”

“Alright. And who kept you safe through everything, Draco?”

He felt his eyes sting. Fuck. This man hadn’t been lying when he said he’d ask questions that pushed him. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He thought of his mother, but she hadn’t been able to keep him safe. Not really. And Lupin had sacrificed his life for Draco, but they hadn’t been together or really in contact during the War, so Lupin hadn’t kept him safe either – he hadn’t been in a position to do so. And Merlin knew that Dumbledore and Snape had done fuck all to keep him safe.

“Who kept you safe?”

Draco took a deep breath and forced the air out through his nose. He looked up at the man’s face. His nails dug into his own arms as if he had to forcible restrain himself – the pain keeping him grounded. He looked up at Curtis and finally said, “No one.”

After that Draco knows he shut down. Curtis asked him a few more questions, but Draco couldn’t talk anymore. Admitting that no one in his life truly kept him safe when he had needed it drained him. At last Curtis smiled at him and closed the session, after coaching him on a coping strategy that he promptly forgot. He Draco that they were off to a good start and he’d see Draco for about an hour every Tuesday and Thursday. After he was escorted back to his cell he found a letter waiting for him on his bunk. It had been opened as all of the little mail he received was, except letters from his attorney, to be read and checked. He picked up the parchment and recognized Theo’s handwriting. As he read the letter he learned that all the Slytherins in his year had been “encouraged” to submit to staying in their homes while they and their families were investigated. Theo was finally free – after it became clear that he’d been as much a victim of his Death Eater father as anyone. He also learned that Theo and Blaise were going to take their NEWTs through correspondence and they were hoping to work on outlines together with Draco by post if he was going to take his as well.

He lay down on his bunk clutching the letter. His friends hadn’t forgotten him. He had friends. And he realized he’d been wrong when he’d told Curtis that no one had kept him safe. No adult had kept Draco safe, but his friends had tried. They’d been there for him as much as he had allowed them to be. True, he’d held them at arm’s length, but that was on him. They’d stood by him even when it was clear his star had fallen and the Malfoy name was no longer valuable. Merlin, Blaise had visited him in the hospital and punched Smith and Theo had been a steady, quiet source of constant support. He fell asleep feeling grateful for the people he did have in his life who cared.

His NEWT materials arrived the next day, as did a letter from Blaise.

Chapter 42: Life Skills

Studying for NEWTs without the constant threat of the Dark Lord murdering you or your family or while trying to keep professors from torturing other students was a decided improvement. It also helped that he had a lot of time to devote to study. It was, however, pretty damn boring to be studying on his own. Without a wand or access to a cauldron and potions ingredients, there was very little he could do by way of practical application.

He’d studied nonverbal magic at Hogwarts, and he’d practiced Accio’ing his wand from a short distance, but wandless magic was something he’d never devoted a lot of time to. That now changed. Draco wasn’t having a great deal of success in the attempts he made so far – he tried summoning one of his text books from the desk to his bed. He wondered if perhaps the cells were warded in a way that made wandless magic impossible. He also had to be quite quiet when attempting wandless magic, as he didn’t want the guards to overhear him, so he was theoretically working on nonverbal wandless magic which he was finding to be a bit of a mind fuck.

When he allowed himself to think about it, he was upset by how easily he was slipping into a routine while being jailed. He didn’t want to let any of this become normal – to become his life – but it was his life now . . . and perhaps forever.

“Malfoy,” said a guard outside his cell, “Your new caseworker is here.”

He went through the now familiar motions of being escorted to a conference room. A witch who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties sat waiting for him. She was holding parchment and one of those self-inking devices he’d occasionally seen Muggle-borns using at Hogwarts.

She launched into talking to him before he even sat down.

“My name is Christina Lewis. I’ll be your caseworker.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lewis,” he said, his manners having been ingrained in him by his parents.

“A little back ground. Before the War I worked in the Muggle Relations division of the Ministry. As a Muggle-born, my position at work and in life became rather . . . tenuous during the War. I went underground for a while, as it were. Now I am a caseworker for the Ministry as we try and help the magical community move into a more diverse and accepting future.”

He willed himself not to sneer, but really, the idea that some members of the magical community could ever be accepting of more diversity was preposterous.

“My goal is to help prepare you to take care of yourself – practical life skills. Another goal will be to teach you about Muggles so that you can be more comfortable in their world. Even if you never spend a day outside of a magical area, I want you to learn to be tolerant of our non-magical brethren on this earth. Any questions at this point?”

He shook his head.

“All right,” she said, “Let’s start going through this checklist I have prepared. Do you know how to prepare food?”

“Well . . . um. . . no. The house elves at the Manor and at Hogwarts did all of that.”

“Right. Can you at least make a cup of tea?”

“No,” he said, cringing at himself as he realized how ridiculous it sounded that he couldn’t even do that.

“And you call yourself British?” said Caseworker Lewis. “That’s a bloody travesty that is. We’ll have to correct that. I’ll put that at the top of the list.” She made some notations on her parchment and then looked up at him again, “You can lace your shoes without magic, right? I mean, you’re not totally hopeless?”

He pointed to his slip on Ministry issue shoes. “No laces. But yes, I can in fact tie my own shoes.”

“And here I heard that you were the Prince of Slytherin. Glad that you weren’t so coddled that you had to have someone dress you,” said the witch with a raised eyebrow.

Was she joking? He looked at her face, and noticed the twitch of a smile on her lips. She was joking. Merlin, it had been forever since anyone had messed with him that way. It made him miss Blaise.

“A prince in name only. I assure you that no royal blood flows in my veins that I am aware of.”

She sighed rather dramatically, “And here I thought I was to be working with the likes of Prince William or Harry. I will gather my spirits and carry on,” she turned back to her checklist. “Do you know how to balance a bank account?”

He laughed, and then fought hard to reign it in. “My family has more money than I could spend in many lifetimes. Balancing an account was never something I was supposed to worry about until I came into my full inheritance upon marriage, and then it would be to merely ensure that I was making the correct donations to charities and causes that would further the Malfoy name.”

“Uhuh,” said the witch sounding unimpressed. “Can you make a bed? Do dishes? Launder your clothes?”

And so it went. In the end the only things on her list that he knew how to do either with or without magic, besides lace his shoes, was to tailor his own garments, read a map, apparate, and calculate appropriate monetary tips.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, I think that gives me an idea of what we have to work on. I will not be able to take you out on field trips, however, I will do my best to bring as much in to you as possible. I will be in to work with you for one hour on Mondays and two hours on Fridays. Any questions?”

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, tackling the issue head on. “I know my attorney arranged for you to come in and . . . work with me. But why did you agree?”

“I’ve read about you, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve read that you were the youngest of You-Know-Who’s devoted followers. I’ve read opinion pieces in The Prophet that anyone who followed You-Know-Who is irredeemable. And I disagree. I disagree on principal – I believe strongly in the power of redemption. But I also disagree on factual supposition. I’ve heard reports of a young man with shockingly blond hair helping the wounded during the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“I should have done more,” he said, unable to look at her. “I didn’t do enough.”

“I think in hindsight everyone believes that. I imagine even the Savior himself has second guesses about the War and wonders what more he could have done or what he could have done differently.”

He started in his chair at the mention of Potter. If Caseworker Lewis noticed, she said nothing about it. Rather she leaned over and lifted a satchel from the floor to rest on the table in front of her. She opened it, made a few tisking sounds and summoned out what looked to be a tea kettle and teacups and other various objects.

“I have permission to bring the materials I need to coach you in life skills. You will also notice that you are not bound and we are not separated by a magical barrier. I trust that you will be able to work with me professionally and safely.”

“Of course,” he agreed, eyeing the objects she was laying out.

“This is a portable burner,” she said as she set up one item. “I’m going to teach you to brew tea the Muggle way. Tea cannot be rushed and magic speeds up the process too much. In short, tea brewed by magic tastes like dishwater.” She tapped her wand against her open satchel, “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how do you take your tea?”

 

The next day he was startled when he was told he had another visitor. It was Saturday and he wasn’t expecting anyone as his attorney, therapist, and caseworker didn’t see him on weekends. He felt his nerves twist his stomach as he walked to one of the visiting rooms. He worried that something terrible had happened – perhaps Meredith was here to tell him news about his mother. The door to the visiting room opened and there, sitting beyond a magical barrier was a face he had sorely missed.

“You have no idea what I had to go through to come see you, you arrogant prat,” said Blaise after the door closed behind Draco.

Draco stood still, taking in the sight of his friend. Blaise, as usual, was immaculately dressed. It looked like he was a little broader than the last time Draco had seen him. How long ago was that? Four months? How was it September already? Merlin – a whole new crop of students were off to Hogwarts. He hoped their time at the school was more – well – normal than his had been.

“I got patted down and practically strip searched,” Blaise continued. “It’s the most handsy anyone’s gotten with me for longer than I’d care to admit.”

Draco arched an eyebrow at his friend as he sat down. Blaise settled back in his own chair and took Draco in.

“Salazar,” said Blaise, “You look like shit.”

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that I can always depend on you to be an arse.”

Blaise grinned at him. When was the last time anyone had done that? Smiled at him so easily?

“I know that you’re saying that ‘cause you’re jealous of me. Can’t blame you. I mean I’m fucking good-looking and I’m not locked up.”

And fuck it all, but he laughed. He couldn’t help it. Blaise was probably the first bit of levity he’d had since he’d been locked away besides a few brief exchanges with his caseworker.

“There you are,” said Blaise. “Been a while since I saw you laugh – you didn’t do much of it our last year at Hogwarts. Things got too damned dark there at school. You’ll need to do more of that – laughing - when you get out.”

He felt the smile fall from his face. “I’m probably not getting out of here, Blaise.”

His friend shook his head, “Nah. That’s not what I hear. Your mom’s been writing me. Besides, I’m going to testify for you – tell the Wizengamot what knobs the Carrows were and how you didn’t play their sick little games. You saved that Ravenclaw, Corner. And the way Neville Longbottom told me, you warned him off so he could get to safety.”

“You’ve been talking to Longbottom?”

Blaise nodded, “I went back to Hogwarts at the end of summer a couple of times to help with the cleanup and repairs. Helped relieve the stress of all the fucking studying for NEWTs to do something physical. Anyway, a bunch of us former upper years were there. We got to talking. For a Gryffindor, Neville’s alright.”

“Neville? What, you’re on a first name basis now?”

Blaise nodded. “What? I’m a fucking Slytherin. It’s a good thing to have powerful friends, and Neville was a hard case at the Battle – sliced the head off of the Dark Lord’s ruddy snake.” Then the boy grinned at him again and teased, “If I can’t be friends with Harry Potter, I suppose Neville will have to do.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, “Surprised you haven’t cozied up the Savior.”

The other Slytherin shrugged, “He was everywhere after the Battle. In all the papers, at the funerals, appearing at speeches with Shacklebolt and then he disappeared for a while. Don’t think I’d have been able to get to close him even if I wanted to. Heard he’s training with the Aurors now - him and Weasley.”

“Potter? An Auror? Great. He’ll probably be on guard duty at my trial knowing my luck.”

“Yeah, guessing the golden trio didn’t have to take NEWTs before going off to whatever careers they wanted. Well, knowing Granger, she’s going to take them for the joy of it.”

He smirked. He could well imagine that Potter’s bookish friend would elect to take NEWTs.

“So yeah, just a couple more months and this correspondence rubbish will be over. Those of us taking our exams have to go the Ministry for the written and practical portions. They don’t want us at Hogwarts throwing a wrench in the schedule of the students there. Where are you taking yours?”

Draco made a face. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t looking forward to the exams. He wasn’t even sure how much good taking his NEWTs would be to him in the future – whatever that may be.

“My written component will be here and then arrangements are going to be made to take my practicals here as well somehow. Not sure how that will work as I don’t have a wand and it’s not like I’ll be trusted with one.”

“I’m guessing that attorney of yours will be on it. He’s arranged a lot of stuff for you, hasn’t he.”

Draco smirked again, “Yes, due to his efforts of bringing in a team of people to rehabilitate me, I can now brew a decent cup of a tea.”

Blaise held his hand to his heart in mock horror, “What? You mean you – a Malfoy - know how to do something a house elf can do easily? What is the world coming to? What would other pure-blooded wankers say?”

“Speaking of pure-blooded wankers, how is everyone else doing? Theo writes, but . . . well.”

His friend gave him a sheepish smile, “Theo actually told me to tell you he says hello first thing. I – ummm – well I forgot cause I’m a shit friend. He didn’t come because . . . well his father is here too . . . somewhere.”

“Tell him I understand, okay? How about the others?”

“Millicent and Daphne are studying for their NEWTs. Pansy . . . well . . . she isn’t. Word got out that she suggested that Harry Potter be turned over to Voldemort at the Battle and she’s kind of persona non grata in the Wizarding world. She doesn’t go out anymore – well – at least to Diagon Alley and such. She’s been escaping to the Muggle world.”

“A Parkinson? Going rogue in the Muggle world? Her folks must be wild.”

“It’s not pretty from the bits she tells me. They are ashamed not by what she said about Potter, but rather by the fall-out from her statement,” Blaise looked at him for a moment before saying, “A lot of us Slytherins have been spending time in the Muggle world. No one knows us there – we aren’t hexed when we go by.”

And didn’t that just beat all. Pureblood Slytherins were escaping to the Muggle world to avoid vilification in the Wizarding world. The Dark Lord must be turning over in his grave. Good.

“What’s it like?” asked Draco.

“It’s . . . different . . . but good. No one knows us there. Theo and I like to find hole in the wall pubs, Pansy and Daph are mad about Muggle fashion, and I’ve been listening to their music. Got myself a CD player and some albums.”

“A CD player?”

Blaise smiled at him again, “Don’t ask me to explain how it works, but it does. We’ll listen to some music together when you get out.”

“You really think I’ll get out? Why? Cause I’m a Malfoy and my family fortune will buy my way to freedom.”

His friend’s smile fell, and he was quiet for a moment before saying, “No. I think you’ll get out because you are Draco Malfoy and I know you. For years you repeated the shit your father said, but then when it became real – you didn’t follow the Dark Lord like a good little boy. You did the best you could with the hand you were dealt.”

Draco met his friends somber eyes and he was overcome with emotion. Blaise had been unfailingly loyal to him and it meant . . . everything.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No worries. And feel free to gush about how wonderful I am. I can handle it.”

Draco huffed a laugh. Trust Blaise to use humor to keep a moment from getting too intense.

“Your ego probably rivals the Savior’s,” said Draco.

Blaise smirked back at him. “You always did manage to steer a lot of conversations toward Potter. If I fancied blokes – especially pointy, pale ones like you - I’d likely be jealous of your . . . fixation . . . on the Chosen One.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His friend gave him the most innocent look a Slytherin was capable of, “Why nothing, Draco. Nothing at all. Should it?”

Draco groaned. Sometimes there was no winning with Blaise when he was his most precocious version of himself. A topic change was in order.

“How’s Greg? I’ve exchanged letters with everyone but him. I thought about writing him, but I didn’t know what his situation was. A letter from me might not be . . . helpful right now.”

Blaise sighed long and loud before answering. “Greg isn’t . . . well. As I’m sure you know or have deduced, his father is here awaiting trial. Greg is facing charges for torturing students at Hogwarts, but based on his age – and the fact that he was following the orders of two professors – he is home pending trial. He can’t leave the property, and if he does he has a magical sensor on him that will track him.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I did,” said his friend quietly. “A few weeks ago. He’s . . . lost weight. I don’t think he is eating well. He’s pretty torn up about Vince. There wasn’t a proper funeral or a memorial for him, you know. And there was no body. No one knew how to celebrate the life of a boy that tortured his fellow students and tried to murder others.” Blaise met his eyes. “I understand that you and Greg both almost lost your lives in an inferno of Vince’s creation.”

“Yes,” Draco affirmed.

“Despite it all, Vince was our friend once – until things became so twisted. And Greg misses him.”

“Greg’s heart was never in it – the torture. He did what his father wanted him to do.”

“I know,” said Blaise. “But he still did it.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Blaise – I did horrible things too. Things I will . . . I will never be able to forgive myself for. What choice did Greg have?”

“Don’t, Draco. Just don’t. You didn’t have a choice either and did you fuck up? Yeah. You did. But that last year – you protected the other students. You didn’t report things to the Carrows even though they told you too. You didn’t take part in torture sessions of other students even though they wanted you too. You protected Theo – kept him from getting forcibly Marked, and you made sure that we got out to safety at the Battle – knowing that one side wouldn’t trust us and that the Dark Lord would press us into service or kill us if we refused. You did a fucking lot, okay?”

“Greg came to me when that Ravenclaw, Corner, was injured. He came and told me. If he hadn’t . . .”

He watched as Blaise took a deep breath, likely considering his next words.

“Then I think there is hope for Gregory Goyle,” said Blaise.

They sat together in silence for a long moment. Draco wondered if Vince had lived whether there would have been hope for him as well. He liked to think so, Vince had just been a boy – only a few months older than him and he had been following in his father’s footsteps. Maybe with time and different influences, Vince could have been redeemed. Now they would never know. His had been a life cut short and but for the Gryffindor bravery of the Savior, Draco’s life would have ended in that cursed blaze as well. Draco had a chance now – a chance to show the world that he was better than the boy he had once allowed himself to be – that he was better than the Mark on his arm.

“It’s you isn’t it?” asked Blaise, breaking the quiet that had spread between them.

“It’s me what?”

“Someone funded that Gryffindor girl, Lavender Brown’s, medical expenses. Dean Thomas was at the school helping out as well and he told me that he saw you fighting off a Death Eater to try and save an old professor and that you saw Brown get attacked by that monster Greyback. He also said you helped out at the hospital and that he saw you get taken to Brown’s bedside to speak with her. You’re the one helping her now, aren’t you?”

Draco raised his chin and met Blaise’s gaze.

“Fuck, Draco,” said Blaise with a grin. “I think there is a bit of Hufflepuff inside of you.”

“I’m not sure if that is the cruelest or nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

Blaise just smiled at him.

Chapter 43: Confronting Shadows

Notes:

*Quoted description of wand cores and the properties of cypress wands is from “Wand Cores” and “Wand Woods” originally published on Pottermore on August 10, 2015.

October 27, 1998

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

The Ministry has scheduled your NEWTs on November 19th and 20th. I am pleased to inform you that Professor Horace Slughorn and I, as well as Ministry Officials, will be attending you on these dates to administer your exams. It is my understanding that you will be taking exams in the following subjects: Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Astronomy, Herbology, Ancient Ruins, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Slughorn shall bring all of the materials necessary for your Potions NEWT. If you have decided not to sit for examination in any of these subjects, kindly write and inform me so that we may make arrangement to administer NEWTs for your chosen subjects.

You were always an excellent student when you applied yourself to your studies. I also understand from Madam Pomfrey, as well as from current and former students, that you quietly aided the student body during your incomplete seventh year at Hogwarts. I commend you for those acts of bravery and kindness, and look forward to meeting with you on the dates set for your examinations.

Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

He took a deep breath. McGonagall and Slughorn would be here in a little over three weeks.

And then he took another deep breath – his bravery and kindness? What the fuck? He wondered if McGonagall had perhaps suffered a head injury during the Battle. No one in their right mind would ever describe him as being brave or kind.

He took a third deep breath. Of course the fucking Ministry had scheduled him for NEWTs the days his mother’s trial was set to take place. Someone in the Ministry must want him to fail his NEWTs, as clearly, his mind would be on his mother’s trial and not these stupid exams. It wasn’t like the scores would ever matter to him in future. Who would really care if he scored straight O’s in everything – he’d always be Draco Malfoy, Death Eater.

He stewed on this for the rest of the day. In the evening he received an owl from his mother telling him that she wanted to take his exams and his future seriously. He also received a letter from his attorney stating that Draco had received permission to use a wand during his NEWTs, but the room he’d be conducting his practicals in would be warded in such a way that only magic related to his examination could be allowed. He snorted at this. It wasn’t like he’d be casting Avada Kedavras and Crucios at his examiners. But he supposed he could understand why the Ministry thought he might. He did have the damn Mark on his arm after all.

The next morning he was roused from his cell to see a visitor. This was just as well as he thought the outline for Ancient Runes he was working on was going to drive him mad – not to mention the letters from Theo and Blaise calling him a prat for taking so long in collating their outlines for the subjects they had in common. All of them were going round the twist with so much studying.

He entered one of the now familiar visit room to see Ollivander sitting behind the magical barrier. He took a deep breath and willed himself to sit down across from the older wizard. He hadn’t seen the wandmaker since that horrible day at the Manor when he thought Potter was going to be turned over the Dark Lord and Granger had been mercilessly tortured.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his body tense.

“Your attorney asked me to meet with you regarding a wand for your upcoming NEWTs.”

“There are other wandmakers in Great Britain. Surely I’m one of the last people you want to see.”

The older wizard ignored this comment and said, “I am relieved to see you looking well, young Mr. Malfoy, however, I wish we were meeting under circumstances that would have been more comfortable for you.” The wizard looked healthier than Draco had seen him while he was at the Manor. The man’s hair, however, was just as unruly as ever. It was like he and Potter had never heard of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion – which was just fucking bizarre as wasn’t it Potter’s grandfather who had invented it?

“Fair is fair, Mr. Ollivander,” said Draco. “I think it was your turn to see me incarcerated.”

The wandmaker raised an eyebrow, “You appear to be doing quite well behind bars if you have a sense of humor.”

Draco shrugged, “Must be the Slytherin in me – our dormitory was located in the old dungeons as you know. Perhaps being in a cell is strangely comforting.”

Ollivander actually smiled at him, then his smile faded. “My nephew sorted Slytherin,” he said. His pale eyes took on a distant look. “His father made his wand, lovely thing, larch with dragon heartstring. Galen wanted to be a curse-breaker from the time he was small. Read novels glorifying it. He didn’t want to make wands despite our family’s two thousand year history.” His eyes focused again, and he looked at Draco. “Family expectations are something I’m sure you can understand.”

Draco felt himself tense. He didn’t think he liked the direction this remembrance seemed to be headed.

“His parents died young. A magical ailment ran in his mother’s blood and my brother died in an accident. I had the raising of him from the time he was nine.” Ollivander sighed. “When he came of age, we fought. I wanted him to join me – there were no other Ollivanders you see. He was the last of the line. And the boy, he did try, for a year after Hogwarts he tried, but he didn’t have the desire – his wands were nothing but tawdry imitations. I’d decided to tell him that he didn’t need to stay with me in the shop – that his heart wasn’t in it.” He closed his eyes for a long moment before continuing, “I never got the chance. He left in the night and never came back.”

Draco swallowed. Even through the magical barrier dividing them, he could feel the pain radiating off the older wizard. “What happened to him?” he asked.

The man shook his head. “I never found out. I like to think that he became a curse breaker and maybe started a family, but it’s been so long – over fifty years. I think that if he were still alive he’d have been in contact with me despite my errors.”

He saw remorse stamped across the man’s face.

“I recognized you for what you were the instant I saw you arrive to guard my cell,” said Ollivander. “You were a child caught up in something beyond his control – a child who was trying to walk the fine line of living up to his family’s expectations and yet remain true to himself.”

Draco stiffened. “Don’t confuse me for your nephew, Ollivander. You asked him to do what? Craft wands? Go into the family business? My family’s business was torture and misery. I went along with everything – I am culpable.”

“I know you are not Galen. And I know the stakes were very different,” said Ollivander, calm despite the bite of Draco’s words. “But you are doing yourself a disservice. Do you believe the story you’ve told yourself about blind allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? If you do, you aren’t the clever young man I thought you were.”

Draco shifted in his seat. Ollivander gave him a pointed look before continuing, “I saw you. I saw the kindnesses you bestowed upon myself and dear Luna. And I observed the quickness of your mind as I crafted that wand for the wretched vermin Pettigrew. I also know that you did not betray Harry Potter – you even chastised me when I saved you by sharing information about Potter’s wand with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

He sighed. He wasn’t going to argue with the man – he was a wily old Ravenclaw after all – he’d probably twist Draco’s mind into philosophical knots.

“As I told you last summer, your wand was one of the most curious I had ever sold. Hawthorn and unicorn hair – a wand of paradoxes - life and death, light and dark, and inconsistency and reliability. The wand is loyal almost to a fault.”

Draco laughed, he couldn’t help it. “It can’t be that loyal – it worked just fine for Potter.”

The old man’s bushy brows raised, “How remarkable,” he mused as if to himself. “You were both the masters of the Elder Wand and of the hawthorn wand.” He paused, tapping his forefinger against his lips before saying, “As I told you, your wand – and no doubt the Elder Wand as well – is a difficult wand to understand and master. Yet both you and Mr. Potter did . . .”

He stared hard at Draco, his eyes shrewd.

“Your wand chose both you and Harry Potter. Curious . . . most curious.” He tilted his head, regarding Draco, “Or perhaps not – you and Mr. Potter are paradoxes are you not – two sides of the same coin.”

Draco felt a chill run through him. Dumbledore’s portrait had said much the same thing to him the night Snape’s true loyalties had been revealed.

“Raised by purebloods versus by muggles, light versus dark, Slytherin versus Gryffindor,” Ollivander pondered aloud.

“Might as well throw in Death Eater versus Order of the Phoenix,” Draco couldn’t help but add.

Ollivander nodded his head, “I see it now. I see you now. I thought I saw you before, but I did not have the whole picture.”

Draco squinted across the space that divided him from the wandmaker. Ravenclaws were all the fucking same – always speaking in riddles as if they existed on a different plane.

“What is it that you see?”

“Enough,” said the older wizard cryptically. He stood, “Thank you for seeing me young Mr. Malfoy. It was most . . . informative.”

He heard the door behind him being opened by the guards. Soon Ollivander would be gone.

“Mr. Ollivander,” he said, as the wizard turned toward the visitor’s door.

The man turned back to him, and Draco plowed ahead, “I’m sorry. For everything you went through. I’m sorry that I didn’t do more – that I didn’t figure out how to help you escape.”

The wandmaker regarded him for a moment before saying, “I’ll bring you a wand for your exams. It won’t replace your hawthorn wand or be as responsive as your original wand, but it will be satisfactory for your NEWTs”

Knowing how much the old wizard loved to talk about a wand’s materials, he asked, “What will it be made from?”

Ollivander gave him an amused look, “I’ll send it to you along with a treatise of mine on wandcraft, and I’ll leave it for you to figure out.”

“Fucking riddles,” Draco murmured after the door closed behind the wandmaker.

Three days later he was in possession of a new wand along with the promised treatise. He almost groaned looking at the text. Didn’t Ollivander know he had enough material to cram without getting sidetracked by wandlore? The wand itself was made of a light brown wood that tended toward blond. It couldn’t have looked more different from his dark hawthorn wand. He gave the length of wood a gentle flex and found the wand to be quite springy. The wand, however, was unresponsive when he cast a Lumos. He once again suspected that his cell was warded in a way that wouldn’t allow him to perform magic.

He put the wand down on the desk and idly flipped through the treatise. The pages parted to reveal a letter. Draco broke the seal.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I hope this wand will prove suitable for your examinations. I stress that it will not be as responsive as your hawthorn wand, but upon reflection, I chose a wand made of the same materials as a relative of yours, Regulus Black, that according to interviews given by Harry Potter, redeemed himself through his covert actions during the first War.

I look forward to hearing your analysis of the wand wood and core.

Best regards,
Garrick Ollivander

Regulus. Ollivander must have thought he’d seen a connection between them. Fat chance. Regulus had died trying to save the world and Draco had not saved anyone. Okay, that wasn’t technically true – his therapist had been working with him on not telling himself false narratives – but still, it felt true. It felt like he could have – should have – done more.

He set aside the wand and treatise and turned back to studying his potions outline. His eyes, however, kept drifting from his text to the sheaf of pages Ollivander had sent. After doggedly trying to focus on rare and unusual potions ingredients without much success he pushed the outline aside and turned his attention to the treatise.

Early in my career, as I watched my wandmaker father wrestling with substandard war core materials such as kelpie hair, I conceived the ambition to discover the finest cores and to work only with those when my came to take of the family business. This I have done. After much experimentation and research, I concluded that only three substances produce wands of the quality to which I am happy to give the illustrious name of Ollivander: unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather.

He read about how to magically detect a core type and he wished his room wasn’t warded in a way that prevented him from doing that. Ollivander’s descriptions of his three preferred cores, led Draco to surmise that the core in his new wand was dragon heartstring as wands with these cores learned more quickly than the others, which Draco sorely needed with his tight timeline to take his NEWTs. Based on the descriptions of the various woods colors, grains, and hand feel, he believed his new wand was made of cypress. He read through the description of the properties of cypress wood.

Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold, and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.

What the fuck had the old wizard been thinking pairing him with cypress? Brave, bold, and self-sacrificing? Bloody hell. No one in their right mind would view him as possessing these characteristics. He chucked the wand in the direction of his bed and heard it clatter as it struck the wall and fell to the floor between the wall and the bed. Merlin – cypress? Really?

He missed his wand – his old wand. He missed his life – or rather the life that had been promised him right up until the fucking end of fifth year.

He shoved the treatise off the desk and it fell to the floor, sheaves of paper splayed open.

Unafraid to confront his shadows. Salazar. The darkness in his past barely stood thinking about. If he did, he risked getting caught in a loop of guilt.

He turned back to potions outline. The words blurred on the page. Fuck. What was the point? Why the hell was he trying so hard to earn grades that would never do him an iota of good? He was a fucking Death Eater, who would ever care if he did well on his NEWTs?

He swept his arm across the desk. Parchment and books fell to the floor. He swiped his arm across the surface again and quills and an inkpot flew off. The inkpot landed with a sharp cracking sound and ink splattered on the floor of the cell and some dark droplets speckled the scattered parchment.

He lurched toward the bed, getting some of the ink on his foot, and left partial footprints in the small space. He reached under the bedframe, groping for the useless wand. His hand wrapped around it, and he pulled it toward him. Sitting up, he held the offending item in his hands.

He’d snap it, he decided. He snap the fucking thing.

Then he saw the Mark. His sleeve had ridden up while he’d rummaged for the wand.

Regulus had born the Mark as well and he’d been redeemed, but his redemption had cost him his life. He’d died alone and unsung until Potter had rehabilitated his image. Fucking hell. James Potter’s son was giving Regulus the praise he deserved not knowing about the love that had existed between the man and his father.

His cousin had been little older than Draco was now when he’d died. He’d not had people like Meredith, Curtis, or Caseworker Lewis working to help him. He’d never had that chance. He’d confronted his shadows on his own.

Oh.

Oh.

He wasn’t alone. Not anymore. Merlin, he’d not considered that until this moment. He wasn’t alone. Not really. He had people working to help him – people that for whatever reason - cared.

He changed his grip on the cypress wand, cradling it to him before laying it carefully down on his bed.

Turning away, he scurried on his knees to the mess he’d made on the floor and rifled through the papers until he found a blank piece. He found a quill and dipped it in the ink on the floor. He swore. He could only write a couple of letters at a time with the miniscule amount of ink he could get off the floor, but at last the note for Ollivander was complete.

Cypress and dragon heartstring.

Chapter 44: Trials and Tribulations

Notes:

Please forgive me for proofing errors. I do not have a Beta reader and this chapter came hard. I am planning on two more chapters before Draco's trial.

Days seeped away. There was a flurry of correspondence between himself, Blaise, and Theo. Theo started panicking about charms. Charms! A subject the boy had excelled in since first year, yet he filled at least a page bemoaning his lack of preparedness.

All of the other people sitting for NEWTs would be tested the Monday through Wednesday, while Draco’s exams, which were being administered to him alone, would be on Thursday and Friday. The Ministry had placed a moratorium on correspondence between Draco and other test takers from eight in the morning on Monday until Draco finished his last exam on Friday. On Sunday evening he sent off letters to each of his friends wishing them well on their NEWTs, and then settled in for long days of waiting.

A break in the monotony came in the form of his attorney, who came to visit him on Tuesday to let him know that his mother’s trial was still set for the last two days of the week. It would be open to the public, so he told Draco to be prepared to read reports about it in the papers. His own trial had not yet been scheduled, but was anticipated to take place early in the new year.

Wednesday dragged by. He rifled through his notes, but he doubted they would help. What he was really lacking in was a chance to study for practical exams. He’d not been near a cauldron or a wand that worked for over half a year.

The morning of his exams found him forcing down his breakfast. He was embarrassed to acknowledge that his nerves were in tatters not so much because of the upcoming testing, but because he would soon be before McGonagall and Slughorn and they’d be seeing him like this – as a prisoner. He reminded himself that facing them could not be worse than facing the Dark Lord or his aunt Bella.

A letter arrived a few minutes before his test time. It was from his mother. Even as she was about to sit for a trial that would determine the rest of her life, she had sent him words of encouragement. He worked to force the thoughts of her hearing from his mind. There was nothing he could do about it. He had to trust Meredith and his legal team.

At precisely eight in the morning he was escorted to a conference room. A small desk faced a longer table positioned behind a magical barrier. Sitting at the table were McGonagall, Slughorn, and an unknown woman that Draco assumed was a Ministry official.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall, her voice as crisp as he remembered. “Please, have a seat.” She waved her hand at the desk. He sat down, feeling stiff and nervous. “Today Professor Slughorn, Ms. Brunhilde, and I will be overseeing your written exams today. You have elected to take exams in seven subjects. Is that still correct?”

“Yes, professor.”

“Ordinarily you would take written exams over the course of a couple of days, but due to the unorthodox nature of your testing, you will sit for all of your written exams today and your practical exams will be tomorrow. You will have one hour and twenty minutes to complete the written component for each subject. There will be a ten minute break between each exam and at half past twelve you will have a half hour for lunch and at half past five you will have another break for dinner. You will conclude your exams at half past seven tonight. If you finish any of your exams before the allotted time, you may take an extended break.”

He took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. He felt his fingers cramp at the thought of all the fucking writing that lay ahead of him.

“It will be, as I’m sure you have surmised Mr. Malfoy, a grueling day.” Here the head of Gryffindor House turned a withering gaze on Ms. Brunhilde, “But such is how the Ministry has deemed your testing to be. I’m sure there is nothing . . . untoward about the schedule they have devised.”

He noticed that the Ministry official flushed and stared pointedly at the table.

“Before we begin, Professor Slughorn and I want to wish you luck. We understand that you have been working hard at your studies.”

“Quite right,” said Slughorn speaking for the first time. “I am especially eager to see what you make of the potions practical tomorrow.”

“There shall be no irregularities with his testing,” said the Ministry witch. “I will make sure of that.”

“Yes,” said McGonagall, “I can see why you would be concerned about irregularities considering that Mr. Malfoy is in a magically confined space and has absolutely no ability to communicate with others or review materials during his exams. Thank goodness you are here Ms. Brunhilde.”

Draco suppressed a grin. He could scarcely believe that McGonagall was addressing the Ministry’s representative in such a sarcastic manner on his behalf.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Malfoy?” asked McGonagall.

“No, professor,” he said.

“Your first subject will be potions. Your time begins now.”

He watched as she flipped a magical hour glass. As she did so, a parchment and quill appeared on his desk. There were three essay questions. He skimmed through the questions, took a deep breath and began to write, looking up periodically to glance at the hour glass. The spilling sand was green, but he knew once he reached the ten minute mark it would turn yellow and at the final minute it would turn red. He was wrapping up his final essay on the validity of Golpalott’s Third Law for making antidotes when the sands sparkled from yellow to red. He hurriedly scribbled a final sentence. When the last grain of sand ran through the hour glass, his parchment disappeared.

He sighed with relief at finishing his first written exam in the allotted time. He spent his break flexing his writing hand and doing his best not think of his mother. He knew the Ministry had changed some of its trial procedures based on how the Wizengamot had been used by the Dark Lord when he’d been pulling the Ministry’s strings, but he was still nervous. Meredith had assured him that his mother wouldn’t be chained, like the accused had been during the first War, rather she would sit a table with him and he would present her case after the Ministry made its case.

By lunch time he was exhausted. The written portion of potions, charms, and ancient runes was behind him. He was escorted back to his cell for lunch. One of the guards delighted in telling him that he heard from a colleague that the prosecution was putting on “an outstanding case” against his mother, painting her as willingly colluding with the Dark Lord in lock step with her sister, husband, and son.

He gave the guard his coldest stare, but resisted making any comment. He wanted to, but he knew there was no point. He made himself eat some of lunch, and when his mind kept wandering to the trial, he kept repeating the phrases to himself he’d worked on with his therapist.

After lunch, McGonagall greeted him with a whisper of a smile. He finished up the remainder of his written exams through sheer stubbornness. Fuck the Ministry – he was going to show them exactly what Draco Malfoy could accomplish.

Once his final exam was over, he almost shrieked at the guards to move it along so that he could get back to his cell to check and see if there was a special edition of the paper. Sure, enough, an evening issue of The Prophet was waiting for him. The front page bore a picture of his mother sitting in court beside Meredith. She looked elegant and calm. The headline proclaimed, “Matriarch of the Notorious Malfoy Family Stands Trial.” He sat on the edge of his bed and began to read.

The Ministry makes its case against Narcissa Malfoy, wife, sister, and mother of infamous Death Eaters Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Draco Malfoy, respectively. A member of the legendary dark wizarding family of Black, Mrs. Malfoy is accused of colluding with You-Know-Who. While it appears that she herself was never inducted as a Death Eater, the prosecution, in its case in-chief today, painted a picture of a willing participant that sought to install You-Know-Who and, consequently, her family to power. She opened up her home, the fabled Malfoy Manor, to the fallen dark lord and some of the worst members of wizarding society. The Manor over which she presided was the scene of cold-blooded murder, torture, and deprivations of the most unspeakable nature.

After day one of trial, Ministry Prosecutor Ambrose Tilney commented that he was pleased with the Ministry’s case today. The Defense will present its case tomorrow.

The paper went on to describe each of the witnesses and their testimony in detail, followed by speculation as to who the Defense would call the following day.

For a moment, he let his hand rest on the picture of his mother. He hadn’t seen her in so long. She’d sent him owls almost daily, but other than images in the papers, he’d not laid eyes on his mother since the day he was arrested.

He shoved the paper to the floor and dropped down onto his bed. He knew he needed to rest to be prepared for tomorrow, but fuck, what if she was convicted? Would they really put his mother in Azkaban? He’d spend perhaps an hour in the place, and there was no way he’d want his mother to be held there for even a moment.

The next morning he was exhausted, having had very little sleep and what he’d managed had been fitful. The conference room had been magically expanded to give him more space for the practical exams. For astronomy, the night sky had been spelled onto the ceiling. For his charms exam a guard approached and handed him his wand.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said the Ministry official taking up a place across the room from him, “This space has been warded in a way that will prevent you from performing unforgiveable curses. Should you cast any spells not associated with your examination, you will likely face further criminal charges. Do you understand?”

He noticed McGonagall and Slughorn frowning off to the side while the official was speaking. He couldn’t figure out what he had ever done to instill any degree of confidence in them. Still, he nodded his head in acquiescence. “I understand.”

He grasped the wand a couldn’t help but smirk when the guard scurried away at an undignified speed. They must truly think him capable of dark, advanced magic. As he gripped the wand this time, he felt the familiar thrum of magic – a sensation he’d not felt for months. He’d always defined himself by his magic, and being without it for so long had been yet another loss for him to try and learn to live with.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said the Ministry official. “I will be casting jinxes at you. You are to cast shielding charms. Extra points of they are nonverbal.”

A shielding charm? Really? As if he’d survived the Battle without knowing how to do that. The last time he’d cast a shielding charm had been to try and save Lupin. It took effort to remind himself that his charm casting had been solid; it had been Lupin’s choice that was questionable. He’d been practicing many nonverbal spells since sixth year, and his relatively pointless practice in his cell at wandless, nonverbal magic may actually benefit him now.

He took a deep breath. The cypress wand felt unnaturally heavy in his hand. He hadn’t cast anything, or used his magic since the day of the Battle. He took another deep breath, concentrating on the mantra he’d worked on with his therapist: Even if he felt weak he was stronger than he thought. He summoned his magic.

The Ministry official hurled a stinging jinx at him. A swept out his wand an nonverbally cast a shielding charm, easily deflecting the jinx. She launched spell after spell at him, but his shield held – nothing she cast got through. He noticed that she was growing slightly red in the face with her exertions, and he smiled smugly at her. He’d faced far better than her. Snape, Dolohov, and Potter could have dueled circles around this woman.

He heard McGonagall, clear her throat. “Ms. Brunhilde, I believe Mr. Malfoy has demonstrated a firm grasp of shielding charms. Perhaps it is time to move on to the next demonstration before you over exert yourself.”

He smiled again as the official’s face grew even redder, likely from embarrassment. He flexed his grip on the wand, relishing how it felt to hold one in his hand again, and awaited his next instruction.

By late afternoon all of his practical exams were complete. He was tired, but he felt fairly confident that he had performed well. He slumped into his cell and scanned the space for a newspaper, but saw none. He paced the room, wondering what was going on with his mother. A little after six in the evening a letter was delivered to his cell. It was a brief missive from Attorney Meredith letting him that all evidence had been presented and the Wizengamot was deliberating. A little over an hour later a special edition of The Prophet arrived. The headline proclaimed that the Wizengamot had still not delivered a verdict in the trial of Narcissa Malfoy along with a picture of Harry Potter. He practically clawed at the paper trying to open it so that he could read the article.

Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter, took to the witness stand. He testified, that Narcissa Malfoy had been threatened with the death of her son, accused Death Eater Draco Malfoy. Our green-eyed hero further shared that at great risk of her own life, Mrs. Malfoy lied to He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named when asked by the dark wizard whether Mr. Potter was alive or dead after being struck by the killing curse. Mr. Potter stated that he doubted he would have lived to defeat the dark wizard but for Mrs. Malfoy’s lie.

The article continued, but Draco stood in shock. Harry Potter had testified for his mother. The fucking Chosen One had testified in defense of a Malfoy. Why? His mother had saved the other boy – sort of – but she’d done nothing else to endear herself to Potter and her one act of bravery toward the Gryffindor had been motivated by her desire to find Draco.

He sat down on his narrow cot. He caught himself rocking back in force as he sought to calm his nerves. His untouched dinner grew cold and stale on its tray.

At last another guard approached with another missive from Meredith.

Not guilty.

Wizengamot found that your mother did not engage in any activities or planning as an agent of the Dark Lord. Her proximity to the Dark Lord was through coercion and duress.

She will visit you tomorrow.

He stood in his cell rereading the attorney’s words. Not guilty. She was found not guilty.

His mother was free. And she was going to come to visit him. Oh fuck.

He stared down at his wretched uniform. She’d not seen him like this – a prisoner. Merlin, he didn’t want her to see him like this, locked up and useless. But he wanted to see her, even if it was through a magical barrier. He wanted to see her and know that she was free.

He passed yet another anxious night, and in the morning he stared at his reflection in the small mirror in his cell and knew he’d be causing his mother to worry even more about him. He was pale, even by his standards, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He wished the cypress wand would work in this room for even just trivial magic so he could make his appearance less like death warmed over for his mother.

He waited for her arrival. Nervous energy coursed through his body. At ten in the morning a guard came to tell him he had a visitor. He sprang up, and if he hadn’t been a Malfoy, he probably would have been bouncing on his toes on the walk to one of the visiting rooms.

And there she was, looking beautiful and coiffed, putting on a brave face for the world. But her eyes – he knew the depth of emotion that lay in her eyes.

“Mother,” he breathed.

She placed her hand against the magical barrier. He walked to the center of the room and held his hand as close to hers as the spelled divide would allow.

“My boy,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

For a long moment they did nothing but look at each other. His relationship with his mother had always been different than the one he had with his father. She’d never been effusive with displays of affection, it wasn’t what the wife of a Malfoy did, but he’d never doubted that she loved him. A smile from her or a squeeze of the hand were worth more than all the material things Lucius had bought Draco to show off his wealth.

At last he took a breath and asked the question he’d long been wanting to know but wouldn’t commit to paper. “Why did you do it? Why did you lie to the Dark Lord and tell him Potter was dead?”

“I did it to protect you,” she said, “Like I testified. That wasn’t the only reason, however.”

He searched her face, but didn’t find the answer there. “What was the other reason?”

“I also did it to protect him.”

“To protect Harry Potter?”

She nodded, “Yes. I know you Draco, and I know that you protected him at the Manor. You’d have known Harry Potter anywhere, and I know you recognized him despite that horrid face affliction he showed up with. Yet you didn’t turn him in. You protected him. Keeping that boy safe clearly meant something to you – something that was worth risking everything that I know you hold dear – your family – your own life. So if Harry Potter was worth that much to my only child, then it cost me nothing to lie to the man who had jeopardized my son’s life.”

His mother’s revelation burst through all the mental shields he was so used to erecting in his mind everyday he woke up in a narrow cot in a jail cell. She’d lied to the Dark Lord because she knew that Harry Potter meant something to Draco. He felt naked sitting there before her – flayed open and exposed – and he cried, unable to stop the tears as much as he wanted to hide them from his mother. She knew, and she had risked everything for Draco. He didn’t know what to say to her. What did he say to the person that saw his heart and didn’t judge him for it? And that thought made him draw a ragged breath. All those months he’d thought he was hiding his emotions – hiding his true self – and she’d known, or put enough of the pieces together to know what he’d tried to keep buried.

“Draco?” she said, her voice gentle.

He wiped away his tears with the sleeves of his wretched uniform, and said the only thing he could think of. “Thank you.”

Chapter 45: Christmas Surprises

With NEWTs behind him, Draco was a bit at a loss on how to spend his days. He read and reread the text on wandlore Ollivander had sent him. He continued to meet with his therapist, caseworker, and attorney, and he looked forward to visiting hours. His mother came to visit him on Wednesdays and Saturdays - both of the days visitors were allowed, while Blaise came to see him almost every Saturday. He was surprised when on the Wednesday before Christmas after his mother exited the visiting room a guard entered and told him he had another visitor. He thought perhaps Blaise had come earlier in the week because of the holiday. But it wasn’t his Slytherin friend who walked in.

Before him stood the girl he’d worried over for months. Her light brown hair hung loose around her face, but it couldn’t hide the scars across one of her cheeks and down her neck. She wore a jumper in a shade that befitted her first name, and he had no doubt that its long sleeves covered yet more silvery scars.

He felt chill remembering the promise he’d made her all those months ago. Merlin, how long had it been? Seven months?

Lavender Brown seemed to hesitate after she walked a few steps into the room, then she took a deep breath and displayed the courage of her house and took the remaining steps to sit in the visitor’s chair. He noticed there was a slight limp in her step.

After she sat, the Gryffindor fixed her soft brown eyes on him.

“I’ve been meaning to come and see you,” she said at last.

All of his words fled, and he found himself sitting there tongue-tied.

“I’ve been wondering who funded my recovery. I’m sure the Ministry would have covered it, having fought in the Battle and all, but I was given care beyond what met just my needs. I had a private room filled with flowers, books were sent to me, and the best healing potions money could buy were used to treat my wounds.” She waved her hand at her face, “I’ll bear the marks of that beast my whole life, but the treatment I received has lessened the damage. I have hardly any nerve damage and I’m told the scarring would have been far worse without the potions.”

“I’m . . . glad that you received such good care,” he said, doing his best to avoid her steady gaze, a difficult task in the small space. The girl sitting across from him was far more subdued then the bubbly girl he distantly remembered at Hogwarts.

“I’ve asked my friends, and they all deny it was them who helped me. Gryffindors are terrible liars, so I know they’re telling the truth.”

He looked away. He didn’t want her to know that it was him who had directed that she receive the best care galleons could buy. She’d not appreciate that a Death Eater had been behind her treatment.

“So, was it you, Malfoy?” she asked, getting to the point like a proper Gryffindor.

He studied his hands as he tried to figure out what to say her, but she plowed right on ahead.

“There is no point in denying it. I . . . may have cornered your friend Blaise. It’s amazing how people will reveal things they never intend to when you flaunt your scars and shed some tears.”

He still didn’t look at her, but he couldn’t help but think perhaps she should have sorted Slytherin. That was some cunning shit she’d pulled on one of the most Slytherin individuals he knew.

“Are you ashamed that you helped me?” she asked.

His head shot up at that. “What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t even looking at me. Either you’re ashamed you helped me or you can’t bear to look at me with all of these scars.”

He shook his head, “Merlin, no. No, Brown it’s not that. I’m ashamed because I should have done more. You – everyone at Hogwarts – deserved better – deserved better than me.”

“Why?”

He felt himself flush. Did he really need to spell it out to her? Surely a veteran of the Battle shouldn’t be this obtuse.

“Because I became a Death Eater – because I sold everyone out – let monsters into the school to save my own skin and that of my mother and my worthless father. I wasn’t brave.”

Sitting here before the scarred visage of a girl he’d never bothered to know, he started shaking, he couldn’t help it. Fuck, he wouldn’t see his Hufflepuff therapist until after the holiday, and Merlin, he didn’t know if he could last that long. How was it that this girl, in such a short span of time, had reduced him to wanting a Hufflepuff?

And she just watched him – watched him come apart before her.

“All right,” she said at last. “So if you are a Death Eater, why did you help me? Was it to make you feel less guilty?”

He closed his eyes and fought to calm himself – fought to get his emotions under control and his mental walls back up before he answered her. He opened his eyes and met hers. “I asked my attorney to make arrangements for your care because I wanted to. Because you deserved to live. Because Lupin tried to save you and I couldn’t save him.”

She pushed her hair back and away from her face showing off her scars more fully. “And now that you see me, do you regret your decision?”

She turned her head and he saw the scars streaked down one cheek, the length of her neck, and across her collarbone before disappearing beneath the collar of her jumper.

“No,” he said. “Do you regret it – that I helped you?”

“Some days I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself and see only the ruin of my face. Other days I see a person who is strong and survived. It’s . . . complicated, but, no, I don’t regret being alive.”

She released her hair and it fell back around her, framing her face.

“Not that my opinion matters in the slightest,” said Draco, “But I think you are . . . rather beautiful.

“Don’t tease,” she said with an edge to her voice.

He held his hands, “I’m not. I swear on my mother’s life, I am not. And trust me – I did a lot of shit things to keep my mother alive, so this is serious.” He could tell by her face that she didn’t believe him. Fuck it – he owed her. “Look, I’m going to tell you something that I’ve only told – well – next to nobody. I’m . . . gay. So . . . I don’t even fancy girls and I think you are beautiful.”

Her saw her eyes widen at that revelation and she sat up straighter. “You don’t think these scars . . . mar me?”

“Beauty doesn’t just exist in perfection. Merlin, Brown,” he said, “Think of the fucking Saviour. Everyone adores him with that lurid lightning bolt scar. Your scars are far less vulgar, they are whispers across your skin, like lines in music.”

The girl actually smiled at him then. “I didn’t know you were a poet Malfoy.” Then her smile dropped. “There are other scars too, you know, ones on the inside that nobody can see.”

He liked to think that if it hadn’t been for the magical barrier, he would have reached for her hand then, but he doubted that were true. He was a Malfoy – something so common as touch to show emotion was frowned on. A part of him wished he’d have had the courage, if allowed, to offer her such simple comfort.

“I know about those kinds of scars – both kinds actually. All of mine are in places that can’t be seen, but I have them. Some days they feel like they will burst open and the bit that is left of me will seep out and drain away.”

“Are all Slytherins so . . .”

“Insightful?”

“Morbid.”

He laughed so suddenly it almost came out as a snort. That would have been mortifying. Even though he was in jail it wouldn’t do to be fraternizing to that degree with a Gryffindor.

“As a Slytherin,” he said, “I’ll take that as a compliment. After all, we were housed in a subterranean dungeon.”

“Kinky.”

He did snort that time. Gryffindors were apparently full of surprises.

“Why Ms. Brown, I had no idea you were so . . .”

“Crass?”

“Fun.”

She smiled at him again. “You’re not really what I was expecting. I mean, I thought I was coming to see a dark wizard in a jail, which was pretty foolhardy on my part.”

“Gryffindor,” he fake coughed.

“And instead you are . . . rather unexpected.”

“I’m still a dark wizard in jail,” he said. “I just happen to be more than that. Or at least that is what my therapist tells me.”

“Hmmm.” She rose then and tugged at the sleeves of her jumper. “I might just have to come back again sometime. Just to . . . well . . . just to be sure.”

“That would be very charitable of you, Brown.”

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy,” she said. “And . . . thank you.”

“Happy Christmas, Brown.”

He watched her go. That had been . . . intense. Intense and weird and somehow good. What was the world coming to where a Gryffindor came to see him in jail? He definitely needed to write Blaise and give him shit for being such a pushover. There wouldn’t be any real bite to his words – he found he’d rather liked seeing Lavender Brown.

Two days later Draco sat in the visitor’s room across from his mother. Meredith had arranged for Draco and Narcissa to have a visit on Christmas even though the holiday fell on a Friday and was not a day visitors were usually allowed. His mother arrived with a wrapped package.

“I was told I could bring you one item off of an approved list for Christmas,” she said as if she had to apologize for the meager offering. He wondered if she’d forgotten how bleak the prior two Christmases had been. And then he remembered that while she hadn’t given him a proper gift last year, she had given him something much more precious and personal.

“Last Christmas, when you . . . when you gave me your memory,” he began, but paused when he saw his mother stiffen. He took a breath and decided to press on. They’d already lived through everything they had once thought they couldn’t stand - their name was stripped of dignity, their freedom was nonexistent, and all the Malfoy assets the Ministry could find were frozen. What was the point of secrets any longer? “You told me that you had failed Regulus, father, and myself. What did you mean?”

His mother was quiet for a long time. He thought perhaps she wouldn’t answer him.

“When Regulus came to me that night, just before he disappeared, he tried to show me his true self and I . . . I denied him the chance. I wanted to carry on with the personas we wore in public . . . I didn’t want to see what lay beneath. And I knew he was doing something to hinder the Dark Lord, or at least was attempting to, and I never told. I never told your father even after Regulus was . . . gone.” She turned her pale blue eyes on him, “And my cousin, he asked me to raise you differently than we had been raised. And I didn’t. I raised you exactly the same and it . . . it . . . ” Her voice wavered. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening her eyes and continuing. “It was the wrong decision. It hurt you so my son.”

He wished he could take hold of her hand, but the magical barrier prevented him. They both had regrets - hell - his father probably even had regrets . . . at least once a year . . . probably.

“That’s why when you told me that you liked men - when you showed me your true self my darling - I was nothing but proud of you. In that moment, I decided I would no longer repeat the sins of the past.”

“So if I ever do get out of here and start prancing around with men – really fit men – you’ll be fine with that,” he said, trying to turn the conversation lighter.

“That depends on whether these fit men are worthy of you Draco. I’d rather hope you seek substance and not pretty packaging.”

He smiled. This was bizarre as hell talking about dating men with his mother. It had to be Christmas. That was the only plausible explanation.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “Are you going back to the townhouse for the rest of the day?” He thought of her sitting in that empty house with no one but a house elf for company.

“No, not right away. Attorney Meredith has arranged for me to visit your father. I’ll be taking a portkey shortly after our visit is over.”

He felt himself stiffen thinking of his father and of Azkaban. He didn’t like the idea of his mother going to such a wretched place.

“You’re going to visit father? So what – we’re going to stay together as a happy little family with the man that brought us into the Dark Lord’s web?”

“I think perhaps you should start finding a way to forgive your father. At least a little,’ said his mother.

Draco stared at her across the table. The sheen of the protective barrier between them distorted her appearance a bit. “How can you even suggest that?” he asked. “After everything that he has put us through.”

His mother arched an eyebrow. “Think on this my son, at the Battle of Hogwarts, your father had the chance recover a wand off the injured or dead and fight for the Dark Lord. He did not. He did not attempt to garner glory for that man. No, he chose to look for you. You were his number one priority – your safety is what concerned him. Has he made poor choices and failed you? Yes. But not in all things.”

“Mother,” Draco said, trying hard to keep his voice level – it was Christmas after all, “This ‘noble’ version of Lucius – the one willing to put us first – I don’t believe it. What did you do? Imperious him? Threaten to divorce him? What?”

“Draco,” said his mother sharply. “How could you think that?”

He laughed, he couldn’t help it. “How could I not think any of those things? When did he ever put me first? I’ve been reading the papers – I’ve seen the things he’s accused of. The Savior has been gracious in his interviews with The Quibbler. During my second year, the Chamber of Secrets opened. A basilisk that could kill people with its stare was released in a school of children. And who made sure the artefact that would open the Chamber wound up at Hogwarts? Father. He didn’t care that it was children who could be hurt – could be killed. He didn’t care that his child – his own child – was in the school where he was planning to unleash horrors.”

His mother studied him – likely taking in his tense posture. “Do you know the legend of the Chamber of Secrets?”

Whatever response he’d been expecting, this had not been it.

“Professor Bins told us. Salazar Slytherin broke with the other founders and left a monster in the school to kill Muggle-borns as he was a blood purist.”

His mother sighed before saying, “You heard one version of the tale – a version put forward by those not of our house. Slytherin has another telling. When Hogwarts was founded, witch trials were sweeping through the Isle. Throughout our history, Muggles would become fearful of our magic – would brand it evil and innocent witches and wizards bore the brunt of this fear – exiled from their communities, tortured, and even put to death.

“When Salazar Slytherin was young – just a boy – the Anglo-Saxon king, Athelstan I think, passed a law that would either imprison or put to death those found to be practicing witchcraft. Slytherin’s father was imprisoned, his mother put to death, and Slytherin and his siblings were exiled and separated from each other. He feared Muggles – feared their prejudice against magic. And he feared Muggle-borns – feared that if they had been raised to loath magic, that being able to practice magic themselves could lead to self-hatred and cause them to turn on those born from magical families.

“Until Hogwarts, children learned their craft at home, and some families had the ability to well-train their children – others did not – so the skill of wizards and witches varied wildly – some were better able to protect themselves – others were almost defenseless. Hogwarts gave magical children a place to learn – a place to be safe – but it took centuries for the school and its grounds to be fully warded and invisible to Muggles.

“Slytherin created the Chamber of Secrets and left a guardian within – not to kill students – not to kill Muggle-borns – but to protect the school from Muggle attacks.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Draco. “You think father wanted to open the Chamber to protect the school from attacking Muggles?”

This was insane. His mother was insane – the Black family propensity for madness seemed to be taking hold. He’d read all about how his father had slipped a dark artefact into the possession of a fucking first year and that a shade of the Dark Lord had unleased hell on the school. The first year student had been none other than the Weasley girl, Potter’s lady love, and now his mother was trying to spin the horror story into a fairy tale.

“No, Draco, that is not what I’m saying. Your father was . . . wrong,” she said, making a face. Family loyalty was so bred into her that he wondered that she’d even been able to say that statement out loud. “The point, is that Slytherin house was not founded by someone with true hatred for the Muggle-born in his heart. It was founded by someone who was afraid and did what he thought he needed to do to protect himself and those he cared about. Fear, as you should know, is a powerful motivator.”

Where had this Christmas visit gone so wrong? How had father and fucking Salazar Slytherin inserted themselves into it?

“Are you hoping for a Christmas miracle? That I’ll look deep into my cynical heart and forgive my father on this day of days?” He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn’t help it. He’d done so much to keep his mother safe during the War – so fucking much, but he couldn’t believe she was asking him this.

“When you were at Azkaban, did you take a good look at your father, Draco? Did you?” asked his mother. “He looks better in that wretched prison than he looked that last year living at the Manor. And why is that? It’s because you and I are no longer living under a death sentence. When the Dark Lord returned, your father knew he had to be loyal or it would be the end of us. That . . . man never let people go. It didn’t matter that the Dark Lord had been gone for over a decade – absolute loyalty was demanded. If your father hadn’t bent his knee then none of us would be alive right now.”

“He chose to follow Lord Voldemort the first time, before I was even born. He willingly chose to follow a monster.”

She looked at him with a piercing gaze – her mask of indifference had long since fallen aside. “And so did Regulus.”

Well shit. That was her trump card wasn’t it? Regulus Black had been an imperfect man who had lost his way and struggled for redemption in the end. That she was comparing Lucius Malfoy with her cousin seemed almost obscene. He couldn’t understand why she was clinging so hard to his pompous father. Unless . . . unless she loved him. Truly loved him, despite all of his obvious flaws. He looked at her then, really looked at her. She had always been slender and delicate, but she looked more so now. The last few years had placed an unbearable strain on her as she struggled behind the scenes to keep her family alive. And he realized that she was clinging so hard because they were all she had left. Her vast fortune was diminished, the Malfoy estates were held by the Ministry, and her name was despised. Like the Seeker she had been in school, she was reaching out and clinging to her family as tenaciously as she had once grasped a golden snitch.

He sighed. He fucking hated being an adult sometimes. “Look, mother,” he began, “I don’t forgive father. I don’t. But I hear what you’re saying. When you go and see him today, tell him that I’m wishing him a happy Christmas.”

His mother’s pale blue eyes lit up and her she smiled at him, all soft and gentle like he remembered her to be in years long past. Draco knew he had given his mother the best Christmas gift he could currently offer.

Back in his cell he unwrapped the parcel she’d brought him of heavy silver paper topped with a white bow far too elaborate to have any business in a jail. Beneath the wrappings was a book with a beautiful leather green cover. He opened the cover and on the title page his mother had inscribed in her elegant hand, “Specially transcribed to English for my lovely boy. Love, Mother.” The title read, “Wandlore: A Compendium, by Mykew Gregorovitch.”

Interesting. His letters to his mother must have focused on his interest in the manuscript Ollivander had given him more than he’d realized. He leafed through the pages of his gift. The thick tome written by Ollivander’s primary competitor would undoubtedly help him fill the time now that NEWTs were well behind him.

He curled up on his cot with the book, but his thoughts were far away, thinking of his friends and hoping they were spending the holiday with people they loved. He also thought of the Black brothers and hoped they were at peace beyond the Veil with those they loved – Lupin and James. He spared a thought for Lily and Nymphadora and hoped they had a place with the others as well.

His focus snapped back to his cell when a paper was slid in by a guard. “Special edition Prophet,” said the man. “Remind me to get you to autograph my copy.”

Draco frowned, not understanding what the guard was on about. He stretched, rose from the cot, and bent to pick up the rolled up paper. He unrolled it and felt ice flood his veins. There, on the cover, in a full page spread, was a picture of himself with the headline, “Death Eater Living Privileged Life While Awaiting Trial.”

The headline, however, was nothing to the large photograph of Draco the day he’d been taken into custody as a guard pulled up his sleeve and exposed the Dark Mark on his pale forearm. That awful day half a dozen people had seen the infamous screaming skull and twisting snake, but now all of Wizarding Britain was privy to his shame. The worst parts of himself were exposed for everyone to see.

He wanted to scream, but no sound came out of his mouth. What the fuck was everything for - sharing his memories, therapy, taking his NEWTs - when all anyone would remember him for was being a Death Eater. He leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. The paper dropped from his hands as he curled in on himself, tucking his forehead to his knees and wrapping his arms about himself.

He gasped.

Shit – no!

He was back on the Astronomy Tower struggling to breathe. He looked up at the guard, fear clutching at him.

The guard smirked at him and started to saunter off, but he called back, “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”

Chapter 46: Meredith's Fury

“Get up, Malfoy,” he heard a voice say. “Merlin, I said get up. You have a meeting.”

He looked up. He was on the floor. Fuck, how long had he been on the floor? It had been cool on the floor and he’d been gasping for breath. Gasping for breath – flailing on the floor – a lot like . . . Sectumsempra. His body heaved at the thought.

“Come on, Malfoy, get up,” he heard again. He focused his eyes. Two guards were waiting for him outside his cell. He was covered in sweat, but he was freezing.

“Get up or we’ll get you up.”

He waved a hand at them. Fuck them. Didn’t they know he had more important things then their stupid threats to worry about?

The cell door opened and he felt the wards on the doorway relax as the guards stepped in. They each grabbed an arm and lifted him to his feet. His wrists were cuffed and they manhandled him out of the cell and down the cell block. As always, he couldn’t see who else was being held. He wondered if they could see him – the once proud Malfoy heir reduced to a puddle.

He started to turn his feet toward the direction of the visiting rooms, but the guards kept marching him forward, past the offices and out of the door of the detention area itself.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“A meeting.”

Bloody fantastic. He didn’t think he was going to get any more answers from them.

They stopped before the lifts and he was bundled in. He saw one of the guards punch the number one. Shit – why the hell was he being taken to that level?

Not wanting to think about what awaited him, he turned his head and looked at the guards. The one to his left arrested his gaze. It was inappropriate - he knew it was inappropriate - but he couldn’t help but stare. The man didn’t look much older than him, and he sported a tidy beard.  On his cheek above his facial hair, was a birth mark. The mark was red – it wasn’t large, more like a smattering of paint drops on one side of his face. It was lovely. Draco traced the marks with his eyes – wanted to trace them with his tongue. Fuck – what was wrong with him that he was thinking things like this? How deep in shock had he gone? Was he really so starved to see another person that thoughts like this filled his mind?

“What are you staring at?” asked the young man.

“Nothing,” Draco stammered as he averted his gaze. “Nothing.”

The lift came to an abrupt stop and as the doors opened he was led out onto the immaculate floors of this more public level of the Ministry. He tensed as he was led further down the corridor. He’d been here before with his father back when Lucius had been in good standing with the Ministry and the Ministry of Magic. In his younger days he’d been smug with self-importance having such direct access to people in power due to his father and his family name, and Cornelius Fudge had practically fawned over him as the Malfoy heir. Now he was being carted down the halls as a charged criminal dressed in the dismal uniform the Ministry had seen fit to provide.

Aurors stood at a set of double doors at the end of the hall, and he knew that behind the doors lay the Minister of Magic’s office. He could scarcely believe when the doors were opened and he was led inside.

He instantly heard raised voices. Standing in the middle of the room were Meredith and Minister Shacklebolt, both of them were wearing what looked to be Christmas jumpers, as if they had both come to the office straight from lounging around their hearths at home. Shacklebolt’s jumper seemed to be charmed and was lighting up in ways Draco’s mother would have thought garish.

“This is inexcuseable,” he heard his attorney say in a tone Draco had never heard him use before. “How corrupt and shameful is this Ministry you are running that such filth is spread to the fucking Prophet.”

Shacklebolt looked ready to respond, but when he saw Draco flanked by guards he turned away from Meredith and addressed the guards. “Mr. Malfoy is to remain here. You may leave until summoned.”

“Could you at least have the boy’s handcuffs removed?” asked Meredith, his tone edging into sarcastic.

“Do it,” ordered Shacklebolt.

Surprised, Draco was left unbound standing in a space he’d not been in since Fudge had been Minister. Back then the office had been crammed with pictures of Fudge with people deemed to be important, as well as with Quidditch memorabilia. Now the space seemed to sport items of magical interest as well as many full bookcases. For a former Auror, Shacklebolt appeared to be extremely well read.

As soon as the doors closed again, Shacklebolt waved to chairs in front of desk, “Please, sit.”

Draco eyed his attorney who nodded and they both sat facing the Minister. If the whole situation hadn’t been so ludicrous, Draco would have sighed in contentment. He’d not sat in a chair this comfortable since his arrest.

Meredith, however, did not look like he was enjoying the plush chair. He was holding a copy of the paper with Draco’s photo continuously showing Draco being exposed as a Death Eater. “This is disgraceful,” said Meredith. “The well of public opinion is being poisoned against my client – and you can’t tell me this wasn’t deliberate.”

“Mr. Malfoy is facing serious charges,” said Shacklebolt. “And he is currently detained at the Ministry. Those things are both true.”

Meredith scowled. “You want to debate truth? Let me read you a few choice lines of this bile that was allegedly leaked by a credible source in the Ministry of Magic. ‘The Malfoy heir receives special attention and services not granted to other prisoners, many of whom are held on much lighter charges. For example, he has been permitted the use of a wand and was allowed to visit his father, the infamous Lucius Malfoy, at Azkaban.’ Oh – and how about this bit, ‘The youngest of the Dark Lord’s followers was given the privilege of sitting for his NEWTs despite all he did to disrupt the Wizarding World and Hogwarts, including torturing his fellow students.’ And let us not forget this gem, ‘The youngest Death Eater, known for his hatred of Muggles and Muggle-borns, continues to show his support of these beliefs by carrying on correspondence exclusively with pureblood wizards. This behavior is hardly surprising for someone who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts for the fallen Dark Lord.’”

Draco sat in the chair, hardly able to move or form a thought. He’d been kidding himself. All of it. All the work with his therapist and caseworker – all the time studying for his NEWTs – none of it mattered – would ever matter. He’d always be nothing but a Death Eater.

His attorney slammed the paper down on the Minister’s desk. “Everything I’ve just read has a kernel of a truth but has been twisted to paint my client in the most negative light. This cannot be allowed. If this type of vitriol is not answered, there is no way my client will receive a fair trial.”

“Your client does in fact bear the Dark Mark,” said the Minister.

For a moment, Draco felt the air around him tighten with uncontrolled magic. He looked at his attorney and saw the anger on the man’s face. He’d known the man was a brilliant and hard-working attorney, but he’d forgotten that this man was also a wizard, and from the feel of the magic in the room, he was a powerful one.

“How dare you speak of things you do not fully understand. I expected more from you Kingsley.” The air in the room tightened again. “I have seen this boy’s memories – I know things about him that would shock you – would shock the world. And I’m not talking about darkness or evil acts – I’m talking about kindness and bravery in impossible situations that even Gryffindors would understand.”

The Minister sighed and said, “Calm down old friend. You always got like this in school – all filled with self-righteous anger. No wonder you also sorted Gryffindor.”

Wait – what? They’d known each other in school? And Meredith had been in Gryffindor House and now he was defending the Malfoy family? Merlin, this didn’t make much sense.

He watched as Meredith drew a deep breath and the feel of magic faded away, as did the tension in the room. His attorney turned to him and said, “I was unlucky enough to be a dorm mate of this man’s back in school. After Hogwarts, we found ourselves on opposing sides of the courtroom as I defended people from unscrupulous Aurors and the charges brought by the Ministry.”

Shacklebolt waved a hand, “Lies – all lies.”

“Speaking of lies, I need to address this story. And the ‘reliable source’ needs to be found. This is monstrous Kingsley.”

“You believe in your client’s innocence that much?” asked the Minister, his voice low.

“I do.”

“Alright. I will work on finding the leak. What is it that you suggest on your end?”

The next day Draco sat across the table from Meredith in a conference room of the Ministry holding area.

“Are you ready for this press conference, Draco? It will be good preparation for your trial. They eyes of the world are on you now and they will be on you then.”

“I don’t think anyone will believe that I am anything but a rabid Death Eater.”

The attorney looked at him intently for a moment, and then said, “I think you would be surprised. But let me ask you this, Draco, do you want to be free?”

He stared down at the boring white trainers without laces that the Ministry provided. He, like other inmates, couldn’t be trusted with laces, they might hang themselves. Freedom. Such a strange idea to him.

“I’ve never been free. And if I am ever free, what would I even do? Who would speak to me – trust me? If I walked down Diagon Alley I’d probably be spit on and cursed.”

“Tell me Draco – was there anything in the last few years that interested you – that made you happy?”

He shook his head.

“Nothing?” the attorney prompted.

He sighed and he sifted through his memories. There was so much pain – so much fear. At last he said, “I enjoyed researching blood magic and learning that pureblood superiority is bollocks. I liked spending time with my friends. I . . . I liked talking with Ollivander while he made Wormtail’s wand. That’s really all I’ve got.”

“It is a start,” nodded the attorney. “Do I have your permission, Draco, to try and make arrangements for you should we prevail and have you released? I think the Wizengamot would want to see you gainfully employed and under someone’s eye.”

Draco laughed before he said, “Who would want me? No one would want me working for them.”

“But if it could be arranged – do you give me permission to try?”

He shrugged. He doubted anyone would even trust him enough to magic a broom to be a custodian. “Fine.”

“Now, back to this press event, Draco. I’m pushing for a trial date early in the new year. With the upheaval in the Ministry, and the sheer number of trials, everything is back logged. When we do go down for this press conference I would advise that you not use your Occlumency. You need to appear approachable.”

He ran a hand through his hair. His hair was getting longer and he hated it. It reminded him of his father.

“I’m a Malfoy. How fucking approachable do you think I can look?”

Meredith raised his eyebrows at him, “I’m asking you to look like what you are. I’m asking you to try to look like a scared eighteen year old boy. Do you think you can manage that?”

He looked away. “Fine.”

Shortly after, a team of people descended on Draco. He hadn’t been seen by the public since he’d still been a student at Hogwarts and Meredith wanted him to look presentable, saying it would be a good practice run for the image they were cultivating for his trial. His hair was cut, which he was grateful for so he no longer had quite as strong of a resemblance to Lucius, and he was fitted out in a dark blue suit. He’d asked for a black suit but had received a hard stare in response from Meredith before being told he was not to dress the part of a “baby Death Eater” for the press conference. Draco thought that had been rather harsh – it wasn’t the color’s fault. Still, he couldn’t argue about the suit – it highlighted his light hair and brought out the few flecks of blue in his grey eyes. He’d been in jail garb for so long that he’d forgotten how good it felt to be in clothes meant to fit him.

Still, despite the suit and haircut, he felt overwhelmed entering the atrium of the Ministry. A small stage had been erected in front of the ruin of the golden statue of the Magical Brethren that had once filled the space. Meredith led Draco over to the stage. He was unbound, and flanked by two Aurors. Aurors also stood in a row before the stage in front of a group of reporters. He’d not seen this many people in months. He paused in following Meredith and scanned the faces, recognizing the tight blond curls of Rita Skeeter right in the front. He reached for his mental shields, but remembered his attorney had asked him not use Occlumency. He struggled internally for a moment, and let the foundations of his mind protections crumble away.

He scanned the faces again and drew himself up tall. He was a Malfoy and a Black. He’d been raised to be the center of attention, and he could do this. He followed Meredith up the steps and sat down beside him at a table draped in blue a shade lighter than his suit. Meredith’s team had gone all out to make him look like a pleasing focal point.

Meredith raised his wand, cast the Sonorous charm, and projected his voice to the group of reporters.

“As I am sure you are aware I am Gwilym Meredith, and my firm is representing the Malfoy family. I am here today with my client, Draco Malfoy, to respond to the grossly misstated allegations made against him in The Prophet on Christmas Day.”

Draco inclined his head at the crowd, as he did he felt his newly trimmed fringe sweep against his forehead and he saw the flash of a camera.

“I am appalled by the Ministry and its lack of control over its employees,” continued Meredith. “A photograph of my client was leaked to the newspaper – a photograph that by Court order is part of a sealed record based on my client’s age. I can think of no other reason for the leaking of this picture other than to try and poison the public’s opinion of Draco Malfoy. What the incendiary article in The Prophet failed to mention, was that Draco was branded with this Mark when he was just sixteen years of age. He was a child being forced to make decisions that no adult should ever have to make. His choice was to take the Mark or watch his mother be tortured and executed. I repeat, he was just sixteen years old. What choice did he really have?” Meredith paused, as if making sure that all eyes were upon him before continuing, “But someone in the Ministry made a choice. Instead of abiding by orders sealing Draco’s case until his trial, someone chose to leak this photo – a photo of a scared young man bearing the scar forced upon him by a mad man. This as of yet nameless Ministry employee, chose to undermine my client’s right to a fair trial and stir feelings of hate and discontent. My client looks forward to his day in court when his story may at last be told. Please direct any questions to me.”

Hands flew in the air as reporters jostled for attention. Meredith pointed at a witch dressed in purple robes.

“Genevieve Gordon with Witch Weekly,” said the witch. “Your client was in fact a Death Eater, was he not?”

“My client was inducted into the Dark Lord’s ranks as a child to save his family. I don’t think I would classify that as a willing participant, would you?” said his attorney. He pointed at another reporter, “Next question.”

“Hiram Grant, The Wizard’s Voice, American readers will want to know if what you allege about the Malfoy heir is true, why would he be targeted by the British Ministry of Magic?”

“Draco is the scion of two well-known and powerful magical families, the Malfoys and the Blacks. Both families are also commonly reputed to have an affinity for darker magic, and some family members were known supporters of the Dark Lord. My client, is being targeted by association. He could not control the actions of Bellatrix Black Lestrange, and he should not have to pay the price for her actions since she is no longer with us to punish. Next – you – Ms. Skeeter.”

Skeeter smiled up at him on the stage, he withheld a grimace. “Draco, have you seen the recent interview with Harry Potter in today’s Quibbler? What are your thoughts?”

He frowned. Questions were supposed to be addressed to Meredith, and what was this about Potter?

“I can see by your face, that perhaps you are not aware that the Savior sat down with The Quibbler and condemned The Prophet’s use of your photograph. He had much to say about invasive reporting and how dangerous it was to try and influence the public with incomplete facts. Do you have any thoughts on why Harry Potter of all people would defend you?”

“Harry Potter was himself often portrayed in a negative light by the media as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rose to power. It is no surprise that he has come out against similar tactics used on others,” said his attorney.

Skeeter smiled again, showing her teeth. “My question was for Draco. Surely, Attorney Meredith, you trust your client to answer questions, do you not?” She arched a penciled eyebrow.

“By all means,” said Meredith, with a wave of the hand toward Draco.

“Draco, you and Harry Potter were well-known rivals in school,” said Skeeter, “Why do you think he of all people is defending you now considering your . . . former allegiances?”

The jostling in the crowd of reporters ceased as everyone awaited his answer. For a moment, he pictured Potter, green eyes fierce as he condemned toxic reporting. But why the hell would he condemn such reporting about Draco? Draco had made it a point to make the boy suffer all through school.

He folded his hands on the table and clenched them together. The pressure helped ground him. He looked briefly at Meredith who nodded his head gave him a look that seemed to say, “The truth.”

He took a deep breath and lifted his head high to address the crowd. “I can’t claim to know . . . Harry Potter well,” he said, almost choking on the other boy’s first name. “I know I did little to earn any regard or respect from him. But one thing I know, is that Potter is a Gryffindor through and through. He always stood up against injustice, especially when I was the perpetrator of it. I am unsurprised by his . . . nobility. I have a lot to make up for. I have a lot of regrets. I will live with the guilt of my actions for a lifetime. And for Potter’s underserved empathy, I can only say, thank you. ”

The reporters stood still, many mouths agape at his words. He wanted to smirk at them. Were they surprised that he was able to speak thus of Harry Potter, preeminent Gryffindor in the land? Therapy must be fucking paying off.

“I have read the interview that Ms. Skeeter is referring to,” said Meredith, resting attention back to himself. “Mr. Potter also stated that he thought all were deserving of a fair trial – something that his godfather, Sirius Black, was denied. We all now know of Mr. Black’s innocence and we all must mourn the loss of what his imprisonment without a trial meant to our world. Mr. Black was by all accounts an intelligent, powerful wizard who loved fiercely, and the potential of his life was cut short by injustice. An injustice that should not now be repeated. Draco has been working hard while he awaits his trial. He works regularly with a therapist and caseworker as approved by the Wizengamot. He also, with the Court’s approval, sat for his NEWTs, where he earned one exceeds expectations and six outstandings.”

Draco barely controlled the look of surprise on his face. He hadn’t known his NEWT grades were back yet.

“Draco was raised by a powerful family to view people and the world through a certain lens, and this boy has been working hard to learn to see the world, and himself, from a different point of view. This new era in our world inspires hope in us all, and we should in turn have hope in the knowledge that people can and do change. Like his lost relation, Sirius Black, I see much potential in Draco, and I for one, look forward to telling Draco’s story of courage and redemption at his upcoming trial. Thank you for your time, no more questions.”

Meredith rose and Draco followed suit. Reporters called out to them, asking for more, but Meredith merely smiled at them and led Draco away, flanked by Aurors. It wasn’t until they were out of atrium that Draco’s wrists were bound out of sight of prying eyes – it had been one of the conditions Meredith had wrestled from Shacklebolt.

The attorney turned to Draco, smiled, and put his hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Draco.”

Draco wanted to smile back, but he was so full of nerves he couldn’t.

“Now we focus on your trial and what comes next for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco. Guards started to draw Draco away to return him to his cell and his prison uniform. Before they could, he couldn’t help but ask, “What was my exceeds expectations in?”

Meredith laughed. “Transfiguration. That’s an extremely hard subject to study for without a wand. I understand that McGonagall was quite pleased considering.”

Notes:

This is the last chapter before the trial. I wrote a good portion of the trial testimony a while ago, so I'm excited I'll finally get to post it.

Chapter 47: Trial by Fire

Notes:

I had a great time writing the testimony for this chapter, but I struggled with court procedure. For example, I have no idea what the rules of evidence are for the British Wizarding World, or the standards of admissibility for certain documents. I tried to cut back on court room process that seemed boring/repetitive but tried to keep in enough so that we know we are in Court with Draco. We'll see how I did.

January rolled by without a trial date set, as did most of February, and then word came that his trial would commence on March 23rd. Draco found himself meeting even more regularly with Meredith and his team. Meredith kept hinting that he had a lineup of witnesses he thought would help Draco’s defense, but he wouldn’t reveal who they were in case things went awry. As the day of his trial grew closer he could barely eat or sleep. He knew what this trial meant – either he got a chance at a life he wasn’t sure he deserved, or he’d wind up in Azkaban. He spent a lot of time processing with his Hufflepuff, Curtis.

The morning of the trial he was once again fitted out in the dark blue suit, and his hair was trimmed. If he’d had any vanity left after spending almost a year in a dismal uniform, he’d have been forlorn that the dark smudges under his eyes had to be magicked away. He was to appear youthful and pure – which was a laugh.
Aurors met his guards at the side entrance to the courtroom and he was relieved that Potter was not among them. His mother was waiting for him, dressed in elegant but simple robes in a similar shade of blue as his suit. He guessed she wanted to further broadcast their association by wearing coordinating colors. She took his hands in her own as he drew near.

“Be strong, Draco,” she said, her voice low to keep their conversation private. “This trial – this is your chance – use it. Regulus never had a chance like this. You owe it to yourself and to him to fight for the life you should have gotten but were denied.”

He nodded.

“Promise me,” she said.

The words echoed in his brain. He thought of Lavender Brown as a tear slipped down her bandaged cheek, and of Lupin with his arms spread wide as the killing curse meant for Draco struck him instead. And most of all, he thought of Regulus walking to his death to try and save the world and be redeemed for the man he loved.

“I promise,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The guards chided him along then and seated him at a table with Meredith. Other members of the legal team sat in chairs behind them, shielding him some from the benches being filled by a rapidly growing audience. As promised, there were no chains, but he couldn’t help think that the weight of the chains would have encouraged him to stay still. As it was, he could feel his nerves thrumming through him and it took all of his upbringing to contain himself and not fidget. He was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast, as he wasn’t sure if he could have kept it down.

The prosecutor for the Ministry arrived with his own team of people to take up the other table, and then an Auror announced, “All rise for the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic.”

Draco stood with everyone else in the room as the plum robed wizards and witches of the Wizengamot filed in and took their seats above. The last person in was Shacklebolt, dressed in simple, but fine robes. “Be seated,” said the Minister and everyone sat as one. “Proceeding over this matter will be the Chief of Wizengamot, Horatio Harrigan.  I cede the floor to Chief Harrigan.”

A middle-aged wizard wearing wireless spectacles inclined his head and in a projected voice said, “Prosecutor Tilney, the Court will hear any opening remarks of the Ministry.”

“Breathe,” whispered Meredith beside him. And Draco tried. He really did, but it was all so much. The press conference in December had been nothing to this crowd.

The prosecutor, Ambrose Tilney, stood and delivered an opening statement, and Meredith did as well, but Draco only caught fragments of their words, he was busy staring at the faces of the witches and wizards that would judge him and determine his fate. He recognized a few faces – mostly older members who had once cozied up to his father – but many faces were unknown. He knew that some of the previous members had not survived the War.

“For its first witness, the Ministry calls Zebadiah Foster of the Magical Law Enforcement Department,” said Tilney.

A very tall, thin man climbed the steps of the witness stand and was sworn in. After a few introductory questions it became clear that this man was a specialist at reviewing the spells a wand had cast.

“Research in this area has advanced, has it not?” asked the prosecutor.

“Yes,” agreed the specialist. “In some cases, we can discover the spells cast by a wand for a significant period of time.”

“Did you analyze the wand of Draco Malfoy?”

“I did, it was a hawthorn wand with unicorn hair.”

Draco caught himself clenching his wand hand. He missed his hawthorn wand keenly.

“And what did you find upon examination?” asked Tilney.

“The wand had been used to cast an unforgiveable curse,” said the specialist. “Specifically, the Cruciatus Curse.”

The prosecutor brandished a piece of parchment. “This list of the spells found on Draco Malfoy’s wand has previously been provided to the Defense, and I would ask that it be admitted as the Ministry’s exhibit one.”

Draco’s attorney rose, “No objection,” he said, before sitting back down.

“The exhibit is admitted without objection,” said a the Chief of the Wizengamot.

The specialist was asked some more technical questions before being excused, and then an Auror that had been present at his arrest was called. The prosecutor held up a photograph. Draco couldn’t make it out from where he was sitting.

“Do you recognize this photograph?” Tilney asked the Auror.

The witness nodded, “It is a photograph of Draco Malfoy that was taken shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts when he was brought into the Ministry’s custody.”

“The Ministry would ask for the admission of this photograph. The Wizengamot will notice the Dark Mark on left arm. Again, a copy has previously been provided to the Defense.”

Draco cringed. His attorney slid a copy of the photograph over to him. He didn’t really need to look at it. It had been plastered on the front page of The Prophet for Merlin’s sake. But look he did. And there he was. Looking pale – his eyes large with fear as an Auror standing beside him yanked his sleeve up and the Mark was revealed on endless repeat.

“We have no objection to this photograph being admitted, nor will we require any further testimony as to the authenticity of this photo. We stipulate that it is in fact a photograph of Draco Malfoy on May 5, 1998.”

And so it went. His defense counsel agreed to the admission of more documents and other photos. Draco soon lost count. He forced himself not to lower his head, but the more he heard and saw of the prosecution’s case made him think he’d been fooling himself by siting for a trial. Why had he been convinced to go through with it and not just plead guilty to all the charges? He was guilty. He’d been a Death Eater – was a Death Eater – his arm still bore the awful Mark.

“For its next witness,” droned Tilney, “The Ministry calls Ronald Weasley.”

Draco stared as the red-headed best friend of Harry Potter climbed up to the witness stand and was sworn in. The boy look liked he’d grown even more since the last time Draco had seen him that wretched day of the battle.

“State your full name for the record,” instructed Chief Harrigan.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

“And what is your occupation?”

“I’m in training to be an Auror.”

“You are here today to answer questions about Draco Malfoy, are you not?,” asked Tilney.

“Yeah, but not as an Auror or in an official capacity. I didn’t particularly want to be here in any capacity actually, but I was informed I had to be. So here I am,” said the redhead, sounding surly.

“Explain to the Court how you know Draco Malfoy.”

Weasley huffed out a single word, “Hogwarts.”

“And what was your relationship with Mr. Malfoy like?”

“Look, I know where you are going with these questions. Malfoy and I didn’t get along at school. Ever. But he didn’t mean to poison me with the wine. He was only doing what he did because Voldemort threatened his life and his parents’ lives.”

“So you agree he harmed you and was trying to kill someone?”

The redhead crossed his arms over his chest. “We all know he was after Dumbledore. It was his task. You, me, and your mum has read about all of this in the damn Prophet – lousy rag that it is. They got a lot wrong, but they did get that part right. But again, Malfoy did that because he was trying not to get himself or his parents killed. I don’t care much for Lucius – if he’d perished I’d have slept fine at night after what he did to my sister with the Chamber of Secrets, but Malfoy’s mum, that’s another thing. Next to no one could stand by and watch their mum be hurt. Not even Malfoy I’m guessing, git that he is.”

Meredith leaned over to him and whispered, “I don’t think this witness, despite his . . . colorful descriptors of you is helping the Ministry’s case as much as they had hoped.”

“But you could have died,” said the prosecutor, his voice rising.

Weasley snorted, “But I didn’t. The poisoned wine wasn’t meant for me. Malfoy – to my knowledge – has never tried to kill me. He was a sixteen year old kid trying to save his mum. He wasn’t even of age for Merlin’s sake.”

“You don’t think his attack on you was . . . personal?”

“With the wine? No. When we were younger students did we get into it? Yeah, we did and he deserved it. But what he did cause of Voldemort – well that is different. I know what it’s like to . . . to lose a family member.”

A hush fell over the courtroom. Draco, like everyone else, was thinking of Fred Weasley, the brother that had died far too young.

Weasley cleared his throat. “If Voldemort’s claws had been in my family, I . . . I don’t know what I would have done. So yeah, I dislike Malfoy – or at least I did – haven’t seen much of him in two years to be honest, but I don’t really blame him for what happened to me sixth year. I blame Voldemort.”

“No further questions,” said the prosecutor.

“Attorney Meredith, any questions from the defense?” asked Harrigan.

“No questions, your honors,” he said rising to his feet. When he sat back down he leaned over to Draco again and whispered, “Sometimes it is better to stop when you are ahead. That testimony helped you and ended on a powerful note. That’s the message I want to leave in the Wizengamot’s minds.”

Other testimony, was more painful to sit through. He heard Madam Rosemerta and Katie Bell testify about how his actions had harmed them. The tavern keeper spoke of how wrenching it had been to lose track of large periods of time and not know what she had done – how it felt not be in control of her own body, and how violated she had felt not to have free will. She shared that she was working with a mind healer and expected that she would for some time to come. Bell’s testimony, if possible, was even more excruciating. She’d spent months at St. Mungo’s recovering from merely brushing the cursed necklace he’d intended for Dumbledore through a small hole in her glove. She couldn’t recall touching the necklace, or the agony she’d been in, but another witness, Leanne Linton, who had been walking back from Hogsmeade with Bell, was able to describe what happened to her friend.

“Katie rose into the air, her arms outstretched. Her eyes were closed and her face looked – well – it looked blank. She rose off the ground until she was over my head by maybe six feet or so. Then her eyes opened and she started screaming. It was awful. You could tell by her screams that she was in terrible pain. I never want to hear anything like that sound again. I . . . I had nightmares about it for a long time.”

By the end of that testimony he was relieved when a break for lunch was called. He was escorted into a side room and he sat down with his face in his hands. Merlin that had been brutal.

“It’s okay, Draco,” said Meredith. Another attorney murmured their agreement. “There were no surprises in any of the testimony or in any of the exhibits. We knew all of this was coming.”

Someone held out a glass of water, and after encouragement he drank, but he declined any food. After that all too brief a respite, he was called back into court. Caractacus Burke was called to testify that Draco had purchased the cursed necklace from his shop, “Burgin and Burkes” and had threatened the storekeeper to allow him access to a broken vanishing cabinet housed in the shop. Then a procession of Aurors and Ministry employees were called upon to testify about the state of the Malfoy Manor and the nature of the atrocities that they deduced happened there.

At last he heard the words, “The Prosecution rests.”

“It is just past four in the afternoon. Due to the lateness of the hour,” said Harrigan, “We will commence with the Defense’s case in the morning at nine.”

His counsel rose, not seeming at all brow-beaten despite how conclusive the case against Draco seemed to be. Draco rose as well as the Wizengamot filed out.

“Rest as best you can Draco, tomorrow we will have our day.”

Draco did not rest, and come morning he had to have the dark circles under his eyes magicked away again. This morning he was given a grey suit to wear that the stylist Meredith’s firm had employed assured him perfectly matched his eyes.

After the court reconvened, Meredith said in a commanding voice said, “For our first witness, the Defense calls Poppy Pomfrey.”

After Madam Pomfrey testified about the aid Draco had given to the injured during the Battle, there was a stream of witnesses all testifying on his behalf – some talked about the small things Draco had done to defy the Carrows and the Dark Lord including Archie Prewett, Michael Corner, and Isaac Hamilton, the little Ravenclaw he’d freed.

Theo and Blaise, testified for him as well. The courtroom was clearly colder toward the young Slytherin men, but they both talked of how Draco had tried to undermine the Carrows and protect his fellow students. His chest tightened when they spoke of Draco during his horrible sixth year – telling the Court that he’d become withdrawn, grown pale and thin with dark circles making a permanent home under his eyes. They spoke of how nervous Draco got whenever an owl arrived from home with “loving” post-scripts from his aunt Bellatrix. They also shared finding him collapsed and throwing up in their dorm bathroom on more than one occasion, tears streaming down his face as he’d mumbled, “I don’t want to do this – I don’t want to.” He been so absorbed in his own horror that year he hadn’t understood how much his friends had worried for him – how much his pain had effected them.

He’d not really recovered from his friends’ testimony when Ollivander took the stand. He had to look away when the wandmaker spoke of the kindnesses Draco had offered him while he’d been a captive at the Manor, and he struggled to listen to Luna Lovegood as she recounted a similar tale.

He thrummed with tension as Dean Thomas described Draco’s duel with Antonin Dolohov as he fought to help Remus Lupin and how Draco had assisted the wounded with him at the hospital. But the hardest witness to listen to was Neville Longbottom. The boy he’d bullied had turned into a quiet hero, and he brought his reserved intensity with him into the courtroom. He spoke about how Draco had warned him about the Carrows’ plans and how he’d managed to get away from them and keep resisting the Death Eaters because of Draco.

He started to feel . . . well . . . not hopeful, but something very close to it.

Meredith also put into evidence Narcissa’s memory of the day Draco had taken the Mark. There was some wrangling about whether or not this memory was tampered with, but a certified expert report vouching for its authenticity was admitted and decided the matter. The trial broke for lunch and after, his attorney rose and said, “For its final witness before Mr. Malfoy takes the stand, the Defense calls Harry Potter.”

The courtroom was deathly silent. No one spoke. Draco felt his own eyes go wide. Meredith had mentioned that he hoped to have a strong closing witness, but he’d never breathed that it would be Harry Potter.

Then chaos broke out. People were exclaiming their disbelief and the prosecutor stood and hollered above the din, “This is most unorthodox. Harry Potter has been through enough without needing to submit to being harassed by Mr. Malfoy’s defense team.”

“I think you’ll find that Mr. Potter’s name was properly listed as a possible witness on the witness and exhibit list that I previously filed with the Court. Any displays of shock and protestations at this point, I would argue, are merely showmanship,” said his attorney, speaking loudly enough to be heard. The room quieted as if hanging off his every word. “Further, as an offer of proof, I think you’ll find that Mr. Potter volunteered to be a witness for Mr. Malfoy and is here of his own free will.”

The members of the Wizengamot huddled together for an age before sitting up straight again. “The Court instructs that Harry Potter be brought forth to the witness stand.”

The courtroom doors opened, and there stood Potter. Merlin, he looked put together. Draco had never seen the other boy dressed so immaculately. Someone must have helped him. He wasn’t wearing wizard robes. Like himself, Potter was dressed in a suit, pressing the point that this was the boy that had been raised by Muggles and had been shunned and discredited by many in the Wizarding World in his darkest hours.

Potter walked forward, approached the bar, and climbed the steps of the witness stand. He was asked to identify himself and was sworn in.

“Mr. Potter,” began Meredith, “I understand that toward the end of the War you came into possession of Draco Malfoy’s wand and allowed it to be examined by a Ministry appointed specialist, correct?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“The prosecution has admitted into evidence a sheet detailing the spells cast with Draco Malfoy’s wand extending back a significant period of time.” He snapped his fingers and a parchment appeared in front of Potter. “Before you is a copy of this list. Have you previously had a chance to review it?”

“I have, yes,” said the other boy.

“And what spells of significance, if any, did you see on this list?”

The boy pushed his fringe back before answering. His hair, particularly at the front was longer then when Draco had last seen him. As the Boy-Who-Lived’s hand withdrew from his unruly hair, a flash of the famous scar was visible.

“The Cruciatus curse, sir.”

“And what can you tell us about that, Mr. Potter?”

“It shows up on two occasions. The Court may be aware that based on the nature of the curse Voldemort struck me with when I was a baby, it formed a link between us of sorts. I could sense him – see what he saw – especially when his emotions were powerful. And in the summer before the battle – 1997 - I had a vision of Draco Malfoy casting the Cruciatus curse on a Death Eater. The Death Eater was being punished for failing to capture me. Malfoy was being forced to do it. If he hadn’t, Voldemort would have killed him. I could tell by Malfoy’s face, that he took no pleasure in it.”

Draco stared. Why was Potter doing this? And he’d clearly had an incomplete vision, having missed the part where he’d focused his rage on Rowle for trying to harm Potter and had truly tortured him.

“To be clear, then, one of the times an unforgiveable curse was used by Draco Malfoy was on another Death Eater when he was forced to do so?”

“Yes.”

“And the other time Mr. Malfoy used the Cruciatus curse?”

Potter lifted his chin, “He didn’t. That was me.”

The courtroom erupted again.

Green eyes briefly met his from across the courtroom. Draco felt like he’d stopped breathing. Potter’s eyes were hard – but they weren’t filled with the revulsion he remembered from that horrible day in the girls’ toilet. Not able to stop himself, he reached a hand up to his chest. He couldn’t feel his scars through his clothing, but he knew they were there.

“Silence – silence!” roared the Chief of the Wizengamot. He turned toward Potter. “What is the meaning of this Mr. Potter?”

“As I think you all know, I took Malfoy’s wand from him in the spring of 1998. I had it with me from around Easter until – well – I still have it. It’s only been out of my possession for the brief time I gave it to the Ministry to examine. Anyway, the night leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, I was almost captured by the Death Eater Amycus Carrow in the Ravenclaw common room. I cast the curse on him using Malfoy’s wand.”

“To evade capture?” asked Chief Harrigan.

“Yes and no,” said Potter. “I did want to incapacitate him and not be captured, but I’d also heard how much he enjoyed using the curse on students. I thought he deserved a taste of his own medicine.”

“So would you agree, Mr. Potter,” said Draco’s attorney, wrestling back control of the questioning, “That there was not a single time in the months leading up to the Battle where Draco used the curse of his own free will?”

“I would agree with that,” said Potter. “And I understand that as a prefect and Head Boy during that school year, he would have had plenty of opportunities to curse other students with encouragement from the Carrows. He did not.”

“And you also agree that there was no trace of the killing curse found?”

“Yes, I would agree. Malfoy isn’t a killer. During our sixth year, he was ordered to kill Professor Dumbledore or he and his parents would have been killed by Voldemort. He made a couple of botched attempts, nothing Dumbledore found to be serious – Dumbledore knew about Malfoy’s task and sought to protect him in his own way. Harm was caused to innocent by-standers – all unintended victims. And I was there on the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore died. Malfoy had the chance to kill him then and he didn’t. He lowered his wand.”

Draco saw the heads of all the members of the Wizengamot turn to look at him. He sat still and rigid and kept his eyes on the Gryffindor on the stand.

“And when I was captured by snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor in April, he had the chance to identify me and turn me over to Voldemort. He didn’t. Hermione Granger had jinxed my face, distorting it, but I know Malfoy knew it was me. He looked at me in a way that left me no doubt. But he didn’t name me. That was his chance to gain glory in Voldemort’s eyes and he didn’t take it. If he’d wanted me dead, he could have turned me in then,” said Potter. “What’s more, as I was escaping, I grabbed wands he was holding from him – his wand and two others – and he didn’t really put up a fight. I’ve seen Malfoy. He can be tenacious. When he gets his hands on a snitch he doesn’t let go. I think he let me have those wands.”

He still didn’t understand what was possessing Potter. Maybe that was it – maybe the Gryffindor was possessed. Had his mother or some distant relative put the other boy under the Imperious curse?

“Any other times that Mr. Malfoy could have harmed you.”

“I want to be clear sir, there was no love lost between Malfoy and I at school. We did harm each other.”

His attorney cleared his throat and quickly recovered, “I mean during the year leading up to the Battle, Mr. Potter.”

Potter nodded. “Er – right. Well he’d been ordered, along with two classmates, to try and capture me at Hogwarts if it came to it, and to turn me over Voldemort. The night of the Battle, one of his classmates was much more keen on killing me then capturing me, and Malfoy tried to stop him from trying to harm my friends and I. Malfoy wasn’t – um – successful, but he did try. Again, that was a time he could have seriously harmed me, and he didn’t.”

“Is there anything else you know of Mr. Malfoy during the Battle.”

“I wasn’t there for all of it, but I’ve heard from people that were around him while I was – er – on a mission, that he tried to save Remus Lupin.”

Draco bowed his head. Lupin. He’d failed - failed to save another Black child from suffering. His cousin was an orphan because Draco was never good enough.

“And who told you this?” asked the attorney.

“Dean Thomas. A fellow Gryffindor. I trust him completely.”

“Do you know why Draco Malfoy would have tried to save Remus Lupin, a member of the Order of the Phoenix?”

“No, I don’t know why he did it,” answered Potter. “I didn’t know he thought much of Lupin. He’d been our professor at Hogwarts for a year, but I don’t think Malfoy thought much of him then. Yet he tried to get in the way of Dolohov. He was using a wand that wasn’t his and likely not very responsive, and he still tried.”

And Lupin still died, thought Draco.

“Anything else you think the Court should know, Mr. Potter?” asked his attorney.

“Draco Malfoy was raised to believe that purebloods are better than everyone else, and that Voldemort would bring greatness to him and his family. His life and the lives of his parents were held hostage. He was also a child when he was Marked. It was easy for me to ‘do the right thing,’ because that is what everyone expected of me. Not Malfoy. No one expected Malfoy to work against Voldemort, but he did - in ways that were subtle but that mattered. If it weren’t for Malfoy, I wouldn’t be here today.”

The room was silent again. All eyes, including his own, were on Potter.

“And just to clear up any doubts Mr. Potter, why are you testifying today? Is it because of a friendship with Mr. Malfoy?”

Potter frowned. “You can’t be serious?”

Meredith addressed the Wizengamot. “I would ask the witness to please answer the questions.”

Harrigan sighed, “Please answer the question Mr. Potter.”

The other boy was silent – the pause stretched on longer than was comfortable. At last he said, “Anyone who went to school with us knows we weren’t friends. We were pitted against each other from the beginning – encouraged to be adversaries. At first this was by our own choosing, but later, it was because that was the way the world was – each of us forced into roles we were too young to play.” Potter shifted in his seat, “Once, I think he wanted friendship and I – well it didn’t happen. And another time, when I had the chance to help him – really help him – I didn’t. I saw him for who I thought he was, and not for who he could be. I don’t want to keep making that mistake.”

Draco was frozen to his chair. He hadn’t known Harry Potter could be so eloquent, or knew so many words. Perhaps Granger had helped him prepare for today. But no matter whose words they were, Potter was saying them – out loud – under oath in court.

“Thank you,” said his counsel addressing the Wizengamot. “The Defense has no further questions for this witness.”

“Prosecutor Tilney, any questions for this witness?” asked the Chief.

Tilney stood and stared at Potter then at the Court. He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it before stuttering out, “You are here today voluntarily?”

“Yes. My godfather, Sirius Black, didn’t get a fair trial – or any trial before he was sent to Azkaban when he was about our age. It wasn’t right then, and it wouldn’t be right now.” The boy sighed and raked his hand through his hair again. “And I heard what Malfoy said at his press conference. I think he’s . . . well I think he’s trying. He deserves a fair trial and I had information to share, so I volunteered.”

“No – no further questions,” Tilney stammered before sitting down so quickly he almost missed his chair.

Meredith leaned over to Draco and whispered in his ear, “The prosecution can’t rip into the Savior’s testimony. It wouldn’t be a good look.”

Potter was excused, and Draco watched him stand. He met Draco’s eyes one more time, and then walked out of the courtroom. Draco watched him go, wondering if that would be the last time he saw Harry Potter in person. They surely wouldn’t have any further reason to come into contact even if Draco was freed, and Draco knew that was as it should be. Potter, after all, belonged to the world, and Draco wasn’t even sure if he had a place in that world.

As the door closed behind the Chosen One, Meredith rose to his feet and addressed the Wizengamot. “The final witness the defense calls is Draco Malfoy Mr. Malfoy is aware of his right to remain silent but he is choosing to be examined by the prosecution and the Wizengamot.”

And then his mind closed away his emotions again.

“Mr. Draco Malfoy,” called out Chief Harrigan, “Please approach the witness stand.”

Chapter 48: Taking the Stand

Draco eyed the witness stand. He’d worked with his attorney for weeks leading up to this moment. Draco had been adamant that there were some things he would not talk about – Regulus, his secret meeting with Lupin, and his sexuality. Some pieces of him were too private to share with the public.

The Ministry objects,” said Tilney before Draco even stood up. “Draco Malfoy's credibility is suspect. If defense counsel insists that he testify, than we demand that he take truth serum, otherwise there is no guarantee as to the truthfulness of anything he has to say.”

Meredith surged to his feet, “I take issue with Prosecutor Tilney’s characterization of my client. No other witness has been subjected to Veritaserum. Pursuant to precedence of this Court, truth potion has been deemed ‘unfair and unreliable to use at a trial.’”

“Are you suggesting that your client is able to withstand the potion’s effects?”

Draco froze. His skill at Occlumency likely did make him more able to resist the pull of Veritaserum. He’d never tested this theory, and he didn’t want the wider public to know that he was proficient at Occlumency.

“I am amazed at Prosecutor Tilney’s repeated attempts to mischaracterize my statements. I am suggesting that this Court has ruled that Veritaserum could not be used at a trial ‘as definitive proof of guilt or innocence.’ I am surprised that the attorney for the Ministry is not familiar with these rulings of the Wizengamot.”

Tilney spluttered but before he could actually get whole words out, Chief Harrigan said, “Enough gentlemen. The Wizengamot will hear Mr. Malfoy’s testimony, and pursuant to its earlier rulings on the issue, he shall not be administered truth serum. As the finder of fact, it will be up to the Court to determine whether or not we find his testimony credible. Mr. Malfoy, please approach the witness stand.”

He rose and walked across the stretch of courtroom. He knew the eyes of everyone in the room was upon him. He wondered if this is how Potter had felt all those years ago when he’d walked across the Great Hall and everyone had thought he was the Heir of Slytherin.

He climbed the seven steps that led up to the witness stand and took a seat. Far more people were crammed into the courtroom than he had realized. He’d been very careful over the last two days not to look behind him, but now he couldn’t avoid the faces peering at him. It looked like every seat was filled and dozens of people stood in the back along the walls.

“Raise your wand hand,” instructed the Chief of the Wizengamot. Draco drew his gaze from the crowd and did as he was asked. “Do you solemnly, sincerely, and truly declare and affirm that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do,” Draco answered, his eyes fastening on his mother for a moment before shifting to his attorney.

Meredith rose, and smiled briefly at him. “Is it alright if I address you as Draco?”

“Yes, that is fine.”

“Draco, you bear the Dark Mark, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Could you explain the Court how and when you were Marked?”

For a moment the memory of Bellatrix filled his mind. He placed his right hand over his left forearm as the remembered pain of being Marked flared in his skin. He took a deep breath and focused on Meredith. They’d gone over his testimony many, many times, and he just needed to get started without panicking too badly.

“I was Marked in August when I was sixteen years old – right before I returned to Hogwarts for my sixth year.” For an instant he had a vision of himself and Regulus kneeling side-by-side before the Dark Lord, light and dark hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. He shook himself and continued on, “I swore my allegiance to . . . him . . . in a garden at the Manor. My father was in prison. It was just my mother and I, and my aunt Bellatrix Lestrange told me that if I didn’t bind myself to . . . to the Dark Lord that I would be killed, but not just me, my mother as well.”

“So you took the Mark?”

“I did. I . . . well . . . I love my mother, and without my father around, there was no one to protect her. No one but me.  And I think she was threatened as well - that I would be killed if she didn't toe the line. I didn’t know who I could ask for help. All of my father’s friends and my Head of House at school were Death Eaters. I didn’t know then that Severus Snape was a spy for the Order, and even if I’d asked him for help, I don’t think he would have given up his cover to help me. I thought the only way I could keep my mother safe was to take the Mark – to do as I was told.” He paused for a moment and took a breath. “The Mark - it hurt. It burned into my skin – into my mind. Once, I thought I would be proud to bear the Dark Mark, but I wasn’t proud that day. I was afraid. I’ve been afraid almost every day since. I . . . I don’t like to look at it. It’s a constant reminder of how weak I was.”

He took a moment to glance out at the crowd of onlookers. Everyone sat still, their faces were a mix of sadness and disbelief.

“And did you do as you the man who called himself Lord Voldemort told you?” asked his attorney.

“Yes and no. During my sixth year at school he ordered me to kill Headmaster Dumbledore. I made . . . attempts. I didn’t want to, but as more time passed I’d get constant reminders that my time was running short – that my mother’s time was running short. I did things . . . horrible things that I’ll never forgive myself for. In the end I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a life. I . . . I never took a life. During my last year at Hogwarts I . . . I didn’t always follow orders. The Carrows were hurting children. They wanted me to help, but I . . . couldn’t. I’d been tortured by the Dark Lord – by my aunt Bellatrix – and I knew what it was like to be begging for death because the pain was so great, and I couldn’t do that to other students.”

“Let’s break this down, Draco. Take us back to the day that Albus Dumbledore died.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered Dumbledore’s face as he offered Draco mercy far too late - remembered the Death Eaters ascending the tower that had come through the vanishing cabinet into the school – remembered his revulsion when he saw that Fenrir Greyback was part of the group. And so it went – on for ages as Meredith asked him question after question. True to their agreement he was not asked anything that would cause him to reveal the quest Dumbledore had sent him on that had unearthed secrets once lost about Regulus Black. Once again he relived his mutual terror about either failing the Dark Lord or succeeding in his mission. He walked the halls of Hogwarts again as he tried to covertly undermine the Carrows, and he felt once more the pain of Lupin’s death.

“And why of all people,” said Meredith, honing in on his fight to save Lupin, “did you try and protect Remus Lupin.”

Draco paused a moment to steady himself before answering.

“Attorney Meredith,” broke in Chief Harrigan. “We are well past four o’clock. We will need to pause Mr. Malfoy’s testimony for today. We will resume tomorrow at nine in the morning. This Court is in recess.”

Once again he watched the members of the Wizengamot file out. This time, however, he was not taken directly back to the holding block, rather he and Meredith met in the conference room where he’d twice eaten lunch during the trial. Meredith settled down at the table and gestured for Draco to join him. 

“You are doing very well, Draco. Really. Your testimony is painting a clear picture of who you were at the time of the events – young, scared, and alone. I think tomorrow will conclude the hearing. After we finish up with your direct, the prosecutor will cross-examine you. He will try and pin you down to yes or no answers. Do not hesitate to push back – but politely. If there is anything that I think needs to be cleaned up, I will have the opportunity to do so in what is called redirect. Do you have any questions, Draco?”

He rested his hands on the table and turned them palm up. He stared at the lines that crisscrossed his hands and fingers. These hands procured the poison that Ronald Weasley had consumed, had fixed the vanishing cabinet that allowed Greyback into Hogwarts, had purchased the cursed necklace that almost ended Katie Bell’s life, and had swished his wand as he cast the spell that took over Rosmerta’s mind. He’d used these hands in service of the Dark Lord.

“Draco?”

At last he looked up, “I thought the trial would take longer.”

“It could have. It could have gone on for days if I’d stretched it out and fought everything the prosecution wanted to admit. But I didn’t see the benefit to you. I stipulated as to every exhibit or piece of testimony I could that I knew would ultimately be admitted specifically so that your trial is not prolonged. You’ve waited long enough - your life has been on hold long enough – you deserve an answer sooner than later on what your future holds.”

“I assume this won’t be the strategy you take for my father?”

Meredith grinned at him, “I have a feeling that your father will want to fight everything – every shred of evidence. For you, I didn’t see the point. What you need is an answer. You need to know when your life will begin again.”

“You mean begin. When my life will begin.”

His attorney agreed, “You are right. That is what I mean.”

At nine the next morning he found himself once again seated at the defendant’s table with Meredith, dressed in yet another suit supplied to him. It was probably a good thing the firm had fitted him out with new clothes as he’d grown a bit taller than his last year at Hogwarts.

He waited impatiently for the last member of the Wizengamot to settle. He wanted to get today over with.

“Mr. Malfoy, please take the witness stand. I will remind you, that you are still under oath.”

He mounted the steps and willed himself to be open and not shut himself off.

Meredith rose and said, “Yesterday we ended after I asked you a question about why you tried to protect Remus Lupin. Can you please answer that question today?”

“Yes. I wanted to save Lupin because he was kind . . . to me. He was the only person during that terrible last year at school who understood that I was just . . . just a child being forced into awful situations. He was also married to my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, and they had a baby son together. I didn’t want their child to be an orphan. I didn’t want him to be alone in the world. I . . . Well I know what it’s like to feel alone, and I didn’t want that for Lupin’s child, so I tried . . . I tried to save Lupin, but in the end, he saved me.”

“What do you mean he saved you?”

Merlin he didn’t want to answer this question. He didn’t. He clenched his hands until he felt his nails bite into his palms. “Dolohov, he cast a killing curse at us. I wasn’t sure who it was aimed at. I reacted on instinct and threw up a shield in front of where Lupin was standing, but he . . . he threw himself in front of me. He was tired and injured, and his wife had just been killed in front of him. I don’t know why he didn’t cast a spell, but he didn’t. It was all so quick – so – so much. He threw himself at me and pushed me out of the way. He was struck in the back. I . . . I . . .” Draco shuddered. “I watched him die. I wanted to save him – wanted to save him for his son but he saved me instead. I don’t know why, but he did.”

“And what did you do after Remus Lupin was struck down?” asked Meredith gently in the stillness of the room.

Draco sucked in a breath. He remembered the sound of Dolohov’s laughter after he’d killed Lupin. It had been ugly and cruel and Draco had wanted to end him. “I struck Dolohov with an Expulso and sent him over the bannister to the floor below.”

“You didn’t use a killing curse?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because of my mother. Because of my soul. My mother believed I wasn’t a killer and I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

“What’s that about your soul?” interjected Chief Harrigan.

“I understood that if you killed in cold-blood – out of anger – that your soul could be irreparably broken. I didn’t want to fracture my soul for someone as worthless as him.”

“Thank you, Draco,” said his attorney. “Let’s move on to other matters.” More questions followed until at last, Meredith asked what he knew signaled his attorney’s final question, “What is it that you are asking of this Court, Draco?”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about who I was when I took the Mark. I was a child – a spoiled child that wanted to make his family proud. But there was nothing prideful about siding with the Dark Lord. I wish with everything in me that I’d refused, but at the time I was so afraid – afraid and alone. If I had refused, I don’t think I’d be alive today – and for all the pain I caused, I do think I did some good. I wish I’d done more – that I’d been stronger – smarter, but I couldn’t think of a way out and I had . . . I had no one to turn to. I’ve learned that I’m not that same child anymore. I’m still scared – but I’m not as alone as I used to be. Working with a therapist and a caseworker has helped me. So I’m asking for the chance to show that I am more than the Dark Mark – that I am more than the worst decision I ever made – that I am more than my last name. I’m asking for a chance to keep learning – keep growing – and to maybe someday come close to earning forgiveness. I’m asking for a chance to prove that I am a better man than my father – that I am a better man than I was raised to be.”

Meredith let Draco's words hand in the air for a long, thoughtful moment and then said, "Thank you, Draco, no further questions.” The attorney sat down and Draco tensed. He knew what was coming. It was time for the Ministry to cross-examine him. Tilney rose and cleared his throat.

“Are you saying, Mr. Malfoy, that during the War you changed sides?”

“No, that is not what I’m saying. I didn’t think I could change sides. If I did so outwardly, my parents would have died, and I doubt that I would have been accepted by the Order of the Phoenix. They didn’t accept Snape – except for Dumbledore.”

“So all of your supposed help of students targeted by the Carrows was what – altruistic?”

He bristled, but he worked to tamp down on his irritation. He couldn’t come off as angry or he’d be feeding into the narrative that he was an evil Death Eater. “I helped when I could because I knew what it was like to be tortured – to be afraid. What the Carrows were doing wasn’t right, but I couldn’t openly act against them – I would have been turned in to the Dark Lord, and he had made it quite clear to me on multiple occasions that my life held no value.”

“So you’re saying you weren’t motivated by the hope of future clemency?”

Draco felt himself flush, “I don’t know if you recall the War, sir, but during it, I had no idea what side would win. I was afraid the Dark Lord would win, but no matter what side prevailed, I didn’t see myself living past the age of seventeen. Still, I couldn’t let people be hurt the way I was hurt. They didn’t deserve it.”

“Let’s go over your alleged acts of ‘redemption’,” said the prosecutor, uttering the last word like it was foul. “Did you or did you not recognize Harry Potter at the Manor?”

“I did.”

“How?”

Draco swallowed. “The eyes. His face was distorted, but whatever had been done to his face hadn’t changed his eyes. I’ve seen them often enough glaring at me at Hogwarts. And there is no way anyone else with those eyes would have been with Granger and Weasley.”

“And you expect us to believe that you just let Mr. Potter have your wand?”

He bit his lip. He didn’t want to answer, this was all so personal.

“Answer the question,” intoned the Chief of the Wizengamot.

“I . . . I didn’t want him to die. I was afraid he would die. So I let go of the wands.”

“What about all this talk about not wanting you or your parents to die? Surely if you’d given Mr. Potter your wand He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have killed you.”

“I knew that I’d likely die for what I did. I expected it. But when it came down to it, his life was worth more than mine. If he died the Dark Lord would win.”

“And there were no consequences for your ‘failure’ I suppose?”

He took a deep breath his skin crawled remembering the price they had all paid.  “We were tortured. My parents and I. The Dark Lord used the Cruciatus curse on us over and over. The pain it – it overwhelms every part of you. I blacked out hearing my mother . . . hearing her scream. I don’t know why we weren’t killed. I think Snape convinced the Dark Lord that we still had use.”

“If you wanted Mr. Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to prevail as you now testify, why do you still refer to You-Know-Who as the Dark Lord? Do you still owe allegiance to him?”

He shook his head, “No – No – nothing like that. I . . . I was raised to think of him by that title. After his return, I learned quickly that if I didn’t address him with proper respect, he would . . . I would pay the price. But once I saw him for what he was – saw the pain he caused and wanted to cause – I didn’t want him to win. I was never so afraid as when – ” he cut himself off.

“As when what, Mr. Malfoy?” asked Tilney, sensing weakness.

Draco closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at anyone as he spoke, but he knew he needed to say the words no matter what it cost him. “As when I thought Harry Potter was dead at the Battle – when I thought all hope was lost.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the prosecutor, the man's face had lost its eager look.

“I watched Potter almost my whole life – envied him – hated him – wanted . . . wanted to . . . not be me so that maybe he wouldn’t despise me. When I thought he was dead as Hagrid carried his body to the castle I thought it was all over – that the Dark Lord had won. But more than that, I was . . . I . . . regretted that Potter would never get to have the life he deserved – that his life had been wasted in violence. That all our lives had been wasted – that none of us got the lives we deserved because of a mad man. And it wasn’t fair. Potter had always been larger than life and to see him so still it . . . well, I’ve never been more afraid.”

Everyone was quiet. He could have heard a quill drop.

“I see . . .” said Prosecutor Tilney almost to himself. He watched as the man turned to look across the aisle to Meredith, who simply nodded in response.

“If I could have a moment your honors,” said the prosecutor.

“Of course,” said the Chief.

Tilney bent down and started talking with the agent of the Ministry that sat with him and with the assistant prosecutors. Their voices were low and he couldn’t make out what they were saying. His gaze drifted out toward the witches and wizards that had come to observe his oh so public trial. He saw Rita Skeeter in the front row. He flicked past her and ran his eyes further back, catching sight of Theo and Blaise crammed together toward the back.

“Your honors,” began Tilney, bringing Draco’s attention back. “It is approaching the noon hour. May I suggest a lunch recess? This would give me time to have discussions with opposing counsel.”

The Chief nodded in agreement, “This Court will be in recess until one o’clock. Mr. Malfoy, you may step down.”

Draco made his way back to the defense table. “What does this mean?” he asked.

“It means that the Prosecutor wishes to speak with me. You go with Attorney Singh to the conference room. Try to eat something and I will come in a meet with you as soon as I can,” said Meredith.

He followed Meredith’s associate attorney as instructed, but he wasn’t able to eat much of the lunch he was offered. If this trial didn’t end soon he was afraid he’d turn into a waif. They didn’t have to wait long for Meredith who came in with a bemused expression on his face.

“The Ministry will not be continuing its cross-examination of you after lunch.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“It seems they have had their fill of you looking like a redeemed young person and think that trying to keep pummeling you on the stand will harm their case. They will also offer no rebuttal evidence. I think based on your presentation, they have lost some of their zeal and no longer have the stomach to try and Incendio you on the stand. That means the Wizengamot will be free to deliberate and issue their verdict.”

Not eating much had definitely been a good decision he mused in hindsight. “How long will that take?”

The smile fell from Meredith’s face. “That I don’t know. I don’t think they will rule from the bench. I think they will take this case under advisement. It’s Thursday. We might have to wait until after the weekend to know their decision. For today, we’ll go back in at one o’clock, inform the Wizengamot that the presentation of evidence is complete, and make closing arguments.” Meredith must have seen something in Draco’s face, as he continued, “I’ll ask Curtis to come and see you tomorrow if the Court is still deliberating.”

Forty minutes later he was seated before the Court. Meredith had been correct and the attorneys moved quickly to closing arguments. Draco sat still, his back straight, as he worked on holding himself together. He felt vulnerable as the Prosecutor stood to address the group of witches and wizards that would decide his fate.

“The Ministry argues that it has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Draco Malfoy is guilty of the offenses of terrorism for fighting as an enemy combatant, the use of unforgivable curses, conspiracy to commit murder, three counts of attempted murder, and being accessory to murder,” began Prosecutor Tilney. “The Ministry has irrefutably established that Mr. Malfoy was inducted into the ranks of You-Know-Who’s inner circle. He bears the Dark Mark of a Death Eater. Mr. Malfoy, with two Slytherin classmates, conspired and tried abduct Harry Potter during the Battle of Hogwarts, and was therefore engaged as an enemy combatant. He further conspired with You-Know-Who to murder Albus Dumbledore. He unarmed Albus Dumbledore and admitted Death Eaters into the school of Hogwarts where hundreds of young, innocent students resided with the plan to kill the headmaster. Bill Weasley was injured by Fenrir Greyback, whose admittance to the castle Mr. Malfoy facilitated. The unarmed headmaster was in fact killed on the top of the Astronomy Tower on June 29, 1997. Further, in previous attempts upon Dumbledore’s life, Mr. Malfoy harmed Ronald Weasley and Katie Bell.” Here the man paused and looked pointedly over towards Draco. “Both of these students almost died because of his actions.” Draco gripped the edge of the table as the prosecutor’s eyes and words lanced into him. Tilney continued, “He used the Imperius curse on the tavern keeper of the Three Broomsticks to achieve his goal of murder. He cursed Madam Rosmerta on more than one occasion with an Imperious – taking away her free will and causing her grievous emotional injury and distress. He also employed the Cruciatus curse against a fellow Death Eater. Mr. Malfoy has professed that he regrets his actions, but his regret does not change what he has done. He betrayed the Wizarding World to help a murderous man gain power. The Ministry argues that this honorable Court should find Draco Malfoy guilty of all charges. Thank you.”

As Tilney sat down, Meredith leaned over and whispered. “That was not nearly as bad as I was expecting. I really think Tilney has lost the will to have the book thrown at you.” Meredith pulled away and rose to his feet. He looked professional and calm. Draco thought that while his mother appeared to have horrible taste in men as evidenced by his father, she'd displayed excellent taste in selecting an attorney to represent them.

“Your honors, my young client is indeed facing serious charges. Let’s examine these charges one by one. First is the charge of terrorism for fighting as an enemy combatant. There has been no evidence offered that Draco ever raised a wand or a hand in battle for the Dark Lord. Harry Potter’s testimony made clear that Draco tried to keep his classmates from harming or capturing the Chosen one and his friends. Further, multiple witnesses testified that Draco worked against the Carrows to protect his fellow students – going so far as warning Neville Longbottom of his impending danger so that the boy was able to evade capture and later slay the great snake of the Dark Lord. Other testimony established that during the Battle when Draco engaged in fighting, it was to protect a member of the Order of the Phoenix. He raised his wand in defense of the good and dueled bravely with a very experienced Death Eater. As to this charge then, the Ministry has not met its burden.” Meredith shifted his stance and resumed, “Turning to the charge of accessory to murder, as more details have come to light regarding the death of Albus Dumbledore, I think we can all agree that his death was not a murder. It was, by Harry Potter’s account and Severus Snape’s shared memory, a planned suicide for a dying man - an overly dramatic planned suicide – but Dumbledore never did things in halves. Without a murder, Draco could not have been an accessory and here too, the Ministry has failed to meet its burden.”

If anything Draco’s grip on the table intensified.

“The defense further argues that Draco did not have the requisite intent for the remaining charges. Your honors have heard testimony and been presented with evidence that as a child Draco was given the impossible choice of taking the Mark or watch his mother be tortured and put to death. The Dark Lord was a mad man devoid of empathy, and he exerted his cruelty on a child – forcing him to make impossible choices by threatening to kill Draco and his parents. Draco was trapped and he had no one to turn to. As Harry Potter testified, the great Albus Dumbledore knew that Draco had been assigned a mission and yet even he did nothing to intervene to benefit his young student.”

He bowed his head. Even after everything, it still smarted to know that Dumbledore had been willing to sacrifice Draco for the greater good. Perhaps Dumbledore had felt like he’d been given an impossible choice, but Draco still couldn’t help but feel resentful. The man had been the great Albus Dumbledore for fuck’s sake – surely he could have thought of something more to protect all of them other than letting Draco sell his soul to a devil and having a seventeen year old boy march off into the woods alone to die.

“Draco was under a great deal of duress – and based on the Dark Lord’s propensity for using the killing curse, his fear for his own life and the lives of his parents was a more than reasonable fear. Thus without the requisite intent, we argue that the Ministry has failed again to meet its burden. Therefore, we ask this honorable Court to take Draco’s youth, the duress he was under, his acceptance of responsibility, and his remorse into consideration as it weighs the Ministry’s charges against him. Let us not forget that Draco Malfoy was also a victim of this War. The adults in charge of the Ministry, in charge of Hogwarts, and in charge of him failed to protect him and he bore the price of their failure by being forced to into situations that no child or young person should ever have been placed in. Thank you.”

The associate attorney leaned forward as Meredith sat down at the defense table to whisper, “Well done.”

Draco agreed. Meredith had gone to battle for him. He wondered if his attorney’s defense of the Malfoy family would help bring him clients or if it would cost him clients. He hoped that his mother was paying the man handsomely.

“The Wizengamot would like to thank the prosecution and the defense for their professional presentation of this case. The Court, however, has much to consider. A decision of this gravity should not be ruled on from the bench as it requires careful deliberation. The Wizengamot will take the matter under advisement. The Court is adjourned until such time as it is ready to present its verdict.”

He felt lightheaded as the courtroom emptied. He hadn’t realized how much adrenaline had been coursing through his veins until it started to ebb away, leaving him exhausted.

“For Godric’s sake, Draco. You are crashing,” said Meredith. The man took him by the shoulders and held onto him. “I know the past few days – hell the past few years – have been stressful, but you have to eat something. If you don’t take care of yourself I will have you committed to St. Mungo’s. I’m serious. I’m an attorney and I fucking know what I’m doing. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up so fast your head would spin.”

Aurors appeared behind him to escort him away.

“I bet the mattress at the hospital would be more comfortable than the one in my cell,” he said as the uniformed wizards started to guide him away.

“I’m serious,” called Meredith. “Eat something or I will tell your mother.”

And fuck it all if Meredith hadn’t played a trump card. Fear for his mother had always been a powerful motivator for Draco. He could picture her disappointment and concern if she were told about how little nourishment he’d had since his trial began.

“You should have sorted Slytherin,” he called to his attorney over his shoulder as he crossed out of the courtroom.

Chapter 49: Judgment

“You didn’t listen to me,” muttered Meredith as Draco sat down beside him. “You look like a cadaver, and I know you’ve had glamor spells plastered on you, so you are actually worse than you appear. Damn it Draco, I’m going to have to find a wizard who is mad enough to practice necromancy if I want to speak with you if you keep this up.”

“I tried,” Draco said. Because he had. He’d tried to eat the food the guards brought him, but nothing stayed down. Four days of waiting had been fucking torture – and damn it he knew torture. He’d been tortured by the best of the fucking insane after all. And this morning, he’d been summoned to appear in court at eleven. His team had rushed to make him appear like he wasn’t death warmed over – which apparently they had failed at – and fitted him out in a suit a shade of green so dark it could be mistaken for black. The color gave him hope – it reminded him of Slytherin House. He turned and glanced behind him and he saw his own Slytherins, Blaise and Theo, sitting in the back row today. Theo nodded his head, but Blaise shot him a cheeky grin.

“Drink this,” instructed Meredith, slipping him a Wideye Potion under the table. “It’s clear that you haven’t been sleeping either.”

“I don’t think I’ll be going to sleep here with all this,” said Draco waving his hand around the courtroom, but he did as he was told and swallowed down the potion. He’d never admit it to his smug looking attorney, but it did make him feel better almost instantly. The fog that had wrapped itself around his head cleared.

Tilney entered with his legal team and sat at the prosecutor's table. Draco noticed Meredith tense ever so slightly when Tilney tipped his head in their direction. Interesting. For all that the man exuded calm and confidence, he was nervous about today’s outcome.

An excited murmur rose from the crowd behind him as an Auror came to stand by the door used by the members of the Wizengamot. “All rise for the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic,” heralded the uniformed wizard.

Draco rose and watched as the plum robed witches and wizards that held his fate in their hands filed in followed by Shacklebolt. “Be seated,” said the Minister.

He kept his eyes on the Chief of the Wizengamot as he sat. Nothing in the man’s expression gave a hint as to the outcome of the Court’s deliberations. He clenched his fists on his thighs to keep his legs from vibrating with tension.

Chief Harrigan raised his wand and cast a voice projection charm. “Let the record reflect that on this Tuesday, March 30, 1999, the Wizengamot convened after deliberating in the matter of the Ministry of Magic versus Draco Malfoy. We, the members of the Wizengamot, have reviewed the charges and weighed the evidence, and we have reached a verdict.”

Meredith’s hand settled on his shoulder. Draco closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to draw strength from the light contact.

“On the charge of terrorism for fighting as an enemy combatant we find Draco Malfoy not guilty.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

“On the charges of conspiracy to commit murder and accessory to murder,” intoned the Chief, “We also find Draco Malfoy not guilty.”

He heard a ripple of noise behind him, but it was quickly extinguished by a stern look from the Chief.

“The remaining charges, use of unforgivable curses and three counts of attempted murder, however, concerned many of this counsel. While we agree that Mr. Malfoy was not of age during some of the acts and that he was under a great deal of duress, people were hurt by his actions.”

He felt Meredith’s hand stiffen. Draco knew what was coming – he could almost hear the word “guilty” spill from Chief Harrigan’s lips. He would never forget the harm he caused. Because of him, Katie Bell and Potter’s Weasley friend had almost died, and the older Weasley would forever bear the marks of the feral werewolf, Greyback. And what he had done to the tavern keeper had been monstrous.

“The Court finds that Mr. Malfoy did not have the requisite intent for the charges brought by the Ministry, but it finds that Mr. Malfoy is guilty of inflicting grievous bodily harm on Ms. Katie Bell and Mr. Bill Weasley. We also find him guilty of assaulting Mr. Ronald Weasley.  We further find him guilty of inflicting serious emotional harm on Madam Rosmerta.  While he may not have intended to hurt Ms. Bell or either of the Mr. Weasleys, he should have foreseen that his actions could have caused them harm.”

Guilty.

Guilty.

The single word screamed through his mind. He tried to throw up his mental shields, but it was too late, the word had already burrowed in and made a home in his psyche.

He felt Attorney Singh’s hand grasp his right shoulder. He thanked Merlin for her and for Meredith, as he suspected that it was because of them that he was able to still sit upright.

“It was clear on the stand that Ronald Weasley was not . . . all that interested in having charges pressed on his behalf, and the prosecution didn’t even call Bill Weasley as a witness. Ms. Bell’s testimony, however, was most poignant. This Court therefore finds that while Mr. Malfoy didn’t intend to inflict serious injury, his actions were reckless and serious injuries occurred. We also find that he inflicted serious emotional harm on Madam Rosmerta. We are notably concerned by Mr. Malfoy’s past adoption of blood purity beliefs and his judgment in who he chose to associate with.” The Chief’s serious eyes now settled directly on Draco. “We are, however, heartened to learn of the tremendous work Mr. Malfoy has done to alter his prior beliefs in an effort to become a productive member of our society. We also find him to be sincere in his remorse. Based on these mitigating factors, we sentence Mr. Malfoy to a deferred sentence of four years with an underlying sentence of up to twenty-two years should he violate the conditions of his deferred sentence.”

Draco swayed. Twenty-two years of time. He’d be what – Salazar - forty – no - forty-one years old? He’d get out when – 2021? Fuck.

“This sentence,” continued Harrigan, unaware that Draco was actively melting into the floor, “Consists of up to sixteen years for the crime committed against Ms. Bell, up to one year for each of the Mr. Weasleys, and up to four years for the crime against Madam Rosmerta. Mr. Malfoy shall receive credit for the time he has served in jail these past eleven months and the remainder of his deferred sentence of three years and one month shall be served in the community subject to conditions.”

“I – I don’t understand,” Draco whispered, surprised any words made it out of his mouth.

“This means, Draco, that you will serve your deferred sentence released in the community, not in jail. You will have to abide by conditions imposed by the Ministry,” Meredith whispered back. “If you comply with their conditions for the next three years, the requirements will be lifted and you will be free to live your life as you see fit. If you violate the requirements they set, you could be sentenced for up to twenty-two years.”

“During the deferred sentence,” continued the Chief, “Mr. Malfoy will not be allowed to travel out of Great Britain. He cannot live at the Manor or with his mother. He will be allowed to visit Mrs. Malfoy, including overnight stays, but he shall not reside in her home for more than two weeks over the course of a year. He must find gainful employment within two weeks of this judgment. He cannot associate with confirmed Death Eaters except for a monthly visit with his father. He may also exchange letters with his father, but all correspondence will be read by the Ministry before delivery. He cannot engage in the practice of inherently dark magic and he must submit his wand for inspection upon request of the Ministry or a member of law enforcement. He is also required to continue engaging in therapy and to continue working with his case worker on a schedule recommended by them. He shall meet with a Ministry law enforcement officer once a month to review his compliance with the conditions of his deferred sentence.  He shall also pay restitution to the victims to help ease their pain and suffering.” Harrigan paused for a moment, his shrewd gaze once again on Draco before stating, “The point of this deferred sentence, Mr. Malfoy, is that the Wizengamot thinks you can be rehabilitated – that you can be a beneficial member of society - an asset to our world. Do not prove us wrong in this assessment or you will be joining your father in Azkaban.”

Draco nodded weakly, sure he’d be in Azkaban in a matter of weeks. Who would employ him? Where would he live? Did the Wizengamot really think they were doing him a kindness by delaying his imprisonment and letting him fester away on tendrils of hope for two weeks?

“This concludes the matter, and this Court is adjourned,” said the Chief before standing to whisk away, his robes and the other members of the Wizengamot trailing behind him.

Meredith quickly stood and took him by the elbow and drew him to his feet. He heard murmurs of shock behind him and he couldn’t miss hearing the word “Death Eater” bandied about. Then someone called out, “Malfoy – turn and give us a smile for the cameras.”

“Bloody reporters,” grumbled Meredith. “Don’t look at them. Come with me.”

Meredith guided him to the small adjoining conference room he’d become very familiar with. Draco sat down at the table and rested his head in his hands. Fuck. He was guilty. Merlin, he’d known he was guilty, but to hear it – to hear it announced to the world – it was more shattering than he’d thought possible. And how the hell could he do all of the things the Wizengamot had ordered?

“Draco?” Meredith asked, his voice gentle.

“This is a nightmare,” said Draco speaking into his palms. “I’ll be in Azkaban with my father in no time. Who would want me working for them?”

“Look at me, Draco,” said his attorney still sounding calm. Reluctant, Draco lifted his head. “This is not hopeless. I believe you can do what you’ve been ordered. I don’t think the Wizengamot set you up to fail – I really think they believe you can be an asset to society. All the charges – very serious charges – that the Ministry brought did not stick. I think they felt there needed to be a consequence, but they framed their verdict and judgment in a way that does not snuff out your potential or your hope for a future.”

Did Meredith not understand? How could he not understand? “No one will want me. Who would? Everyone knows what I’ve done – knows that I betrayed the great Albus Dumbledore.”

“Because of this trial, everyone also knows the good you have done – knows how you protected students and helped Harry Potter,” said Meredith. “And as for employment, Garrick Ollivander has asked that you be placed with him as an apprentice. It will be an unpaid position, but you will be provided with a room above his shop, an allowance for food, and you will learn the craft of wand making. If you accept his offer, this will satisfy the Ministry’s housing and employment requirements.”

His eyes widened. What the hell? Ollivander was asking that Draco be his apprentice? This had to be a joke – but Meredith didn’t joke about important things. Ollivander wanted his former jailor – the boy who had helped hold him prisoner in the wretched dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor - as an apprentice?

“I – I don’t understand . . . Ollivander . . . you can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious Draco. He is in need of an apprentice, says he has been for years, and he has been impressed by you. He thinks you have talent and that you have displayed a keen interest in the subject.”

“I’m sure the most well-known wandmaker in Britain could have anyone he wants as an apprentice.”

Meredith sighed, “Yes, he could Draco, and is it really so hard for you to believe that he wants you?”

His whole life he’d been raised as the Malfoy heir knowing that his job would be to leverage his name, wealth, and connections into power. It would have been considered acceptable to have a high ranking Ministry position, but anything besides that would have been considered beneath him. That path, of course, had all been stripped away by the decisions he and his family had made leading up to and during the War. Now he was being offered another option – one that he would never have been allowed to pursue – one he would never have even dared to dream of for himself.

“This might not be the profession that you ultimately choose to follow, but it could be an excellent learning experience. Working with Ollivander would give you respectability . . . and protection. I believe that some members of our society will think the Wizengamot let you off too lightly. Having Ollivander in your corner could be a very good thing,” said Meredith. He must have mistaken the look in Draco’s eyes as he continued, “You don’t have to decide today, but you will need to decide soon. If you don’t accept his offer, you will need to seek other employment.”

“He really wants . . . me?”

Meredith smiled, “Yes. I advise that you go with your mother and stay with her for the remainder of this week to rest and maybe eat something for Godric’s sake. Then if you accept Ollivander’s offer, you start with him next week.”

“May I see my mother now?”

His attorney smiled again, “You are free Draco. Of course you may see her. You will not be spending another night in jail.” Meredith reached into the pocket of his robes, “Which reminds me. I brought these with me today. I had a feeling I’d be returning them to you.” He drew out the golden snitch Dumbledore had posthumously sent to him, along with the small box containing Regulus’ memories and the silver locket. He held the items out to Draco, “I’ve kept them safe for you all this time. Now they belong back with you.”

His fingers shook slightly as he gathered his most cherished possessions – other than a hawthorn wand which he had no hope of seeing again. He ran his point finger along the smooth, cool surface of the snitch and saw the beautiful, familiar script etch itself across the golden orb, “Regulus.” He took a breath. He could do this. He would do this. He was a Black as much as he was a Malfoy and he would try and live the life the cousin and godfather he’d never met had been denied.

“I think that this sentence, as much as I never wanted to hear a guilty verdict, is a good thing, Draco. If you’d been found not guilty, I was afraid you’d disappear – withdraw into yourself and from the world – and none of us would ever hear from you again. You don’t deserve such a solitary life. This sentence – as difficult as it may be – requires you to be part of the world. It gives you chance to show every naysayer that you are worthy – as worthy as I know you to be. Selfishly, I’m glad you can’t vanish away, I think you have a lot to offer and I think there is much for the world to offer you.”

“Thank you,” he said, with as much feeling as he could put in those two words. Still, that wasn’t enough. “You . . . Meredith . . . you saved me when I didn’t want to be saved. And here you are, still saving me. I will be forever grateful – you have no idea how grateful.”

“It was my honour, Draco. Truly.” The man rose. “Now, let’s see about getting you out of here as soon as possible.”

Notes:

The trial is over!!!! I wanted so badly to let Draco off completely, but I couldn't - his story kept insisting otherwise.
I rewrote this chapter three times to satisfy the muse in my mind.

A note on spelling - "judgment" versus "judgement" is the version more widely used in legal contexts.

Chapter 50: Flying Free

He awoke in the room of the Rosier townhouse he’d spent a couple of brief days in before he’d turned himself in to the Ministry. His mother must have seen to the mattress during his lengthy absence as it was divine; either that or he was so used to the hard little cot in his cell that anything seemed heavenly by comparison.

It had been a bit of a nightmare getting away from the Ministry yesterday. He had been guarded so long that it had been jarring to suddenly be surrounded by Aurors whose job it was to guard him and keep him from the reporters, photographers, and bystanders that all wanted to ask him questions, take his picture, or voice their disappoint with the Wizengamot’s verdict. At last he had been escorted to the atrium and bundled off into a floo with his mother. He’d had to close his eyes to avoid seeing the flames. He did not have good memories of magical fire. As soon as they’d crossed the hearth of the townhouse, his mother had closed the connection.

As soon as they were alone, she wrapped her arms around him and he’d lean into her. For the first time since she’d been able to visit him there wasn’t a magical barrier or guards separating them. She’d pressed her hands against his shoulders and held him tight. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this that he’d almost been overwhelmed. He hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for human contact.

“You’ll do it?” she’d whispered in his ear. “You’ll take this chance you are being offered?”

He’d drawn a ragged breath before saying, “I don’t really think I deserve it. A part of me thinks I deserve to be punished.” He felt her stiffen, so he carried on, “But I know that isn’t a healthy perspective. If the Wizengamot thinks this is enough of a punishment, then I shouldn’t be a masochist. If I tried to be one, I think you, Meredith, and my therapist would off me.”

She’d laughed once, the stress of the situation likely ringing that unexpected response from her. She’d pulled back from the embrace and said, “Good. I’m glad you aren’t going to make me hold you to your promise to me. You are going to take this chance, and you are going to be who you are meant to be – not who your father and I once tried to shape you into being. You are going to live your life. You are going to be happy.”

Then she’d sent him off to bathe, had Mip bring him a tray of dinner to his room, and encouraged him to sleep.

He reached to his bedside table for the wand that Ollivander had sent him while he’d been in jail. It had been turned over to him along with his books, papers, and the clothes he’d been wearing the day he’d given himself up to the Ministry. It had been so, so long since he’d done magic, that he was reminded again of the wonder that had filled him when he’d been eleven and starting out at Hogwarts. With a swish of the wand the curtains drew back and the soft light of morning filtered in. He’d been in a windowless cell for almost a year. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of natural light. He hoped his room at Ollivander’s would be bright.

He was excited - excited and petrified – at the idea of apprenticing with Garrick Ollivander. He’d never in his wildest dreams thought he’d get the chance to live the life that was being offered to him. He’d get to study and learn from a master in his field – he wasn’t going to be chained to the Manor and all that life entailed. And his father was far away in Azkaban and wasn’t able to control him anymore. The vault Regulus had left him and the chance Ollivander was giving him meant that for the first time he would be free of his father’s machinations – free of the people his father had once tied them all too.

He pushed back the covers and walked to the desk in the room, his feet luxuriating in the feel of the carpet. Merlin, was every little thing he’d once taken for granted going to overwhelm his senses after being confined to a barren little cell devoid of comfort?

He sat at the desk and found it stocked with parchment, quills, and ink. He selected an ink of dark green and wrote out a letter to Ollivander, accepting the apprenticeship and asking the wandmaker when it suited him to start. He sealed up the missive and descended the stairs. He found his mother in the breakfast room.

“You are still in your pajamas, darling,” she commented, holding a dainty cup of tea in one hand. “And I didn’t expect you up so early.”

He looked down at his night clothes. In prison he’d had a uniform that had served as his day wear and sleep wear. He’d quite forgotten that now he had options – and apparently his mother’s expectations – about what clothing he could wear.

“I wanted to have this letter to Ollivander posted,” he said, holding out the folded parchment.

She smiled gently at him, “You could have summoned one of the house elves.”

“Ah, yes.” Clearly he’d have some trouble adjusting back into the lifestyle expected of a Malfoy. He wondered if Ollivander had house elves.

“Never mind,” said his mother. “Sit. Eat.” She rang a bell and Mip literally popped into the room. “Master Draco has a letter for you to post. Please see to it.”

The house elf bowed and took the letter from him and was off with a crack. His heart thudded for a moment. He’d not seen anyone apparate for months and it was a rather shocking thing to witness. Salazar, his stay at the Ministry had turned him into a Muggle.

His mother smiled at him and he realized he was still standing. He sat down beside her and she poured him a cup of tea. The table was set with all sorts of tempting food, but the food wasn't what caught his focus, rather it was a folded copy of that day’s Prophet. He could see the headline, “Draco Malfoy Found Guilty of Lesser Charges.” There was a picture of him standing in the courtroom, looking dazed and overwhelmed, before Meredith started to draw him away. His mother noticed where his gaze had landed and flipped the paper over. It was then that he noticed the food. The table was set with all sorts of tempting dishes – too much for the two of them.

“Were you expecting company?” he couldn’t help but ask.

His mother arched an eyebrow, “You my son are far to pointy – and that is saying something considering the Malfoy blood that runs in your veins.” She sipped her tea as he settled a croissant and some fresh fruit on his plate. “And you should expect company. Blaise and Theo should be here at around eleven.”

Theo. Theo had written him so, so many times while he’d been held, but his friend had never once visited him. He understood why, Theo’s father was being held in the Ministry detention center – not that Draco had ever seen the elder Mr. Nott there. He had not been allowed to cross paths with other Death Eaters.

“I suspect they have something special planned for you. Pick something casual to wear,” she regarded him over the rim of teacup. “And have Mip help you with clothing alterations. I do believe you’ve grown taller.”

At eleven o’clock Blaise and Theo appeared on his front stoop. Draco had done as his mother suggested and opted for dark trousers and a light weight jumper in Slytherin green. He didn’t think he’d ever voluntarily wear anything khaki colored again.

Theo stepped forward shy and tentative, as was his nature, but Draco surprised all of them by pulling the other boy into a hug.

“Thank you for all of your letters,” he said.

Theo squeezed him tight for a moment and then pulled back. Such outward displays of affection were difficult for most traditionally raised purebloods. The boy coughed, and then said, “I missed you, too.”

Blaise, whose blood was just as pure by standards that Draco hoped were fast becoming antiquated, had the good fortune of having been raised by a very untraditional mother. His smile flashed wide and bright across his face without a hint of reticence. “Look at you. Free at last.”

“Free with conditions,” Draco corrected.

“Fine, fine – it’s a qualified freedom. Still looks good on you. Or it would if you ate something. Didn’t the sodding Ministry feed you? You’re all sharp angles,” said Blaise.

“Be gentle,” he heard his mother’s voice call down from above them. All three boys looked up to see Narcissa gazing down at them from the landing above. “He’s been out of the Ministry for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Of course, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Blaise, who could have charmed a hippogriff without trying. “We have something in store for Draco that will bring him back to you in one piece.”

Narcissa descended the stairs, “See that you do Mr. Zabini.” She walked across the richly tiled foyer, her tasteful heels clicking until she stopped beside Draco. “After all, I do know where you live.” She turned her pale eyes on Theo, “I’m counting on you Mr. Nott.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Theo said.

She reached up and smoothed the side of Draco’s hair. “Have fun,” she told him.

“So, up for an outing?” Blaise asked, holding out a hand. Draco considered his friends. Where in Salazar’s name did they plan to take him? After a long moment he grasped Blaise’s outstretched hand before feeling the familiar tug of apparition. He staggered a bit when he felt solid ground beneath his feet again. Fuck. He hadn’t apparated in what felt like a hundred years, and it hadn’t been his favorite mode of travel even when he was more used to it.

He took a breath to get his bearings, and an instant later, Theo arrived with a crack. They were standing in a large field of yellow daffodils, the green of their leaves and the grass was so lush it almost overwhelmed him after months of being indoors without even a window. Daffodils had always been a favorite of his as they heralded spring, and his mother was named after the lovely narcissus flowers. The cheerful blooms rippled in a light breeze, and he was reminded that as a young boy he’d thought the flowers looked like teacups on delicate saucers.

“Where are we?” Draco breathed.

“Behind my house,” said Blaise. Draco turned round and in the distance saw the back of the graceful structure that belonged to Blaise’s mother.

“We thought we should get you away from the city,” said Theo. “Get you up in the air.”

Blaise broke away and jogged to a tree that Draco saw had three broomsticks leaning against it. Beside the brooms rested a large picnic hamper. His friend bundled the brooms under his arm and brought them over. Draco saw that one was a Nimbus 2001. “I had your mother send yours over earlier,” said Blaise. “It’s been so long since you’ve flown, I figured you should be on your own broom. Otherwise, you’d be so rusty I’d show you up so badly you wouldn’t know how to bear the shame.”

“Tosser,” said Draco as he took hold of his broomstick.

“You say that,” said Blaise with a grin, “But your face is saying thank you.”

“Merlin, I forgot what you two could be like together,” said Theo. “I’m of half a mind to take you back to the Ministry. Or better yet, I think it’s Blaise’s turn to be held there. I could use a break.”

Blaise scowled at his friend, and Draco caught himself laughing out loud. He felt like a weight he’d been carrying around for months – years – was lifting.

“And after, we’ll work on fattening you up,” continued Theo, undeterred by Blaise. “My mother helped me put together a veritable feast for you.”

“She was always very kind,” he said as he swung his leg over the broom and relished the familiar feel of the fine grain of the handle.

He looked up into the sky and sent a thought out into the void for those that were lost. He pictured Fred Weasley soaring through the air with a wicked grin on his face as he merrily pummeled bludgers. He remembered how Regulus rode the wind like he was born to do it. He took a deep breath and pushed off into air, making a conscious effort to embrace the life and freedom he had been granted.

With a whoop, Blaise joined him, and Theo too rose into the sky. Theo had never been a showy flier – had never tried out for the Quidditch team – but he was competent and calm in the air, just like he was about most things in life.

For a bit they circled lazily in the air as Draco reacquainted himself with his broom. It had been so long, he’d almost forgotten how good it felt to feel the air rushing against his face and whipping through his hair. The field of yellow flowers was even more breathtaking from above.

“Enough of this,” called Blaise. “My grandmother could fly faster.” The former Quidditch captain raced ahead, climbed higher, and then pelted toward the ground, skimming so close that the daffodils beneath him wavered in the breeze he created.

He heard Theo laugh from behind him, “Always the show off.”

Draco grinned, and turned his broom sharply so that he could face Theo, and that’s all it took. That one movement sent him back to the last time he’d flown on a broom. For a moment, he can hear the roar of Fiendfyre’s flames – hears Vince’s screams.

“Draco?” Theo calls, his voice barely breaking through the other sounds filling Draco’s mind.

He feels the broom wobble beneath him. He smells smoke.  The sun on the back of neck which had been so pleasant before suddenly burns. The broom tremors and he jolts as it drops.

“Draco!” Theo appears beside him and grabs the handle of the Nimbus. “Look at me. It’s alright, Draco. Everything is alright. We are safe. We are flying at Blaise’s, and we are safe.”

He nods his head.

“Everything is just fine. We are all safe,” Theo repeats.

The broom stuttered again.

“Breathe,” says his friend.

Draco nods again, and tries to remember what Curtis had told him to do. He takes deep breaths and focuses on Theo’s eyes. Despite the risk, he reaches a hand into his pocket and holds tight to the snitch so recently returned to him.

“Safe,” he whispers.

“Safe,” Theo agrees.

The snitch and his friend ground him. He isn’t in the Room of Hidden Things. He is flying above a field with his friends. The sea of gold beneath him isn’t Fiendfyre, it’s endless blooms of narcissus. And even on that horrible night, Potter had come back for him. Potter had saved him. He’d clasped tight to the Gryffindor as they’d flown out of the flames - he’d been safe. Safe. He was safe.

The broom ceased to tremor. The smell of smoke and the sounds of the greedy flames were gone. He was flying in the air with his friends on his first full-day of freedom. He watched as Blaise circled back through the sky toward him.

“Alright there, Draco?”

“Yes,” Draco answered. Blaise smiled and zoomed by, executing a perfect barrel roll. “Thanks,” Draco said to Theo.

Theo let go of the Nimbus. “You sure you’re good to fly?”

Draco grasped his broom with both hands. “I want to be.”

“Okay, then,” said his friend. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Draco was thankful later that his friends had taken him away somewhere quiet for the day. He soon learned from the papers that the reactions to his sentencing were very mixed. The editorial pages were filled with the reprinted letters of witches and wizards writing to The Prophet with their opinions. Some commenters opined that as more details of his actions during the War had emerged that it was clear he wasn’t a villain – rather a boy who had been ruthlessly used and had tried to help as much as he could in end. Others were not so kind, proclaiming that he would always be nothing but a Death Eater as evidenced by the permanent Dark Mark on his arm. He fell asleep with the left sleeve of his pajamas pushed up, staring at the Mark despite the darkness of his room.

Blaise and Theo came by for tea on Thursday, and on Friday afternoon they even managed to drag him out to Muggle London and he visited the music store Blaise had become fond of. It felt strange to be surrounded by people who had no idea who he was. In the Wizarding World he was infamous. His shock of silver, white hair denied him any anonymity. He understood why his friends – the children of Death Eaters and known Slytherin friends of his – found refuge amongst the Muggles that they’d once been taught to fear and hate.

Blaise was rifling through cases that he called “CDs” on display and exclaiming over different artists and bands that Draco had never heard of.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you up to speed,” assured his friend.

“Or not,” muttered Theo.

“Just because you’re a lost cause doesn’t mean Draco has to be.”

Theo shrugged, unperturbed. “I’m fine with that. I tag along with Blaise here and in return he puts up with my visiting a bookstore down the block. It’s wild, Draco, none of the photos on the magazines or book jackets move. We go to the cinema a lot too. Daphne has become obsessed.”

“I’m a bit obsessed too,” added Blaise as he continued to flip through albums.

“He’s keen to see ‘The Matrix,’” added Theo.

Salazar, his head was spinning. He had a lot of catching up to do. They’d written to him about their lives, but being with them - experiencing it, was vastly different.

“We’re meeting up with the girls at a pub in a bit,” said Blaise trying to sound casual. “Told them we’d bring you 'round with us.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?”

Theo had the grace to look sheepish. Blaise did not.

“We didn’t want to overwhelm you. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” said Theo.

“Like hell,” said Blaise. “Pansy will castrate me if I don’t turn up with him.”

“It’s fine,” he said, trying not to laugh at the look on Blaise’s face. “I’d like to see the girls.”

Later they stood outside the pub waiting for their friends. He watched as Muggles entered and exited the establishment. He still couldn’t quite believe that all of his pureblood Slytherin friends frequented the Muggle world. Theo’s thoughts must have been similar, as he said, “The only real drawback I have when we go Muggle is remembering I can’t do magic. It’s so ingrained, you know?  Using magic for every little thing without thinking about it.”

Draco wasn’t sure if he knew. It had been so long since he could summon and use his magic as he wanted, that he hadn’t even had to remind himself not to use magic this whole time. He was floored for a moment thinking about what his younger self would have thought about being removed from magic so long that it wasn’t second nature to draw upon for even the simplest things. He felt in his pocket for his replacement wand. How long would it take him to fully embrace his magic again?

“Draco!” he heard someone shriek.

He turned, jostled from his musings, just as Pansy and Daphne pelted into him. Salazar, you go away for almost a year and suddenly everyone loses all decorum by displaying affection in public. Not that he minded. Not really. After so long without human contact he liked the feel of their arms around him.

“Miss me,” he drawled.

“Never you pompous prat,” said Pansy clutching him even harder.

“Let him up for air,” said Millicent, who stood behind the pair currently squeezing the life out of him. Draco looked up to smile at her and the smile froze on his lips. Standing a few paces behind Millie was Greg Goyle. The boy looked thinner than the last time Draco had seen him – looked thinner than Draco had ever known him to be. His clothes hung off him – he’d not taken the trouble to alter them to fit him. His hair had grown out from the short style Greg had always worn and now brushed against his chin.

“Greg,” he said. The girls released him, but stood close by, as if they were afraid he’d disappear.

“Draco,” said, the boy, his voice sounding hoarse as if he barely ever used it.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” he said to the others. “Greg and I will meet you in the pub in a bit.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Blaise.

Pansy started to object, but Daphne gave her a pointed look before towing her away. With a few more murmured agreements and glances in his direction, his group of friends left them on the sidewalk in favor of the pub.

Draco jerked his head toward a side street and without a word, Greg followed him. He came to a stop beside what he assumed was a service door for the public house – what was the name of the place? He couldn’t recall. Didn’t really matter he supposed.

He turned to face the boy he’d known practically his whole life. Neither of them, he reflected were living the lives they’d once expected.

“The girls – they asked me to come out tonight. I didn’t know you were going to be here,” said Greg, looking at the cigarette butt littered ground. “I’ll go.”  He turned and started to walk away and Draco almost let him go – wanted to let him go – but they’d shared too much. They both had fathers that had helped turn them into the people they were today. So he didn’t let Greg go. He’d worked so hard, after all, to keep the other boy alive in the inferno that had engulfed the Room of Hidden Things, that it took far less effort to say, “Are you okay?”

The boy stopped. His shoulders sagged. Draco heard him sigh before he turned back to face him. The other Slytherin’s face looked . . . well it looked like he could cry at the slightest provocation. This wasn’t the burly bruiser Draco had once known.

“No,” said Greg. “No. I’m not okay.”

Draco took a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly. What the fuck should he say? What was there to say? At last he asked, “Are you sorry?”

The other boy started and for the first time he met Draco’s eyes. Greg did cry then – big fat tears that rolled down his cheeks. Merlin, Draco had broken him. But maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Greg had already been broken. Maybe they all were.

“Yeah,” said the other boy. “I am. I’m sorry every day.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. Salazar, feelings were bloody hard. At times like this he missed summoning up his mental shields, but Curtis had told him he needed to feel and then he needed to learn to cope with what he was feeling. Fucking therapists wanting to be all helpful. It was just like a Hufflepuff.

“I wish I could take it back – take it all back,” Greg continued. “Wish I’d never listened to my father – never listened to the Carrows. Wish I could have saved Vince. I lost . . . everything. My father’s in a cell, my mother barely speaks, and I’m on probation for the next two years. I don’t dare use my wand. I don’t want . . . I don’t want to do anything that could hurt anyone. I’m afraid of my magic.”

Draco watched as more tears fell. The larger boy wiped a sleeve across his face, and with that act, he looked so very young.

“What am I without magic? I was never good at school – never good at much of anything. I wasn’t even that good at spells, but at least I had magic.”

Draco felt the urge to protect Gregory Goyle, and he wondered if being in jail had turned him into a bleeding heart Gryffindor. Still, he carried on and said, “I’m sorry too.”

He let his words hang there like a lifeline and the other boy grabbed ahold. “Do you think it’ll get better? Do you think we can ever make up for what . . . what we did?”

He smiled what he knew was a sad smile at Greg, “I don’t know. I really don’t. But we can try. All we can do now is try.”

The other boy drew his other sleeve across his face, “We can try?”

“Yes, we can try,” Draco affirmed.

“Okay,” said Greg.

“Let’s start by trying to keep Pansy from coming out here and knocking our skulls together.”

Greg made a sound which could have been the huff of a laugh. Draco started walking toward the pub’s front door, and Greg, like countless other times in the past, took his place at Draco’s side.

Chapter 51: An Education

Draco stood awkwardly outside the front door of Ollivander’s shop at seven the Sunday evening after his release as the wandmaker’s recent letter had instructed. His old school bag hung across his chest and he gripped the handle of a trunk that had been spelled to be feather light in one hand. He glanced around him, hoping no one would see him. He was not looking forward to experiencing how others reacted to him, but the street was empty, as no businesses in this section of Diagon Alley were open at this hour on a Sunday.

His mother had wanted to accompany him, but Draco had felt that showing up for his apprenticeship was something he should do on his own. Still, he’d been nervous apparating to an apparation point in Diagon Alley. After talking with Greg, magic made him a bit nervous, or more specifically, his magic made him nervous. He’d used his power to do unspeakable things in the past. When he’d met with Curtis this last week, the man had encouraged him to cast small, reliable spells and build himself up. Apparating was the most he’d done, and he was relieved he hadn’t splinched himself.

He hiked the bag’s shoulder strap up higher, and with his free hand he knocked on the door. He took a step back and waited. Nothing. He bit his bottom lip. Had Ollivander forgotten him? Or had this whole apprenticeship been a terrible joke being played on him? He stepped forward and knocked again, more forceful this time. He heard a muffled call, “Coming. Just a moment.”

When the door opened there stood Ollivander, his hair as wild as the last time Draco had seen him. He wondered if the wandmaker and Potter shared ancestry as neither of them seemed capable of controlling their riotous hair. The older man smiled when he saw Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “You are very punctual I see. Do come in.” Ollivander waved his hand, beckoning him in.

Draco crossed the threshold, being careful not to bang his trunk on the doorframe. The shop looked much as he remembered it. The space took up the bottom two levels of the building, and a landing skirted around the second level with a grand set of stairs connecting the floors. Built in shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and half shelves created aisles on the main floor and on the landing above. The shelves were lined with wandboxes. A large counter stood toward the back of the shop’s bottom floor, and few display tables showcased a variety of wands held on delicate stands.

“Put aside your trunk young man. I’ll give you a tour and then you can have some time to settle in before I go home for the night.”

“I thought . . . you don’t live here?”

The wandmaker laughed, “Oh no – haven’t for years. I have a little cottage I floo to. You’ll have the run of the apartment upstairs.”

Draco looked around the shop – there must be hundreds – maybe thousands - of wands stocked in it.

“You . . . trust me alone . . . here?”

The older wizard looked at him with a bemused expression. “Mr. Malfoy, if you were going to do something evil or nefarious, I quite think you would have seen to that while I was a prisoner or, at least have gotten to it at some point during the War.”

He felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t believe this man had such faith him in. Fuck – only his mother, his closest friends, and Meredith had this much faith in him. Oh – and maybe his therapist and caseworker – but still - the list was pretty fucking short.

“Now this way,” said Ollivander, as he bustled off, not pausing to give Draco a chance to have a proper meltdown. “The shop floor I’m sure you’re more familiar with. We’ll go over how inventory is displayed another day. We are closed on Sundays and Mondays and on Tuesday we are open by appointment only.” He turned to look at Draco, “Some of our clientele prefer a more . . . private meeting.”

Draco tried not to grin like an idiot when Ollivander used “we” and “our” to describe the shop.

The older wizard lifted a portion of the counter which was hinged and stepped behind it. An open door behind the counter led to another room which was larger than Draco would have expected. The space was filled with windows and a door led out to what looked to be a small back alley. Work tables and shelves lined the interior walls and odd looking benches sat in the middle.

“Shaving horses,” said Ollivander, extending his hand toward the bench like forms. “Don’t worry, they are spelled with cushioning charms. They are much more comfortable than they look.”

“This is the . . . ”

“Studio,” The older man said, supplying the word Draco had been unsure of. “Or at least, it is one of them. I have another at my cottage. For many years, however, this was the space where I crafted all of my wands.”

The man continued on his way and led Draco through a side door that revealed a narrow, u-shaped staircase. “The rooms above are smaller than what you’re used to – but I hope you will be quite comfortable in them,” said the wandmaker as he climbed the worn treads. Draco didn’t have the heart to remind the man that he’d spent close to a year in small cell, so everything else seemed spacious in comparison.

They climbed up two levels before reaching the top of the stairs. A plain door that opened into small living room that was furnished with rather old looking pieces of furniture. A large fireplace was built in the interior wall, the mantle was so tall, Draco guessed he wouldn’t even have to duck to use it to floo places. An opening at one end revealed a small dining room and a narrow hallway with a few closed doors led out of the room in the opposite direction.

“The kitchen is just through the dining room,” said Ollivander. “The largest bedroom is down the hallway along with a bathroom and linen closet. Another door opens on to stairs to the fourth story. There are three smaller bedrooms, another bathroom, and a storage room on the top floor. You can have your pick of bedrooms, while the one on this floor is the largest, the rooms above get your further away from the noise of the street.” The man swept his hand toward the fireplace, “I apologize, but the Ministry has required that the floo network be partially sealed. You can make and receive fire calls, but it is closed to travel except to my cottage, the Ministry, and St. Mungo’s. They don’t want you flooing back to your mother’s every night.”

Fuck. Ollivander’s life was being thrown into upheaval because of him. Had the man realized what he was getting into when he’d offered Draco an apprenticeship? The offer had been made before the guilty verdict. And then he’d need time away for therapy, to meet with his caseworker, and for a standing appointment with the Ministry. Maybe Ollivander was regretting this whole thing.

“I’m sorry," said Draco.  "I’m sorry that your life is being disrupted because of me.”

Ollivander waved a hand again. The man, Draco was learning, was very expressive with his hands. “It’s hardly a bother. I don’t floo hardly anywhere these days, and if that changes I’ll simply ask to have the location added.”

“But . . . have you considered that people might . . . boycott you. Boycott your shop for having me here? This could hurt your livelihood.”

“Have no concern for my livelihood Mr. Malfoy. My vault is quite . . . healthy. I don’t engage in this craft for the money – my family hasn’t really for generations – rather we make wands because it is our calling. If people don’t like that I’ve taken you into my employ then they are welcome to make their purchases from inferior shops. What I need is an apprentice that is called to this craft – someone to whom I can impart two thousand years of collective knowledge and skill.” The man paused and tilted his head as if considering Draco. He straightened and then asked, “Was I mistaken in thinking you had an appetite for this subject?”

Draco clutched the wand in his wand pocket. He wanted this. He did. As crazy at it seemed he wanted to learn – wanted to become a master in the field. “No, sir. You weren’t wrong.”

Ollivander's face relaxed. “Excellent. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Tomorrow we’ll start by going over the shop’s inventory system and we’ll go over your schedule. I have some books for you to review. I’ll arrive at the floo in the shop at nine in the morning. In the meantime you’ll find the kitchen stocked with basics. I have credit with practically all the shops on Diagon Alley, so if there are other foodstuffs you wish to have, merely pick them up and have the balance charged to my account.” The man headed toward the hearth. He reached his hand in a simple black urn on the mantle, a few grains of floo powder sifted through his fingers. He turned back to Draco suddenly, as if just remember something, “Oh – and friends and visitors are welcome after hours, but I’d ask that they be admitted through the back door. Too many people coming through the front makes it seem like we are open for business.”

Before Draco’s shock at Ollivander’s faith in him could register on his face the man said, “Bwthyn Onnen,” and flung down the powder. The wandmaker was spirited away in an eruption of green flames. Draco rapidly felt for the snitch in his pocket and held it tight as he steadied his breathing. Fucking flames. Fucking floos. He doubted he’d be making any fire calls. Owls were quite a satisfactory method of communication thank you very much.

He stepped a bit further away from the fireplace and looked around the space. It was sparsely furnished but tidy. All of the furniture was dated, but it looked to be good quality. He was used to old furniture – the Manor was practically a museum and it would have been a listed building on a heritage register if the Muggles had known about it.

He walked down the hall and found that the first door led to a bathroom that held older fixtures, but it had been retrofitted with a shower. The next door down was the closet, and the door after opened onto the bedroom. The room was bigger than his cell and boasted three windows and two closets. He tested the bed. It was more comfortable than the jail cot, but not by much. It likely hadn’t been used for years and had settled. He could always spell it he supposed. The door to the stairs was on the opposite side of the hall and the treads were even narrower than the other staircase. He poked his head in all the upper level bedrooms – they were all roughly the same size, and the bathroom was much the same as the one on the lower residential level. He climbed the final stairway and discovered that it led up to the roof. A small owlery stood empty, and weathered garden furniture was scattered about. The view of the neighborhood, however, was top-notch – he guessed that it must be even more spectacular during the day. Ollivander’s building was taller than its immediate neighbors. The only building taller was Gringott’s, which was several buildings down. He could see the street lights below lit up, but above he had a clear view of the stars. He guessed there must be some sort of enchantment that allowed the stars to be so distinct despite all the light.

Draco let the cool night air wash over him. He was in the heart of the Wizarding World’s most populous neighborhood which in turn was nestled amidst Great Britain’s largest city, yet he felt alone. He’d been alone so long in his cell that the feeling was familiar, but after his few short days of freedom, he’d grown used to having his mother and friends around. He hoped he could build a semblance of a life for himself here.

 

He didn’t sleep well in the unfamiliar room. He’d chosen the bedroom on the top floor that had a view of Gringott’s. He’d spelled the mattress to be more comfortable, and he’d gotten up in the night and spelled it again, but it didn’t make much difference. He’d wrestled with the hob trying to boil water for tea like his caseworker had taught him, but he couldn’t figure out the dials. There must be a trick to it that he didn’t know, so he’d heated his water with magic and just like Ms. Lewis had said, his tea didn’t taste near as good.

A couple of minutes to nine he made his way down to the shop floor and heard the roar of floo flames as he came through into the shop itself. He took a steadying breath and greeted his mentor as the man stepped out of the hearth brushing soot away.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Ollivander in a very peppy voice, sounding disturbingly like a morning person. “How was your night?”

“The accommodations were very nice, thank you, sir. But I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t figure out how to work the stove. None of the dials worked.”

Ollivander winced. “That is my fault. The stove was spelled eons ago so that only those granted access could use it. It’s a safety feature so young children – and apparently senile old wizards like myself – couldn’t set the house aflame. I’ll add you in before I leave this evening.”

“Oh. That would be lovely.” Draco felt better that he wasn’t completely incompetent.  "Thank you."

The wandmaker beckoned him further out on the shop floor, “Now, let’s walk you through the shop’s inventory system.” Draco had been rather daunted by the idea of ever understanding how all the wands were arranged, but turned out that it actually made a lot of sense. The shop was divided into three large sections vertically. Each section housed wands made from one of the three core types that Ollivander used. Wands made of the more common woods were stocked at the bottom and the higher up one went the wand woods became more rare, with the rarest woods on the top shelves of the second floor.

“Over here,” said Ollivander, waving a hand to a narrow shelf in the furthest corner of the shop, “Are wands made of cores other than dragonheart string, unicorn hair, or phoenix feather. I have carefully studied the properties of wandcores and I only craft wands with cores of those three materials. My father and other ancestors, however, crafted wands with other cores. These wands are what remains of their stock. It is very rare that one of these wands will chose a wizard, but it does happen on occasion.”

“What type of cores are in those wands?” Draco asked.

“Oh, kelpie hair, kneazle whisker, dittany stalk, and veela hair. In the Americas they use other core types as well that may be quite good, but I’ve not studied those. Wands tend to work better with cores native the land of the wizard.”

Draco remembered the story in his childhood book about the three Peverell brothers and asked, “What about threstral tail hair?”

“That my boy, is beyond rare. According to lore, it was the core of the Elder Wand. Many wandmakers have tried to create a wand with this core, but have failed. You can only see and handle a threstral’s tail if you have seen death. And legend has it that you can only successfully craft a wand with this core if you are willing to die. Few of us can claim that, even those of us that are quite advanced in years such as myself.”

Draco wondered who had crafted the Elder Wand that he'd apparently once had mastery over. He’d never once held that wand in his hand, and he was glad of that. The Dark Lord might have used him as a weapon, but more than likely, he would have been struck down with the killing curse so fast that his mother wouldn’t have even had the chance to beg for his life. He doubted he'd have been brave about facing his death, unlike Potter.  Potter, after all, had stood across from the Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest waiting to die. Draco can’t imagine the fear that had pulsed through Potter’s heart as he expected each beat to be his last.

“Now,” said the wandmaker, pulling Draco away from thoughts of Potter. “In the studio I have laid out samples of all three of the core types that I use.  I want you to study them – to handle them. The goal is that when you close your eyes you will be able to identify the core type through the magical signature they release. This skill is very useful in identifying the core’s of unknown wands.”

Each day that week Draco spent time sitting with the core samples with his eyes closed. Even after Ollivander went home, he’d work on feeling each core type’s inherent magic. By the end of the week he was able to feel the pull of the unicorn tail hair. The wandmaker thought that was because Draco’s original wand had been a unicorn hair wand and thus he was likely more attuned to that core type.

He’d also observed Ollivander at a private appointment with a client on Tuesday. The witch who entered the store was older, older than Draco’s parents. He'd watched and learned as Ollivander helped her find her match in a wand. After the woman left Draco asked, “Did she break her wand?”

Ollivander’s eyebrows rose for a moment before he'd said, “People change throughout their lives. Many of us use the wand we originally matched with when we were children. Summer is our busiest time of year as a stream of eleven-year-olds enter the shop to select their first wands. But just as many people find that a new wand will respond better to them as time goes by. Often major life events can trigger a change. This War, Mr. Malfoy, has left its imprint on numerous witches and wizards, requiring them to find new wands. So right now, and likely for years to come, wands will be in high demand.  Regardless of why a new wand is needed - through accident or change - it can often be an emotional experience to let go of a prior wand and replace it with another.”  Draco had nodded in agreement, thinking of his hawthorn wand.

Draco was surprised at how much he enjoyed learning from and working with Ollivander. The man was admittedly odd – Ravenclaws after all are prone to speaking in cryptic riddles, but the man always took the time to try and explain what he was doing and why. He also regularly asked Draco if he had any questions. But what stood out most to Draco, was that on Thursday during the noon hour, Ollivander had accompanied him to the grocers and other shops and stands on Diagon Alley. With the illustrious wandmaker by his side, no one had called him a Death Eater or thrown hexes his way. He had received some glares that would have wilted a mandrake, but the most common expression directed his way was curiosity. He guessed that no one had ever seen a Malfoy heir out doing the weekly shopping. He was pretty sure he was pants at figuring out what he’d need for the week, but he'd tried to maintain a look of cool confidence.

Upon his return to the shop, Draco had lugged his purchases up to his flat and found an owl waiting for him on the window ledge with a letter from Caseworker Lewis asking him to meet her on Friday afternoon, along with an address.

So here he sat in a coffee shop in Muggle London trying not to appear out of place. His attire was admittedly a little more formal than the clothing worn by other people who looked to be his age. Still, while he might not have the apparel down precisely yet, he was pleased that he’d ordered himself a coffee and a biscotti and had paid for it with Muggle funds. Caseworker Lewis smirked at him from over her own cup of coffee, likely noting the self-satisfied expression on his face.  Now that he was out of the Ministry cell, she’d informed him that she’d meet with him at different Muggle locations each week so that they could carry on their work together.

He saw her glance around the shop. They were seated at a corner table. She flicked her hand and murmured, “Muffliato.”

Draco spluttered on his beverage. “You didn’t?”

“What? Blatantly ignore the Statute of Secrecy?” she said. “I cast the charm, Mr. Malfoy, so that we can continue to abide by the Statute. We can’t have people overhearing our conversation.”

He shifted in his chair, “Then why did you choose to meet here?”

“My job, Mr. Malfoy, is to help prepare you for an independent life and to help you appreciate and respect those among us who are non-magical. There are few things more quintessential for a person your age than going to a coffee shop.”

The witch lifted her large bag from the floor and thumped it decisively on the small table. His mug jostled a bit, and some of his coffee sloshed out. He frowned at the woman, but if she noticed she paid him no mind. She opened her bag and rummaged around until she pulled out a couple of pamphlets. “We have covered the material on our original list, so today we are going to move on. I’m assuming that during your time at Hogwarts there was still no sex education?”

He felt his eyes widen. Oh no. She wasn’t really going to go there, was she?

“I take your frightened silence to mean that no, Hogwarts still continued to be sadly lacking in sex ed.”

“Don’t do this Ms. Lewis, I’m begging you.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking not a bit sorry, “But we are doing this. We will start with contraceptive and protection charms.”

A contraceptive charm? What the – oh. Oh. He was a pureblood from a very traditional family. She assumed, like the rest of the Wizarding World most likely, that he was going to marry a woman from a magical family and make babies – or at least an heir. He’d realized over the last year that he had absolutely no interest in that future . . . or in women. He might have known who was sooner if he’d not worked to suppress himself for so long in his effort to be the perfect Malfoy son. Having his life co-opted by a maniacal dark wizard probably hadn’t helped him on a journey of self-discovery either. But no matter how long it had taken him to understand himself, he wasn’t going to bury that now, at least not with her.

“I’m gay,” he blurted out.

She shrugged, utterly unimpressed with his announcement. “That’s not going to get you out of this discussion, Mr. Malfoy. We perhaps will not focus as extensively on contraceptive charms, but we will cover them just to be thorough.”

“Just Avada me,” he groused.

His caseworker ignored him and rifled through her enchanted bag again and pulled out some more pamphlets which she slid over to him. He felt himself blush when he read the titles.

“I don’t need diagrams on gay sex.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You are that knowledgeable are you?”

He felt his blush deepen. Surely nothing he’d done had merited this – this was beyond the pale – likely worse than a stay in Azkaban.

“I understand that this conversation may seem embarrassing to you, Mr. Malfoy, but it is important that we discuss safe sex and consent. It is also important for you to understand that sex, in all of its consensual forms, is okay. The best way to know if you have consent for a sexual activity is to ask, but when you ask, pay attention to your partner’s words as well as their body language.”

He wanted to melt into the floor. Neither of his parents had ever given him “the talk.” Participating in a War and hosting the Dark Lord must have derailed their parenting. Then again, even if his teenage years hadn’t been a complete disaster, he couldn’t imagine either his father or his mother speaking to him about sex.

Ms. Lewis continued on, unconcerned by his mortification, “It is important that you listen to yourself as well. In a healthy relationship, you will be able to say no to things and not be made to feel badly if you do say no. You have the right to feel comfortable, safe, and pleasured. Both you and your partner can change your minds while being intimate. And getting consent can be sexy. You can ask things like, ‘Do you like this?’, ‘May I touch you there?’, ‘Do you want to keep going?’”

He cringed when she used the word sexy. He didn’t think he’d ever said that word in his life and doubted he ever would. He wondered if he could ask Blaise – no, strike that – Blaise would have too much fun taking the piss – no he’d ask Theo to Obliviate that word from his mind. Perhaps he’d ask Theo to Obliviate this whole conversation.

“What questions do you have before we move on to protection charms and other charms that would be desirable to know before, during, and after sexual activity?” asked his caseworker.

He shook his head.

“Mr. Malfoy – Draco – it’s just you and I,” she waved her hand about her to indicate the other patrons of the café who were utterly oblivious to their conversation. “There are no silly questions.”

Salazar this was painful. Talking. Talking about . . . intimacy. He wanted to bolt, but he reminded himself that he was trying to build a better life than the one he’d once thought possible, so he took the erumpent by the horn and tried to express his feelings, “I’m not sure I have any questions.” She gave him a quizzical look, so he rushed to add, “It’s just that I don’t think this . . . talk applies to me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Well . . . because of who I am . . . who I was. No one is going to want . . . me. Not really. Not in that way.” His caseworker gave him a look that would have curdled milk, but he continued on, “Somebody wanting to get off with my dark persona might come seeking a thrill with me – but that’s all it will be – a person wanting to brag about how they’ve been with a . . . well . . . a bad boy. No one will ever want me – to be with me.”

His caseworker smiled at him, sad and soft. “Mr. Malfoy, I admit that you will have to learn to separate the wheat from the chaff – and there may be a lot of chaff – but you will learn to spot the difference.” She sighed, “Excuse me for saying this, but your life was never going to be easy. If the War hadn’t happened, or, if Godric forbid, You-Know-Who had won, you would have been what? A closeted gay man who married a woman from a pureblood family to satisfy his family’s expectations? For all of the obstacles you will face, you at least get to be you – you with all your flaws and all your fine points.” She held one of her pamphlets out to him, “So I for one, am going to take my job quite seriously and prepare you for the life you should have some day.”

He gazed at her – at this marvel of a woman. For whatever reason, she believed in him – believed in his chance for a future. He accepted the offered pamphlet. She cleared her throat, “Now Mr. Malfoy let us review. We shall start with a protection charm, please repeat after me.”

It took a bit of effort to haul himself back toward the shop from the nearest apparition point.  He was exhausted after his meeting with Caseworker Lewis.  She'd been most thorough in having him learn multiple charms and had sent him off with his old school bag stuffed full of educational pamphlets.  There were times during his conversation with her that he became so uncomfortable he thought his scars were going to burst open. Still, he supposed it was a conversation that needed to be had. Perhaps sex education should be on curriculum at Hogwarts. He wondered who would teach it. He had trouble thinking of any of his former professors teaching such a class. Lockhart would have made the discussion so over-the-top that it would have been impossible to bare it. McGonagall would have been so matter-of-fact in her presentation of the topic that it would have put him right off the idea of sex for at least half a century. And Snape – well thinking of Snape lecturing the student body about sex education was inconceivable.

Snape.

Fucking Snape.

He’d never gotten to say goodbye. He’d read in the papers that Potter had been there in the end when Snape had died. The papers never seemed to tire of running stories about Potter or plastering pictures of the dark-haired boy across their pages.

Salazar, he’d seen so many photos of Potter it was mind boggling. Every time the Gryffindor sneezed it seemed to end up in the papers. Not that Draco was looking for pictures of Potter…

The shop was closed for the night, so Draco cut behind to the back alley to let himself in. He saw the outline of a man standing on the stoop. What the fuck? He reached into his pocket and grasped his wand. “Hello?” he called.

“Draco,” called a voice that he recognized and he let out the breath he’d been holding. “Sorry, hope I didn’t startle you.” Theo stepped toward him holding a package in his hand. “I was going to leave this here for you since you were out. I should have owled first, but I got so excited I came right away.”

“What got you all excited?” asked Draco, closing the distance. The wards of the shop recognized him and let him open the door. “Come in,” he said, beckoning Theo into the studio.

“Wow,” breathed Theo. “This is amazing.”

Draco smiled at his friend. Theo had always been studious and interested in magical history. No doubt the subject of wandlore interested him.

“Oh, right,” said the other boy, holding out the box to him. “This is why I came. I . . . Well, I made this for you. I made one for me last summer after . . . well after everything, and I thought you might like one too now that you are in a new place.”

Draco took the box and it on one the work tables.  He pulled the lid open, and nestled inside on a bed of crumpled paper was a glass globe a little bigger than his fist. He pulled out the globe and saw that it was affixed to a base of onyx.

“It’s a lamp,” Theo explained. “When you touch it and say, ‘Lumos,’ it creates lights that look like the ripples of light that filtered through the lake to the Slytherin dormitory. It . . . It helps me sleep. Reminds me of a place where I felt safe – most of the time.  It runs off by touching it and saying, 'Nox.'”

Draco looked up at his friend. “You made this for me?”

Theo shifted a bit and then nodded, “Yeah.”

“Lumos,” he said, pressing his fingers to the globe. Within a moment soft green light reflected on the walls and ceiling of the studio. The light rippled and shifted like it had through his whole childhood in the Slytherin sanctuary. Merlin, it was wonderful. And he had felt safe in the common room and in his dorm room – safer than he’d felt at home the last two years of school. “How did you know that I wasn’t sleeping well?”

“Just a hunch. I don’t think any of us were really . . . after. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to.”

“Theo, thank you. It’s wonderful. I can’t believe . . . I can’t believe you made this for me.”

The other boy shifted again on his feet. “I wanted to. I should have . . . I wish I had been brave enough to come visit you while you were at the Ministry. But I . . .” he stopped.

“It’s okay, Theo. I understand.”

Theo shook his head, “It’s not just that I don’t want to see my father while he is in jail. I never want to see my father again. Ever.” Theo’s eyes met his. “I hope he goes to Azkaban for the rest of his life and leaves my mother and I the fuck alone.”

Draco reached out and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “And that’s okay, Theo. You’re allowed to feel that way.” His fellow Slytherin nodded. “How about you come up and see my flat?” asked Draco, wanting to draw Theo away from the subject of his wretched father.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Later that night, Draco lay in bed surrounded by the shimmering green light. The patterns Theo’s gift made in his bedroom reminded him much of his home – his true home. He thanked Merlin that even after everything, he still had friends like Theo Nott in his life.

Chapter 52: Making Amends

Draco met with Curtis in the man’s office every Tuesday at eleven in the morning. His therapist
had office space above an antique book store on Charing Cross Road a few blocks away from the Leaky Cauldron. Curtis had explained that his clientele was a mix of the magical and the mundane. Two weeks after he started his apprenticeship, Draco asked Curtis how he might go about making amends to the people he had harmed. The first anniversary of the Battle was approaching, and the weight of his action was heavy on his mind.

“You could try writing letters of apology,” suggested his therapist. “The recipients may not forgive you, but it is important for you and your recovery to engage in reparative work. I think it is positive that you want to make amends.”

“Letters? What would I say? What could even begin to be enough?” he asked.

“Let’s beak that down, Draco,” said his therapist. “First, you will make a list of the people you think you should send letters of apology to. In each letter, you are going to acknowledge the offense, provide an explanation, express remorse, and ask what you can do to repair the damage. Now let me be clear here, providing an explanation does not mean making excuses or blaming the person you are writing to, it means conveying whether your actions were intentional or not and stating that you will not do those things again. Do you understand that distinction?”

His mouth was dry. Oh shit. Writing these letters would be like lancing his own heart. How many would there be? Six? A dozen? A letter for every witch and wizard in Great Britain? Then again, many of the people he owed an apology to were dead. He’d never be able to apologize to Vince for being a fucking awful friend on so many occasions. Salazar. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Draco?”

“I understand,” he managed to say.

“I think it would be helpful before you send the letters for us to review them together. Next week for your session, come in with a list of people you are going to write a letter to and then each week we’ll identify who you are going to write a letter to. Okay?”

“Right . . . Yeah. Great.”

It came as no surprise that he struggled with the list. He kept parchment on the dining room table of his flat and he kept adding names to it.

Katie Bell . . .

Madam Rosmerta . . .

Leanne Linton . . .

Bill Weasley . . .

Ron Weasley . . . Oh Merlin – his eleven year old self would be in a strop if he’d had to write an apology to Ronald Bloody Weasley.

Andromeda Tonks . . .

Neville Longbottom . . .

Hermione Granger . . . Again, so fucking glad his eleven year old self was well and truly in the past.

Luna Lovegood . . .

Rubeus Hagrid . . . “A servant,” he could hear his younger self say. Well – that child is gone. Fuck younger Draco.

Five minutes before he left to make his way to Curtis’ office, he added a final name.

Harry Potter.

 

May 2, 1999, was drizzly in London and the forecast for Hogsmeade, Scotland was the same. A memorial service was planned at Hogwarts at ten in the morning on this first anniversary of the Battle. The papers had reported that Potter and the rest of Golden Trio would be in attendance and would be sharing remarks. Shacklebolt was to give an address, as was Headmistress McGonagall. A memorial was going to be unveiled on the grounds and flowers were going to be laid. The Ministry had been busy setting up portkeys to and from Hogsmeade from locations all around Great Britain to accommodate the massive turnout, as well as erecting multiple new floo connections within the magical village abutting Hogwarts. The Hogwarts Express was even making a special trip out and back for people that did not wish or could not travel by other magical means.

Draco would not be in attendance. He’d arranged to have flowers sent to the service in memory of Lupin and Nymphadora. He’d also sent flowers to Vince’s mother. Vince had been lost to him before his death and well and truly lost after his death. But Draco couldn’t help but feel that if Vince had been raised differently, or if other adults had intervened, then perhaps the boy would never have been lost. He’d never know of course, but the question would always remain.

His mother had asked him to her townhouse, and Blaise and Theo had invited him to spend the day with them. He’d declined both requests. He knew what they were doing. They were trying to distract him – to keep him from thinking about this day – about all the mistakes he had made before the War ended. But he didn’t want to be distracted. He wanted to feel it – needed to feel it – needed to wrap himself in his memories and regrets.

So he sat alone on the roof in one of the faded patio chairs and let the drizzle slowly saturate his clothes and dampen his hair. He eventually had to cast a warming charm on himself, and after he did he rolled up his left sleeve and looked at the Dark Mark. It was still bold against his skin, but it had started to fade a bit. He traced the lines with the fingers of his right hand, skimming down the twisting serpent. Merlin, he’d been so afraid to touch it when the Dark Lord was alive – afraid he’d accidently summon the wizard. He covered the Mark with his hand and closed his eyes. He thought of the names of people lost in this War – in both the wars started by Lord Voldemort – whispering their names out loud – hoping that his thoughts of them would reach them beyond the veil. He thought of Fred Weasley, Colin Creevey, Charity Burbage, and Nymphadora Tonks. He thought of Severus Snape and Lily Potter. He felt his chest heave as he remembered Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, and his heart broke as images of James Potter and Regulus Black drifted through his mind. Lost. So much promise gone.

Words from Regulus’ letter to him, the heir of the House of Black, unspooled in his memory, “When I am lost, I look to the stars. The stars remind me who I love and who I have lost. They remind me that even when I am gone, a part of me will continue to exist.”

He wished it was dark and that the sky was clear. He’d like to search the heavens for the heart of the lion. But even without the stars, he knew that he’d carry Regulus with him forever – carry the memory of him and his star-crossed love. Perhaps that is what remained. Love. Isn’t that how the world had been saved? Through the love and sacrifice of Regulus, James, Lily, Snape, and Harry Potter. Potter had loved the world enough that he’d gone alone to face the Dark Lord and lay down his life.

His musing were interrupted by the sound of knocking from below amplified by the wards. He walked to the half wall that ringed the roof and looked down to the street. He could see the top of a brown head standing on the step of the shop entrance. It was a Sunday and May 2nd, who in their right mind would think the shop would be open? He decided to ignore this person, when they lifted their face up as if scanning the windows for signs of life. His breath caught. It was Lavender.

“Give me a moment – I’ll come down,” he called. The girl’s face craned even further back, as she searched for where his voice had come from. He didn’t give her time to find him, he was off, practically running down the flights of stairs to reach her.

He opened the shop door and she was still there, standing on the stoop. She wore a dress and matching coat of dark purple and black, and she looked just as bedraggled as he probably did after sitting out in the drizzle for so long.

“Brown?”

“Lavender,” she corrected.

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other. At last he remembered his manners, “Would you like to come in?”

The Gryffindor stepped into the shop. She looked around, taking in the shelves of narrow boxes. “I haven’t been in here since I was eleven.”

He closed the door. “Weren’t you supposed to be at . . . at the memorial ceremony?”

“I was there,” she said bending to look closer at a wand in a display case. “It was . . . Well it was really quite terrible actually.”

Draco had no idea what the fuck was going on here. Really – no bloody clue. When they’d been in school he’d barely given Lavender Brown the time of day. Yet here she was seeking him out for what – the third time? His mother had always told him that when in doubt be polite. He honestly hadn’t followed her advice that often with his peers, but he supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to try now.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. It was all he could do not to wince at his own words – he sounded stiff and wooden.

The girl turned away from the wand to look at him. Her light brown hair was pulled back from her face, as if she’d wanted the world to see her scars on this day of days.

“Do you honestly want to hear about it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

She sighed. “Fine.” She turned partially away from him and seemed to be looking at the display again. After a long moment she said, “It was a lot. Going back to Hogwarts. In school, I was a flighty, boy crazy girl. And that was fine. I had good friends, and we were just typical teenagers. Despite all of the drama and chaos swirling around us, we just tried to be normal – tried to be happy – and mostly, we were. And then the War happened. And my life changed. Going back to Hogwarts today reminded me of how I’m not the girl I once was. I’m different. I’ll never be that girl again – never be carefree like that again.” She turned to look at him, “That’s why I came here.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, beyond confused.

“Everyone else at the ceremony is trying to be who they once were. Harry Potter is still trying to save the world training to be an Auror, and everyone is just going on as if – as if everything hasn’t changed. But it has changed. Everything has changed. Then I saw the flowers sent in honor of Professor Lupin and his wife. No one knew who had sent them. But I knew. Knew it had to be you. It was wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he agreed, unable to deny it – unable to deny her.

“You aren’t trying to be who you once were, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

A slight smile formed on her lips. “That’s why I came to see you. You know what it’s like – you know it is impossible to be who you used to be.”

“I was a right little shit,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose that in and of itself was fairly normal for a teenager. But I . . . well we all know what I did. I took it to the extreme and took the Dark Mark.”

“And are you sorry about that?” she asked, her soft brown eyes focused on him.

He swallowed. “Everyday.”

She nodded at him. “I should be going. My parents probably think I’m off having a panic attack somewhere. I sent them home right after the ceremony.”

The Gryffindor turned toward the door, and he said, “Come back sometime. I’d like . . . I’d like to get to know Lavender Brown as she is . . . as she is now.”

She turned back to smile at him, wide and full this time. “I’d like that, Malfoy.”

“Draco,” he said. “Call me Draco.”

The Gryffindor came back a few days later in the middle of the afternoon bearing a box of pastries. Ollivander was delighted by the appearance of someone new in Draco’s life and insisted that Draco take a break to brew tea and visit with his guest. He discovered that Lavender was more interesting than he ever gave her credit for in school. Then, he’d only known her as a girl that was prone to giggle, dress in excessively frilly and sparkly clothes, and liked to snog Weasley in sixth year in rather disgusting public displays. She admitted that she no longer liked to wear attention seeking clothing as she adjusted to the stares her scars received. She was also studying to be a physical therapist.

“We really rely too much on magic to heal everything,” she told Draco on Sunday after he’d returned from lunch with his mother. “Don’t get me wrong, magic is wonderful for some things, but other wounds – other hurts – need time and diligence. I learned that with my own physical recovery.”

They were sitting on top of one of the studio work tables facing each other. A bottle of butter beer sat between them. They took turns sipping at it.

“Do you like it – learning about physical therapy?”

“Yes, I do. I like the idea that patience can yield results that are more rewarding and lasting for some injuries than a potion or a swish of the wand.” She shrugged, “And my magic has gone a bit . . . well . . . off, since the Battle. So it’s nice to be learning about a topic that doesn’t rely on it exclusively.”

“What do you mean, off?”

The girl shrugged and took a sip of the butterbeer before saying, “It’s sluggish – my spellwork isn’t as quick as it used to be, and nothing feels the way it used to when I cast.”

“Let me see your wand,” he said. Lavender gave him a puzzled look but handed it over. He was honored that she trusted him enough to turn her wand over to him. He held it in both of hands and concentrated on the feel of its magic. “Dragonheart string. Dogwood.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I don’t think it’s your magic Lavender, I think it’s your wand. Loads of people need to be paired with a different wand during their life as they grow and change, and lots of witches and wizards have needed new wands since . . .”

“The War,” she breathed.

“Yeah. Dogwood wands usually pair with practitioners who are playful and clever.”

Lavender frowned, “Playful. That was me . . . but now . . .”

He slid off the table and held his hand out to her, “Come with me into the shop. I think we can find you something that will better suit you.”

She took the hand he offered and he helped her down. He didn’t let go of her hand as he led her through the shop. He could tell she was nervous, and he wouldn’t let her go until he needed to.

“Let’s start with the core. Let’s try something besides dragonheart string. Hmmm…” he took her to the section of the shop where unicorn tail hair wands were stacked. “My wand . . . well, my first wand, had a unicorn tail core and I think that might suit you well. They make the most faithful of wands and produce consistent magic – that sounds like something you’d like right now.” He tapped his chin with his free hand. What to do for the wood? “I’m going to have you start with beech wood, okay? It matches well with those wise beyond their years.”

He let go of her hand to pull a box from the shelf. He opened the cover and drew out a richly hued wand. “Don’t be disappointed if this first wand doesn’t suit. We can take all the time we need, yeah?”

She nodded, her eyes large. He passed her the wand.

“Give it a swish,” he encouraged.

Lavender closed her eyes for a moment as if gathering her courage. She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes, and waved the wand in a graceful arch. Her face fell. “Nothing,” she said.

Draco took the wand back from her and put it back in the box. “Not to worry.” He looked up scanning the shelves. What might suit this girl learning to find her way again? “Ah!” He grabbed her hand again, “Come with me.” He towed her up the stairs to the second floor of the shop where even rarer woods were housed. He released her to pull a ladder over so that he could climb to the top of the shelf. Standing on the second highest step, he pulled down a box and cradled it carefully to his chest as he came back down the ladder. He stood in front of her to unbox the wand.

“What’s it made of?”

“Willow. It’s an uncommon wand wood. It has healing power. It usually matches with an owner that has an insecurity, even when they really have nothing to be insecure about,” he gave her a pointed look. “The wood responds to those who have great potential.” He passed her the wand.

“It’s beautiful.”

He nodded at her to encourage her. She took another deep breath, and then arched the wand through the hair. She gasped in shock.

“It - Draco!”

He laughed. “Show me.”

She pointed the wand at the ladder and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The ladder rose in the air, and she laughed aloud too, her whole face alight with joy. “It works! Godric, it works!”

“No sluggish magic?”

“No,” she exclaimed before setting the ladder back down. “I can’t believe it! You did it!” She flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you! Oh, Draco, thank you.”

“I didn’t do that much,” he protested.

“Don’t make me upset,” she said still clinging to him. “Don’t ruin this moment for me with fake modesty.”

“Bloody Gryffindor,” he said, relenting and hugging her back. She stood in his embrace for a few more moments before pulling away, her face radiant. “You are going to be an even fiercer witch now. Good thing you’re my friend or I’d be in trouble.”

As soon as he realized what he’d said, he felt himself blanch. Friend. Fuck. Surely he was overstepping.

“Good thing,” she agreed, not missing a beat.

He took a deep breath and smiled at her, more grateful than he’d ever be able to express.

“What should I do with my old wand?”

“A lot of people keep theirs for sentimental value or to have a spare. Or you could donate it. Professor McGonagall has started collecting old wands for students to have on hand at the school.”

“I . . . Well . . .” she stammered.

“You don’t have to decide today. You can keep them both and if you decide you want to donate your old wand, you can.” She smiled at him again. He took her old wand and boxed it up for her. “There. And be sure to think of Ollivander’s for all of your future wand accessory needs,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“You are really just a big softy in dark wizard clothing aren’t you?”

“How dare you,” he said, his tone teasing. “My reputation would never recover if you so much as hinted that I might have a heart.”

After Lavender left, two butterbeers later, he sat down and tried to compose letters. He tried his hand first at a letter for Andromeda. He didn’t have much to apologize for personally, when it came to her, but he felt he should apologize for the rift in their family. There were so few of them left now after all. And so the days passed. He continued to learn more working with Ollivander, he spent time with his friends, and he kept working on writing his letters. It was painful to write to Madame Rosmerta and Katie Bell, as his transgressions toward them had been so horrible. He wrote that he had been Crucio’d by his aunt and the Dark Lord, and that he knew what it was like to have his free will taken away, and that he was sorry he had hurt them. As hard as those letters were to compose, the hardest letter for him to write was to Potter. What was he supposed to say to the boy who had saved them all - to the Gryffindor whose eyes had haunted him? Surprisingly, it was Luna Lovegood that helped him find the words. She appeared in the shop in the afternoon the day after he’d owled her his letter of apology.

“Luna child, it is so good to see you,” said Ollivander as she walked toward the counter.

“Hello Mr. Ollivander,” she said, smiling at the wandmaker. Her long, pale hair haloed around her face, and she wore a flowing dress covered in sunflowers with earrings that looked like mushrooms.

“When you came for lunch on Sunday, you didn’t mention you’d be stopping by today,” said the elder wizard.

“I didn’t know I would be. I’ve come to see Draco. He wrote me you see. I don’t think he knew that we have lunch together almost every Sunday at your cottage. If he had, I’m sure he could have told me everything he said in his letter in person.”

Draco looked between the pair of Ravenclaws, “You . . . lunch together.”

“Luna was my ray of sunshine,” said Ollivander. “Back when . . .” he trailed off.

“Back when I held you prisoner,” Draco finished for him.

“You were a prisoner as well, Draco,” said the girl, her voice lilting and musical. “We knew that then, and we know it now. You were so kind trying to make us more comfortable.”

He looked at the floor, unable to look at his mentor of Lovegood.

Ollivander cleared his throat and then said, “It is in the past, Mr. Malfoy. I never blamed you – never will blame you for that time. If I did, you wouldn’t be here now.”

Draco nodded, still unable to look up.

“Luna, why don’t you take my young apprentice for a walk. He could do with some cheering up, and no one I know is as good at that as you. Just pop him through the floo to my cottage, the fresh air will do him good. I’ll be along at dinnertime and we’ll forage from my larder.”

“Come on, Draco,” said Lovegood, improbably holding out her hand to him.

“Are you . . . are you sure?” he asked.

“As sure as I am that crumple-horned snorkacks exist,” she said.

“That means that she is sure,” Ollivander translated gently. Thank Merlin the man spoke Lovegood or he wouldn’t have known what the fuck to do with that statement.

He accepted her hand and let her lead him to the floo on the shop floor. He closed his eyes tight and held his breath while she handled the floo powder and and spoke the name of their destination. He barely resisted covering his ears with his hands. He fucking hated magical fire. When the sound of the flames stopped he opened his eyes.

“It’s alright, Draco,” said the fair-haired girl looking up at him. Her eyes, he noticed, were silver.

“Are we related?” he asked, unable to help himself.

She cocked her head, “Not that I know of. Why would you think that?”

“No reason.”

She pulled him out of the fireplace into a cozy looking kitchen and through a back door that opened on a small garden. He could hear the sound of water babbling nearby, and he saw that a modern-looking glass addition had been added to the back of the two-story stone house. Trees ringed the building.

“Mr. Ollivander’s studio,” said Lovegood pointing to the addition. “And the trees are ash. Did you know that ash was regarded as a healing tree? It is incredibly strong yet flexible.”

“Did Ollivander tell you that?”

“Oh yes. He’s quite brilliant. I find this place to be relaxing – it is like a balm for my soul.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco rushed out, feeling sick. The girl’s stay in the dungeons at the Manor were likely why she needed to be soothed.

“Tell him that,” said Luna, her eyes not quite focused on him.

“Tell who?”

“Harry. You are writing to him – I mean if you wrote to me to tell me that you were sorry about something beyond your control, then you must be writing to him say the same thing.”

Draco shook his head, “It wasn’t beyond my control.”

The pale haired girl smiled, “He saved you from the flames, didn’t he? He told me you know. Maybe start with that.”

Was she not listening to him? “It wasn’t beyond my control,” repeated.

“Harry lost people. He doesn’t like to talk about it much, but he has told me. He knows what it’s like to want to save people. That’s what you were doing – trying to save your parents.” She looked up at the sky. It was a lovely afternoon, warm, with a light breeze. He wondered if Blaise was out flying. “He looks for them in the stars, just as you do.”

“How,” he whispered, “How do you know that . . . about me.”

She turned her face back to his, “I thought it was common knowledge Draco. You are a Black through your mother – you are yourself named after the stars.” Draco just stared at her, his lips parted in surprise. “You may bear the Mark, but there is more to you than that scar, just as there is more to Harry than the scars he bears.”

He continued to stare. What was he supposed to say? And where the fuck was Ollivander? The man appeared to speak Lovegood, and his translation skills would have been really fucking helpful right now.

“I’ve startled you,” said the girl. “Harry says I have a ‘knack for embarrassing honesty.’ But I’m so pleased you wrote to me Draco, and that you are working with Ollivander. I know he really enjoys your company. It will be wonderful to become even closer friends now that we are both free.”

He resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. Friends. She wanted them to become friends – no – she thought they already were. She was mad – surely mad – but in a brilliant and wonderful sort of way.

“Would you like to walk to the stream with me?” she asked. “I think it is the perfect habitat for gulping plimpies. I try and look for them each time I visit.”

Gulping plimpies?  They weren't real.  At least, they weren't real as far as he knew.  But right now, he'd follow Luna anywhere.

He nodded, “I’d like that Luna. Thank you.”

That night he sat at a desk in his bedroom and worked his way through drafts of letters to Potter. While they’d hunted for gulping plimpies that had remained elusive, Luna had advised him to keep his letter brief, “At least when you are writing to Harry. Hermione would appreciate wordiness, but Harry is really quite direct and to the point.” He kept fussing over how to open the letter. “Dear Potter,” sounded impersonal, but “Dear Harry,” was impossible. In the end he went without a greeting and just dove right in.

Nothing I can write will ever take back how I treated you during our years at Hogwarts. I was a bully and a bigot. I hurt you – I hurt people you cared about. And you still saved me that day – saved me from the flames.

You were always better and brighter than me. I was so horrible to you because I could never compare. Not really. I wanted to be your friend, and failing that, I wanted you to notice me. I wanted to be better than you at everything, which was a foolish and misguided desire on my part, as you offered up your life to save the world – to protect us all, while I offered up my soul to protect my parents. Unlike me, you were selfless.

I will carry the weight of my actions for my lifetime. I am trying to be better – to learn from my mistakes – to earn my place in the stars.

D. Malfoy

Chapter 53: Birthday Shenanigans

The week before his birthday, Draco had cause to question how grateful he was that his Slytherin friends were still a part of his life.

“You’re going out on your birthday, mate,” said Blaise.

Blaise and Theo had dropped by toward the end of the day, right after closing. They did this quite regularly, as did the Slytherin girls.  It was as if they needed to reassure themselves that Draco was really here and not sitting in a cell.

“I don’t go out,” said Draco. It was true. He only ventured out of the shop for his mandatory appointments and necessary shopping. He was doing his best to keep a low profile. So far there had been next to no pictures of him in The Prophet, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“You’re free,” continued Blaise, “You’ll be nineteen, and you need to get laid.”

“Excuse me!” said Draco.

“What?” asked Blaise looking at him with a teasing smile. “You were in jail for almost a fucking year. I’m guessing you didn’t get a chance to get off then, and before that you were running around ragged thinking either you or your family was going to be killed or tortured by a dark wizard. It’s time for you to let loose and be young for the first time ever.”

“You can’t support this?” asked Draco turning to Theo.

The quieter boy shrugged, “Actually, I do.”

“As if anyone in their right mind would even look at me,” said Draco. “I’m not going out on my birthday with you so that I can have rejection slammed into my face repeatedly.”

Blaise’s smile only grew. “I’ve got that covered. We are going to a Muggle club. When people look at you all they’ll see are your pointy good looks and fine arse. So give up the ghost, Draco, we are going out.”

“Your young friend makes a fine point. I can’t have an apprentice that is all work and no play,” said Ollivander who had, it seemed, appeared in the doorway of the studio holding a cup of tea. Draco wanted the floor boards to swallow him up.

“This is mortifying,” he muttered while Ollivander sipped his tea as if Draco’s life wasn’t ending from embarrassment.

Blaise reached out and swatted his backside, “No my friend, this is an intervention.”

On the morning of his birthday he received owls from each of his parents and one from Blaise. He ignored his father’s letter, and stuffed it in the bottom of his trunk to deal with another day. His mother’s letter was predictably lovely, and Blaise’s letter was predictably cheeky, reminding him that tonight Blaise was making it his sacred mission to get Draco out on the town. In the evening, with Blaise’s mandate in mind, Pansy and Daphne arrived at the back entrance of the shop laden with shopping bags.

“Buckle up darling, we are going to get you ready for your birthday,” said Pansy, her face somehow both smug and excited.

“We come bearing Muggle fashions,” said Daphne settling one of bags on the floor. “Happy birthday, Draco, this one is for you.”

Pansy crouched down by the bag and started pulling out clothes which she tossed at him. He caught them, looking askance at the black jeans which seemed quite skinny.

“Go try these on,” she said.

“What type of Muggles exactly are these clothes fashionable for?” he asked.

Pansy, the wicked thing, smiled at him, “I saw how you looked at some of my magazines I’ve dragged over. You have a thing for punk. And you like that music Blaise was playing by . . . Who was it? Blue Day?”

“Green Day,” said Daphne, hauling more items from the bag.

“Yes! Green Day. Well I’ve done some research and this ensemble we’ve put together is going to be just the thing. Give it a try, Draco. It might just be the real you – or at least a side of you waiting to get out.” Then she frowned at him, “Or rather it’s a side of you we are all familiar with now that I think on it.”

“And what side is that?” he asked.

“Your dark and brooding side,” she said.

Daphne stifled a laugh.

“I don’t brood,” he sniffed.

Pansy actually rolled her eyes at him. “Of course you fucking brood. I think all you did the whole of sixth year was brood for Merlin’s sake.”

Which is how later that night he found himself lined up outside a club in Muggle London in a group composed of Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Daphne. Millicent, Tracy, and Greg had declined to come to the club for various reasons, but had all sent him owls wishing him a happy birthday. Lavender had also passed on a night out at a club – she was still self-conscious of her scars. She promised to come by in the morning after bearing sustenance, coffee, and hangover potion.

Thanks to Pansy and Daphne’s incessant demands he’d donned black skinny jeans that hung low on his hips, a black leather belt studded throughout with metal, black nail polish, and had let them style is hair with more product than usual. They had even sat him down and lined his eyes in black. The only thing he’d refused to consider was the sleeveless shirt they’d brought. His Mark was impervious to glamor charms and he wasn’t going to show it off, Muggle club or no. The Slytherin duo had compromised with him, letting him wear a long sleeve dark shirt, but they’d shrunk it so it was practically plastered to him.

He could only imagine what Lucius would think if he saw his son and heir dressed as he was. Draco kind of loved it. Not that he’d tell Pansy or Daphne – at least not until he had a least a drink in his system.

While they waited to be let in, he tried not think about how surreal it was to be out in Muggle London and not be recognized by his telltale looks. He glanced at his friends. Little more than a year ago this pureblooded pack of Slytherins would never have been here – eager to be admitted to a Muggle dance club - except on a dare. The line moved slowly forward, and as they waited he looked at the other would-be patrons and he noticed a few pairs of same-sex couples hanging off of each other. He leaned over to Blaise and said, “This wouldn’t happen to be a gay club would it?”

Blaise grinned at him, the picture of serenity. “Not strictly speaking, but it is geared to the younger set and is inclusive of everyone. Thought if you were going to have a chance of scoring, we’d need to bring you to your natural habitat.”

“My natural habitat?” Draco almost choked out.

“Come off it Draco,” said Pansy. “We all are well aware of what way you swing. All the eyes you gave Potter and Rory – Merlin – it was the worst kept secret in the Slytherin House.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Salazar save me.”

“I think,” said Theo, “It’s Blaise who is saving you tonight, mate.”

“And Daphne and I,” said Pansy as she pulled on her short dress. “Look at how fit he looks in those clothes.”

“And the hair,” put in Daphne. “Looks like how he wore it in sixth year but with more of a bedhead rumple to it.”

Blaise threw an arm around Draco’s shoulder, “You are right irresistible looking mate. You’ll be shagging in no time.”

“What? On the bloody dance floor?” Draco sputtered, “Not likely. I’m still a Malfoy. I have standards.”

His friends all smirked at him, and he did his best to maintain what he hoped was a haughty, withering look. He didn’t even have time to come up with an appropriate retort as they were waved along inside the club by one of a pair of burly looking men at the door.

Once inside the darkened space he was struck by the pulse of the music vibrating throughout – vibrating through him.

“Drinks first!” said Blaise above the noise, pulling him on his arm toward a bar. Colored lights flashed and strobed, and the bar was lit underneath with a purple glow. Blaise flagged down a bartender, which Draco thought was quite impressive considering the crowd around the bar. In the work of a moment, Blaise was handing him a monstrously colored red shot in a small plastic cup. He noticed that the contents of the cup jiggled rather than sloshed.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

“Jello shot,” shouted Blaise.

Theo also eyed the gelatinous substance with suspicion before saying, “I’ve seen more appealing things in Longbottom’s potions cauldron.”

Pansy laughed, high and bright. Draco looked over at his friend and saw that she looked happy and light in a way he hadn’t seen in a while. Like him, she was probably also shunned by much of Wizarding society. No wonder she’d been gravitating toward Muggle fashion and pop culture and had taken so much care getting herself ready for tonight even as she’d assisted him. She needed to get out amongst young people that didn’t know her and how she’d offered to serve up the Savior to the Dark Lord. She threw back her head and downed her shot.

“Fuck it,” said Draco, before he followed suit, squeezing the plastic cup so that the jiggling substance landed in his mouth.

And Merlin it was vile. It tasted strongly of alcohol and cherry, and it oozed and sloshed between his teeth before he swallowed it down.

He looked over and saw that Theo was making a pained face that probably mirrored his own.

“That was bloody awful,” gasped Theo.

“To the dance floor!” said Blaise, leading the way.

Daphne grabbed Draco by the arm and dragged him along in Blaise’s wake. They pressed and squeezed their way to a spot in the middle of the floor and were surrounded by a mass of people of similar age dressed in varying degrees of revealing clothing. Pansy practically draped herself on him as she started to move to the music.

The Yule Ball this was not.

He stood stiff as Pansy smiled at him, weaving her hips to the music. He’d never danced like this. He looked about his group and saw that even Theo was making an effort, smiling with Daphne and spinning her in his arms. And Blaise, the bastard, had already found a girl who was willing to dance with him.

Well he couldn’t let those two stand him up. It was his fucking birthday.

He closed his eyes and felt the rumble of the beat move through him. He imagined it was magic rippling and swelling through his body. He opened his eyes and started to sway his hips in sync with Pansy. She laughed and smiled up at him, “There you are,” she said.

He clasped a hand loosely around her waist and moved with her. Her hands slid up to his shoulders and she rode against his leg, arching and rocking. Blaise turned away from the random girl he’d found and smiled at them. He pecked the girl on the cheek before unwinding himself to slide over behind Pansy, pressing her between them. Pansy laughed and spun around to face Blaise.

Draco pulled back a step or two, grinning at his friends who were play flirting with each other, trying to out-do each other with risqué moves.

He laughed and turned his head for a moment and caught the eye of a young man with his fringe spiked up away from his forehead. The other boy didn’t look away, rather it was Draco who broke eye contact. He looked back to his friends and saw that Pansy had abandoned Blaise to start dancing with Daphne. He glanced back in the direction of the Muggle boy. The boy met his eyes again before grinning and lifting an eyebrow at Draco. The Muggle danced toward him and feathered a hand against Draco’s hips in a way that could have been accidental, but Draco didn’t think it was.

He swallowed. The boy danced a beat closer to Draco, and then another, giving Draco the chance to back away. He didn’t. He had no idea what was happening and what was possessing him, but he hoped it would be something. And then the boy pressed against him and smirked at him.

He heard a whoop behind him, and he knew it must be one of his friends, and if he hadn’t already been hot and flushed from the dance floor, he knew he’d be blushing.

The boy slung a hand on Draco’s hip. “Okay?” he asked.

Draco copied the motion, feeling brave in his anonymity. “More than okay.”

The boy smiled, “Listen to you. Got myself a posh one, have I?”

Draco shrugged.

The boy smiled again and then started to sway against Draco.  Draco moved his body to match and lost himself to the music and the feel of the other boy against him.  Then the boy ground his hips against him, pressing his groin into Draco’s, and oh holy fuck. This wasn’t shagging on the dance floor but it was close. His heart was pounding louder than the bass, and he pressed back against the nameless boy, wanting everything that was being offered. The Muggle was a bit shorter than him, but his shoulders were broad and Draco was just starting to think about running his hands across them when the other boy put one hand behind Draco’s head and pulled Draco’s lips to his.

The kiss was chaste at first before it deepened into something more. The thrum of music and alcohol in his veins was nothing to the feel of the other boy’s tongue slipping into his mouth and sliding against his own.

And before he knew it, the boy took Draco's hand and started leading him out of the throng of dancers.  He'd stop every few steps to claim Draco with his lips.  He heard someone laughing out, “Get a room!”

After a few more moments, his back was up against a wall, and the boy was pressed in between Draco’s legs, pressing his hardness against Draco’s own. He tried to lose himself in the sensation of the music and his body, but for a moment he couldn’t help but worry if he was doing this right. He’d not done anything like this before – hadn’t really imagined much like this. Jail had not been a good place to indulge in sexual discovery or fantasies. He’d had no desire to wank in months, and now, suddenly, he was all desire.

The other boy broke the kiss and pulled his face back. He was attractive from what Draco could make out in the throbbing, pulsing light. He looked to be about Draco’s age, and what really mattered to him at the moment was he seemed willing.

“What’s your name?” asked the boy, speaking loudly to be heard over the music.

“Draco.”

The boys eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

“Draco,” he repeated, louder this time. “You?”

“Eric,” the boy said with a smile, before leaning back in to kiss him.

The press of Eric’s lips and slide of his tongue was more intoxicating than the horrid jello shot had been. He pressed his hands against Eric’s chest, loving the feel of the hardness beneath his palms. Yes, he was definitely into guys.

Eric pulled back, and said, “Let’s get a drink.”

Draco nodded and was surprised when Eric took his hand before leading him toward the bar. Eric wedged his way into a small opening between the bodies packed around the bar and Draco followed along behind him, pressing against the other boy’s back as he ordered. It didn’t take long before a bartender slapped two shot glasses with clear liquid on the counter with two slices of lime. Eric turned back to Draco and pulled him by the arm until he was up against the counter. Draco’s face must have looked confused as Eric laughed and said, “Never done a tequila shot?”

Draco shook his head. The boy smiled, and leaned in to Draco, dragging his tongue along Draco’s neck. He gasped. Eric leaned back, and flicked the shot down before pressing the lime to his mouth and pulling back the peel.

“Your turn,” said Eric.

And yeah, Draco wanted a turn. He leaned in, and licked along the juncture of Eric’s neck and shoulder, tasting the salt of the other man. Then he copied what Eric had done with the shot and the lime. He puckered his lips against the burn of the alcohol followed by the sourness of the lime. Merlin, didn’t Muggles have any drinks that weren’t a form of torture?

Eric smiled. “Not bad for a posh boy,” he said. He ordered them another round of shots before leading Draco back out to the dance floor.

Draco’s head started to feel a little buzzed from the alcohol and the noise. Still, he lost himself in the pleasure of pressing against Eric and running his hands along the other boy’s body. He was hot, sweating through his long sleeve shirt, and for a hazy moment he considered violating the Statute of Secrecy and casting a cooling charm on himself when he heard a familiar whooping sound and pulled back from the Muggle enough to see that his friends had found him and came bearing drinks.

“Happy birthday, Draco!” Blaise bellowed, passing him a cup with a bright pink drink. Draco sipped at it – it tasted like a strawberry had wilted and died in alcohol.

He made a face. Eric laughed and stole the drink from his hand and took a sip himself.

“Oh, Christ, that is strong,” said the other boy with a laugh before handing the drink back to Draco.

Draco saw Theo try his own drink. “What the hell is wrong with the drinks in this club?” sputtered his friend. “What’s wrong with a pint I want to know.”

“Only the best for the birthday boy,” smiled Blaise. “Bottoms up, Draco!”

Draco gave Blaise a mock salute before dutifully draining the cup.

Eric laughed again, likely at the face Draco knew he must be making, before the other boy leaned in and whispered, “So, it’s your birthday?”

“It is.”

He smiled and ran his hands up Draco’s arms. “Well, we should celebrate. I’m between flats – staying with a friend on their sofa until my new place is ready in a couple of weeks. So we can’t go back to mine. Wanna go back to yours?”

Eric slid his hands down Draco’s chest, down his abdomen, and hooked one finger on his belt.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Eric wanted Draco to take him home. Eric wanted to go to bed with him. Draco looked at the young man. All he knew about Eric was that he was a Muggle, his first name, that he was between flats, and that he was attractive. One part of him wanted to go to bed with a stranger and get the whole having sex for the first time thing over with. But another part of him wasn’t so sure. And how the hell was he supposed to take a Muggle back to his rooms in Diagon Alley?

The alcohol in his system was starting to make his brain a bit fuzzy. The last drink he’d downed had been fucking strong.  He probably shouldn't be doing this for the first time drunk.  

“Sorry, Eric, but I’m with my friends tonight,” he said nodding toward his group. From the look of it Pansy was pretty well blitzed on booze.

Eric shrugged, “That’s too bad.” He leaned in and nibbled at Draco’s earlobe and a spike of want flooded through his body. Why the fuck did he have to have live on Diagon Alley?

The other boy let go of Draco’s earlobe and murmured in his ear, “You look like an angel, and I was rather hoping to find out if you were the opposite in bed.”

An angel? Eric was clearly a fucking bad judge of character. Now was probably not the time to let the young man know that he’d recently been released after almost a year in jail.

“Guys, I think we should start heading out,” said Daphne pointing toward Pansy. “I don’t think she knew how alcoholic those fruity beverages were.”

He looks over and sees Pansy hanging off of Theo, and not in a fake flirty way, but like she needed his support. He smiled fondly at her. She always did have a penchant for excess. He turns back to Eric and kisses the other boy again, lips parting, wanting to convey how much he wants . . . well . . . just wants. He pulls away and smiles at the other boy before nodding his head towards Pansy, “Duty calls.”

Eric grins at him, before pecking him on the cheek. “Go be a hero,” he says playfully before pulling away from Draco.

Draco watches after the boy as he bobs and weaves his way into the dancing throng of people and then turns back to his friends – the people who have been with him through hell and well . . . not quite back again – they are still working on that part.

They spill out on the street, all buzzed – too buzzed to safely apparate. Theo and Daphne at least seem to be a little more cogent, and they discreetly call for the Knight Bus and help a weaving Pansy up the steps of the three story purple bus. Draco stares around in amazement, he’s never ridden it before – his father would have found it beneath him. After a brief, but chaotic ride, they are dropped off at the entrance of Diagon Alley.

As the bricks peel back to revealing the wizarding part of London, Pansy asks. “Did you take any Felix Felicis potion before we went out tonight?” She wraps an arm tightly around Draco’s waist. “You must have. No way you could have pulled such a gorgeous guy on your own.”

Draco must have made a face as the rest of the party started to laugh.

“You must have really bollocksed up the Yule Ball with her, Draco,” said Blaise. “She’s not pulling her punches with you.”

They walked along the street full of eccentric looking buildings and shops. It was largely deserted at this time of night. He sees a pair of figures approaching them ahead.

“That was all the way back in fourth year,” he reasoned. “I think whatever I did or did not do as a whiney little fourteen year old shouldn’t keep being held against me.”

Pansy laughed beside him and gave his waist a squeeze. “You’re cute when you're all defensive.”

He grinned down at her. He couldn’t help it.

“You know we are all staying at yours, right Draco?” said Daphne.

“Yeah, fine, you wretched ingrates,” he groused. But he knew, even with his fuzzy brain, that Pansy at least wasn’t getting on well living with her parents. She continued to be a pariah to the people that supported Potter, and her traditional, pure-blood family thought her curiosity about the Muggle world was unnatural.

“So many steps,” groaned Theo. “Why didn’t we apparate again?”

“Cause we were afraid you’d splinch your balls off,” quipped Blaise. “Couldn’t have that, Theo. You might need them in a decade or so when you finally decide to use them.”

“Wanker,” said Theo as he jostled Blaise with his shoulder. “Keep my balls out of your conversations.”

“Oh fuck,” Pansy breathed. Draco looked down at her and saw that her eyes were wide as she stared ahead.

He looked up. And it was him - the Savior - dressed in Auror robes walking beside an older law enforcement officer.

Every step that brought Draco closer to Potter felt strained. Pansy’s arm tightened around him, and he knew he was gripping her back just as hard. He reminded himself to breathe with every step.

“Evening,” said the older Auror as he came closer to the group.

Draco felt his muscles brace of their own accord. Aurors still made him nervous – would probably make him nervous for the rest of his natural life.

And for a moment, he wondered what he looked like this late at night – or was it early morning – wandering Diagon Alley with a group of Slytherins wearing fucking eyeliner of all things. Then he lifted his chin. He was nineteen years old and out with his friends – friends who cared about him – had always cared about him. He wouldn’t feel bad that he was trying to move beyond his past by laying claim to some happiness now.

“Evening, sir,” said Blaise to the older Auror. “Evening, Potter.”

Potter nodded his head in return, and just for a moment his eyes caught Draco’s and then he was gone – continuing on his way. Draco resisted the urge to turn and look at Potter. He hadn’t seen the Gryffindor in-person since the day the Chosen One had testified at his hearing.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” mumbled Pansy.

“That’s what you get when drink every alcoholic fruity beverage you can lay your hands on,” he teased.

He felt her shake her head against his arm, “No. From seeing Potter. I’m never going to live that down. No one will ever forgive me.”

“You and me both Pans.”

“I did it for you, you know,” she whispered. “I thought . . . I thought if the Dark Lord had Potter then you would be free – that you could live. I was thinking of you. But I . . . I should have been thinking of him too. He was just a child – just like us.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “Shhhh. Pans. It was a fucking horrible time for all of us. But we survived. We did. We’ll figure this living thing out eventually.”

“Come on you prat,” hollered Blaise from ahead of them. He was standing on the step leading up to Ollivander’s shop with Daphne and Theo. “Hurry the fuck up and let us in. I’ve got dibs on the most comfortable bed.”

“Happy birthday to me,” Draco said with a smile as he squeezed his way onto the step to open the door to his home.

Notes:

I wish my chapter postings had aligned a little better so that this could have been posted the week of Draco's birthday. Still, happy belated birthday to the Prince of Slytherin.

Chapter 54: The Auror at the Door

“I thought the point of you going clubbing on your birthday was to meet guys and here I find you in bed with two girls.”

He cracked his eyes open. Fuck the light hurt. He groaned and shut his eyes again.

“I brought coffee and hangover potion as promised.”

He heard groans beside him and hair assaulted his face. He rubbed his eyes, they were gritty, and his mouth tasted foul. He opened his eyes again and saw Lavender standing beside his bed looking smug. He was still in his long sleeve t-shirt from last night and his boxer briefs, and he did in fact have two girls in bed with him.

Pansy had her head burrowed up against him. He brushed her hair out of his face. Daphne was curled into a ball on his other side.

“Happy belated birthday, Draco,” said Lavender. She held out a small bottle of potion.

“You are a bloody miracle,” he said before downing the potion. In the span of a few heart beats his head felt less foggy and his headache started to disappear.

Pansy tilted her head up and groaned again. “Is that . . . your little Gryffindor?”

“Lavender is very brave, as befits her house, coming into this lair of snakes,” said Draco.

“He was ours first,” Pansy whined. “Just remember that.”

“Play nice, Pans. She brought coffee and hangover potion.”

“And pastries,” Lavender added.

Pansy murmured something unintelligible just as Blaise stumbled in the room shirtless and clad only in his boxers. “Did I hear that there’s hangover potion?”

The Gryffindor arched an eyebrow, “How many more Slytherins do you have in here, Draco. I don’t think I have enough potion for your entire old dormitory.”

Blaise crawled into bed and scooted Pansy over, ignoring her protests as he curled up next to Draco. “Mmmmm. You snuggle better than Theo. He’s such a prude. Couldn’t get a decent cuddle in all night.”

“I heard that,” said the final Slytherin standing in the doorway. “Bed hogging and cuddling aren’t the same thing. You stole all the ruddy blankets Zabini you –” Whatever he was about to say died on his lips when he saw Lavender who handed him a potion with an amused look on her face.

“Theo, you remember Lavender Brown,” said Draco. Theo nodded.

“Brown,” murmured Daphne from her tight ball. “The girl who was always snogging Weasley in sixth year?”

“Seriously? I’m a war hero who survived a werewolf attack and you remember me as the girl who dated Ron Weasley?”

“You were dating? I just remember the snogging. It was so . . . so . . . Oh Salazar, I can’t think about it. It’s making me ill,” said Blaise from his place of safety at Draco’s side. “So much earnest, public affection. It was so very Gryffindor.”

Lavender made a show of patting down her pockets, “Oh my Zabini. It’s rather too bad, but I appear to be all out of potion. So thoughtless of me not to come well-prepared.”

Blaise lurched up, thought better of it, and lay back down with a groan. “Come on Brown, don’t make me suffer. You would never be that unkind.”

She smiled before turning to the door, where Theo still stood watching her. “I think you’re mistaking me for a Hufflepuff,” she said before exiting. “Coffee is in the dining room.”

Draco tried to suppress a laugh as he elbowed Blaise. He’d been worried about Lavender meeting his Slytherin friends. They’d known about Lavender, and she knew about them, but this was their first time really interacting since school. Lavender seemed more than capable of holding her own.

He elbowed his friend again. “Get up, Blaise. This bed is going to collapse with all of us on it.” His friend groaned again before pushing himself up, and then all the Slytherins started to follow Lavender down the stairs like a good little pit of snakes.

 

Draco’s birth month flew by as he continued to work at his apprenticeship and spend time with his friends. Ollivander gave him new materials to read almost daily. He could identify the three wand cores used by his mentor by the feel of their magic, and he could identify some of the lesser used cores as well, as well as most wand woods. So halfway through the month of July he started learning how to select wood, discovering where the best trees of each variety grew, and learning the most propitious time to harvest. He hoped he’d be able to start learning to carve and shape wands soon, and then maybe he’d learn how to marry a core and the wood into a wand.

He made sure to have lunch with his mother every Sunday, but lately his mother had started asking him when he’d be visiting his father. His father’s trial would likely be held in the fall, and his mother thought it would be good for his father’s morale if Draco visited him. Draco had not yet opened his birthday letter from his father. He wasn’t sure he had the strength. If he couldn’t even read a letter first previewed by the Ministry then he damn sure wasn’t ready to visit his father in fucking Azkaban.

He continued to send off all of his apology letters, except the one he’d written to Potter. To his surprise he received a rather prompt reply from Granger. She told him that she accepted his apology, but that forgiveness would take time. Fair. She also asked if he could arrange an introduction with his defense lawyer, Meredith, as she was studying law and would be seeking an internship in the future. He wasted no time in sending an owl to Meredith – Granger was bloody brilliant after all. Her letter had contained a post-script from Weasley acknowledging receiving Draco’s letter, “Read your letter. You’re probably still a prat, but you’re not a villain. Cheers.”

Longbottom also sent him a note saying he knew Draco wasn’t the same person he’d once been. The only other response he received was a letter from the aunt he had never met. Andromeda’s letter was mostly about her grandson, and she included a photo of Teddy. The pictured showed a plump and happy toddler reaching toward the camera. The boy’s hair in the moving photo had started off a light shade of brown, very similar to his father’s, but then had grown darker until it was black - the wispy tufts of fine hair became thick and wild. The child’s eyes had also turned a startling shade of green. Draco would have bet his bank vault that Potter had been the one who took this particular photo of young Teddy.

Knowing that Potter wasn’t shirking his duties as a godfather helped him finally find the courage to owl his apology letter to Potter. His stomach was in knots as he tied the letter to the owl. Merlin this was a fucking terrible idea. But it was the last letter. He’d posted all the others and it was time – time to be done with this.

Two days later he heard knocking. He paused and listened. It was coming from the shop door. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was well past closing. The knocking continued. He sighed. Perhaps a visitor had come by to see Ollivander – but then most personal visitors would know to use the back door and they’d know that Ollivander didn’t live in the rooms above the shop.

The knocking continued. Merlin. He put down his cup of tea on the tiny kitchen counter of the residence and descended the stairs. The shop was dark, lit only by the glow of the street lights. He walked to the window to and peered out. A person was standing with his back to the door in Auror robes. He froze. What the fuck? Had he done anything? He felt his heart race. Then the Auror turned.

And Salazar, it was him.

It was Harry fucking Potter. He was wearing those familiar round glasses. They made him look like a child and accentuated the thinness of his face.

He drew back from the window.

“Malfoy,” called Potter.

Shit. He’d been spotted. Fuck, fuck, fuck. When he’d owled his letter out to Potter he had hoped the words and sentiments inside would be allowed to die a dignified death. The Gryffindor’s appearance at the shop made that hope seem unlikely.

Resigned, he walked the few steps to the door and unlatched it. “Yes, Potter?”

“May I come in?” asked Potter, the Auror robes swishing as he took a step forward. He looked much like he had at Draco’s trial those months ago, except perhaps his shoulders seemed broader. Draco was put out that he was noticing details such as Potter’s shoulders.

“We are closed, Potter,” said Draco, “We’ll be open again tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

He started to close the door, but Potter wedged one of his shoulders – a shoulder that Draco was absolutely not noticing - in the way.

“I know you’re closed, that’s why I came at this hour.”

“Excuse me?”

“I . . . I knew you were here – apprenticing with Ollivander. I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, Malfoy.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Am I in violation of something?”

“What?” Potter looked confused.

Draco waved a hand at him, “You’re in Auror robes.”

The other boy’s eyes went wide for a moment, “No – no, nothing like that.”

“What’s this about then? It’s a Friday night, Potter. Don’t you have friends you should be out seeing?”

“Er . . . you’re in on a Friday night? And besides, it’s you I came to see. Personally. I’m not here on Auror business,” he said, waving a hand at his robes as if he wanted to reiterate that point.

He wished Ollivander still lived here versus fucking off each night to a cottage in Wales so he could use not wanting to disturb the old man as an excuse to turn Potter away. But Ollivander wasn’t here. It was just him. He supposed he had best get this over with – whatever this was. Wouldn’t want the neighbors starting to poke their noses out and seeing the Savior standing out on his stoop too long.

“Fine,” he said, resigned, before opening the door wide and flicking the store lights on with a flick of his wand.

Potter strode in and Draco shut the door behind him. The Auror took a moment to survey the space. The shop was as packed with wandboxes as ever, but Draco had given the place a thorough cleaning and everything was organized within an inch of its life. Gone was the dust and haphazard stacks Potter likely remembered from when he was eleven.

“Looks nice in here,” said Potter.

Draco inclined his head.

“I remember when I got my wand . . .” Potter trailed off. He looked sad.

“Why are you here Potter?” asked Draco.

“Oh – right,” said Potter. “I got your letter.” Then he rummaged in his robe pockets for a moment and before he held out a wand - Draco’s wand.

“My wand,” Draco whispered.

“Yes. I – I thought you should have it back. There is always something special about a person’s first wand,” said the other boy, holding out the wand to Draco.

Draco didn’t make a move to take it. He just looked at it. He felt his heart hammer. His wand. Potter was holding out his wand.

“I’ll be honest,” said Potter. “In some ways I don’t want to give it back. It worked well for me. It – er – brought me comfort when things were really dark.”

Draco looked up at the other boy, who was running a hand through his hair, causing it to look even more unruly.

“But it’s yours. It chose you,” said Potter, holding out the wand even further with the handle offered toward Draco. “After what you said at your trial and in your letter, I think you should have it back – that you deserve to have it back.”

“The Ministry – they really let you have this wand back?”

Potter shrugged, “The Ministry considers this to be my wand. I let them analyze it, but it was mine.” He smiled his lopsided smile, “Besides, how do you think it would have looked not to have given Harry Potter back his wand – the wand used to bring down Voldemort.”

Right. Of course the Ministry wouldn’t take away the Savior’s wand. He looked at the wand, his eyes following along the smooth lines he knew so well.

And oh how he wanted to reach out and take the wand in his hands, but he restrained himself.

Potter’s eyebrows lifted. “Take it,” he urged.

“It chose you too,” said Draco.

Potter shook his head. “No, I took it. Or at least, you didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Draco sighed. “No, I mean, I think when it chose me, it chose you as well. I think it was meant to work for both of us. Why else would a wand meant for a Malfoy be made of materials that make practicing the Dark Arts so much harder?”

Potter shook his head, “I’ve never heard of anything like that happening.”

“There’s a lot about wandlore that isn’t known Potter.”

Potter took a small step closer to him. “Still, it is yours. Please. Take it.”

He hesitated another moment and then he looked at Potter’s eyes. They were focused on him. Damn those eyes – those bloody green eyes – he was sure they’d be his doom someday. Still, he reached out a hand and closed it around the handle of his wand.

“It might not work for me again,” he breathed. “Its allegiance changed to you.”

“I . . . Look – we both know that you didn’t have to let me have the wands that day. I’ve seen you grab hold of a snitch playing Quidditch. You let those wands – this wand – go. You did me a favor that day.”

“Hardly. Losing a wand to you is not all that noble.”

Potter shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t lessen what you did. I was there. You could have given me up. You could have bowled me over without any effort as weak as I was then. But you didn’t. You spared my life.”

“I . . .”

Potter reached out and touched Draco’s hand holding the wand for a moment, “Give it a try, yeah?”

“Fine,” said Draco. He felt the weight of the wand in his hand. He’d felt so naked – so powerless – without it. What would he cast? He briefly considered something basic like a Wingardium Leviosa or Lumos – that’s probably what Potter was expecting. But . . . No. He was a Malfoy after all – no matter how worthless the name was now – and he still had a bit of flash in him. He raised the wand and pointed it at Potter’s face. Potter’s expression froze for a second and then his chin hardened and his eyes blazed. Draco waved his wand. The glasses on Potter’s face transfigured from black round frames to more rectangular shaped silver frames.

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. Draco lowered his wand.

“Still works,” said Draco.

“You bastard, Malfoy!” exclaimed Potter. “You pointed a wand at my face.”

Draco smirked. It felt good to smirk at Potter - familiar. “It’s an improvement, Potter, believe me.”

Potter ripped the glasses off his face and inspected them. He glared at Draco.

“I’ve only ever had glasses like these – er – like these were.”

“Most unfortunate. I’ve rectified the situation,” said Draco walking to the door. He opened the door and gestured grandly with his hand, “No need for thanks. I do appreciate you bringing back my wand.”

The other boy slowly slid the glasses back on his face. “Right.”

Potter walked to the door, gave Draco one last hard look, and Draco was struck by how well these frames suited him – he looked older – his face was more balanced, and those fucking green eyes were still on full display.

“See you around, Malfoy. Nice to know you’re still kind of a prat,” said Potter walking out into the night.

Draco stood in the doorway watching him stride away down Diagon Alley. Potter didn’t look back – something Draco regretted but was not surprised by. He knew that what he’d done tonight wouldn’t earn him any points with Potter, but it was for the best. He and Potter would never be . . . well . . . anything. It was good that he had literally and figuratively spelled that out for the Savior.

He shut the door, cradled his wand in his hands, and sank to the floor. It felt so good to have the familiar hawthorn wood in his grasp again. He ran his fingers over the smooth grain. Salazar, it had been almost a year and a half since he’d last held this wand. He couldn’t believe it still worked for him – couldn’t believe that Potter had given it to him.

He sent Potter an owl in the morning thanking him more formally. His mother would have approved.

Notes:

Draco and Harry finally have a conversation! I'm giddy.

Chapter 55: Phoenix Feathers and Friends

The shop was closed and Draco was in the back room working on a wand of cedar. Cedar was a relatively abundant wood, which made it ideal for a novice like Draco to start on. He was thinking of pairing it with a dragon heartstring core. He thought the combination would work nicely. He doubted that his first wand would be good enough to stock in the store, but someday in the future, he hoped his wands would be. Still, it was satisfying to watch furls of wood fall away with every draw of his blade.

Ollivander had encouraged him to rest as it had been a busy week – but Draco couldn’t shut his mind down to rest – not yet. With only three weeks until the start of term at Hogwarts, a stream of shockingly young looking children had been coming to the shop in search of their first wands. Most of the experiences had been pleasant, as he’d watched childish faces alight with joy when wands were matched with new owners. Occasionally a child found their wand on the first try, but usually it took longer, and Draco enjoyed the challenge of trying to work out what wand might suit. He’d drop down to one knee and ask the young witch or wizard questions about themselves and he’d try and pair them with the appropriate wandcore. He’d learned that it was easier to start with narrowing down the core and then work on figuring out the wood type. Each young customer presented him with a new riddle to try and solve, and he loved the thrill of working out the solution.

One experience, however, had not been pleasant. A man had come into the shop with a light haired boy practically skipping at his side. Draco had been working amongst the stacks, but had greeted the pair when they entered the shop. The man had stared at Draco for a long moment before saying, “I’ll need someone else to assist my son.”

The boy had stilled at his father’s tone, and so did Draco. He knew what that tone meant.

Ollivander had come down the stairs from the residence carrying a cup of tea. He beamed at the young boy. He must not have heard the father’s statement as he said, “Off to Hogwarts are you? Well my apprentice is very good at matching students with their wands. Mr. Malfoy, will you please assist young master . . .”

The wandmaker had paused so the boy could provide his name, but the child’s father had blurted out, “No. Not him. I’ll not have my son near a Death Eater.”

The smile had eased its way off Ollivander’s face. “If that is how you feel, then I think another shop may better suit you. Mr. Malfoy is my apprentice – my very gifted and hard-working apprentice.”

Draco had resisted the urge to squirm. The tension in the room was so uncomfortable it permeated the whole shop. The boy must have felt it because he did squirm.

The man had given Ollivander and then Draco a hard look before turning to his son, “Come on Clarence, we will find your wand elsewhere.”

After the pair had left, Ollivander had assured Draco that all was well, but Draco knew that this was just a preview of what many people thought of him. He’d been lucky so far – largely holed up and sheltered at Ollivander’s – but to many, he’d always be a Death Eater inspiring fear and hate.

He let his musings swirl around him as he carefully carved and shaped the wand, then he heard knocking at the front door. He lifted his head from his work and called, “We’re closed.”

The knocking continued – louder. He hollered again, but the knocking didn’t stop.

He set aside his tools with a sigh and walked through the store to the front door. Once again, Potter was outside. He opened the door.

“What, Potter, are you doing here again?”

“I got your owl about your wand.”

Draco sighed, “I rather assumed you would. Owls are quite reliable. And that was weeks ago Potter.”

“May I come in?”

Draco waved the Chosen One in. He was in his Auror robes again, and, to Draco’s surprise, he was still wearing the glasses as Draco had transfigured them. Interesting. He’d seen pictures splashed across The Prophet and Witch Weekly gushing about the Savior’s “new look.” Still, Draco had supposed the Gryffindor would spell them back eventually.

Potter’s eyes drifted around the shop again. He looked over at Draco, and asked, “Were you working?”

Draco realized he was still wearing his dragon leather work apron, flecked with wood shavings. He nodded, “Yeah.”

He felt a little self-conscious alone with Potter. He ran a hand through his hair. What the bloody hell was Potter doing here?

“Do you like it? Apprenticing with Ollivander?”

“Did you come here to make small talk with me, Potter?”

Potter shifted, “No – Yes – I don’t know.”

“Right – that really sums things up nicely.”

The black-haired boy looked away from Draco and was silent.

He groaned. The bloody Chosen One was bringing out all of Draco’s prattishness with his tongue-tied confusion. He sighed. He supposed he should really try not to be rude.

“Yes, I like it here. Ollivander – he gave me a chance. He didn’t have to. You know what my family did to him. And wand making is both a science and an art. I like to research and experiment and I like. . . I like working with my hands.”

“You did fix that vanishing cabinet.”

“Thanks Potter,” said Draco curtly. “It is rather a great conversation piece to bring up one of the lowest things I’ve ever done and remind me of it. I trust you can see yourself out?”

Draco motioned toward the door.

“No – I mean – That isn’t how I meant it. I wasn’t thinking about – about it like that. I meant that it took a lot of skill to fix that cabinet. And you did it. Look . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re . . . sorry?”

Potter nodded, “Yeah. I am.” Then he shot Draco a crooked smile, “I’m also kind of relieved to hear that bringing Death Eaters into the school isn’t high on your list of accomplishments.”

Draco frowned and tilted his head, studying the boy – man - in front of him. “I have no idea how to take you right now? You know you’re abominably confusing. I kind of want to be pissed off at you, but then again . . .”

Now it was Potter’s turn to run a hand through his hair. “If it matters, I vote not to be pissed off at me.”

“Fine.”

“Good,” Potter smiled.

Merlin, the Chosen One had smiled at him at least twice in the last handful of minutes. Had Potter ever smiled at him before?

They stood there for a bit in awkward silence. They’d never really talked in school – or well ever.

“Is there Polyjuice involved here?” he asked.

The boy started at this question, “What? No, of course not.”

“That’s exactly what someone using Polyjuice would say.”

The person who appeared to be Potter rolled their eyes. “Fine. I’ll prove it’s me. The first time I ever saw you was at Madam Malkin’s shop. We were getting fitted for robes for our first year at Hogwarts.”

Well, it had to be Potter. He hadn’t told anyone about that meeting because at first he hadn’t known the boy had been Harry Potter, and then after Potter’s rejection of him, he’d had no reason to brag about seeing him at the shop.

“Can’t believe you remember that, Potter,” he said, trying for his most pompous tone. “I see that I made an impression.”

“Of all the things people could say about you, Malfoy, no one would ever claim that you are forgettable.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to start. What the actual fuck was going on here?

They may have stood there in silence until the rise of the next dark wizard, but Potter, ever the Gryffindor, broke through the void by saying, “You said you were working before I came. Were you working on a wand?”

He nodded, feeling stiff and unsure, “I was.”

“May I see? It’s pretty cool – the idea of making a wand.”

“Oh,” said Draco, flustered. Potter wanted to see his work? What in the hell was happening right now? He still had no idea, and wasn’t that just rich – he was a Slytherin for fuck’s sake, shouldn’t he be prepared for anything? He surprised himself as a single word slipped out, “Sure.”

Well, now that he’d committed to this . . . whatever this was . . . he motioned for Potter to follow him and led the way through the shop to the backroom.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” said Potter as they walked into the studio, looking around at the large windows that provided natural light during the day.

“I mostly work here,” Draco found himself explaining. “These days Ollivander prefers to craft wands at his cottage. He has a space there that is absolutely filled with light. But the space here, behind the shop, works well for me. Ollivander said it’s because my eyes are younger than his.”

Draco gestured toward the work bench where the wand he was carving was laid out beside an array of carving knives and dragon leather carving gloves.

Potter went to peer more closely at the wand in progress, bending down to get a better look. “Wow.” He looked up at Draco. “Is it almost done?”

“I’m not sure yet. Ollivander says this part is the most variable – that you are creating art. Some pieces of wood get left more in their natural state, while others are carved completely and don’t resemble their original state at all. He says that you can’t know what direction a piece will take until you start working on it and that you’ll stop when the piece is ready for you to.”

“My wand looks unfinished at the handle,” said Potter. “It’s made from a piece of holly.”

“Let’s see,” said Draco before holding his breath. Was he insane? Asking Potter for his wand? Of course the Savior wouldn’t hand over his wand to Draco Malfoy of all people.

Potter made a face Draco couldn’t place before he started patting down his robe pockets. Hadn’t the Chosen One heard of a wand holster? He was an Auror – or at least an Auror in-training – he shouldn’t be wasting time fiddling for his wand in his robes. Potter did manage to extract his wand, and after a moment he held it out to Draco. Draco brushed his hands against his apron, wiping off whatever invisible grime might be there before taking Potter’s wand carefully in his hand. It was elegant, but elegant in a different way than his own wand. Where Draco’s wand was shaped and polished to artificial perfection, Potter’s was more raw and it was beautiful in its rawness. He held it out for a moment – it was well balanced. He raised his left hand above the wand and flexed – willing himself to feel the magic within.

“Phoenix feather,” he said.

“Yes,” Potter agreed.

Draco hesitated for a moment, but he had to ask, “I heard Ollivander say once, that the feather was one of a pair of feathers from the same phoenix.”

Potter adjusted his glasses.

“He said,” continued Draco, “That the other feather went . . . went to . . .”

“Voldemort,” said Potter. “You can say it. It went to his wand. The feathers were from Dumbledore’s phoenix, Fawkes.”

He felt his heart stutter at Dumbledore’s name coming from Potter’s lips. Potter had seen him with Dumbledore during the headmaster’s last moments alive. Merlin . . .

He lowered Potter’s wand and handed it back to him. Potter mumbled a thanks, the wand disappeared back into his robes, and he glanced out the window. Draco followed his gaze and saw that it was quite dark now.

“I’d best be going,” Potter said

Draco nodded and watched Potter start for the door. He hesitated a moment, unsure, before saying, “Look Potter, if you plan on making this a habit – use the backdoor. The shop door is for business and you give me a heart attack when you start pounding on it in your Auror robes. A part of me always thinks you are going to haul me off to Azkaban when I see you out there on the stoop.”

Potter paused, flashed him a quick grin, and made his way through the shop and out the front door.

The next night, Lavender came to visit him after work. They sat on the roof enjoying a cool evening breeze.

“You’re a Gryffindor and a bona fide war hero,” said Draco. “You must know what Potter is up to these days.”

Lavender paused, considering, before she said, “I never ran in the same circle as Harry even though we were in Gryffindor together. I’m closer with Parvati, Dean, Seamus, and Neville to be honest. Neville straddles the two groups the most. All I know is that Harry is training to be an Auror, lives in a house in London he inherited, and that he spends his off time mostly with Hermione, Ron, other Weasleys, and sometimes Neville and Luna.”

Other Weasleys. He could picture Potter walking arm and arm with the Weasley girl. “So I imagine he’s back with Ginevra Weasley.”

“Not that I know of. I think they may have gotten back together after the Battle for a bit, but then Ginny went back to school to finish her last year, and after she graduated she was scouted to play professional quidditch. I’ve heard her name linked with Viktor Krum actually.”

Draco frowned. This made no sense. Potter was the hero of the story of the War, and in stories, heroes ended up winning the hand of the girl. “So who is he seeing?”

“I don’t know that he is seeing anyone. If he is, I haven’t heard anyone gossiping about it. Why this sudden interest?” She turned her eyes fully on him, and Draco felt himself flush. “Oh. Oh, Draco. It’s not a sudden interest is it?”

“I . . . I . . .” He didn’t know what to say.

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice gentle. Then she grinned at him, “It’s very trendy to be a Harry Potter groupie right now.”

“Speaking from experience?”

His friend smiled, “No. His hair was always too much of a rumpled mess for me to have been interested in him in school.” She shrugged, “Besides, there was always something about Harry that set him apart. I was never in his league, you know?”

Now he squeezed her hand. “You can be in any league you want.”

She smiled again, “Besides, these days I find myself pulled more toward all of you dark and dramatic Slytherins then towards the earnest exuberance of Gryffindors. No wonder our houses didn’t get along at school, Gryffindors can be truly exhausting with their do-gooder energy.”

Draco reclined further into his chair. “Dark and dramatic?” he drawled.

She reached over and ruffled his hair, causing him to yelp in faux shock. “And far too posh. Godric, do you hear yourself sometimes? Did you take elocution lessons from Buckingham Palace?”

“Oh please, as if the Muggle Royals are even on the same level as me.”

She laughed, and he could tell she was about to say something in response when an owl swooped down toward them. It perched on a table beside Draco, and he recognized Theo’s pale barn owl, Hector. The bird lifted a leg, and Draco untied the missive. Lavender, bless her, scrambled to the old owlery and extracted some treats that Draco suspected were ancient to offer to Hector.

He unfurled the parchment. Theo’s clear hand stood stark against the creamy page. “Fuck,” he breathed as he read the lines.

“What is it?” asked his friend.

“It’s Pansy.”

“What happened? Is she hurt?”

He took a deep breath before shaking his head. “Her parents have kicked her out and cut her off.”

Lavender stood, “Right. Where is she?”

“At Theo’s at the moment, but his mother won’t let her stay there. She doesn’t want to upset the Parkinsons. His mother is . . . a social pariah with a Death Eater husband in Azkaban, so she clings to the old pureblood families. Many have all become even more insular through disgrace.”

She held out her hand an tugged Draco to his feet. “Well we’d better get to the nearest apparition point, shouldn’t we?”

And in that moment he loved her – loved her spirit – loved her spark – loved how she was ready to take on the world for someone that was important to Draco. Merlin, she was such a bloody Gryffindor, and he was beyond grateful.

“What the fuck?” Lavender said a handful of minutes later as they stood outside the gates of the Nott estate. “A little on the nose isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

She waved a hand toward the mansion in the distance. “It’s a gothic mansion on the moors.”

He looked at the great stone house with its steepled gable roof, arched windows, and turret. He thought the place to be rather romantic.

“You don’t see it do you?” she asked.

“No…”

“Purebloods.”

“Excuse me,” said Draco, “You’re a pureblood, too. The Browns are an old wizarding family.”

She held up her hands in mock apology, “You’re right, Draco, I meant to say ‘loaded purebloods.’ This . . . house,” she said, as if she couldn’t decide what to call the place, “Is so bloody cliché I can’t even –”

“I completely agree,” said Theo who appeared on the other side of the gate. “It rather does strike one as the type of place where a heroine of one of the Brontë sisters should be living.”

“You know Muggle authors?” asked Lavender.

“What can I say, I enjoyed disappointing my father,” answer Theo as he waved the gate open so that they could enter. “And my grandmother had a fondness for the Brontë sisters – she collected early editions of their work.”

“Convene your book club at another time,” said Draco. “Where is Pansy?” Theo arched a brow, but turned silently and headed in toward the house.

Draco cursed under his breath as they walked down the lengthy drive to the mansion. Fucking wizards not allowing apparition within their estates. The distance to get to the house and to Pansy was personally offending him. Once inside, Lavender came to a full stop and she actually cursed out loud at the sight of the rich dark wood staircase, polished so that it gleamed in the light cast from intricate fixtures. Stained glass windows graced the landing and a statue at the base of the stairs begged to tantalize one’s eyes.

He took his Gryffindor friend by the hand and towed her up the carpeted stairs behind Theo. “Oh please, this has nothing on the Manor,” he said, forgetting for a moment that his childhood home had been defiled by War.

Portraits of Theo’s ancestors lined the hallway of the second floor. Many bowed low to Draco, murmuring obsequious compliments to “the Malfoy heir.” He rolled his eyes and was relieved to entered Theo’s room and get away from the comments. The room was large and ornately furnished. A massive canopy bed dominated the space, and tucked underneath silver and green covers, lay Pansy. Her dark hair lay stark against a white linen pillow.

“She was a wreck when she was found,” said Theo. “As best I can tell, she took calming draughts – lots of them. A healer has been by and put her into an induced sleep. She’s going to be . . . well . . . she is going to be fine physically when she wakes up.”

Draco walks to the bed, Lavender trailing behind him. Pansy looks so small in the cavernous bed – small and pale, with dark shadows under her eyes.

“How’d you find her?” Lavender asks behind him.

“I didn’t,” he heard Theo say. “Greg’s family estate borders the Parkinson’s. His mother forbade him to let her stay at their house, so he brought her here by floo. He couldn’t get to your place Draco because . . . well, the Ministry has blocked most floo traffic to your flat, and you know Greg, he can’t apparate for shit.”

“Why did Pansy’s family cast her out?” asked the Gryffindor.

Draco reached out and rested a hand on top of one of Pansy’s.

“She was . . . she was ostracized by much of the Wizarding world for what she said about Harry Potter, and her family thought she was spending too much time in the Muggle world.”

“They threw her out for that?” asked Lavender.

“They’ll likely also have cut her off from any of the family’s vaults. They may have even gone so far as to remove her name from the family record or snap her wand,” said Draco, familiar with how some pureblood families operated.

“Oh, Godric,” Lavender breathed. For all that she was a pureblood, Draco knew it was by chance and not design. This laissez faire attitude toward blood purity had ensured the Browns exclusion from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Her family had never been . . . radical the way many old families were. Lavender would never have been cast out for spending time with Muggles. And her family definitely didn’t go in for keeping a family record denoting their blood purity for all to see.

“But she can stay here with you, can’t she Theo?” She asked.

“Not for the long term, no. My mother isn’t pleased to have her here, but she’s agreed to let her stay until she . . . recovers, but not past that. Even though my father is sentenced to Azkaban, and I’m head of the household and its assets, my mother has a life estate for this house. It’s essentially hers to use for her lifetime as she wishes as long as she doesn’t run it into the ground.” Theo sighed. “I have other . . . properties that we can consider.”

“I can ask Ollivander if she can stay with me,” said Draco.

“No,” said a voice. They all turned to see Greg standing in the doorway. “The Ministry won’t like it if you have the girl who wanted to give the Chosen One to the Dark Lord living with you. My probation ended in May. She can come with me.”

“But your mother –” Draco started to say.

Greg lifted his chin, “I won’t be living with my mother. If she won’t take in a friend of mine then I’m not going to continue to call her house my home. I did . . . I did so many . . . awful things to please her and my father, but I won’t . . . I won’t turn my back on my friend to please her now.” Draco stared. Greg had always been an intensely loyal friend, and Draco had taken it for granted for years. “Pansy and I’ll get a flat in London,” continued Greg, “and she can go out into the Muggle world as often as she bloody well pleases. I flooed to your mother’s Draco, and she is going to let us stay with her until we find a place.”

Draco felt himself swell with pride. For all of her loyalty towards his wretched father, his mother wasn’t afraid to turn her back on the old pureblood families. She had made it clear to Draco that the rest of the world could burn as long as he was safe, and she clearly had no use for people who would cut their own children off. His mother had come a long way from the girl who had watched from the sidelines as Andromeda and Sirius were expunged from the family lineage.

Lavender turned to Greg and said, “I think that is incredibly brave of you . . . Gregory.”

Draco watched as the brawny Slytherin blushed.

“What did you do to Greg?” Everyone’s head swiveled to Pansy. Her eyes partially open. “The poor boy is the color of venomous tentacula.”

Chapter 56: Of Patronus and Prisoners

Sunday luncheons with his mother grew to include Greg and Pansy. Narcissa had convinced the pair to continue on with her in her townhouse so that she wouldn’t be alone. Pansy no longer had access to funds, and the Goyle estate had been greatly diminished during the War by Greg’s father, and after the War by the fines leveled against the family by the Ministry, so living with Narcissa was far more comfortable than anything they’d have been able to procure.

Blaise, not wanting to be “left to rusticate in the sticks,” took a house in London with Theo. Yet even as Pansy’s Slytherin friends rallied around her, it was the newly adopted Gryffindor in their midst that helped Pansy’s spirit revive the most. Since her injury, Lavender had seldom gone out in public, but courageous as always, she made a rare public appearance and had lunch with Pansy at the Leaky Cauldron. News of a war hero being chummy with Pansy Parkinson found its way into The Prophet.

The first of September found Draco lounging on his sofa. He heaved a sigh of relief. Hogwarts was back in session and all the students had boarded the train today to make the magical journey back to school. The shop had been absolutely crazy in the lead up to the start of term. They’d even had a few last minute shoppers in for the brief window of time between the shop’s opening and the departure of the Hogwarts Express. Students and their parents had been buying up wands, expandable wand pockets, wand stands, and any other accessory they could get their hands on. At three o’clock that afternoon, after they’d worked to restore order in the store, Ollivander had declared that enough was enough and that they’d be closing early that day. While his mentor had flooed home to Wales, Draco had climbed the stairs to the residence and taken a long, hot shower followed promptly by a nap.

He reached for his cup of tea as he scanned the latest issue of paper, which included pictures of Lavender and Pansy’s lunch. He was almost positive that Lavender had tipped of the reporter who’d snapped the photos. His friends looked wonderful, and they looked like they really did get along.

He reclined further back into the sofa cushions. He wondered idly whether his reputation would be helped if he went out to lunch with a war hero. With the stain on his name, he’d have to be spotted with the likes of Potter before public opinion would even grudgingly start to thaw. Shit, he’d probably have to rescue Potter from a rabid dragon to get back in the public’s good graces. He didn’t think he chances were high even if such a scenario presented itself – he’d seen how deadly dragons were during the Triwizard Cup challenge. Still, he took a second to imagine the surprise on Potter’s face if he did rescue him from such a far-fetched escapade.

Potter.

He closed his eyes. He was feeling nostalgic about Hogwarts. By now the students would have arrived and likely have been sorted. He could remember the excitement of approaching the castle by boat over the Black Lake. In the darkness the lake and sky had merged together, and the stars had reflected on the water’s surface. It had been nothing short of magical, arriving at the castle all aglow with light. But he could also remember his shame at Potter’s rejection of him. He wished he had done so many things differently, but most of all he wished he’d not been such a little shit when he’d introduced himself to the Boy-Who-Lived. If he’d just been – well fucking normal and not trying to show off – maybe the other boy would have been his friend. His whole life would have been different. If he’d been friends with the Chosen One the Dark Lord would never have marked him. Then again, if he’d been friends with Potter there was a strong chance he’d have wound up dead.

He sighed and stretched before reaching for his cup of tea again. There was no sense dwelling on a past he couldn’t change.

As he brought the china cup to his lips, a bloody great stag arched its way through his living room.

“What the -” he gasped, dropping the cup on his lap. He swore as the warm liquid spread across his lap.

He swore again as he stared at a silver patronus that stood snorting as it pawed at the floor.

“James?” he breathed. He’d seen this graceful creature before in Kreacher’s memory of Regulus’ last moments alive. He rose from the sofa cautiously, ignoring the discomfort of his wet trousers, and raised a hand toward the patronus. As his fingertips stretched closer to the muzzle – he could feel the magic of the apparition tingling against his skin.

A voice barreled out, “Malfoy.” He staggered back onto the couch in a graceless manner. The voice continued, “I’m at the back door. Let me in its pouring buckets out here.” There was a long pause and then, “It’s Harry, by the way.”

The stag shimmered out of existence.

Fucking Potter giving him a bloody heart attack. Hadn’t he heard of owls? He’d lived in the Wizarding world for what – eight years? Surely he was familiar with fucking owls. He supposed he should not have been as surprised by Potter’s arrival, as he seemed to always appear either at dusk or after dark when the shops were closed and things were quieter in this section of Diagon Alley.

And of course Potter’s patronus looked just like his father’s. All the Death Eaters had been alerted that the Chosen One’s patronus was a stag, but Draco couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.  Potter had cast it at him during third year when he'd been pretending to be a dementor, but he'd been so startled he'd not gotten a good look at it.  Now that he had, he knew Potter's patronus was identical to James'.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and counted to ten very slowly, growing calmer as he thought of Potter getting soaked through on the stoop. After he reached ten, he whispered a charm to clean himself off, then he descended from the residence. He peaked out one of the back windows. The black-haired boy was positively drowning in rain water. He smirked to himself as he opened the door.

“Potter, why do you keep coming here? You have a wand. It’s not like you’re perusing the merchandise,” said Draco letting the Boy-Who-Lived in through the back door of the building and out of the darkness that cloaked the shop’s exterior. Draco cast a drying spell at the boy that was rather harsher than it needed to be. “And you didn’t even cast a rain repellent charm? You’re supposed to be our bloody great Savior and you can’t think to stay dry when it rains?”

Potter made a face that looked rather sheepish as he tried to push his rain plastered hair back from his eyes. Draco aimed another drying charm at the boy’s hair. Potter’s sharp intake of breath was music to Draco’s ears.

“And I know you have friends. They are forever splashing pictures of you, Weasley, Granger, and an array of other Gryffindors, with an occasional Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff thrown in, throughout The Daily Prophet.”

And then the sodding Gryffindor actually grinned at him, “I had no idea you were such a fan Malfoy – following me in the paper and all that. Need me to autograph anything?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t help himself. This was all too ridiculous, Potter paying bloody social calls on him and acting all friendly. This wasn’t supposed to be the order of things. Draco was supposed to live as quietly and productively as possible, try and scrape together the bits of his reputation that remained, and be happy with the nondescript life he was going to be granted.

“You do remember me, right? I’m the Death Eater that was horrible to you in school – remember the Death Eaters? We were trying to kill you.”

“I don’t remember you trying particularly hard to kill me Malfoy. And if you were, you really were crap at it. Fifty points from Slytherin.”

Draco felt his eyes widen, “This is a joke to you? I’m a joke to you.”

The grin fell from the dark-haired boy’s face and Draco felt a pang of regret.

“I have to joke about . . . the War sometimes . . . It’s . . . Well . . .” said Potter trailing off.

And fuck his traitorous heart. Salazar Slytherin and most of his Malfoy and Black relatives were probably turning over in their graves knowing that he wanted to ease a Gryffindor’s pain, but there was no help for it. This was Potter after all. He’d always been an exception to Draco’s every rule. “It’s the only way you’ll survive. Making light sometimes,” he supplied, relieved when Potter’s eyes snapped to his. “Pretty fucking dark of you Potter. Joking about the War. Just think of all of my trauma and what your crass remarks are doing to it,” he said, with a lightness in his voice to let the other boy know he was attempting humor.

“I’m sure you had trauma,” said Potter, his eyes still on Draco, the teasing tone not returning to his voice.

Draco shrugged, This was all getting very serious. “It’s not for me to have trauma. I chose the horrible side. I don’t deserve to have my pain recognized.”

“No,” said the Gryffindor, shaking his head. “I don’t really think you had a choice. You were a child.”

“I was a horrible, racist child. Don’t you remember all the awful things I said? All the vile names I called people like Granger?”

“I still think you were a child – a child modeling the behavior of the adults in his life. I don’t think you had a lot of role models that showed you a different path.”

Draco frowned at the other boy. He could feel the heat rising in his face. “You were a child too, Potter, and you didn’t have any trouble choosing not to be a bigot. And I don’t recall you swimming in role models yet you still knew what to do.”

The other boy sighed. “I did the same thing you did Malfoy. I did what I was groomed to do. I was told I had to fight Voldemort so I did. Since the age of eleven I was a soldier for a cause. You were probably groomed from birth. So if I wake up with nightmares, then I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you did too.”

“If you hadn’t fought him, You-Know-Who, he would have killed you – killed everyone you loved. You didn’t have a choice.”

“And if you hadn’t joined Voldemort, he would have killed you and everyone you loved. You didn’t have a choice.”

And oh bloody hell if Potter didn’t just take his breath away. He’d never known Potter to be eloquent but he’d always been direct. He never held back his thoughts – had always seemed incapable of doing so. That had landed him in trouble in the past, but now - now it was easing a tension that Draco always carried.

“I think you just helped me more than my poor therapist has since I started working with him,” Draco said, feeling like he owed the other boy something, well, personal.

Potter grinned, “I see one of those too – er – well – a mind-healer. It was a condition of me going through Auror training. They were afraid I’ve seen too much and I’d crack.”

“You have seen too much,” said Draco.

Potter’s face grew thoughtful before he said, “Who do we know that hasn’t?”

“But we aren’t all heroes like you Potter. I think a lot of us were just trying to survive.”

“I was just trying to survive. I didn’t ask to be a hero,” said the green-eyed boy.

“No, you didn’t,” said Draco. “But you did it. You rose up to the moment. You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” said the other boy disagreeing with him. “I did have to.”

“No,” he said shaking his head. “You didn’t. But you chose to. That’s why you’re . . . ”

“What?”

A hero he wanted to say. Amazing. Everything that Draco was not. Instead he said, “Why are you coming to see me of all people in the world, Potter? You have tons of people that would take you in, feed you, and fawn all over you. I’m – well – I’m me. I make a decent cup of tea, but that’s about it.”

“Maybe I come because you don’t fawn all over me. You’re not awed by me. You never really were. You may have been jealous of me sometimes, but you were never awed by me,” he said smirking at Draco before growing more serious. “And I just want someone to treat me like I’m – I dunno – normal. Normal would be nice.”

Draco groaned and ran my hand through my hair. Did Potter always have to be so fucking earnest? Were all Gryffindors like that to this degree, or was Potter an outlier even for that house?

“Fine, Potter. You win. You always fucking win so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Take off your lousy excuse for a coat and I’ll make you a normal cup of tea.”

“I thought you said you made a decent cup of tea?”

He huffed. The boy was killing him. “I will make you a decent, normal cup of tea.”

“And I can watch you work on wands?”

Draco sighed. He hadn’t planned on doing any more work tonight, but what the hell. A little carving and shaping couldn’t hurt. “Of course Potter. Just don’t – I don’t know – set the workshop on fire or anything.”

A couple of weeks later Draco found himself clinging to the memory of an evening spent drinking tea with Potter while Draco worked half-heartedly at carving a piece of walnut. The Chosen One had taken his tea with entirely too much sugar and a mere splash of milk. Draco had known this already from his wretched schoolboy years of observing Potter from a distance, but he’d not let on and had asked the other boy how he took his tea. Potter had a asked a few questions as Draco worked, but they’d mostly sat in a strangely companionable silence before Potter stood, stretched, and bid Draco goodbye.

Now he sat in the waiting room of Attorney Meredith’s office and tried his best not to think about why he’d been invited here. He resisted the urge to tap his feet while he waited. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

“Draco.”

He looked up, and saw Meredith striding down a hallway toward him. He jumped out his chair as much as a Malfoy could jump out of a chair. He’d missed this man. For almost a year of his life, Meredith had been a constant source of support.

His former attorney beamed at him and reached out a hand, “How are you doing?”

Draco grasped Meredith’s hand and shook it, “Well. I’m well.”

“And your apprenticeship, are you enjoying it?”

“I am. Ollivander has me busy learning about the craft and running a store. It’s . . . well . . . it’s not the life I ever envisioned for myself before, but it’s everything I want right now.”

The attorney smiled at him again. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said as he beckoned Draco to follow him down the hall to his office. The room he led Draco to looked how he imagined an attorney’s room was supposed to look. The walls were lined with dark wood shelves filled with leather bound books and tasteful keepsakes. Documents declaring that Gwilym Meredith was admitted to the practice of law by both the magical and Muggle governments were framed and mounted on the wall. A large desk was positioned in a place of prominence, and all the chairs were upholstered in what looked to be dragon leather. Meredith sighed and turned a glass paperweight on his desk. As he did so, the book lined walls bled away to reveal plain brick walls with clusters of personal photos. The ornate carpet on the floor was replaced with a plain burgundy one, and the leather chairs melted into slightly rumpled looking red and gold armchairs. Last of all, the desk was replaced with a simple affair of plainly finished wood.
“That’s better,” said Meredith as he sank into one of the plush chairs.

“What in the world?” asked Draco.

Meredith waved one hand about the room. “Many of my clients expect my office to look as it did when you first came in. This, however, is what my office really looks like without the glamours. I enjoy it more.”

“It looks like the Gryffindor common room,” said Draco taking in all of the crimson and gold.

“I suppose it does,” the attorney chuckled, before he grinned at Draco. “It’s hard to imagine that a Slytherin would know what the inside of Gryffindor tower would look like, but I saw the memory, so I know you did.”

“I may be the only Slytherin to know what the inside of that tower looked like.”

Meredith shrugged. “Doubtful. Put hundreds of teenagers in a castle together away from home and Godric himself would blush at the activities they’ll get up to.”

Draco found himself blushing a bit to think about that. He’d never partaken in clandestine activities after hours at Hogwarts. Not that he hadn’t wanted to . . . but between repressing and then accepting his sexuality and being in the middle of a war with a homicidal maniac breathing down his neck, it hadn’t been in the cards. Besides, there had been no one in the castle he’d ever had his eye on besides . . . No. No. Thoughts of green eyes led to madness.

“Putting that aside,” said Meredith, “I’ve asked you here today to have a serious conversation.”

“I thought you invited me because you missed me,” Draco said dryly.

“Well, I did. I’ll always have a soft spot for you, Draco, which is why I know how hard this bit is going to be for you, and I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes he said, “It’s about my father.”

“Yes. As I suspected, he plans to make his trial as long and drawn out as possible. He will be transferred to the Ministry’s holding cells soon so that we can prepare. During his trial he’ll be held there, and the time he spends there will count towards his current sentence. He . . . would prefer to be at the Ministry than in Azkaban.”

“Naturally.”

Meredith steepled his fingers. “As his attorney, I am obligated to tell you that he wants you to attend his hearing. He also wants you to testify.”

For a moment his eyes stopped focusing. He blinked ,and the cozy office became sharp and clear again. Fuck his father. Of course Lucius would want Draco to sit in the front row for days on end. Draco hadn’t gotten off – but he had gotten off relatively lightly, and Lucius would want him close by looking young and supportive. He’d been his father’s puppet for long enough. No more.

“No,” he bit out.

Meredith looked at him and nodded. “I understand.”

“I have an apprenticeship. I . . . I won’t put it on hold for my father. Even if the Ministry let me to go be a prop at his trial with the conditions they’ve put on me, I won’t do it.”

“I understand,” Meredith said again.

“After everything – after everything he put me through – put my mother through – I can’t.” Draco lifted his chin, “We all deserved to be punished. He deserves to be punished.”

“Draco,” said the attorney sounding calm as ever. “I understand. I’ve informed your father that with the terms of your deferred sentence the Ministry will likely not allow you the time to put your apprenticeship on hold even if you wanted to. I apologize for bringing you here to ask this of you, but I have a duty to my client, your father.”

“Is he going to compel me to testify.”

Meredith sighed and gripped at the arms of his chair. “He might. He may ask me to subpoena you, and I owe him diligent representation.”

Draco felt himself stiffen. “I don’t think he is going to like anything I have to say under oath.”

The attorney shifted in his sit, “I may have already advised him of that.”

“You what?”

“Since I have seen many of your memories from during the War, and spent considerable time with you, I didn’t think I was leading your father astray by stating that you might not be the glowing witness he might hope for.”

“Salazar, you’re brave,” Draco breathed, a smile starting to form on his lips.

Meredith shrugged, “It’s easy to be brave when your client is in Azkaban.”

“How long is he looking at?”

“He still has six months left from his sentence for breaking into the Ministry. None of his activities from the first War can be held against him as he was found not guilty by reason of the Imperious curse. I think it is safe to say that the things he did that time were . . . well . . . they were far worse than his most recent wartime involvement. He has also cooperated with the Ministry to provide information to help bring remaining Death Eaters at large to justice. With that, I think he is looking at ten years to . . . life.”

“Life,” Draco whispered.

“Yes,” said Meredith. “But he has information on one supporter of the Dark Lord’s that he is withholding. He is bargaining for a better sentence in return for sharing what he knows about the . . . man’s possible whereabouts.”

“Who?” asked Draco. “Who is left that the Ministry wants that badly? Most of the Death Eaters either died during the Battle or were captured.”

“One supporter has . . . escaped Azkaban. He went missing two nights ago, and after a thorough search of the prison it has been determined that he made it off the rock. The news will likely break in this evening’s papers.”

“Who?” he asked again, his stomach churning with dread.

“Fenrir Greyback.”

He felt the color drain from his face. Greyback was a creature of nightmares. Even the Dark Lord had not wanted his particular brand of evil around too closely and had not Marked him. Bellatrix had wanted to give Granger to him that horrible night at the Manor and Draco was under no illusions as to what the monster would have done to her. And Greyback had been savaged Lavender. His hands tightened on the armrests – he felt his nails dig deep into the upholstery.

“How?” he managed to choke out.

“It was a full moon on Saturday night,” said the attorney quietly. “He was supposed to be supplied with a potion to ease the danger of his . . . transformations. Well . . . something went wrong with that. The Ministry is investigating. Greyback changed into a werewolf and attacked two guards getting out of the prison. It’s believed he swam off the island.”

“Oh, Merlin,” said Draco rising. “I have to tell Lavender.”

Meredith’s eyes grew large, “The girl you asked to help?”

“She’s my friend. I must – I have to -,” he stammered heading toward the door.

“Breathe, Draco,” he heard the attorney say behind him.

Draco turned to face Meredith. “I will, but I’ll breathe easier after I’ve seen Lavender and my father.”

Chapter 57: Interview with a Death Eater

He felt dizzy as his feet touched down at the apparition point closest to the entrance to St. Mungo’s. He cursed himself for not being able to cast a patronus so he could confirm her whereabouts. He wanted to find Lavender as quickly as possible. He could have sent an owl, but Merlin, he didn’t want to write out to his friend that her attacker was on the loose.

He checked his pocket watch before scanning the façade of the hospital which looked like a derelict department store. He knew that on Monday afternoons Lavender came here for physical therapy. He steeled himself to enter the building. He’d been living a secluded life at Ollivander’s by choice. He knew the second he entered St. Mungo’s eyes would be on him. But this was for Lavender. He couldn’t let her read about fucking Greyback in the paper.

With his fists clenched, he entered the building and found himself in the atrium. He walked purposely toward the reception desk that was currently manned by two witches and a wizard. Wooden chairs with drab green seat cushions were clustered throughout the space, about half of them were occupied by people of all ages. He stood in line as he waited for a middle-aged man ahead of him to explain that a spell had gone astray and he was now missing all of his fingernails. Draco tried to concentrate on the ridiculousness of someone missing their fingernails versus the faces turned toward him that he could see in his peripheral vision. He resisted the urge to glance behind, as he was sure even more eyes were fixed on the back of his head. With his distinct hair, it was impossible for him to go about in Wizarding society unrecognized.

He felt his heart rate increase. Fuck. Why hadn’t he taken the time to cast a damn glamour on himself? Fucking brown hair would never get him this much attention.

“Next,” one of the receptionists called.

Draco stepped up to the counter.

“Name?” asked the witch, not even looking up.

He swallowed. “Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

The older witch’s head snapped up at that. She regarded him for a long moment before asking, “Do you have an appointment or an emergency?”

“No. I believe my friend, Lavender Brown, has an appointment and is here. I need to see her.”

“One moment,” said the witch. She swiveled around on her chair and then rolled toward a sleek and narrow file cabinet. She opened the drawer, swished her wand, and murmured Lavender’s name. A file burst out of the drawer, and Draco was surprised to see that the witch caught it easily. He wondered distantly if she’d been a seeker during her school days.

The witch rolled back to him while perusing the file. “You are not listed as a contact. I can neither confirm or deny if Ms. Brown is a current patient or if she is here.”

Draco grasped the edge of the counter with one hand. “Can you please send her message and let her know that I am here. It really is important.”

“Mhmmm,” said the witch. She looked him over again. “I’m afraid that isn’t protocol. If Ms. Brown were here in-patient she would approve a list of visitors, but that is not the case.”

Fuck. He didn’t want to beg, but Merlin, this was Lavender he needed to see. “Please?” he asked, meeting the older witch’s eyes. “It really is important.”

“Not protocol,” she repeated. She looked over his shoulder and said, “Next.”

A young mother holding a whimpering toddler bustled forward and shoulder checked him out of her way. He gave the reception witch one last imploring look, but she didn’t even glance at him.

He walked slowly toward the seats by the main entrance. Maybe he could catch Lavender on her way out. He cursed himself for never finding out where she lived. She always came to him. What kind of friend was he to not know where she called home?

He sat down in one of the sad looking chairs and found that it was far more comfortable than it looked. He figured it must have been spelled with a cushioning charm.

He looked up at a large clock hanging above the reception desk. The second hand ticked around the clock face. When he glanced down from the clock he saw more eyes on him. Some people were staring at him full on, while others were trying to glance at him over the top of a newspaper or trying to look at him without turning their heads.

Salazar, this was why he stayed holed up at Ollivander’s and only frequented the few shops Ollivander had taken him to when his apprenticeship began. At Ollivander’s, he knew his place – he was a valued apprentice. Here, at St. Mungo’s, he was a Malfoy who’d been found guilty of hurting people during the War.

A wizard approached him wearing a pin with the insignia of St. Mungo’s. Draco looked up at the man’s face when he stopped by the side of Draco’s chair. Had the reception witch changed her mind about sending a message to Lavender?

“Sir,” said the wizard, not bothering to lower his voice for Draco alone to hear. More eyes zeroed in on him. “There is no loitering at the hospital. I’m afraid that I have to ask you to leave.”

Draco shook his head, “I’m waiting for a friend.”

The wizard smiled at him as if Draco had said something particularly sad, “A friend? Right. Of course you are, sir. But again, there is no loitering, so you really must leave.”

He felt himself flush with embarrassment. He stood and was about to head for the door when a voice called out, “Draco, I’m so glad to see you.”

He turned to see Lavender headed toward him. The hospital guard’s gaze swiveled toward her. He gave a start of recognition. The scars Greyback had left made Lavender one of the more easily recognized war heroes after the golden trio.

“My friend,” Draco said to the man just before Lavender wrapped her arms round him. Merlin, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a fierce witch as his friend.

Lavender pulled away and smiled sweetly up at the guard’s stunned face. “I heard that you were trying to hustle him out the door. Shame on you. I’ll be sure and bring it up with your supervisor the next time I am here.” She turned to Draco and squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky my friend here is kinder than I am, otherwise I’d urge him to contact his attorney about this treatment.”

The wizard opened and closed his mouth.

“We must be off now,” she said smiling up at the guard again and then flashing her smile about the room at the witches and wizards shamelessly gawking at them. Without letting go of Draco’s hand she led him out of the hospital.

“You really did that,” he said to her as they walked out to the street. “In front of all those people.”

She shrugged as if claiming Draco Malfoy publicly as her friend was no big deal. Gryffindor’s were bloody amazing.

“I’m the one that got to be seen embracing a handsome blond,” she said. He snorted, unable to stop himself. “But why were you waiting for me, Draco.”

He shook his head. “Not here. We need to go . . . somewhere safe.”

Her brow furrowed. “Okay.”

“Do lots of people . . . know where you live?”

“Probably. The Browns have lived in Kent for ages, and so much bloody get-well mail arrived after the Battle that my father starting diverting it to the Ministry for them to sort through.”

“Let’s go to mine then.”

She agreed and an apparition and brisk walk later they were seated on his cozy sofa.

“So what is it Draco?” she asked as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he began.

She pressed her lips together before she said, “Just say it. The suspense is killing me.”

He took a deep breath and then willed himself to say, “Fenrir Greyback has escaped Azkaban. The Ministry doesn’t know where he is.”

“What? Are you fucking serious?” Her hand flew to cover her mouth.

“I am. My attorney told me today. He said to expect the Ministry to announce his escape in the evening paper. I . . . I didn’t want you to find out about it like that.”

She lowered her hand. “When?”

“On Saturday night, during the full moon.”

He watched as she traced ran the tips of the fingers of her right hand down the scar along her throat. “How did your attorney know this?”

“My father. He may have information as to Greyback’s whereabouts based on the . . . time they spent together as followers of Lord Voldemort. He’s trying to bargain with the Ministry to reduce his charges in exchange for sharing what he knows with them.”

“That . . . That . . .”

“Complete and utter bastard,” Draco filled in for her.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“I’m going to go to Azkaban to see him. I’m going to try and get him to tell me what he knows.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lavender said.

Draco shook his head, “No. It’s . . . it’s a horrible place. I don’t want you there.”

“Well I don’t want you going to that mini hell by yourself,” she said, her eyes flashing.

“Lavender,” he said, his tone pleading, “We don’t know where Greyback is. I’d feel better if you stayed here. Please.”

She glared at him, and then her gaze softened. “Fine. Fine.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But we need someone to come and stay with you. And you should let your parents know. They may want to relocate until Greyback is found in case he decides to target your home.”

“I’ll just floo them,” she said.

“And who would you like to come over?” he asked. When she hesitated he added, “It can be anyone Lavender. Your safety is more important than my pride.”

“I’d like to ask Neville,” she said. “And Pansy. She’d rough up anyone who came near me.”

He grinned.

“And . . .” she paused.

“Who?” he asked.

“Theo.”

“Theo?”

“Yes. I find him . . . calming.”

He decided this wasn’t the time to grill his friend about Theo – he’d save those questions for after Greyback’s hairy arse was back in Azkaban, but other topics were fair game. “My, my – look at the Gryffindor princess asking to call on more Slytherins then fellow Grffindors. How will Longbottom stand it?”

She waved a hand. “Neville’s cool. Besides, it was so wicked how he beheaded You-Know-Who’s giant snake that Pansy won’t even dare to tease him. Not straight away at least.”

An hour later, Draco left Lavender with her motely crew. Longbottom had given him a wry smile as he’d stepped through the floo and greeted him. The fucking Gryffindor had managed to grow even taller and broader then when Draco had last seen him. He was taller than Draco now and it struck him that there was a poetic justice in the little boy he’d once taunted growing into such a powerful man. Now, Draco was the one scared of his shadow and uncomfortable in his own skin, while Longbottom had seemingly blossomed into an assured and confident individual. Fucking karma.

He waited in the office of the Department of Transport for his portkey to Azkaban. It was well outside of visiting hours, but he’d fire called Meredith, and his attorney had pulled he didn’t know how many strings to arrange for this meeting. After a few minutes the same thin man that had arranged for his prior portkey to the prison all those months before greeted him. For the life of him, Draco couldn’t remember the man’s name. He hadn’t been in the best frame of mind the last time he’d seen this Ministry staff member.

Draco rose, “Good afternoon, Mr . . .”

“Farrowfrost,” said the man. “This way Mr. Malfoy.” The wizard turned and led Draco to a small room where a book waited on a pedestal. He looked down at the title, “The Count of Monte Cristo.” Even he had heard of this Muggle book. He thought it was a bit on the nose for Farrowfrost to choose this book to create a portkey to Azkaban so that he could grill his father about a prison escapee. He raised his eyebrow at the man.

Farrowfrost shrugged, “I know what you are thinking young man, but I had to stay after hours to accommodate this request. It came down from the Minister of Magic himself, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. I’m missing my monthly book club meeting for this, so I at least need to take some pleasure in this task.”

“I understand,” said Draco before adding, “Thank you.”

“Now,” continued Farrowfrost. “Please take firm hold of the portkey. Do not let go of it under any circumstances until you arrive at your destination. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said has he grasped the book.

“You will have forty-five minutes to spend at your destination. The portkey will return you here at exactly 6:15. If you miss the portkey, you will need to have the guards on duty arrange for you to use one of their portkeys or you will need to seek guest accommodations at Azkaban. If the latter happens, owl me and I will arrange for your return when this office opens to the public tomorrow morning.”

Well he was fucked if he missed the portkey. He knew the guards wouldn’t lift a finger to help him off the island fortress. Draco’s skin crawled at the idea of staying as a guest at Azkaban. Merlin, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather spend a night – well, except for the Manor when the Dark Lord had been in residence, but it was a close call.

“And you will depart in ten seconds.”

He was relieved when Farrowfrost didn’t count down the seconds, and he presently felt the tugging at his navel as he was pulled from the Ministry. He seemed to hurtle through a different plane until he the tugging stopped. He opened his eyes and between the travel and the brightness of the Ministry being replaced by Azkaban at the gloaming, he felt his stomach heave. He fought for control but couldn’t keep his stomach in check. He bent and was sick. He shuddered as he wiped a hand across his mouth. He retched again but controlled it. Fuck, he hated this place - hated the despair permanently woven into the very foundations of this place. He had come so close to ending up here – still could if he messed up his deferred sentence.

“What’s the matter, little Malfoy? Couldn’t keep your lunch down?”

He sprang up and saw a guard standing before the door to the prison. Fucking great. He was enough of a Malfoy to be embarrassed at looking weak. He dropped his wand from his arm holster and vanished the mess. Draco strode forward and the guard opened the fortress door. He submitted to being searched and handed over his dragon heartstring wand. He’d left his cherished hawthorn wand at his flat above the shop.

“Can’t believe they let you carry a wand,” muttered the guard as soon as Draco was safely disarmed.

“They actually let me craft wands,” said Draco. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

The guard grimaced before calling to a fellow guard, “Oi – Gibson. Take little Malfoy here to see his lordship.”

“This way,” said Gibson. He led Draco down hallways and through a series of charmed doors without engaging in conversation other than a reminder to watch his step. It was refreshing to have such little interest paid to him after the snide remarks of the first guard. After being led through another charmed door, Gibson led him to a large open room that had several doors ringed around it. He led Draco to one of the doors and said, “Mr. Malfoy is waiting for you in this room. When you are done meeting, or if you need any assistance, knock on the door. You two will be separated by a magical barrier. He won’t be able to hurt you.”

Draco almost scoffed at this. Lucius’ favorite method of inflicting pain was through his words. Draco’s ego and spirit had been lacerated on many an occasion by his father’s cutting remarks.

The guard slid the door open and motioned Draco in. His father sat waiting behind a table. Draco recognized the shimmer of the protective barrier. He heard the door close behind him, and he walked forward to take the chair opposite his father. As he sat, he took a good look at the man. Lucius’ hair had grown even longer and Draco realized that it had been over a year since he’d last laid eyes on him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from my only child?” asked Lucius, heavy with sarcasm.

“Fenrir Greyback has escaped.”

“So I have heard.”

“You have ideas on where he could have gone,” Draco stated.

His father lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I might. I’m waiting to hear back from the Ministry about dropping some of its charges against me. I’m positive such a good-faith gesture would help restore my memory when it comes to the accursed werewolf the Dark Lord saw fit to keep on a leash.”

Draco resisted the urge to raise his voice and said as evenly as he could, “You need to tell the Ministry anything you know immediately.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow and asked, “And why would I do that?”

“Because people could get hurt. Greyback is practically feral.”

“I’ll turn feral if they continue to hold me in this place,” said his father. “Why aren’t you more concerned about that? I put off my trial – my needs – for you and your mother. It is my time now.”

“Greyback,” said Draco, taking a deep breath to calm himself, “Hurt someone who is important to me. I won’t see her hurt by him again.”

“And who is this someone? A proper pureblood?”

“Blood purity is still important to you?” Draco asked, his voice rising. He couldn’t believe this man.

“You owe a duty to your magical lineage. I had best not hear that you are . . . cavorting with someone unworthy. It would be disgraceful for you to so sully yourself. The least you could do it show some gratitude for all I sacrificed for your trial and start acting like the heir to the noble Malfoy line and not like some pathetic little shop keeper.”

The words roiled through Draco’s mind. In the past he would have done anything to please his father – had in fact done many awful things to win his father’s praise - now the words struck him as the hollow thoughts of a little man. He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you see father? I’ll never be your perfect pureblood son. I’ll never be the heir you desire. I never have been. I don’t want the life you prepared me for.”

“Enough, Draco. This is nonsense. I’ve allowed you time to dabble away like a middle class tradesman, but now it is time to act the part of a Malfoy heir. You will seek a profession more . . . suitable to your name and birthright.”

He met his father’s eyes. Lucius only held his gaze for a moment, before his pale blue eyes darted away. “For a man who claims to possess many gifts, I am astounded by your lack of understanding. We have squandered our name. It means nothing. And my birthright? All Malfoy properties and vaults are held by the Ministry. In case you have failed to notice, father, I am working to build a life for myself – to build a reputation that will allow mother to walk outside with her head held high.”

“So you aspire to be what - a middling wandmaker?” sneered his father. “You have a duty to your blood. You have a duty to continue the Malfoy line and to work to reclaim all that has been stripped away from us.”

And Draco laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was all so preposterous to have this conversation while sitting in Azkaban. He wondered if some of Bellatrix’s madness lingered in the place and had further damaged his father.

“My blood – our blood – isn’t worth any more than anyone else’s. Everything that was taken from us was because we deserved it -we deserved it and more.” Lucius lip started to curl, but Draco leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And let’s make one thing clear, father. I’ll live my life as I see fit. I’ll continue to putter away crafting wands for as long as I want.”

“And I suppose you’ll continue to see this girl you are so concerned with,” said his father in a clipped tone. “Think of your mother, Draco. Think of how it will hurt her to know that you are bothering with Greyback’s leftovers.”

For a moment he saw red. Never in his life had he wanted to cast the Cruciatus curse so badly and it was a relief to know he his wand had been removed by the prison guards. He wondered for a moment what he’d be able to do wandlessly, as he wanted his father to feel all of the pain that he seemed more than ready to inflict on Draco with his words. He reached for the icy control that had been trained into him. “You will not speak of my friend like that again. You will tell me where you suspect Greyback to be. If you do not,” he raised his chin, “I will exert my authority as head of the Malfoy family. I’ve been . . . content . . . to let you continue to play at being the grand patriarch while you’ve resided in these . . . humble accommodations, however, my patience is running thin. Between the two of us, I am the only Malfoy that walks free.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Lucius, practically spitting out the words.

“I would. I would lay claim the Manor and all of the other properties in trust. Since I am not indisposed, I imagine the Ministry would release them after I paid a heavy fine. And as head of the family I could limit mother’s access to you.” In truth, he wanted nothing to do with the Manor or any of the rest of the estate, but his father didn’t need to know that. Not that the properties really mattered, his mother was his trump card. She’d always been his father’s Achilles heel. He doubted she would really abide by any of his dictates if he asserted himself as the head of the Malfoy family, but he had a feeling something he had to say could help sway her to his side long enough to make his father understand the depth of Draco’s ire. “And I won’t hesitate to tell her how you have spoken of my friend. Mother is very supportive of my friendships. She won’t be pleased that you called Lavender Brown, a war hero and the daughter of an old family, ‘Greyback’s leftovers.’”

Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son. “The Browns are unimportant.”

“But Lavender is important. She is important to me and that is all that will matter to mother.”

For a moment Lucius drummed his fingers against the table that separated them before he seemed to catch himself and put a stop to his fidgeting. “I will tell you what you want to know if you testify at my trial.”

“This is not a moment for you to bargain, father. You will tell me what I seek or any hope that mother had of repairing our family will be dashed. The choice of whether or not to break mother’s heart is yours.”

Lucius sat still as stone. He likely knew how much pain he’d caused the proud daughter of the House of Black that he’d married, and he was probably calculating how much more she would stand before she cut her losses. Draco could tell the moment he’d made his decision as his father’s face turned toward him with a withering glare.

“Someday you will know what it’s like to bind your heart to another and then you will understand the price you are exacting on me.”

Draco didn’t look away from his father’s hard eyes. No. He slowly and deliberately unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and rolled the fabric up. The Dark Mark was vivid on the pale skin of his inner arm, the sinister snake perpetually frozen as it slithered out of a shrieking skull. “I think you’ll find that I more than understand. This is the price I paid for my family. Do you think I would have done this if I hadn’t cared?” His father’s nostrils flared and he watched as the man clutched at his own left forearm. “Take a good look at it father. Isn’t this what you always wanted of me – to follow in your footsteps?”

Lucius closed his eyes for a moment, but when he reopened them he said, “Somerset. The werewolf is likely in Somerset.”

“Somerset? Why in the name of Merlin would he be there?”

“Think, Draco. There is an ancient wood in Somerset, home to faeries and other magical beings. Even the Muggles call it Goblin Combe. Werewolves have been known to gather there for the full moon. But besides that, who lives in the County of Somerset?”

Draco shook his head. Many magical families known to have opposed the Dark Lord, like the Weasleys and the Lovegoods, were from Devon, but who did he know in Somerset? And then it came to him. The return address on the letter’s that came every year by owl at Christmas time before the Dark Lord’s return – the letters that his mother had not replied to but had still cried over. The letters that Draco was not supposed to have known about but as a nosy child had of course known of them. The letters he even now exchanged on an almost weekly basis. “Andromeda Tonks – but why? Why would Greyback be after her?”

“Not her.”

He felt his eyes widen. Fuck. Oh fuck. “Teddy,” he breathed. “He’s after Lupin’s son.”

“The werewolf turned Remus Lupin when he was a child as revenge on his father, Lyall Lupin,” said his father. “Remus Lupin caused his fall at Hogwarts which ultimately led to his capture. He’s been heard howling for revenge on ‘Lyall’s whelp.’ Fenrir always had a disturbing penchant for children.”

“I have to stop him,” said Draco rising so fast that he knocked his chair.

“You will do no such thing,” commanded Lucius. “Fenrir Greyback is vicious and unhinged. He could easily kill you or turn you. Take this information to the Ministry. If they weren’t such brainless fools they would have figured it out on their own.”

Draco slapped his hands down on the table, all of his control had melted away. “You were going to gamble with the life of a child – with your own family? Really, father? And who the hell do you think will believe me if I brought this information to them? I’m a fucking Malfoy and Death Eater swine on top of that.”

Lucius flinched at his son’s words. Draco slammed his hands down on the table again. He noticed that any guards close by didn’t react to the sounds at all. Likely they’d be more than pleased for the two Malfoys to erupt in an argument and do away with each other. He stepped back from the table and raked a hand through his hair. He could go to Meredith – Meredith would know what to do. And he should also tell Potter. Potter. The child’s godfather and an Auror in training. Of course he’d fly into action to protect Lupin’s only child.

He strode to the door and pounded against it. He needed to leave this wretched place as soon as possible. Gibson appeared, “Visit over?”

“Yes,” said Draco curtly. He turned back to his father for a moment, “Thank you, father, it’s been . . .” He turned away, unable to finish the sentence.

As he left the room he heard his father say, “Goodbye, Draco.”

He stopped at the entry check to collect his wand.

“What, don’t want to visit any other family while you’re here?” the surly guard from earlier asked. “The Lestranges are here – Rodulphus and Rabastan – they’re your uncles aren’t they? It wouldn’t be a good display of familial duty if you didn’t speak with.”

“Oh I think they will be quite alright without seeing me,” he replied before walking clear of the prison. It was bloody cold waiting outside in the near dark in the middle of the sea, but twenty minutes waiting outside was better than the alternative of waiting inside the fortress with the guards who clearly detested him. He spent the time pacing to try and stay warm while listening to the crash of the waves as they broke on the rocky shore. He of course made his portkey with time to spare. As soon as he landed at the Ministry, Farrowfrost hurried him out chattering on about how he might be able to make the tail end of his book club meeting.

As Draco made his way through the atrium to get to the floos, he saw that in the time since he’d first arrived at the Ministry earlier that evening, posters had appeared depicting a snarling mugshot of Fenrir Greyback. Merlin, the bastard was horrifying to look at even in the few second loop on the posters.

He closed his eyes as he flooed back to his flat – he still couldn’t abide the site of magical fire.

“Draco!” cried Lavender as he stepped through. “Are you okay? How did it go?”

He smiled at her and for the second time that day she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Oh you know,” he said, “My father is still a pureblood bastard of the first order.”

He saw Longbottom attempt to reign in a smile.

“But I got him to tell me where Greyback might be. Longbottom, I need to let someone from magical law enforcement know. Could you – could you summon Potter?”

He saw Pansy stiffen. He felt for her, he did, but Teddy Lupin’s safety was on the line.

“Yeah . . . I guess I could,” said Longbottom slowly. The other boy gave Lavender a pointed look, but when she nodded her head, he withdrew his wand and cast, “Expecto patronus!”

A stream of silver barreled from Longbottom’s wand and a creature – a rather large creature -started to take shape. After a moment, the lines of the patronus solified and Draco realized he was looking at the Gryffindor lion. Longbottom seemed nonplussed by the king of beasts he’d spelled into existence, and he calmly gave it a message to deliver to Harry Potter and sent it on its way.

“Oh Neville,” breathed Lavender looking in the direction where the silver lion had gone, “When did your patronus take corporeal form?”

Longbottom looked a little sheepish. “After the Battle.”

“I guess killing a mother-fucking serpent can really boost someone’s confidence,” said Theo. “If only Blaise were here. After a display like that he’d probably declare his undying fealty and love.”

Longbottom looked perplexed, which Draco supposed was fair as the boy probably hadn’t been around many Slytherins and was likely unfamiliar with their brand of humor.

“Well, now that Draco is back, it is my cue to leave,” said Pansy heading toward the door out of the flat. “I’ll tell your mother you said hello.”

“Pansy, you don’t have to leave,” said Lavender.

The Slytherin girl just gave a wan smile before retreating.

The floo roared to life and Draco started. Fucking magical fire would be the death of him. Meredith’s face appeared in the flames. “Draco?”

Draco swallowed and stepped toward the hearth. He lowered himself gingerly to the floor. “I’m here.”

“Draco, Aurors are coming. They are questioning anyone who . . . well . . . who were once affiliated with Lord Voldemort or close to those affiliated to try and find Greyback.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. “Aurors are coming?”

“They will likely take you in to the Ministry for questioning.”

“No,” he heard Lavender say behind him. “He went to Azkaban and spoke to his father. He has already sent word to Harry Potter that he has information to share.”

“Get to my office at once Draco. Don’t walk to an apparition point – you may be picked up on your way.”

“But I . . . I can’t floo there. My floo is blocked except for a few destinations.”

Theo crouched beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, “You can floo to Ollivander’s, and from there you can get to Attorney Meredith’s office.” His friend squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You won’t go back there. Not after you’ve spoken to their golden boy.” Theo turned to Longbottom, “Send Potter a new message saying to meet Draco at Meredith’s office.”

Lavender pulled Draco back from the hearth, tugging on his wrists until he stood. She took his face in her hands. “Breathe, Draco. Okay. Breathe. We will do this together. We’ll get you to Meredith’s.”

Draco nodded. Merlin he didn’t want to end up back at the Ministry detention block for questioning. He’d already been to fucking Azkaban today, that was enough.

When he looked back at the hearth, Meredith was gone.

“Go on, Malfoy. I’ll take care of letting Harry know,” said Longbottom.

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you helping me?”

The Gryffindor grinned, “Because I know what you did to protect people that last year at Hogwarts. And I also know that Lavender thinks a lot of you. That’s enough for me.” Longbottom gave Theo a glance, “Best take Nott with you. The Aurors might want to speak with him as well.”

“Thanks, Nev,” said Lavender towing Draco into the fireplace. “Theo, squeeze in.” The other Slytherin squished in beside them, and Draco knocked against the brickwork. “Close your eyes, Draco. On the count of three I’ll throw down the floo powder and you call out the destination. Here we go. One. Two. Three.”

“Bwthyn Onnen.”

The flames roared.

 

As he sat on a crimson colored sofa with Lavender and Theo in Meredith’s ostentatiously Gryffindor office, Draco couldn’t help but marvel that this day had not gone at all how he had expected. Lavender looked right at home in his attorney’s office – he figured it probably reminded her of her house common room - while he and Theo were looking a bit queasy. He thought their discomfort had more to do with Aurors wanting to question them and less to do with the crimson and gold colors of the office, but then again he supposed it could be both. Red really wasn’t a good color for him – made him look even pastier than normal.

“Bwthyn Onnen,” mused Theo at the other end of the sofa. “Bit pretentious. Didn’t expect that from Ollivander.”

Lavender shook her head, “Are only pureblood Slytherins supposed to name their property? If that name is over the top, what is the name of the gothic nightmare you call home?”

Theo turned to her and said with an arched eyebrow, “Nott House.”

“Oh, Godric,” she sighed. “How fucking boring.”

He watches as his Slytherin friend turned his head and take the room in. “Salazar this place looks like Longbottom’s patronus vomited crimson and gold all over it. I’m surprised Draco doesn’t burst into flames – prince of Slytherin that he was rumored to be.”

“I thought Zabini was the cheeky one,” said Lavender.

“Theo will take on that mantle when Blaise isn’t around and he is stressed,” said Draco.

The door of the office opened and Meredith came back into the room. He’d installed them in his space after he’d transfigured one of the upholstered chairs into the squashy couch they were all crowded on.

“Harry Potter has arrived. He’s in our smaller conference room.”

Draco stood.

“Would you like me to be there with you? I know that you knew him in school, but he’s an Auror in training – an agent of the Ministry. You may want legal representation.”

He thought about that for a moment. Meredith was looking out for him of course, but he didn’t know about the bizarre visits Potter had been paying him. “I’ll be fine. If I need you I’ll come get you. But what about my mother? And Greg? Will Aurors take them in for questioning?”

“I hope this matter will be cleared up as soon as speak with Mr. Potter, but I contacted your mother and told her not to open her door without a warrant signed by the Minister of Magic himself.”

“All right then.”

“Good luck,” said Lavender, giving him a pointed look, while Theo just nodded his head in agreement.

He followed Meredith down the hallway. The attorney rapped on the door and then opened it to admit Draco. He reminded Draco to come get him without a moment’s hesitation if he was needed.

Once inside, he saw Potter pacing on one side of a rectangular table. He wasn’t dressed in Auror robes, but was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and an unzipped hoodie. Potter stopped his pacing to look at Draco, and fuck those green eyes. Would he ever be able to Scourgify them from his mind?

“Neville said you had information you needed to share,” said the Chosen One.

“I went to see my father about Greyback.”

“Why?” asked Potter.

Draco’s brow furrowed, “Because of Lavender.” Potter gave no response of recognition. “Lavender Brown. She’s my friend.”

The other boy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Yes, yes, I know she is a Gryffindor war hero, but she’s my friend. Greyback attacked her and I want his head on a plate.”

“Okay… So why did you summon me? I’m just an Auror in training.”

Draco scoffed, “You’re not ‘just an’ anything, Potter. You’re the bloody Saviour – people will believe anything you tell them . . . me . . . not so much.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his side, “And after you . . . well . . . I had hoped you might give me the benefit of the doubt. More than some of you colleagues. Also, what I have to say concerns you.”

“Me? What did your father tell you? And while I might believe you, don’t ask me to believe anything he said.”

“I understand that my father’s word means nothing, but you still need to check out the lead, Potter. It’s too dangerous not to. And I may have . . . threatened to convince Mother not to visit him anymore. She’s the only person I think he genuinely loves other than himself.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in before he said, “He said werewolves were known to congregate in Goblin Combe in Somerset. Greyback was also heard raving about getting revenge on ‘Lyall’s whelp.’ He’s after Remus Lupin’s son.”

“Teddy,” said the Gryffindor, his voice rough.

“Yes. You need to catch that fucker.”

Potter nodded and headed for the door, already off on this new mission – charging forward to save the world and those he loved. Some things it seemed, never changed. Just when Draco thought the other boy was gone, he paused and turned back for a moment. “Thank you, Malfoy,” he said. Then he was gone.

Afterward, Lavender and Theo, upon Meredith’s advice, pulled him through yet another floo to his mother’s townhouse. It was late in the evening, and Draco can’t remember when he last ate. Breakfast maybe? Mip came to the rescue and arranged a picnic of sorts in the coziest room of the house. Blaise barreled in through the hearth not long after they’d sat down on various sofas and armchairs and declared that they – with the exception of Mrs. Malfoy – were all tossers for not including him earlier. They ate and gossiped to try and keep their thoughts away from the escaped werewolf.

Draco hoped to Merlin that his aunt and young cousin were safe. He also hoped that Potter didn’t do anything rash.

His mother was delighted to host him and his friends, and she didn’t bat an eye at welcoming the lone Gryffindor in their midst.

“I don’t understand, oh Gryffindor princess, what it is you see in Draco here,” said Blaise as he reached for another of the prawn tea sandwiches.

“It’s his smooth, good looks, of course,” said Pansy, with a wicked smile on her face.

“Hardly,” laughed Lavender. “No offense, Draco, you are quite attractive for a man as pale as you are, but it was more . . . well . . . personal than that.”

“What was it then?” asked Greg, missing the social queue that Lavender had been purposely evasive in her answer.

The Gryffindor studied Greg’s face for a moment and must have seen sincerity there as she said, “The night I was attacked, Draco made me a promise. At that time, I didn’t know if I was going to . . . well I wasn’t sure if I would live. Professor Lupin tried to save me, and he did save Draco. I asked Draco to promise me not to squander that gift – the gift bestowed on him. I really didn’t expect him to agree – he didn’t have to – no one would have known but me, but he promised. He is still working on that promise, and I respect that.”

The room was quiet for a long moment. At last Blaise did them all the favor of breaking the silence by saying, “I think if you ever need another mum, that Mrs. Malfoy would adopt you after what you just said.”

Draco glanced at his mother. Her eyes were large and shining with emotion. Lavender had just made an ally for life.

“Well, it is growing late,” said his mother, recovering herself and rising from the sofa where she sat beside Draco. “There are plenty of guest rooms, so all of you, please feel welcome to stay the night. Mip has likely already ensured that fresh towels have been laid out for your use as well.”

“Be warned,” said Draco, “The plumbing here is ancient and none of the bathrooms have showers, just clawfoot tubs.”

“Oh Greg has taken care of that,” said Pansy with a wave of her hand.

Everyone swiveled toward the boy.

“Gregory, it turns out, is quite adept with plumbing,” said his mother. “He’s retrofit the entire house. It’s been rather thrilling to watch.” The larger boy started to blush at Narcissa’s phrase. “Not to mention he has made a friend in Mip, the situation in the kitchen was practically medieval before Gregory came to his rescue.”

“Our boy is growing up,” said Blaise, wiping away mock tears.

The object of the discussion was turning a bit pink. “It was nothing. Just wanted to be useful. I liked to tinker with the pipes at home – mostly to make messes – but I’m thinking of trying to apprentice with a magical plumber, if one will have me.”

“I think that is wonderful,” declared Lavender. “I look forward to putting your handiwork to the test, and if it is as good as Mrs. Malfoy says, I’d be happy to be a reference for you.”

The boy flushed even further. If Lavender recommended Greg, that would go a long way in helping him find an apprenticeship. There weren’t too many magical plumbers, but those in the trade were always in high demand.

“It’s not what my parents thought I’d do,” admitted Greg. “But let’s face it, I was pretty crap at school. But the spells I need for plumbing make sense to me. I don’t struggle with them the way I did with some spells.”

Draco couldn’t begin to think of the type of spells needed for plumbing. He was sure they must be complex. He was about to tell his friend that he thought it was a brilliant career path for him when the hearth fire blazed and Meredith stepped out as gracefully as one could after floo travel. He spread his hands to indicate everyone should stay seated and, presumably, stay calm.

“They caught him. Fenrir Greyback is in custody. He was prowling in the ancient forest close to Andromeda Tonks’ house,” said the attorney.

Draco closed his eyes and slumped his head back against the sofa in relief. But why was Meredith bringing them this news. Why didn’t Potter send him word? He knew the Chosen One could have sent him a message through his patronus. He sat bolt upright.

“Was anyone hurt?” he asked. He saw Lavender raise her hand to the scarring on her collarbone.

“Three Aurors were injured, but nothing severe,” said Meredith.

He found himself clutching Lavender’s free hand. True friend that she was, she asked the question he couldn’t force himself to say aloud. “What about Harry?”

“Mr. Potter is fine.”

Maybe Potter would send a message . . . later?

“So none of you are wanted for questioning any longer,” said the attorney with a smile. “And anonymous owls may be on their way to all the major newspapers to let them know that it was one Mr. Draco Malfoy who helped crack this case.”

His friends cheered around him, and Blaise raised him to his feet to thump him heartily on the back before he convinced Mip to bust out the fire whiskey. Even Meredith stayed for a drink. Just before midnight, Lavender towed Draco outside, assuring him she’d only had a sip of alcohol and was safe to apparate him. The cool night air was refreshing as they walked hand in hand to Ollivander’s.

“I’m staying with you tonight,” she said.

“Are you sure? Think of what the paper will say if you are seen leaving in the morning.”

“Let them,” she said, reminding him once again of her fierce loyalty.

In his flat, he gave her one of his shirts to sleep in and she disappeared into one of the spare rooms. He turned on Theo’s gift and watched the ripple of green light play out around his room. He frowned to himself. Still no word from Potter. Had he done something wrong? He shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but his mind kept replaying his brief conversation with the Boy-Who-Lived. He didn’t think he’d been a prat.

He only realized he’d drifted off to sleep when he awoke screaming. The covers were snarled up at his feet, and he was sweating. Fuck – he’d dreamt of the Battle – dreamt of watching Lavender go over the balcony with Greyback. Her face had been white with terror – and her screams – fuck her screams had been agony. He tried to get a handle on his breathing – tried to remind himself that the War was over and his friend was safe.

He heard his door open. “Draco?” And she was there, with her wand lit up and drawn, ready to defend him if need me. She cast her eyes around the room. He knew she wouldn’t find anyone but him and his fucked up brain.

“I’m fine,” he panted.

“Like hell you are,” she said. She conjured a glass and filled it with water for him. “Drink.”

He obeyed, disheartened to note that his hand trembled as he held the glass. Lavender cast a few charms, divesting him of sweat and freshening up the bed. She extinguished the light of her wand, then she smoothed out the covers and climbed in beside him. She wrapped herself around his back and rested her chin on his shoulder. “I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. We are both going to be alright.”

He gripped her hand against his chest. He decided to be openly brave for once. “I love you, you know,” he whispered in the dark.

She squeezed him tight. “I kind of figured that when you went to Azkaban for me. Thought you were a bloody Gryffindor for a moment.” Then his heart tightened when she spoke the words that only his mother had ever said to him before. “I love you too, Draco.”

Chapter 58: Intruding Owls

He awoke to an owl tapping against his window. He and Lavender must have shifted positions in their sleep as he was now cuddled up against her, with his face buried in her hair. He wondered if this was how straight men woke up, wrapped around a woman with long hair tickling their face.  He supposed it wasn’t bad.

“Let the bloody owl in,” Lavender groaned into her pillow. He grinned for a moment, before he pushed himself out of bed and walked over to the window. A short-eared owl with mottled brown feathers he didn’t recognize flapped outside. He opened the window and the owl perched on the sill and regarded him with bright yellow eyes. He untied a missive from its leg and rummaged around in his sock drawer for a bag of owl treats he kept there. The owl accepted its reward and then was off. He held the letter for a moment, and wondered if Potter was at last contacting him about apprehending Greyback. He unrolled the parchment and saw that it was a letter from Meredith wrapped around this morning’s edition of The Prophet. The headline read, “Former Death Eater Helps Aurors Arrest Escaped Werewolf.

He sighed. He didn’t know why he’d been expecting anything from Potter. It’s not like they were friends or anything.

He skimmed over the article. It was surprisingly positive about him. It made little mention of his father's involvement. Fuck, going to Azkaban had been horrible. He’d bottled up his feelings about seeing Lucius, but now, when he remembered their meeting he couldn’t help but shudder. He’d been an asset to Lucius once – a possession – had he ever just been his son? His father’s affection had always been tied to how proud Draco made him, and as he’d grown older, the signs of affection had grown fewer and fewer.

He closed the window and turned back toward the bed.

“What the fuck, Draco?”

Lavender was sitting up in his bed and she was staring right at him. He realized he was dressed only his pants. His Mark was exposed. He quickly held his left forearm against his torso. His Gryffindor friend had never seen his Mark before and it must repulse her.

“Not that,” she said, getting up and crossing the room to him. “Who did this to you?” she asked as she placed a hand on his chest. He glanced down at her hand, and beneath her palm the silvery scars were clearly visible in the light.

Oh shit. His curse scars. Of course. “Sixth year," he said.  "Nothing I probably didn’t deserve.”

She glanced up at him, “Who?” she repeated.

He shook his head. He couldn’t tell her. He hadn’t told a soul who had cursed him. The only people besides Potter and himself that he was sure had known were Snape and Dumbledore, and they were both gone.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay what?”

“If you can’t tell me, that’s okay. But you know how you felt about Greyback for what he did to me? That’s how I feel about whoever did this to you.” She lightly traced one scar.  "I would break them if I could."

He highly doubted Lavender would really think that way if she knew the hero of Gryffindor had slashed him wide open with a dark curse when he’d discovered Draco crying in a girls’ loo.  His friend, however, looked too fierce at the moment to argue with.  He wouldn't want to be on the other side of her wand right now.

There was a knock on his bedroom door. Lavender froze. She was wearing one of Draco’s shirts and he was only in a pair of navy pants and her hand was on his bare chest. His eyes met his friend’s, and then she giggled.

“Draco?” called Ollivander. “Are you up?”

“Just a moment,” he called back.

Lavender giggled again and then he started maneuvering her behind the door, before he hurried to his wardrobe and pulled on a dressing gown. He belted the robe quickly and opened the door a crack.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” said his mentor. “We don’t have appointments with clients today, and I know you had a . . . challenging day yesterday. But you have company.”

He heard another giggle and by the look on Ollivander’s face he’d heard it as well.

“Company?” asked Draco too loudly, trying to cover up the memory of Lavender’s giggle. “Who?”

“Your aunt is here, Mr. Malfoy, and she has brought her grandson,” answered Ollivander. His gaze seemed to take in Draco’s state of dress. “I can . . . tell her you are indisposed . . .”

Lavender burst out laughing. And then she pulled the door open wider so that she could see the wandmaker. “It’s alright Mr. Ollivander. He’ll be down. Draco had me come to the flat for my safety when Greyback was on the loose.”

The older man’s eyes went from Draco to Lavender and back to Draco. Draco knew he was blushing. Salazar fucking Slytherin, his mentor probably thought he'd just caught them in the act of shagging. The scantily clad Gryffindor at his side snorted out a laugh. He turned and gave his friend what he hoped was a withering a look. She was not helping matters.

Lavender, however, was clearly unmoved by Draco, as she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek. “I’ll just get my things and leave you to your visit. Thank you for letting him know, Mr. Ollivander,” she said with a smile before gently closing the door on the old man.

As soon as the door was closed she leaned against and it started laughing again. Draco just stared at her, trying his best to give her his most imperious look.

“Did you see his face? Oh Godric, he was so shocked.”

“Yes, yes, very funny, the idea of me getting a leg over on someone.”

His friend wiped at her eyes, “Oh don’t be like that Draco, you know you are fit. I just think perhaps Mr. Ollivander has forgotten what it is like to be young and it shocked him to realize that you are in fact young, considering how serious you can be.”

Draco huffed. He wasn’t convinced that this was the correct interpretation. His friend grinned up at him. “Thank you again, for yesterday.”

“It was nothing,” he said. He hadn’t been the one to capture Fenrir Greyback after all.

“It was everything,” she said. She pulled herself away from the door and opened it a crack. “The coast is clear.” She turned back to him, “I’ll just nip back to my room and grab my clothes.”

“That makes what happened last night sound so much more interesting then it was.”

She smiled at him again before wrapping him in a hug. “I can’t wait to hear all about your visit. I’ll floo out to the Ministry so that your aunt doesn’t see me leaving your rooms. Don't want to give her a heart attack before you meet her.  Make her some tea, yeah?”

He brushed her off, “Yes, yes, I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

“Of course not,” she said before practically prancing out of his room.

Merlin, he had strange friends.

He shucked off his pants and rifled for his clothes. He didn’t think he should take the time to shower, so he freshened up with a cleaning charm before pulling on dark gray trousers and a navy, cashmere jumper. He ran his hand through his hair, then slipped on a pair of black leather shoes. He opened the door at the same time Lavender opened her across the hall.  She grinned wickedly at him before flitting ahead of him down the stairs.

By the time he caught up, she was already standing in the hearth. “I look forward to our next wild night,” she said. “Now look away.”

He did, but he still heard the roar of the magical flames. After the sound died away, he turned to look and saw that the hearth was empty. He hurried down the stairs out of the residence and found Ollivander chatting with a woman who held a toddler on her hip. The child kept pointing about the shop as if excited by everything they saw.

“Ah, here he is,” said Ollivander seeing Draco over the woman’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your visit.”

The woman turned and for a moment, Draco’s breath caught. He was seeing Bellatrix.  He took a step back.  But . . . no – it wasn't his deranged aunt.  Bellatrix’s hair had been darker, and her face had never been so kind. Her eyes had been hooded, and plainly shown flashes of her cruelty, while this woman’s wide, clear eyes met and held his without a hint of malice.

“Draco, I’m your mother's sister, Andromeda Tonks, and this is my grandson, Teddy Lupin,” said the woman in a voice whose cadence and accent was so like his mother’s.

Ollivander nodded his head, and quietly made his way through the door to the studio.

“Hello . . . Mrs. Tonks,” he said, staring at her and the little boy for a long moment before his manners kicked in. “Would you . . . like to come upstairs for some tea?”

She smiled and hugged Teddy a bit closer, “And if you happen to have biscuits, I know a little rogue here who would love to have some.”

The boy grinned and waved a cuddly toy in the air.

“I believe that can be arranged," said Draco, smiling at the child.

He led his – well – his family up the stairs. His aunt who was clearly brilliant enlarged a set of wooden blocks she’d packed in a bag for Teddy to play with. Teddy sat down on the floor of Draco’s living room and pranced his cuddly toy around the pile of blocks and then opened his mouth and howled.

Draco’s jaw dropped. He didn’t think being a werewolf was hereditary...

“It’s the toy,” said Andromeda. “Blame his godfather. He was being very cheeky when he gave it to Teddy on his first birthday.”

He looked at the plushie and realized that it was a wolf. The Saviour had given Lupin’s son a cuddly wolf.

“His father was . . . well . . . you know, and in the last years of her life my daughter’s patronus was a wolf. It was an irreverent yet fitting gift.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he excused himself to go fix the tea. While he waited for the water to boil, he rummaged around in the cupboard and found some chocolate hob nobs. He tried to fix up the tea tray into a pleasing presentation, but he was sure Mip would have despaired at his efforts.

Teddy was still playing with his toys on the floor, while his aunt was seated on a sofa keeping an eye on him. A memory stirred loose and for a moment he pictured the Dark Lord’s face turning towards him to ask, “What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?”

Looking at the little boy whose toys were starting to sprawl across Draco’s floor, Draco had never been more glad to know that Lord Voldemort was gone. The twisted man would not have let Teddy live. He’d look at this small child and only see what he considered to be his inferiority based on who his parents were. The boy must have sensed Draco looking at him, as he turned his head and met his eyes. The light brown hair and amber eyes were Lupin’s through and through.

“Merlin, he looks like his father,” he said.

“Yes,” Andromeda agreed. “He’s a metamorphagus, like his mother, but in his . . . well . . . in his natural state he looks like his father.”

Draco set the tea tray down and picked up a hob nob. He knelt down beside Teddy and held out the biscuit.

“Hello, Teddy,” he said. “Thank you for visiting me today.”

The child put down his toys and accepted the hob nob. Biscuit crumbs sprinkled down his shirt to the floor as he took a bite.

The child’s grandmother sighed, “Thank Salazar for magic. I don’t know how Muggles keep up with the cleaning without it.”

“Just say the word if you want more,” Draco said to the child before seating himself on an armchair across from his aunt. He went through the familiar motions of fixing tea and handed her a cup, a little disconcerted to realize that she took her tea exactly like Bellatrix. He hoped that was where their similarities ended.

Andromeda took a sip and said, “Harry told me that you were the one who helped the Aurors find Fenrir Greyback. He said you went to Azkaban to get the information out of your father.” She paused for a moment before saying, “Lucius and I – well, we never got along.”

“We don’t really get on either,” said Draco as Teddy hovered beside the tea tray before helping himself to another biscuit.

“Which is why I came to say thank you. What you did – going to that place – you saved him – you saved Teddy. He’s . . . well he’s all I have left of my family after the War.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Tonks. What our family did to you was horrible. They never should have cut you off. But what you did – forging your own family – finding your own happiness – it was so incredibly brave. I don’t know how you did – how you walked away from one life to build a new one. I share the blood of the House of Black, but I didn’t find the strength to do what you did.”

She smiled at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears –  eyes, he realized, that were as large and expressive as his mother’s.

“Perhaps I misspoke. You and I, after all, are family – Teddy isn’t all I have left. Please, call me Aunt Dromeda. And I wasn’t the only member of the Black family to turn away from the narrow minded teachings of our family. My cousin Sirius blazed his own path as well. Sirius and I – well we didn’t leave on our own, we had people who supported us – who loved us. I had my husband, Ted, by my side the whole way.  I wonder, Draco, who did you have?”

He sat mute. Her eyes searched his and he knew she understood that he didn’t want to say out loud that he’d had no one. His friends – Slytherins all – had been trapped as well.  If he'd walked away he would have been by himself.

“When you are isolated and alone, it is hard to know what path to follow. But if a person’s heart is true, I believe they will get there with time. Harry has told me that my cousin, Regulus, saw the light . . . in the end.” She sighed. “Regulus was always a bit of a late bloomer.” She beckoned her grandson over to her and ran a napkin across his face, cleaning him of streaks of chocolate and oat crumbs. The child squirmed, as unhappy as any toddler to have his face cleaned. After she released him he returned to his blocks, and started banging them against one another.

“You remind me of him,” said his aunt. “Of Regulus.”

“Mother says I have his eyes.”

“You do. Other than your hair, you look more like a Black than a Malfoy. But it’s more than your looks. He was a child caught in a web spun by his parents. I also think you are a bit of a late bloomer, Draco. You are here,” she waved her hand about the room, “Trying to build a different life for yourself than the one your father had taught you to aspire toward. That takes bravery – admitting when you were wrong and learning from your past mistakes.”

He was saved from saying anything in response, as Teddy had started picking up his blocks and throwing them down on the floor. Andromeda cast her eyes to the ceiling. “That is our queue to go.” She held up her wand and summoned the blocks. They rose in the air and circled her before shrinking down and spiraling into her bag. Teddy, clapped delighted, and said, “Nana, Nana.”

“The boy loves magic,” she said. “Come here Teddy, and let’s say goodbye to cousin Draco.”

Teddy scooped up his wolf toy and walked over to his grandmother. He lifted his arms, “Uppie.” She bent and lifted him up, settling him against her hip. “Can you say bye-bye?”

The child turned his face into his grandmother’s shoulder, before peeking at Draco with one eye.

“Goodbye, Teddy,” said Draco, and he watched as Teddy’s hair changed before his eyes, shedding color until it matched his own.

“I think he likes you. Next time you should come to us,” said his aunt.

Draco smiled, thrilled that she wanted there to be a next time.

After his aunt and young cousin left, his flat felt empty. He felt alone.   It was feeling he’d once known with horrifying regularity, but he didn’t feel that way as often anymore. Somehow, he’d filled his life with people – people who cared about him – one of whom was likely waiting for him downstairs. Draco armed himself with two cups of tea.  He was British after all, and tea inevitably made difficult or awkward conversations easier. 

Ollivander was in the studio, sorting through a jar of dragon heartstring. He looked up when he heard Draco come in. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I hope you had a good visit with your aunt.”

Draco handed him a cup of tea. “Yes, thank you for giving me the time to see her.  We’ve . . . well . . . we’d never met before.” Ollivander smiled at him in the kindly, distant way of his and took a sip of tea. Draco cleared his throat. “And about . . . well about this morning -”

The older man waved a hand, “I was young once, too, Mr. Malfoy. The fault is mine. I should have sent a patronus.”

For a moment Draco’s traitorous mind imagined a young Ollivander being caught in a state of semi-undress with a lover. His version of a younger wand maker still possessed wild hair, but his brain couldn’t decide on the gender of the lover he’d have. He mentally shook himself. This was not an image he really wanted to dwell on.
The wand maker continued, thankfully oblivious to Draco’s conjured images.

“You know, Mr. Malfoy, you are of age, and this is your home, so you are allowed to have . . . ummm . . . overnight guests,” said the wander maker.

He knew he was blushing. He could feel the flush of heat on his neck, and knowing him, it was creeping up to this face and down his chest. Merlin, his pale skin was no doubt advertising his embarrassment.

“And it is none of my business,” continued the older man. “Ms. Brown is lovely, it’s just that I . . . well . . . I’m rather surprised. I had thought your tastes ran another direction, but again, I am not in the business of judging you . . . or anyone about who they love . . . or . . . ummm . . . desire.”

Draco was dying. Definitely dying. He had no doubt he would quite literally burst into flame at any moment.

“I just want you to know that you don’t have to . . . make choices based on who you were once expected to be. It is fine – more than fine, for you to be whoever it is that you want to be,” said Ollivander, who, for his part, looked as mortified as Draco felt, but the older wizard must have a deep well of inner strength as he continued on, “Just be . . . safe . . . in whatever choices you do make.”

Merlin, Draco’s parents have never given him the safe sex talk, and now here was Ollivander – ancient Ollivander – trying to give Draco his second sexual education talk since his release from jail. He had to put the man out – and himself- out of their mutual misery. He held up a hand. “Mr. Ollivander, please. It’s fine. My . . . er . . . caseworker has already given me ‘the talk.’ And Lavender is just a friend.  Your . . . suspicions were correct. My tastes do run toward . . . men. But you can rest assured, that I have absolutely no prospects, so you don’t have to worry about overnight guests other than my friends.”

“Ah,” said Ollivander, looking relieved. Then his brows knit together, “But what about that friend of yours – the cheeky one – took you out on your birthday?”

“Blaise,” Draco laughed. “He’s just a friend, he just flirts with everyone. He comes by it naturally, his mother has had several husbands.”

“Well give it time, you are very young, and there are plenty of plimpies in the sea.”

Draco repressed a sigh. With the Dark Mark on his arm he very much doubted any wizard would be giving him a second look. Maybe he should ask Blaise to take him out to Muggle London again.

“Now,” said Ollivander, placing his hands together, “Let us move on to our craft. I think, Mr. Malfoy, that it is time to work on to wandless magic.”

Oh, thank fuck. It would be wonderful to get lost in the art and science of wand making. Ollivander explained that to create a wand worthy of use, a wand maker had to connect with the latent magic inherent in both the wand wood and the wand core and fuse them together.

“When you do start binding your first wands, I think you should start with unicorn hair as a core. In my experience, someone learning the craft does best when working with a core type they are intrinsically linked to.”

“But I also have a wand of dragon heartstring,” said Draco.

“Yes. You are a complicated individual. While the wand I sent you for your exams does have a core of dragon heartstring, I think it was meant for you in that moment. You had a lot to prove and needed all the power such a core could provide.  And cores of that type bond quickly with their current owner. You weren’t in a place where you had the luxury of time to weave your magic together with a wand of unicorn hair,” said Ollivander. “I also thought that you were still bound to your first wand and that giving you a wand with the same core type as your hawthorn wand may cause the core of your first wand to wither and die, as we knew unicorn hair cores are capable of doing, as they are loyal to their original master.”

“But . . . my wand . . . it was Potter’s then.” He slid the hawthorn wand into his hand, the smooth wood familiar against his skin.

“As I said to you that day I visited you in the Ministry – your wand is a paradox, and I believe that it chose both you and Mr. Potter. After it left your possession, if it had not also chosen the Boy-Who-Lived, the core would surely have wilted away, rendering the wand useless. This did not happen, as we all know, based on what Mr. Potter was able to accomplish with that wand. So even though the dragon heartstring wand works for you, I think you are still bound to the hawthorn wand.” Ollivander wandlessly levitated a jar of unicorn hair down from a shelf. “So let’s get started with these materials. We will practice your wandless magic by having you pull a single hair from the jar, and then we will move on to hollowing out a piece of wand wood.”

Draco spent the rest of the day working on wandless magic. Even though his attempts at wandless magic hadn’t worked in his Ministry cell, the time he’d spent working it had apparently paid off, as Ollivander seemed quite pleased with his progress. At the end of the day, as they were cleaning up the studio, Ollivander asked, “Does the Ministry know that Mr. Potter returned your hawthorn wand to you?”

He shook his head. The cypress and dragon heartstring wand was the wand that was officially registered to him. “Should I tell them? I . . . well . . . I don’t use it outside of the shop really – not that I leave that often.”

Ollivander hummed, as if considering the question. “I can’t say that I altogether trust the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy. They didn’t cover themselves in glory during either War, and they did little to nothing to protect your generation from the horrors you experienced.” The wand maker looked pointedly at him. “I think, as the wand that defeated He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, the Ministry, especially the Department of Mysteries, would be quite keen to get their hands on it for study. When Mr. Potter held the wand in his possession, they couldn’t have taken it – the backlash of depriving the Saviour of his wand would have been unforgiveable.” Ollivander smiled at him sadly, “You, however, my young apprentice, are a different story. I don’t think they will hesitate to strip you of that wand if they knew you had it.”

Draco felt his heart quicken. He had no doubt Ollivander was right. It would be one thing to claim a possession of the Golden Boy, and quite another for the Ministry to lay claim to something belonging to a former Death Eater under a deferred sentence.

“Of course, my motives aren’t pure. I am an old Ravenclaw after all, and I confess to being more than a little curious about your wand. You must consider that when deciding what to do.”

He frowned as he glanced down at the simple, yet elegant wand in his hand – the wand that had played a role in the Dark Lord’s defeat. He looked back up at his mentor. “But you’ve never asked to examine it.”

Ollivander agreed, “I have not. But you, Mr. Malfoy, are learning about wandlore and the craft, I have no doubt that in time you will have questions about your wand that your newfound knowledge and experience will lead you to ask. I’m curious what you will discover, and I selfishly hope that you will share your knowledge with me. One is never too old to learn.”

That evening, long after Ollivander had retired to his home,  Draco was about to sit down to the admittedly boring meal he’d concocted himself,  when an owl tapped at the window. His first thought was of Potter. He hurried to the window and let the owl in.  He claimed the missive and realized that the handwriting was not Potter's.  .

Draco:

Your father’s trial has been scheduled to begin on Thursday, October 28th. I expect the trial to be lengthy. As you can imagine, the press coverage will be intense. You may want to avoid reading the papers during that time.

Sincerely,
Gwilym Meredith

The attorney had included a special evening edition of The Prophet reporting on the newly scheduled trial date for Lucius Malfoy along with a list of the charges his father was facing. The story about Draco had been in the news for less than one day before Lucius’ story had thrust him in shadow.

Chapter 59: McGonagall's Request

Days passed, then weeks, and he had no word from Potter. Draco threw himself into his work and with very little urging, Blaise took him out clubbing in Muggle London when he wasn’t working. He would lose himself in the music, in the throng of bodies, and the booze. And he loved it. He loved being young and dancing and flirting with men who clearly found him fit. He never went home with any of the Muggles. He left everything on dance floor, or, occasionally, in a back alley for a bout of heated snogging. But he didn’t trust himself to go home with anyone. How would explain his scars? How would he explain his lack of understanding of Muggle technology? And Merlin forbid, if he had a nightmare, how would he explain that? How could a Muggle understand what the fuck he’d been through? Blaise would laugh at him and call him a tease, but he never objected to going out with Draco.

Lavender, however, wouldn’t go to Muggle haunts with him. She said her scarring drew eyes wherever she went, but at least in the magical world everyone knew how she’d gotten them and she didn’t have to explain anything. The weekend before Lucius’ trial was set to begin, she finally convinced him and his Slytherin friends to go to a bar in Wizarding London. She picked a small place – not the Leaky – and it had been great. More than great. No one had a said a cross word to them. Lavender probably had a lot to do with that. It was hard to call out a fucking war hero on her choice of company. They’d all staggered back to his place and fell asleep throughout the flat. Greg, had been keen to inspect the plumbing, and if Theo hadn’t herded the boy to a bed, he likely would have spent the night sleeping in the bathtub on the first floor of the flat.

He was smiling to himself, remembering Blaise’s vehement assertions while they’d been walking back to Draco’s that he was more than just a pretty face and that he had a deep emotional well just waiting to be tapped before he’d tripped on a cobblestone and fallen into Theo chest. He’d declared that Theo had excellent pecs that should be shared with the world and had vanished Theo’s shirt, much to other boy’s annoyance, but to the delight of the rest of the group who had collectively decided that Theo had nothing to be ashamed of and that his shoulders and arms were quite lovely as well.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy,” said Ollivander coming into the studio and drawing Draco from his thoughts. His mentor still addressed Draco formally, even after all these months. Draco liked to think that the older wizard did this as a sign of respect, but it was likely just the norm for someone of Ollivander’s age. “I’ve received an owl from Headmistress McGonagall. A student’s wand is not functioning properly and none of the wands donated to the school suit. She was hoping you could go to Hogwarts and assist the student.”

“Me?”

“Yes. She asked for you specifically.”

He swallowed. Hogwarts. He’d not been there since . . . since . . .

It didn’t help matters that his father’s trial was set to begin tomorrow and would be splashed all through the papers. He knew his mother was planning to attend court every day, but Draco did not intend to make an appearance even though his mother had asked him to accompany her. It was hard refusing his mother, but he couldn’t go. He couldn’t sit in solidarity with the man who’d valued power over everything else.

“You don’t have to go. I could contact Minerva,” Ollivander said, his tone kind. “I’m sure it would be fine for me to attend to this matter.”

He grasped the snitch in his pocket and grounded himself. He needed to face his demons – face his past – or at least he thought he did. And he was nothing if not stubborn. “When does Professor McGonagall expect me?”

“On Friday if possible. In the afternoon. The student has free time after lunch. I’ll owl her back and let her know and she can make travel arrangements.”

The morning of the appointment he packed his satchel with five wands of each core type made of different kinds of wood. He managed to get down half a sandwich and a cup of tea at lunch. Ollivander repeated that Draco didn’t have to be the one to go to Hogwarts, but Draco had reassured him that he would be fine and headed out to the Ministry.

As he walked, he wrapped his coat a little more tightly around himself. He knew the weather would be even colder in the highlands of Scotland. Salazar, he just knew that this whole day was going to be an exercise in parading through places that made him beyond uncomfortable.

At the Ministry, He reported in to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and met with a bored looking Auror to answer the standard questions he’d become used to in the seven months since his release. He wondered what this Auror had done to be stuck checking on him, but he kept the question to himself as he answered the DMLE’s questions instead. Yes, he had employment. Yes, he had a place to live independent of his mother that was not the Manor. No, he’d not travelled outside of Great Britain, and he was traveling to Scotland today upon request of the Headmistress of Hogwarts. No, he had no contact with Death Eaters – except for a brief meeting with his father. No, he’d not performed any harmful magic on others. Yes, he had continued working with his therapist and caseworker, and yes, the releases allowing his therapist and caseworker to speak directly with the DMLE were still valid. Then he handed over his wand for inspection. This was the tricky bit. It felt dishonest not to hand over his hawthorn wand – but really – he worked at wand shop for Merlin’s sake – he had access to innumerable wands. The wand registered to him by the Ministry was his cypress and dragon heartstring wand, so that was the one he turned over. He hadn’t disclosed that Potter had given him back his hawthorn wand, and after talking to Ollivander about it, he wasn’t keen to. He didn’t want the Ministry taking it from him and pouring over it again. It be a violation. He knew he was being risky, but . . . well . . . it was his wand – the wand Potter had trusted him enough to return, so if it was okay by the Golden Boy then that would just have to be good enough for everyone else.

After this routine check in, he made his way to the portkey office. McGonagall had arranged for him to travel to Hogsmeade. He was relieved as he’d not apparated such a large distance in some time, and he didn’t want to splinch himself. He wondered if Ollivander had informed the headmistress of how much Draco hated floo travel. At the appointed time, he pressed his hand to a battered looking textbook and arrived at the train station in Hogsmeade. The village was decorated for Halloween which was only two days away. Carved pumpkins were scattered liberally on door steps and in windows, while black bunting cut in the shapes of bats and black cats was draped rather haphazardly throughout. As he walked through the high street, he pointedly avoided glancing at the Three Broomsticks.

The air was brisk – just as he remembered the late autumnal days of his school years. He pulled the collar of his jacket up. He’d neglected a scarf, which had been an unfortunate oversight on his part as he’d known it would be much cooler in Scotland this time of year. After about ten minutes of steady walking, a set of gates opening onto the grounds of the school loomed before him. Waiting inside the gates, was a large, bushy-haired man that was unmistakably Hagrid.

“McGonagall sent me to fetch you,” said the man, opening the gate enough for Draco to slip in. “She’s expecting you in her office.”

He fell into step behind the giant of a man. Was he still a professor here? Draco didn’t know. He’d not kept up on the goings on at Hogwarts.

“Got your letter,” the man said to him.

Draco swallowed and hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder.

“It was . . . good of you,” said Hagrid, still walking toward the castle in long strides.

“It wasn’t enough,” Draco managed to mumble.

“I reckon that all of us staff and professors didn’t do enough for you. We – uh – all assumed you’d turn out a certain way. We never checked – never offered to help. You were just a kid.”

Great, this man was going to make him have feelings just as they were walking toward the courtyard where, when he’d last stood there, he’d seen Potter – limp and lifeless. As he crossed the courtyard he clutched the snitch in his pocket and focused on his breathing. More pumpkins were strewn around the entrance, their festiveness at odds with Draco’s emotions. As he reached the steps leading up to the main entrance, Hagrid stopped and said, “I know you can find your way to the Headmistress’ office. The password for you today is, ‘Exceeds expectations.’”

He almost snorted. Fucking McGonagall, getting in a sly dig about his Transfiguration NEWT score. He nodded and started up the stairs, but Hagrid halted him by saying, “If there is anything I can ever help you with, you just ask.”

The man was practically beaming at him. He wasn’t used to . . . well . . . this. Hagrid didn’t beam at him – never had even when he’d been young and reasonably cute. This was weird.

“Ah . . . right. Thanks,” he said before hurrying up the steps. Inside, the castle was decorated for the upcoming Halloween Feast on Sunday. He’d always enjoyed the enthusiasm the faculty had put into holiday decorations. In the corner of the Great Hall he saw the small cordoned off corner of swamp that the Weasley twins had inflicted on the school during Umbridge’s tenure. He took another deep breath. He needed to focus on the positive. He had a lot of good memories of this school. Memories with his friends. He tried to concentrate on those memories – on images of them, relatively happy and carefree, before the dark times of sixth year.

As he climbed the stairs of the familiar building, he wondered if Kreacher was still here or if he was back at 12 Grimmauld Place. Potter had inherited the house – did he live there now with Kreacher?

At the gargoyle guarding the office, Draco sighed and grudgingly gave the password. As he walked up the steps, he tried not to think about the last time he’d been in this office – about how Snape and portrait Dumbledore had emotionally gutted him. At the top of the stairs he found Professor McGonagall waiting for him with a tea tray.

“Do sit down, Mr. Malfoy,” she said waving her hand toward a pair of chairs. He sat. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Both please.”

He followed along with her in the ritual of tea and he answered a few polite questions about his apprenticeship.

“I was pleased to hear of your deferred sentence. I think you deserve it.” She swept her hand toward a pair of empty portraits that he’d been studiously avoiding. “My predecessors did not intervene on your behalf as much as . . . well as much as they should have.” She leaned toward him and said conspiratorially, “I’ve had this conversation with their portraits, and I was quite stern in my assessment.” She leaned back. “And I am stern in my own assessment. I did not assist you either.”

“You were head of Gryffindor House. I understand why.”

She shook her head. “No. That does not excuse it. You were a student of mine – one of my brightest and best students even – and I knew you were . . . hurting. I reported my concerns to Headmaster Dumbledore, but I did nothing more than leave the matter in his hands. I should have . . . well I should have asked you, Mr. Malfoy, if you were quite alright.”

“I would have denied that anything was the matter. I would have rebuffed you.”

“Quite possibly, but we will never really know will we.”

“It’s in the past,” he said, wanting to end this line of discussion. “Everything – well – the Dark Lord is defeated. I’m alive.”

“Being alive and being whole are not the same thing. Allow me to at least apologize, Mr. Malfoy. Whether or not you accept that apology is up to you.”

He didn’t know where to look, so he settled for staring in his teacup.

“And I do apologize. You deserved better,” she said, trying to meet his eyes, but he resisted. She sighed before briskly saying, “Moving on, a student here is in need of a new wand. In hindsight, he probably needed one last year, but . . . well . . . he’d gone through a lot. We thought his emotional health was influencing his magic. It probably was, but now we suspect that it is more. We’ve tried him with the wands we’ve had donated, but nothing suits.”

So this wasn’t the case of a student breaking their wand, this was something more delicate. “Did the student . . . did he lose someone in the War?”

“His brother,” said the Headmistress. “The student is Dennis Creevey, and he’s in his sixth year. I don’t know if you recall his brother. Colin would have been in the year behind yours. Both of the Creevey boys sorted Gryffindor.”

He did recall Colin. Unfortunately he didn’t have many memories of the boy in life, for as a Gryffindor and a Slytherin they’d not mixed much. His strongest memory of the boy was his youthful, still face as his body had lain in the Great Hall after the Battle.

“Why,” said Draco, “Did you ask me of all people here today? I can’t imagine my presence will help Dennis Creevey all that much. Ollivander would likely have been a better choice. He, after all, doesn’t bear the Dark Mark.”

McGonagall set her teacup in its saucer with a noticeable clink and regarded him with shrewd eyes. “My student has known loss. He is hurting. He thinks if he’d done something differently, perhaps his brother still would be alive. He knows regret. I rather thought, that you could relate to much of that.”

“I . . . Yes. I can.”

“Are you willing to meet with my student?” she asked, still holding his gaze.

He knew what it was like to be in pain. He doubted he’d be the one to be able to help this student, but he should at least try. Besides, he wasn’t here to provide therapy, he was here to help the boy find a wand. That was what he was apprenticing to do after all.

He lifted his chin, “I’ll meet with him.”

McGonagall gave him a rare half smile. “I’m pleased by that decision as Mr. Creevey will be joining us in a moment.”

He shook his head. She’d played him in a way where he wouldn’t have been able to say no. “I’m surprised you didn’t sort Slytherin, professor.”

She tilted her head a bit, “I was a hat stall, Mr. Malfoy. It took the thing ages to decide what to do with me.”

“The hat barely touched my head before it sorted me.”

“I recall,” said McGonagall. “We’ve had some very fine wizards who sorted Slytherin.” She inclined her head toward the still vacant empty canvas which he knew must house Snape’s portrait. The frame was austere, plain and black as it was, which he supposed suited the portrait of the man he had thought of as a mentor for a time. Draco still had tangled feelings about him. He felt betrayed by Snape, but Snape had paid for his convictions with his life, so maybe he shouldn’t still be holding a grudge. He had been young in the scheme of things, at what? Thirty-eight? The man had been double Regulus’ age, but neither had been granted a rich and full life.

“Headmistress?”

Draco turned in his chair to see a slight boy with light brown hair waiting just inside the office. The boy’s school tie gave him away as a Gryffindor.

“Mr. Creevey,” said McGonagall. “Thank you for coming. I have invited a representative of Ollivander’s wandshop here today to consult with you on your wand. I am pleased to say that Mr. Ollivander has sent his apprentice, Mr. Draco Malfoy. I’m not sure if you recall him from school.”

The boy scowled, and it was all Draco could do not to wince. Of course the boy remembered him. He’d been a fucking prefect and head boy, not to mention a pureblood prat.

“I know who he is,” said the boy tightly.

“Excellent,” said the headmistress, pretending she didn’t hear the other boy’s disdain. “I have other matters to attend to. Mr. Creevey, please take my seat and help yourself to tea. If you should need me, send a patronus.”

She patted Dennis Creevey on the shoulder as she left and then swept down the stairs. Draco suppressed a groan. He couldn’t fucking send a patronus. Fuck, he hoped the Creevey boy didn’t fancy lobbing hexes and curses at him. Draco hoped the student’s wand was malfunctioning for him too much to allow him to do that even if he was so inclined.

“I know who you are – what you are,” said Creevey.

“Who I was,” said Draco.

“Death Eater,” the boy said, his voice full of venom.

He knew the student was hurting, he did. And he knew that the boy had every reason to hurt, but that didn’t mean Draco had to allow all of that pain to be heaped on him.

“I was a Death Eater,” said Draco. “I was branded when I was sixteen years old. Tell me, Creevey, do you think at sixteen I was capable of making the best decisions?”

The other boy’s face fell. “Sixteen . . .” he said, his voice low.

“That’s how old your brother was, wasn’t he?” asked Draco. “That’s how old you are now.”

He watched as Creevey fought to keep his face calm. At last he agreed, “Yes.”

Draco motioned toward the empty chair across from him. “Please sit down.”

The hard look returned to the student’s face, but he did take the seat.

“The headmistress asked me here today, because she thought . . . well . . . I’m afraid I think what she thought is a little insane, but she thought I could . . . help you. I’ve known . . . pain and loss.”

Creevey snorted, “Who’d you lose? You were on the wrong side, and last time I checked all the Malfoys are still alive.”

“I lost a friend. I lost a mentor. I lost a man I wished I,d known better. I lost my freedom, my self-respect, and my pride,” answered Draco, trying to be painfully honest so that he could reach this wounded boy. “I won’t pretend that I know what you are going through. I don’t. I never had a brother. I can’t imagine your loss.”

The Gryffindor’s hands tightened on the armrests of the chair, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Draco watched as a tear slid down his cheek and the boy took a few long breaths. He ran his hand across his face, dragging the tear away before he opened his eyes again. The fire seemed to have gone out of him. He looked so young.

“My brother . . . Colin. . . he was wonderful. He was curious and kind, and he was so fucking brave. Why’d he have to be so bloody brave? If he’d just stayed away – stayed with me – he’d still be here. He should still be here.”

“I know,” said Draco.

The boy’s eyes caught his, “He didn’t deserve to die.”

“He didn’t.”

“And I know you’re not . . . horrible. Isaac Hamilton told me what you did for him and Michael Corner. And I read the papers during your trial. It’s just when I see you – it feels so unfair. You get to live – get to try and become something even with all the shit you did, and my brother – he’ll never get to grow older – he’ll never get the chance to become whoever it was he was meant to be. He’ll forever be known as ‘Colin Creevey, war hero,’ as if that title makes up for his death.”

The boy drew his hands to his lap and stared down at them. They sat in silence for a long moment. When he could no longer stand the quiet, Draco said, “Tell me about your wand.”

“Hazel, with unicorn hair,” said Creevey, not looking up.

Draco sat back in his chair. Well no fucking wonder the boy’s wand wasn’t working for him. Hazel reflected the emotional state of its owner, and hazel wands with a unicorn hair core were so devoted that they have been known to wilt and die at the end of their owner’s life. While Dennis Creevey was still alive, he had changed so drastically at his brother’s death that his wand likely no longer recognized him and its magic was literally fading away.

“What does your magic feel like when you use your wand? What happens?” asked Draco even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

The boy looked up and shrugged. “Nothing much. It started during fifth year and has only gotten worse this year.”

“Show me,” said Draco, standing. “Try something easy – something you’ve been casting since first year.”

The boy stood, pulled out his wand, and said, “Lumos.” The tip of the hazel wand stuttered with light and then went dark.

“Does that happen every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, like Professor McGonagall thought, I think it’s your wand. It’s . . . fading, and it isn’t allowing your magic to channel through it any longer.” He bent down and pulled up his bag. With his wand, he beckoned a small side table in the office closer to him and placed the wands on it. “I’ve brought wands of the three main core types made of different woods to see if any of them suit.” Draco reached for an English oak wand with a dragon heartstring. It was a classic pairing, and he passed it to the boy. “Give this a try.”

Creevey laid down his own wand and accepted the new wand. He cast lumos again, and nothing happened.

“Let’s try something with a phoenix feather.” Draco selected a wand of rowan wood, a favored type of wand wood. The student cast the same charm again and this time the tip of the wand lit up and held for a span of a couple of heartbeats before sputtering out.

“This is useless,” said Creevey.

“No, it’s not,” said Draco. We might not find your wand today, but we are narrowing things down. This last wand, rowan and phoenix, responded better to you than your own. I’m not sure yet if it is core type or the wood. This is a process that is much of an art as a science.”

He could tell by the younger boy’s face that he wasn’t convinced. Draco sat back down and motioned for Creevey to do the same. He studied the student. He looked young and so very like his brother.

“Tell me about your brother,” said Draco, following a hunch.

“He sorted Gryffindor, like me. We were Muggleborn. Did you know that? Both of us. My folks – they are ordinary – we are from a long line of ordinary people. And Colin and I were both born with magic. Do you know how incredibly rare that is – it was only him and I – and both of us were born wizards. My dad, he was so proud. We knew Colin was magic first – it explained a lot really – and after Colin’s letter came, my parents thought I might be magic too. And I hoped I was. I wanted to be just like him – I wanted to go to the fairytale school and learn all about what it meant to have magic.” The boy looked away a moment, flashing his eyes in the direction of Dumbledore’s empty portrait before focusing back on Draco. “And do you know what? It wasn’t a fairytale. My brother missed a lot of his first year being petrified by a fucking monster. And they barely told us anything – just that there had been an accident at the school and he’d be all right. Then Voldemort came back and we both joined Harry’s defense training group. I was only a third year for Christ’s sake, and there I was, learning spells to protect myself and keep myself alive. Then we couldn’t come back that year Snape was headmaster. We had to go into hiding. Even our folks didn’t know where we went – we didn’t want to get them hurt. We ran off to a distant cousin’s way the fuck out in Snowdonia. Do you know how hard it is to travel when you can’t be seen and when you still have the trace on you?”

A tear slid down the boy’s face and he brushed it away. “But Colin never lost heart. Never. He knew – he fucking knew that Harry would win – that there would be a place for a the likes of us in this world of magic. The night our coins activated he apparated to Hogsmeade and snuck in with the others in Dumbledore’s Army to take part in the Battle.” Another tear fell, and then another. This time Creevey didn’t wipe them away. “He’d been studying – we both had been trying to learn with some books and things we’d managed to take with us. And he learned how to apparate. That night, he wouldn’t take me. Said he'd have to make the jump a few times to get as far as Hogsmeade and he didn’t want to splinch us both – didn’t want to risk the trace finding us both. I . . . I couldn’t go with him. I didn’t know how to apparate. So he went – barreling off into danger to do what was right – to prove that Muggleborns have a place in this world.”

Brown eyes met his, and Draco watched helpless as more tears fell.

“And he died. He died to help the Wizarding World be a better place.” The boy’s breath hitched for a second, and then he said, “And it wasn’t worth it. All you purebloods – you can keep it. You can keep all this magic you want just for yourselves so badly, because none of it is worth my brother’s life. And what makes it all worse is there is no way to explain this to my parents. My dad thought he was sending us off to a wonderful place where our gifts would have purpose. Instead he’s lost his oldest son at fucking sixteen years old. This world was supposed to welcome us and accept us in ways that the Muggle world couldn’t. It’s been a joke. A horrible joke. If we’d been sent off to Muggle school like every other kid in our neighborhood, Colin would still be alive.”

The boy ran the sleeve of his school robe across his face, both wiping and smearing the tears that had traced his cheeks and clung to his chin. “And then you sit here and try and tell me that a new wand is just what I need for my magic – for magic I didn’t ask for and that has brought me a world of pain.”

Draco wanted to look anywhere but at the boy across from him. He wanted to slump back in his chair and bury his face in his hands – or better yet, he wanted to leave this school and curse at McGonagall on the way out for bringing him here to help this student who needed a whole lot more than a fucking wand.

“I can’t help with all of that. I can’t.” He makes a mental note to owl McGonagall the name of his therapist. Even if Curtis couldn’t help the boy, he’d likely have names of people he’d recommend. “But I can help with the wand. What was . . . Colin’s wand made of?” It felt wrong to use the deceased boy’s given name, but it felt even more disrespectful to refer to him as Creevey after everything his younger brother had shared.

“It was poplar and phoenix feather. He got it at Ollivander’s.”

“Oh,” Draco exhaled. “That . . . makes so much sense.”

The boy looked up, his brow furrowed, “Why?”

Draco knew he had to tread carefully here. Creevey was fragile and his grief was still raw.

“Poplar is known to pair with people of integrity. It works best with those of clear moral vision. And phoenix feathers are the rarest of the three wand cores used by Ollivander. Its allegiance is hard won. From what you’ve told me about your brother, it sounds like he would have perfectly suited such a wand. He knew what was right, and he fought for it.”

Creevey laughed a bitter sounding laugh. “I don’t fight for anything.”

Draco frowned at the student. “I’m going to be unprofessional and blunt right now, but are you fucking serious? You are still here,” Draco waved a hand around the room, “You are still at Hogwarts. You are fighting every day to be here – to carry on – to find your place in this world that tried to spit you out. That’s incredibly fucking brave.”

Another tear rolled down the boy’s face. “It doesn’t feel very brave.”

“Feeling brave – not that I know much about it – usually means you feel terrified but keep doing what you think is right despite everything.” Draco paused for a moment before asking, “Dennis, where is Colin’s wand?”

The boy started in his seat. “Er . . . in my trunk, in my room. My father didn’t want it around the house. Stored away all of Colin’s magical things – said he couldn’t bear to look at them. I . . . I couldn’t let his wand be sacked off to storage, so I brought it with me.”

Draco nodded. This would make things speedier. “Could you please go get it?”

“I already told you what his wand was made of,” said Dennis, sounding cross and tired.

“I know,” he agreed. “But I’d like you to get it all the same.”

“Fine,” groused the boy as he stood. “Not like I haven’t climbed enough stairs today.”

After the Gryffindor student had gone, Draco sat in the space. The office felt unnaturally quiet. He gazed at the portraits of headmasters and headmistresses whose time sitting at the helm of Hogwarts spanned a millennium. Based on the style of the dress, he saw that the oldest portraits hung the highest. He wondered if some of these portraits spoke Old English or Norman French. Many of the figures were dozing, but others peered at him, likely curious about the exchange he’d had with Dennis. The pair of empty canvases closest to McGonagall’s desk, however, were the portraits that interested him the most.

He walked toward the portraits, the heels of his shoe clicking on the stone floor. He stopped in front of Dumbledore’s portrait. The man’s image did not appear, something that both relieved and angered him. He didn’t know what he’d say if the portrait suddenly filled and Dumbledore’s eyes were staring at him, but he thought he rather deserved an appearance and perhaps an apology. The former headmaster, however, did not give him that satisfaction.

He took a couple of steps and faced Snape’s empty portrait. Up close he could see that the background wasn’t as dark and plain as it appeared from a distance. While many of the portraits depicted cozy parlors before a kindling fire, this one showed a barren hill at night. The moon hung full in the distance partially obscured by clouds. Mist swirled in the foreground, and as the clouds shifted across the moon, a gleam of light caught on wisps of mist and for a brief moment Draco could see the word, “Always,” before the clouds covered the moon again.

“Always,” he whispered to himself, and as if summoned by the word, a silver doe erupted across the portrait. Draco stepped back, scanning the canvas for Snape’s form, but the doe faded away to show an empty landscape once more.

What the fuck?

“He always had a tendency for the dramatic,” sighed a portrait off to the side. Draco turned to see his relation, Phineas Nigellus Black, peering down at him from his perch higher up on the wall. “So dark and brooding much of the time.”

“The portrait lightens at times as well - the sun rises and lilies bloom throughout the landscape,” said the voice of a headmistress’ portrait, “I rather think it depends on the circumstances. You being here has likely tipped the scale.”

“Excuse me?” he said to the woman wearing light gray robes over a dress with an empire waist. Carefully arranged curls framed her face.

“I believe you are one of his regrets – that he couldn’t – or didn’t – protect you more. If Headmistress McGonagall hadn’t ordered them away on pain of having their portraits mounted in Filch’s office, I rather think Severus would have liked to speak with you.”

Well wasn’t that a bit of a mind fuck. Portrait Snape had wanted to speak to him? What - were they going to bound over how they were each haunted by a pair of green eyes?

He heard the sounds of footsteps behind and he turned to see Dennis Creevey holding a wand of white poplar. Draco held his hand out for the wand, and with a slight grimace the boy turned it over to him. Draco could only imagine the boy’s conflict at seeing his older brother’s wand in the hands of a Death Eater. He focused on feeling the magic of the wand. It was intact, and he could clearly sense the presence of the phoenix feather core.

Wanting to be thorough, he asked, “May I see your wand as well?”

Dennis again, did as he was asked, and just as Draco suspected, the core of the wand hardly registered. The best way he could describe the feeling of the unicorn hair’s magic was that it was decaying. He gave Dennis back his brother’s wand.

“I think you have so many feelings bound up in your brother’s memory that his wand may be your match now. Please, give it a try.”

The boy stared at him, but after a moment took a deep breath, and said, “Lumos.”

The poplar wand erupted with light.

Chapter 60: Potter's Truth

Draco was exhausted on his return from Hogwarts. Dennis had broken down when his brother’s wand had worked for him, and Draco hadn’t been able to send a fucking patronus for McGonagall, so he’d had one of the portraits go looking for her which had taken a horrific amount of time. It had been a lot – returning to the school and helping the grief-stricken boy. He wanted to curl up on his sofa and just be.

The shop came into view, and it was well past closing time. Ollivander had likely gone home. He turned down the side alley, and as he neared the back entrance, he saw Potter of all people standing on the steps. What the literal fuck was he doing here? Draco hadn’t seen or heard from him since the night he’d told Potter about Fenrir Greyback and now here he was standing on Draco’s back doorstep.

He was bloody well tired and thirsty and not in the mood to be polite. He tried so hard to be polite and approachable all the time in Ollivander’s shop, afraid that if he displayed even a little bit of curtness people would think he was reverting to his Death Eater ways. It was beyond exhausting and he didn’t think he could pull it off now. Besides, why the fuck had Potter ghosted him for weeks?

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he mounted the steps to stand beside the Chosen One.

“Er . . . I came to see you.”

Draco huffed, “Right. My legs are long enough,” he said, pointedly looking down at Potter who was a few inches shorter, “Go pull someone else’s.” He made to brush past the other boy, but Potter grabbed his arm.

“I did come to see you.”

“It has been weeks, Potter. Weeks. I’m not in the mood to be your backup to a backup when all of your little do-gooder friends are busy.”

He shook Potter off and opened the door. Potter, shoved his body into the door, “Look, I should have – I should have written. But I didn’t know what to say. The Head Auror told me that Lucius had been using what he knew about Greyback as a bargaining chip for having charges dropped and you . . . well . . . you getting the information out of him ruined that plan. And you used to . . . worship your father.” Green eyes sought his. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me. I’ll remind you of going against your father - but then you weren’t at this trial - not even on the first day, and I thought maybe . . .”

Draco stared at the Gryffindor. Potter shifted a little.

“Malfoy, I’m . . . I’m sorry. ”

“Are you fucking insane, Potter? My father is an arsehole of the highest order. I don’t give a shit about ruining his negotiations with the Ministry on his charges. He deserves everything he gets.”

“Oh,” said the other boy.

“You seriously thought I still marched to my father’s tune? That ship sailed after fourth year when the Dark Lord came back. My father stood witness in a graveyard as a child the same age as his son was tortured and almost murdered by the Dark Lord. You were my age.” He felt his throat tighten. “And then in fifth year he attacked you and a gang of school children and went to Azkaban for it, leaving my mother and I alone. I was so fucking mad at you after that – even more than before, because you exposed my father for what he really was, and I didn’t want to know that the man I’d idolized was so cruel.”

Draco realized he’d raised his voice. Merlin, wasn’t that just great – he’d quite possibly been putting on a show for his neighbors. He grabbed Potter’s wrist and pulled the other boy in the door before shutting it firmly.

“So – er – you’re not upset with me about Lucius?”

Draco rubbed his fingers into his temples before he said, “No, Potter, I am not. I’m upset with you because you’re a fucking idiot. I can’t believe the Order of Merlin, First Class was bestowed upon you.” He turned away from the clueless Gryffindor to set down his bag on one of the work stations and started to unpack the wands he’d taken to Hogwarts. They’d been useless, of course, but the journey hadn’t been wasted.

“But Malfoy, he’s your father.”

Draco slammed the table with the wand in his hand and turned to face the other boy. “I’m aware of that. Lots of people have daddy issues.” When Potter raised his eyebrows at this remark, Draco carried on, “What? I’m not allowed to be normal and be upset at my father?”

The Golden Boy raked a hand through his wild hair. “No, you’re allowed. Christ, Malfoy, I know your father is a prick, okay. I do. I was there for some of his worst moments during this War. But I don’t know. He . . . he didn’t even have a wand at the Battle. When I saw him, he was looking for you. As fucked up as everything he did was, I think he did it to protect you – you and your mother.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. He was momentarily horrified that he was standing in front of the Chosen One with his mouth open and hurriedly clapped it shut. What was Potter on about? This was making no fucking sense.

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not-”

“It sure as hell sounds like you are.”

Potter threw out his arms, “My father is dead, alright? He is dead.”

“I know!” Draco yelled, “He’s dead because the fucking madman my father supported and allowed into our home killed him!”

Green eyes blazed at him – eyes as green as magical fire – as green as a killing curse. “I’m aware of that, thank you very much you prat,” said the Gryffindor, his voice matching Draco’s in volume. “Lucius Malfoy is not a good person – probably never was. But I think underneath it all he loved you. He made some fucking sick choices – he did. But your mother – she loves him Malfoy. I saw The Prophet - she sat in that courtroom alone because she loves him. And I know you love her. I know you did everything you did from sixth year on because you love her.”

He felt incandescent with anger. He hadn’t felt this way for a long time – it was a feeling he was no longer familiar with handling, but Merlin it made sense that he was feeling it toward Harry fucking Potter. His magic snapped and swirled around him, unbidden.

“How dare you stand here and pretend that you know anything about me – about my family.” Wands and tools started to rise in the air around him – this wasn’t at all like the controlled wandless magic he’d been learning from Ollivander. “You don’t know anything.” More objects rose in the air, and started to swirl around him and Potter. The Gryffindor didn’t even flinch.

“You have no business –”

“She saved my life,” Potter shouted. “Your mother saved my life. And if I had a mother I’d do anything Malfoy, fucking anything, to make her happy.”

He felt his eyes widen, the objects stilled in their circular flight.

“And I didn’t have a father to either love or mess me up – I didn’t have fucking anyone - no one until I was eleven years old. And I’d give anything to have had what you had.”  

"A messed up upbringing - that's what you wanted?"

"I wanted a family.  And yes, your's is fucked up, but your mother . . . she tried . . . she's trying.  She loves you."

He barked out a laugh. This was truly absurd. His right hand grasped his left forearm, and he shoved his Marked arm in the fucking Saviour’s face.

“You know what my love cost me – you know. You saw it that night on the tower with Dumbledore. You can’t stand here and say you would have done this – that you would have ever accepted this. You always did the right thing – you would never have done this.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Malfoy. Not a fucking choice.” Potter pushed his arm away – he could almost feel the Mark burning through his sleeve. “You think that Mark scares me? You did it because you love her. Tell me – tell me I’m wrong.”

For a moment he felt his magic surge again. He wanted to hurl every levitated object at Potter.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” commanded the other boy.

And he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell the Chosen One he was wrong. Every item held aloft by his magic froze and then dropped to the ground in a clatter of sound. He stood there, in the eye of a mess of his creation staring at the boy he’d never been able to look away from.

“Tell me,” said Potter.

Draco shook his head. “Fuck you, Potter.”

“Tell me, Malfoy.”

He closed his eyes and willed himself to take a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, the Golden Boy was still regarding him.

“I can’t. You’re not wrong.”

Potter lifted his chin. “I know. And your mother needs you.”

Draco waved a hand toward the door. “You’ve made your point. Now please see yourself out.”

He turned and started to walk away, then Potter called, “Where are you going?”

“Not your business,” Draco said over his shoulder.

“Hey, Malfoy – don’t. Don’t end it like this.”

He turned, “Like what?” He stalked back toward the other boy, “Like what, Potter? It’s not like we are friends – we can end this conversation on any note and it won’t matter.”

The Gryffindor shrugged. “It might matter – it could. Just because we aren’t friends now, doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.”

Draco stared at the boy.

“Anything is possible now,” said Potter.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. Merlin, why did Potter always surprise the hell out of him? Had the Gryffindor no idea what these little tendrils of hope did to him? “Fine. Fine. We’ll end this on a better note. But seriously. I’m beyond exhausted. So unless you want to watch me nap, which is high level creepy, you should go.”

“So we’re . . . okay?”

“Yes, yes – as okay as two former school rivals raised to fight on opposite sides of a war can be.”

“Good,” said Potter with a grin. “You’re fucking scary when you’re mad. Wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of such a powerful wizard.”

“Wait – what? Did you just compliment me?”

The Gryffindor’s grin grew smug. “Maybe. I’ll leave it to you to sort out.” And then the confusing bastard left Draco standing alone in the middle of the studio.

“What the fuck?” Draco murmured to himself.

 

The next morning he let himself in his mother’s house bright and early. Narcissa was ensconced in the breakfast room. She smiled when she saw him in the doorway. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked tired.

“Darling, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow for dinner.” She motioned to the dishes laid out on the table. “Come, sit, and help yourself.”

He kissed the top of her head as he passed behind her to take a seat.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “The shop is open today”

“Of course,” she agreed, pouring him some tea.

“But I wanted to . . . check on you. How is father’s trial?” Her mouth tightened. He reached out and took her hand. “Mother?”

She didn’t look at him as she said, “The prosecution’s case is . . . It is hard to sit through.” She turned her gaze to him, “Your father is . . . he is a flawed man. But I have no doubt that he did everything he did for this family.”

Draco resisted the urge to speak his mind. His father had always thought amassing power most benefited him and thus his family – and while at times it had, he didn’t think that his father ever stopped to think about the cost. He had no doubt that many people had suffered based on his father’s decisions and actions.

“I never thought, all those years ago when we began our lives together, that we would ever be here. Our future was so . . . bright – we had everything – everything. And now . . .”

“You have me, mother. You know that.”

She smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. His heart broke a little to know that he was causing her pain. And he knew the question he wanted to ask could further hurt her, but he had to know.

“Why are you standing by him?”

She looked at him, stunned, “You know why.”

He shook his head, “No, I don’t.”

“My darling, he is your father. And I made a vow.” Then she repeated the words of the traditional wizarding vows, “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, in times of magic and times of drought, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, by the light of the stars and the pull of the tides, I plight thee my troth.” She squeezed his hand, “I meant those words then, and I mean them still. But more importantly, I gave him my heart long ago, and for all of his faults, I know that I have his in return.”

Merlin, why was his life so hard? He was angry at his father – angry that his quest for power had led them here. But his mother’s heart was sacred – and seemingly fragile at the moment – and fucking Potter was right. He’d do anything – or almost anything - for this woman.

“I have Monday off,” he said. “If you’ll let me, I’d . . . like . . . to accompany you to court.”

He knew he’d pleased her, as this time when she smiled it reached her eyes.

Before he left the house to get back to the shop in time for opening, he sent an owl to Potter.

 

Potter,

I’ll be going to my father’s trial with my mother on Monday. Happy you insufferable Gryffindor?

D.M.

 

Sunday evening he his body felt a bit sluggish and full after dinner at mother’s. Admittedly, today’s dinner had been more abundant and extravagant than usual in honor of Halloween. He had mixed feelings about the holiday, but Greg had been keen for them all to get together and celebrate like the Hogwart’s feasts of old, and his mother had pulled out all the stops to oblige this boy’s simple desire.

Still, after being surrounded by friends, his mind felt restless, so he pushed past his body’s protests and settled into the studio to continue try to create his first working wand. He put an applewood wand he’d recently carved into a vice and selected a length of unicorn hair. He’d tried to use a different specimen for the core earlier in the week, but it hadn’t taken. Ollivander had suggested that he try again with a new length. He pulled his favorite work stool loaded up with cushioning charms in front of the clamped wand and set to work. He lost track of time, and didn’t notice as the light outside changed from dusk to dark. A knock at the back door snapped him from his focus on the wand.

He rose and stretched – stiff despite the cushioning charms. He peered out the window by the door, and in the light of the lamp mounted above the stoop he saw the familiar form of Potter. He’d rolled his sleeves up while he’d worked, so he tugged them back down, covering the Mark before he opened the door.

“Back already?” he asked.

Potter’s eyes reflected in the light. He looked . . . tired.

“Yeah. May I . . . come in?”

Draco stood aside and motioned the boy in. Potter walked over to the wands Draco had laid out on a table after his trip to Hogwarts. By the slope of his shoulders, Draco could tell the other boy was tense.

“Did you make any of these?” Potter asked with his back to Draco.

“No. I’m just starting to learn how to join a wand with its core. It’s what I was working on before you arrived.”

The Gryffindor turned toward, him his face lifting a bit despite his obvious fatigue. “May I watch?”

Draco scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was late, and he probably should call a halt to his work for the night, but he hadn’t planned on having Harry fucking Potter ask to watch him hone his craft. “Fine, but you go up and get the tea.”

He’d just managed to get the unicorn hair almost completely fed into the hollow channel in the center of the wand wood when Potter appeared at his side. He held a butterbeer out to Draco.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get the hob to start,” said the Chosen One. Draco couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d forgotten about the stove being charmed so that only certain people could use it. Potter lifted the bottle extended to Draco a bit, “And tea made with magic doesn’t taste as good, so I thought these would be better.”

Draco accepted the offered beverage. “Thanks,” he said before he took a sip.

Potter grinned at him, and pulled up a stool beside him. “What are you working on?”

“I’m encasing the wand core in the wand wood,” said Draco. He demonstrated with some wandless magic, and the length of core fed a little further in. “Once the core is all the way inside, it has to be magically fused with the wood. That’s the part I’m still working on getting right.”

“This is so cool,” said Potter, sounding a little awed, and Draco couldn’t imagine why. Potter was literally the Boy-Who-Lived and had saved the whole fucking world, not to mention that he was currently training to be an Auror, he’d surely seen and done things that ranked higher on the coolness spectrum.

Potter sat on the stool for a few minutes, but it was clear to Draco that the Chosen One was a perpetual motion machine. The whole time he’d been sitting, he’d been bouncing one foot. Then he got up and starting pacing about the room, taking occasional pulls from his butterbeer. The boy never seemed still, even when he was trying to stand still. Some part of Potter always seemed to be in motion. Draco, however, knows how to stand still – it had been bred into him, and knowing how to be still had also helped him escape notice in a house full of Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and one seriously fucked up snake. Being still allows a person to be unreadable – allowed one not to betray any emotion. Potter, apparently, never subscribed to this school of thought. His emotions and energy appeared to be on constant display, which to be honest, was more than a bit overwhelming.

Draco hunched over the wand, trying to concentrate. The magic he is using is subtle, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t powerful. He’s learned this from Ollivander, that powerful magic isn’t confined to great thumping shows of light and sound. Sometimes, the most powerful magic is damn near impossible to see.

Off to the side, Potter was still bouncing on the balls of his feet, craning to see what Draco was doing. The Gryffindor probably thought he was being unobtrusive, but energy is vibrating out of him. Draco finds it curious that the boy known his power – for his physicality and for rushing into danger – taught the Wizarding world one of the most important lessons in unseen, quiet magic. Love. Love is what defeated Voldemort. As trite as Draco’s younger self would have found the thought to be, he couldn’t deny that love was powerful magic. So many people - so much love - led to Voldemort’s downfall, Lily’s love for her son, Snape’s love for Lily, Narcissa’s love for him, Lupin’s love for Sirius, Regulus’ love for James, and, of course, Potter’s love. But love of what? Something greater than himself? Hope, perhaps? Humanity?

He glanced at the boy with messy black hair. Did he even understand? Did he even know what his victory over the Dark Lord symbolized? How it had all come about by the love of people from a generation ago that were now all gone?

The Gryffindor, however, seemed more withdrawn than usual, despite his frenetic energy. Draco supposed that made sense, given the day. But why in Merlin’s name was Potter here with him on the anniversary of his parents’ death? Surely had had other people he’d rather spend time with – people like Weasley and Granger, or perhaps the she-Weasley.

The other boy kept looking out the windows, staring into darkness, even as he tried to focus on what Draco was working on. Draco sighed and pushed away from the wand and turned to face the other boy.

“Why are you really here, Potter?”

“What?”

Draco shook his head. “Why are you here? Today of all days?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Why do you keep coming back?”

“I just told you why –”

“No,” said Draco. “I want the truth. We were never . . . friends. Why do you keep coming to see me of all people? You are the fucking Saviour, anyone and everyone would open their door to you. Why the hell aren’t you with Weasley, Granger, or anyone the fuck else right now?”

“I was earlier,” said the other boy before he looked away, out the window to the dark alley. From the look on his face, Draco wasn’t sure he was going to answer, but then he started to talk.

“It’s Halloween,” he said, and Draco’s breath caught. The other boy’s face turned to meet his, “Your mum told you that Voldemort struck me with the killing curse, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Draco breathed. She had said that the flash of green light had been blinding in the gloom of the forest and that Potter hadn’t done a thing to defend himself – he’d stood there and let himself be struck with a fatal spell.

Potter turned his face back toward a window. “I died. For a bit there, I thought I was going to join my parents – see them again. I was dead, like them.”

Draco shook his head, confused, “No - not really. The curse didn’t work on you. You’re alive.”

“No, it worked. For a bit there, I died. I . . . I chose to come back. I . . . My work wasn’t done yet. So I came back.” Potter kept looking out the window as he spoke.

He took a step closer to the other boy. Thinking of Potter dying was not pleasant for Draco. He remembered how he’d felt for the period of time when he’d though Potter was dead, and it had gutted him – extinguished any hope that he’d carried in his heart.

“I think when I came back,” Potter continued, “That I . . . came back wrong.”

“Why,” Draco nearly whispered, “Do you think that?”

Potter shrugged. “Lots of reasons. I’m not the same as I was before.”

“After the War, no one is the same as they were before,” said Draco.

“It’s not just that,” said the Chosen One.

Draco swallowed. He was unsure how much Potter wanted to give – unsure of how much he could take. What was he allowed? But when it came to Potter, he wanted it all. Always had.

“Tell me,” he said.

He heard the other boy sigh. He could imagine the struggle Potter was going through, likely asking himself what he really wanted to reveal to Draco - to a boy with a Dark Mark on his arm. Draco watched as the lines of Potter’s shoulders tensed, and then the other boy said, “I’m different . . . than I was before. I can’t speak Parseltongue anymore. The things I thought I wanted – I’m not sure if I want them anymore. And my wand – my wand doesn’t work like it used to. It . . . It doesn’t respond like it used to, not as well as . . .” he trailed off.

Draco felt for his hawthorn wand unconsciously. It was secure in its arm holster. “Not as well as my wand.”

“Yeah,” Potter nodded. “And being with you . . . I feel . . . It makes me feel better, you know?”

Draco had no fucking clue how spending time with him could make the Boy-Who-Lived feel better, but on the anniversary of his parents’ death, Draco wasn’t going to question what Potter needed. It . . . well . . . it hurt seeing this version of Potter, all melancholy and a bit lost. Draco knew he’d never been a good person . . . never a generous person . . . and that hadn’t turned out well for him in the past. Maybe it was time to try something different.

He flicked out his arm and his wand dropped from his holster to his hand. The hawthorn wand felt familiar in his grasp – like an extension of himself. He stepped closer to Potter. The boy’s eyes were on him. Salazar, why did Potter have to look at him like that? Draco loved this wand . . . but . . . He spun it in his hand and held it out sideways to Potter. “Take it – take mine.”

Green eyes met his – bright and intense. Potter stood so close he could see the flecks of gold swimming amongst the green.

“You actually mean that, don’t you?” asked Potter.

He nodded – unsure if he could speak.

“Malfoy – I – I don’t know what to say.”

“Look, I don’t have a good track record of making good decisions. I chose the wrong people to have in my life – the wrong people to idolize and trust. This – giving this to you – isn’t one of those bad decisions. It chose you, too, remember?”

Potter smiled at him – that lopsided smile he knew so well.

“I think it is time for us to begin again,” said the Gryffindor holding out his hand to Draco. “I’m Harry – Harry Potter. Now, you don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort again. I can help you there.”

Draco looked up at the other boy, stunned that he remembered the words Draco had spoken to him so many years ago when they were children on a train – children with an unknown future and endless possibilities before them. Somehow, their paths had led them here – through animosity, pain, and loss. He took a deep breath and looked at Potter’s hand. Could the other boy really put the past behind him – could Draco? He looked back up at Potter’s face and those eyes – those damn eyes that had haunted him for more time than he cared to admit – were focused on him.

So fuck it – fuck all of it. He wasn’t going to let his past rob him of his future – he’d lost too much time already. He raised his hand and grasped Potter’s.

“Draco – Draco Malfoy.”

Potter smiled again, and fuck if Draco didn’t get lost in it for a moment - lost in those eyes.

Potter withdrew his hand from Draco’s. “Keep your wand. I like knowing it’s back with you.”

Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“But perhaps you could . . . make me another one someday?”

He felt his heart stutter. Make a wand for Potter? Make a wand for the boy who had haunted his mind and - Merlin - his miserable excuse for a heart for as long as he could remember? Make a wand for the bloody Saviour?

“You’re joking,” he blurted out.

“I’m not joking. I think you . . . understand me . . . at least the me I am now more than you realize. I’d like to see what you come up with.”

Draco’s face went slack and Potter must have realized it, as he plowed on, “Think about it, yeah?”

“Right, yeah. I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 61: The Luck of Lucius

On Monday at quarter to nine in the morning, he leads his mother through the atrium of the Ministry. He stands straight and tall as befits a Malfoy and a Black. Beside him, his mother looks positively regal in simple, but elegant robes, her face a mask of calm. The navy pea coat he’s wearing fits him perfectly and he’s worn the collar flipped up. He knows that he looks the part of the Malfoy heir, and he walks with every bit of confidence he can muster. The hum of chatter in the atrium drops as heads turn to stare at them. He pictures what they must look like, with their white-blond hair standing out against the dark interior of the Ministry.

They are given a wide berth as they wait for a lift to take them to level ten. One person, however, breaks rank and edges closer to them.

“Draco,” says the man.

Draco narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know the man, and he doesn’t like hearing his first name used so casually – as if the man has claim to him.

“Prophet readers want to know where you were last week. Tell us, has there been a rift in the historically tight knit Malfoy family?”

Ordinarily he didn’t speak to reporters – he usually kept himself holed up so they couldn’t find him. Ollivander had quite thoroughly kicked one out of the shop in September, further cementing its status as a safe haven. But he wouldn’t let gossip about his mother be thrown about. So he reached for the elegant, easy smile he’d perfected as a child. It conveyed approachability without giving anything real of himself away.

“My goodness, I don’t know where you reporters get these ideas. No, I was working last week – as I’m sure you are very much aware. I have Mondays off, so of course I’m here with my mother today.” The lift chimed and the doors parted. He led his mother inside. Another question was thrown at him, but he ignored it, and let the lift carry them away. He thought he’d handled the question well, and he’d skirted the whole issue of his father. He was too fucking confused about the topic of his father to even know where to begin on that score.

When the lift opened, he was glad to have his mother holding onto his arm as it helped keep him moving toward the courtroom. He’d not been here since his own trial. More eyes turned on them as they descended the rows of seating to take the place Meredith had reserved for them at the front by throwing a robe over a couple of spots. As soon as an associate saw them, they yanked the robe aside. Meredith’s back was to them, and he appeared to be rifling through notes.

Side doors opened, and guards led Lucius into the courtroom. His father’s long, blond hair was pulled back in a crisp braid that hung over one shoulder. His robes were finely tailored, yet not ostentatious, but unlike Draco at his trial, his wrists and ankles were magically manacled. His father looked up into the crowd, and for a moment their eyes met, but his gaze slid away from Draco to Narcissa. He turned to watch his mother's face.. Her eyes remained locked with her husband's until he sat down in the empty chair beside Meredith. As soon as Lucius sat, magical chains joined onto the manacles, holding him in place.

“He’s chained,” Draco whispered in his mother’s ear.

“Yes. He was found guilty after that incident in the Department of Mysteries. He’s already a . . . well . . . he’s already been convicted of a crime, so the treatment for him is more . . . rigorous.”

At precisely nine o’clock the members of the Wizengamot filed into the Court. Merlin, how had his mother done this – sat stoically during his trial and now his father’s. And she’d also had her own trial . . . and she’d been alone.  He hadn't been able to be there for her.  His hand found hers. They clung to each other as the first witness of the day was called – an Auror who had led a team searching the Manor after the Dark Lord was vanquished.

Meredith kept rising to his feet and objecting to the prosecution's questions. At one point, when a document was offered as an exhibit, he called for a conference of counsel with the Chief. This request was denied, but it didn’t put him off.

“He wasn’t like this during my trial,” Draco whispered.

“He’s drawing it out,” his mother whispered back. “The Ministry holding cells are better than Azkaban.”

Draco believed it. During his two brief visits to the island prison he’d felt the hopelessness of the place leech away at him.

The court called a break at lunch, and by that time only two witnesses had been called, and of those only once had completed their testimony. His mother didn’t want to leave the Ministry and face gawkers, and Draco couldn’t bear the idea of eating from the Ministry cafeteria.  He’d had enough Ministry prepared food to last him a lifetime. So they sat in relative silence while they waited for the lunch recess to end.  His muscles ached from sitting, but he knew how to handle discomfort.  He became aware that the time for the trial to resume was drawing near when audience members started to return.  Soon the seats were once again filled. He was trying not to focus on the audible speculation about his father’s fate when Meredith strode out toward the desk for the defense, his face stern and stony. Lucius followed not far behind. After a few minutes, the Wizengamot returned, and the Chief said, “We are now resuming the trial of Lucius Malfoy. Before the recess, the Ministry was questioning Auror Li. Prosecutor Tilney, you may continue your direct examination of the witness.”

Meredith rose to his feet, “Your Honors, before we begin, I must inform the Court that during the break my office received an owl from the Ministry that contained a shrunken package. Once the packaged was returned to its original size and opened we discovered we had been sent hundreds of pages of documents regarding the search of Malfoy Manor that had not previously been disclosed. I object to any further questioning until I have had proper time to review the materials that should have been disclosed months ago.”

Draco saw the prosecutor stiffen, “Your Honors, my office became aware of an oversight in providing discoverable documents to the defense. As soon as the oversight was discovered, it was rectified.”

The Chief frowned. “An oversight consisting of hundreds of pages?”

The prosecutor, to his credit, did not stammer, “Yes, your Honor. The materials had been misfiled and upon discovery they were instantly duplicated and provided.”

“Has the prosecution had the benefit of reviewing these documents when preparing to take witness testimony?” asked Chief Harrigan.

Tilney nodded, “It has.”

“That leaves me no choice,” said the Chief. “Attorney Meredith, how long will you need to review these documents.”

“At least a week, your Honor, to read them, but I will need additional time to review them with my client, who will need to remain in the Ministry detention area so that I may have ready access to him. I would also require the opportunity to re-cross the first witness called by the Ministry today.”

The Chief sighed, clearly annoyed. “We will continue this matter until Monday, November 22nd. Mr. Malfoy shall remain in the Ministry cells while his legal team reviews the materials. And Prosecutor Tilney, should this Court expect to be hearing about any more delays caused by . . . clerical error?”

“I should hope not your Honor.”

The Chief rose, “Should any more . . . omitted materials be discovered, please alert this Court so that a conference of counsel may be held.”

The rest of the Court rose as well, and they filed out of the courtroom.

What the bloody hell was going on? His father was granted – a what – a three week reprieve? How in the name of Merlin did his father get all of the luck? He’d survived both Wars, his family had survived both Wars, and his wife was staying by his side despite his current, and likely to be extended, imprisonment in Azkaban.

As the door banged closed behind the last member of the Wizengamot, Lucius turned in his seat and looked directly at his family. The look on his face, would have been imperceptible to anyone not a Malfoy, but Draco knew that look – saw it in the slightest lift of one side of mouth – in the miniscule lowering of his eyelids. Lucius was pleased.

He suddenly felt cold. It couldn’t be luck, could it? Had his father . . . orchestrated this somehow? Did he he still have people in the Ministry loyal or beholden to him? Draco wanted to leave – needed to leave – but he couldn’t abandon his mother. The fucking Prophet would have a field day.

All this time he’d thought he was free of any future machinations of this father’s, but if his father still had the means to cause a “clerical error” in the Ministry, then he wasn’t as free as he’d thought.

He stood and leaned over the rail, “Meredith, I need to see him – I need to speak with my father.”

Meredith nodded and had approached one of the guard’s. He couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but in a few minutes Meredith approached the rail. “You may see him in a conference room adjoining the court for fifteen minutes.”

He turned to his mother, “Wait for me? I don’t want you leaving the Ministry alone.”

She murmured her ascent, and he descended through a swinging half door that a guard had unlatched to stand in the courtroom proper. Lucius was already being walked toward a side door and Draco followed. Guards posted themselves on either side of the door, but did not make a move to be inside the room. By the time he crossed through, his father was already seated. His wrists and ankles were still bound, but it was the first time Draco had seen him without a magical barrier in place since the day of their arrest a year and a half ago.

A guard swung the door closed behind him.

His father’s light eyes swept over him. The man still looked perfectly put together and radiated elegance and power despite the manacles.

“What a lovely display of filial affection it is to see you at my trial,” drawled his father.

He felt his nostrils flare as he drew a breath. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Now, now, Draco. Language. I raised you better than that.”

“Like hell you did. You raised me to believe that achieving what I wanted justified any means. You raised me to be selfish and encouraged my cruelty towards those you deemed inferior.”

Lucius sighed, “Always so dramatic, Draco. It’s the Black blood in you.”

“Did you cause the documents to be delayed?”

His father tilted his head a bit, “My, my, what power do you think I wield from behind bars? That defies logic.”

“I know you father,” Draco said. “And it is exactly how you operate.”

Lucius shook his head, “Ah, ah, ah, Draco. You’re on a deferred sentence. Do you really want to know the answer? If I told you that I . . . pulled some strings, you’d have to report it, because if you didn’t and it was discovered that you withheld information you could find your lovely little deferred sentence revoked. But then, if I confirmed your suspicions and you immediately reported me to the Aurors, think of what that would do to your mother. So I’ll ask you again. Do you really want to know?”

Oh fucking hell. Wasn’t that just like his father? To put him in an impossible situation – to make him chose between his freedom and his mother.

“What about Meredith? Does he know what you’re doing?” His heart tightened at the thought of Meredith, one of the few adults that had genuinely seemed to care about him and his well-being, as a co-conspirator in his father’s schemes.

Lucius smirked, “If what you suspect were true, do you really think that upstart Gryffindor would stand for it?”

He clenched his fists at his side. He couldn’t fucking stand his father. He’d have thought two stints in Azkaban, and another staring him in the face, would have changed the man.

“What is wrong with you? What are you hoping to achieve? If you are freed what do you think will happen? You’ll be hated – it’ll never be the way it used to be. You’ll never be what you used to be.”

For the first time Draco saw his father’s composure slip. He launched forward in his chair, “I’m trying to get out for my family. Your mother is living the life of a pariah and you are squandering your birthright as a merchant. I will secure my legacy. I will see the Malfoy name restored, if not through me than through you and your heirs.”

He laughed then, he couldn’t help it. “I think you may be waiting on heirs for a very longtime father. You see, I’m quite homosexual. So I really hope you haven’t set your heart on a pureblood family to marry me off to.”

Lucius scoffed. "Really, Draco?  As if I haven’t known.” Then Lucius smiled at him, “And since when is sexual desire a requirement to marry and have an heir?.”

Draco’s breath caught. “Did . . . did mother tell you . . . about me?”

“Come now, Draco, do you think I needed her to? I’ve had my . . . suspicions. But it became pretty obvious during your fourth year. You never waxed on about any of the girls of your acquaintance. And you are a Malfoy. Pureblooded young witches would have been practically tripping over themselves to get to you if you’d shown even the slightest interest. And later on, your lunatic aunt was always on about a secret she was lording over you.” He looked Draco over, “If you want time to . . . sow your oats . . . do at least be discreet about it, as at some point you will need to do your duty as the Malfoy heir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you honestly think you are the first Malfoy or Black heir who hasn’t wanted to have a wife and have children? The difference is, the Malfoys do what they must in the public eye and then follow their true desires in private.” He wrinkled his nose, “Turning one’s back on their family – on their duty – and running off with a lover is a Black trait."

For a moment he felt like he was going to throw up. It would serve his father right if he was sick in the cramped room, but his stomach settled. He was free.  He reminded himself of this. He had a job, friends, and his own fucking bank vault. He didn’t need to be the person his father expected him to be.

“It’s been lovely chatting with you father. I find our conversations so invigorating. You’ll excuse me if I don’t follow your . . . advice. You have to admit, you were pants at it prior to your imprisonment.” He walked toward the door and thumped on it. The door swung open, silhouetting a guard. He turned back to his father, “If you don’t want to read about me . . .sowing my oats you’d should probably unsubscribe from The Prophet.”

He walked away, his head held high. He wouldn’t – no couldn’t – be the person his father wanted him to be. Maybe before . . . everything . . . he would have – would have married a girl and been quietly miserable. But he’d made a promise to Lavender and he wouldn’t squander his chance to live.

His mother gave him a careful look as he approached. He managed a tight smile as he offered her his arm. They were relatively silent as they traversed the Ministry. He avoided the floos – he didn’t like them and his mother had blocked the Ministry – and exited the building in favor of walking the short distance to an apparition point.

The afternoon sky was darkening, and it smelled like rain was on its way.

“Draco?” his mother asked.

He shook his head, “Not here.”

As soon as they reached the apparition point he took them to the front steps of the Rosier townhouse.

“Draco?” she asked again. “What happened? Something happened when you met with your father. I can tell.”

He took a deep breath and tried to think of what to say? He couldn’t tell her of his suspicions about his father as that would put her in an impossible situation. And part of him – well part of him worried about what she would say – who she would choose. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might tell him to stay quiet. That’s what he was going to do, because he had no proof, but bloody hell – he couldn’t stand his fucking father for putting him in this position. It was just like the man.

“No matter what he said, remember, he is your father,” said Narcissa.

And that snapped him out of silence. “I know, mother. Trust me, I know. And I know that you love him. I do. And Merlin, as much as I don’t want to, I love him too. But I can’t – I can’t forgive him for . . . for everything. I can’t.”

Her elegant brows lifted, “But you went with me to court. I thought . . . Well . . . I hoped . . .”

“I went for you, mother. It was for you – it always has been for you. But you . . . you need to . . . stop. Stop asking this of me. Stop trying to force me into reconciling with the man. It’ll happen if it’s meant to, but you . . . you just can’t will it into being.” He stared at her, his eyes begging her to hear him. “You don’t have to understand. I’m not asking that of you. Merlin, I don’t even understand, but you . . . I need you to accept . . . me. I need you to accept that I’m not able to give him a pass – not now – maybe not ever. I need you to see . . . me. Please.”

Her face fell and she reached for him, clasping one of his hands in hers. “Oh, my darling, I do . . . I do see you. I promise. I’d hoped . . . I want us to be a family again, but if we can’t . . .”

“We are a family, mother. An incredibly messed up family, but still, a family. Do you think anyone will ever look at me and not remember that I am Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

She brushed a lock of his hair back. “I think, my son, that you are a better man than your father, and that it won’t be long before people look at you and think of all the ways you’ve surpassed him.”

He choked back a hiss of surprise.  He stared at her and was only mildly aware that it had started to drizzle.

“I will always choose you, Draco. I might . . . require . . . reminding . . . about what you need. Reminding that the . . . life we raised you for isn’t the life you will lead. And you’ll need to be firm and work to separate your desires from the ingrained expectations you were taught.”

He nodded, unable to form words.

“Come in. Stay for dinner.”

He shook his head. He had somewhere else he needed to be. “Not tonight, mother.” He saw the disappointment in her eyes as he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Another time.”

He stepped away and reached for his wand – feeling a bit reckless. But he doesn’t stop to consider the consequences before he apparates. He lands on the sidewalk across from a familiar row of houses in Islington. Fuck. He forgot about the chance of being seen by Muggles. It was fully raining now, because of course it is – suited the general tone of his day. No one is out and about, so he hasn’t broken the Statute of Secrecy. Probably. He stares across the street and slowly, 12 Grimmauld Place emerges, taking up space between number eleven and thirteen where a house hadn’t appeared to exist. He crossed, the street, stepping in a puddle in his haste. Cursing, he mounts the steps and rapped sharply on the door.

He waited a tense moment before the door swung open, revealing Kreacher. The elder house elf was dressed in a clean, white tunic belted around his narrow waist with a thin, leather belt. The silver locket gleams on a chain from around his neck.

“Master Draco,” said the elf. “Returning to Grimmauld Place are you?”

He bent to one knee, so that his face was level with Kreacher’s. He ignored the wet seeping through his trousers. “You’re here . . . And you’re free.”

The smaller being's bushy eyebrows rose and with an exasperated wave of his fingers he cast a charm that kept the rain from falling on Draco. With another wave of his hand, Draco’s clothes were dry. “Expected more from a Black,” Kreacher grumbled, but his expression looked fond.

“You’re free,” Draco repeated, his face lifting into a real smile for the first time that day.

“Master Harry presented me with clothes after the great Battle. He said Kreacher was loyal and true and deserved his rest.” The elf glanced about before leaning in and conspiratorially whispering, “If he hadn’t done that I think the know-it-all witch who is great friends with him would have hurt him.”

“And yet he is still here. No matter how many times I’ve explained the concept of retirement he ignores me,” said Harry Potter walking down the hallway toward them.

“Master is not always speaking with sense,” whispered Kreacher. “He has no idea how to manage this magical house without me. Raised by savages he was.”

“Off you pop, Kreacher,” said Potter coming to a stop beside the elf. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Of course, Master Harry,” said the elf before he inclined his head to Draco, “Master Draco.” Then he snapped his fingers, and with a crack, he was gone.

“Ruddy elf,” murmured Potter, before he turned fully toward Draco and asked, “How? How did you find this place? Hardly anybody can come here.”

“Dumbledore revealed the location to me. And I’m the Black heir,” he said. “I think I’ll always be able to find this house.” For a moment he was still distracted by the elder elf, “Is Kreacher happy here?”

Potter snorted most unelegantly. “He is a cranky little blighter, but he has transformed this place since . . . the War. I think that makes him happy. It’s hard to tell sometimes. But I don’t think he’d leave this house for anything. If I move, he’ll stay here. I gave him Regulus Black’s old room for his own. Took a week before he stopped sobbing whenever he saw me.”

“That was good,” said Draco, his throat tightening as he thought of how much that gesture had likely meant to Kreacher.

Potter inclined his head, “So why’d you search me out at my ostentatious Victorian nightmare of a house?”

That brought him back to the reason he’d come here. “I took my mother to my father’s trial today.” The dark-haired boy’s face started to morph into a smile, but Draco nipped it in the bud. “It was . . . Look, you don’t owe my mother anything. You don’t know her.”

“She saved my life,” said the other boy. “That means something.”

He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose – this fucking Gryffindor irritated him to no end. “That means nothing, Potter. She saved your life, to what? To get to me. Your life was incidental. Did she intervene when the Dark Lord told you to duel him? Did she?”

The boy stared at him, his face stony, but he remained silent.

“I love her. She’s my mother. She’s kind to my friends and she cares about me, but she has faults. She went along with my father until it was too late for my family to get out. Your misplaced idea that she saved you doesn’t mean you owe her. Doesn’t mean you needed to guilt me into going to my father’s trial with her today.”

Potter swallowed. “It was . . . that bad?”

“Of course it was that bad. How could it have been otherwise? And I never would have been there if you hadn’t shown up and . . .” He stopped, struggling to reign in his words, but Potter didn’t let him off that easily.

“And done what?”

Draco scowled at the thick-headed Saviour. “Played the fucking orphan card.” Potter’s eyes narrowed. “My family is fucked up. Royally fucked up. I can’t . . . I . . . I love them, but I have to handle them the way that works for me – for my own happiness – not to satisfy your Gryffindor do-gooder streak.” Potter said nothing, but something that Draco thought might be hurt flickered across his face. Draco scrubbed a hand across his own face. Feelings were fucking hard. He pulled his hand away and tried to reframe what he was trying to say. “Why did you do it? Why did you testify at my trial?”

“What?”

“Why did you testify at my trial? Your testimony probably helped save me from Azkaban.”

Green eyes met his and the other boy raked a hand through his dark hair. “You . . . you didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to go there. And my testimony wasn’t the only positive testimony for you at the trial. But I wanted to be on the record and be clear in saying that you deserved a chance. A chance you weren’t given in sixth year when you needed it most.” The other boy looked away and waved his hand back toward the house. “Sirius grew up here, and he didn’t get a chance – didn’t get a chance to really live. His freedom and then his life were stripped away. And I . . . I wanted you to have a chance . . . to live.”

Fucking Gryffindor always emotionally bowling him over. Would he ever stop feeling like his heart was being hit by a bludger when Potter spoke to him this way?

He swallowed, trying to compose himself and gather his words. “Then you have to let me live my life on my terms – have to let me make my own choices. Tell me if I’m being a right prick, but don’t try and influence me about my family. They are mine, and I own that right.”

Potter nodded, his face pensive. “Yeah. Okay.”

He nodded back his thanks.

The Golden Boy took a step toward him, “Do you . . . er . . . do you maybe want to come–”

A silver patronus burst into being beside his right shoulder – a fox leaped about in the air around him. He wasn’t surprised when the voice of his clever and crafty mentor said, “Mr. Malfoy, you have friends awaiting your return. I fear if you are not back home shortly they will send out a search party. They’ve already floo called me looking for you.”

Friends. He had friends waiting for him. He took a step away from Potter. As much as part of him wanted to stay, another part of him wanted the comfort his friends could offer him right now.

“I have to go.” He stepped down and apparently out of Kreacher’s rain repellent charm as water droplets landed on him. “Perhaps another time.”

“Alright, Malfoy. I’ll hold you to that.”

He felt himself start to blush at the intensity of Potter’s gaze, so he turned away and apparated.

Minutes later, he climbed the stairs to his residence and found Lavender sitting in his living room. He’d given her a key shortly after the Greyback fiasco. She turned her head when she heard him come in.

“Oh thank, Merlin. We were getting worried. I brought snacks, but you’ll have to make tea, I can’t use your awful stove.”

“He might want something stronger, Lav,” hollered a voice that unmistakably belonged to Theo. His fellow Slytherin emerged from the kitchen. “I brought a growler from the Leaky, or we can bust out some firewhiskey.”

He raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word, “Lav?” to his Gryffindor friend, but she just subtly shook her head.

“The beer, please,” said Draco, as he sank down onto the sofa with Lavender. The girl tucked her feet up on his lap.

“So not great, but not awful?” she asked.

He shrugged, “It was pretty awful. Nothing is uncomplicated when it involves my father.”

“My father at least has the decency to keep everything shockingly simple. He’s an utter bastard, so I don’t have any regrets for having no contact with him. The few times he did try to write me allowed me to further perfect a wandless incendio. It was fantastic.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lavender, “You both are very traumatized. Pour the pints, Theo.”

Theo grinned at her, and Draco thought he caught a soft look on the boy’s face. “Coming right up.” He disappeared into the kitchen again.

“How long have you been waiting?” he asked Lavender.

“A bit. We were planning on coming by this evening, but it was all over everywhere that his trial had ended early today, so we came over as soon as we could.”

He poked at one of her feet. “We?”

She rolled her eyes at him before inclining her head toward the kitchen.

“Fine, but we’ll talk about this another time,” he said.

Theo came out bearing a tray with three glasses of amber beer. He passed out the glasses and said, “A toast. To Draco going to court and coming home without spontaneously combusting or being held in contempt.”

“You thought those were possibilities?” he asked.

“With you, anything is possible,” said Lavender raising her own glass. “Cheers.”

Chapter 62: Solstice Revelations

The trial of Lucius Malfoy stretched on as it suffered from continual delays. Some witnesses for the Ministry’s case against him failed to show up despite being ordered to appear to testify. Others got on the stand and had trouble remembering – or at least reporting – the facts they had been called upon to testify about. The trial kept having to be continued and rescheduled. Despite the circus that his father’s trial had become, Draco escorted his mother to court each morning the trial was held. He did not, however, attend the trial. The latest debacle brought to light caused a member of the Wizengamot to recuse himself.  It had been leaked to the press that before the War Lucius had lent the man a considerable amount of money to clear up legal issues with the family estate. This loan had apparently not been repaid in full. After this embarrassing revelation, the Chief of the Wizengamot had called a halt to the proceeding for the final two weeks of December and the first week of January. He publicly stated that the delay was occurring so that the Wizengamot could spend time with their families for the holidays, but Meredith reported that behind the scenes Minister Shacklebolt was furious and was threatening to purge the members of the Wizengamot unless they could “get their fucking house in order.”

All of the continued issues with Lucius’ trial left Draco with a gnawing worry. He feared that his father was pulling strings behind the scenes, but he had no actual proof and his father had put him in an impossible situation – a situation he hadn’t shared with his mother. He knew she was an adult and that by not confiding in her he was taking away her agency in the matter. He knew this . . . but . . . the desire to protect her weighed heavier on him. Besides, he tried to reason, it was the Ministry’s job to catch Lucius in any machinations, not his.

Draco’s mother had invited him go with her to visit his father for Christmas, but Draco had remained noncommittal. To her credit, she’d only asked the once and did not press the issue. He thankfully had plenty to distract him from the problem of his father, as the shop was busy in the weeks leading up to Christmas as people came in to buy wand accessories or gift toy wands for future Hogwarts students that could be exchanged for a real wand when the future student was ready for their first wand. He’d also finally crafted his first working wand. Ollivander had declared that it was a “most worthy first wand” and he mounted it in the studio in a place of pride. But Draco’s chief distraction was one Harry Potter, a most confusing Chosen One, who was currently stretched out beside him on the rooftop of the shop.

“So where are your friends, Potter? Weasley and Granger? I thought you were the inseparable Golden Trio - joined together to save the world and solve mysteries.”

“We aren’t the Justice League or the Scooby-Doo Gang, Malfoy.”

“The what?”

“Muggle stuff,” said Potter.

“Oh, right,” said Draco. It was easy on a night like this when they were in Wizarding London and looking up at the stars to forget that Potter had a childhood drastically different from his own. Their fairy stories were different, their pop cultural references were different, and from the little Draco knew about the people Potter had lived with, their upbringings had been very different.

“Anyway, Ron’s on leave now that training is over and Hermione is on break from classes,” said Harry as he stretched.

Draco lazily cast another warming charm above them.

“They’re on holiday for Christmas?” he asked, curious despite his best efforts.

“Not really,” said Potter. He was silent for a long time, and Draco thought that was the end of that avenue of conversation. But Potter did always like to surprise him, and said, “They are in Australia. They left a week ago and plan to be back for Christmas.”

“Australia? And it’s not a holiday?”

“No, it has to do with Hermione’s family.” Potter said this slowly, almost grudgingly. “Anyway, it’s her story to tell.”

“Australia must be fucking wonderful this time of year,” Draco sighed imagining the sun and warm ocean water. He turned to look at the dark-haired boy who lay stretched out beside him. Potter was so close he could reach out and touch him.

“You could go - get away. Probably do you some good,” said Potter, still looking at the stars.

Draco stilled a moment before saying, “I can’t. I’m not allowed to leave Britain for three years from the date of my sentencing.”

Potter turned to face him then, his green eyes meeting Draco’s before saying, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

But Potter didn’t look away. He kept staring into Draco’s eyes as if trying look inside of him. It made him feel exposed and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t look away.

“Tell me,” said Potter, a smile ghosting at his lips, “Why are we up here looking at the stars? What is it you’re looking for?”

You, Draco wanted to say. I’m looking for you, you idiot man - it has always been you. But of course he couldn’t say the words - he couldn’t tell the Hero of the Wizarding World anything like that. He was, after all, him - a Death Eater, a Malfoy, and the person in the world that had the least to offer Potter.

“Draco,” said Potter, pulling him out of his thoughts, “What is you are looking for - in the stars?”

“It’s winter solstice,” said Draco.

Potter raised his eyebrows at him.

“You did read and go to class at Hogwarts didn’t you?” asked Draco. “Please tell me you didn’t just copy off of Granger for everything.”

Potter laughed, “I wanted to, but she wouldn’t let me. And I wasn’t brave enough to ask to copy off of you. You always were good at astrology.”

“It was required in my family,” he said, amazed that Potter had noticed him for being anything but a bully in school.

And then Potter jostled Draco’s shoulder with his own. It was such a simple gesture, but Draco almost gasped in surprise. It was an act of familiarity and of - dare he think it? Friendship.

“I know what winter solstice is Malfoy. It’s the longest night of the year.”

Draco looked back up at the heavens. He searched out the stars of Regulus and Sirius.

“It’s the night that Regulus Black died,” Draco said, his voice low, as he knew he was turning the conversation serious.

“How do you know this?”

“He was a relative,” said Draco, shifting again, but not from cold. His warming charm was holding up well. “He . . . he was supposed to have been my godfather.”

“His brother was mine . . . my godfather that is,” said Potter.

“I know.”

“Regulus,” said Potter, speaking slowly, as if he were trying to choose his words, “He discovered how to defeat Voldemort. He died trying to do that.”

“I know,” Draco repeated. “He’s the one who wrote to Dumbledore - told him about Horcruxes.”

He felt Potter grab his wrist. “How do you know about those? Hardly anyone knows about those. We - Hermione, Ron, and I - we didn’t talk about them after the Battle. Didn’t want the existence of such things widely known.”

The boy’s face was hovering over his. He looked aghast.

“I found out during the last year of the War,” said Draco. “Had my own mission from Dumbledore. There’s lots about me you don’t know.”

“Regulus told Dumbledore about the Horcruxes? That’s how he knew?” asked Harry, still sounding concerned.

“Yeah,” said Draco. “You didn’t know that?”

“Dumbledore never said.”

Draco gently pulled his wrist free from Potter’s grip, “I won’t tell anyone, you know, about Horcruxes. I haven’t yet and I don’t intend to.”

“Right,” breathed Potter.

“I’m not the same annoying little shit I was as a child, letting everyone know that I knew a secret.”

“No, yeah, I know you’re not,” said Potter.

Draco looked away from the boy. Potter’s face was so earnest that Draco was seized with the mad desire to kiss him, to pull him down to his chest and wrap his arms around him. Things that would inevitably lead to disaster for Draco. So he looked back to the stars.

“Anyway, I wanted to look for Regulus’ star - the heart of the lion - and I don’t know, remember him - remember what he sacrificed tonight.”

Potter lay back down beside him and looked up.

“And I wanted to look for the dog-star,” Draco pointed up at the sky with his finger. “And I wish we could see the Lupus constellation, but it’s not visible in the northern hemisphere.” And in his mind he added that he wanted to see the stag constellation of the Picts. It helped him to know that all of their stars were in the sky - bound together for eternity.

“I heard you were there . . . when Remus died. I heard what you tried to do . . . to save him. Dean told me,” said Potter. “I didn’t know that you really knew him - outside of being a professor. And I’ve - I’ve wanted to ask you why. Why you fought for him.”

“I don’t know how much you’ll really want to hear.”

“Tell me,” said Harry. “It’ll be your Christmas present to me.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, “We’re friends enough for Christmas presents.”

“Of course we’re friends, Draco.”

And oh fuck, if that didn’t ignite every last bit of him. Friends. Harry Potter considered him a friend. And he’d used his first name - he’d heard his given name roll off of the Saviour’s tongue. He started to laugh, he couldn’t help it.

“What’s so funny?” the Boy-Who-Lived asked.

“This. Us. Friends. Who’d have thought.”

Potter shrugged as if it was no big deal, because Potter had always been good at making friends - at being adored. He’d also been good at being hated at various times as well Draco supposed, but right now, everyone loved Potter and wanted to be in his circle. And somehow Draco had snuck in and Potter didn’t seem to mind.

“I think perhaps we were always supposed to be friends. Our godfathers were brothers after all. Just took us a bit more time to get here,” said the Gryffindor.

He crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself, trying to hold his emotions in check. When he’d been eleven, this is all he’d wanted - to be friends with Harry Potter. And then when he was sixteen he’d wanted Potter to save him, and then when Draco was seventeen and eighteen, Potter had saved him - was still saving him in a way.

“You cold?” asked Potter, looking over at him.

Draco shook his head, afraid to speak, afraid he’d give the depth of his feelings away.

“Draco?” asked Potter, his voice hinting at concern.

“Friends,” said Draco. “Yeah, I guess I can put up with that Potter. If I must.”

Potter grinned at him. “Tosser. Now tell me about Remus, please?”

And of course Draco couldn’t deny him - would never deny Harry Potter - his friend. But if he revealed - well - things about Remus that inevitably led to Sirius and to himself - to his . . . inclinations. Then this little spark of joy he felt thinking of Potter as his friend might be extinguished - might go out.

Potter sat up and looked down at him, “Whatever it is, it looks like I’m asking a lot of you. So . . . don’t tell me. Not until you’re ready okay.”

And there the bloody Gryffindor went being all noble. And what was Potter asking for really? He was asking for information about one of the men he’d looked up to as a surrogate uncle who had died. He couldn’t withhold that from the other boy.

“I’ll tell you just - I can’t look at you. It’s too much…”

Potter laid back down and looked up at the stars. “Better?”

“Yes,” said Draco also looking up and not at the boy who lay so close he could feel the warmth of him. “I’m not going to tell you everything. I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I will tell you that Dumbledore set me up to learn more about Regulus Black. And I did. Regulus, he left me memories. Sirius was in them a lot, as were - well other Marauders.”

“You know who the Marauders were?” asked Potter.

“Yes. And well - look I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to come out and say it. Lupin – Remus - Remus and Sirius - they were together . . . as a couple before and after Sirius was in Azkaban until Sirius died.”

“Oh,” breathed Potter.

“And I saw Remus before Christmas my last year at Hogwarts. I wanted to ask him about it - about Sirius. And I wanted him not to leave his child alone. He was still living apart from his wife then, and I didn’t want another baby with Black blood in its veins being left to be raised - well - the way Regulus, Sirius, and I were raised.”

“I fire-called Sirius during sixth year one time, and Remus was there. They were there together. Just the two of them. And then I saw them - saw their souls or their shades - before I . . . before I died. They were together. They looked young and I didn’t really think much of it at the time, because I thought I was about to die, but I think I saw them hold hands. So they were a couple?”

“They were. And now is probably a good time to mention I’ve been in your house - 12 Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore shared the location with me and my search for Regulus led me there. Sorry for - er - trespassing.”

“Wow,” Potter said. He was silent for a while, likely processing all this information before saying, “Wait. You said you wanted to ask Remus about Sirius - about his relationship with Sirius. Why did you want to ask him about that?”

And of course the nosy Gryffindor would have picked up on that detail. Draco squirmed. He didn’t know what Potter thought about homosexuality - perhaps the Muggles who had raised him had made him think it was wrong and twisted. He didn’t want to lose the friend he had just discovered he had made, but then again, he didn’t want to hide away a part of himself. Hiding who he was would not build a solid foundation for real friendship.

“Draco?”

“Look, Potter, I . . . I like . . . guys. And it goes against everything I’ve been raised to think about for myself. I’m supposed to marry a pureblood - a woman - and make pureblood babies. And knowing I liked guys - and Bellatrix knowing I liked guys - well it was a fucking awkward place to be as a Death Eater sharing a household with the Dark Lord who spouted pureblood nonsense. I didn’t know who I could talk to, so I talked to Lupin. I thought that if Sirius and Regulus liked men then maybe I wasn’t so bad because I wasn’t alone.”

“Wait, Regulus liked men too?”

Oh shit. Draco hadn’t meant to say that. “That’s the part you pick up on. Not that I’m . . . gay?”

“Oh, so you’re gay?” asked Potter.

“Yes,” said Draco. “And if that means you don’t want to be my friend anymore -”

“Wait - why would I not want to be your friend anymore?”

“Well . . . some people have negative feelings about homosexuality.”

And then the fucking Gryffindor laughed. He fucking laughed. Draco felt his face flush.

“Draco, that would be a bit hypocritical of me. I’m pretty sure I like both girls and guys.”

“You like - wait - what?”

“I like men - like that – at least I think I do. I don’t have any empirical data to base this on, but yeah, I’ve always - er – noticed . . . guys. So no, you posh git, I don’t think you fancying men is going to make me rethink our friendship.”

“You like men?” said Draco, dazed.

“And people think I’m the oblivious one,” said Potter, still laughing.

Draco couldn’t resist elbowing the laughing boy in the ribs. “You bastard. And they call you the Saviour. Here I was in turmoil about bearing my soul to you and you are laughing.” He elbowed Potter again for good measure. “Didn’t even know you knew what the words ‘hypocritical’ and ‘empirical’ meant. So many syllables. Must be Granger’s influence.”

Potter jostled him back, “I’m not a total Neanderthal – and yes, I know what that word means too. Besides, we weren’t all raised with posh accents and fancy tutors like you.”

Draco made a show of sitting up and narrowing his eyes at the other boy, “And it certainly shows.”

Potter sat up too, a smile still on in face. “Thank you for tonight Malfoy. It was nice. I better get going. I’m on duty tomorrow.” Potter stood and Draco noticed that he hadn’t dressed properly for the winter night. The other boy’s relationship to clothing always seemed rather haphazard at best. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mother’s invited me to her townhouse.”

Potter’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re not going to the Manor?”

Draco winced. “I haven’t been there since . . . well . . . Besides, the Ministry is still holding it pending my father’s trial.” He shook himself away from those thoughts. “You – where will you be for Christmas?”

“The Burrow. It’ll be good to see everyone but . . . You know.”

He did know. It would be hard to look around the room and know that someone dear was missing. He’d never had a sibling, so he could only imagine what the loss of a brother and a twin felt like. He also knew that the girl Weasley – Ginevra – would be there as well. He felt irrationally jealous for a moment and then stuffed it down. Potter was his friend now. That was more than he’d ever dared hope for. It was enough – had to be enough.

“Say hello to your mother for me,” said Harry, zipping up his feeble excuse of a coat.

Draco did not extend a similar request to the Weasley family. He knew it wouldn’t be appreciated by the red-headed clan, not that he could blame them.

“I’ll come by again soon. Make sure you survived the twenty-five course meal or whatever it is you are going to be stuffed with by your mother and your house elves.”

He smiled. “That would be very kind of you Potter, but then again, I would expect nothing less from the Saviour.”

Potter made a face at him for a moment and then said, “Happy Christmas Malfoy.”

“Happy Christmas Potter,” he said, really meaning it.

Still, he wasn’t prepared when a few days later on Christmas Day, just before he was going to floo to the Rosier townhouse for lunch with his mother, an owl was tapping outside of his bedroom window. He let the bird in and took hold of the parchment it carried.

Dear Malfoy,

I – or rather – Kreacher – found some boxes of things in the attic of 12 Grimmauld that I think belonged to Remus. He must have stored them here during the time he lived with Sirius at the house before Sirius’ death. I went through the things to decide what to keep for Remus’ son. There were several photos, and I thought you should have a copy of this one.

Merry Christmas.

Your friend,
Harry

The photo was protected in an envelope. He slid it open. Inside was a picture of a young Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. Sirius was smirking at the camera, but Remus had a soft smile on his face. Then Sirius turned his face to look at the other young man – his smirk transforming into a slight smile - and after a moment Lupin had turned to look at Sirius and their smiles widened. An outside observer of the photograph would have thought they were mates, but Draco knew the truth behind those smiles. He knew what they had meant to each other. And wasn’t that just like Potter? Bleeding heart sentimental Gryffindor that he was, to think of Draco on Christmas Day and send him something meaningful. Draco decided he had a rather soft spot in his heart for ruddy Gryffindors.

Chapter 63: New Year

“So what are you doing for the New Year’s Eve?” Draco asked Potter. The other boy was, as per usual when he appeared for an evening visit, fidgeting around the studio as Draco puttered at crafting a wand.

“I’m on patrol. God, it’ll probably be awful with all the drunken wizards and witches ringing in 2000 with crazy arse spells. You?”

Draco smirked, “I intend, along with several of my friends, to be a drunken wizard ringing in the New Year with crazy arse spells.”

Potter groaned.

“Don’t worry, we’ll behave. Well . . . no . . . probably not – but we will keep ourselves confined to the rooftop of this building, so you shouldn’t have to deal with any of us on your rounds, Potter.”

He watched as the Gryffindor pulled a pocket watch from his Auror uniform. It was silver and a bit battered. The other boy sprung the clasp and the lid swung open.

“How long do you have?” asked Draco.

Potter dropped down onto a stool beside Draco. “Twenty minutes and then I have to go to an Auror training. Christ, this will be boring.”

“Don’t you like being an Auror?”

Something crossed across Potter’s face that he couldn’t quite place. “Well . . . I mean . . . there are parts I don’t enjoy – but that’s like any job. I’m sure there are parts of your apprenticeship that you don’t enjoy.”

He thought about that. He didn’t enjoy it when some customers treated him poorly – but they were few and far between thanks to Ollivander. But the rest of it – the rest of it he loved. He loved learning from Ollivander and learning about wand craft. He enjoyed the thrill of helping wizards and witches select their wands. He loved experimenting with different wood and core combinations.

“Not really,” he answered. He saw Potter’s face fall, and to change the subject he asked, “That looks like an older watch, was it . . . Sirius’?”

Potter looked down at the watch. “Er – this? No. It belonged to Fabian Prewitt – a brother of Molly Weasley’s that died during the War – the first one. She gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday.”

He pulled out his own pocket watch – which looked much better for wear than Potter’s.

“I have Regulus’ watch,” he said. He opened it and the constellation Draco appeared.

“Wicked,” said Potter. He reached out a hand, “May I see?”

Draco passed it to him, and Potter held a watch in each hand – held watches of two men lost during the War that should never have been lost.

Regulus’ watch charm shifted and swirled and the stars rearranged themselves in Potter’s grip. The other boy’s lips parted in surprise before he said, “I don’t recognize this constellation.”

Draco looked closer and felt his eyes widen in recognition. “I can see why you wouldn’t.”

“I know, I know. Make your crack about how I never paid attention in school.”

He shook his head, “While tempting, that isn’t the reason I think you wouldn’t recognize it. It’s . . . it’s an ancient constellation – replaced in the minds of most people by the constellation Scorpius. See how it’s similar but not quite right? This is a constellation of the Picts depicting a great stag.”

“Oh . . . well . . . shit.”

Draco wondered if the other boy was thinking of his patronus – if he was thinking of James. Potter gently snapped Regulus’ pocket watch closed and passed it back.

To try and lighten the mood, Draco said, “It’s too bad you have to be on patrol. You’ll miss out on all the parties. Salazar – I bet hundreds of witches and wizards would give their eyeteeth for a chance to welcome in the New Year with you.”

Potter shifted a bit on the stool, “I know – Ron says I should have sold tickets for charity for a drawing on who could snog the Saviour when it struck midnight.”

His brain was flooded with a vision of Potter lifting his face for Draco to kiss. He forced a laughed, “That’s a good one from Weasley.”

“Ron’s an arse. Good thing he’s fit, or Hermione’d have no use for him,” said Potter without heat.

“Think Weasley’s fit do you? Always knew there was something with you three and that ‘Golden Trio.’ Kinky.”

“Christ, you’re horrible. Is this how’s it’s going to be now? I think I deserved fair warning on that before acknowledging we were friends.”

“I’m a fucking Slytherin, Potter – you had fair warning – it’s practically part of our house motto.”

The other boy snorted and mumbled something that sounded a lot like “fucking Slytherins.”

“So,” said Draco, elongating the word, unable to resist the urge to tease the Saviour, “You said you’d always noticed guys. Who did you notice besides Weasley.”

“I didn’t notice Ron.”

Draco held up his hands, “Alright, alright. But seriously, who?”

Potter blushed a bit beside him and fiddled with the pocket watch in his hand before he said, “You won’t tease?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, “As a Malfoy and a Slytherin I can make no such assurances.”

“Tosser,” said Potter, but he was smiling. “Right – er – well . . . I noticed Oliver Wood. Thought he was fit – didn’t really know what it meant at the time to have those thoughts. And then there was Cedric. Cedric – he was – well he was everything a guy ought to be wasn’t he?”

“Everyone noticed Diggory,” Draco agreed. “For a Hufflepuff he was uncommonly remarkable in every way.”

“True. And well, I was always a bit fascinated by Ron’s older brother Charlie, the one that works with dragons, which is beyond strange since I dated Ginny. I – er – don’t really want to think too much about how fucked up in the head that must make me.”

“Completely fucked up”

Potter rolled his eyes and said, “And this next one, well, don’t read too much into it. Nothing happened – will ever happen – but I couldn’t help but look, yeah?”

“Who?”

If anything, Potter blushed even more. “Well, you must have noticed how – er – Neville Longbottom grew into himself. And like I said,” Potter rushed on “He’s my mate – nothing will ever happen there – but I can’t help but appreciate his – er – form. To look at.”

This was all too good to be true. Years ago Draco probably would have teased Potter with this information, but that was before, when Draco had been a right prat. He was still a prat, but to a lesser degree, so now he just said, “Excellent choices Potter – except for the girl Weasley – I know you said you fancy both sexes, but women don’t really do it for me.”

“So who did you notice?”

You.

That was the first answer that sprang to mind. “You Potter,” he thought, “I’ve always noticed you.” But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t break whatever spell he was weaving with the other boy to create their friendship, so he stuck to the truth as best he could, “Well Diggory, of course. And there was a boy who transferred in my last year at Hogwarts. He was a year behind. Fine blue eyes. He thought I seemed nice which is horrifying to think about – clearly a bad judge of character. And while I was awaiting trial I didn’t have a lot of human contact and may have become a bit fascinated with studying one of my guard’s faces. And some . . . Muggles at clubs have caught my attention.”

“I think you can be nice, Draco. When you let yourself.” He was pretty sure a shocked expression had overtaken his face as Potter snorted. “Don’t look so surprised. It doesn’t suit you. You always looked so confident in school.”

Before he could even think of what to say in response to that, the Gryffindor rose. “I’ve got highly important training to take part in while I cut my teeth as a new Auror. Happy New Year, Draco.”

“Happy New Year,” he replied and after the door closed behind the other boy he added, “ . . . Harry.”

 

The girls had literally worked their magic and had created a veritable bubble of warming charms on Draco’s rooftop. He was the only person that lived in an exclusively magical part of London, and the Ministry’s fireworks display ringing in the New Year was only visible here.

Revelers were in the street below, and vendors were selling food and drink. On the roof, Blaise had put himself in charge of music, while Pansy played bartender and concocted fruity drinks that Theo was manfully trying to suffer through for her sake. Millicent had no such qualms about declining Pansy’s cocktails and had started in on the champagne. Daphne had brought along her younger sister, Astoria, who’d graduated Hogwarts earlier this year. Lavender arrived with Luna and Longbottom in tow, declaring that she’d needed reinforcements so she wouldn’t be the only non-Slytherin. Greg was in charge of the food, and he had wisely enlisted Mip’s help resulting in a fantastic spread.

Thus Draco found himself with a questionable cocktail in hand, dancing to Muggle music on New Year’s Eve. He felt alive and young as he moved to the music. He was clad in tight, black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a black leather belt studded through with silver metal. Daphne had been delighted with his outfit and insisted he looked like he belonged in a band.

“Salazar, Draco, your arse is bloody majestic in those trousers,” said Blaise. “I’m almost thinking of letting you pull me just so that I can find out if you’re wearing pants or not.”

Longbottom snorted while he was taking a drink and then spent several seconds coughing and spluttering.

“Easy there, snake-slayer,” said Blaise, thumping the Gryffindor on the back. “I’ll let you cut in with Draco if you’re that keen.”

Lavender laughed and whispered in Draco’s ear, “He’s barking up the wrong Gryffindor – you’ve only ever had eyes for a certain Chosen One.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to choke on his drink. Lavender – darling hellion that she was – batted her eyes innocently at him before sauntering over to the Greengrass sisters to form a trio dancing to the music. With a half hour till midnight, three of Longbottom’s friends showed up – all Ravenclaws. Boot, Goldstein, and Corner exchanged a few words with their former resistance leader before helping themselves to Pansy’s makeshift bar.

“It’s so nice to see fellow Ravenclaws,” said Luna. “Balance in life is important, don’t you think?”

Draco nodded in agreement, even though the only thing he was currently focused on balancing was his drink. He was feeling loose from the alcohol, and he couldn’t stop smiling. The new arrivals picked up on this as they approached him with their own beverages and Boot said, “Didn’t know you could smile, Malfoy?”

He shrugged, “Didn’t have much to smile about for a few years.” Lavender, ever his protector, came over and wrapped an arm around his waist. He grinned down at her, “But I’ve got more to celebrate now.”

“Nev told us you were having a party tonight and that we were welcome. I wasn’t sure at first if I could believe him,” said Corner.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Merlin, if you can’t believe Neville Longbottom than there’s no hope in this world.” He took a moment to size Corner up. He looked healthy – less drawn than that last year at Hogwarts. “Besides, I risked my neck to save you, Corner. If you were worth that at the height the War, then why wouldn’t I want to have a drink with you now?”

“Too much serious talking,” said Blaise, hurtling into the group. “Oi, Daph – Astoria – help me show these straight laced Ravenclaws how we party in Slytherin.”

The last several minutes were spent in a haze of music. Blaise played a song on repeat where a high, mesmerizing voice sang, “So tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999.” He laughed to see Pansy and Millicent dancing with Greg, while the Greengrass girls were indeed putting on a show for the Ravenclaws boys. Lavender was still at his side, but he noticed the glances she and Theo exchanged. Luna tried to teach Blaise and Longbottom dance steps that she advised mimicked the mating ritual of crumple-horned snorkack, and would help attract others of the species, which would surely be a propitious way to ring in the new year. He couldn’t even begin to replicate Luna’s movements and was saved by a burst of color blooming in the sky followed by a loud boom.

Blaise flicked off the music and turned the wireless on. “With only a minute left of 1999, all of us at the Wizarding Wireless Network want to wish all our listeners a Happy New Year. Joining us now is the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

The Minister’s deep voice filled the rooftop space, “We have come a long way together as a magical community. I am proud of the progress we have made in accepting and loving each other. We still have obstacles ahead but our future is bright. Join me, as we count down to the year 2000. Ten . . . nine . . .”

Lavender and Longbottom, Gryffindors that they were, joined in the chant first. “Eight . . . seven . . .”

The Ravenclaws started in next, “Six . . . five . . . four . . .”

Lavender squeezed him and finally the Slytherins joined in, “Three . . . two . . . one! Happy New Year!”

Lavender threw her arms around him and stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He laughed and swept her off her feet to spin her in the air. He set her down when he felt a someone tap his shoulder. He turned to find Pansy waiting kiss him on the cheek. And so it went – everyone hugging and kissing and shaking hands or thumping each other boisterously on the back.

He’d just gotten done peeling himself away from a bear hug from Greg when the sky burst with color and light. Magical fireworks filled the sky above Wizarding London.

He looked up in delight as the sparks of color swirled together to form a proud unicorn that pranced through the sky. New fireworks erupted, and the single creature became a herd of silver unicorns galloping over Diagon Alley. The herd thundered out of existence and with a loud, musical roar, an explosion of green fireworks took the form of a Welsh Green dragon and then another cluster of fireworks grew into a Hebridean Black dragon. The two living species of dragons native to the British Isles soared through the sky, spraying dragon fire above. The Hebridean Black’s eyes, true to life, were a vivid purple, and its bat-like wings seemed to brush the top of Gringotts as it soared by. The magical beasts soared in a circle, coming ever closer and closer until they seemed to merge, and then with a flash of light they became an ouroboros – the symbol of life, death, and rebirth. Another flare of fireworks sparkled red, and the ouroboros faded to be overtaken by a vivid phoenix, with brilliant tears that showered down on the onlookers.

He glanced away from the display, seeking Lavender’s face to share the moment with her, and found that she was no longer by his side. He looked around the rooftop and saw that she and Theo were still exchanging what appeared to be an extended and very thorough new year’s kiss. For a moment he felt a pang of jealousy – wishing he had someone to kiss as 1999 came to a close and 2000 began – but the bitter feeling didn’t last long. He was happy for his friend – happy for both of them.

He looked back to the sky, grateful to be surrounded by friends – grateful that this year, for the first time since 1998, he’d be free and not locked away in a holding cell. As the last of the fireworks shimmered across the night, he resolved to continue to try and uphold his promise to Lavender.

 

On the evening of New Year’s Day he was still dressed in the pants and robe he’d thrown on that morning after he, Lavender, and Theo had crawled out of his bed in search of hangover potion. It had been odd sleeping in between the pair, but he supposed it had been their way of staying together without fearing the alcohol in their system would lead them down paths they weren’t yet ready to take.

The moment he’d awoke, he’d felt like he’d been hit by the Knight Bus, and he blamed Pansy and her supposed cocktails. By eleven, everyone had emerged from whatever sleeping quarter they had crawled away too the night before. The Ravenclaw boys were the first to leave, and after foraging in Draco’s kitchen, the others had trickled away. By the afternoon he’d mustered the energy to take a shower, but had opted to slip on his robe again. He was quite proud that he managed to pull on a clean pair of pants at least.

The wireless was playing Muggle contemporary music as part of one of its many new programs promoting a better understanding and appreciation of Muggle culture. He stretched, his pale legs out the length of the couch and basked in his laziness. He was seldom idle, and this felt delightfully sinfully.

And then he heard it – a knock at the back door, amplified by spell work. He ran to the back bedroom and peered out the window to the back alley below. It was fucking Potter – because of course it was, and here he was in only a robe and pants.

He hurtled to his room and grabbed the clothes he’d shed the night before in a pile by the bed. He was buckling his belt when he heard the amplified knocking again. He rushed down the stairs and through the studio, raked a hand through his hair, and flung open the door.

Potter opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but closed it again. His eyes swept over Draco, and it took everything in him to stand still and remain nonchalant.

“Black,” the Gryffindor said at last.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Your clothes . . . they’re black.”

“Yes…”

Potter swallowed, and Draco’s eyes followed the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Well – er – it suits you,” the other boy said.

Draco rolled his eyes, “What? Because of my dark, brooding ways? The utter tragedy of my life?”

The Chosen One shook his head, “No. Just looks nice.”

What the fuck? He glanced down at his slightly wrinkled clothes from the night before. They were simple – not gawdy – well – except for the silver flash on the belt. He cleared his throat, “So how was your New Year’s Eve.” He motioned for the other boy to come in and shut the door behind him as Potter stepped through.

“Magical people are fucking lunatics when they’ve been drinking. The stupid shit they do is – well – it’s mind-blowing.”

“My night was very civilized,” said Draco primly.

“You know I’m friends with Neville, right? I heard all about your ‘civilized’ night.”

He arched eyebrow again. Fuck. What was it about Potter that made him to this?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I had no idea Gryffindors were such gossips. I’m curious what Longbottom had to say about our little get-together.”

“He just said . . . well . . . he said it was a lot of fun and that you were all nursing hangovers when you woke up. And that you were lounging around in your pajamas like a lord this morning.”

“I’ll have you know I lounged in pajamas like a lord all day. When I commit to something I do so fully.”

He’d meant the comment to be flippant, but a frown crossed Potter’s face and the other boy turned away and started to fiddle with tools laid out on a work table.

“Are you sure about that?” asked the Boy-Who-Lived, his voice soft and hesitant.

“That I was in my pajamas all day?”

“No. That when you commit to something you do so fully.”

“I . . . What?”

“You have that Mark on your arm, Draco, but I know you didn’t commit to Voldemort’s cause. I know because I saw you after . . . after I died . . . that day at the Battle.” He finally turned to look at Draco. “When I opened my eyes again, while Hagrid was carrying me, I saw you. I saw your face in the crowd amongst all that wreckage. And you looked – you looked hurt and scared. I’d never – never expected to see that look on your face – at least not about me. And I can’t stop wondering why. Why did I matter to you?” Potter paused and looked at him. “Or maybe I’m being self-important, maybe you didn’t look that way about me at all.”

Draco’s body grew very still. Blood rushed to his head in his panic. He didn’t know how much to reveal. At last he stammered, “Of course – of course it was about you.”

“Why?”

He threw his head back for a moment in exasperation. He didn’t want to answer.

“Why, Draco?”

That snapped his attention back to Potter and his infernal eyes. He still wasn’t used to Potter calling him by his first name.

“You know why,” he said.

Potter, obstinate as ever, shook his head, “No, I don’t.”

“Merlin, Potter, it’s always been about you. Always.”

“Why?” asked the Saviour.

Draco forced a hand through his hair. Fuck what had he gone and said? He had to do some damage control.

“When we first went to Hogwarts, I wanted you to be my friend. And I was a prick – copying things I’d heard my father say – so you didn’t get a favorable impression of me. I was livid . . . and hurt. I was so used to getting everything I wanted and I couldn’t have you as a friend. So I . . . well . . . you know. I was awful to you. Whenever you were around, I was focused on you – wondering how I could one up you – how I could make you fucking regret not wanting me. And then the War started . . . You became the embodiment of hope. Everyone who wanted the Dark Lord stopped placed their hope in you.”

“People shouldn’t have placed so much faith in me. I didn’t know what I was doing - didn’t always make the right choices.”

“Don’t,” said Draco. “Don’t trivialize what you did. I was there. I saw.”

Potter actually had the audacity to shrug. “Anyone could have done what I did. I’m not special.”

“I doubt that, Potter. I couldn’t have done it,” said Draco.

The Gryffindor just shrugged again.

“I couldn’t have. I’ve done horrible things and I would never have been so selfless as you.”

Potter met his eyes, “I don’t think there is anything you have done that could be truly horrible. You were a kid trying to save his mum.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, his whole body tense with anger and shame. “You are Perfect Potter, and the whole world bows down to your greatness. You’ve always been perfect – always done the right thing. You have no idea what it feels like to walk around all the time knowing - ” his voice broke. He took a shallow breath, “Knowing that you have done something horrible. Knowing that you can never take it back or make it right.” He closed his eyes, he couldn’t look at Potter’s face, “Knowing that you deserve every bad thing that happens to you, because you can never be forgiven.”

He opened his eyes and Potter was staring back at him. Great. He’d turned the Saviour speechless on top of everything else. The other boy took a step toward him, and then another. Draco held his ground. He’d be damned if he shied away from Potter no matter how much the other boy invaded his space. Green eyes met his.

“You’re wrong, Draco.” The boy’s eyes lowered. The Gryffindor raised a hand, and moving slowly, as if trying not to frighten him, Potter placed his hand on Draco’s chest. Draco still started at the contact, despite how careful Potter had been approaching him. Potter’s eyes returned to his. “I know exactly what it’s like to do something awful that you can never take back or forget.”

He felt his eyes widen. Potter couldn’t – he just couldn’t mean -

Potter lowered his hand. “I’ll never forget how you looked that day I – That day I cursed you. How you bled on the floor and the pain on your face. Hearing you gasp with it. I hurt you.”

“You did,” he almost whispered. “You did hurt me. I didn’t think – I didn’t think you’d cared.”

Potter sighed, tilting his head. “Of course I cared Draco.”

His name. Potter had used his first name more than once in this conversation. The War was over, but had the world somehow ended without him knowing it? Well if the world was ending, he might as well go out in flames.

“I wanted you to save me that day,” Draco admitted. He watched as the other boy’s expression changed. He saw the shock on Potter’s face. “I . . . I think I always wanted you to save me.”

Potter’s lips parted in surprise. Merlin, he was so close. Draco wanted to grab the insufferable prat by his t-shirt and pull him even closer.

“I didn’t save you that day,” Potter said, his voice low.

A soft laugh escaped him. “No, you didn’t. But I think you made up for it later – in the fire. You came back for me.” He shrugged, trying to lighten the moment, “And I guess you kind of capped it off by defeating Lord Voldemort. That was rather well done.”

The other boy laughed, “You saved me too, you know.”

“Hardly. Not identifying you to my dear Aunt Bellatrix is not worthy of medals.”

Potter shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t lessen what you did. I was there. You could have given me up. I saw it in your eyes when you looked at me. You knew who I was. You could have said something - but you didn’t.”

“I…” he stammered. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

He turned his face away. He couldn’t take the intensity of Potter’s gaze. It was all too much, standing here with the Chosen One, putting his feelings on display.

“Why, Draco?” Potter asked again.

He started to turn away. “You know why?”

A hand on his arm tugged him back to face the dark-haired boy.

“No, I don’t know. Why?”

“Because . . . because I couldn’t imagine a world without you in it. Merlin, Potter – Harry – I’ve watched you practically my whole life. You are horrible and brave and so frustratingly loyal. And I wanted . . . I wanted you . . . to exist. Oh fuck, this is humiliating. I wanted you Harry – I wanted you to live and have a life worth living.”

Potter’s eyes met his, and Draco thought he read something in them – something like want and desire. And then the Gryffindor’s gaze flicked down to Draco’s lips before meeting his eyes again.

Draco held that gaze – met those brilliant eyes – and with courage he didn’t know he had, he nodded his head.

Potter surged toward him, clasped Draco’s face in his hands and pressed his mouth to Draco’s. And oh – fuck. Draco reached for the other boy and found purchase grabbing hold of his shoulders and pressed his lips back hard against Potter’s.

Was this happening? How was this happening? He was kissing Harry Potter. His lips moved against the other boy’s and Merlin, this was good. Or at least he thought it was good.

Potter pulled back, breaking the kiss. Draco dropped his hands.

He felt panic roil in his stomach. Did Potter regret it? Well, of course he regretted it, he couldn’t really have wanted to kiss him – Draco Malfoy – royal ponce and former Death Eater.

“You okay?” Potter asked.

Umm…No. Of course he wasn’t okay. He’d been kissed by the boy he’d wanted to notice him since he was eleven years old and now that kiss was over, so of course he wasn’t fucking okay.

“If you aren’t freaking out too much,” said Potter. “I’d like to do it again. Kiss you, I mean.”

He couldn’t think – couldn’t think about what that meant - he just couldn’t. He could only want.

“Yes,” Draco breathed, because even now he didn’t know how to protect himself from horrible ideas.

Potter leaned back in and pressed his lips to Draco’s. What a fucking Gryffindor, Draco thought, charging in all stupid and brave and not giving a thought to the consequences. He thanked Merlin for Potter’s bravery. . . and his stupidity.

Potter sighed into the kiss and opened his mouth to Draco. Draco placed his hands on the boy’s hips and pulled him closer. He used his height advantage to deepen the kiss and let his tongue slide into Potter’s mouth. Potter’s tongue met his. He felt his heart hammer. This was too much. This was everything.

Oh please Merlin, let him being doing this right.

The other boy’s hands brushed up his body and curled into his hair. Draco pulled away from the kiss and asked, “Are we . . . really doing this?”

Green eyes met his. “Scared, Malfoy?”

And yes he was fucking terrified – terrified that he was here – kissing Potter – kissing Harry Potter of all fucking people in the world. But Merlin, he wanted him – wanted him more than anything in this moment, so he reached for the line he knew would arouse them both, “You wish.”

And Potter – Harry – was crowding him back across the floor until Draco felt the wall against his spine. Harry was pressing into him, a thigh between his legs. Draco’s hands fisted Harry’s shirt and he took everything his Chosen One was giving – took it and returned it in kind.

This time Harry pulled back. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“You remember who I am, right?” asked Draco, still stunned by this turn of events.

The other boy grinned at him and brushed his lips against Draco’s. “I do,” he said, before pressing his lips to Draco’s again.

 

He lay in bed that night and couldn’t help but smile to himself as he remembered the feel of Harry’s lips on his. They’d stayed entwined together until Harry pulled away, apologizing that he was late to meeting up with Granger and Weasley to celebrate the new year as they hadn’t been able to the night before. But he’d kissed Draco goodbye and said he wanted to see him again soon. He’d felt almost breathless as he’d watched the dark-haired boy leave. As he lay alone in his bed he felt giddy and wondered for a moment if Regulus had felt the same way once upon a time about James.

What was it about Potters kissing dark wizards?

Oh fuck – if Potter – Harry - was at all like his father he’d end up with a beautiful, fierce witch with flaming hair. As if he didn’t have enough reason to be jealous of the Weasley girl. Of course that is who Harry would end up with – that’s how the story ends – Harry winning the heart of the princess. But until Harry and the she-Weasley rode off into the sunset, he could enjoy Harry’s kisses. Would his heart survive it though? He’d never been good at not having feelings about Harry – the Gryffindor had always evoked strong emotions from Draco – and he knew he’d get swept into the storm and heady pleasure that was Harry. When the other boy inevitably walked away and left him behind, Draco worried he’d fall into the chasm that would be left behind and that it would take him an eternity to claw his way out.

But for now, he let himself linger in the memory – linger in the feel of the other boy’s lips on his – the weight of Potter’s hands on his chest. He traced his fingers down his neck to a nipple. He let his fingertips whisper over himself, and his body shivered with arousal between the memory and his own touch. He drew his fingers down his chest and abdomen, down his stomach and ran them over a hip and the crease of a thigh. Merlin, he hadn’t done this in so long - not regularly since fifth year – before he really knew that he liked men. In the past, images of Harry Potter had flashed through his mind as he’d chased an orgasm, but he’d always tried to push those images away. Now he had no such hesitation about picturing Potter – no – Harry – kissing him – wanting him. He continued to run his fingers across his skin and imagined it was Harry exploring his body. He tried to recall the feel of Harry’s hands in his hair, and he sighed when he let his hand close around himself at last.

And . . . and . . . it was . . . Merlin . . . so good.

His right hand stroked himself, while he let his left hand trace over his neck and chest. He imagined the sounds Harry would make if he were doing this to the other boy.  He gasped . . . thrust up into his hand with his hips. Oh sweet Salazar – why had he waited so long . . . so long before letting himself have this.

He felt his muscles tighten and the tension in his body built. He was close . . . so close. He imagined Harry in this position, close, and saying Draco’s name. And that was enough . . . he came hot and shuddering over himself, feeling his release on his hand and stomach. He kept pushing into his fist until at last he almost whimpered at his own sensitivity.

“Fuck . . . Harry . . .” he sighed.

Chapter 64: Ten Points to Gryffindor

Notes:

Sorry this is a day late. Work went nuts.

Harry came back the next day. He came in smelling of the cold with a smile on his face. Draco had been a ball of nerves, wondering if Harry would come back and if he did, if he’d regret the previous evening. But the Gryffindor had pulled him in for a kiss.

“I can’t stay long – I’m due for dinner at the Weasleys in a bit, but I had to see you.”

And Draco had kissed him back and led him up the stairs to his flat where they’d wound up on a sofa. Draco had started to reach for the other boy, to pull him even closer, when he realized his Mark was exposed. Draco’s sleeves had been rolled up when Harry arrived. Shit. He’d tried to discreetly pull the offending sleeve back down, but Harry – blasted git that he was – saw it.

“You don’t have to hide that from me,” said Harry.

Draco took a deep breath and pushed the sleeve down over his left arm, covering the Mark.

“It’s a reminder of everything I’m . . . not proud of. It reminds me of my weaknesses and the horrible choices that I made” said Draco, unable to look up and meet the green eyes that he knew were focused on him.

“Well, that’s not what I see,” said Harry. Draco did look up then - curious and frightened by what the Boy-Who-Lived would say. “I know – or at least I think I know - why you took the Mark. You made a choice – if we can even really say you had a choice - and you chose to save your mother.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. At last he half-whispered, “Yes.”

“It was the summer before sixth year, wasn’t it? When you were Marked?”

“Yes.”

“You were what? All of sixteen? Your father was in prison and your house was taken over by Voldemort and your aunt. You made a choice Draco, and you chose love.” Harry took Draco’s left hand in his own, clasping it gently, before turning Draco’s arm so that the underside faced up. With the barest whisper of his fingertips Potter slid the fabric of Draco’s shirt up his arm. Mesmerized and tense, Draco watched as the Dark Mark was slowly exposed. Then the Gryffindor traced the image forever etched on his pale skin. “If it had been me – if I’d had a chance to save my mother . . . I think I would have done anything.”

The Gryffindor’s fingertips continued to ghost along Draco’s skin.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” said Potter, before bending to press his lips to the Dark Mark. Draco’s breath hitched. The other boy looked up at his, “You have to . . . forgive yourself Draco. You were a child – a scared and tortured child.” Harry leaned back and brushed a hand across Draco’s cheek. “How bad was it – after you let me go?”

He closed his eyes, remembering the waves of pain from the Dark Lord’s cruciatus curse – remembered his mother’s screams. He opened his eyes and blinked at the green eyes before him. “Bad.”

“Was it just him? Did anyone else hurt you?”

“Why? Are you going to hunt them down?”

Harry tilted his head, “Maybe. I’m an Auror now. I could . . . hunt them down.”

“Mother Weasley beat you to it I’m afraid.”

“Bellatrix,” Harry hissed. “She’d be on the top of my list if she’d lived.” He furrowed a hand through his dark hair. “I . . . can’t say I like it though . . . tracking down dark wizards and criminals, but someone has to do it.”

“You don’t like being an Auror, do you?”

Harry didn’t say a word.

“Look . . . Harry. I don’t know what we are. If you’re just interested in snogging me behind closed doors, then that’s . . . well . . . I’ll have to think about whether or not that is enough. But if you want us to be more, than we have to . . . talk . . . to share . . . and we have to be honest with each other.” He squeezed Harry’s hand. “Do you like being an Auror?”

The other boy seemed to shudder before he said, “No. I don’t. But someone has to do the job.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Yeah – it does. It’s what I do.”

“You are literally the worst savior,” said Draco, dropping Harry’s hand. “The fucking worst.”

The other boy narrowed his eyes, “Excuse me?”

“Look at you. You’re willing to save everyone – everyone else – your friends, strangers, me - but not yourself. Never yourself. No bloody sense of self-preservation. You’ve never had it. If there was someone that needed saving, you would always be an all-righteous Gryffindor and go and do it.”

“That’s what I do,” Harry almost growled.

“So get on with it then – save yourself. You literally saved everyone – everyone else - in Wizarding Britain – probably in all of Britain and beyond. So start saving yourself already.”

“I – I…”

Draco sighed. “You aren’t happy. What you are doing now, if it’s not making you happy then you don’t need to do it. You don’t need to follow a path you set for yourself years ago before the whole world turned in on itself. You aren’t that boy anymore. You need to figure out what makes you happy now.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, “You don’t think I should be an Auror?”

“I think you deserve a chance to do something you love. And if you don’t love being an Auror, then I think you should consider giving it up. You already gave your life once – you don’t have to keep giving everything.”

The other boy was quiet for a long moment before he said, “If I’m honest I think I kind of wanted to be an Auror back when I was in school to piss off Umbridge.”

Draco smirked, “Well that was a very admirable reason. But Umbridge is gone – to Azkaban. You don’t have to do anything just to piss her off. Frankly, you being proven right and being the damned Chosen One probably pisses her off quite enough already.”

“It’s all I know,” said Harry softly.

He sighed, he wasn’t sure how to offer the other boy comfort. He’d never been very good at it. His friends offered comfort through sarcasm and teasing, but he’s not sure if that is what this Gryffindor needs right now. He’s never been brave, not really, but if there was ever a reason to try to be, it would be for Harry.

“I think that for so long you had to survive – had to just survive - that you learned spells to defend and protect. The subject at school you liked the most was Defense Against the Dark Arts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever consider why that was? That maybe it was because it was necessary for your survival – practical? And then you were in the War and now you’re an Auror. I think you’ve lost sight that magic is more than just spells to shield, subdue, and hurt. What was the first time you saw magic and you knew it was magic?”

“Hagrid. He found me when I was eleven. Told me I was a wizard – that my parents had been wizards. He said that there was a school for people who were magic. My aunt and uncle, they argued with him and told him I wouldn’t be going to a school for freaks. My cousin started to eat the cake Hagrid brought me for my birthday – the first birthday cake that I had ever been given – and Hagrid spelled him to grow a pig’s tail.”

“That’s . . . a bit twisted,” said Draco unable to control his face which he knew looked horrified.

Harry flashed a smile at him. “It was brilliant is what it was. He took me away from there to Diagon Alley. It was . . . incredible – more than I had ever even dared to imagine was possible. And I wanted it – I wanted to live in the magical world. I wanted to be . . . normal. I’d never been normal with my . . . with the Dursleys. But I still wasn’t normal. I was the-Boy-Who-Lived, but at least I wasn’t a freak for having magic.”

He clenched his fists at his side. He didn’t like to think about Harry Potter being made to feel like an outcast because he’d been born magic. Some Muggles were as bad as Death Eaters it seemed – despising people and thinking they were lesser beings for an accident of birth that could not be controlled. He took a deep breath. He was trying to make a point and he needed to check his anger.

“Magic can be light – whimsical. It is desire made real. I think you’ve forgotten the wonder you first felt – the hope – and have become bogged down in seeing magic as a tool – a weapon.”

The other boy’s face shifted at his words and his expression looked sad. “I think . . . I think you might be right.”

“Of course I’m right, Potter,” said Draco, trying for a light-hearted drawl.

“Don’t let it swell your head,” said Harry.

The Boy-Who-Lived glanced out the window. It is snowing lightly. “I have to go,” he said, standing up. He sighed as he shrugged into the coat he’d flung over the back of a chair and flipped the collar up. He’d brought no scarf, no gloves. Nothing. Harry never seemed to plan for basic comfort or survival. Draco wondered how the boy had survived Lord Voldemort. Fate? Dumb luck? He knelt before a trunk and dug around until he found his old house scarf.

“Here,” he said, levitating the scarf up to Harry in a display of the light-hearted magic he’d been talking about.

The Golden Boy stared at it for a moment and then broke into a grin. “You just want to see me in Slytherin colors.”

Draco groaned. Harry’s grin widened as he accepted the scarf and looped it around his neck. The green wool brought out his eyes. Draco decides that Slytherin colors look very fine indeed on Harry Potter.

“Admit it,” Harry smiled in a way that was most un-Gryffindor, “This is one of your fantasies come to life, seeing me in a Slytherin scarf.”

He was most definitely not going to admit that this had in fact been a personal fantasy of his – that and pulling Harry toward him by his Gryffindor tie. “Full of yourself aren’t you, Potter? You were the one that was watching me all the time in sixth year.”

“That’s because you were up to something - several somethings as I recall,” said the Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “That’s the only reason you were watching?”

The other boy scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oh fuck you, Malfoy. As if I couldn’t take my eyes off you – as if I ever noticed your shoulders, your hair, your eyes.” He stepped closer to Draco and latched hold of his shoulders, pulling him close, and belying his words. “As if I was so captivated by you without knowing it that I was able to tell that your eyes turn the color of molten silver when you want something.” The other boy ran his fingertips down Draco’s chest. “Of course I wasn’t watching you for any other reason at all then to make sure you weren’t up to something.”

Draco swallowed hard. The Gryffindor surely knew what he was doing to him. “Lies,” said Draco. “And why the hell weren’t you sorted Slytherin. You are positively devious.”

Harry raised himself up on his tiptoes and leaned in to nibble at Draco’s earlobe. “I almost was. Think of that. Think of what that would have been like. All of our teenage angst and hormones together in one dorm room.” Harry lowered himself and looked up into Draco’s eyes. “Molten silver.”

Draco grabbed the scarf looped around Harry’s neck and pulled the other boy toward him and kissed him.

And Merlin, what the fuck was going on? He didn’t get a love story. He was fucking Draco Malfoy – the villain in this story – and he wasn’t supposed to get a love story and yet here he was, kissing the god damn hero. And he thought of the others – those that didn’t get enough time with the objects of their affection – Remus, Sirius, James, and Regulus – and he clung to Harry harder, not wanting to lose a moment. And damn it, he would try. He would try harder to forgive himself.

 

After Harry left for the Burrow with Draco’s green and silver scarf looped around his neck, Draco had a bit of a crisis of conscious. Despite Harry’s entreaty otherwise, he was indeed freaking out. He owled both Lavender and Theo and asked them to meet him that evening. He was at dinner with his mother when Theo’s barn owl reached him saying they’d meet him at seven at a pub at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn Alley.

He found the his friends sitting together in a high-backed booth. The pub was old, and a little bit pokey and dark, but each booth was fitted out with muffling charms, which made it an attractive spot for many too meet.

He paused at the head of the table and said, “The Haughty Hippogriff? Really?”

Theo shrugged, “The ales good and really, Draco, I thought you’d be past all that melodrama about Hippogriffs by now or are you perpetually thirteen.”

Lavender made no attempt to smother a laugh and Draco hmphed as he slid into the seat opposite the pair.

“Answering me with one owl now are we?” he said as he reached for the pint they had waiting for him.

Lavender tossed her head, “Why Draco, I’d like you to meet Theodore Nott, my . . .” she turned her head toward the Slytherin at her side, “What are you?”

“Blaise says I’m your whipping boy.”

“What a lovely image,” she practically purred as she leaned forward to brush her lips across Theo’s cheek. “I’m sure you’d be such a good boy.”

And to Draco’s surprise, his normally shy and reserved friend didn’t blush at these words – if anything Theo looked eager.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco groaned. “No more mental pictures like that please.”

“After seven years in the Slytherin dormitory I don’t know how you turned out to be such a prude,” commented Theo before he took a sip of beer.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s because I was too busy trying to be a perfect pureblood son despite being a raging homosexual.”

Theo inclined his head, “Point.”

“Now why are we meeting here?” asked Lavender.

“Because you wanted to make me suffer under the guise of getting me out of the house.”

She sighed, clearly exasperated. “No. Why are we here. What has you in such a tizzy that the messages you wrote us had less than perfect penmanship.” Then her eyes and her tone grew serious, “Really, Draco, is something wrong?”

To delay the inevitable, he took another swallow of his beer. He put the glass carefully down on the scarred table and said, “Well . . . I don’t know if something is wrong . . . exactly.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, don’t be as cryptic as Trelawney. What is it?” said his Gryffindor friend, ready to tackle whatever was on his mind head on.

He felt himself flush – he didn’t know where to begin. He looked at his friends with pleading eyes, but they just stared back at him.

“Draco?” said Theo.

“I . . . well . . . on New Year’s Day . . . after you all left, I may have . . . kissed someone that I’m not sure I should have.”

Lavender’s eyes widened, while Theo sat up straight.

“What do you mean you kissed someone that maybe shouldn’t have?” asked Theo. “Did they want you to kiss them?”

“Yes,” he practically choked out, remembering how Harry had pressed himself against Draco.

“Did you want to kiss them?”

He nodded his head, unable for the moment, to form words.

“Then what’s the problem?” asked the other Slytherin.

“They’re not a relative are they?” asked Lavender.

“Fuck no,” he said, mildly offended.

Theo shrugged, “It was a fair question with how incestuous pureblood family trees can be.”

He waved his hands, “No – No. That isn’t the issue, the issue is . . . its . . .”

Lavender sat back, her lips parted in surprise. “Oh, Godric,” she said. “It was Harry Potter, wasn’t it?”

Theo stared at Draco, “You . . . snogged the Saviour?”

“Ummm . . . maybe.”

“Maybe?” repeated Lavender in a tone of disbelief.

“All right fine. Yes. I kissed Harry on New Year’s Day. Or rather he kissed me and I kissed him back. And again today.”

“Again today?” said Theo.

“Are you both just going to repeat part of everything I say?” His accent was become more pronounced as it tended to when he was stressed. “I’m having a bit of an episode thinking about the magnitude of this . . . this . . . well whatever the fuck this is, and if you both could stop being so stunned and be of some help that would be greatly appreciated.”

Lavender, the Gryffindor in their small group, naturally recovered faster than Theo. She squared her shoulders and asked, “So how was it then? Snogging the Saviour?”

“Lavender!” he burst out.

Theo closed his eyes for a long moment, then picked up his nearly full pint and drained it. He set the empty glass gently down on the table.

“So, Potter likes guys,” said Theo.

Lavender inclined her head toward Draco. “It would seem so,” she said.

“Fuck,” groaned Theo. “Fucking Merlin’s saggy balls.”

“What?” asked Draco, feeling a bit put out that Theo only seemed capable of guzzling alcohol and using profanities.

“Do you know how much money I owe Blaise now? He bet that there was some type of star-crossed lovers thing going on between you two.”

Lavender’s face contorted for a moment – it looked like she was trying to contain herself and not burst out laughing. She seemed to manage this feat as she asked, “When did you make this bet?”

“Fourth year,” said Theo. “And we increased the wager amount sixth year.”

“For fuck’s sake! Blaise thought I had a thing for the Boy-Who-Lived in fourth year?”

“Sixth year too. All the years really,” said Theo.

“I didn’t even know I liked guys – or at least wasn’t really admitting it to myself - until seventh year,” said Draco.

Lavender, the traitor, could no longer contain herself and burst out laughing. Draco buried his head in his hands. This was a nightmare.

His friend managed to recover herself and said, “So what’s the problem, Draco? You wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to kiss you. Sounds like you both got what you wanted.”

He lifted his face from his hands, “What’s the problem? The problem is he is the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Saviour, and I – I am me.”

“He’s also just a boy called Harry,” she replied. “For all of his other names, he’s just a boy wanting to have an ordinary life.”

“I know that – I do. But I’m not . . . an ordinary boy. I’m a former Death Eater and a convict.”

“Right,” said Theo standing. “If I’m going to witness you engaging in needless self-flagellation I’m going to need another pint.” The other Slytherin left and made his way to the bar.

Lavender’s eyes followed the boy for a long moment, then she turned her gaze back to Draco. “We don’t like it when you do that,” she said quietly. “You are so much more than the horrible things you tell yourself in your darkest moments.”

“Then all of my moments must be dark.”

She glared at him, and then her face softened. “Draco . . .”

“Everything all right here?”

They turned their heads at the same time to see Zacharias Smith standing at the end of their table.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t look too happy sitting here, Lavender. I can’t say I’m surprised considering who your company is.” He nodded his head toward the back of the pub, “A bunch of us from the good houses at school are sitting together. Want to join us?”

“Excuse me,” said Theo from behind the insufferable Hufflepuff. Smith turned, and Theo slid in to the booth beside Lavender.

“As I was saying,” said Smith. “You’re welcome to join us – be with those you belong with.”

“I’m more than fine where I am,” said Lavender, linking a hand with Theo.

The Hufflepuff scowled, “Greyback must have hurt more than you face if you want to hang out with these Death Eater spawn.”

Draco stood and grabbed Smith by the front of his shirt and yanked him down into the booth. Once they were all inside the space the muffling charm took effect. He shoved his wand against Smith’s stomach.

“Be careful who you run your mouth about,” said Draco, his voice low and cold. “You must be aware that as Death Eater spawn I know the darkest of curses, and if I were to use one on you right now, no one would hear your screams.”

The fucker actually smiled at him – a parody of a smile – but still a smile. Draco had thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to possess a propensity for kindness, but Smith seemed to represent the antithesis of the values cherished in his house.

“You talk big, Malfoy, but if you so much as hurt a hair on my head you’ll be in Azkaban so quick your head will spin.”

He saw Theo start to lunge forward, but Lavender stayed him, placing a hand over his chest.

“Oh Zacharias,” said Lavender. “Always such a charmer. I can’t see why I wasn’t head over heels for you during our school days. And while my friends here simply can’t be bothered to waste any magical energy on you, I’m a different story altogether.” She leaned her head forward. “You see, unlike you, I stayed and fought for my school. I earned my battle scars and I earned the right not to listen to hateful little men like you. That’s what started the War – a hateful little man, and I won’t see us go down that path again.”

“You won’t do anything to me - you’re a Gryffindor,” said the boy.

“And you should know that being a Gryffindor means I’m likely to act first and think later. We’re brash and impulsive, and you forget dear Zacharias, that I know where you live.” She waved a hand at Draco. “Release him,” she said sounding bored.

Draco’s hold on the other boy’s shirt tightened, and he drew Smith a fraction closer. It struck him that considering that Smith was a golden boy incarnate with his blond hair and pale blue eyes, that the boy’s character didn’t match his physical appearance at all.

“Careful, Smith, she’s one of my dearest friends, and Slytherins protect their own,” he warned.

He pushed the other boy away from him and let go of his shirt front. Smith glared at him before shuffling out of the booth. As the boy turned away, Theo lazily waved his wand. It became clear when Smith stumbled that he’d been the recipient of a nonverbal tripping jinx. The Hufflepuff righted himself and whipped around to face their table again. Theo nodded his head in mock salute.

“Bastards,” Smith said, a scowl etched across his face, before he turned away and retreated to his table.

“Now that we have dealt with that unpleasantness,” said Theo, “I seem to recall that we were discussing Draco’s love life.”

 

To his mortification and secret delight, his friends did indeed discuss his love life with him. They encouraged him to find out what Harry wanted from him, and to pursue whatever the thing between them was as long as it made him happy. After, he was anxious to see Harry, but he didn’t see the other boy the next day. As a Monday, the shop was closed and he’d spent the day in his flat. He’d attempted to clean the place using cleaning charms that Lavender had taught him. None of his Slytherin friends knew about household upkeep as they’d always had house elves take care of those matters. He’d been using some spells from a basic leaflet on wizarding housekeeping that his case manager had given him, but Lavender’s charms were better. Despite the success of the new spells, it had been a boring day. He knew he could have gone to see his friends, but he didn’t want to leave in case Harry came by. He was personally aggrieved with himself for waiting around for a Gryffindor like a heartsick crup.

He had a reprieve the next day as the shop was open for appointments, and a women had brought her niece who was visiting for the holidays from the States. The girl’s parents had fled with their family when the War had started in earnest, shared the woman. Her brother-in-law she informed them was Muggleborn. Draco thought their decision to leave had been solid, considering that the whole family was alive.

Ollivander took a back seat, as he often did at wand appointments now, and positioned himself behind the counter.

“So what brings you here today Ms. Bhatti?” he asked the woman.

“My niece here, Laila, just started school at Ilvermorny in America. Her parents took her to a wand maker there and it wasn’t a rousing success. She was paired to a wand, but I don’t think it really . . . suits her. I think she needs something more specific.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to assist your niece. Was she paired with a wand wood native to America? Seeing as she was born in Great Britain, a wood native to this isle may be a better match.”

“I don’t think it’s the wand,” said the woman. “I think the issue is more likely the wand core.”

Draco turned to the child who was casually dressed as suited an eleven to twelve year old on holiday. “What’s you wandcore?”

“Wampus cat whisker,” said the girl. “None of the wands I tried really . . . were great, but this one at least responded.”

He knew from his research that this type of core was very common in America.

“You see, Mr. Malfoy, her great-grandmother was . . . well . . . how to describe it in English . . . She was a water nymph. The women in the family, starting with her daughters, have used wands with made with a core of her hair.”

Well shit. This was shaping up to be a rather different appointment. He turned to Ollivander. The man came out from behind the counter and stood beside him.

“While I pride myself on only crafting wands made from three tried and true wand cores, this type of wand is not unheard of,” said Ollivander. “A few years ago I inspected the wand of a young woman that held the hair of her Veela grandmother. I can’t say I recommend cores made from anything other than dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or phoenix feather, but in the case of a familial tie to the core or another strong connection, I can’t deny that the wands are powerful and true.” His mentor pointed at the wand the girl held in her hand, “May we please examine your wand?”

“Yeah, okay,” said the girl, handing it over.

Ollivander held the wand in his well-wrinkled hands. The wand was of a natural hue and possessed a straight, fine grain. Draco wracked his brain to try and determine the wood type, but nothing quite fit. At last Ollivander said, “American beech wood, I believe.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Laila.

The older wizard passed the wand to Draco, “Take a look. We don’t see much of this wood type at all as it is from a species of tree indigenous to North America. It is best suited for those that seek knowledge and have a gift for healing.”

Draco ran his fingers over the smooth wand. As he did so, he could feel the hum of the wampus cat whisker core.

“Curious. Yes, delightfully curious,” said Ollivander tapping an index finger against his chin. His rather bushy eyebrows were pulled together in thought. “I wonder if you could stand to be apart from your wand for a few days. I think the wood type may be appropriate since America is now your home and has been for some time. I propose we extract the original core and then introduce the new core from your ancestress.”

The girl shrugged, “That would be fine. It’s not like I can do magic with your trace over here. Back home, kids can do magic at home or under their guardian’s supervision. This country is so old-fashioned.”

“I think my niece is saying, in her . . . American way, that yes, that sounds like a fine proposal.”

“Do you have a length of hair with you?” asked Ollivander.

The girl’s aunt extracted an envelope from her bag and followed Ollivander over to the counter to settle up the bill.

“No offense . . . about your country,” said the girl as she waited for her aunt. “I just don’t much like coming here, but mum brings us back over winter break and again for two weeks each summer vacation. Auntie brought me here because in her mind, this shop is the best in the world for wands.”

“Why don’t you like coming here?” Draco asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

“This place didn’t really like my family much did it? We ran away to the States when I was eight and my sister was just four. We ran cause people here were going to hurt my dad and possibly the rest of us. I know auntie says its different now, but it’s hard to forget, you know?”

“I do,” agreed Draco. And he wanted to retreat away from this child, but he remembered Lavender’s words to him from the day before. You are so much more than the horrible things you tell yourself in your darkest moments. So he took a breath and said, “It is hard to forget – and I don’t think anyone would ever ask you too. But people can and do change – and we are – we are trying to do better – to be better.”

The girl looked at him, and she looked so young. He was so glad she’d escaped the horrors of the Dark Lord’s second rise – so glad that her father hadn’t been stripped of his wand or worse.

“Okay,” she said. “I believe you. Will you be the one working on my wand?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope you make it better. Magic and I – well – we don’t get along the best right now. Makes me feel weird, like I’m not like everyone else in my class. It’ll pretty cool to have a wand that works. It’ll also be nice to know that the reason I haven’t been good at magic is because of my wand and not because of something wrong with me.”

“I think you have lots of magic inside of you,” said Draco.

The girl smiled up at him, clearly pleased.

“Right then, Laila. Let’s be off,” said the girl’s aunt coming up behind her niece. “I promised to take you to that joke shop.” The girl beamed, and after waving to Draco, she exited the shop with her aunt.

That afternoon, Draco worked on carefully extracting the wampus cat whisker from Laila’s wand. Ollivander explained to him that if the core were unceremoniously yanked out, the wand wood would suffer. Instead, his mentor counseled him to treat the old core with respect and to use it to craft a new wand. After the old core was extracted, he and Ollivander poured over books of research on how to properly ready a water nymph hair. They couldn’t find anything directly on point, but concluded that it had similar properties to a Veela hair and a mermaid hair, so mapped out an experimental plan. Shortly after sundown, Draco went upstairs to prepare them some tea. He turned off the kettle when it began to whistle. He was about to start steeping the tea when he heard a voice say, “Hello.”

He turned to find Harry standing in the doorway. The other boy gazed at Draco for a moment as if taking all of him in.

“Mr. Ollivander let me in,” he said. “Found me loitering on his back doorstep. He told me to tell you that he’d have tea with you another time and that he was heading home for the night.”

Draco felt more than a bit self-conscious standing there before Harry. He’d shed his long sleeved, button down shirt long ago as he’d worked over the American wand, and he stood before the other boy barefoot and in his trousers and undershirt with his wand strapped in a holster to his right forearm. And shit. To top it all off, his Mark was showing.

“Do you know,” said Harry, “What a turn on it is seeing you wearing a wand holster?”

Draco laughed, surprised. “Bet you just shove your wand in your pocket,” he said. “Seriously, you do know that we carry these in the shop. I could set you up with one in no time.”

Harry smiled and walked up to Draco, tracing his fingers along the dragon leather straps around Draco’s arm. “Somehow I don’t think I could pull this off the same way you do. You look dangerous – in a very good way.”

“Dangerous?”

Harry wrapped a hand around Draco’s back and pulled him closer. He met Draco’s eyes.

“Dangerous,” he repeated. “Like a challenge.”

“A challenge?”

Harry leaned in and nipped at Draco’s neck. “I could never resist a challenge,” he said against Draco’s skin, the vibrations of his voice igniting a spiral of pleasure down Draco’s spine.

Then the other boy pulled back and looked at him and Draco could scarcely believe it. Here was Harry – Harry Potter – the bloody hero of the wizarding world looking at Draco like he was something to be desired - like looking at and wanting Draco was driving him mad. Merlin help him – Draco wanted him – wanted to corrupt the Saviour – wanted to defile his perfect body and soul with his own flawed, healing ones. He wanted to know what the boy tasted like – what he felt like.

Fuck, he just wanted.

He pressed Harry toward the nearest wall. The other boy hummed as Draco pushed his body close. Harry felt lean and firm against him. He pressed his mouth to Harry’s, and within a heartbeat deepened the kiss. Harry’s hands grasped his hips and the Gryffindor ground himself against Draco.

Oh – oh. Were they doing . . . that? Was that on the table?

Harry rubbed himself against Draco again, and oh sweet Salazar, Draco could feel how hard the other boy was. Unable to resist, Draco pressed against Harry with his own erection. He tangled his hands into Harry’s fantastically unruly hair. Wanting more, he pulled back and ran his hands down Harry’s chest and skimmed them over the other boy’s belt He looked up and saw Harry’s eyes widen - they were dark and focused on Draco.

And again, he wanted. He wanted everything that Harry was willing to give.

Draco’s fingers fluttered on the belt buckle again, and then he raised an eyebrow.

“Christ, yes,” Harry panted.

Well bloody hell. He wasn’t really sure what to do. He knew what he wanted, but he’d never done anything like this before. What if he was complete rubbish at it?

“Please,” said Harry, and that one word falling from the Gryffindor’s proud lips overrode any of Draco’s doubts.

He made quick work of the buckle and slid his hand below Harry’s waistband. And oh Merlin, the sound that his schoolyard nemesis made as Draco touched him was like a drug. He swore he’d remember it forever.

He stroked the hot smoothness that was Harry. Oh fuck – he’d never done this before – to another person. He hoped he was doing this right.

“Oh – Draco – yes,” stammered Harry, lending Draco confidence. He increased his speed, and Harry was pushing into Draco’s fist, and then the other boy’s hands, which had been gripping handfuls of Draco’s shirt, slid down Draco’s abdomen and were fumbling with Draco’s belt buckle. He felt his trousers loosen around his waist as the button and zip were undone, then they were pushed low on his hips. And Harry had him in his hands and – oh fuck. He couldn’t take it – couldn’t take the feel of Harry’s hand stroking him – it was too much – it was consuming – it was . . . it was magic.

“More,” he begged, “Oh fuck – more.”

“Harder,” groaned Harry, “Need you.”

His hand pumped harder and they were thrusting into each other’s fists. They were both coming undone, dissolving into nothing but feeling and want. The sounds the other boy made were everything, they spurred Draco on as much as the feel of Harry’s hand wrapped around him. And then Harry gasped – stilled for a moment – gasped again before he was coming in Draco’s hand and Draco lost it – his eyes slammed closed as his release tore through him.  They stood pressed chest to chest, foreheads resting on each other's shoulders as they panted.

And even as he stood pressed against the other boy, he felt his body start to pulse with nerves. Oh, Salazar – what the fuck had he done? How did he extricate himself from this? Would Harry be upset after letting a former Death Eater do – well – that – to him? He swallowed and slowly drew his head off of Potter’s shoulder and looked at the other boy. He did the only thing he could think of. He smirked and said, “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Fuck you, Draco,” laughed the other boy leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips.

After Potter’s lips left his Draco cleared his throat and said, “And you’re not . . . upset. We kind of just . . . well . . . had sex. You. With me. . . ”

Potter grinned, his face lazy and sated. He murmured a spell and cleaned them both before carding a hand through Draco’s hair. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He pulled his hand out of Draco’s hair and tucked himself back into his pants before doing up his trousers and belt. “I’ve got to go. I’m on duty in a bit, but – er – I liked this. This kind of having sex thing. So don’t freak out while I’m gone, yeah?” Potter leaned in and kissed him, “Cause if you’ll let me, I’d like to . . . kind of . . . try this again sometime.”

“I can’t believe you want . . . me,” said Draco.

“You can be right impossible you know.”

Draco just shrugged – he stood by his statement.

“Oh my god, you prat, of course I want you – and that’s true even though you wander around all fucking pale – looking like a consumptive from the last century. I can’t keep my eyes off you. Never could.” Harry kissed him again. “I do want you. As you are. We do have to talk - there’s . . . well . . . there are things about me you don’t know. My shift will be over this morning – early. Can I come back and see you?”

His anxiety spiked a bit, as he wondered what Harry had to say to him, but he said, “I’ll make sure you are in the wards.”

“Do,” said Harry, leaning in to kiss him again.

Notes:

I may not post weekly for a bit. The next stage of the story is plotted out, but it needs some serious attention. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 65: Shared Confidences

Harry had told Draco not to freak out. He had. And yet . . . Draco was freaking out. He’d just . . . well . . . he’d just had sex – or engaged in a sexual act – for the first time. Was it sex if you didn’t make it to a bed? Fuck – he didn’t know. This was all so new. Him having sex was new. Sex . . . with Harry . . . Potter. With Harry. His first time had been with Harry.

Merlin, it had felt good – really good. Would it happen again? Fuck, he hoped it happened again. Shit – the wards. If he wanted Harry to come back as the boy had said he would, he had to spell him into the wards.

He stopped pacing in his flat. Harry had been gone for less than a quarter of an hour and he was already in full freak out mode. He took a deep breath, pulled out his wand, and concentrated on adjusting the wards to let in one Harry James Potter, Gryffindor extraordinaire. He felt Ollivander’s magic ripple around him. His mentor had placed a great deal of trust in Draco, and that trust included allowing him control of the wards. Still, he doubted Ollivander would mind allowing the Chosen One access to the flat. At this point, everyone was mad for the Boy-Who-Lived.

Sweet Salazar, just about everyone in the wizarding world would have killed to have been in Draco’s position. That thought had him pacing again.

He needed to get out. He’d love to go flying – feel the wind on his face, but the sun had set and his broom was at his mother’s. Then he’d have to figure out where he could go to safely fly. That was all too much for him to contemplate right now, but he knew he at least needed to get outside and breathe in some fresh air. He grabbed his coat, threw on a scarf, and clattered down the stairs and through the studio. He opened the back door and drew back a step when he saw a brawny outline in the lamplight heading down the back alley.

“Draco?” called a voice.

The person drew closer and standing in the light spilling out the doorway, Draco recognized Greg. The boy came to a stop and looked him up and down.

“Were you going out?”

“I was. Were you . . . coming to see me.”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing. I can come back another time if you’re busy.”

Draco stepped outside to stand on the back stoop. “I’m not busy, I was just going for a walk. Wanted to clear my head. Would you like to come with me?”

Shy eyes met his. “I would, yeah.”

He shut the shop door behind him. “Lead the way,” he said to Greg and the larger boy set off down the side alley and onto Diagon. The other boy was taller than him, but with his longer than average legs, Draco was able to match his stride. Most of Greg’s bulk was in his torso, while most of Draco’s height was in his legs.

It felt eerily familiar to walk in silence. Back in school, it had been Draco leading the way, and Vince’s absence was keenly noticeable. They had been a trio – not that they didn’t have other friends – close friends – but while Draco had been sliding toward darkness – back when he’d thought that that is what he’d wanted, it had been Greg and Vince that were by his side.

The bulkier boy turned onto Knockturn Alley, and Draco was reminded of all the times when they’d been younger that they’d walked through the seedier part of wizarding London feeling like kings. They’d been on the upper echelons of society then, and now they were each doing their best to deserve a place in their world.

Not far down, Greg stopped before a small nondescript building.

“I’m starting here next week. Lavender wrote me a recommendation.”

Draco looked up and saw a simple sign that read, “Edevane Plumbing.” It wasn’t a catchy or unique name, but it got the point across.

“Mr. Edevane came by your mum’s house to see my work and he offered me a paid apprenticeship.”

Draco looked at his friend, and saw an eager look on his face that he hadn’t seen for a long time.

“Greg, that’s brilliant.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I do,” said Draco, breaking into a wide smile. He was beyond delighted that his friend was getting a chance to prove himself – to make something of himself.

He heard Greg clear his throat before saying, “There’s something else. I probably should have asked you first, but . . .” The boy pushed up his coat sleeve on his left arm. For a moment Draco’s eyes blurred at the sight of black ink on the other boy’s inner forearm. He blinked. It wasn’t a skull and snake – it was something far more delicate and lovely. He leaned in closer to peer at the image in the lamplight.

“Oh Merlin,” he said. “It’s hawthorn flowers.”

“I had it done the day Mr. Edevane offered me the job. Your mum – she knows lots about flowers and their meanings. Did you know that the common hawthorn flower is the flower for the month of May?”

Draco shook his head. He hadn’t known that. “Why did you get this?”

The boy pushed his sleeve back down before answering. “I wanted the Mark so bad when I was in school. I wanted to be like my dad. I wanted to be like you.”

Draco sucked in a breath at this pronouncement.

“Then after you were . . . Marked, I watched as your life . . . well . . . turned to shit. So I wanted a tattoo where the Mark would have been to remind me of what almost was – to remind me not to make bad choices. And you pulled me from the flames, Draco. I was petrified, and you pulled me up out of the fire. You could have left me – would have been easier for you if you had – but you didn’t. I never . . . thanked you.”

He waved his hand at Greg, “There’s nothing to thank me for. I . . . we both know I was a shit friend for a longtime.”

“No,” Greg argued. “You saved me that day. That – well that means something – something to me. I know your wand is a hawthorn wand and we both came through that fire together in May, so it seemed right to choose hawthorn flowers.”

He looked at the larger boy. Greg met his eyes for a moment, and then looked away – embarrassed or shy. Draco hadn’t seen Greg’s sentimental side before, and he was caught off guard. But he couldn’t leave the other boy adrift – he had to say something.

“I think the tattoo is . . . well it’s amazing, Greg.”

Grey grinned. “Pansy went with me. I can survive a War, but I had her there holding my other hand.”

Draco waved a hand at the other Slytherin and at the building, “Thank you for sharing all this with me. I’m so . . . I’m so happy for you.”

Greg scuffed his foot on the cobblestone street. “Mr. Edevane is taking me on for a trial period. If I do well for him for three months, he says I can live in the flat above the office. Living with your mum has been . . . well, it’s been the best thing that’s happened to me since . . . after. It wasn’t good living with my mum. She was bitter and wouldn’t even try to change. Mrs. Malfoy, she’s not like that.”

“But you still want a place of your own,” said Draco, fully understanding his friend.

“Yeah, I do. Something that I earned for myself – not because of who my father and mother were or who their friends were – something that is just mine.”

“I think this deserves a pint to celebrate,” said Draco. “Lavender and Theo managed to get me into the Haughty Hippogriff. Want to come? My treat.”

Greg looked at him with a quizzical expression on his face. “You went there? After all the moaning and groaning you made me listen to in third year?”

“Piss off,” he said, as he led his friend to the pub.

 

He awoke to the feel of a body sliding into bed behind him, lips brushed his shoulder. “It’s just me,” said a voice he knew well.

He rolled over, and in the pale light of early morning, his eyes traced over Harry’s face. “Dreaming,” he mumbled.

“Not a dream,” said the other boy running his hands down Draco’s bare arms.

“When you said early . . . I didn’t know you meant this,” he waved his hand around the dusky room, “Early. What time is it anyway?”

“A little after four.”

“Merlin, what if I’d been in bed with someone?”

The other boy’s hand stills on his arm.

“No – fuck – that’s not what I meant . . . I mean . . . sometimes Lavender stays over. She knows about me . . . but I think she’d have been rather shocked to find the Chosen One crawling into bed with us.”

Harry chuckles and his hand starts skimming across Draco again.

Draco draws closer to Harry and nuzzles his face against the other boy’s and feels Harry’s stubble scrape against him. The Gryffindor’s lips find his, and this time they move against him gently – oh so very gently. Harry is kissing him like he is precious – like he would break if Harry wasn’t careful. The lips stop moving against his and started to trail along his cheekbone, a hand cupped his face.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

And Draco is relieved that he’d worn a t-shirt when he’d climbed into bed the night before – he wasn’t ready for Harry to see his scars. He wasn’t ready for that – wasn’t ready for the look of guilt and pity.

Harry’s lips pulled away from his skin and the other boy climbed out of bed. Draco started to protest, but then he saw Harry pushing down his jeans and heard the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor. Harry pushed the covers away from Draco and swung himself over him, straddling Draco’s thighs. Streaks of green light from Theo’s lamp danced against Harry’s body, and Draco was entranced by how lovely the boy looked. Then the handsome Gryffindor wriggled out of his jumper and sat atop Draco in only a thin t-shirt and boxers, then he leaned back down and pressed his mouth to Draco’s neck - and oh – fuck - the nerves in his neck were alight, a path of heat and want trailed down his body directly to his groin.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry whispered as pressed himself against Draco’s body. Harry planted a hand above each of Draco’s shoulders and pressed a thigh between Draco’s legs.

Draco’s hips seemed to arch of their own accord and he rubbed himself against Harry. His hands ran up Harry’s arms and over his muscular shoulders. He marveled at the feel of the other boy’s body beneath his hands. Being an Auror had toned the other boy, given him lean, wiry muscle. Harry would never be a big man, but there was more of him now than when he’d been the gaunt looking boy of the Battle. Draco dragged his fingers down and planted his palms against Harry’s chest and ground his hips again.

“Christ, yes,” Harry sighed, and Draco felt the hard length of Harry rubbing against his hip.

And Draco was awash in feelings as he strove to meet the other boy thrust for thrust. Even with their clothes on, there was something unbelievably intimate about feeling the entire length and breadth of Harry pressing into him.

“Please,” Draco said as threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair and guided the other boy’s head down to him so that he could claim his lips.

“You feel so good,” Harry murmured.

“Please,” Draco repeated, “Don’t stop.” He lifted the leg that was not trapped under Harry and wrapped it around the other boy’s waist.

“Oh god,” said the Gryffindor, before he pulled away.

“I’m sor-” He started to say before Harry was repositioning himself between Draco’s thighs and pulling both of Draco’s legs around him. He pressed his hips down and Draco hissed in pleasure. Harry was hard – and feeling that hardness slide against his own cock with only thin fabric in-between was incredible.

“That . . . yes,” he murmured as he moved with Harry, rubbing their lengths together.

“So good. Feels so good.”

“Yes,” he agreed, as he lifted his hips thrust for thrust and chased the thrill of pleasure, moving against Harry. But he wanted to – needed to – give as well as take. So much had been taken from Harry – he’d been asked to give too much – and Draco wanted to give and give and give. He tightened his grip on the dark-haired boy and rocked and rocked and rocked. He heard Harry sigh and gasp with pleasure, all the while noises were escaping his own mouth.

“God . . . the sounds you make,” Harry said.

And Draco let himself go – let himself go for Harry.

“Oh Christ . . . Christ, Draco . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“Come,” Draco begged, “Come, Harry.” He wanted to see the boy come undone.

The other boy gasped, and then said his name – said it again and again like Draco’s name was an incantation. Harry’s hips stilled and his eyes closed and Draco felt the warmth of the other boy’s release through his boxers, and fuck, the coil of his own desire finally overcame him.

“Harry –” he cried as he came pushing up against the other boy.

“Christ,” Harry panted above him. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting that.” He leaned down and kissed Draco before rolling off of him to his side. Draco turned to face the dark-haired boy. As the boy’s head snuggled into the pillow he grimaced and sat up a bit, “I didn’t even get my glasses off,” he said before taking them off to put on a bedside table.

Draco wriggled a bit – the mess in his pants was cooling. He waved his head and muttered a cleaning charm and then repeated it for Harry.

“Thanks,” said the other boy.

“How’d you find my room?”

“I’m an Auror.”

He arched a brow, “Right . . .”

“I checked the rooms,” he said. “And I knew you were in this one as soon as I cracked the door and heard you snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Draco said.

“Right. And dragons don’t breathe fire.”

The other boy ran a hand through Draco’s hair, and Draco couldn’t maintain his offended charade as Harry’s fingers massaged scalp. He leaned into the touch.

“Your hair is so soft,” murmured Harry. His fingers were beginning to still, and his eyes were closing. Draco knew the young Auror had to be tired after his lengthy nighttime shift. “Can I stay?”

Draco pulled away for a moment to draw the covers up over them. “Like you even had to ask you foolish Gryffindor.”

“Mhmm,” the other boy responded just before he fell asleep.

 

He awoke to find that day had arrived. Harry was still asleep beside him. He couldn’t believe that this was his life now – that he was waking up next to Harry Potter. He reached out a hand and brushed Harry’s fringe. The other boy flinched and the next thing Draco knew, his wrist was held firmly in Harry’s grip while unfocused green eyes stared up at him.

Draco froze.

Harry blinked his eyes and released Draco. “Oh god, I’m sorry,” said the Boy-Who-Lived as he scooted away from Draco. “I . . . I . . . didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m fine, Harry. Everything’s fine.”

He watched as Harry closed his eyes while he took a few deep breathes. When he was done, he edged a bit further from Draco. Draco’s heart sank.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

Harry shook his head, “It wasn’t you. I . . . I was part of a team that arrested . . . someone last night. I think the case made me jumpy. And I also . . . don’t sleep well . . . a lot.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted you to know about . . . me.”

He propped himself up on one arm and looked at the other boy’s face. “Alright.”

“I just . . . want you to know what I’m like. I don’t think you know how . . . how different I am from when we were at Hogwarts.”

Draco nodded, trying to reassure the other boy, “I’m listening.”

“I . . . have nightmares. And there are days that I have to convince myself to get out of bed. But it’s more than just that – I’m sure most of us who survived the War have symptoms their dealing with. But I . . . I just feel wrong . . . inside. It’s like something deep in my core is . . . fractured. I’ve been to healers – and Hermione has done epic amounts of research, but no one knows what’s wrong. Some of the healers think I’ve gone mad because they can’t make sense of what I’m trying to tell them.” Harry paused for a moment to rake his hand through his hair. “But I know what I feel like, and every day, I feel a little more run down.”

“I think you should trust yourself and how you feel, Harry.”

“That’s what Ron and Hermione say,” said the Gryffindor with a slight smile. “Who’d have thought we’d ever see the day where you agree with them.”

Draco made a disgruntle sounding noise.

“So I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m me . . . but I’m not. I’m different from who I was before, and I just don’t want you thinking I’m . . . somebody I’m not.”

He raised himself up on his hands and knees and crawled up over Harry’s lap. He looked down into those brilliant eyes and said, “I want you . . . as you are.”

Harry cupped Draco’s face with his hands, “But I . . . you need to know what you’re getting. I’m . . . not well. It’s . . . it’s more serious than I really want to admit, but I . . . I needed to tell you.”

He sat back, resting himself on the other boy’s lap. He didn’t like to think of Harry in pain – Harry had been through quite enough already. “And even your golden girl – a Ravenclaw in Gryffindor clothing if I ever met one – hasn’t been able to figure you out?”

He watched as the dark-haired boy started to shake his head, but then stopped. “She thinks it might be because of the Hallows.”

“The Hallows?”

“You know I had the Elder Wand,” said Harry. “But I . . . I also had the Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. Possessing all three – I think they are what allowed me to . . . come back . . . after . . .”

He felt his eyes widen. He knew better than to argue that the Hallows were a children’s faery story. He’d been raised in the wizarding world his whole life, and he knew that magic blurred the line between myth and reality.

“Of course you had all three of the bloody Hallows,” Draco groaned. “Merlin, there is nothing even remotely normal about you, is there? Not least of which is your willingness to share a bed with your former nemesis.”

The other boy frowned for a moment, “I think nemesis is rather a strong word. You weren’t even remotely scary.”

Draco pinched the boy beneath him, “Take it back. I was fucking frightening. Why else did the Ministry lock me away for so long?” He pinched Harry again.

The Gryffindor yelped before grabbing Draco by the biceps and flipping them so that Harry was positioned on top.

“Don’t forget who I am,” said Harry, his voice low, but his tone teasing.

Draco lifted his chin. “Remind me,” he challenged.

Something shifted on Harry’s face, and the lightness was gone. “I’m an Auror,” said the other boy.

Draco felt like they weren’t having the same conversation. “I know.”

“I . . . I have to disclose . . . that I’m . . . in a . . . that I’m with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“As a member of magical law enforcement, I have a duty to tell my superior if I’m . . .”

Draco put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushed the other boy away from him so that he could sit up. He felt better not being pinned beneath the Gryffindor during what seemed to be the beginnings of a rather serious conversation.

“You have to tell the Head Auror that you’re handsy with a Death Eater?”

“Christ, Draco, don’t put it like that.”

“Well it’s true,” he said, giving Harry a hard look.

“You know I don’t think of you like that – as a Death Eater.”

He shrugged one shoulder, “That’s what the rest of the world sees.”

“Don’t do that,” said the other boy. “Don’t go all hard and icy on me. I have to tell Robards that we are in a relationship because you are on a deferred sentence. You still have to report to magical law enforcement as part of your conditions. I have to tell Robards so that I’m separated from your case because it would be a conflict of interest.”

“You can’t tell him,” said Draco, feeling his chest tighten.

“Draco…”

“No.”

“And I . . . I don’t want to hide you. I’d like to tell my friends about . . . you.”

He ran a hand over his face. Bloody hell, this was worse than he thought. “Everyone will think I’ve imperiused you – I mean, I have a track record of it.”

“No offence, but Voldemort couldn’t hold me under an imperius curse, so I doubt you could. I also doubt you’d really want to curse me like that, and it wouldn’t work if you didn’t mean it.”

“You don’t understand. I’m me. A fucking Malfoy who took the Mark. I’ll be suspected of cursing you or dosing you with a love potion or something else just as nefarious.”

“Aren’t you tired of caring what everyone thinks?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not. I’m trying to rebuild a life – to have a better reputation than the one I earned for myself in school. I . . . I can’t . . .”

Harry leaned back against the headboard, a blank look on his face. “You want this,” he waved a hand between them, “to be a secret.”

“At least for now.” He watched as his Chosen One’s face fell. Merlin, he didn’t want to hurt Harry, but this idea of . . . of telling Harry’s Gryffindor friends was too much. He was sure that Weasley and Granger would be less than impressed. Lavender and Theo knew . . . some, but they knew Draco – loved him – and they knew he hadn’t forced Harry into anything. The other members of the Golden Trio were probably not going to be accepting of whatever it was that was going on between himself and their Golden Boy. “Just . . . give me time. Please.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. But I do need to disclose this to my superior.”

“Since when did you start being so by the book? You didn’t follow rules in school. Why are you determined to start now?”

“Because I don’t want to see you get thrown into Azkaban because of me,” snapped the dark-haired boy, his eyes intent upon Draco. “If I don’t disclose . . . this . . . and it comes out later, than it could be used against you – twisted to say that I’m the reason why you’ve succeeded. I don’t want that to be used as a reason to revoke your deferred sentence.”

His ears started to buzz. This was such a mess. Not long ago they had been kissing. He’d much preferred the kissing to this wretched conversation.

“Look,” he heard Harry say. “I only have to tell Robards. No one else at my work needs to know. And he won’t tell a soul.”

“Yes, I have a lot of faith in the magical law enforcement department – surely they had nothing to do with my arrest photo being leaked to the press.”

“I’ll tell Robards that you are my friend. That I’ve started spending time with you. That should be enough. He doesn’t need to know that . . . we’re . . .”

“We’re what?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The other boy looked at him, “That we’re more . . . more than friends. That we’re . . . together.”

“Together,” he repeated, feeling dazed.

“Er . . . I mean we are, aren’t we?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” said the Gryffindor, without a moment of hesitation.

Draco’s hand found Harry’s. “Well far be it from me to contradict the Saviour.”

“Prat,” said Harry as he leaned in to claim Draco’s lips.

Chapter 66: The Sentence

Days passed, and Draco committed himself to his craft. The wand with the core of water nymph hair was ready before the American student crossed the Atlantic, and other wands he crafted started to appear on the shop’s shelves. He was stupidly proud the day one of his wands matched with a wizard for the first time and was purchased. He celebrated that night on his rooftop with Harry, giggling as they sipped from cans of Muggle beer Harry had brought. They were too drunk on happiness to focus properly on warming charms, so they’d retreated from the cold to Draco’s bed and fallen asleep wrapped around each other after they’d brought each other to orgasm with their hands.

The morning after, Draco awoke in his t-shirt and pants with the Saviour’s face pressed up against his side. As he stretched, he felt Harry stir, and he watched mesmerized as the other boy’s lids blinked open and those startlingly green eyes focused on him.

“God, you look lovely even first thing in the morning,” said the Gryffindor in his bed. Fingers started to slide down his side and stopped at his hip before creeping up under the hem of his shirt. Draco froze. Harry’s fingers started to glide up the skin of his stomach. Draco clapped a hand over the other boy’s, stilling his progress.

Harry looked at him, “Draco?”

Draco just shook his head. He wasn’t ready for Harry to see him – to see the web of silvery scars that covered him. He took a deep breath to calm himself and then leaned in to kiss Harry, trying to distract them both from the sting of his self-consciousness. Harry let himself get lost in the kiss, and his hands relocated to tangle in Draco’s hair, pulling him closer.

Eventually, Draco groaned and pulled away. “Oh Salazar – I actually have to work today. I can’t get ensnared by you, Potter. Besides, I think you exhausted me last night, I’ll be useless to Ollivander today.”

“I’m full of energy,” said Harry looking smug. “Must be because I’m younger than you. Your advanced age is surely to blame.”

“I’m less than two months older than you!”

“Yes, but they are very important months.”

“Fuck you,” Draco laughed pushing at Harry’s chest.

The Boy-Who-Lived grinned back at him before bounding out of bed. Draco found watching Harry pull his jeans up and fasten them around his narrow hips to be extremely distracting.

“I’m on duty tonight,” he said shrugging on a coat. “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Draco stretched again, already missing the warmth of Harry’s body next to him. “I think I could clear my robust social schedule for you tomorrow.”

Harry walked back to the bed and leaned over to kiss Draco again. When he pulled away he said, “Maybe tomorrow we could go to my place.”

His heart leapt thinking about seeing Harry’s home – seeing it properly. “I’d like that.”

The Gryffindor kissed him again before departing. Draco lay back in bed and burrowed into the fluffy covers. He nuzzled his face into the pillow Harry had slept on – basking in the smell of the other boy.

Once he was dressed and had breakfasted, he made his way down to the shop. February was a slow month for sales, so he and Ollivander tended to spend more time in the studio crafting wands than waiting on customers. Recently, the older man had begun taking him to forests to show him where different types of wand wood were harvested. While winter wasn’t the most propitious time to harvest wood for wand craft, Draco was learning the groves that the Ollivanders had been turning to for generations.

Only two customers came to the shop before lunch, and after lunch Draco sat back at his work bench and continued carving on a length of apple wood. Curls of wood littered the floor around him, and he was pleased with how the wand was turning out. He removed his dragonhide gloves and ran his fingers over the wand, checking the smoothness of the surface. His finger caught on a rough section, and he bent to file it away.

There was a loud knocking on the back door. He looked up, a frown on his face. No one usually called during work hours, but whoever was outside started to bang on the door. He stood and brushed away the bits of wood that clung to apron.

“One moment,” he called, before giving himself one final brush.

The banging increased. Who the fuck was so bloody impatient they felt the need to almost beat the door down?

He pulled his wand out, just in case, and opened the door. He lowered his wand when he saw Blaise standing in front of him. He didn’t even get out a greeting before Blaise was crowding him back into the shop and firmly closing the door behind them.

“What the . . .” he started.

“We need to get you away from here.”

“Excuse me?”

“A special edition of the Prophet will be out soon – my mother knows people, and she told me. We need to make sure you aren’t anywhere people will expect to find you.”

He felt his heart rate start to quicken. “Blaise, what’s going on?”

Draco turned when he heard the door to the shop open. Ollivander stepped into the studio, his face drawn. “I just got an urgent firecall in the shop from your family’s attorney, Mr. Meredith. A verdict was delivered in your father’s case, and he was sentenced today.”

“Oh,” said Draco, unsure how he was supposed to react. “I . . . didn’t think that was happening today.”

“It wasn’t expected. He pleaded guilty in return for a sentence that was . . . light,” said Blaise. “All hell has broken loose at the Ministry. People are angry.”

He couldn’t help but wonder how light was light. Merlin, knowing his father he’d probably come out of all this with a lesser sentence than Draco.

“Mr. Meredith was worried some . . . people may take their displeasure out on you,” said his mentor, “Since they won’t be able to get to your father.”

“What?” he asked, feeling quite stupid. He’d had next to nothing to do with his father for almost two years.

“You can come with me to my place,” said Blaise. “You shouldn’t go to your mother’s. I doubt many people know where she lives, but just in case, that’s exactly where they’d expect you to go.”

“But . . . I have work,” he said. And he did. He had his work and a life here. He didn’t want to be uprooted again – didn’t want to feel like his home was no longer safe and being invaded. He remembered that feeling all too well and didn’t want to repeat it.

“It won’t be for long,” assured Ollivander. “Just for a day or two until things quiet down. And I’m sure you’ll have plenty to discuss with Mr. Meredith and your mother regarding the release of the Malfoy estate.”

The release of the Malfoy estate? What? He stared at the older wandmaker. The man had been through so much in the War and Draco didn’t want his shop to be at risk.

“I know the wards here are strong,” said Ollivander, as if he knew what Draco was thinking. “This shop will be fine. But people who are angry and hurting can be cruel. You don’t deserve to be anywhere near that.” He walked up to Draco and placed a hand on his shoulder, “You’ve been an excellent apprentice and companion for this eccentric old Ravenclaw. You go take care of the business you need to settle, and then you get back here where you belong.”

Blaise clapped a hand on his shoulder, “We are going to need to take the floo – you could be seen on the way to an apparition point.”

The floo. Of course. Because why shouldn’t his day get any worse?

Blaise strode out of the studio toward the hearth in the shop. He grabbed a fistful of floo powder and held out a hand for Draco. With a sigh, Draco clasped the proffered hand and was yanked into the hearth.

“Keep your eyes closed until I tell you. We are going to make a few stops in case anyone tries to follow.”

He closed his eyes. Blaise called out, “St. Mungo’s.” The floo fire roared. As soon as it ceased, Blaise directed them to his own mother’s house, then to Theo’s mother’s house, and finally to his own townhouse. The sound of the flames grated at Draco’s nerves with each destination.

“Open your eyes,” he heard Blaise say.

“St. Mungo’s? Really? I thought you were trying to keep a low profile.”

His friend shrugged, “Everyone who is well and able-bodied is probably at the Ministry. And the floos at the hospital are so heavily used it would be difficult for anyone to follow us unless they were expecting to see your distinctive hair color flash in the floo for the three seconds we were there.”

Draco was ushered out of the floo. Blaise cast a charm to rid them of the rather copious amounts of soot they had picked up before he flung himself down on a sofa.

“Need a minute – adrenaline is sky high. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came to get you. Mother sent me a patronus while I was out and I had to apparate to Diagon Alley to get to you. I was in a Muggle music shop at the time her patronus came barreling in. Thank fuck it was just me and the cashier at the time. Still, I had to confound him, and now he thinks the weed he’d smoked earlier was laced with something. Poor bugger will probably quit the stuff now.”

Draco walked to stand in front of his friend. “Blaise, what the fuck happened at the Wizengamot?”

His friend’s expression grew hard. “The Ministry cut a deal with your father. I don’t know why exactly, the Ministry said some rubbish about how your father had turned over necessary evidence and agreed to be a witness at future Death Eater trials. I’m guessing there is more to it than that, but you’ll have to talk to Meredith to find out. Your father pleaded guilty to lesser charges in return for a twelve year prison sentence, six years of which will be suspended and your father will be on probation.”

Draco was stunned. His father had come out the other end with a lighter sentence than his own. Holy fuck.

“So he has to serve six years?”

Blaise shook his head, “No. He’s being given credit for time served. He’ll be out in a little over four years.”

“Mother will be pleased,” he mumbled, still incredulous at this turn of events.

“There’s more.”

“What? The corrupt Ministry gave my father a wildly reduced sentence, what more can there be?”

“Your father agreed to pay a hefty fine to help compensate victims of the War. Another one of the conditions your father agreed to is that he would relinquish his claim on the Malfoy estate. Everything is settled on you and your heirs.” Blaise took a deep breath and said, “You are in charge of the entire estate – what is left after the fines are paid. The Manor and all the properties are being released . . . to you.”

He sat down hard on the couch opposite Blaise. What had his father done? As a child he’d known that he’d one day be responsible for the Malfoy estate, but he’d thought that life had been lost – he’d thought he could be . . . well . . . free. And here Lucius had tied him to a life Draco no longer wanted.

“You’ve told him.”  He looked up and saw that Theo and Lavender had entered a room. A bag was slung across Theo’s shoulder.

“Clearly,” said Blaise sweeping a hand at Draco. “He looks like he’s been struck in the head by a bludger.”

The sofa cushion dipped as Lavender sat down beside him. She reached out and took one of his hands in hers. “Theo and I went by your flat and collected a few things for you. And your mother has owled, as have Pansy, Gregory, and . . . him.”

“Who’s him?” asked Blaise.

Draco clutched at Lavender’s hand and met her light brown eyes. “I don’t want it,” he breathed.

“I know, my dragon, but I don’t think you have a choice,” she said, freeing one hand to stroke his hair.

“Why would he think I’d want it? Why the fuck would I want any of it – especially the Manor – he – the Dark Lord - lived there. He polluted it. He killed people – tortured me – tortured my mother – tortured Ollivander in that house. And he allowed others to be tortured. I’ll never forget Granger’s screams. . .”

“You don’t have to go there if you don’t want to,” said Theo. “I can help you manage things if you need.”

Draco shook his head, “It’s not possible. The Manor will only answer to those of the blood. I doubt the Ministry even found most of its magical artefacts – it would have needed my father’s consent before the house disclosed those.”

“Arse-hat wealthy purebloods,” Lavendered muttered beside him.

“Who is ‘him’?” Blaise interjected.

Draco saw his Gryffindor protectress shoot one of his oldest friends a look that would have curdled milk. For his part, Blaise looked only mildly phased – he’d been raised by an incredibly intelligent and independent woman after all.

“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we have to,” Theo said, his tone consoling. “Lots of old pureblood estates are shut up and being left to rot. We'll just add the Manor to the list.”

Draco shuddered. “I now own a some of those old estates.” When confronted with the questioning looks of his friends he said, “With the Lestranges returned to prison to serve out their life sentences and Rodulphus’ beloved bride, my dear aunt Bellatrix, dead and gone, the control of their estates reverted to the Malfoy line. Other pureblood families that married with Malfoys over the years will also have had estates that reverted to my family when the original owners perished in the War.” He took a deep breath, to try and relax his tense muscles. “So now I am the proud owner of many a mouldering manor house. Well – except for the Black mansion. Harry got ahold of that didn’t he? My father’s face was priceless when he discovered that 12 Grimmauld Place was willed to Dumbledore’s golden boy.”

“Harry?” said Blaise, “Since when do you call Potter by his first name?”

“Well fuck the Lestranges and your father,” said Lavender. “Do something good with the quite valuable rubbish that they’ve passed on to you. Show them, Draco. Show them that you are a better man than they ever could have imagined.”

He leaned back into the sofa, and felt some of the tension in his body ease at Lavender’s words. She was right. He could do it. He could do something good with the estates that were apparently now all under his control. He could pillage them and sell off the contents to the highest bidders if he wanted and then he could take all the money and donate it to causes that would outrage his father and all the rest of the pureblood supremist bastards.

“Oh. Oh…” Said Blaise, interrupting Draco’s musings. The Slytherin turned his face toward his roommate. “Harry is ‘him’. I think, Theo, that you owe me a great sum of money as I’ll be collecting on our bets.”

Lavender shot a hex at the elegant Slytherin and wiped the smug look off his face. “This is not the time and place, Blaise,” she said.

Draco sighed and sank deeper into the couch. It was oddly nice to know that some things never changed.

 

He rose late the next morning. He’d stayed up rather late with his friends drinking and thinking of all the ways he could use his assets to drive his father insane. He’d also ignored another owl from Harry and endured merciless teasing from Blaise.

He left a still sleeping Lavender in his bed and wandered out of the guest room in search of breakfast and found Theo sipping a cup of tea while reading a newspaper.

“Salazar, what’s The Prophet saying about the travesty of justice involving my father?”

Theo jumped, splashing some of his tea on the paper. He appeared to try and recover by folding the paper up in an unhurried way.

“Nothing in here is fit to print. You know that, Draco.”

Draco held out his hand, “Give it here.”

His friend shook his head, “Don’t bother get yourself in a temper reading this nonsense.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Are you unwilling to share just because Lavender chose to spend the night cuddling me instead of you? You know that was a pity cuddle. Now, where are the manners you were raised with? Let me see the paper. I can handle whatever they have to say about my father – hell, I’ve probably thought worse about him myself.”

When Theo made no move to pass him the newspaper, Draco uttered a wandless Accio and snatched it as it flew toward him.

“You don’t want to see this,” said Theo jumping out of his chair and making a grab at the paper. Draco blocked his friend and held the paper behind his back, concerned that Theo would cast a wandless Incendio at his copy of The Prophet.

“I’ll see it soon enough. And I might as well find out what Wizarding Britain thinks of my illustrious family.”

“It’s not just . . . Draco. Don’t.”

Draco stared at his friend. What could be in the paper worse than articles and editorials denouncing his father and his family? He had to know.

He turned his back to Theo and unrolled the paper. “Lucius Malfoy Gifted Light Sentence by Ministry: The Public Cries Corruption.” This headline and its accompanying article, however, barely merited his time – it was nothing less than what he’d expected. The top corner is what grabbed his attention, declaring, “The Saviour and the Quidditch Star: War Heroes Find Love, Exclusive Photos on Page Four.”

He turned the pages, ripping the first page a bit in his haste. Splashed across pages four and five were several photos of Harry and Ginevra Weasley. They were in Hogsmeade. He recognized the wizarding village from all the trips he’d taken there. In one picture they strolled through the cobblestone streets, while in another they sat together at a table in “The Three Broomsticks.” Other photos depicted an afternoon spent together poking through various shops. They looked so at ease with each. A caption below the last photo asked, “Are wedding bells in the couple’s future?”

He felt frozen with the paper in his hands. The Prophet would never portray himself and Harry in such a rosy light. He’d never be embraced by their society. He studied the girl Weasley’s face. He wanted to hate her – wanted to hate her for looking so right for the Boy-Who-Lived, but he couldn’t. Harry looked happy to be in her company. No wonder the newspaper was speculating about their future, they looked like the perfect fairytale romance - just what the public wanted to help soothe the wounds of the War. They wanted their prince to end up with a princess, not with a villain, or at the very best an anti-hero. Someone like Ginevra Weasley deserved to be at Harry’s side, not someone like him.

“Draco?” asked Theo.

He looked up from the paper.

“You shouldn’t believe what the The Prophet prints,” said his friend. “Nothing in the photos points to anything besides friendship.”

Theo wasn’t wrong, but it was hard to ignore the rightness of the Gryffindor pair. He carefully folded the paper and handed it back to his friend.

“Thank you, to you and Blaise for your hospitality,” said Draco. “But I have a meeting with Meredith that I shouldn’t delay.”

“Draco –”

“I can’t hide here forever,” he said. “I’m going to have the face all the people who think my father and I should have been sent to rot in Azkaban for life. Staying here in my pajamas isn’t going to change how they feel.” He lifted his chin, “Only my actions are going to change anything. I’m going to take control of the Malfoy estate, and I’m going to use its tainted assets for good. I’m going to keep studying and working with Ollivander because I like it and because I’m bloody good at it, and I’m going to be the best wandmaker this isle has ever seen.”

“And Potter?”

He felt his heart clench. Harry didn’t belong with him. He’d known it all along. The public could think what they wanted of Draco – he’d survive – but he wouldn’t drag Harry down with him, not after he’d already lost so much.

“What about him?” he answered, proud that his voice remained steady.

“Fuck, when are you going stop playing the martyr?”

“I believe what I’ll be doing is sparing the martyr in this situation. Thank you again,” he said, and then he exited the room to make himself presentable for Meredith.

 

Hours later, he walked through the darkening street of Diagon Alley away from his attorney’s office. After going over a mountain of paperwork with Meredith, the Malfoy inheritance – for better or for worse – had transferred to him. As he’d signed each piece of paper with official green ink he’d felt the weight of the magnitude of being the master of the Malfoy estate descend upon him.

Meredith had encouraged him to go to his mother’s or to a friend’s, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t listen to the other man’s advice. He didn’t want company. He wanted to lose himself. He’d briefly considered going to a shady bar in Knockturn called “The Snake’s Den” he'd alwasy curiously eyed as a child, but he didn’t really fancy drinking himself into oblivion. So, he let himself into the wand shop by way of the back door.  He could immediately feel that the wards had been strengthened.  He shrugged out of his coat and scanned the studio. The wand he’d been working on was still clamped in a vice, ready to receive its magical core. It was going to be a lovely little wand – fit for a Hufflepuff – made of apple wood with a unicorn hair tail.

He walked past that project and rifled around amongst the specimens of wood until he pulled out a length of elm whose interlocking grains revealed themselves in unique waves and swirls.

His father, and many purebloods, had believed that only a pureblooded wizard could produce magic with an elm wand. This was, of course, complete bollocks. The wand that the Dark Lord had destroyed in his quest to destroy Harry Potter had been his father’s elm with a dragon heartstring core. His father had been wandless since that day. In four years, Lucius would need a wand. He put the elm wood back. He wasn’t going to make a wand for the man his father had been – no – he was going to make a wand for the man he hoped his father would be by the time he was released from Azkaban.

He rifled through the available woods, and dismissed some as being too easily paired with Lucius’ pureblood ideology, while others, like pear, went too far the other way. He needed to be realistic about the type of man his father could be, and he wouldn’t allow himself to take flights of fancy that his father would ever be reformed and redeemed. At last he settled on pine – Scottish pine – the only variety of pine native to the United Kingdom. Pine chooses as its master someone who is independent, seemingly mysterious and often a loner, and worked best when used creatively and adapted well to new spells and methods.  After his very public disgrace, Lucius would definitely be a loner.

He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his tie free. He walked to the lathe and mounted the length of wood. He set the lathe spinning with a wandless, nonverbal spell. He set to work holding a chisel against the turning wood, and long spirals of pine curled to the floor. When he was satisfied with the basic form, he stopped the lathe and settled on a work stool, covered his lap with a piece of dragon hide, and donned a thumb guard. He turned the piece of wood in his hands and studied the grain before selecting his favorite carving knife and started drawing the blade toward his thumb. As small flakes of wood came away, he reminded himself not to be greedy, but to make precise strokes. Even though he was angry at his father, he wouldn’t let that impact his craft.

He knew he was unforgiving of the person his father was and the person he’d tried to groom Draco into being. But in a twisted way, his father had always loved him.  He remembered the small smile on his father's lips the first tame Draco had flown a real broom, or the praise he'd received when Draco had behaved in a way that befit the Malfoy heir at parties and events he'd been taken to. 

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the distinctive sound of an owl scratching at the door. He set down the wand and walked to the studio window. A blast of cold hit him as he let the owl in. He took the note hanging above its talons and shooed the bird out before closing the window. The owl yelped and snapped its beak from the other side of the glass.

“I don’t have any treats in here,” said Draco waving his hand. He wasn’t in the mood the traipse into the shop or up to his flat to find anything for the unwanted messenger. Couldn’t people just leave him the fuck alone? “Away.” The owl snapped its beak again before flying off.

He stared down at the letter. It didn’t have a seal. Most of his mail went to Meredith – the firm sorted out the hate mail and only forwarded along legitimate items. Only a few people were allowed to access him through the wards at Ollivander’s.

He opened the letter. It was from Harry. It was short and to the point. “Draco, where are you? Are you okay? Let me know, Harry.”

He folded the letter back up and set it down. He should answer Harry, but not now. Now, he had work to do.

Notes:

I took a longer hiatus than expected. I had some health issues start two months ago. They aren't serious, but I don't feel like myself and writing has sadly taken a back burner. I'm working my way through it all and hope that I'll be able to get back to the things I love.

Chapter 67: Mine

“He’s written again,” he said.

“Of course he has. What does that make now? Four owls?” said Lavender bustling around in his kitchen to set the kettle on. He’d worked far into the night on his father's wand and then spent a relatively sleepless night in his flat.  The pine and phoenix feather wand he’d crafted his lay buried in the bottom of his trunk. Lavender had allowed him a day of solitude before coming round in the evening to "figuratively, and possibly literally, kick his arse".

“So what are you going to do about it?” she asked.

“Nothing. There is nothing I can offer him.”

“That’s a load of shit. And you know he’s not going to let you go without a fight.”

“Gryffindors,” he mumbled.

Lavender stood on tiptoe as she started opening cupboard doors to peer in. “Where do you keep your poncy tea cups?”

“Excuse me?”

She turned to look at him, “You are a fantastically loaded pureblood aren’t you? I’m surprised you can drink tea out of anything as pedestrian as a mug without combusting.”

“Lavender -”

She held up a hand, “If we are going to have a heart to heart where you tell me how you aren’t good enough for Harry and I adamantly disagree with you, then it best damn well happen over fine china. I’m not going to waste an hour of my time convincing you that you are a massive idiot for anything less than a fine tea service.”

“You think I’m a massive idiot?”

She turned back to the her exploration of the cabinet. “Completely.” She sighed, “I’m pants at transfiguring delicate things, you best bloody well have a tea set in this flat.” She opened up another cupboard door, groaned, drew out her wand, and said, “Screw it. Accio tea service!”

A teapot adorned with yellow, blue, and pale pink flowers whizzed out from the top of a cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen followed by paper thin teacups and saucers. Lavender clucked, and a moment later a creamer and sugar bowl appeared. She looked down at the set and smiled, “Lovely.”

As if on cue, the tea kettle started to whistle. She turned off the hob.

“So Draco, dearest of my pain in the arse friends, your options are to sit and listen to me wax on about how you are a complete twat for ghosting Harry Potter while I make you drink tea from a teacup from your grandmother’s generation –”

“My grandmother never would have owned a chintzy set like that.”

“Or, Draco,” she said, loudly to reassert control of the conversation, “You can go and speak with him.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Lavender was being full on Gryffindor – confronting the situation head on. Draco . . . well . . . he wasn’t like that. He knew he’d been avoiding Harry – but . . . well fuck, it was just hard. He wanted Harry – had wanted him for probably fucking ever. But what was the point? They were never meant to be. He knew he was an inherently selfish person – with his upbringing that had pretty much been inevitable – but as much as he wanted to keep Harry he didn’t think he’d get to. The world just didn’t work that way.

“Draco?” said Lavender, in a much softer tone.

“I know,” he said. “I know I have to go talk to him. But Lavender, I don’t get to have him. No, no. I know what you’re going to say. You are a good friend – the best of friends – and I know you think I’m lovely and some other rot, but the public just wouldn’t stand for their hero – for their Saviour – to wind up with me.”

She glared at him. It took effort not to cower.

“I don’t think you’re lovely. I think you are Draco fucking Malfoy who works to get what he wants even when he has to fight dirty. For Merlin’s sake, you are a bloody Slytherin. Don’t roll over and take what’s left of the pickings – seize what you want.”

“But I don’t deserve -”

“Oh for Godric’s sake, Draco. So what? So what if you don’t think you deserve anything? What about what Harry wants – what he deserves? The stupid git wants you.” She took a deep breath and visibly worked for a lightness of tone, “Are you really going to deny the Chosen One?”

Deny the Chosen One . . . his Chosen One. Could he do that? What if he needed to? What if he needed to give up Harry for Harry’s own good?

“Now, are you really going to sit here and have tea with me, or are you going to go speak to Harry?”

“Fine,” he almost growled. “I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” said the fiendish Gryffindor. “Now that you’ve grown a pair, I’ll just put this all away, cancel our tea party, and go out with Theo as I’d planned.” She started to levitate the tea things away onto the top shelf of the cupboard before saying, “And I swear to Godric Draco, you’d best not end up crashing our date being all gloom and doom about Harry Potter. I’ve spent enough time with your Slytherin friends to know what a complete drone you were on the subject of the Boy-Who-Lived all through Hogwarts.”

“They’re liars, the lot of them,” he said.

“Right . . . Yet another reason I’m glad I sorted Gryffindor. Being your friend as you went through adolescence sounds like it was a chore.”

“See yourself out,” he said, striding toward the door.

“Oh, Draco,” she called. He turned back and Lavender blew him a kiss, “Good luck tonight.”

He nodded at her. It was the best he could muster. He wished he could give his dear, dictatorial friend more, but he couldn’t – not right now – not when he had to end things with Harry.

 

He landed on the steps of Grimmauld Place. Its façade, invisible to most people in the world, was composed of darker stone than its neighbors. Once, this neighborhood had been fashionable, but now the street wouldn’t even be considered up-and-coming. If word got out in the Wizarding World that the Saviour lived here, he was sure the place would be gentrified in no time as eager witches and wizards snapped up real estate in the area.

Harry – no – Potter - it had to be Potter right now. Draco would break if he thought of the boy with brilliant eyes as anything but Potter. Fuck, why had he ever gotten involved with the Boy-Who-Lived? He’d known it wouldn’t end well. But then, had he ever had a choice? When had he been able to look away from Potter?

For a moment he considered turning away, but he knew Lavender would hunt him down and make him talk about his feelings, and later, he’d have to process everything with his therapist. Merlin’s pants, it was best to get it over with now and then sink back into the scholarly, quiet life he’d been constructing for himself before Potter had shown up in Ollivander’s shop.

He knocked on the heavy black door and waited. And waited some more - waited well passed the time acceptable for a house elf of a pureblood family to answer the door. Just as he was considering knocking again, the door opened, and there stood Harry – no – there stood Potter. Draco’s breath caught. Potter was so much more to behold in person than the image Draco carried of him in his mind.

“Sorry to make you wait,” said Potter. “Kreacher and I – er – we got in a bit of an argument on who should answer the door.”

“It’s not respectable to be answering your own door!” hollered the elf from a distant part of the house. “The Mistress Black would not approve.”

The current master of 12 Grimmauld Place turned his head and shouted back toward the empty hall, “I told you it was Draco, and it’s fine. Besides, there’s not a lot about me that the Mistress Black would approve of.”

He heard the elf mutter something he couldn’t quite catch before Potter turned back to him.

“You knew it was me?” he asked the dark-haired boy.

The Gyffindor shrugged, “Er – yeah. My wards – they recognize you. And so does this bloody old house.” He swung the door wider, “Come in, I’ve been – well – worried. You didn’t answer my owls. I was close to sending a damned patronus, but you said the last one had nearly given you a heart attack.”

It took everything for him not to step over the threshold and into Potter’s home, but he apparently possessed willpower he’d not tapped into before as he stood firmly on the doorstep.

“Draco?”

“Look, Potter, I can’t come in tonight. Or any night. After all the publicity my father’s sentence has garnered, I think we both know we have to end this . . .”

The smile that had graced Potter’s face fell away. “You can’t be serious?”

“I’m perfectly serious, Potter.”

“Oh, it’s Potter again is it? Since when?”

“Since my father has dragged the Malfoy name even further into scandal. You can’t have the blemish of my name – of my family – of my bad actions associated with you.” Draco took a deep breath before saying, “You’re the golden boy and I’m . . . me.”

“Get in here,” said Potter in a tone Draco hadn’t heard directed at him since sixth year. “I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re standing outside in the cold.”

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. Fine. Whatever. He’d go in the damn house for a second if that is what it took to make the stubborn Gryffindor understand. He stalked over the threshold, and immediately felt the embrace of the house’s latent magic around him. He heard the door shut behind him.  He turned to face the other boy, looked down at him, and said, “There. Happy, Potter?”

“Oh fuck off. Of course I’m not happy – you blew me off for days. And for what? Because there’s some bad press about your father? Like it matters. I don’t give a damn about Lucius or his sentence. I knew the Ministry was corrupt before he was sentenced, and I also already knew your father was a weasel who’d do anything he could to stay out of Azkaban for life and save his own skin.” Those damned green eyes met his, “Listen to me. I don’t care. You’re not your father. You never were.”

Why the fuck was Harry – Potter – making this any harder. He was being all stupid and noble like a bleeding heart Gryffindor. “I know my father is corrupt. I know he used alternative means to get such a lenient sentence. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were.”

“But the press coverage has . . . reinforced how impossible this . . . between us . . . is.”

“For Christ’s sake, Draco. Nothing has changed – not for me. What’s really going on here? Have you changed your mind about . . . me?”

And for a moment, in the expression on Potter’s face, Draco saw the shadow of the thin, almost invisible boy the Gryffindor had once been. Almost everyone had left the Boy-Who-Lived. He’d had just about all of the important adults in his life taken from him, and this made Draco pause. He’d didn’t want to be yet another person who disappeared from Potter’s life.

Draco knew he should leave Potter for the git’s own good. He should. Yet even though he knew this, he also knew he was an inherently selfish being, and being here – face to face Potter – made it difficult not to give in to his desires.

“Tell me,” goaded the Gryffindor.

“Drop it, Harry.” And bloody hell, when had it become Harry again? This boy had always, always managed to get under his skin.

“Tell me,” demanded the other boy. “Or are you too scared?”

“I said drop it.”

“I thought you’d grown a backbone.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tell me,” Harry demanded. “Tell me the truth. I deserve it.”

Bloody hell, Harry did deserve to be told. But Draco held his mouth shut.

“Tell me. Or was all of it a lie? Everything between us – did it mean anything to you?”

And Draco knew he should not break his silence, but he couldn’t let Harry think he'd meant nothing, “Of course it wasn’t a lie.”

“Then why won’t you tell me the truth?” asked the other boy.

“I told you the truth – you deserve better than me.”

“And shouldn’t I be the one to decide what I deserve? For Christ’s sake, Draco, my whole life I was shaped and molded to make one decision. One. To give up my life. I think I get a voice now.”

He shifted, he hated thinking of Harry dying. “Of course you get a choice, but so do I. And I’ve decided that you deserve better.”

“Tell me,” Harry said, his eyes flashing.

“Fine,” Draco snapped. “I saw you in the bloody Prophet with the Weasley girl. I and the rest of the Wizarding World saw what a lovely couple you’d be. She – or someone like her – is right for you in a way that I’ll never be. There. Happy with the truth?”

“Oh come on – that wasn’t anything – The Prophet was just-”

“You belong with someone like that,” Draco interrupted. “Maybe not her, but . . . someone . . . someone who is worthy. I’m just . . . well . . . I’ll be a person you once saw behind closed doors. You deserve to live your life out in the open.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Harry, clearly angry. “Fucking hell, Draco. I don’t want you to feel like you are – that you are my dirty little secret. You’re the one that wants this – us – to be a secret.”

“And why do you think that is, Potter? I’m me. I’ll always be me – a fucking Death Eater. That’s all the world will see and you – ” his voice broke and he was angry with himself that it had, that his own voice was betraying the depth of his feeling. “You are Harry fucking Potter. The Saviour. A hero. I’ll never . . . It will never be right – us – we’ll never be right . . . ”

Harry strode across the space and took Draco’s face in his hands, “I don’t give a damn what the rest of the world thinks. I was hated by many before the War ended, and you’re right. I’m me. I’m Harry Potter and I’ve lost enough - given enough for this world. I’m not used to getting what I want without a fight and by god Draco – you are worth a fight.”

He slammed his lips against Draco’s with force and pent up anger and Draco took it – reveled in it for a moment - then pushed back against Harry hard.

“We aren’t meant to be – we aren’t,” he almost sobbed.

“Draco,” Harry said, not letting go, “We are written in the stars.”

And fuck he couldn’t argue with that.  So he didn’t. He wrapped himself around Harry and the other boy tugged him in tighter, arms firmly around his waist, and Draco felt a pull deep in his navel. He gasped when a room he didn’t know slammed around them.

Harry didn’t pause in kissing him and started pressing Draco backwards. Draco dragged his mouth free, “Where?”

“My room,” said Harry in a low voice.

He didn’t have much time to process this before he felt his legs knock against something and Harry continued to press him back. Draco spilled onto a bed – Harry’s bed he realized. The boy in question gazed down at him, his face alight with want. Draco reached up and started pulling at Harry’s shirt, needing it off, needing Harry’s skin. The offending shirt quickly landed on the floor, and he leaned back down and let his gaze run up Harry’s bare chest. His eyes alighting on a zigzagging scar over his Chosen One’s heart. He sat back up and covered the scar with his hand, his heart pounding.

“Harry . . .”

“Shhh . . . it’s done. I’m still here.”

Draco felt his eyes prick with tears. The boy he loved – and fuck yes, he loved Harry – came so close to death - had even died. He pulled his knees under him and raised himself so that his lips were level with the scar and kissed Harry – kissed the Boy-Who-Lived on the remnants of the killing curse.

Harry’s hands buried themselves in his hair before pulling his head gently back. “Let me see you,” he says. “Please.”

Draco nodded and pulled off his jumper, tossing it at random on the floor. His eyes never leave Harry’s as he unbuttoned his shirt. The other boy’s hands slide under the placard of his shirt and run along his chest, before easing the shirt up over his shoulders and pushing it down his arms. Harry gasps, and Draco knows what he’s seen – the crisscross of silver scars. Fingertips reach out and trace a scar that runs across his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.

“I know.”

And Harry leans in and presses desperate, open-mouthed kisses on Draco’s chest.

“God, your beautiful,” Harry murmurs against his skin, and this time it is Draco’s turn to bury his hands in the other boy’s hair, and he uses it to tug Harry’s mouth up to his own.

The Gryffindor kisses him – fierce and possessive. Draco gets lost in the feeling – gets lost in Harry.

“You’re mine,” Harry says. “Do you hear me, Draco – mine.”

He should leave. He should. This can’t end well - wouldn’t end well if the rest of their world ever found out about them. But he is weak – so very weak, and Harry is kissing him. He doesn’t want to let the Gryffindor go. As a child he’d had just about everything he’d ever desired, but all that had changed at the end of fifth year. He’d been stripped of practically everything he’d once thought was important, and Merlin, he wasn’t ready to be stripped of this – to be stripped of Harry, so he clung tighter.

Harry pulled his lips away said, “Did you hear me Draco?  Mine. You’re mine.”

And he couldn’t deny him – he couldn’t deny the boy whose eyes had always consumed him. “Yours,” he agreed. And suddenly the thin layers of fabric between them were too much. He reached down and  unfastens his trousers and started to ease them and his boxer briefs down. Harry, always a quick study in practical demonstrations, followed suit and slid off the last of his clothing.

Draco’s heart pounds in his chest. He’s never been naked like this before another person, but his vulnerability was swept to the background by a rush of desire as Harry pushed him gently back down on the mattress. Hands run along the length of his body, and he couldn’t keep his own hands away from Harry. Harry’s shoulders were magnificent beneath his fingertips.

The other boy slotted himself between Draco’s legs and slid his erection against Draco’s. And Merlin, that was good. It had been good their other times together, but skin to skin was so much more.

Harry started to slide back and forth against him. As the Gryffindor thrust upward he said, “Mine.”

And the desire to belong to Harry and to have Harry belong to him surged through Draco. His hands slid down to grasp the other boy by the waist, and he pulled Harry down onto the bed even as he sat up and turned himself so that his body covered Harry’s. Merlin, Harry felt so good beneath him, and he loved the feel of the other boy’s hands as they grazed over his hips and encouraged Draco to seek the feel of their erections sliding against each other.

“Mine,” he said as he kissed Harry on again on the scar over his heart. “Mine,” he repeated as he wandlessy conjured lube in his right hand. He adjusts himself so that he is balancing on his knees and his left elbow and side before he reached down with his free hand and grasped both of their cocks.

Harry groaned softly, and Draco is pretty sure he does as well. The feel of them thrusting together into his lubed fist is . . . well . . . fucking incredible.

“God, yes,” Harry sighs as he wrapped a hand around Draco’s and they stroke themselves together.

“Mine,” repeats Draco.

“Yours,” Harry agrees.

“Yes, mine . . . Mine,” Draco repeats as he rocks against Harry, while the Gryffindor answers, “Yours – just yours.” Their words become an incantation - a spell weaving them together, and together they gasp and move until it becomes too much. Draco feels pleasure course throughout his body and he loses himself, coating Harry’s stomach with his release.

“Oh, fuck,” groans Harry as he followed Draco into bliss.

Chapter 68: Weasley's Challenge

Draco awoke in Harry’s bed. The Gryffindor was stretched out beside him with sheets only covering him below the waist. In the first light of the morning Draco could see the other boy’s upper body more clearly than he’d been able to in the blissful frenzy of the night before.

Harry is riddled with scars. The twin lightning bolts on his forehead and chest are the most obvious, but there is also one on his collar bone that looks like a burn. And then there are two puncture wounds on his forearm and on that same arm, Draco makes out the white etchings of letters on the back of Harry’s palm.

Draco carries scars, but he wonders if like him, Harry’s thickest scars are the ones that can’t be seen – the ones carried on the inside and carved into a person’s soul.

He looks away from the scars, he can’t think about those anymore, can’t stand to think of Harry in pain. His eyes drift instead to the freckles scattered across the other boy’s body, and oh Merlin help him, but he wants to connect those freckles into constellations by tracing them together one by one with his fingertips . . . or perhaps the tip of his tongue.

Salazar, he’d never thought he’d be here – in bed with Harry – gazing at the Boy-Who-Lived as he slept. The other boy looks younger in his sleep. Draco shifts in the bed and lines himself up shoulder to shoulder with the sleeping boy. Draco is narrower than Harry – his shoulders, chest, and hips are all narrower. But he’s taller. All his length over Harry, however, seems to be in his legs, as they are pretty evenly matched in their torsos. Draco wants to spend days – years – comparing their differences and similarities.

“Morning,” Harry mumbles. He stretches and turns further on his side before wrapping himself around Draco. “Mine,” he murmurs.

“I should have known that a Gryffindor would be possessive,” said Draco as he turns into the embrace.

“And what? Slytherins aren’t?” Harry nuzzles his face against Draco’s neck. “Are you saying you like to share?”

His arm tightened around Harry. “No, I don’t like to fucking share.”

Harry pulls back a little and grins at him – the lopsided grin Draco once only dreamed about. “Glad to hear it. Because I don’t intend to share either.”

He basks in Harry’s soft attention, wanting this moment to last forever. Harry, however, has other plans, as he asks, “So where were you?”

“Blaise came and got me. I spent the night at his and Theo’s house, and I spend most of the day after the sentencing meeting with my solicitor.”

“Okay . . .” Harry pulled back a bit to better meet Draco’s eyes before he said, “Look. I’ve got to say this, so I’m – er – just going to say it.”

“Alright,” said Draco, knowing that his Chosen One was going to speak his mind and say things hard for him to hear.

“You can’t run from me every time something difficult happens. You can’t. I . . . So many people have left me . . . I need to know that you mean it. That I’m worth it.”

He felt as if the air were knocked out of him. How could Harry Potter of all people question his value? “Are you an absolute idiot?” As soon as the words were of his mouth he knew that this probably wasn’t the way to let Harry know how much he meant to Draco. “I mean – how can you even wonder if you are worth it. Harry – you are worth everything.”

The Gryffindor smiled at him. “Then let me tell people – more people than just Robards that you are in my life.”

“Oh, I’m sure your boss was thrilled to learn that we were ‘friends.’”

“I don’t really give a toss what he thought. I do my job. I perform my part for the Ministry. They have no business having an opinion about what I do in my personal life as long as no one is being harmed.”

“But that’s the point!” he threw up his hands. “You exasperating Gryffindor, everyone will think I am harming you!”

“The only way you are harming me is by not letting me tell people. Until I was eleven years old, my life was a lie – my history a secret. Do you know what it felt like to know the truth? To be allowed to live as me – the real me. I want to live my life – my truth – and that includes you.”

He sucked in a breath. Oh fuck. He was making Harry live a lie. Draco was no stranger to living a lie – to acting a part he wasn’t keen to have, and here he was, asking this of Harry. At last he said, “I’m not . . . as brave as you, Harry. I never have been. I’m trying. I am. I . . . I’m sorry, but I’m not ready for The Prophet to know. I . . . well . . . I’m worried that once the public turns its focus on us . . . as a couple, that we will break under the strain. I want more time. More time with just you.”

Harry’s face fell. Draco could almost see all of the hope drain from the other boy to be replaced with sadness. He pressed on.

“And your friends – after everything I did to them . . . they have every reason to hate me. Please – just give me time. Just a little. Like I said, I’m not as brave as you, and I’m sorry for that. I am, however, selfish, and I want just a little more time with you before . . .”

“You think my friends will convince me to leave you?”

He smiled sadly, “No, Harry. You are a stubborn idiot. I’m afraid they’ll convince me to stop being so selfish and leave you for your own good.”

Harry flopped back into the pillows, “Well thank god you are the master of the Malfoy estate now and therefore imminently selfish and in possession of a large ego. You’ll never let me go.”

Draco elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ow! Do you know how fucking pointy you are?”

Draco just glared at the Gryffindor.

Harry broke the standoff by reaching over to cup Draco’s chin, “They won’t ask you to let me go. Not when they see how happy I am with you.”

“We’ll see,” he replied just before Harry leaned in to kiss him.

 

Two days later, not long after the shop had closed, one of Harry’s friends arrived on his doorstep. Merlin, he’d thought Harry would give him the time he’d asked for, but no, the junior Auror peaking in the window was a clear sign that his time was up.

Fuck his life.

For a moment he thought about slipping out the back door, but then he heard a voice call, “Oi! Malfoy, I can see you in there. Let me in.”

He sighed and made his way to the door. As he pulled it open he said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Weasley, stepped into the shop, his red hair and large frame filling the space. The bastard was taller and broader than Draco, and Draco had a pang of envy. Weasley had grown past his awkward adolescent phase and was now an imposing young man – an imposing young man whose gaze was firmly focused on Draco.

“Are you here on Auror business?”

“What? No.”

Draco waited for the ginger to follow up with more, but after a lengthy pause, Draco gave up and said, “Are you going to tell me why you are here or are you going to make me guess?”

He watched as Weasley’s gaze swept around the shop and back to him. “So this – or rather – you - are where Harry has been running to.”

“What has . . . Potter said.”

“He hasn’t said a word about you.”

“Excuse me?” This wasn’t making any sense. If Harry hadn’t said anything to Weasley, then why the hell was he here?

Weasley’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. “Harry’s been running away. He always comes back of course, the guy doesn’t know how to shirk a duty or a friend. But he’s been running. And I think it’s pretty clear that you are the person he has been running to. Wasn’t hard for me to figure out.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he was unable to refrain from saying, “Surprised it wasn’t Granger who figured it out. I’d of pegged her as being the brains of the operation. But maybe she did put it all together and sent you off to play the part of domineering henchman.”

Weasley full on smiled at Draco now, and he was rather taken aback by this response.

“I think I might just be flattered – domineering henchman – sounds like I’m a right hard case doesn’t it?” Then Weasley’s smile dimmed. “But no. Mione didn’t figure it out. That witch has never run away from a friend in her life - she wouldn’t know how to or what it looked like if she did. But I . . . I know. I know what it’s like to run from those you love, and I know what’s it’s like to find your way back. I recognize the signs in Harry. He’s been running to you. Spending time with you helps him keep finding his way back to the rest of us – to the world.”

He just stared at the young man in front of him. What was he on about?

“If you’ve come to discuss Potter, I’ve got nothing to say to you Weasley,” said Draco. He waved his hand toward the door. “Now, it is after business hours and as lovely as this has been I have things other than wayward Gryffindors to attend to.”

Weasley didn’t move, he just regarded Draco as if he were an exotic beast. When the fuck had Weasley gotten so calm? When had he learned self-control? Especially around Draco of all people. But then Draco supposed that living through a War and losing a brother right in front of you would change a person.

“You’ve changed, Malfoy,” said Weasley. He tilted his head a bit to one side as if he were considering Draco even more closely. “Or maybe I never really knew you. Either way, you . . . you are helping Harry.”

“I have no idea what you are talking -”

“Look,” interrupted the ginger, “I appreciate that you don’t want to talk about him. That you don’t want to . . . betray him. He’s been coming to see you for months.” Draco started to make a face and Weasley held up a hand to silence him and continued on. “I know he’s been coming to see you for months. I’m a bloody Auror, and I can add two and two together – yes I know that must surprise you Malfoy, but I can. I figure that if you were in this thing with Harry – whatever it is – for the wrong reasons, you’d have sold him out to the papers a long time ago. You haven’t. So – er – thank you. Thank you for looking after him.”

Draco wondered for a moment if he was dreaming. Weasley had just . . . thanked him. What the absolute fuck was going on here?

“Just don’t think you have to hide away from his other friends. If you don’t want to see us, that’s fine. But the War . . . well it was pretty much shit for everyone. You too. I . . . I read the transcripts of your trial – or well – Mione did and she told me about them. You weren’t the evil bastard I always thought you were in school. I mean, you were pretty terrible at times, but you were a kid. We were all kids.”

“High praise coming from you,” Draco said with an arched eyebrow.

Weasley rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m making a hash of this, but what I’m saying is, you’re safe . . . with us. You’re good enough for Harry, so you’re good enough for me and those that care about Harry – really care. Know what I mean?”

He was speechless. The taller boy was looking at him with such an expression of earnestness that Draco felt his anxiety increasing. The wanker meant it. He really meant it. He thought back to that first day of Hogwarts when he’d insulted Weasley’s family, and he remembered second year when he called Weasley’s girlfriend a vile, racist slur. Despite all of Draco’s unforgiveable actions towards him and Granger, Weasley was here, in Draco’s domain, telling him that the past was just that, the past. Merlin, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve the absolution that Harry had given him and he damn well didn’t deserve it from Weasley.

“I . . . Look, Weasley, it was beyond good of you to come, but I don’t think it would be wise if I were seen out in public with any of the golden trio or any of your other friends. I’ve . . . Well I was bloody awful to all of you and think of the headlines. Everyone will think I slipped you potions or have put you under a curse.”

Weasley’s pale blue eyes met his, then the taller boy shrugged, “If the snake is too afraid to come amongst the lions then so be it.”

He felt himself bristle, a feeling he was familiar with from his past interactions with Weasley. He breathed in through his nose, trying to calm himself. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me. I’m not going to go out with you all to prove you wrong.”

Weasley shrugged again, “Fine. Don’t. Come out with us to prove Harry right. He thinks there is something of value in you – something to be gained by being friends with you.” Weasley turned and started toward to the door. As his hand closed around the handle, he turned back to Draco. “Besides, sometimes it’s fun to say ‘fuck you’ to The Prophet. They’ll ferret it out about you and Harry at some point. Maybe you should control the story.” He gave Draco one last pointed look, before nodding his head in farewell. “Evening, Malfoy.” Then he was gone and Draco was left alone in the space once more.

He stood in the middle of the shop in shock. Salazar, that had been . . . well it had been fucking weird. Had Weasley really come of his own initiative? He couldn’t be sure. He needed answers. He rushed through the shop to the studio and out the back door. He quickly made sure the wards were working before striding toward the apparition point. In moments he felt the familiar tug at his navel before landing on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place.

He stared up at the mansion. He didn’t see any lights on. Fuck. Maybe Harry wasn’t home. Was he supposed to be working today? He couldn’t remember.

He rapped on the door. Before he had time to pull his hand away, it opened. Kreacher inclined his head, “Master Draco, you honour your ancestral home with your presence.”

“Is he here?” Draco asked.

“Master Harry is in the living room.”

He strode past the elf before he remembered his manners. He paused and thanked Kreacher then fled so as not to witness an outburst of emotion. Just down the entry hall he saw a set of pocket doors slid open. He stopped in the doorway.

Two sofas flanked a great fireplace. The fire in the hearth cast the only light in the room.

“Harry?” he called.

A dark head appeared from over the back of the sofa nearest the door.

“Draco? I wasn’t expecting you.”

He walked into the room and rounded the sofa. Harry sat with his feet up with a cozy blanket thrown over him. Draco watched as the other boy reached for his glasses on the arm of the sofa before settling them on his face.

“I woke you.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I was just . . . resting. I’m awake.” Green eyes met his. “What’s wrong?”

“Did Weasley tell you he was coming to see me?”

“Wait – what? Ron? Ron came to see you?” Harry looked visibly startled, “Why?”

“He was at Ollivander’s just this evening. He came to feel me out I guess . . . about you.”

The other boy’s eyes widened, “I . . . I didn’t tell him.”

“He claims he’s known you were spending time with me for months. He said I should . . . be seen out with you.”

Harry’s face lit up. “Really? That’s – well – that’s bloody fantastic.”

Draco shook his head. “Harry – we’ll be hated. Tell your friends – Granger at least as Weasley already knows that we are . . . friends. But going out with you . . . in public . . . I don’t think that is a good idea.”

Harry groaned and looked to the ceiling. “I’m so tired of fighting for everything I want, Draco. I’m just so fucking tired. I’m tired of fighting. I’m . . . I’m tired of being a soldier.” He watched as the other boy scrubbed a hand across his face before he met Draco’s eyes again. “Why do you keep trying to force me away? The pain of your absence from my life is killing me.”

And fuck when did Harry become eloquent. It irked him – and cruelty settled on him like a long-forgotten but familiar cloak. He sneered down at the other boy, “The pain of my absence? That’s lovely, Potter, didn’t know you were capable of such sentiment. Where did you lift that line from? Granger?”

And there it was - there was the flash of the Golden Boy’s famous temper across Harry’s face. It had been so long since he’d seen it that he’d wondered if it was one of the things Harry had lost when the part of the Dark Lord buried in his soul had been expelled. Perhaps a lot of the anger had been excised, but some, it appeared, was all Harry’s and had remained.

Draco felt his lip start to curl as taunting Harry – no, Potter – was all too familiar a habit to cling to when wounded. And he was wounded. He didn’t deserve Harry. He knew that his therapist kept trying to tell him he had to work on letting go of the destructive narratives he told himself, but this story – this story was his and he didn’t think he got a happy ending. And Salazar, Harry deserved a happier ending then winding up with him.

Harry rose from the sofa to stand face to face with Draco. His mouth was set in a hard line, and for a moment Draco thought they’d reverted back to their schoolyard days when suddenly Harry’s face crashed and his eyes looked impossibly large and hurt. Draco felt shame bubble in his chest – he’d done this, he’d hurt Harry fucking Potter and he was angry at himself.

“I’m so fucking tired of you and your eyes!” he bellowed, unable to reign in his feelings. “They haunt me, Harry. They’ve haunted me since I was fucking eleven years old – all through school – all through the War – your eyes chased me – filled my mind – came to me in visions.”

“You’re not the first person that couldn’t stand them,” Harry said, his tone bitter. “Snape couldn’t bear to look at me without hating my existence despite all of his supposed love for my mother.”

Draco reeled. Snape had loved Harry’s mother and from the whispered conversations he’d had with the Boy-Who-Lived while they’d been wrapped around each other, he knew from the memory that Snape had shared with the Gryffindor that Lily Potter had loved Snape too once upon a time.

It suddenly made sense. It made so much fucking sense that he couldn’t understand why Harry couldn’t see the truth.

“He didn’t hate you,” Draco said, his voice barely above a breath. “He resented that you weren’t . . . his. He saw your mother’s eyes in your face – those green eyes haunted him too – and he knew in his heart you should have been his, but you weren’t. And to add to the insult, you look so much like your father James.”

Harry stepped back, shock on his face. The boy didn’t want to believe him. Draco watched the implications of what he’d said wrestle across Harry’s face – a face that had always been an open book.

“How do you know I look like my father?” said the Gryffindor, picking up – as always – on the one extraneous detail that Draco really didn’t want to discuss or share.

Because he couldn’t share that James Potter had loved Regulus Black – he couldn’t share that Regulus had left him memories forever capturing that love – he couldn’t . . . could he?

Then he was struck again with a moment of clarity. James and Lily had been a matched set. They were both Gryffindors that had loved boys from dark families that had become Death Eaters. They had known the same kind of loss and Draco wondered if it was this loss that had first drawn them together – if their shattered hearts had knit back together as one because they both knew what it was like to give their love to the supposed enemy and to have to learn to live with the pain of parting.

Oh fuck. He hoped that all four of the star-crossed lovers had found peace in whatever came after this life.

“Draco?” asked Harry. “What is it that you aren’t telling me?”

Bloody hell, for a moment he wished he’d shielded his mind with occlumency. He’d been so caught up in his pain – in his anger – that his normal reserve had shattered and Harry was reading Draco as easily as Draco was usually able to read the Gryffindor.

“Draco?”

He felt his body tighten with nerves. He fought to keep the panic down and forced himself to say, “I’ve seen memories where your father was present. Memories were left to me, and he was in some of them.”

The eyes that he would know anywhere grew wide. “Whose memories?”

He swallowed. He didn’t want to lie to Harry, but . . . how did he fucking share this? How did he share that his father had once had a love affair with a fucking Death Eater relation of his?

“Whose memories, Draco? Sirius’? Remus’?”

He shook his head. “No. Not them.” He could see why Harry would guess them. They were the obvious choices. “They were Regulus’ memories. Sirius’ brother.”

“Regulus left you memories?”

“I was to be his godchild. He left memories to the heir of House of Black. To me.”

A look of confusion flitted across Harry’s face. “He knew my father?”

“Harry he . . . he loved your father. And your father . . . well . . . he loved Regulus.” Draco took in Harry’s stunned face and blurted out, “It was before your mother – when they were kids in school together.”

“My father and . . . and Regulus Black?”

Unable to form words, Draco just nodded.

“How long have you known?”

This was it. This was the end. Harry would be disgusted and walk away because Draco had concealed this. But really, how did you tell the person you were shagging and had wanted to hold since Merlin knew when that his father had once had a thing for your long dead cousin?

“I found out before Christmas my seventh year,” he answered at last. “Regulus wanted to be better . . . for your father. He died trying to defeat the Dark Lord,” Draco tried to explain.

“This is fucking weird,” said Harry, his eyes still wide.

“I know,” said Draco, because he did know. He’d always known that it was fucking bizarre that the Potters – the whole fucking lot of them, James, Lily, and Harry - seemed to have a thing for repressed and emotionally stunted dark wizards that made a fuck-ton of bad choices. Hell – when he thought about it like that it seemed like the Potter family were the messed up ones. Still, he tried to reassure the other boy, “He – James - chose your mother. He loved her. He loved you,” he said, his voice pleading as if he were apologizing for a past he’d had no control over. “In the end he . . . he died trying to buy you and your mother time.”

“He didn’t have a wand on him,” breathed Harry. “The night Voldemort came he ran blindly into danger.”

Fucking Gryffindor, thought Draco and then immediately felt unkind. And why was it that James’ sacrifice hadn’t protected his wife and son? He’d given his life for them. Was it because it had happened so quickly that he hadn’t made a conscious choice the way Lily had? Lily Potter had been given the chance to live, but she had chosen her child’s life over her own, just as her son had chosen to die to save literally everyone else. Like his mother, Harry had sacrificed himself. And here Draco was, standing on the precipice of a choice – Harry or his guilt. All Harry wanted from him was everything Draco had ever dared dream of, yet he was clinging to the idea that he didn’t deserve the happiness he felt with Harry. The person he was really hurting was the boy he never wanted to hurt again.

He’d always put himself – his needs – his family’s needs – first. And now . . . now it was time to think of someone else. It was time to finally – finally be brave.

And fuck it. He was a goddamn Malfoy for Merlin’s sake. He’d been raised to be proud and confident and to take what he wanted, and Salazar, he wanted Harry Potter. He looked the other boy right in those fucking famous eyes and said, “I choose you, Harry.”

The Gryffindor’s lips parted as if in surprise.

“I choose you, Harry. I’ve . . . I’ve always chosen you,” he continued. “Granted, in the past I chose you in what were admittedly very fucked up ways, but it was always . . . you.” He reached out a hand toward the other boy and brushed the fringe away from Harry’s forehead. He stilled a little before sucking in a breath and tracing the famous lightning bolt scar with his fingertips. “I . . . I can’t change the past – I can’t change the horrible choices I’ve made or make sense of the choices other people made.” He slid his fingertips down along the other boy’s cheekbone and then down his jaw. “But I choose you. I choose you now.”

“Draco . . .”

“I mean it Harry. I’m tired of being afraid. If you can be brave enough to defeat the Dark Lord, then I can be brave enough to go out with you and your friends. Fuck The Prophet.”

The other boy clasped Draco’s hand that still lingered at his jaw. “You choose me?”

He nodded, unable to look away from Harry’s face. Did the other boy know how fucking beautiful he was when he looked like this?

“Yes,” Draco said. “Of course I do.”

Harry pulled Draco against him, his lips seeking out Draco’s.

And suddenly, right in Harry’s living room, their clothes were too much. Draco needed to feel Harry’s skin on him. His hands found the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, and he pulled it up, revealing the other boy’s naked torso. His Chosen One raised his arms, allowing Draco to tug the shirt off of him. For a moment he just stared at Harry, loving the way the light from the fire flickered against his skin. Harry didn’t give him long to bask, however, as the other boy’s hands started undoing the buttons on Draco’s shirt before sliding it off his shoulders. The fabric hung off of him, held on by his cuffs.

“Look at you,” Harry murmured. The other boy’s palms rubbed against his chest.

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Are you going to leave me like this, Potter, or are you going to help free me?”

The dark-haired boy grinned at him. “I rather think I like you a bit . . . constrained.”

“That’s quite kinky of you, Golden Boy.”

Harry’s hands started unfastening Draco’s belt. “I like to think so,” he said as he unzipped Draco’s trousers and starting pushing them down.

“Salazar, Harry,” he sighed as his erection sprang free of his pants and the Gryffindor’s hand wrapped around him. He reached for the other boy’s belt. His shirt still hung from him by his cuffs.

“Free yourself first,” said Harry.

He muttered a wandless spell, and the shirt dropped to the floor.

“That was so fucking hot,” said Harry.

Unencumbered, Draco made short work of the other boy’s fastenings, and worked the offending clothing down Harry’s thighs. The Gryffindor wriggled his trousers the rest of the way to the floor before kicking them out of the way. Draco followed suit before he grabbed the naked boy by the hips and drew him closer. Unable to resist, he rocked his hips and rubbed his hardness against Harry’s. One of Harry’s hands grasped Draco by the bicep and while the other wrapped behind his neck, then he started moving in time with Draco.

The sensation of the sensitive underside of his cock sliding against Harry’s was incredible.

“Why aren’t we doing this all the time?” Harry asked as he slide his hand higher into the back of Draco’s hair.

“We should have been . . . doing nothing but this for years,” he said, whispering his fingertips down the center of Harry’s chest and stopping just shy of navel.

“Think of all of those perfectly good empty classrooms at Hogwarts we could have put to use.”

He conjured some lube in his hand and wrapped it around both of their hard cocks. The sound his Chosen One made sent a surge of pleasure through his body.

“Forget an empty classroom,” he said. “There’s an alcove on the third floor. Barely anyone notices it. I could have pulled you in there by your pretty little Gryffindor tie – wrapped the crimson and gold silk around my fist. You’d have been hard before I even pressed you up against the wall. Then I’d have spread open your robes and wrapped my hand around your cock like this.”

“Yes.”

They thrust together through the tight circle of his fist.

“I’d have worked you until you were moaning. I’d have to lean in and say, ‘Quiet, Potter, unless you want us to get caught.’” The other boy moaned aloud. “Yes – like that – keep making noise like that.”

“Keep talking,” Harry begged. “Love the sound of your posh voice as you say filthy things.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but . . . I’d rather discuss our plans.” He’d noticed that Harry had a bit of a possessive streak. Feeling delightfully devious he said in a low voice, “I’m going to go out with you . . . in public.” He continued working himself and the other boy, glorying in the feeling of their hard lengths sliding against each other. “All of your friends are going to know that I’m yours.”

“God, yes,” said Harry.

It was becoming harder to talk – harder to concentrate on forming sentences as he continued to chase after bliss, but he couldn’t stop now. “They’ll know . . . your friends . . . they’ll know that the proud and arrogant Draco Malfoy belongs to you – only you.”

“Mine.”

“They’ll know we’re shagging – that you’ve . . . that you’ve made me yours.”

“Oh yes . . . mine,” sighed Harry.

“Yours. Always.”

“Oh my god,” panted Harry as his hips stuttered. “Draco . . .”

“Let go for me, Harry.”

The other boy’s grip tightened on him and he felt Harry tense before his hot release spilled on his hand and his stomach. With a groan he followed, spurting onto Harry. The dark-haired boy leaned his forehead against his shoulder.

“Fuck,” said the Golden Boy, “We’re a mess.”

“Agreed.” With a sweep of his hand he cast a cleaning spell.

Harry pressed his face against Draco’s neck before saying into his skin, “I was tired before you came and look what you’ve done to me.”

Draco chuckled as Harry slipped away from him to sit on the floor. He grabbed hold of one of Draco’s hands and tugged at him until Draco sat down beside him. Harry leaned back on the floor, wrapping one of his arms behind his head. Draco stared down at the beautiful boy. Had every step he’d made – every decision – really led him here?

“C’mere,” said Harry.

Draco sighed as he leaned back. Harry’s free arm wrapped around his shoulders and his hand settled on the top of Draco’s head. Draco nuzzled against the Gryffindor’s chest as Harry’s fingers started combing through his hair, leaving trails of pleasure and comfort in their wake. Salazar, this was everything he’d ever wanted

“I like it when you’re like this,” said his Chosen One. “When you’re being soft with me.”

Draco raised his head and looked at the other boy. “Soft?”

“Yeah. Soft and gentle. In school you always came across as sharp and hard. I never guessed you could be like this.”

Draco smiled at him, “And here I thought you liked my dark side.”

The Gryffindor adjusted and ran a hand up and down Draco’s bare back. “I like all your sides, Draco. But I do rather like you like this. This is a side of you that only I get to see.”

“Just you. And maybe Lavender.” He settled back on Harry. “So when will you be summoning your fan club to put me through the gauntlet?”

Harry snorted, “I hardly think Ron and Hermione will be that much of a trial.”

He arched an eyebrow, “Well excuse me for finding them intimidating. They did help you defeat the Dark Lord as teenagers.”

“How about tomorrow night? No reason to delay. There’s a Muggle place I know. I’ve never gone there with anyone, so it’ll be neutral for all of you.”

“Yes, who would ever wish to delay one’s destiny,” he groaned.

Fingers carded through his hair again. “If you’re that uncomfortable,” said Harry, “You don’t have to.”

Draco reached out and traced his fingertips across Harry’s jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against his skin. This boy had faced down a monster – had laid down his life – of course Draco would go out and spend time with the people Harry loved best in this world. Still, he wouldn’t mind reinforcements.

“I think I’ll bring the other members of my own unlikely trio to help tone down the infamous Golden Trio.”

“You,” said Harry leaning in to nip at his ear. Draco shivered. Thanks to the Gryffindor, he’d discovered that he had sensitive ears. Harry could rile him up just by whispering in the shell of his ear, something that delighted the wretched Chosen One. Draco retaliated by twining his fingers in the riot of Harry’s hair and tugging slightly before Harry got out, “Are beyond ridiculous.”

“You are both ridiculous,” said Kreacher sounding entirely to close.

Draco yelped, but Harry, ever cool under pressure, pulled the blanket off the sofa and threw it over their naked midsections.

“If the two young masters are going to carry on in this manner,” said the stern looking elf standing by their feet, “Then I humbly remind you that this house has many private bedrooms.”

“Right. Of course Kreacher,” said Harry.

The elf sighed and said, “Don’t be expecting me to clean this carpet,” before disappearing with a crack.

“Oh fuck,” said Draco.

“He looked pleased,” said Harry snuggling back against him. “He likes having a member of the family in the house.”

“If Great Aunt Walburga was still alive she’d probably have me singed off the tapestry for this,” he said as he skimmed his hand down Harry’s body to grab greedy handfuls of the other boy’s arse. “But who would prioritize a musty old tapestry when they could have an armful of naked Saviour?”

Chapter 69: Pub Night

He met Harry the next day after work at 12 Grimmauld. The Golden Boy smiled at him as he ran his eyes over Draco. He’d donned a pair of dark jeans and a green jumper so dark it was almost black. Based on the look on Harry’s face, his clothes met with the Boy-Who-Lived’s approval.

“I didn’t want Granger or Weasley to forget what house I belonged to,” he said indicating his jumper.

He watched as Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple momentarily captivating Draco.

“You look good in black. And dark blue. And gray.”

“This is technically dark green, Potter.”

“Yeah . . . that too.”

And Draco couldn’t resist the other boy another second. He pressed Harry against the door of his own house and kissed him hard. Harry’s hands found their way into his hair, tugging him in, demanding more and sending a shiver through Draco’s body.

Merlin, Harry tasted good. He deepened the kiss, reveling in the feel of the other boy’s tongue sliding against his. His hands slid to Harry’s waist as if on their own accord, and his Chosen One felt lean and warm against him. Fuck, he wanted more – Harry always made him want more.

“We can’t be seen here, right?” he asked.

The Gryffindor licked his kiss swollen lips, “Only a few people can see this house – they have to have been told the address. Why?”

Draco met his eyes and then sank to his knees, still holding eye contact with the dark-haired boy.

“Oh, God,” sighed Harry.

He reached up a hand and felt Harry’s growing erection through the other boy’s jeans.

“I want you,” said Draco.

“Yes,” the other boy answered.

He reached for the button and zip and undid the jeans that separated him from what he desired. He’d never done this before, but oh how he wanted to. He tugged at the elastic waist band of Harry’s boxers until his cock sprang free. He licked his own lips before tentatively running a tongue along Harry. Oh fuck, the skin beneath his tongue was smooth and tight.

“Christ,” murmured Harry.

He ran his tongue all the way down Harry’s length and back, swirling it around the tip, tasting salt. He pulled back, licked his lips again, and leaned in, enveloping the other boy in his mouth.

“Oh . . . God . . . I . . . know what you’re . . . doing, Draco. You’re . . . stalling . . . meeting up at . . . the pub.”

Draco stilled and stared up at the Gryffindor.

“Not that I’m . . . complaining.”

With a grin he started moving along Harry again – sliding his mouth over the other boy. And oh – fuck. It was good. So, so good. Harry’s hands tangled in his hair. For a moment he pictured his bigoted ancestors if they could see him before his ancestral home, kneeling for his half-blooded Chosen One and reveling in the feel of the other boy filling his mouth.

Harry moaned softly above him, those wonderful fingers rubbing against his scalp, and desire flared down his body right to his groan. He gripped the other boy by his hips as he slid his lips and tongue up and down the length of him. Harry was gasping and murmuring praise. He heard the words, “so good” and “please.” He slid one hand to cradle and palm Harry’s balls, which were drawn up and deliciously tight. Another moan escaped from the Gryffindor and Draco could no longer ignore his own erection. Keeping Harry in his mouth, he dropped his hands to yank open his own jeans, and he took himself firmly in hand and started stroking in time to the bobbing of his mouth.

“Oh – fuck. You’re . . . touching yourself, aren’t you?”

Draco moaned around Harry in assent.

“Oh Christ, that is so . . . fucking . . . hot,” and the other boy started to thrust as if he could no longer hold back. His own fist pumped his cock and when Harry moaned again, he lost the battle with his desire and started to spill hot against his hand onto the stoop of the Black mansion. As he shuttered to a finish, Harry pulled at his hair and said, “Draco . . . I’m . . . oh fuck . . . Draco . . .”

He sucked hard one last time before he pulled away, watching as Harry grabbed himself and came with a muffled cry. Harry’s release mingled on the ground with his own.

“Oh my god. That was . . . amazing,” panted the Gryffindor. Draco waved a hand and muttered a spell, cleaning them both. He’d just managed to pull the waistband of his jeans closed when Harry was pulling him up and kissing him. “I can’t believe you did that – right on the street – you’re the master of the Malfoy estate,” he said with a grin.

Draco arched an eyebrow, “And I can’t believe you are surprised. Surely you aware that we Malfoys are exhibitionists.”

The Boy-Who-Lived laughed before releasing his hold on him to tuck himself back in and secure his jeans. He ran a hand through his hair, “We’re going to be late.”

Draco shrugged. “Worth it.”

The pub turned out to only be a couple of blocks away, and after a short walk, Draco stood before the exterior of a classically British looking pub with dark red paint that positively gleamed from decades of varnish.

“Is this your idea of a joke, Potter?” he asked, cocking his head toward the sign. “The Red Lion, really?”

“I like it.”

Draco snorted. “Of course you would – it practically screams Gryffindor. Poor Theo and I won’t survive. Or perhaps this was all part of your plan and we are meant to be Slytherin sacrifices.”

“So dramatic,” grinned Harry. “Come on – enough stalling. We’re doing this.” Then his face softened, “Unless you really don’t want to.”

Deep down Draco knew he’d do almost anything for the Boy-Who-Lived. And as nervous as he was to see Harry’s friends, he had a feeling that Weasley would be okay considering the ginger had sought him out not long ago.

“Afraid, Potter?”

“You wish,” was the prompt reply before the dark-haired boy pushed open the pub door and led Draco inside.

The space was softly lit and wooden furniture stained what he guessed was supposed to be a comforting oak red was arranged around the space. It wasn’t hard to make out where their respective friends sat at table in the back, as the flash of Weasley’s red hair was a beacon. Harry reached over and squeezed his hand, and Draco nodded and walked toward the table, affecting the easy, languid gate from his life before the War. As he neared, he saw that Luna was sitting with the group. He quirked an eyebrow at Harry.

Harry shrugged, “It’s Luna. She probably heard about this get-together on the wind or something.”

They came to a stop at the table’s edge, and Draco immediately realized his mistake. Granger was practically plastered to Ron’s side, while Lavender was looking miffed and bored. Shit. He’d forgotten that for a bit there both young women had both fought for Weasley’s affections. But that had been so long ago, and Theo’s presence, with his hand on Lavender’s thigh should have clued Granger off that there was no need for concern. It was a little reassuring that such a bright witch could be clueless about matters of the heart.

“Hey,” said Harry. “See you beat us here.”

“I thought you were raised to be punctual, Draco,” said Theo.

“Sorry – there was a matter of urgent business that delayed me.”

“Yes, working on the Saviour’s wand must take a great deal of attention,” said Luna, her eyes staring upwards and unfocused on them.

Draco froze, and he heard Harry make a strangled sound beside him.

“He’s making a wand for you?” asked Granger. “You didn’t mention that.”

Harry must have recovered himself as he said, “I asked him to months ago, but I don’t think he has started on that yet.”

“Yes, there is much to learn about you and your wand,” said Luna. “I’m sure Draco needs more time to acquaint himself with everything.”

Draco was hard pressed to keep from giggling like a madman.

“I see you don’t have any drinks yet,” said Harry, his voice sounding a bit off.

“No, we don’t,” said Lavender. “We all thought it would much more agreeable to sit here and pointedly not look at each while we waited for you.” His friend turned to look at Granger, “Are you going to be like this all night, Hermione? I snogged your boyfriend back in sixth year. Big deal. I’d think after helping to save our World, survive the War, and be working toward your law degree that you’d have gotten over a childhood infatuation.”

Draco watched as Granger’s face whitened, while Weasley’s turned a light shade of red.

“And I have no idea why anyone is focused on my silly little relationship with Ronald in the distant past when the real item of business is that Harry and Draco are shagging.”

Now Harry flushed while Draco did his best not to look smug.

“Gryffindors,” muttered Theo as he waved his hand at Granger and Weasley.

“You forget I’m a Gryffindor,” said Lavender.

“Sometimes I wonder if the Sorting Hat messed that one up.” He put up his hands in mock surrender when Lavender glared at him. “I grant you, you have the heart of a lion, but your mind is completely Slytherin.”

“She wasn’t like that in school,” mumbled Weasley.

Lavender and Hermione both directed frowns at the unfortunate redhead. Then Lavender smiled and said, “That’s true. I was different in school. None of us are the same as we were then.” She turned to gaze at Theo, “I don’t know if I said more than a few words to Theo at Hogwarts. He was a such a posh-sounding, superior-looking Slytherin.” Then she turned to Draco, “And who’d have thought that one-day I’d consider Malfoy to be my dearest friend.”

“Who’d of thought Harry and Malfoy would ever be an item,” said Neville appearing from behind them holding a tray of filled pints. He tipped his head at Luna who’d clearly invited him if one went by the serene smile on her face as she looked at the tall Gryffindor.

“I did – I called it,” sighed Weasley.

“What?” exclaimed Harry.

“Wait – let me pass these out first,” said Neville handing everyone a pint. “And we better all sit down for this.”

They all crammed around the table.

Weasley sipped his pint before he said, “Well, Harry was always looking for Malfoy’s name on that bloody map. I know for a fact that while we were in that wretched tent and on the run he looked for his name most evenings. And during six year I just wanted them to snog already and get it out of their systems. Harry practically stalked the pasty wretch.”

“That’s because I thought he was up to something,” said Harry. He waved a hand at Draco, “I mean look at him, he’s clearly always up to something.”

“Only when it involves you,” Lavender stage whispered. Draco shot her an affronted look. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“I mean, Malfoy makes a degree of sense,” mused Weasley.

“Excuse me?” said Draco.

The ginger shrugged, “No, really. I mean, Harry has a type.”

“True,” Granger agreed, her face thoughful. “Everyone he’s ever been remotely interested in has had a slender, athletic build.”

“And they’ve all been Seekers,” added Weasley.

He heard Harry choke on his pint beside him. Draco turned to look at the Gryffindor. “So . . . I’m not entirely out of character for you then?”

Harry flushed.

“You’re the first Slytherin,” Weasley added in a cheery tone. “And the first bloke that I know of.” The ginger took another pull from his pint before continuing, “Oh - and the first one to do time in jail. So you’ve got all that going for you to set you apart.”

“Cheers,” drawled Draco.

“His aura is different from the others,” said Luna. Everyone turned to look at the sole Ravenclaw in their midst. “His aura is different from most people’s actually.”

“Aura?” asked Granger. “That sounds like something Trelawney would be on about.”

Lavender shushed her former dormmate, “Professor Trelawney might have been a few exploding snap cards shy of a full-deck –”

“Most of the cards shy,” said Theo, who narrowly avoided the light thwack Lavender meant for him. Weasley, across the table from Lavender, felt safe enough to chuckle.

“My point is that Trelawney could be right at times. She was the one who prophesized about Harry and You-Know-Who. And even if she couldn’t read auras herself, she had us read about them. I think perhaps Luna is attuned to people on another level and can see their auras.”

He stared at the blond girl, and her eyes met his and he saw nothing in their depths that would make him doubt her sincerity. So while he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know the answer, he couldn’t help but ask, “What color is my aura, Luna?”

The blond girl tilted her head, “You can’t sense it for yourself, Draco?”

He shook his head.

“Really? I thought for sure you’d know. You are so used to sensing magic in the core of a wand I thought you’d be able to sense it in your own core.”

Neville coughed, “Luna, what color is his aura?”

“Oh. It’s black.”

Everyone at the table became unnaturally still. He tried not to let the news hurt him. Of course his bloody aura was black.

“That doesn’t mean what you probably think it does,” said Lavender, the first to recover the ability to speak. “It’s not a common aura color. An overly simplistic understanding of a black aura is that stands for depression and anger. But that isn’t correct. Black is often the color for those who have a protective shield concealing their emotions and intentions. It can also be a sign that a person is unable to forgive themselves.”

He felt Harry’s hand grasp his under the table.

“Yes,” agreed Luna as she fiddled with a pair of dangly, mismatched earrings. “In order to understand someone with a black aura, you have to approach them with an open mind and be willing to try and understand the world from their perspective.” Her eyes met Draco’s, “Don’t worry. This is just temporary. Your true aura will be revealed in time, and I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Draco felt his eyes sting. He’d expected tonight to be a shit-show but he had expected that would be because of his reception by Harry’s best friends, not because of an aura reading. Fucking hell.

“Luna’s reading auras and Harry and Lavender have taken up with poncy Slytherins. I think I’m going to need another round,” said Weasley getting up from the table to head to the bar. “Move yourself and come help, Malfoy.”

Dazed, Draco stood up and followed Weasley to the bar, but the ginger didn’t make any effort to flag the bartender.

“I used to think Luna was mental,” said the redhead. “Positively barmy. But now I know better. I think she’s . . . well . . . that she has an innocent soul. And she may be a bit of seer. Who knows. Anyway, she means well, you know?”

Draco nodded. He did know.

“Look, it’s not like any of us are going to give a shit about your aura color, but just so you know, I’m going to give you hell – and Harry hell – about you two being – well – whatever it is you are,” said the Gryffindor waving a hand at him. “It’s my right after surviving all you two put me through in . . . well . . . every year of school together. But it’s all fine, Malfoy. You make Harry happy. I’ll probably always think of you as a posh git, but you’ll be Harry’s posh git, so it’ll be okay.”

“I’ll be . . . Harry’s posh git?”

Weasley nodded as if confused by the question. “Yeah.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

His companion shrugged. “What can I say. I have a gift with words.”

Draco almost snorted, but he restrained himself even though he was unable to keep his face from slipping into a grin. He recovered quickly and asked, “What about Granger.” Of all of them, Granger had the most reason to despise him. He’d been merciless at school – calling her wretched names and claiming to be superior because of his pureblood.

The ginger sighed, “She’s protective of Harry in ways that I’m not. She . . . she never left him the ways I did – she worries about him. She’ll need some time, but she’s as clever as they come. Once she sees that Harry is happy and safe with you, she’ll come around.” Light blue eyes met his. “You will keep him safe, won’t you?”

“I . . . yes. I’ll try.”

“All right then.” Weasley turned away wave at the bartender.

Minutes later, a fresh round of beer procured, he slid back in his seat beside Harry.

“I think you will actually survive tonight,” whispered Harry.

“The night’s not over yet,” he said reaching for his pint.

“Well if you do survive, do you think Ollivander will let you have some time off? A long weekend maybe?”

He paused, the pint glass raised halfway to his lips. “Why?”

“Let’s go away on a holiday. A mini one. Just us. And we’ll fly together.”

He felt Harry’s hand squeeze his thigh, and those impossibly green eyes met his. Merlin, he wanted this boy – wanted him always – wanted to go away with him on holiday.

“Just be sure to pack a snitch,” he said, and the Gryffindor beside him grinned.

Chapter 70: Highland Holiday

April in the Highlands was more brisk than London, but Draco was so delighted he didn’t even mind how cold and overcast the day was.

“Not a good day to fly,” said Harry, still holding onto him after apparating them. Not just anyone could have performed a side-along apparition over such a distance, but Draco knew that Harry wasn’t just anyone.

“That anxious to lose to me, Potter?”

“Oh, I see you packed your overly inflated ego for our mini-break.”

Draco jostled Harry’s shoulder with his own. “Maybe the weather will be better tomorrow.”

The Gryffindor grinned as he took Draco’s hand in his, “I’m sure there will be plenty in the cottage to entertain us.”

“Let’s go make sure Kreacher has arranged things to my standards.”

“You own this place, Draco, of course it’ll be up to your standards.”

“I haven’t been here since I was a child. It could be a ruin for all I know.”

As they walked along a path around a hill, the Boy-Who-Lived teased him about being so wealthy that he had too many properties to remember them all. He’d never admit it, but it was a fair point. He wasn’t sure how the Malfoys had wound up with this property. From what he did remember about it, it would have been far too quaint a place for his father to ever consider spending time in. Indeed, the only time he’d spent at it had been when his mother had brought him here to swim in the lake the summer before he started school. The water had been bitterly cold – far colder than the air, and the face of shock he’d made as he’d waded in had made his mother laugh. They’d stayed one night, and he’d lain awake while she’d stroked his hair and told him stories about her time at Hogwarts. It had been rather magical – even more so as it had just been the two of them. Without his father’s demanding presence Draco had just gotten to be a boy.

“Oh my god,” said Harry. “Is this place listed?”

“Listed?” he asked confused. He looked ahead, and at the end of the path on the edge of a lake sat a cottage of stone. A chimney rose from each end, and a pair of dormer windows made it look snug and welcoming.

“It looks ancient – in a good way – like it has always been here,” said Harry.

“You like it?” asked Draco, captivated by Harry’s hair as it ruffled in the wind.

The other boy turned to look at him, “It’s beautiful.”

Draco felt the smile start in his eyes before it spread to his whole face. The boy before him was so fucking lovely. Did Harry have any idea how much Draco cared for him? He wanted to say something – tell the boy that when Draco looked at him he thought he could feel the darkness of his past burn away. But he didn’t say this to Harry – not yet. Instead he squeezed his Chosen One’s hand and said, “Come see the inside and let’s see if it satisfies you.”

The inside of the house turned out to satisfy Harry immensely, especially the wide sofa in the living room before the fireplace . . . and the large bed on the top floor . . . and the deep clawfoot tub beside a window with a view of the lake.

“Salazar,” sighed Draco as he absently ran his fingers in circles on Harry’s bare chest as the other boy lay back against him in the warm bath. “I guess Scottish air agrees with you, Potter.”

While he couldn’t see Harry’s full face in this position, he could imagine the other boy smirking as he said, “I didn’t know if you were going to survive the second round. For a former seeker, you are worryingly out of shape – all that panting and gasping. Thank god we had dinner after the sofa or I don’t think you’d have had the stamina to continue.”

Draco retaliated by sliding his fingers to Harry’s side and tickling him. The Gryffindor squirmed, splashing the water as he howled, “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for questioning my virility,” said Draco before relenting and stilling his fingers. “Besides, it was the first time anyone . . . ummm . . . you know.”

“Blew you?”

Draco dropped his head back onto the rim of the tub. “Merlin, you are so crass. But yes, that was the first time I’d been on the receiving end of such . . . attention, and while I assume you are a relative novice, I think your efforts were . . . passable.”

“Passable?” said Harry turning his face up towards Draco.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you were bloody brilliant, okay.”

“Go on.”

“I . . . you . . .” he stammered even as he remembered the feeling of Harry’s mouth, wet and hot, on his cock. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words – not in the bright light of the bathroom.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Kneazel. The saying is ‘kneazel got your tongue.’”

They stared at each other a moment before they both shrugged, silently agreeing that they’d discovered yet another difference between those raised in the Muggle world and those raised in the Wizarding world.

“Why is it then when you are working me over you can talk so dirty, but when it’s about yourself you blush -”

“I don’t blush!”

With effort Harry sat up and turned in the tub. Water sloshing dangerously close to the brim. The other boy reached out a hand and held it to Draco’s chest before skimming it up his collarbone and neck before whispering along his cheek bone.

“You do blush. You’re turning pink as we speak.”

“I’m flushed from the heat of the tub, Potter.”

Dark brows raised in disbelief. “Fine. Tell me then – what would you like me to do?”

Draco swallowed. Oh fuck. What wouldn’t he like his Chosen One to do with him. He liked everything they’d tried so far. His gaze ran over Harry’s naked body, the water concealing nothing. And as much as he admired the Gryffindor’s lean, wiry frame, there was one feature that checked all his boxes.

“Your eyes,” he said at last. “I . . . I can never get enough of them. I want them looking into mine while I make you come.”

The other boy shook his head, his lips hinting toward a smile. “No, this is about you and what you want – about what gets you off.”

“That is what gets me off – knowing that you are with me in the moment.”

“Fuck,” Harry sighed. “You are so fucking hot.” The other boy grasped the sides of the tub and pushed himself up. Water dripped off his body. He gazed down at Draco with those hypnotic eyes before stepping out of the bath. “I think,” he said, holding out a hand to Draco, “That it’s time we took this conversation back to the bed, don’t you?”

Draco took his hand.

 

He felt the covers of the bed shift. He cracked open the eye that wasn’t buried in the pillow and saw a very naked Harry scurry across the room to one of the windows. He closed his eye, not quite ready to wake up from his nap.

After a moment, he heard the unmistakable sounds of an owl flapping around the space while Harry half-whispered to the bird in an attempt to encourage it back outside.

“Christ, that hurt,” he heard the Gryffindor squawk. “I don’t know where the treats are. Ow! No more snapping at me. Get out – shoo – shoo.”

He smiled to himself as he heard the owl bark in disapproval before the window clicked closed. A few seconds later the covers shifted again as Harry climbed back into the bed.

“Have trouble handling the poor little owl, Potter? I mean it’s not like you defeated a dark lord or anything.”

“Hush you,” said Harry poking him in the ribs.

Draco humphed and rolled from his stomach onto his side. Harry was sitting up in bed, leaning on a pillow against the headboard, an open letter in his hand.

“Granger and Weasley making sure I haven’t got their Golden Boy tied to a bed?”

Harry’s eyes didn’t stop scanning the page even as he said, “I don’t really think they’d want the details if you did have me tied to a bed, do you?”

He smiled imagining Weasley’s face if they ever shared information like that with him.

“It’s from Andromeda,” said Harry. He stopped perusing his letter to hand Draco a photograph. “Here, take a look at this.”

Draco turned onto his back and wedged a pillow under his head and neck before accepting the photo. It was a picture of Teddy, clutching his stuffed wolf as he skipped between clumps of bluebells. A wide smile was on his face, and his hair and eyes were so like his father that Draco’s heart ached.

“He looks like Lupin,” said Draco as he watched the image of the smiling child in an endless loop of joy.

“He does,” Harry agreed. “But I think he has his mother’s nose and possibly her smile. I’m not sure if I ever saw Remus smile in such a carefree way, so I guess I can’t really compare.”

Draco regarded the picture again. “He looks so happy.”

The Boy-Who-Lived sighed and laid the photograph and letter down on the nightstand. “I know that Andromeda loves him fiercely, but I still worry about him you know? I want to be involved with him as much as possible – make sure he knows he is loved by lots of people.”

“He is loved,” said Draco. He felt the familiar surge of guilt when he thought about how he’d failed to save Teddy’s parents, but he pushed it back by reminding himself that Teddy was alive and free. If the Dark Lord had won, he doubted either Andromeda or her little grandson would still be breathing.

“I know he is loved, it’s just – I think of how we were raised.”

“What do you mean?”

“After my parents died, I was taken to my maternal aunt’s. Dumbledore left me there. And my aunt, she loved to tell the story about how she went to put the milk bottle out in the morning and found me on her doorstep with a letter. That’s what the greatest wizard of our century did, he left a toddler on the stoop in the middle of the night in autumn with a letter. I mean Christ! You wouldn’t leave a dog like that. He didn’t bother to, I don’t know, speak with my aunt and uncle – lessen the blow – and let them know that poor treatment would not be tolerated.”

He stared at the boy beside him, stunned. How the fuck could Dumbledore have been such an arrogant twat? At last he mustered, “That’s messed up Harry.”

“I know! And no one followed up. No one checked up on me to make sure I was okay. I had no idea I had magic until Hagrid came for me when I was eleven. But on top of that, no one made sure I was safe. I . . . I didn’t always have enough to eat. My uncle would box my ears, take a swipe at me, or throw me around if I did so much as put a toe out of place, and both of them would lock me in a cupboard under the stairs for days on end.”

Draco felt his body roil with anger. “They hurt you and didn’t feed you enough?”

Harry shook his head, “I . . . um . . . They didn’t feed me well. I got what was left, which wasn’t always a lot, and if they thought I was bad they withheld food. Between that and being on the run during the War, I think it did a number on me. The pictures of my dad I’ve seen, he was larger than me, and I can’t help but wonder if I was so malnourished at times in my life that my growth was stunted.”

“I . . . I will blast them into the ground,” said Draco, his jaw tense.

“But that’s my point Draco - no one checked on me. Hagrid said the day I was born my name was in the book at Hogwarts. They knew I had magic in me, and no one from the Wizarding World made sure I was being treated well. They had a neighbor who was a squib keep a bit of an eye on me, but no one ever intervened, no one ever protected me from a family . . . a family that didn’t care for me.”

“Maybe they didn’t know,” said Draco, desperately hoping that the people who were supposed to protect Harry hadn’t failed him as a young child as epically as they’d failed him as a teenager.

Harry smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile – not the kind that Draco was used to seeing on the other boy’s face. “Oh they knew. Dumbledore came to collect me the summer before sixth year and he told them – my aunt and uncle – that he knew they had never treated me as a son and he knew they had been cruel to me. I also remember hearing him say that he knew I wasn’t fed enough at my aunt and uncle’s. So yeah, they knew, and no one lifted a finger.”

“Yet another reason I never got on with Dumbledore,” Draco muttered.

“But it’s not just about me, Draco, what about the other kids? What about all the magical orphans of this War? Who is going to make sure they are treated well? And then . . . ” he trailed off.

Draco reached over and brushed the hair out of Harry’s face. “And then what?”

“Then what about you and Sirius and Regulus?”

Draco drew back his hand, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“You were all . . . well . . . you were raised to . . . hate anything related to Muggles and Muggle-borns. And you were all . . . disciplined, rather severely.”

Draco looked away, he couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“I love my mother, Harry. And a part of me will always love my father as much as I don’t like him.”

“Of course you love them, Draco. But you can’t say that you weren’t . . . well . . . mistreated. I heard how your father spoke to you. You may have been raised in splendor and had enough to eat, but you can’t say your childhood was easy. You were put in the position of serving a murderous dark wizard at sixteen. You were fucking branded and no one stepped in – not until it was too little too late. That is beyond fucked up. After your father was imprisoned at the end of our sixth year, Dumbledore and Snape should have gone and gotten you – you and your mother. But they left you there as cannon fodder for Voldemort. That was . . . well it was fucking inexcusable.”

Draco didn’t know where to look. He didn’t know what to say. He’d long known that his upbringing was . . . well . . . twisted. As an only child of an old family he’d been cherished on the one hand, but on the other . . . Harry was right. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been good enough for his father. Hell, even with his father in Azkaban, he probably still wasn’t good enough for Lucius Malfoy. He could almost hear his father’s clipped voice, “Really Draco, it is not becoming for the only heir of my house to be wasting his time making wands. And this . . . ‘relationship’ with Harry Potter is disgraceful.”

He felt Harry’s fingers thread through his own. He turned to see the other boy’s eyes on him.

“Draco, I’m sorry. I – er – made you uncomfortable talking about things you probably don’t want to talk about. I’m just saying, there isn’t any oversight. No one in the Wizarding World is looking out for children. And I worry – I worry that other children will suffer the way we did, and that’s not right. And even . . . Voldemort . . . Tom Riddle - he was born with magic in his veins and he was left to grow up unloved and unwanted in an orphanage full of non-magical children. Like me, he was always going to be the odd, strange boy – the freak. He grew up to be twisted - using his gifts to hurt those around.  By some miracle I grew up to be slightly less fucked up.”

And with those words Harry reminded Draco that he truly was a golden boy. Only someone with a pure heart could look back on the Dark Lord as a child and see him as a sad, lonely boy that never had the benefit of love and kindness.

He took a deep breath, trying to buy himself time to gain control over his voice before saying, “You’re right Harry. You – we – deserved better. Don’t you think it’s time that someone took this on? Protecting the children of the Wizarding world?”

Harry cocked his head, “Yeah, but there isn’t an agency or anyone that does that.”

Draco squeezed the Boy-Who-Lived’s hand. “Harry, you great idiot, it could be you. You could help make sure that other children don’t suffer the way you did. I mean, thank Merlin, that Teddy has a grandmother who is devoted and loving to look after him – but like you said, what about the other orphans of the War? Where are they? Are they safe? Or were they left on the doorstep of strangers in the middle of the night with nothing but a note?”

Harry looked at him, his face a picture of bewilderment.

“You don’t want to be a soldier anymore. You’ve been looking for something meaningful to do with your life. Maybe this is it? At least it is something to think about,” said Draco, using the gentlest voice that he, as a Malfoy, was capable of. When Harry remained silent, he continued, “You were called upon to sacrifice your childhood for the good of the whole fucking world. Are you seriously going to sacrifice your adulthood as well?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .” Harry’s face fell and Draco reached for him.

“You don’t have to answer right now. You don’t have to know the answer. Just promise me you’ll think about it.” Draco squeezed his Gryffindor’s hand again.

The other boy nodded, “Yeah. Okay.”

Draco smiled, and then pulled Harry down further on the bed with him before pulling the covers up higher over them. He snuggled up behind Harry, wrapping the other boy in his arms. He could feel the rise and fall of Harry’s chest under his palms.

“I’ve got you,” he said. He never wanted his Chosen One to feel scared and alone ever again.

 

He awoke to the feel of fingertips stroking up and down his bare back. Merlin, he could get used to this. He stretched and took a moment to revel in the feeling of the soft bed beneath him and the sensation of light touches skimming over his skin.

“Never tickle a sleeping dragon, Potter,” Draco murmured, with his face pressed into the pillow.

Harry laughed, “Isn’t that the Hogwarts motto? “

“It might be, but it is definitely my motto you reprehensible Gryffindor.”

“Mmmm, reprehensible,” said the other boy, whispering in Draco’s ear. “I love it when you show off your vocabulary first thing in the morning, especially in that posh boy accent of yours.”

He smiled. He couldn’t help it. This was everything he’d ever dreamed of. He turned fully onto his side to better see the other boy’s smiling face looking down at him.

“Posh boy with rumpled hair in bed with me,” murmured Harry. “Pretty perfect actually.”

“Harry . . .”

“Mine.”

“Yours,” Draco agreed.

“What makes me reprehensible by the way?”

“Luring me on a holiday and to this bed. Smiling at me like that. That wicked thing you did to me with your tongue yesterday.  You are a bad influence. Surely the Saviour of the Wizarding World should behave better.”

Harry leaned down and brushed kisses along Draco’s jaw as he ran a hand through his hair.

“You want me to be better behaved?” he whispered into Draco’s ear, causing his body to shiver.

“I . . . I want you.”

He could feel Harry smile against him. “Admit it, Slytherins always have a thing for Gryffindors – especially the reprehensible ones.”

Draco reached up and took hold of Harry’s face. “I have a thing for you. Always have, Merlin help me.” He pulled the other boy’s face down to his, and captured his mouth.

When Draco finally let Harry go, his Chosen One said, “I’d like to stay in this bed longer with you, but the weather this morning is as fine as I think we can expect this time of year.”

“Flying?” Draco asked.

“Yeah. Bed after?”

He raised an eyebrow at the beautiful boy beside him, “I could be convinced.”

Harry hurled a pillow at his face and bolted naked out of the bed.

After a quick scramble into clothes they stood outside, brooms in hand. Draco still had his Nimbus 2001 from school, but he could tell at a glance that Harry’s broom was not the famous Firebolt he’d used his last few years at Hogwarts.

The former Gryffindor Seeker must have seen Draco’s question on his face as he said, “It’s a Comet Two Sixty. My Firebolt . . . it was lost in an attack just before my seventeenth birthday.” He held up his broom a bit, “This was Tonks’ broom. Andromeda gave it to me. I didn’t have the heart to replace the Firebolt, it had been a gift . . . from Sirius. Felt right to be riding his cousin’s – er – your cousin as well – to be riding her broom.”

“I can’t claim to have known her,” said Draco, “But I think she would have liked that.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

Draco felt his throat tighten with emotion. He didn’t want their past sadness to overshadow the day, so he cleared his throat and said, “Well, Potter, did you bring the snitch?”

“Like I’d forget.”

“Well get your arse on that broom. I have a snitch to catch.”

“Tell me another one, Malfoy,” grinned Potter mounting his broom.

Draco swung his leg over his own broom and kicked off into the air a second after Harry. He urged his broom forward and flew shoulder to shoulder with the Gryffindor. Fuck, it felt fantastic to be in the air again. He'd only been flying a handful of times since his release. They made a lap around the property, locating the edge of the boundary that kept them invisible to Muggle eyes.

“Think you’ve got the lay of the land, Potter?”

The other boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a snitch, its gold glinting in the light. The Gryffindor grinned and held out his fist. “Let’s see if you can walk the talk, Malfoy.”

“You’re on, Potter.”

Harry unfurled his fingers and for a moment, the golden orb lay still on his palm, and then wings of filament fluttered into being and the snitch was in the air. They both rocketed off in pursuit.

The snitch disappeared in the great expanse of sky. Draco rose higher and higher in the air and swept his eyes downward, looking for a gleam of gold. In his peripheral vision he saw that Harry was doing much the same. He started to fly in a figure eight, eyes searching for the elusive snitch.

“Having trouble, Malfoy?” he heard Harry call.

“Hardly, Potter. I could have caught the snitch moments after you let it go, but it didn’t feel sporting.”

He heard the other former seeker snort in laughter and he turned his face toward the Harry. The Gryffindor smiled at him before saying, “You always were talk, Malfoy.”

Merlin, something had to be seriously wrong with him – this reversion to their old school banter was making him . . . well . . . excited. And Harry looked fucking irresistible mounted on a broom, his black hair ruffling in the wind. They’d better damn well catch this fucking stitch so that he could get Harry back in bed.

And then he saw a flash of light below him and on instinct he dove. The snitch, however, didn’t remain still, it flitted to the right, and as he turned to follow, Harry jostled his way to Draco’s side.

“Back off,” he said, never taking his eyes off the snitch.

“Never,” came the quick retort.

The snitch rose higher in the air, gaining speed, and both he and Harry followed. As his broom caught up with the snitch, he reached out his hand, and Harry did the same. They were shoulder to shoulder, straining for the snitch. But Draco had the advantage now. He was taller and longer limbed than Harry, and with one final stretch his fingers closed around the snitch and trapped it against his palm.

And he laughed aloud. He’d never caught the snitch when facing Harry and he couldn’t help the thrill of exhilaration that surged through him. He swung around and held the snitch out to show off.

The smile died on his face. Harry looked . . . dazed and pale. The former star seeker couldn’t be that upset about losing.

“Harry – what’s wrong?”

“I feel . . . Oh . . . Draco . . .”

The other boy stilled for a moment, and then slipped to the side, falling away from Draco.

Draco hurled the snitch away, and reached desperately for Harry, but the boy tumbled off his mount, and he and the now rider-less broom fall toward the ground.

He dove toward the falling boy, but he knows he won’t reach him in time. He desperately holds out a hand and yells, “Arresto Momentum!”

He thanks Merlin for his skill in casting wandless magic as Harry’s free-fall starts to slow. He knows the spell won’t last indefinitely, so he urges his Nimbus downward, frantic as he tries to get beneath Harry. He maneuvers past the falling boy and pulls to a stop one arm outstretched. Harry’s body falls into him, and Draco wraps his arm tight around him, cradling him in his lap. He utters the spell again, to keep Harry’s weight from toppling them, and with much cursing, gets them both to the ground.

“Harry,” he says, grasping the prone boy the shoulders. “Harry – what’s wrong? Harry?”

There's no response.

He is aware that his heart is fucking pounding and he feels himself start to sweat.

He scans Harry’s body but sees no injuries. He lifts his head and looks around the grounds, but doesn’t see anyone – and the wards on the property should have kept anyone from being able to gain entry and aim a jinx or curse Harry’s way.

He bends back down to his Chosen One, “Harry? Can you hear me? Please wake up. Please.”

The Gryffindor’s eyelids flutter open, and for a moment Draco feels hope. “There you are. Come on Harry, keep waking up so we can get you some help.”

Harry’s lips move, but no words come out. Then a grimace of pain spreads across his face and his eyes close again.

“Harry? Harry – come on – wake up.” The other boy doesn’t so much as stir.

Draco covers his mouth with his hand. He can’t begin to think of what is wrong – Harry was fine – was hurtling through the sky along with him and then he just . . . passed out.

He gains enough control of himself to check and make sure that Harry is breathing and has a pulse. Draco knows the other boy will need medical assistance, but he isn’t sure what is wrong.  Would apparating be safe for whatever condition Harry is in? He looks back toward the house. Maybe he could get him back there and use the floo?

Then he hears Harry’s breath start to catch – the sound filling him with dread.

He releases his wand from its holster. He can feel sweat on his brow. Harry needs help, and he needs it now. He tries to think of how it felt when Harry had offered him his hand in friendship. He clings to that image in his mind and desperately yells, “Expecto Patronum!” And there is nothing. Not even a whisp of magic spouts from his wand. He tries again, changing the memory, and again he is greeted with the same result.

He realizes he is crying when he kneels back down beside Harry and sees droplets land on his face. He tilts Harry’s head trying to further open the airway and make his breaths easier.

He closes his eyes and remembers Harry kissing him the first time, but he is so fucking afraid that he knows the charm isn’t going to work – he can’t grasp and hold onto the goodness of the memory. He tries anyway. “Expecto Patronum!”

He opens his eyes and the only thing before him is Harry – his Harry in need of medical aid that Draco cannot give.

With a trembling hand he pushes back the sleeve of his right arm and exposes the Dark Mark. He looks at the black lines of the screaming skull and snake. Would this image of hate help him now?

He raises his hawthorn wand to the sky and cries, “Morsmordre!”

He resists the urge to pull back from the spell – from a spell he had never once cast despite his Mark. He holds his wand steady and casts with meaning. He needs this to work – Harry needs this to work.

Thunder cracks in the clear sky, and dark clouds pool together and swirl into the wretchedly familiar shape of a huge skull overhead. The jaw hinges open in a silent scream, and a monstrous snake slithers out. The whole image turns a lurid green that blazes bright and defiant in the sky.

He throws down his wand, panting from the stress and the strain and sits down beside Harry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better than this for you,” he whispers as he takes one of Harry’s hands in his own.

He watches his Chosen One’s chest rise and fall in shaky, uneven movements. He hopes like hell it won’t be long now. The Dark Mark will surely create an echo in the Wizarding World. He’s read in the papers that invoking this spell now sets off alarms at the Ministry.

After monitoring half a dozen more of Harry’s struggling breaths, Aurors flash into being, tearing literal holes in the wards with the force of so many wizards and witches arriving. They ring around him, wands drawn. He feels his chest tighten with fear.

He lifts his tear-stained face, his eyes seeking the Auror standing closest to him. “Help him. Please.” He sees the wizard’s wand slash through the air and all goes dark.

Chapter 71: Gryffindors to the Rescue

He was cold . . . and stiff . . . and, Merlin, he just fucking hurt. It fucking hurt to breathe.

And despair seemed to have settled on him like a second skin.

He groaned before attempting a delicate stretch to work the stiffness out of his body. He immediately tensed with pain. His right side hurt. He gingerly felt along his body and sucked in a sharp breath. Fuck.

He opened his eyes and was met by gloom.

Where was he? He forced himself up into a sitting position and turned his head about, looking for his Chosen One. But he was alone in a small room. Where was Harry? Was he okay?

“Harry?” he asked, his voice coming out as a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again, his ribs aching as called, “Harry, where are you?”

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing. He held his right hand against his chest, trying to hold in the pain, while his left hand scrabbled against the side of a rough stone wall so he could steady himself.

The security of the wall afforded didn’t last long. After a moment of contact, waves of sadness washed over him. He gasped. He could only be in one place – a place where misery had permeated the very bedrock – Azkaban.

If he was in Azkaban than Harry was . . .

Oh, Merlin. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t let his mind go there – couldn’t let his mind go there. Harry was fine. He was the Boy-Who-Lived for fucks sake. Whatever had happened to him while they’d been flying couldn’t keep him down – not for long – not when Lord Voldemort hadn’t been able to.

Not long ago Harry had been curled up beside him. Draco had gone to sleep feeling the beat of Harry’s heart under his hands. There’s no way his beautiful Chosen One could be . . . gone. He’d sense it wouldn’t he? Surely his golden boy was so entwined with Draco’s very being that he’d feel it if he . . . No.

It was this place. This fucking miserable place that was warping his thoughts. Harry was fine.

But the voice in his head asked, “If he’s fine, then why are you here?”

He stumbled toward the sole window in the small space. It was narrow and open to the elements. He couldn’t help but shiver. The sun was almost set. He’d lost a day.

He’d lost a day . . . lost his freedom . . . lost Harry.

His eyes burned and he reached for the window ledge for support. The latent misery of the place leeched all sense of hope and happiness from him. For centuries, he knew, the island had been infested with dementors, and something of their foulness had worked its way into the foundation of the wretched place. He tried to move his hand from the stonework, but he seemed frozen to the spot. In the last light of the setting sun, he saw his pale fingers splayed over deeply etched letters in the stone. “Bellatrix.”

He wrenched his hands free and staggered to the middle of the small space. His wand was gone, but he tried desperately to cast a wandless lumos. The spell, one he had long ago mastered without his wand, would not take root. “Lumos!” he shouted, trying again to summon the light, but again the magic failed. “Lumos – lumos!”

A loud banging on the door caused him to spin in that direction.

A bolt hole in the door opened and he saw a sliver of light before he heard a man holler, “Quiet down in there for Merlin’s sake. The whole place is warded. You can cast all you want, but nothing will happen.” The small opening slammed closed and he was alone in the darkness once more.

He reached in his pocket, seeking the cool, comforting surface of the snitch he always carried. It was gone. He checked his other pocket. Nothing.

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

He could almost hear his aunt’s mad laughter echoing around the cell.

He dropped to his knees on the floor and curled in on himself. He needed to shield his mind. He hadn’t used occlumency in ages – Curtis had encouraged him not to as it stymied his therapy and recovery to shut off his deeper emotions and feelings, but right now he needed it to preserve his sanity. He felt rusty as he concentrated on erecting his mental shields. When he’d been with Harry, he’d wanted to feel everything. Now, thinking of Harry – worrying about Harry – was making him even more vulnerable to the evil of Azkaban. He allowed himself one final thought of his brave Gryffindor and his mind was filled with a vision of emerald eyes just as he pulled the last barrier in place.

 

He thought he heard shouting. It was annoying him and he wanted it to go away.

The shouting didn’t stop, it just intensified. He focused on the nothingness he’d created in his mind – it was . . . peaceful, but the fucking noise was eroding away that feeling. As if from afar he thought he felt hands on his shoulders, then his face.

“Draco! Draco – wake up.”

He tried to roll away from the voice, but he was held in place.

“Wake up, Draco. We’re getting you out of here, but you have to wake up.”

This had to be a cruel dream. Unless . . . unless it was Harry. He let down his mental shields a sliver and cracked open his eyes.

He could make out a blur of color above him.

“What did you do to him? I will sue you all to hell and back and bring this god-forsaken fortress down around your ears if you’ve harmed him.”

That wasn’t Harry’s voice . . . but it was a voice he knew . . . Meredith. His protective barriers started to crumble and he was left shaking and feeling the onslaught of his grief.

“Not our fault the little Death Eater’s guilt chewed him up in this place,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say. “Just be glad he wasn’t here when the dementors were, he’d not have survived it if this is how he reacted after just three days here.”

He felt an arm force its way under his shoulders and prop him up to a sitting position.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” Draco blinked and turned to this new voice.  Longbottom’s kind face was staring back him. “We’re leaving.”

“Harry?” he rasped, needing to know.

“He’s recovering at St. Mungo’s,” said Longbottom

The last of the walls he’d erected shattered. He folded forward, unable to hold himself together. Strong hands grasped him, not letting him slump to the floor.

“We’ve got you, Draco,” said Meredith. “We’ve got you, and we’re getting you out of here.”

Soundless sobs wracked his body. Harry was alive. His Harry. Alive.

His mind flashed back to the image of a limp and battered Harry being lugged across the courtyard at Hogwarts. He’d thought all hope had been lost . . . he’d thought Harry had been lost.

“Draco,” said Meredith. “We’re getting you out of this room now. It’s . . . foul in here and Mr. Longbottom and I don’t want to stay a second longer.”

“The cell . . . it was . . . Bellatrix’s,” he said.

Longbottom’s grip on him tightened.

“Sorry,” said Draco, ashamed that his aunt had caused so much pain to the kind Gryffindor and his family.

“Not your fault,” said Longbottom as he and Meredith worked to heave Draco to his feet. Once up, they each wrapped an arm around his waist and hoisted each of his arms over their respective shoulders. Supported between them they started dragging him toward the door.

A pair of guards stood flanking the cell door. They didn’t look a bit abashed at the state Draco was in.

“Bastards aren’t even pretending to help,” he heard Meredith grumble.

“Magic would be nice right about now,” muttered Longbottom. “I’d make Malfoy lighter and then I’d hex the guards.”

Feeling bad for the trouble he was causing, Draco tried to walk, but his feet just dragged at the floor.

“Hold still, Draco,” said Meredith. “We’ve got you. None of this is your fault.”

Once they’d cleared the cell, Draco felt a bit more in control of his body. He let the pair get him down the length of the corridor to a set of stairs. He’d regained control of his body enough that he could bear weight and help shuffle down one slow step at a time.

“Just warning you, Malfoy, but Lavender’s below,” said Longbottom. “They’d only let the two of us up to get you. She’s fit to be tied, so let’s pull it together, yeah, so she doesn’t combust.”

Draco had no idea how to look like he wasn’t a miserable mess. He was still in the clothes he’d put on when he and Harry had raced outdoors to go flying. They were dirty and wrinkled from the cell floor. Still, when they reached the bottom of the stairs he attempted to walk more, but as his body regained feeling his side was sharp with pain. He gasped, but tried to push his way through it.

“What’s wrong?” asked Meredith

Draco shook his head.

“Tell me,” said Meredith. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He drew a shaky breath, wincing as he did so. “My side. It’s been sore since I . . . since I woke up the first time.”

Meredith’s brow furrowed. “Did you hurt yourself before you were brought here?”

Draco shook his head. Harry had been the one falling from a broom, not him.

“May I look?” asked Meredith.

Merlin, he didn’t want anyone looking at him – especially not at his scarred torso, but considering the state he was in, it wasn’t like he had much dignity left to cling too.

“Fine,” he said, resigning himself. Longbottom helped hold him up as Meredith carefully peeled his shirt upward. Looking down, Draco saw a large, purplish wound decorating his ribs.

“How did this happen?” Meredith asked sharply.

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “I woke up hurting. I don’t remember doing anything.”

“I have a guess,” his attorney growled before gently tugged down Draco’s shirt and taking his weight again.

After a hellish amount of time they came out of another corridor and he could see the gate ahead. Draco wanted to weep, he was so thankful to be heading away from this place, but the sight of Lavender waiting helped him hold himself together. He watched her expression darken.

“What did they do to you?” she asked as she rushed toward him. He couldn’t help but gasp when her hands pressed against his abdomen. She pulled away. “Draco?”

He shook his head, “Oh, nothing. Put me in my dear old aunt’s cell. Glad you trio of Gryffindors found the time to spring me.”

“I couldn’t even find you at first,” said Meredith. “I thought you’d were at the detention level in the Ministry.”

“Nah,” said Longbottom, “When they think you’ve made an attempt on the Saviour’s life they throw your arse in Azkaban.”

“Will he be . . . alright?”

“He’s being treated by the best mediwizards,” said Meredith. “He woke up this morning, but has, I understand, gone back to sleep.”

He couldn’t help but notice that Meredith wasn’t directly answering his question.

When they drew up to the gate, Meredith went to collect their wands. He stood between his two friends and asked in a hushed tone, “I couldn’t get him to wake-up. What’s wrong with him?”

He watched as the Gryffindors exchanged a glance.

“They’re saying he was suffering from exhaustion,” said Lavender. “But . . .”

“But what?” he asked, feeling his anxiety rising.

“But you could tell that Hermione and Ron were worried – more worried than they should be over a case of exhaustion,” said Longbottom.

“We went to St. Mungo’s to see him, Neville and I,” said Lavender. “We were there this morning when he woke up. He didn’t wake for long – just long enough to ask after you. Hermione told him you’d been arrested for casting the Dark Mark and for hurting him. He became – well – he said that Kingsley had better get his arse in gear and fix this mess. It was rather . . . he was . . .”

“It was bloody brilliant,” said Longbottom.

Lavender’s brows drew together, “Well he wasn’t himself.”

“He said you’d never hurt him, that he remembers falling, and that you caught him,” said Longbottom.

“I . . . I never want to hurt him. He did fall, and I did catch him. I couldn’t help him after though – I didn’t know what was wrong with him. I cast . . . well . . . you know . . . I cast it so help would come.”

Lavender looked at him with such a look of shock that Draco was quite glad Longbottom had a hold of him so that he was steadier on his feet. Before his friend could utter whatever thoughts churning inside, Meredith approached with three wands.

“Your wand was confiscated by the Aurors, Draco,” apologized the attorney. “We’ll do battle about getting it back, but for now I suggest we leave this place.”

Draco agreed with this. He just wanted to get the hell out of Azkaban and get right to Harry.

As soon as he crossed out of the walled fortress, he felt his mind clear. The rock of an island was dark and by no means inviting, but it was a far cry better than Bellatrix’s old cell. He could hear the waves pounding against the shore, but the misery that had made a home in his soul started to lift.

“There’s our portkey,” said Meredith, pointing to a battered old briefcase.

“I need to get to Harry,” said Draco.

“We’re getting you to your mother’s first,” said Lavender. “She wants to see you. And we have to clean this prison filth off of you.”

Draco shook his head, “No. I just . . . I need to see Harry.”

“You can’t,” said Lavender. “You’re not an approved visitor.”

“What?”

“It’s the Boy-Who-Lived we are talking about,” said Lavender, trying to be patient. “If he gets a nose bleed all of the Wizarding World is trying to visit him, so the Ministry has issued a list of approved visitors. It’s mostly Weasleys, the other members of the Golden Trio, a handful of us Gryffindors, and Luna thrown in.”

“You’re not on the list,” said Longbottom, rather stating the obvious in Draco’s opinion.

“But when Harry is well enough, I’m sure he’ll make sure you’re included,” Lavender rushed to say.

A bit of the hopelessness that had threatened to drown him in his cell returned. He wanted to be by Harry’s side.

“It’s a bit more complicated then all that,” said Meredith. “But right now, everyone get a hand on the portkey and we’ll be off in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

 

They landed in his mother’s sitting room. He’s still flanked by his trio of Gryffindors, but finds the room filled with Slytherins. Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Greg, and his mother are all seated in various cream colored upholstered furniture.

“It’s about bloody time you got here,” exclaimed Blaise jumping out of his seat.

His mother made as if to hug him but he held up his hand. “I reek of Azkaban,” he said.

“As if that matters,” she said before folding him in her arms.

He stood there stiffly, unable to relax into her. His Harry was still in St. Mungo’s after all.

His mother pulled back, her pale eyes met his, “Were you really with Harry Potter?”

He swallowed. He hadn’t told her that they were . . . seeing each other, but he owed her an answer so he said, “We’re friends.”

“Oh, Draco,” she said, sounding . . . well . . . worried. He wanted to ask her why she was concerned, but he couldn’t in this room full of people. “Should I summon some food for you?”

While he hadn’t eaten in days, he couldn’t countenance the idea of eating while the dirt of the prison weighed him down.

“Now that I’ve seen you safe at home,” said Meredith, “I’m off to wage war on The Prophet.”

“They printed the most awful things about you,” said Pansy. “Blaise incendioed all the copies in the house though, so don’t ask for them for self-flagellation.”

“Yes,” said his mother raising one of her eyebrows, “He got a bit carried away and scorched the top of one of the tables.” She ran a hand over his hair. “And you were right, darling, you do reek. Let’s see about getting you clean.”

"I'll be going too," said Longbottom.  "I'm going to go check on Harry.  I'll send news, yeah?"

Draco gave the Gryffindor a grateful look.  "Thank you."

“Don’t leave this house,” Meredith warned.

“But Harry-”

Meredith leaned toward him, “For the moment you are under house arrest pending Harry Potter’s recovery and his continued assertion of your innocence.”

“House arrest!” he said, his voice too loud for the space. He noticed his friends looking away. Only Meredith met his gaze.

“Yes. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. But the truth will come out. And besides, it’s too dangerous for you to be seen out right now,” said his attorney. “Once the truth comes out and The Prophet prints a lengthy and apologetic retraction you may visit him, but not before.”

“But-” he started to protest.

“Draco,” warned his mother. “It’s best that we not detain Mr. Meredith. He has work to do for you.”

Meredith nodded at his mother in thanks before walking to the floo. “And have a healer examine him. He’s got a nasty bruise on his ribs. I want them to do an analysis of it as well.”

“You’re injured?” his mother said, her eyes scanning him.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Meredith reached the hearth. “Behave,” he warned even as he neatly pinched floo powder between his fingers. “You’ve already gone and cast a Dark Mark, don’t be making any further messes for yourself in the meantime.”

He started to retort, but his mother interrupted him. “Go upstairs and bathe unless you want to see the floo flames.”

If he’d been eleven he would have stomped his foot. As it was he grimaced and hurriedly marched from the room. As he mounted the stairs, pain shot through his side. His breath caught for a moment, but he forced himself to keep moving through it. At the top of the stairs he let himself rest for a moment and the sharpness in his side leveled out into an ache.

“Draco?”

He turned to see Pansy and Lavender hurrying up the stairs after him.

“Draco, take it easy on yourself,” said Pansy.

“It’s nothing,” he said as he headed into the room he thought of as his. Both girls followed him in. “Meredith and Longbottom already saw what was wrong and a healer is on their way.”

“You were just extracted from Azkaban after your attorney and fucking Harry Potter both had complete meltdowns on the Minister of Magic,” said Pansy. “What happened to you is not nothing. Let us help take care of you.”

He stared at Pansy. He loved her – he did. She’d been his friend for practically his whole life, but even she hadn’t seen the scars on his body. He shot Lavender a desperate look. It was enough that Meredith and Longbottom had seen them today, but he hadn’t been . . . himself at the time. He was being pathetic he knew, but Lavender had scars and understood all too well how people could look at you differently because of them.

“Pansy, could you go run the bath for our filthy friend here?” asked his Gryffindor protectress. “I’ll get him ready.”

His Slytherin friend looked between them and sighed. “Yes, alright.” She headed into the adjoining bathroom and after a moment he heard the sound of running water.

Lavender turned to him and said, “Let me see what’s bothering you.”

Draco nodded and started to pull off his jumper, but sucked in a breath at the pain the movement caused. Lavender lifted her wand, “Hold still. I can help you.”

She murmured a spell and his jumper parted down the middle. She carefully helped him pull the sleeves down his arms.

“I don’t want to think about why you know how to undress someone that efficiently,” he said as he stared at his discarded jumper on the floor.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she said. “It’s part of the basic healing courses I’m taking as I learn more about physical therapy.”

She repeated the incantation, and his undershirt parted and hung open. He saw his friend’s eyes grow wide. She stepped closer to him, and he resisted the urge to cross his arms over his naked chest.

“Oh, Draco,” she said. “How did that happen?”

He glanced down and saw a large, purple bruise on his right side. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said.

“You didn’t fall from your broom did you?”

“No – no, I didn’t hurt myself at all during the flight or landing. It was Harry who . . . fell. And after – well the Aurors knocked me out.” He couldn’t understand why his friend was looking so concerned over a bruise when it was Harry who lay in a hospital bed.

Lavender frowned, staring at his injured side. “An experienced healer should be on their way, and I don’t want to do anything that will interfere with their ability to cast an exploratory charm to help find out how this happened. But I could . . . cast a small pain relief charm. Are you alright with me doing that?”

He had a feeling that both he and Lavender would feel better if he allowed her to help him. He nodded at her, and his friend wasted no time in casting a localized pain relief charm on his injury. He immediately felt some relief.

“Bath’s almost ready!” called Pansy. “Make yourself decent before I come out.”

Lavender turned away from Draco and grabbed a dressing gown off the bed. She helped him slide into it and loosely belted it around him. “He’s ready,” she said.

Pansy emerged from the en suite. “So, how bad’s the damage?”

“I didn’t do a diagnostic charm, but I’m afraid he may have a cracked rib. Can you let his mother know?”

“Narcissa is going to be wild,” observed Pansy as she headed toward the door.

“She’s not the only one,” muttered Lavender before she turned to “Bath, now,” she ordered.

He decided that now was not the time to argue with Lavender Brown, and he dutifully allowed himself to be herded into the bathroom. Pansy had filled the tub with hot water and bubbles.

“Climb in,” said Lavender.

“For Salazar’s sake, I think I can be trusted to bathe myself,” he said.

“You will not be leaving my sight until the healer arrives. I let you go off on holiday for a mere weekend and look what happens – you get your arse sent to Azkaban.”

Well, he couldn’t really argue with that, but Merlin, he wasn’t a child. “At least turn around while I climb in,” he said.

“Do you think you have anything I’ve haven’t seen before?” But even as she said this, Lavender turned and faced the wall.

“I don’t want to think about the parts of Theo you’ve seen, thank you very much,” sniffed Draco as he let the robe fall to the floor before he discarded the remainder of this clothing. He grabbed hold of the edge of the tub and climbed in. The water was almost instantly soothing. Pansy must have put some specialty bath potions in. With a sigh, he lowered himself fully into the bath. The movement caused his side to twinge with pain despite the charm Lavender had cast. And fuck, he wanted to wallow for a time, but it felt selfish to be dramatic about a bruise and a possibly cracked rib when Harry was far worse off. So he went through the motions of sloshing water on his exposed chest and arms. Since the bubbles offered him coverage, he let Lavender know she could turn back around. When she did, she came and sat on a stool by the tub.

“Godric, Draco,” she said. “Did you really cast the Dark Mark?”

He stared at the bubbles in the tub, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “I can’t cast a patronus.”

She groaned as she poured water over his head, wetting down his hair. “Fuck a patronus – Harry has a house elf. Did you not think to summon him?”

“Oh fuck,” breathed Draco. Kreacher. Why the fuck hadn’t he thought of calling for his aid? The elf surely would have come, but in the moment, Draco hadn’t been thinking. He’d been desperate – desperate to save Harry. “How the hell did I not think to ask Kreacher?”

“Oh I don’t know,” said Lavender, scrubbing at his scalp with a touch more enthusiasm than necessary. “Maybe it’s because you’ve always lost your head completely whenever Harry is concerned.”

“That’s possible . . .” he mumbled.

“But no, calling a house elf for help never crossed your mind, did it?” said Lavender, sluicing more water down his hair and rinsing shampoo away. At the moment, she appeared to be having the entire conversation herself. “I know you are a Malfoy and a Black, and are therefore genetically predisposed to have a flare for drama, but bloody hell – a fucking Dark Mark.”

“I’m . . . sorry,” said Draco, unsure how to handle this situation, so he settled for taking hold of a wash cloth and scrubbing himself.

He heard his friend take a long breath. This must have helped her recover a bit, as she said, “I’m sorry, but it’s been a long few days. At first the Ministry wouldn’t even tell us where you were. I thought Meredith was going to have a stroke he was so furious. And if Harry . . . if he hadn’t woken and demanded that Kingsley fix this you might still be in that horrible place.”

He turned to look at his friend. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and a tear on the right side of her face followed the fine ridge of one of her scars.

“Shhh . . . Lavender. I’m here. You came and got me.” She didn’t even blink when he reached out and took one of her hands in his soapy grasp.

“It was horrible there,” she said, still crying. “The dementors aren’t even there, but you can feel the sadness in the place – it burrows into you. I kept . . . I kept remembering what it was like to run from Greyback, scared for my life . . . the feeling of falling . . . his claws and teeth raking over me . . .”

He rose to his knees in the bath and leaned over to hold her too him. The scars on her face were cradled against the scars on his chest.

“You were so brave coming there to get me,” he murmured into her hair. “My fierce, lovely Gryffindor. You were so brave for me.”

“No more fucking Dark Marks,” she said. “I can’t . . . I can’t stand to think of you ever going back there.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I’ve got you. You came and got me, and now I’ve got you.”

There was a knock on the door. “A healer is here to see you, Draco,” said Theo, his voice muffled by the door.

“Thank you,” he called,

“We’ll be right out,” Lavender sniffled.

“Lav? Are you okay?” The door opened enough for Theo to pop his head in. Draco could only imagine what it looked like to Theo finding his girlfriend held by a naked man. Draco’s midsection was saved from exposure by the lip of the bathtub.

“Well . . .” said Theo. “This is . . . interesting. Thank Merlin you are gay Draco or I might be concerned.”

“Don’t worry Theo,” said Lavender, wiping away her tears and pulling away from Draco. “I’ve seen all he’s got to offer, and he’s got nothing on you.”

Draco huffed and slid back down in the tub, unbothered that water may have accidentally on-purpose splashed onto Lavender.

Chapter 72: Granger's Theory

“Those bastards! Those motherfucking bastards!” Lavender raged. Her hands were held in fists at her side, and her face was furious.

“It’s okay, Lavender,” he tried to reason.

“You have two broken ribs!”

Draco couldn’t help but notice that Theo was keeping his distance while his Gryffindor fumed, displaying excellent self-preservation as became a Slytherin.

“I can’t believe someone kicked you,” said Greg. “Is the healer sure?”

Blaise, who was lounging across the foot of Draco’s bed said, “They cast an explicare injuriam charm. Of course they’re sure.”

“But who would do that to Draco?” asked Greg, looking confused.

“Merlin, I don’t know how you can still be so innocent,” said Pansy. “It had to be either the Aurors or the guards at Azkaban when he was unconscious.”

Greg wrinkled his nose, “That’s horrible, to kick someone while they are down.”

Well shit. He wasn’t sure why his friend looked so surprised. Of course someone took the opportunity to harm a Death Eater – especially one that was in no position to fight back.

“It’ll be fine,” said Blaise. “Meredith will go ballistic on the Ministry and he’ll ensure that The Prophet prints a full page apology. And as to Draco, his bones have already been mended, but he’ll milk this injury for all its worth. Potter won’t let him lift a finger for a week.”

At the mention of Harry, Draco’s jaw tightened. There still hadn’t been any word from his Chosen One.

He saw Pansy raise an eyebrow. “So exactly how close a friend are you to Potter that your injury would cause him that much concern?”

He felt his stomach sink. He’d somehow not shared with Pansy and Greg that he and Harry were . . . well . . . what they were. He looked at her, his eyes pleading with her to understand. He watched as her own eyes widened with what he supposed was shock and understanding.

“Oh fuck. Fuck Merlin and the hippogriff he flew in on,” she said.

“Pans, I’m-”

“Do you know how many galleons I owe Blaise? Oh fuck me, I’m going to have to get a job to pay him.”

Poor Greg’s brows drew together, “You already have a job Pansy.”

“Well another one then,” said the girl.

“But I don’t get it,” continued Greg, swiveling his head between Draco and Pansy. “How close a friend is Draco with Harry?”

Blaise – the absolute prick - looked simply delighted. “Well you see, Greg, when two people protest about each other entirely too much, it’s often because they have romantic feelings that they don’t want to admit. Give them a little push – a little change in perspective - and voila, they start looking at each other with stars in their eyes.”

Draco aimed a quick kick at his friend. Despite this, Blaise’s merriment didn’t seem to diminish.

“Romantic feelings?” said Greg. “Wait . . . Draco, is Harry Potter your boyfriend?”

He felt himself flush hearing the words “Harry Potter” and “your boyfriend” together. But it was true – Harry was his boyfriend. Harry was his. Merlin, how would the boy who’d had front row seats to his sniping about the Boy-Who-Lived take this news?

“Yeah, Greg,” said Draco. “He is.”

“Well that’s nice, isn’t it,” said Greg, as a smile broke out on his face.

He looked around the room at the faces of his friends. They all looked . . . pleased for him, perhaps a little bit smug, but pleased all the same.

A knock on the doorframe drew his attention away from the group surrounding him. His mother was standing in the doorway.

“Draco, darling, an owl has arrived from Mr. Meredith.” He sat bolt upright in bed, jostling Blaise as he reached wandlessly with his magic toward the letter his mother held. The envelope sailed through the air into his grasp. It took him but a moment to confirm the seal was Meredith’s before he open the missive. He read the lines of familiar handwriting.

“What is it, Draco?” asked Lavender, coming to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

“Granger is coming to his office tonight. She wants to meet with me.”

“But you can’t leave this house,” said Pansy.

Draco shook his head, “Meredith says I have permission to floo to his office as he is my attorney. Besides, Granger won’t come here . . .” He shot a helpless glance at his mother. His mother’s lovely face took on the blank look he’d seen so much during the War. No doubt she too was remembering Granger’s screams as aunt Bellatrix had tortured the girl in their home.

“Draco,” said Lavender, drawing his mind away from the horror of his memory. He passed her the letter. She scanned the page before saying, “Right. Well, you will need to get out of this bed and into some clothes. Hermione has not left you a lot of lead time.”

Blaise eased himself off of Draco’s bed, “Good luck with the Gryffindor princess. Greg, let’s go talk with Mip and see about dinner.”

Pansy gave Draco a gentle hug. “Wear black,” she said. “Be yourself around her.”

Theo reached a hand toward Lavender, but she shook her head, “As the sole Gryffindor of this group, I’m going with Draco.”

“Of course you are,” said Theo. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Soon, it was just Draco and Lavender in the room, with Narcissa standing in the door. Her light blue eyes met his. “You were just healed,” said his mother. “You shouldn’t be out and about so soon.”

“It’s just a meeting,” he said. “I won’t be exerting myself.”

“But you don’t need to go tonight,” said his mother.

“Granger will have news about Harry,” he countered.

“I don’t think your association with him is good for you. Look what’s happened because of it?”

He paused in his efforts to throw back the covers. His mother didn’t think it was good for him to associate with Harry Potter. Seriously? Before he could ask her more, she drew away and was gone.

 

The conference room at Meredith’s law firm was rather nondescript, which made sense Draco supposed as the focus of the room were the people meeting in it. And right now, Hermione Granger, the intellect of the renowned Golden Trio was the primary focus.

She was dressed in casual clothes, having clearly been at the hospital with Harry since shortly after he was brought in. Her hair was larger than usual, a clue that in her stress she’d been running her hands through it. Still, her expression and left no doubt that she was here on business and she meant to handle it efficiently.

“I’d like to speak with Malfoy alone,” said Granger.

“He’s been through hell the last couple of days,” said his Gryffindor Lavender. “I’m not leaving him.”

He shot his friend a look, “It’s fine, Lavender. Give us a few minutes?”

“Draco,” she said.

“Lavender,” he replied.

They stared at each for a long moment before his protectress sighed and said, “Fine. But I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

After the door closed behind her, Draco turned to the remaining witch, “Granger – what is wrong? What is wrong with him?”

“He fell from his broom,” she said, her eyes not meeting his. “He was tired and dehydrated.”

Draco shook his head. He could still feel the weight of Harry’s nonresponsive body in his arms. There was something else wrong – he knew it – his magic knew it. “That’s not it. Tell me . . . please.”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked.

“You know why.”

He watched as Granger took a deep breath before she said, “No, I don’t.”

He glared at her. It was all too fucking much. He’d been in prison for almost three days, Harry was in the hospital, Draco wasn’t allowed to see him, and now Granger was denying him answers.

“I’ve seen that you are well and safe – just as Harry asked. When he wakes again I’m sure he’ll give consent for you to visit.”

She turned to head back to the door and Draco couldn’t bear it, “Granger, wait.” The girl didn’t stop walking. “I love him. That’s why. I love him.”

He didn’t regret what he said. As soon as the words were out he knew they were true – had been true for Salazar knew how long. They were words he’d never said to Harry, but they’d always been there, beneath the surface, implied in every kiss – every caress – every smile that Harry pulled out of him. He loved the insufferable Gryffindor and he’d probably go to his grave loving him.

She paused in her tracks and he watched her body stiffen. After a long moment she turned back to face him.

“Nobody knows what’s wrong with him. Healer after healer has been consulted.”

“And?”

She shook her head, “They don’t know. At first they thought it was a reaction to the second killing curse or perhaps all the dark magic he’s been struck with. But he isn’t cursed. It’s as if his energy has been . . . withering away. It seems to get worse after he exerts himself magically.”

Draco felt his gut clench. Harry had apparated them both to Scotland, and then they’d soared through the sky on their brooms. Had that triggered Harry’s fall?

“What do you think it is?”

“I’m not a healer,” she said.

“Granger, there was never a research problem you couldn’t handle, and he is your best friend. I know you must’ve been looking into it.”

The Gryffindor’s brow wrinkled, “I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t think you can tell me?”

“Both. I have suspicions – no final answers, and I don’t know what I should be telling you.”

He sighed, “I guess I deserve that.” He resisted the urge to use Occlumency. He had to stay in this moment. “Look . . . Granger . . . I know I was a horrible person to you. I have no right to ask you to trust me when it comes to Harry, but I am going to ask you to all the same. He is . . . he is just about everything to me.”

“That day at the Manor,” she began, and Draco felt his heartrate quicken. There could only be one day that the girl meant. “The chandelier fell, and I should have been injured – glass shards at the very least should have grazed me – but they didn’t. They seemed to bounce off of me, as if someone had shielded me. Ron and Harry didn’t have wands, and they both say they didn’t shield me. Who did?”

He lifted his chin and said, “You know who.”

The Gryffindor held his gaze for a long moment before she sighed. “Fine . . . Draco,” she said as crossed the room and sat down at the conference table. “Tell me what you know about the Elder Wand.”

“The Elder Wand?”

The witch nodded.

“Harry was its master. It’s believed to be a powerful wand that changed hands many times throughout history and would sometimes disappear for a lengthy period and be thought to be nothing more than a legend. Ollivander says it has a bloody past, as many a wizard committed murder to gain its control.”

“Harry didn’t,” said Granger, fixing her eyes on him once again. “He took your wand. Or rather, you let him have mastery of your wand. Either way, the wand came to him by means other than murder. And it came to you when you disarmed Dumbledore.”

“I didn’t know that at the time,” he said.

“Lucky for you that no one but Harry figured it out, or Voldemort would have disposed of you without a thought.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m quite aware of how worthless the Dark Lord found me.”

“And then Harry did something that no other master of the Elder Wand has ever done,” she said, breezing right along in her straightforward manner as if she still needed to explain everything just as she had in school. “He gave it up. He didn’t want that power or responsibility. So he entombed it once again with Dumbledore and walked away.”

Of course his noble Gryffindor had willingly relinquished the wand that had been coveted by so many.

“Tell me, Malfoy, what is the Elder Wand made of?”

“Elder wood and thestral hair,” he answered. His mind spun. Elder wood was one of the rarest of wand woods and thought to be deeply unlucky. Only a most exceptional person could hope to be matched with this wood. And thestral cores were most unusual and could only be controlled by a person that mastered death. Damn. Who else on this earth could this wand be meant for but Harry?

“And since the day Harry relinquished the wand his magic has been . . . well . . . not like it was before. He was capable of great magic – he still is – but it exhausts him. The more time that passes, the more noticeable his fatigue becomes. It’s as if his magic is . . . withering.”

“The Elder Wand . . . the Wand of Destiny . . . the Deathstick . . .” he said, listing off the infamous wand’s many names. A wand with this provenance - with this power - would not easily fade out of history. And he thought back to that night that Harry had told him how tired he got now, and how he didn’t feel like himself. Then there had also been the times when Harry had seemed tired and melancholy. He remembered Harry’s look of sadness when he’d said his first wand no longer worked for him the way it once had. Draco had thought it was because Harry had changed since the wand had chosen him – as he clearly had changed – but the Elder Wand had also chosen him. It had chosen him and then Harry had walked away. He drew in a breath. Oh. Oh no. No. It wasn’t possible was it? He’d never heard of such a thing . . . but Harry had a way of defying people’s beliefs on what was possible. Draco knew that a wand’s magical core could erode and fail as their master’s changed, but could a person’s magical center be altered by such a powerful wand? Had all the people who had taken possession of it through wicked means imbibed the wand with evil and turned it into something insidiousness?

“You have a theory?” said Granger watching him closely.

“Are you sure that no one else has ever given up the wand of their own free will?”

Granger shrugged, “Its history is not the easiest to follow, but from what can be gleaned from my research of available materials, it seems that Harry is the first person to do that.”

“I need to see Harry,” he said.

She shook her head. “You can’t.”

“No, I need -” he started to rise, needing to be with Harry. Needing to check him over and feel for his magic like he would in the core of a wand.

“Malfoy, you can’t,” she repeated, but there was a gentleness to her voice that he’d never heard before. “You are on house arrest.”

“His magic . . . I’m afraid . . . I think the wand is leeching him of his magic. It’s drawing on him to get him to reclaim it.”

She smiled at him, but there were tears in her eyes. “Ron was right. You really are a swot.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of hand. “That’s what I’m afraid of too.”

“Does he know?”

She nodded, “Yes. He knows of this . . . theory. But he won’t do it. He won’t reclaim the Elder Wand. I think he’s hoping that the changes were caused by the War. But . . . it’s getting so much worse that I don’t know how long he’ll be able to continue to doubt that the Elder Wand is the problem.”

“You really don’t think he’ll reclaim it?”

The girl shook her head, “No, I really don’t. So many have been driven to murder in their greed for this wand. Harry died to save us all – to end the violence. There is no way he’ll risk unleashing a wand that has caused misfortune and despair since the day it was crafted.”

“So what does this mean?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

Granger could no longer stave off the tears, and he watched as they slid down her face. “I think that this mean Harry is willing to sacrifice himself once again. And this time . . .” her voice wavered, “This time I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”

Chapter 73: Reunited

Lavender had gotten him home. He knew this because she was in the bed beside him, but he couldn’t remember much about the floo journey or getting into his pajamas. She’d been unwilling to let him out of her sight after she’d collected him from Granger. His friend had looked ready to spit nails at her fellow Gryffindor, but Draco had let her know Granger wasn’t the cause of his despair.

At some point he’d fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, but he lay awake now in the dark before the dawn. He turned to look at Lavender’s sleeping face. She was dear to him, but he wished with everything in his being that it was Harry who was beside him now.

He’d been worried about Harry’s fall and hospitalization of course, but what Granger had shared about the Elder Wand and Harry’s magic had caused his worry to spiral.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, filling his bell with air before blowing it out. He does this again two more times, just as Curtis had taught him. He feels a little bit calmer. He reminds himself that he and Granger have only formed a theory. A theory built on conjecture at best. Surely the Boy-Who-Lived wouldn’t be fated to survive the Dark Lord only to be brought down by a piece of wood and a thestral hair. No. Harry deserved better.

But something was wrong with Harry. Harry had shared that with him early on. And Granger was worried – worried enough that she’d cried in front of him. He’d need to do research. He’d ask Granger what materials she’d studied and then add to it. Knowing Granger though, she’d probably scoured the magical libraries of both the Ministry and Hogwarts. He thought for a moment of the Manor’s library. It was extensive and contained many volumes – most of them concealed – that wouldn’t have found a home in either the Ministry’s library or Hogwarts’. Maybe there he could find answers – less fucking scary answers - but that would mean going back to . . .

The Manor.

Fuck. The Manor.

He’d not been there since Snape had taken him away two years ago, and since the end of the War he’d tried his level best not to think about the place. The Dark Lord and his snake had fouled the place, and people had been tortured and murdered there, casting a stain on the house that had been his home. As a child, before Lord Voldemort’s return, the Manor had been a place of happy memories. He’d had almost free reign of the house – except for his father’s study. He remembers laying in a patch of sunlight on the floor at his mother’s feet as he drew, or riding a toy broom around the ballroom on rainy days. The home had been built for far more than three people to live in, but he’d never felt so alone as when the place had been filled with Death Eaters and other sycophants.

Beside him Lavender stirred. She stretched and fluttered her eyes open for a moment before she closed them again with a groan. She slid closer on the bed and cuddled up against him. “Stop thinking so hard,” she mumbled. “It’s keeping me awake.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Is that so?”

“Yes. I can hear you thinking,” she yawned. “And you’re as stiff as someone who’s been petrified.” He supposed that were true. “It’s Harry,” she continued, “He’ll . . . Well . . . he’ll have to be okay. Nothing yet has brought him down.”

He nodded, his throat clenching and his eyes stinging.

“Shhh,” whispered his friend. “It’s going to be all right. He is going to be fine.”

“But what if . . . what if he’s not?” he whispered back, giving voice to the fear that had been clinging to him since he’d watched Harry fall.

His friend’s arms tightened around him. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. He knew there was nothing she could say. But she held him in the dark and didn’t complain when hot tears ran down his cheek and onto the top of her head.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen back asleep until he awoke to the sound of tapping. His face was crusty from dried tears. He scrubbed a hand across his cheeks, but it did little other than confirm what a mess he was. The tapping continued. He lifted his head toward the window nearest the bed. An owl was hopping busily on the sill. He rolled out of bed and padded to the window. He struggled a bit with the window but soon enough the owl was winging and barking its way around the room. Lavender moaned from the bed, “Shut it up.”

“Oi – give it here,” he croaked at the owl, his voice raspy with sleep.

The creature settled on the back of an upholstered chair, its talons digging into the fabric. He quickly untied the letter from its leg before shooing the owl back toward the window, “Fly down to the back door. Mip will see you get rewarded.”

The bird seemed to scowl at him for a moment, fluffing the feathers up on its neck before it stretched its wings and disappeared out the window. The envelop was addressed to him, but he didn’t recognize the handwriting. He tore it open and read through a few lines. Relief flooded his body.

By now Lavender was sitting up in bed. One strap of her sleep camisole hanging off her shoulder. “Draco?”

He launched himself at his friend, hugging her tight and rolling them back into the bed. “Longbottom says Harry is awake. Really awake – not some groggy pretense at consciousness.”

“Oh thank Godric,” Lavender laughed into his shoulder. He stroked his friend’s hair. He adored her – adored how much she cared about him and what was important to him.

“And Harry added a postscript in his awful handwriting,” said Draco. “He said that he is coming to me.”

Lavender pulled her face away from his body and beamed at him, “Of course he is.”

 

Draco sat in his attorney’s conference room feeling beyond nervous. The whole morning and early afternoon had passed without a sign of his Chosen One, and now he was stuck in a meeting with a Ministry Prosecutor who sat across the table from him and Meredith. Draco made sure to hold himself straight and tall. He’d worn unrelenting black to this meeting, and while he’d be lying if he were to say he wasn’t scared, he knew he had Meredith, a pack of barmy friends, and the truth on his side. And he had Harry – he clung to that. So he’d come to this meeting dressed as himself. Fuck the Ministry.

“I’m Prosecutor Theodosia Wriggins. I’ve had the opportunity to meet with Mr. Potter,” she began and Draco seethed with jealously. This stranger had gotten to talk to Harry while he had been barred from doing so. “I’ve also reviewed the reports of the arresting Aurors and met with Head Auror Robards,” she continued. “The day of your arrest, Mr. Malfoy, the Ministry filed a complaint charging you with using dark magic by incapacitating Mr. Potter and casting a Dark Mark in the Highlands of Scotland, and Mr. Malfoy, you were further charged with using a wand not registered to you. If you’d been found guilty of these charges, your deferred sentence would have been revoked and –”

“And my client would find himself in Azkaban for over two decades,” interrupted Meredith. “We know this, however, if the Ministry was intent on pursuing these charges my client would be getting arraigned before a panel of the Wizengamot at this very moment. Since he is not, I think you should tell us why you requested this meeting.”

Draco sat a bit straighter. Meredith was not messing around and was going right to the heart of the matter. Classic Gryffindor move.

Prosecutor Wriggins inclined her head, “You are quite right Mr. Meredith. After colleagues and I reviewed the information available, we find it highly unlikely that we’d meet the burden of proof necessary, and we have agreed that the only appropriate course of action is to withdraw the Ministry’s complaint. I intend to file a motion to that effect as soon as I leave your office.”

He glanced at his attorney. Despite this news, Meredith did not look pleased.

“So you were sent to inform us of all of this so that what – my client could be thankful for how magnanimous the Ministry is being?” Meredith face was like stone as he added, “This will not do.”

“What will not do?” asked the other attorney. “Your client’s charges are in fact going to be withdrawn.”

“Are you aware, Prosecutor Wriggins, that this government stunned my client, arrested him, and threw him in Azkaban without asking Mr. Malfoy a single question. He was sent directly to prison without being afforded due process of the law. And between being rendered unconscious and waking in the hellhole the Ministry calls a prison my client had two ribs broken by an employee of this government who decided to dole out their own justice by brutally kicking a defenseless young man in the side.” The prosecutor’s face grew pale and her eyes flicked to Draco. It seems she hadn’t been informed of this bit of information by the Aurors. “All of these decisions and actions were carried out behind closed doors,” said Meredith, sounding grave. “And now here the Ministry is, faced with the dawning realization that Mr. Malfoy acted as he did to save the Saviour of Wizarding Britain, as I’m sure Mr. Potter told you, yet the government convenes this meeting out of sight of the public. The Ministry was more than willing to let my client’s name and reputation be wrongly ripped apart in the press, but by meeting with my client in private and quietly withdrawing its complaint it is practically ensuring that the public will not know the full story of my client’s innocence. This is intolerable.”

“Your client did cast a Dark Mark,” said Prosecutor Wriggins. “That in itself is a crime regardless of intent. The Ministry is being more than generous.”

Meredith took a deep breath as if to calm his Gryffindor tendencies. “Righting a wrong without acknowledging the wrong is not generosity. I understand that you have a job to do, but the Ministry will be made to account for its actions. I expect to receive a copy of the withdrawal motion within the hour.”

The prosecutor rose, took a moment to smooth her robes, and said, “Thank you for your courtesies. I will also owl you with a copy of the dismissal order as soon as it is signed.”

The door closed quietly behind Prosecutor Wriggins and Draco turned to his attorney. “Once the dismissal goes through, will I get to see Harry?”

Meredith’s posture was more relaxed now that the Ministry’s attorney was gone. “Yes, I believe you will. But the dismissal will not end this, Draco. We will convene a press conference and get your side of the story out.” There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” called Meredith as he turned to face the doorway.

The door opened partway to reveal Lavender. “Someone is here to see, Draco,” she said, before she swung the door fully open and there was Harry.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Meredith turn to look at him. He didn’t doubt what the man saw. He’d long concealed his emotions from the world, but he was sure that right now, in this moment, everything he felt for the Boy-Who-Lived was plainly visible on his face.

He heard Meredith sigh, “This rather explains a lot.” The attorney rose, “I’m going to start pelting the Minister of Magic with missives until he takes a meeting.” At the door he paused to say, “You know, Draco, you can confide in me. I owe you a duty of confidentiality.” He inclined his head pointedly toward the black-haired boy who’d crossed over the threshold.

“I’ll just give you guys a moment,” said Lavender closing the door and leaving the star-crossed pair together.

The Gryffindor crossed the room. “Oh my god, Draco,” he said, cupping Draco’s face in his hands. “I can’t believe they sent you there – to Azkaban. Those bastards.”

Draco’s hands fisted in Harry’s jumper, “I’m fine – what about you?” He searched Harry’s face.

“How long?” asked his Chosen One, ignoring Draco’s question. “How long were you there?”

“I don’t know.” This answer granted him a stern look. “Three days. I was there for three days.” Arms wrapped around him and pulled him close.

“I’ve been there,” Harry said. “I visited after the War. I wanted to know what Sirius had survived. It was . . . it was fucking awful. The dementors were gone, but the place . . . Christ . . . it’s misery. It was like I couldn’t remember a shred of happiness – couldn’t remember any joy. All my bad memories and feelings . . . they closed in on me.”

Draco tucked Harry’s head under his chin and held him. Fuck he didn’t want to think about Harry at Azkaban. His Gryffindor’s life had been filled with so much pain and loss, he couldn’t even imagine how it had fucked him over going to that cursed rock in the Black Sea.

“It’s okay, Harry,” he murmured into the crown of the other boy’s head, “I’m fine. I wasn’t even lucid most of the time. And a band of Gryffindors came for me.”

“Three days . . . I . . . I don’t think I even lasted fifteen minutes,” said Harry.

“It’s not like it’s a contest,” said Draco.

And Harry laughed against his chest. “It’s always a contest between Gryffindors and Slytherins.”

Draco pulled back enough to look into vivid green eyes. “In that case, I think I’ve won. I got you.”

“Tosser,” said Harry before brushing Draco’s lips with his own.

“But what about you? You’ve been in bloody St. Mungo’s for fucking days.”

Harry shifted on his feet as if uncomfortable. “My magic was exhausted. I shouldn’t have . . . I knew better than to do everything I did, but it’s . . . well . . . it’s hard sometimes to remember.”

Now Draco cupped the other boy’s face in his hands. “There is more to it than exhaustion, Harry. What aren’t you telling me?” His gut clenched. He wanted Harry to confide in him – tell him about the Elder Wand – but he also didn’t want Harry to make his fears real and confirm the worst.

“Look – I . . . I don’t know for sure. No one does. But look at me, I’m fine.”

And Harry did look fine. There was color in his cheeks and besides the smudges of darkness under his eyes, he looked the picture of youth and health. Draco tried to smile at him, but he knew it wasn’t a successful attempt. While on the outside Harry looked well, it was his inside that Draco was worried about – worried that a wand was leaching away Harry’s magic.

Harry sighed, “I know we have – er – more to talk about . . . about me. But I don’t want to do that here.”

Draco took a deep breath before nodding, “Alright.”

“At this moment we have you to worry about. You’re the lunatic that shot a Dark Mark into the sky.”

“For you,” he said.

Harry smiled at him. “Yeah,” he agreed, before he leaned in, kissing Draco. Draco returned the kiss, trying to pour all of his emotions from the last few days into it – wanting – needing – Harry to know how much he meant to him. His hands slid around the other boy’s hips and pulled him closer, needing to feel how solid his Chosen One was – how real – how alive.

It was Harry who broke the kiss, pulling his face back to look into Draco’s eyes. “God, I missed you.”

“Your eleven year old self weeps,” Draco grinned.

“Fuck him. He didn’t know what I do.”

“Oh really? Are you sure you still want me after I cast that horrible Mark?”

He felt Harry’s fingers card through the back of his hair. He leaned into the touch. “Of course I do. I know why you did it. I did from the moment I woke up and I was told about it. I never had a doubt. As soon as I was awake, you were the first person I wanted to see. I was so worried about what might be happening to you. It fucking burned that I couldn’t come to you sooner. I’d set the world on fire for you.”

“Seems rather silly,” said Draco, tracing Harry’s jaw with his fingers. “Seeing how you pulled me from the flames and rescued my arse during the Battle.”

Harry kissed him again, this time with so much tenderness that Draco almost couldn’t stand it. It left him feeling raw and exposed in the best possible way.

Harry pulled back again. “We should go out with the others. Or they’ll get ideas about what we’re doing in here.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Don’t be a bad influence – you’ll give Slytherins a bad rap. Besides,” he said leaning in to nibble at Draco’s ear, “We have a meeting with the Minister of Magic to plan. And I’ll warn you – I plan on doing something radical.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Draco said as he took his Chosen One’s hand and followed him out to the lobby where the usual suspects were waiting – a blend of Gryffindors and Slytherins with Lovegood and Ollivander thrown in for good measure.

 

Shortly after four thirty that afternoon, Draco found himself seated at a conference table in the Minister of Magic’s office. Fucking hell – he never thought he’d be in this room again with his background and reputation – but here he was, sandwiched between Harry and Meredith. Across from them are both of Harry’s bosses – his direct supervisor, Robards, and the Minister of Magic himself.

“I know, old friend, I know,” Shackelbolt says, sounding weary.

“Your Ministry made a complete and utter hash of things, Kingsley.”

The Minister sighed, “I suppose you’ll be asking for a press conference again?”

Meredith shoots Shackelbolt a sly look, “Oh yes, indeed. But not from me or my client. But from the pair of you.”

“Me?” asks Robards, his face the picture of surprise.

“Why yes, it was after all, people under your supervision that threw my client directly into Azkaban and gave him the gift of two broken ribs.”

Draco did his best to look pained. In truth his ribs felt fine – more than fine now that his stress about Harry wasn’t weighing on him.

“That was a misun–.” Robards started to say, but was interrupted when the Minister said, “We will do it.”

The head of magical law enforcement turned to look at his superior. Shackelbolt met the other man’s gaze. “It is the right thing to do. The Ministry needs to learn to not only celebrate its victories, but to admit its mistakes. Mr. Malfoy was done a grave injustice.”

“He was,” agreed Harry. “He saved me.”

“With a bloody Dark Mark!” said Robards, his voice slightly elevated.

Harry shrugged. “He can’t cast a patronus.”

Robards, however, did not look appeased by this information.

“Is there anything else you wish to discuss today?” asked the Minister, in what appeared to be an effort to maintain decorum.

“Yes,” said Meredith. “I would like you to pay an official visit to Ollivander’s. My client has been working hard at his apprenticeship and a positive spotlight on that will go a long way.”

For a moment the Minister’s jaw tightened, but then he said, “Fine.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Draco, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to be polite to the man his attorney was currently beating into submission.

“And I have a matter I wish to discuss with both of you as well,” said Harry, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. “As you both are aware, I’ve just spent a good bit of time in the hospital.”

The faces of both of the Ministry men softened. They cared for Harry, Draco could tell – and not just because he was the bloody Saviour, but because he was him.

“Between that and Draco’s treatment by some of my fellow Aurors, I think it best that go on a sabbatical.” Green eyes met his for a brief moment before turning back to his bosses.

Draco’s breath caught. Harry was . . . what . . . walking away from the Aurors? He wanted to reach out and take the other boy’s hand in his, to ask if this was what he really wanted, but he couldn’t. Not now – not here. They had agreed to disclose to the public that they were friends, but they wanted to have time to themselves without the gaze of their whole magical community upon them. If they shared they were a couple, he knew their lives would become even more of a fucking zoo.

“For how long?” asked Robards. “I mean – by all means – take the time you need – but how long?”

“Honestly, I need some time to consider if my place is with the Aurors. There is much work to do to make a better world,” continued Harry, “And after the War, I never took the time to consider what path best suits me. I think it’s time that I do that.”

Harry Potter had long been glorious in Draco’s eyes, but he knew as he watched this boy – this man – sitting beside him and taking a stand for both Draco and himself – that Harry had never looked so wonderful.

At last the Minister nodded his head, “Of course, Harry. Your request will be granted as soon as you want it too.”

“I’d like it to begin immediately.”

“Immediately then,” agreed Robarts, his mouth curved in sadness.

“And you are right, Harry. There are many ways to do good and make a difference in this world. You have already given so much, I wouldn’t want you to give more than you can to a profession that you are unsure about. But always know, whatever you decide, you will always have my support – not just as the Minister of Magic – but as your friend.”

“Thank you,” said the Boy-Who-Lived. He stood, “I really do appreciate your understanding. I understand Draco’s charges have been dismissed and he is no longer under house arrest. We should be off before the vultures from the press descend.”

Draco rose to join Harry. Meredith, however, remained seated.

“I rather think I’ll stay a bit longer to . . . work out the finer details of this press conference,” said his attorney.

“Right. Thank you all for your time,” said Harry before walking purposefully for the door. Draco, rather at a loss for the correct things to say in a situation where the star of the Ministry was effectively turning in his badge, inclined his head at the men seated at the table and followed Harry out.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said to his Gryffindor once they were in the hallway. The other boy shrugged, appearing unconcerned that he’d just totally upended his own life. As they entered the atrium, Draco spotted the tightly curled hair of Rita Skeeter. Someone must have leaked to her that he and Harry would be here.

“Harry – a word,” the reporter called.

“Not now Rita,” he said, without looking at her. “My friend and I have places to go that don’t involve you.”

Harry approached one of the massive hearth’s and stepped in, Draco took a breath and followed.

Skeeter’s heels clattered on the floor as she gave chase. “How long have you and Mr. Malfoy been friends? We all know of your intense rivalry while at Hogwarts.”

“Close your eyes,” said Harry ignoring the reporter, and Draco obeyed. As the flames roared, he found himself gripping Harry’s hand. He fucking hated magical fire. Moments later, the roaring ceased and he stood in a public toilet beneath Whitehall. He wrinkled his nose. “Important places to go?”

The Boy-Who-Lived grinned at him, “Such a snob. Bet you never used the public entrance to the Ministry in your life.”

“Never,” Draco confirmed.

“I’m betting on the fact that Rita and any other leeches lying in wait won’t think we’d have used it either. The Prince of Slytherin, after all, would never do such a thing.”

“Since when do you call me the Prince of Slytherin?”

“Since . . . well . . . maybe always.” Harry leaned in closer to Draco’s ear and said, “Do you have any idea how good you look all in black? You always have - as I recall – regal and untouchable.”

Draco shivered. “I’m definitely not untouchable,” he said. “Except in this sodding toilet.”

“Come on your highness,” teased Harry, leading the way up a flight of stairs to the outside world above.

As soon as they exited, Harry pulled him along to a side street and pushed him up against the wall of a Muggle government building. He could feel the roughness of the brick as it caught on the fibers of his clothing. Merlin, it felt good to be outside. He’d been locked up and cooped up for days. So had Harry, actually, he was probably enjoying this too. He watched as Harry’s dark hair danced in the breeze before he said, “I can’t believe you are going on leave from the Aurors.”

“And what about you? I can’t believe you fucking did what you did.” Sharp green eyes met his, “Don’t do it again.”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Risk yourself for me,” said Harry, before pressing his mouth hot and hard against his. Draco’s hands were in the other boy’s hair, pulling and demanding as Harry’s teeth nipped at his lower lip, but then Draco dropped his hands to Harry’s shoulders and pushed him away. The Gryffindor gasped as Draco turned the tables and forced him against the brick wall.

“And don’t you ever fucking do that again,” Draco almost growled.

“What?”

“Tell me what I can’t do for you. I’ll give up anything I fucking please for you. You have a saviour complex for the whole fucking world, so Merlin help me, don’t you dare tell me that I can’t try and save you.” He watched as Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and then Draco pressed his body against Harry’s, trapping the other boy to the wall and angling his face down to take Harry’s mouth in a greedy, rough kiss. Usually they were more gentle with each other, both of them still learning how to be with another person, but this – this was desperate and risky. They were so close to the Ministry entrance. Anyone could see them, but in the moment Draco didn’t care. He wanted his Chosen One.

“Cast a disillusionment charm,” Harry rasped against Draco’s throat.

He cast wandlessly, trying his best to focus on the spell, but it was all rather complicated by Harry’s lips and his reaching, searching hands.

“Fuck, I’ve needed you,” said Harry once Draco’s focus was fully back on him. The other boy’s fingers twined through his hair and pulled him down for another kiss full of raw want. He heard Harry moan and then the Gryffindor pulled away and placed his lips by Draco’s ear. “Do you know what I wanted you to do to me when we got back to the cottage after I kicked your arse catching the snitch?”

“I caught the snitch,” Draco argued even as Harry teased his earlobe with his teeth.

“Maybe I let you,” said Harry, his tone low and conspiratorial. “Maybe I let you because once we got back to that large bed I was going to ask you to . . . to . . .”

“To what?” Draco asked even as one of hands worked its way into the back of Harry’s pants. The other boy’s leather belt felt constricting on his wrists, but Merlin, palming his Chosen One’s arse more than made up for it. “What did you want me to do?”

The wiry boy against the wall ground against him, and Draco squeezed Harry’s backside as he pulled the boy against him.

“I wanted you to . . . Oh, Christ . . . I want you to . . .”

“Fuck me,” said a voice that did not belong to Harry Potter.

He froze for a second, then pulled his lips away from Harry. Almost as one they turned their heads and there stood Weasley, looking embarrassed.

“What the fuck, Ron?” said Harry.

Weasley held up his hands, “Look, mate, I’m sorry. Like really sorry to have . . . er . . . walked in on this. It’s like all my worst nightmares from sixth year come to life.”

“Seriously?” said Harry.

Weasley waved a hand around, “You are in a fairly public place in the middle of the afternoon! You knew I was bloody well meeting you here.” He wiped at his eyes as if he was trying to scrub the image of them away. “And your disillusionment charm is shit, I can still see your outlines. And for fuck’s sake I could hear you. Godric, could I hear you. Ever heard of a silencing charm? What if I had been a reporter?”

“Don’t care,” said the Boy-Who-Lived.

The ginger pointed at Draco, “Well he might. The papers are going to have a field day just thinking you two are friends. Maybe get them used to that before you start shagging in public.”

“As much as it hurts me to say this,” said Draco as he pulled his hands from Harry’s pants and pushed himself off the other boy, “Weasley is right. We should probably take this somewhere more private.”

“Fine,” said Harry, sounding petulant.

“It’s clear my disillusionment charms are rubbish when you’re . . . distracting me.”

He heard Weasley groan, but Harry’s look made it clear that he did indeed want to disappear somewhere with Draco to finish what they’d started.

“You know I’m right Harry,” said Weasley, putting his best effort into ignoring the obvious heat between Draco and his best friend. “And you,” he turned his gaze fully on Draco, “Mate, we’ve got to teach you how to cast a patronus. No more of this Dark Mark shit. It about gave everyone a heart attack.”

“It’s not like I didn’t try to cast the patronus charm,” he replied. He was feeling rather irritated. On top of being interrupted from madly snogging Harry, his performance of magic was now being called out – and by Weasley of all people. It’s not like he’d wanted to cast the Dark Mark – it had been to fucking save Harry. He had his suspicions about why morsmordre had worked and expecto patronum had not. It had been far easier for Draco to tap into his pain, his fear, and his grief then into anything requiring joy and hope. Still, it rankled, so he turned his ire onto Weasley. “And what – you think you’re the person who can finally teach me to cast a patronus?”

The ginger shook his head, “Oh no – not me. My brother. George. If he can still cast a top-notch patronus after . . .” Weasley’s voice trailed off for a moment but he recovered, “After losing Fred, then I think he’s just the person to teach you.”

Well fuck, wasn’t that a mood killer?

“I could teach him,” said Harry. “I taught most of the DA to cast a patronus.”

Weasley snorted, “Oh come off it Harry, you and Draco would either end up killing each other or shagging each other.”

The Saviour grinned rather sheepishly and then shrugged, “Ron knows me.”

“Yes, yes, Weasley is a dear friend,” said Draco, “But it’s time we get away from here so he can leave us to our own devices.”

The ginger rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s baggy y-fronts, I don’t know why I even put up with the pair of you.” He took a deep breath, and said, over this way, I’m parked on Northumberland Ave.”

Draco felt a nervous ball start to form in stomach. “What do you mean you parked?”

“Got myself a provisional driver’s license,” saied the ginger striding down the sidewalk. “My dad about turned himself inside out helping pick out a car.”

“You drive . . . a Muggle vehicle? A big, heavy, dangerous Muggle vehicle?” Draco couldn’t help but choke out. Harry must have picked up an the note of terror in his voice as the Chosen Prat snickered.

Weasley shrugged, “Umm . . . yeah. I mean, I fly a bloody broom through the sky, and this thing doesn’t even leave the ground – unlike the Anglia – so it’s not like it’s hard.”

“I miss that feral car,” sighs Harry. “Hope it’s still running free in the forest.”

The dread intensifies as they approach a street lined with parked cars and Weasley stops beside a dark blue automobile. “This is it. Isn’t it lovely. It’s a Ford Fiesta.”

Draco stared blankly at the boxy looking vehicle.

“She’s a bit old – an ’89, but she runs like a champ.” He leaned closer to Draco and whispered, “We’re getting Harry home by non-magical means. We don’t want to set anything off and land him back in St. Mungo’s.”

Draco nodded as the front and back windows rolled down as Weasley resumed waxing lyrical about the car. Granger sat in the front seat and smiled at her fellow Gryffindors, while Lavender and Lovegood stuck their faces out of the back window and Lavender called, “Come on Harry, get your boy toy in here before someone spots us.”

“How dare you,” said Draco in his most imperious tone. “Harry is the boy toy in this relationship – obviously.”

Lavender rolled her eyes, “Obviously.”

Weasley rounded the car to driver’s side, while his own foolhardy Gryffindor grasped the rear door handle and pulled. He turned to Draco with that crooked grin of his before ducking into the car. Draco takes a deep breath. Surely he’s never done anything as so stupid as contemplating getting into a metal Muggle deathtrap piloted by one Ronald Bilius Weasley. The thing doesn’t even look all that big. How in the hell will they all fit? He stands rather awkwardly on the street trying to get up his nerve when Harry’s voice calls out, “Scared, Malfoy?”

“You have no idea,” he grumbles before he wraps himself in the little courage he has left after the last few days and pokes his head into the backseat of the car. And – well . . . shit. It’s been charmed. It is much roomier inside then is visible from the outside. The large back seat is in a ‘u’ shape and crowded in he finds his own prat of a boyfriend, Lavender and Theo, and Lovegood and Longbottom.

“I can’t believe you are riding in this,” Draco says to Theo as he climbs in to sit by Harry. Even with the expansion charm, space is tight for this many people.

“Mione did the charm,” said Weasley from the front seat. “She’s bloody brilliant at them.” Draco heard a purring and a clicking noise and they were moving. The ginger steered the car out onto the street – a street with other vehicles. Oh, sweet Salazar this was absolutely ridiculous. Before he knows what he was doing, he has Harry’s hand in a death grip.

Granger turned to peer into the back, “Still, I wasn’t expecting quite this many people.” She crinkled her nose as if considering the space. “I may have to make it even larger for future.”

“This is nice and cozy,” observed Lovegood from her spot pressed between Longbottom and Lavender. “It’s rather nice being so close to you all. Especially you, Neville.”

Everyone, including the Weasley, craned their heads towards the shy Gryffindor who blushed slightly and said, “Thank you, Luna.”

The Ravenclaw continued, “I always forget how tall you are until I see you again. Your height is rather wonderful.”

Weasley choked on a laugh. “Eyes on the fucking road!” Draco hollered. Bloody hell. He’d survived the War and avoided prison, but Merlin help him, he was going to die is this deathbox on wheels surrounded by fool do-gooders and Theo - who was clearly so infatuated with Lavender that he’d lost all of his good sense. He tore his eyes off the road to look at the object of his own affection. Harry, lovely arsehole that he was, was smirking at him.

“Bet you’re loving this,” said Draco, very aware of how rigid he was sitting.

“I am,” grinned Harry, “I really am.”

Chapter 74: Legilimens

It took over a half an hour to drive from Whitehall to Islington with the traffic and no one in the car being that competent with driving directions. It was a half hour of simmering anxiety punctuated by sheer moments of terror. Other drivers aggressively honked their horns at the Fiesta three times during the drive, but Weasley seemed unperturbed. His life experiences – and likely his training with the Aurors – had helped him stay calm under pressure. This was not the nervous, unfocused boy from years ago on the quidditch pitch. It probably helped that Granger kept murmuring praise to the ginger. Draco, for his part, tried his best to keep his own commentary to himself. He in no way wanted to break Weasley’s focus.

At last Weasley parallel parked the wretched car in front of Harry’s house.

“And here we are,” said Weasley, sounding very pleased with himself.

“Thank Godric,” said Longbottom. Draco glanced around at the other faces in the backseat and noticed that everyone but Harry and Lovegood looked a bit pale. Wizarding children often didn’t have much experience with land travel the Muggle way.

“Remind me not to do that again,” Theo whispered. “I thought I was going to be sick.”

Harry laughed, “Oh my god, it wasn’t that bad. The traffic was pretty intense because a lot of people get off work at five o’clock, but I thought Ron was brilliant.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Weasley said solemnly. “Your words are a balm to my soul.”

“Oh Merlin,” said Lavender. “Don’t let them get started.”

Theo peered out the window, “Where are we exactly. Which one of these is yours, Potter, and why do the numbers skip from eleven to thirteen?”

“Oh shit – you haven’t been before. It’s under a fidelius charm. Hey, Hermione, can you give me one of those cards you had made?”

The witch rummaged around in a bag for a moment before pulling out a crisp, white business card with green print. “Honestly, Harry, I had a whole set made for you. Don’t you keep any with you?”

“I didn’t think I’d need any on my weekend in Scotland,” said the Boy-Who-Lived as he passed the card from Granger to Theo. “There you go Theo, read it aloud.”

The Slytherin peered at the card and read, “Harry Potter’s home is located at 12 Grimmauld Place, London.” The business card instantly burst into flames. “Damn,” cried Theo even as the small inferno burned itself out. “You don’t fuck around with security.”

“We don’t,” chimed Granger, “So if you even give me a moment’s concern, I’ll wipe your memory of this place.”

“You’re really scary when you want to be,” Theo said to Granger before she exited the vehicle.

“Don’t I know it,” said Weasley as he climbed out of his seat. “That’s one of things I like best about her.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Lavender said to a dazed looking Theo, “I’ll keep you safe from her. I shared a room with her for six years. I know her weak spots.”

“You’re pretty intimidating, too,” Theo said, before kissing Lavender. “It’s very attractive on you.”

“And I’m getting out,” Draco announced, crawling over Harry to get out the door.

“You’re just jealous that you and Harry aren’t the only Gryffindor and Slytherin pairing,” Lavender called after him.

Theo, now that he could see Harry’s house, was thoroughly delighted to be admitted to the fabled House of Black.

“I’ve been working on it,” said Harry with a wave of his hand about the entryway. “Got rid of the mounted heads of house elves – gave ‘em a proper burial – and pried the portrait of Sirius’ banshee mother off the wall. The whole house shuddered when that monstrosity came away, thought it might all come down on me, but it held.”

“And what did you do with the portrait,” Theo asked.

“Had it incinerated. It’s been a bit of a balancing act trying to make the house a place you’d want to live in but also trying to be true the Black heritage. Kreacher, the house’s elf, has been helping me with that.”

“The mad little blighter just had to curse you, your ancestors, and you future descendants for a couple of years. Got it all out of his system and now he’s keen on you,” offered Weasley.

The Boy-Who-Lived shrugged. “Hopefully. He’s been bloody brilliant at tracking down Black heirlooms that were smuggled out or tossed away while the Order was here. Just about everything that wasn’t cursed to the hilt has made its way back here thanks to him.”

“The silverware he reclaimed is particularly lovely,” said Granger.

Lavender rolled her eyes, “Is that what we are really going to do? Talk about Harry’s silverware and ignore the erumpent in the room?” Everyone froze to look at her. She heaved a sigh, clearly exasperated. “Harry’s been in the hospital. Draco’s been in Azkaban. And the icing on the cake is that Harry fucking Potter, Golden Boy with an Order of Merlin First Class, has left his Auror job at the Ministry. I’m guessing that Draco and Harry have a lot to catch up on . . . alone.”

Beside her, Theo smirked and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“Er . . . when you put it that way,” said Weasley, “I think it’s safe to say that I’m perfectly glad to run from the erumpent in the room and leave Harry and Malfoy to it.”

With that said, it still took over half an hour for Granger to be satisfied that Harry was safely settled. Weasley did his best to hurry his girlfriend along, as if afraid the pair of lovers would start shagging at any moment. Granger, however, was not to be rushed. Lovegood, Longbottom, Lavender, and Theo apparated and flooed away like sane people. After the Gryffindor witch was grudgingly convinced that Harry had everything he needed, much to Kreacher’s annoyance as he felt it implied he was not capable of looking after Master Harry’s needs, she spent a further fifteen minutes giving goodbyes and hugs to Harry. Draco, thankfully, received civilized handshakes. At last the pair finally climbed back in their death-mobile to drive to their flat close to the entrance of Diagon Alley.

As soon as the car had pulled away, Draco wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist. “Now, Potter, I believe we had a discussion to finish before your menace of a best friend interrupted us. Weren’t you about to tell me what it is that you’d wanted me to do to you?”

Harry took his hand and towed him through up the stairs. When the reached the landing his Gryffindor reached for Draco’s tie and said, “I want to feel you everywhere.” He felt his tie loosen and then heard the swift swoop of fabric as Harry pulled the strip of silk from his collar. “And you are wearing too many clothes at the moment.”

He leaned in to kiss the side of his Gryffindor’s neck, thrilling to feel Harry’s pulse beneath his lips before murmuring, “I think you’d better take me to your room. Kreacher won’t like seeing what we’re going to do.”

Within Harry’s bedroom, clothing came off piece by piece even as Harry grouched at all of Draco’s fastenings that delayed his progress. “Fucking cufflinks.”

“Such a cretin, Potter,” Draco drawled before taking pity and tapping the cufflinks with his wand, “In fairness, they are magically affixed, so we could have been here all night.”

Harry mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, “Fucking posh Slytherins,” before finally pushing Draco’s shirt over his shoulders and down his arms. The sun was setting outside, and Draco’s pale skin seemed to glow in the increasing gloom. Fingers gently traced his abdomen. “Where?”

And Draco didn’t need to ask. He knew what the Gryffindor wanted to know. He took the other boy’s hand and held it to his right side until it settled on his lower ribs.

“Bastards,” said Harry before he leaned in and kissed Draco on the spot where his hand had rested.

“I’m fine now.” The Gryffindor must not have believed him as he kept kissing Draco along his side before trailing gentle lips up his chest, pausing to mark the place above his wildly beating heart.

“You should have seen me when they told me you were in Azkaban. I . . . I lost what little sense I had at that moment.”

Draco ran his hand through his impossible boyfriend’s hair. “I’m rather glad I didn’t. I don’t think I could have stood seeing you like that. Seeing you fall . . . it was . . .”

“Shhhh,” soothed his Gryffindor, lips trailing up his breastbone to his neck. “I’m fine. I’m here – with you.”

Draco knew that statement only touched on the surface of what was going on with Harry. They had things to talk about – serious things – but he didn’t want to force the subject. Then again he might have to press Harry on it. How soon was too soon? A day? Two days? A lifetime? Salazar, he didn’t know. The lips and flash of tongue on his neck stole his thoughts away from his worries. Harry wanted him – wanted him now and Draco wasn’t going to squander this moment.

He grasped at a question he had that didn’t involve Harry’s health. “Before Weasley interrupted us, you were about to tell me some of your . . . desires. What were you going to say?”

Harry’s mouth paused its kissing. Draco listened to his Chosen One breath one, two, three breaths – and while he looked like he wanted to say something, no words were coming out. Draco took one of Harry’s hands, wanting to hold on to him and offer physical comfort while the other boy was trying so hard to ask for what he wanted. And fuck, when had Harry ever gotten to ask for what he wanted? His whole life had been an exercise in agony, and Draco wouldn’t have that – not for another moment.

“What do you want?” asked Draco.

“Well . . . Hermione . . . she bought me a . . . book.”

“Seriously?” asked Draco, sitting up to draw his wiry Gryffindor onto his lap. They were both shirtless and clad only in their pants. They were also both hard, and Draco couldn’t resist rubbing himself against the other boy. “We’re not really going to talk about Granger right now are we?”

“The book,” Harry gasped as Draco rubbed against him again.

“Yes, yes, I bet she gives everyone books for any gift-giving event.”

“No,” said his Chosen One, clutching Draco by the shoulders even as he ground back against him. “She bought me a very specific book . . . a Muggle book about . . . sex.” Harry ground his hips again. “Gay sex.”

Draco felt an eyebrow arch. “Anything you want to show me?”

Harry nodded, looking flushed. “Yeah. Use legilimens.”

Oh. Well. Draco had meant the book, but holy hell. Harry wanted to let him into his mind. That was . . . beyond intimate.

“Are you . . . are you sure?” Draco asked, his voice trembling a bit.

“I trust you, sweetheart.”

“Oh sweet Salazar,” Draco groaned, impossibly touched and turned-on at the same time. This fucking Gryffindor got under his skin like no one else ever had – like no one else ever would. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how in the fucked up chaos of his life he had ended up here. He’d felt so alone for so long during his last years of school and during his time in the Ministry detention area that it staggered him to know that he wasn’t on his own anymore.

“Draco . . . please.”

He nodded before holding his fingertips against Harry’s temples. He didn’t need physical contact to cast the spell, but he thought it would help ground him. “I’ll only see what you want me to see.”

“I know.”

“Legilimens.”

For a moment his mind is filled with a vision of brilliant emerald light – green the shade of Harry’s eyes. And then he’s in the memory, seeing the things Harry wants to share. From Harry’s point of view he sees a book resting on the bedside table. Harry’s hand - the one with the scars - reaches out and grabs the book, pulling it onto his lap. The other boy is in bed, this bed, with the covers drawn up to waist. He spent a while gazing at the cover – and well – it had Draco’s attention as well. Two men were photographed in soft light, bare chests pressed together while sharing a kiss. While he couldn’t see their faces well, the way they held each other looked so intimate he felt like he should look away. But he couldn’t look away – they were beautiful. Memory Harry’s fingers brushed over the title, “The Joy of Gay Sex.” Harry opened the book and fanned through the pages, stopping at an image of two young men lying naked together, their hands grasping each other’s erections. The illustrated couple looked at each other with wonder and adoration. Then the hands Draco knew so well started leafing back through the book, stopping on a page with the heading, “First time.” The opening line made it clear what the passage was about, “Throughout history men have fucked one another and relished the experience.”

Then the memory changes, and Draco gasps. He’s looking down Harry’s naked torso, the Gryffindor’s cock full, arm stretched out, and fingers reaching out of Draco’s sight. He heards the sound of panting and sees the slight rocking of Harry’s hips. He gasps again, realizing what Harry is showing him. His Chosen One is pleasuring himself, delving his fingers into his body and searching for release. He pulls out of the memory and becomes conscious that he’s staring directly into Harry’s face.

“That’s what you want?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yeah. I’ve liked everything we’ve done so far, but – er – yeah. I would like to try – if you do.” Harry paused, looked away for a moment, and then met Draco’s eyes again. “I’ve used my fingers on myself more than that time. And I like it.”

Oh fuck. The recent image he’d seen of Harry sliding his own fingers into himself was beyond hot. He cleared his throat before saying, “Are you sure you want me to . . .” He fought against his upbringing for a moment, before finally getting out the words, “Fuck you.”

Harry smiled, shy and slightly crooked, “Yeah. I do.”

Merlin help him. The idea of being that close to Harry – of being inside him – it was doing things to him he hadn’t expected. It was obviously making him feel aroused physically, but it was also making his heart go impossibly tender. Draco swallowed. The thought of being with Harry in that way was thrilling. It was also a bit terrifying. But he wanted it. He wanted everything Harry was offering him. He wanted to make Harry feel good – wanted to bring him pleasure in such an intimate way, so he said, “I’d like that too.” He bent down and flicked a tongue over one of Harry’s nipples. “But I’ll need you to show me what you like with those talented fingers of yours after I . . . warm you up a bit more.”

He leans forward to suck at Harry’s nipple again, reveling in the feel of it growing hard and taught. He caresses then pinches the other one with his hand, drawing a gasp from the other boy. “Oh, yes,” says Harry running his own hands up and down Draco’s bare back. He keeps lathing attention on Harry’s nipples, until his Gryffindor is writhing against him and moaning. He slides his hand from Harry’s chest down his stomach and palms the other boy through the thin material of his cotton boxers. He feels a patch of dampness beneath his thumb as he runs it along Harry’s tip.

“Christ – I want you, Draco.”

And then Harry slides off his lap, leaning back on the bed. With his eyes on Draco’s, he slides down his pants. Draco suppresses a groan. The sight of the dark-haired boy, naked and wanting has him transfixed. Wandlessly and wordlessy, Harry summons a bottle of lube from the bedside table, pops the cap, and liberally coats his fingers. With his eyes still on Draco, he reaches down, down past his erection, and spreads himself wide. He traces his middle finger around his opening.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco almost whines.

His bold Gryffindor slips his finger inside himself, “You like . . . watching me?”

Draco nods. “You are so beautiful.”

Harry slides his finger in and out of himself, his hips rocking a bit. And Draco can’t watch another moment. He wants to feel the lovely boy beneath him. “I want to kiss you.”

Harry nods even as he continues to tease himself with his finger. Draco leans over him, bracketing himself over his Chosen One and captures his mouth with his own. He can feel the movement of Harry’s hand below him, brushing against him as it flexes and strains, and the Gryffindor’s lips part for him. Draco feels intoxicated from the taste and feel of Harry.

Then Harry’s hand is on his shoulder, gently pushing him away from his lips.

“Take off your pants.”

Draco settles on his knees between Harry’s leg and pushes the band of his underwear down.

“Get the lube,” pants Harry.

Draco doesn’t even both searching for the bottle, he conjures lube in the palm of his right hand.

“Show off wizard,” Harry teases. “Touch yourself. I want to see.”

Merlin, he didn’t think he could get any harder, but he was wrong. Having Harry spread before him, pleasuring himself and asking Draco to follow suit is . . . well . . . fuck – it’s incredible. He wraps his hand around his cock, slicking himself with the lube. He thrusts into his own fist, watching Harry all the while.

“Christ, you are lovely,” the dark-haired boy says.

And it feels so good – so fucking good – but he needs to touch Harry – needs to ground himself with the feel of the other boy. He runs his free hand up Harry’s leg, finding what he needs in that connection.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry says as he adds a second finger. “I never could stop watching you – always had to know where you were in a room.”

“Merlin, it was mutual,” he says, rocking faster.

“Come here,” says his Gryffindor, ever the bold one. “I want you.” Harry summons a pillow and places it under his hips. “I want to look at you during.”

Draco crawls toward the other boy, biting his bottom lip. He has no idea what he is doing. Well . . . theoretically he knows what is going to happen, but practically . . . no. He’s never done this before. He wants to do this right – wants it to be good for Harry.

“You’ll tell me to stop if it . . . if it doesn’t feel good?”

Harry nods. Draco leans down to kiss him once more before he readies himself. Fuck, the man spread beneath him is lovely. He wants this. They both want this. He presses himself against Harry’s opening, hears his breath catch as Draco pushes the head of his cock in.

“Yes,” breathes Harry. “More.”

Slowly, glancing between Harry’s face and where their bodies are joined he slides deeper. Harry keeps nodding, keeps reassuring him, until at last he’s buried in the other boy. The heat of Harry – the tightness. Fucking Merlin it’s good.

“God, this feels . . . it feels so full,” says Harry. Draco slides back, gentle and slow, before pressing back in. The Gryffindor nods, “More – please – more of that.”

Draco continues to move in Harry, and as he does he feels the familiar ripple between them that feels a lot like uncontrolled magic. Had all those years of hatred and tension really just been building up to this? This . . . passion? There is no other word for it. He and Harry had always kindled around each other, and now they were catching fire in the most wonderful of ways.

“Salazar, this feels so good,” Draco says as he continues to thrust, pleasure arcing through him. “You feel so good.”

And being with Harry in this way – being inside him – is unbelievably intimate, and Merlin it feel incredible. But as good as this feels, as trusting as Harry is to trust him with this, he still can’t believe that his Chosen One had let him into his mind. Nothing could be as intimate as that, and the level of faith in Draco that one act showed lights him up from within.

“Faster,” Harry begs. “Harder. Need to feel you.” Draco doesn’t hesitate in seeking to please his partner. “Oh my god – yes – there,” Harry cries, his hands clinging to Draco’s biceps and his ankles wrapping around Draco’s hips.

“You like that?” Draco asks above the sound of their bodies coming together, his balls slapping against Harry’s arse, increasing his own pleasure.

“Fuck, yes.”

Draco captures Harry’s mouth in a quick, hard kiss before burying his face beside Harry’s ear. He’s panting and moaning now, and Harry seems to revel in the sounds Draco is unable to restrain, as he quickly follows suit. And they are lost together in this need for closeness and completion.

He feels Harry arch under him. “Draco – I’m – Oh, god – I’m close.”

Draco lifts his head and reaches down with his right hand to grasp Harry’s erection. He starts pumping in time with the thrusts of his hips. “Show me,” he begs. The other boy groans, his hands finding purchase on Draco as he holds on tight. “Show me, Harry. Fuck – I want you to. I want you to so bad.” Draco is teetering on the edge of release himself, struggling to hold on until Harry comes. He feels his balls tighten, and he thrusts again, hard and deep.

The Gryffindor moans, and Draco feels the heat of Harry’s release splash onto his body. “Oh, god, Draco. I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming. Look what you’re doing to me.”

Another spurt of heat hits his skin and Draco loses the feeble vestiges of control he’d been clinging to, and buries himself in Harry as he cries out, coming in the other boy. He shudders as the tension that had been coiled in his body ebbs away. Still buried in Harry, he leans his head against the other boy’s chest, panting. Soothing hands run up his back. He gathers himself for a moment, and slides out of the heat of Harry’s body. Caring not one bit about the mess between them, Draco lays beside Harry and draws them together. Harry laughs and kisses Draco’s forehead before saying, “I think that Slytherin just won the house cup.”

Draco groans, “Impossible Gryffindor,” before nuzzling his face in his lover’s neck.

Chapter 75: Blood Oath

“You should have lent me some pajamas or joggers or something,” grumbled Draco sitting beside Harry while trying to eat curry without getting any of it on the furniture. “I don’t think Kreacher is really all that impressed with me sitting on your sofa in my pants and a tee.”

“I’m rather a fan,” said Harry. His hair was still delightfully tussled from their time in bed. They’d both collapsed after from all the exhaustion and stress of the past few days. He’d woken well after midnight to find his Gryffindor already awake and ravenous. They’d traipsed downstairs to make toast and tea, but Kreacher had met them at the kitchen door and said he’d already prepared one of Harry’s favorite dishes and was keeping it warm. As good as Kreacher’s curry was though, Draco couldn’t help but be alarmed by what the elf would say to him if Draco let one grain of rice fall onto the upholstery. Then again, as Draco glanced at Harry and the way he was eating, the person more likely to have verbal shame brought down on them was the Gryffindor.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked the dark-haired boy.

“Your table manners are rather impressive, Potter.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Perfect,” said Harry with a grin as he nudged at Draco with a bare foot.

“Maybe later,” said Draco, enjoying the slight flush forming on Harry’s face.

And it was these moments between them that Draco loved – moments filled with domesticity and jest. Watching Harry stretched out on the sofa in his pajama bottoms and a loose fitting tee was something he knew he was privileged to see, for how often could Harry Potter let his guard down? Out in the world he was the Saviour, the Chosen One, the boy that defeated the Dark Lord. Here, in the confines of his home, he was just Harry.

After they finished their meal, Draco led Harry up the stairs to his en suite bathroom. They’d managed the shoddiest of cleaning charms before passing out after sex and showers were called for. Draco set the temperature and once they were closed in the hot stream of water, Draco took his time washing every inch of his Chosen One. He delighted in the hums of pleasure he elicited as he massaged shampoo and then conditioner into Harry’s scalp. After he rinsed the last of the suds away, Draco draped himself against Harry’s back which was pink from the heat of the shower and wrapped his arms around the other boy.

“You feeling okay about everything?” he asked, hoping Harry would answer. He felt his boyfriend’s body tense. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, kissing Harry’s neck. The muscles beneath him relaxed. “It’s been a lot the last few days. But you can talk to me . . . if you want.”

“No one has ever bathed me like that before that I can remember. Tenderly – like I mattered,” said the other boy. Draco tightened his arms, willing the Harry to know how much he meant to him. “And yeah . . . it’s been a crazy few days,” continued the Gryffindor. “I’ll need to talk to Ron – tell him that while I’m on leave from the Aurors right now, that I can’t really see myself going back.”

“You mean to leave then – permanently?”

Harry nodded.

“And Weasley . . . he doesn’t know this?”

“He knows I’ve been . . . questioning my place there, but no I didn’t tell him I wanted out completely. I owe him an explanation before . . .” Draco shifted a bit, drawing them under the shower spray in a way that splashed less water on the side of his face. “I don’t want to fight dark wizards or criminals anymore. I’m tired of it, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, enveloped in the sound of the streaming water. At last, after a heavy sigh, Harry said, “And I know you’re worried about my fall and the hospital. Remember how I told you I felt . . . tired? Well . . . I think it’s getting worse. I feel . . . well . . . tired and drawn more often. Hermione – she has a theory.” Harry’s hands covered his own, which were crossed over the Gryffindor’s chest. “Maybe she’s right . . . I don’t know. I don’t really want to think about. The hospital told me I should try cutting down on the magic I use.”

“Are you serious?” They healers clearly didn’t know Harry. Magic seemed to vibrate off the Boy-Who-Lived and they wanted him to what – tamp that down?

“Yeah – I’ve known I was a wizard since I was eleven, and now after only knowing about magic for a decade they want me to lessen my casting. But who am I without magic?”

Draco turned the other boy in his arms and sucked the water droplet clinging to his lower lip. “With or without magic, you will still be mine.”

Harry smiled weakly at him, “You’d be dating a Muggle essentially, if the healers had their way.”

“A fucking handsome Muggle.” Draco kissed him again before saying, “All things Muggle are the rage at the moment.”

Harry laughed, “Oh my god, your father would be weeping if he could hear you right now.”

“I’m alright with that.”

Harry leaned in, resting his head against Draco. “I’d miss it – my magic.”

“Then we’ll find another way. Granger isn’t the only one that can do research.”

Harry’s arms wrapped around Draco’s neck, and they held each other tight. Drops of water clung to the curls of Harry’s dark hair and Draco hardly dared to breathe, not wanting to disrupt this moment of quiet affection as they held each other.

 

“This shop missed you,” Ollivander said as Draco worked in the stacks. It was amazing that after less than a week away wands had become disorganized. English oak wands were stacked amongst red oak and black walnut and blackthorn had been jumbled together.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked as he tried to sort through the chaos. “I wasn’t even gone a week.”

The older man waved a hand about the place, “I had a lot on my mind. I found myself a tad worried about my apprentice being thrown into Azkaban without a trial and things got a bit . . . out of hand.”

“Out of hand?”

“I missed you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco paused in his sorting and looked at the elderly wizard. “You missed me? Are you turning into a emotionally healthy Hufflepuff?”

Ollivander glanced heavenward as if for strength. “Hardly. I think you’ll find that even cranky old Ravenclaws can miss people.”

By the look on his mentor’s face, he knew the man wasn’t joking. He had missed Draco – had worried for him. And Draco had missed him as well – had missed the life Ollivander was helping him build in this shop. He felt his chest tighten. Salazar, feelings could hurt, but he owed it to himself to try and navigate through this maze of emotion. He cleared his throat. “I missed you, too.”

One corner of the wandmaker’s mouth lifted in a smile before he said, “Well, yes, that’s quite enough of that. We are British after all.”

Grinning to himself, Draco turned back to the wands extracting a few misplaced apple wands from the pear wood section. He wondered if perhaps bursts of accidental magic from Ollivander had been the cause of this disarray. As if the elder man could hear his thoughts he said, “Luna, dear that she is, tried helping me in the shop to distract me from your absence. She said she was sorting wands based on their essence.”

Right. That sort of explained a lot.

The bell above the door chimed, and Ollivander left him to his cataloguing to wait on a customer. He’d arrived well past opening this morning, but his mentor hadn’t minded in the slightest. He and Harry had slept late and been cajoled by Kreacher to sit down for a large breakfast. The elf was a fucking wizard in the kitchen even if he liked to grouse the entire time he was cooking. The Prophet had arrived with a headline declaring, “Former Death Eater Saves the Saviour.” The accompanying article told of Draco’s heroism – that granted – had manifested in a completely dark way. The article had not mentioned that said Saviour was going on an extended leave of absence from the Aurors. When Draco had commented on this, Harry had pointed out that Meredith hadn’t wanted Draco’s story to be overshadowed by the announcement about the Golden Boy.

He glanced at his pocket watch. The shop was only going to be open a couple more hours. Harry was going to Weasley and Granger’s for dinner to tell them that the leave of absence was actually going to be permanent. Since he’d be on his own, he’d owled his mother and invited himself over for dinner. He needed access to the Manor’s hidden library and he would likely need her help to find it.

That evening he found himself seated at one end of the dining table in the Rosier townhouse with his mother. Greg and Pansy had recently moved into Greg’s new flat, but despite it just being the two of them, Mip and his mother had set a lavish table. The soup course had been potato leek, one of his favorites. The salad course had just been cleared away, and the main course appeared. He looked at his plate to find a delicate display of poached sea bass, oysters, and spring asparagus in a light yellow sauce. The dish smelled rich and his first bite confirmed his suspicion.

“Mother, you are aware that it is just you and I here for dinner and you aren’t entertaining anyone you need to impress?”

“I find myself in a celebratory mood upon your release from Azkaban and your exoneration in the press. Let me satisfy my little whims darling.”

“Always, mother,” he said.

His mother arched an eyebrow at him, “And as much as I enjoy the pleasure of your company, I admit to being curious about your owl stating you had questions about the Manor.”

“The Ministry was unable to access our . . . darker library were they?” he asked before he took a sip of wine.

“They were not.”

“So it is intact?”

His mother nodded. “Yes.”

Draco knew this secret library existed, but he’d never been allowed to access it. He didn’t even know where to find it. He’d searched for it as a child – it had been a game, hunting for the room with forbidden knowledge, but the Manor had never offered up the secrets of this library to him.

“I need to access it. I have research to do.”

His mother’s eyes met his. “You can’t, Draco.”

“Why not? I’m a Malfoy, I should be allowed access.”

She smiled at him, small and sad. “You are the heir of the house, but you have not bound yourself to the land. It is customary for the ceremony to take place when a child of the house turns seventeen.” Her voice grew wistful, “This tradition was . . . not followed with you.”

Draco bit his tongue, but he dearly wanted to say that it was bloody hard to follow traditions when a mad man was residing in one’s ancestral home and fucking it over.

“Only members of the family that have bound themselves may access the estate’s most treasured secrets.”

“What are you saying? Do I take an oath?”

Her eyes fastened on his as she said, “Yes. You bind yourself by blood to this land.”

He felt his eyes grow wide in shock. “A blood oath? But . . . they’re outlawed.”

She waved a hand as if a silly little Ministry law was of no consequence. “The Malfoy line has lived on that land since 1066 – and before that it belonged to a family of Anglo-Saxon wizards. The first Malfoy married a daughter of that family. Every heir has bound themselves to the place – swearing to protect it, and in return, old magic protects and benefits you.”

“Fat lot of good that ancient magic did for father. It didn’t protect him.”

His mother sighed and placed her hands on the table’s edge. “Your father did not . . . uphold his oath. He allowed others to desecrate our home. The library you want to access for example, would not open to him upon his return from Azkaban.”

He swallowed. He didn’t want to bind himself to the Manor. He’d not been back there since . . . since he’d been tortured for letting Harry escape. The Ministry had released the property after his father’s trial, but it was no longer his home. Home was a modest flat above Ollivander’s shop. Home was wherever Harry was.

“What do I have to promise?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mother looked at him across the table, the silver cutlery and candlesticks glistening in the candlelight. “Why do you need to find this library so badly?”

“I want to do research . . . to help a friend.”

“Is that friend Harry Potter?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think an association with him is good for you,” she said, idly poking at the food on her plate with her fork.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Mother, he is the Gryffindor Golden Boy who saved the whole sodding country. I bet father would be ecstatic that I’m cultivating a friendship with Harry Potter and thereby helping to redeem our tarnished name.”

She leveled her pale blue eyes on him. “I am not your father. Whether or not being friends with him will benefit this family’s reputation is not my concern.”

“You saved him. How in the world could you not want me to associate with him?”

Narcissa placed her cutlery on her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “I have nothing personal against Mr. Potter. My concern is and will always be for you. I’ve always wanted nothing more than for you to be safe and happy.”

He pressed the fingers of one hand to his forehead. He could not comprehend what his mother was saying. He’d been concealing the truth of his relationship with Harry from her, but now seemed like the time to tell her. He took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “He does make me happy, and he would do anything to keep me safe. He is . . . We are together mother – and you know in the way I mean. I’m hoping that there will be information in our library that will help him. He needs help.”

He watched in confusion as his mother frowned. The woman who had assured him that his homosexuality made no difference to her and that she would support him in who he loved was frowning at him at the first opportunity to put action to her words. He could physically feel the pain of her rejection. He fought his urge to get up and leave the table – leave the house. He needed to see this through – needed to get access to that library for Harry.

“The Dark Lord’s equal,” she said before closing her eyes for a long moment. He watched as her face cleared and she took a deep breath. She opened her eyes again. “It was always going to be him, wasn’t it?”

“What?” He was at a loss as to what the bloody hell was going on.

“This is very important, Draco. I need you to answer me honestly. I will not help you for anything short of love. Do you love him? And I’m not talking about the flush of first love – do you love him to the point that you’d rather burn down the world than let harm come to a single hair on his head?”

“You don’t care that he’s . . . a man?”

“I don’t. I care about the depth of your feelings for him.”

He lifted his chin, proud of his choice in Harry. “I would pass through fire if it meant I could help him.”

His mother looked sad at these words. “Then I will help you my darling. As much as it worries me, I will help you.”

“What is going on mother? I don’t understand.”

“You will,” she took a sip from her glass of wine. “Stay here tonight. We will visit the Manor tomorrow and you will pledge your fealty to the land at dawn.”

 

It was cool in the predawn in Wiltshire. He pulled his cloak tighter around him. His mother stood beside him, her pale blue cloak affixed by an onyx brooch with the constellation draco worked in silver on its surface, a hood covering her fair hair. His father had given her the pin the day of his birth. That she had worn it today hinted at the importance of what was about to take place.

He hadn't slept well during the night.  He glanced again his mother.  He thought it likely that she’d given him little time to contemplate what they were going to do so that he wouldn’t over analyze and stress.  He, however, was a champion at worrying, and a single night had been more than enough time for him to work himself up. 

He looked away from his mother and up at the gate of the Manor. He took a deep breath. He could do this. He would do this if it allowed him to help Harry. Fuck. He was pinning all his hopes on a library he’d never seen. He took another breath – exhaled – and stepped toward the gate. The wards knew him – knew his magic – and the ancient gates swung open without a sound. They walked together down the path, and for the first time in two years, Draco saw the Manor standing proud in the darkness. Not a single light shone in the windows to welcome him. As they drew near the ancient house, his mother stopped.

“This is as far as I will go my son. I’m a Malfoy by marriage, not by blood. You must take the final steps on your own.” She clasped his hands in her own for a moment before releasing him. “I’ll be waiting for you here when you are ready.”

He nodded and took a path away from her, skimming around the grounds along the side of the house and breaking away when he reached the back corner to cross a wide stretch of unkempt lawn. Dew clung to his shoes as he made his way toward the sacred grove. His mother had told him he needed to plight himself at the oldest part of the estate. The house was Elizabethan with later additions and updates adding to both its grandeur and its sprawl, but it had been built from the stone of earlier castle keeps. Before the houses of stone, there had been castle fortresses of timber, but the wood had never been harvested from the ancient grove of hawthorn trees. The trees that stood now were the descendants of the first trees that had graced the land. He walked amongst the grove, weaving his way around the trees, dipping his head here and there to avoid a low hanging branch. It was too early for the trees to be in bloom, but when they did flower, they would smell of death. Despite its ominous blossoms, he knew hawthorns were a sacred tree symbolizing love and protection.

He came to a stop in a clearing at the center of the grove where a single large standing stone stood like a silent sentinel. It had been placed in this spot in a time before memory. The stone was a great deal taller than him and pointed toward the heavens. He walked to the standing stone and gazed up at it. This was the oldest part of the estate to be touched by a human hand. He wasn’t sure when his ancestors had started offering their blood sacrifice in the heart of this sacred grove. Perhaps he was descended from the very people that first placed this stone – Malfoy blood had spilled here for almost a thousand years, but before that, Anglo-Saxon bride of the first Malfoy on this Isle had been a descendent of an ancient, magical lineage that had also paid homage.

As if whispered by the wind in the trees, her name came to him – Aelflaed. It was rumored that the Malfoy’s striking hair came from her. Almost a millennia ago, she had married a Norman wizard that had ridden with the raiding conquerors of her land. She had loved her supposed enemy and had forged an unbroken line that led to him. Loving the enemy . . . maybe he had more in common with this distant ancestress than just his silver blond hair.

Dawn was almost upon him. He took a deep breath and took the final step to the stone. From a sheath on his belt he drew a small knife. As the first ray of the rising sun pierced the horizon, the blade flashed silver in the light. He took another breath and then drew the blade across the palm of his dominant hand, the thin line welling with blood.

As his mother had told him the night before, the words that sprang to his mind came from the line of magic woven into the land. His voice was hoarse with disuse, but he still spoke the words, “I swear by the magic in my blood to protect this land. I swear by those that came before me to . . .” He faltered. The words that demanded to be spoken were words he’d not considered – words that asked for something he wasn’t ready to commit.

Oh Merlin. What was being asked of him was more than he wanted to vow – more than he wanted to give. The Manor’s library may not even hold the answers he was looking for. Binding himself in this way might be for nothing . . . but what if it wasn’t? What if the knowledge hidden away in the secret library helped Harry?

The magic tugged as his core – demanding that he either finish the oath or leave this place forever.

He thought of Harry – thought of his beloved’s brilliant eyes. And he knew. He would promise anything to keep his Chosen One safe. Long before this oath to the land his fate had become inescapably bound to Harry’s. It was too late for him to back away now even thought a part of him wanted to. He started the oath again, his voice solemn and sure.

“I swear by the magic in my blood to protect this land. I swear by those that came before me to perpetuate my line and to teach those that come after me to honor and protect this land. If I break my vow, this land’s magic will no longer answer my call and I will be cast adrift, cut off from the magic of my line.”

He opened his cut palm, and pressed his right hand to the standing stone – sealing his oath with his blood. Power surged through him – through the grove – through the entire estate. He felt it pulsing from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. The pulsing turned to a throb until the power escaped him – too great to be contained by him alone - light flashed through the grove, blinding his eyes and his mind. All was dark.

Chapter 76: The Prophecy

The darkness receded. Draco became conscious that he was standing in dewy grass with his hand pressed again weathered stone. He heard birds starting their songs to greet the morning. He remained braced against the standing stone until the sun had fully risen above the horizon. When he finally pulled his hand away, he couldn’t miss seeing the smear of his blood on the stone.

He inspected his injured palm and watched as it healed before his eyes, the cut knitting itself together before leaving the barest trace of a scar. He realized he was still clutching the knife in his left hand, so he wiped the blade on his cloak and sheathed it.

Everything in the grove looked the same . . . yet somehow different. His magic felt connected to this place – grounded and reinforced. It was as if the land had become an extension of himself.  He could feel the thrum of the wards protecting the borders and for the first time in years, he felt safe here.

It wasn’t until he took his first step away from the standing stone that he remembered what he’d promised. He’d promised to perpetuate his line. Oh fuck. He’d promised . . . he’d promised to have an heir.

He’d thought the Malfoy line would die with him, but at the dawn of this day, he’d vowed to keep it going. He scrubbed a hand across his face. For the love of Merlin, why in the ever-loving fuck had he done that? But he knew it was a stupid question to be asking himself as the answer was obvious.

Harry.

Harry was his answer.

He took a deep breath. He wasn’t even twenty years old yet – he had plenty of time to figure out his vow to perpetuate the line . . . Didn’t he? Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

No, no, no.

He breathed deeply. He would not have an attack here. He wouldn’t. He took another breath and slowly counted to five as he filled his lungs before exhaling. He tamped his feet into the earth, grounding himself in the clearing before envisioning the radiant green of his beloved’s eyes.

He would be alright he told himself. He had friends – smart and fierce friends – and they would help him think of a solution to his oath. Right now, he to find the hidden library. He counted again as he drew in and let out another breath. He felt a bit calmer now – more settled.

He walked away from the sacred grove and the standing stone and back across the field toward the Manor. He wondered how many of his ancestors had made this trek and how they had all felt after taking their oaths. Maybe each person who had sworn fealty to the land and the old magic embedded within it hadn’t considered the price so dear as he did.

Draco rounded the house and found his mother sitting on the front steps. She rose as he approached.

“It is done,” he said. “Now where is this library?”

“The magic of this place assists you now, my son. All you have to do is ask.”

Despite this rather cryptic and not at all helpful reply, he nodded politely at his before walking up the steps to the Manor’s great front door. It opened for him as he neared and he stepped into the house that had once been his home. Without house elves and with no member of the family on site to refresh the preservation charms, the marble floor was coated in dust. Other signs of neglect greeted him, in the form of cobwebs fluttering from the light fixtures and in the corners. And he suppressed a shudder when he observed the transparent shed skin of the Dark Lord’s great snake down the hall leading toward the door to the dungeon. He willed himself not to be overwhelmed by his more recent memories of this place. Once, this house and this land had been the center of his whole universe, and he wouldn’t let ugly memories drive him away. He squared his shoulders and took a few steps into the empty, chilly house before glancing back at his mother. She stood at the threshold, her face shuttered. He doubted she’d ever seen the place in such a state, but he supposed it had to be better than when the Dark Lord and his followers had been in residence. Still, this had to be hard for her. She was surely not leading the life she’d dreamed of when she’d come to the Manor as a new bride. He walked back to her, leaving new footprints in the grime on the floor, and held out his hand.

Narcissa mustered a weak smile and took his hand. She suddenly looked . . . fragile. It wasn’t a look he was familiar with seeing on her, but he supposed it was better than the icy veneer she’d worn through the last years of the War.

He walked toward the library as it seemed sensible that a secret library would be close to where the actual library was located. The Manor’s library, as he remembered it, was a gorgeous space. He could picture it - two stories lined with bookshelves of dark wood and a richly carved balustrade highlighting the open vertical space. Rich, green velvet drapes framed the windows while a matching carpet graced the floor. From a place or prominence above the ornate mantle, a portrait of an ancestor wearing a quilted doublet with a high neck ruff surveyed the room.

He swung open one of the double doors leading to the space, and the room that greeted him now did not resemble his memory. Books were strewn about the space, drapes were pulled down, and some of the intricate railings were broken, their splinters further littering the floor.

He turned to look at his mother, his question must have been visible on his face, as she said, “The Dark Lord became obsessed with finding and mastering the Elder Wand. Bellatrix . . . scoured the library trying to reveal any helpful information. When her search proved fruitless she . . .” Her voice trailed off and she swept a hand around her, indicating the destruction his mad aunt had wrought. Anger flashed through him. It was just like Bellatrix to defile something precious and beautiful, either in a fit of temper or for the sheer joy of it. This was not the way texts and knowledge should be treated. He felt his magic rise within him – felt it leach out of him and spill into the room – felt it merge with a force that was not his own, yet felt familiar. Intact books rose from the floor and started to stow themselves on shelves, while loose pages and empty book covers stacked themselves into neat piles awaiting rebinding. The curtains hung themselves, dust and creases billowing off the velvet fabric as they did, and the wooden splinters were swept into the fireplace as if by an invisible broom.

“What . . . How?” he asked. The room still looked wounded, and would need focused attention, but it looked a damn sight better than it had when he’d entered.

“The magic of the land answered your call,” said his mother. “It’s been . . . years since I’ve seen the house respond like this. You father . . .” her voice trailed off, leaving unsaid that Lucius had violated his blood oath. He couldn’t figure out how, as Lucius had fathered a son. He wondered why and when the house had stopped heeding his father’s call. Had his father mourned that loss?

He took a deep breath. Right. This was no time for thoughts of his father. He had work to do.

“I wish to see the hidden library,” he said aloud, feeling a bit foolish as he did so. Then – because it probably didn’t hurt to be polite to an ancient well of magic – he added, “Please.”

He heard the sound of a deep rumble behind him. He turned, and the wall opposite the fireplace seemed to shiver before a wooden door made of wide vertical planks dark with age appeared. He crossed the room and slid the metal latch to the side and pulled the door open - its hinges were strangely silent. He felt cool air seep from the opening, and torches beyond the threshold sprang to life, revealing a circular stair, its stone steps disappearing round the curve of the central pillar.

He did not allow himself to freak out after being confronted with a descending stair that looked ancient. No, he didn’t even allow himself to pause and consider the risks before he started his descent, and after a few steps, he heard his mother start her way down as well. There was no railing, so his right hand slid along the outer wall for support, the stone slightly rough against his palm. The flare of the torches offered the only light, and for a long time, there was nothing but taking step after step and the sound of feet upon the treads.

At last he saw the light growing stronger, and after another half turn down the stairs, he emerged into a subterranean room lit with torches and suspended candles. Stone pillars and archways announced that this space predated the Manor. Across the room, his gaze was caught by a fresco in hues of bright reds, greens, blues, and golds. He drew closer and made out a man with a long dark fringe but with shorn hair behind his ears. Beside this man with the foreign looking hairstyle was a woman wearing a veil that did quite obscure her silver-blond hair. The fresco looked as if it had just barely dried as the detail and colors were so vivid. Unlike more modern portraits, the image of the couple did not move or speak, except for the eyes, which he found to be dead creepy. Beneath the fresco, he made out the words, “Chevalier Armand Malfoi et sa femme Aelflaed, fille de Wessex.”

“Knight Armand Malfoi and his wife Aelfaed, daughter of Wessex,” said his mother, translating the writing to English. “Wilthsire was once part of the kingdom of Wessex.”

He thought he caught sight of more words etched even further down. He stooped and was barely able to make out, “Je survis et m’épanoius.” I survive and flourish.

“She was from a conquered people," said Narcissa, "But she endured and laid claim to what was hers. Her blood and her magic founded a dynasty.”

“We should have kept that motto,” said Draco. “It’s far better than sanctimonia vincet semper.”

“I think my son, that the true meaning of the words was lost over time. The translation is ‘purity will always conquer.’ That doesn’t mean blood purity. It could mean purity of the heart – purity of the soul. If it had been about blood purity, the motto would have been sanguis puritas semper vincet.”

For a moment his eyes met those of the portrait of his ancestress. The fresco was a much simpler rendition of a portrait than the framed paintings in the Manor proper, but the ice blue eyes were vivid and the black pigment of the pupils fastened on him before glancing to the left. Draco turned, and more candles and torches caught, illuminating shelf upon shelf of books and objects covering the walls at side and back of the room, along with a large wooden work table flanked by benches. The hidden library. Some of the shelves were stacked with scrolls, others had what looked to be manuscripts balanced on their sides, while many, many of the shelves contained bound books. From the look of the materials, the knowledge in this place had been built upon and added to for generations. He wasn’t sure how the texts were organized, and he stepped toward the shelf closest to him to peer at the titles – from his cursory look, many of the books contained the words, “magie du sange, sanquis magicae draoidheachd-fala.” Blood magic.

He moved on to the next shelf, and his eye caught on a spun-glass orb that sat in a recess within the stone. He leaned in and watched as mist swirled within the delicate object. It reminded him of a memory, but this looked different – more ethereal if possible.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A prophecy,” said his mother.

He frowned and looked back at her, “Aren’t prophecies kept in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry?”

“Yes,” said Narcissa, looking away. He wasn’t used to his mother being so evasive – at least not since the War.

“Mother?”

The word hung in the air until at last his mother said, “During your fifth year your father was ordered to deliver the prophecy about the Dark Lord and Harry Potter to Lord Voldemort. While in the Department of Mysteries, your father found this prophecy. Sybill Trelawny apparently uttered the prophecy to Albus Dumbledore shortly after he installed her at Hogwarts.”

He felt his heart began constrict. He didn’t like where this seemed to be going but he couldn’t help but ask, “Who was the prophecy about?”

Pale eyes met his.  “You. And Harry Potter.”

“What?”

“We didn’t know about the prophecy at the time it was made,” said his mother. “Dumbledore never told us.”

“How did you find out? How did it get here? I thought only those mentioned in a prophecy could remove it from the Hall of Prophecies.”

His mother smiled at him, a sad smile that did not reach her eyes. “Your father found it on one of his many trips to the Hall. It was catalogued close by the prophecy on Harry Potter as it was made by the same person. He was able to remove it as he is mentioned in the prophecy. His name, Lucius, means ‘the light.’”

Draco ran a hand over his face. What the fuck? A prophecy? About him? About Harry?

“What does it say?”

“You can touch the glass and hear it for yourself,” said his mother. He took a cautious step toward the orb and his mother continued, “But Draco, once you hear a prophecy, you cannot forget it. The foretelling of the future can consume some people’s lives. Think of the Dark Lord and the lengths he went to trying to discover what had been foretold. That same prophecy dictated the course of Harry Potter’s life. Choose wisely.”

Well fuck. He could turn away and leave the orb well enough alone – he should do that. But . . . but it was about Harry too. He couldn’t leave a stone unturned if he could help Harry.

He grasped the glass sphere in his hands and his vision exploded in a flash of white. Out of this brilliance emerged the shadowy form of the Divination professor he had always thought to be a quack. A voice not at all like Trelawney’s rolled like thunder in his mind, “Son of the light, child of the stars . . . Father and son shall fall into shadow . . . From the darkness the Dragon shall rise . . . Mage of blood, beholder of death, scarred by dark magic, the Dragon shall be bound to the one marked as the Dark Lord’s equal. Darkness shall shroud him and embrace him, and through the darkness the Dragon shall cross into the light and greet Death.”

He gasped, and withdrew his hands so quickly the sphere rocked out of its base and would have crashed to the floor if his mother had not caught it with a quick levitation charm.

“Draco?” she asked, but he couldn’t look at her, the words of the prophecy hurtled through his mind, wreaking havoc and leaving chaos in their wake. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Dumbledore had known – had known for Draco’s whole life that he was bound to Harry. What was it that the portrait of the headmaster had said on the eve of the Battle? That he and Harry were two-sides of the same coin? Yet the cryptic bastard had failed to mention a prophecy that what - foretold of Draco’s death? Oh, Merlin.

“You never told me,” he said, turning to his mother. Her face was pale and her eyes glistened.

“We were . . . afraid. Your fate – your death – seemed bound to Harry Potter.”

“You think Harry will cost me my life?”

His mother took a deep breath before nodding. “Please,” she begged. “Let him go.” She waved her arm around the room, “Let all of this go.”

His blood was pounding in his ears. He’d given so much to avoid death – given his reputation, his freedom, and perhaps his soul. And now he was being asked to give up Harry. Oh Merlin. He clasped a hand to his mouth to hold in the scream that threatened to tear its way out of him. Was it worth it? Giving up Harry to live a shadow life? Knowing that Harry was out there and not being able to share a life with him?

He felt numb. All of the pain he caused during the War . . . it had all been for nothing when he was meant to die. His stars it seemed, were aligned with those of Regulus after all. Here he’d thought he’d somehow broken free of his cousin’s fate only to have the words of the prophesy rip his dreams of the future to shreds. And fuck it hurt – it hurt so much to think that he wouldn’t get a chance at a life with Harry – with his friends. Either choice was impossible – no matter if he let Harry go or stayed knowing death stalked him he would be saying goodbye to a future he’d barely dared to dream about.

All for those eyes – Harry’s eyes. The eyes that would haunt Draco for his whole miserable life.

He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give up Harry – not when those eyes saw Draco for the man he could become – not when there was a chance that he could save his Chosen One. “I can’t walk away from him.”

“My darling, please - ”

“I love him.” They were words he’d still never said to Harry, but that didn’t make them any less true.

“Draco,” said his mother, her face frozen with fear. “If you can’t let him go, I’m afraid you will die for him.”

“He’d died for all of us.”

“Draco, this is no time for dramatics.”

He half turned away from her and resisted the urge to shout – barely. “It’s not dramatics, mother, it’s the truth. Harry walked into the woods alone at seventeen to die. He went knowing he would die so that he could help bring down Voldemort. He was alone. Afraid. And he went. You know. You were there.” He paused. Her eyes were fixed on him. Her broach gleamed in the torchlight. He wondered if she’d known when she’d affixed it to her cloak that today would be the day that her only child would seek his doom. “If he could risk dying for every bloody person in this world, then how can I not risk dying to save him.”

“You are my only child,” she said, her eyes glistening.

He’d done so much to protect her – to try and shield her – but he couldn’t protect her from this pain. It was, after all, ordained that he would choose Harry.

“I’m sorry, mother.” And there, in the secret heart of Malfoy Manor, the daughter of the House of Black finally broke down.

Notes:

Sorry - I tried to get this chapter up on Tuesday, but the site had a glitch that wouldn't let me post a new chapter. The problem seems to have resolved.

I wrote the prophecy out a year ago. I'm interested to see what people think.

Chapter 77: Emotional Fortitude

Draco drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. He’d held his mother under the stone arches of the secret library as she’d sobbed. He never seen her lose control like that – not once during the War or in the uncertainty that came after. He’d at last managed to get her back to the Rosier townhouse and he’d sent Mip for Pansy, who came to stay with the woman who’d helped to rescue her in her own hour of need. He’d given his mother a sleeping draft, and once it had taken hold, he’d sent an urgent owl to Meredith. And now he was here, in Azkaban waiting for Lucius, after his attorney had made the necessary arrangements.

And shit this was beyond unfair. It really was. By rights he should be with Harry – going out with Harry, cuddling Harry, shagging Harry – the list was endless. But no, here he was once again in this wretched prison. Salazar, but he’d barely gotten the feel and the scent of the place off him and yet here he was a-fucking-gain. He scrubbed a hand across his face. Yet again, he was leaving Ollivander at the shop on his own. It was only early afternoon, but after everything he’d been through since the predawn, it felt much later.

At last the door on the other side of the magical barrier slid open, and Lucius walked in flanked by guards. They deposited him in the chair opposite and freed him of the magical bindings on his hands. “You have twenty minutes,” said the stockier of the guards.

As he waited for the guards to leave, Draco took in his father’s appearance. Lucius was clean shaven and his hair was neatly tied back. He looked far better than he had when he’d returned to the Manor after his first stint in Azkaban.

“Draco, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” asked Lucius in his familiar cadence – every word as clear as cut glass.

Draco didn’t see any point in prolonging the discussion with small talk, so he jumped right to the point. “I pledged myself to the land at dawn this morning, and afterwards I found a prophecy that you chose to conceal from me.”

Lucius’ posture stiffened ever so slightly. “And what did the magic ask of you?”

“What?” asked Draco. He felt his brow wrinkle in confusion.

“You walked into the sacred grove and made an oath at the standing stone before binding yourself by blood to the land. You followed in the footsteps of countless Malfoys and Wessexes and others whose names have been lost to time who pledged themselves to the land for well over two millennia. Each person who stood on that spot and spoke the words that came to them made a solemn vow. What did you promise?”

“I promised to perpetuate the line,” said Draco, not at all happy that they were talking about the blood oath instead of the prophecy. “You should know you took the oath as well.”

Lucius smiled, humorless and without warmth. “The magic is ancient and cunning – each oath taker is asked to promise the one thing that is the hardest for them to pledge.”

“Wait – you didn’t vow to have heirs?”

“I already knew I wanted heirs,” said his father. “I always intended to have children, so that wasn’t what was asked of me.”

Draco tried to picture a younger version of Lucius that had wanted children – a Lucius that had wanted a family - but he found it difficult to reconcile that image with the father he’d known growing up. Maybe his father had wanted children for the power they would bring him, for the continuance of the family name, or maybe his reasons all those years ago had been more pure. He didn’t know and he wasn’t about to ask. Instead he asked, “What did you promise if it wasn’t to have heirs?”

Lucius’ eyes – the same color as their ancestress in the fresco – met his. “I vowed to put the needs of those who depended on me above my own.”

It was so quiet in the aftermath of his father’s statement that Draco thought he could hear the silence raging against his ears. At last Draco said, “Well . . . that worked . . .”

“You know how well that worked,” his father said, an undercurrent of haughtiness in his voice. He watched as his father took a breath before continuing in a more neutral tone, “I don’t need you to explain how I . . . failed you and your mother. I am well aware. The magic of the estate was aware. During your second year at Hogwarts it stopped answering me as quickly as it once had, and after I was broken out of Azkaban in the last year of the War it refused to heed me. I placed my own needs for power and self-preservation first. I thought doing what was best for me was best for you. I was . . . wrong.”

He narrowed his eyes at his father. This wasn’t an apology – no words asking for forgiveness had been spoken – but he wasn’t sure if his father had ever conceded he was wrong before.

“Did mother put you up to this?”

Lucius sniffed, “Your mother is a force to be reckoned with and she may have been rather . . . firm in her assessment on my shortcomings as a father and a husband.”

“Shortcomings,” Draco murmured. Lucius was still minimizing his actions, but even this acknowledgement was more than he’d ever expected.

“And I expect that your dear mother has worked herself into a frenzy over this prophecy. I blame the Black blood – always so dramatic and focused on the morbid.”

“But I heard the prophecy. It says I will greet Death.”

“And you clearly inherited the Black flair for the hysterical and the dramatic.” Draco glared at his father. As if drama didn’t run on the Malfoy side as well. Lucius, however, was unperturbed by the look his son gave him and continued, “Remember, I also heard the prophecy. It claims you shall cross into the light and greet death. It does not say when or how. You may be an elderly man asleep in your bed before you die. We all greet death at some time, it doesn’t mean it is staring you in the face at this moment.”

“But the prophecy-”

“It is a prophecy, Draco. This is why I didn’t share it with you. You were still a child when I learned of it and I didn’t want this hanging over you. You can’t live your life bound by it. The Dark Lord let a prophecy control him to the point that it caused his own downfall.”

“But I am . . . bound to Harry Potter.”

His father sighed, “Merlin, help me I know. I listened to you rant about the boy since your first year in Hogwarts, and when you failed to identify him at the Manor I realized how deep your investment in him ran.”

Draco resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. He would not give his father the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort. “It is more than that. He’s become my friend – more than my friend. We are . . . together.”

Lucius inhaled sharply, “I take that to mean that you . . . and he . . .”

“Yes,” Draco confirmed.

“Ah.” Draco could almost see the flurry of thoughts flashing behind his father’s eyes at the confirmation of a relationship with Harry. “I can’t deny that an association with him would be helpful to you, Draco. It is not in me to ignore the advantages a . . . relationship with him could bring. However, I repeat, prophecies do not determine one’s life – it is the actions that you take that determine your path.” When Draco remained silent his father said, “Let me put this in a way that your Black blood will understand, ‘the fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’”

Right . . . that didn’t help as much as his father was expecting.

“And as to your oath, what exactly did you commit to? The exact words, please.”

“To perpetuate the line.”

“Well then, you didn’t promise to have heirs. You vowed to perpetuate the line – in this case, I think it means a bloodline.” When Draco offered up what he knew to be a look of incredulity, his father carried on. “A bloodline can be made by the joining of blood – either in the natural way of . . . procreation,” here is father paused and swallowed hard. This was the perhaps the closest Lucius would ever come to the subject of the ‘the talk’ with Draco. “Or through magical bindings of the blood.”

Again . . . not very helpful.

Lucius sighed, seemingly frustrated with either his own attempts at explanation or at Draco’s obtuseness in not understanding him. “All I mean is that you have time. Time for everything. You don’t need to rush into any decisions.”

“Are you trying to . . . be supportive?”

His father sighed again, “Yes, and it is very difficult. I rather think I’m doing well considering that in our brief conversation I have learned that you made a blood oath, discovered the prophecy, and are in a homosexual relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived. I am most uncomfortable right now.”

When put like that he supposed his father was doing pretty well – far better than Draco would have ever expected. Still, it wasn’t in him to be congratulatory to Lucius, so he said, “Azkaban must be agreeing with you.”

“It has provided me with an overabundance of time to think.”

There was a knock at the door and a moment later the two guards entered on his father’s side of the partition. “Time is up,” one of them announced.

“So I presumed,” drawled his father as he held up his hands to be magically cuffed. He rose from his chair, but before he turned toward the door he said, “Make sure you tell your mother that . . . ” His father, however, did not finish whatever it was he had intended to say. He gazed at Draco for a moment before inclining his head.

Draco nodded in return, unsure of what to say to this absolute quandary of a man, and exited the room before he had to watch his father shuffle away.

 

The shop was closed by the time he trudged up the back alley to the rear entrance. He couldn’t wait to shower away the misery of the island prison that he could almost feel adhered to his skin. And once he showered, he’d find Harry and . . . well, he’d start just by holding him and leaning into him.

Sitting on the back steps of his building, however, was a tall ginger.

“Weasley?”

Ronald Weasley looked up. “Harry came to see Mione yesterday.”

“Is he okay?” asked Draco, acutely aware of his boyfriend’s absence.

Weasley held up his hands, “He’s fine. He took the Knight Bus to see us and let me drive him home to minimize his use of magic.”

Draco knew Harry was brave, but he couldn’t help but think he was also foolhardy to get back into the moving hunk of metal with Weasley as a driver.

They stood in awkward silence for a long moment, before his uninvited guest said, “Mind if we go inside? I’ve been waiting for you for a while and my backside is sore from sitting on this stone step.”

He sighed, “Sure.” He moved around Weasley, who worked to scoot out of the way, to unlock the door. His manners kicked in once they were in the building. “Come up and I’ll make us some tea.” Draco didn’t really feel all that much like tea – he still wanted a shower – but he didn’t want to be rude to Harry’s best mate.

After he’d prepared the tea, he sat in a chair that was far more comfortable than he remembered while Weasley settled onto the sofa. “So out with it, Weasley, why are you here to see me? Auror business?”

The other young man laughed once. “I guess you could call it that.” Draco felt himself stiffen before Weasley said, “Harry said he was never going to go back to being an Auror. Not ever. Said he was tired . . . tired of fighting.”

“Surely you had a suspicion that he was going to stop being an Auror?”

The Gryffindor shrugged, “Yeah, but having him come out say that after announcing his leave of absence makes it . . . real. You know? Thinking something might happen and having it happen are two different things.” He watched as the ginger traced the pad of an index finger around the rim of the cup. “It just got me thinking . . . should I keep being an Auror without him?”

Draco shut his eyes and took a beat to try and collect himself. He was fucking tired, and he didn’t think he had it in him at the moment to deal with Weasley’s life crisis. He really didn’t. He wasn’t sure he could muster the appropriate empathy after everything this day had put him through. But this was Harry’s best friend, and he knew he couldn’t be an absolute wanker to him no matter how badly he wanted to cease this conversation.

“Right . . . surely you’ve talked about this with Granger and Harry.”

The other man looked a bit sheepish, “Not really . . .”

Draco just stared at the youngest Weasley brother. What in Merlin’s name made him think that of all the people he knew – girlfriend, siblings, parents, other earnest as fuck Gryffindors, and the bloody Chosen One – that Draco was the person he wanted to talk with about a major life decision.

“May I ask why you haven’t spoken with them?” Draco prompted when Weasley didn’t offer up more on his own.

The Gryffindor shrugged, “It’s a lot of pressure isn’t it - deciding what you want to do for your whole life. I wanted to be an Auror in school cause Harry was going to be one. We were going to stop crime and hunt down evil together. And then . . .”

“And then you did it – you helped stop the Dark Lord.”

“Yeah. And . . . well . . . I used to want the glory of the job and the uniform. I wanted people to look at me like I was a hero – feel like I was Harry Potter for just a fraction of time. But being a hero – a lot of the time you spend it bloody scared thinking you or the people you love are going to get hurt or worse. I didn’t realize that for a long time – I didn’t realize how hard it was for Harry.” The young man stared at his tea. “And I don’t want him to feel . . . trapped by me. I just don’t know what it’d be like to work the job without him. Everything good I’ve done – he’s been by my side. When we were apart in the past things went to hell. And I can’t tell him that I don’t think I can do this without him. He’s so loyal . . . I . . . I don’t want him to come back to the force because of me.”

Draco put his cup down on a side table before leaning forward in his chair. “Merlin, Weasley, you are how old? Twenty?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You aren’t even old enough for a quarter-life crisis. You have plenty of time to figure things out. You helped saved the damn world – I think you can be afforded a hundred years or so to decide what else you want to do.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “So let’s get down to bare bones. Do you like the work?”

“I always kind of knew that Harry’s heart wasn’t in it – being an Auror.”

“No – that wasn’t what I asked. I asked about you. Do you, Ronald Weasley, like being an Auror?”

The other man’s eyes met his, “I . . . yeah . . . I really think I do. I like being in the field – I like planning – I like the thrill of following a lead and closing a case.”

“It brings you purpose.”

Weasley nodded. “It does. Is that how you feel about making wands?”

Right. They had reached the part of the conversation where he was being asked to share. He didn’t really want to bare himself at the moment – he’d been through the fucking ringer already today – but he knew Harry would like it if he tried to connect with his best mate on more than a superficial level. So, he took a breath and said, “I never gave a lot of thought to what happiness meant before the end of the War. I was raised to want political power so that I could exert influence and control over the Ministry. That life, thank Merlin, isn’t available to me after everything.” He paused to tap his fingers against his left inner forearm, where his Mark lay hidden by his sleeve. “Ollivander took me in and gave me a chance. I jumped at it because I didn’t think any other prospects would come my way. I can’t say it would have ever have been a choice I’d made if circumstances didn’t lead me to it. But somehow, I did end up here, and I know that I’m the fucking luckiest bastard in Britain. I love what I do – I love the intellectual challenge and the artistry of it. I want to learn everything there is to know about wandlore. And I’m happy – honestly happy in a way I didn’t even know was possible. I think . . .” He paused again for a moment, “Ron . . . that it is incredibly brave of you to want to be . . . happy.” The ginger’s head snapped up at the use of his first name, but Draco persevered onward. “I think you have it in you to be an excellent Auror with or without Harry being a part of the force. But even if you don’t like it anymore without him, you’re not tied to that profession. You are allowed to be you as an individual – not just exist as the Chosen One’s best friend or as a third of the Golden Trio.” Draco glanced at the clock and decided that he’d done as much as he could considering his nerves at the moment. “I think I’ve used up all of the little emotional capacity that I have for the day and I’d rather like to take a shower and go see Harry.”

The Gryffindor rose, “Yeah – of course. I’ll be off.” He held his cup up with a raised eyebrow.

“The side table is fine.”

The other man put the cup down with a little bit more force than he’d probably intended, as he looked surprised by the sound he’d created. He flushed, but recovered enough to say, “But - er – thanks . . . Draco.” Draco nodded and watched him head to door. Once his hand was on the knob he turned back for a moment to say, “And if we’re going to start calling each other by our first names, you’d best stop calling Hermione ‘Granger.’ She’ll be miffed to be left out.”

“I’ll consider it,” was all Draco conceded before the ginger departed.

 

He rushed his way through a shower and wrestled on a clean pair of pants while he was still damp. He was just tussling his hair dry with a towel before his mirror in his room when he heard a voice behind him, “Preening, Malfoy?” He swung around to see Harry – the man he’d been hurrying to see - leaning against his doorframe. “Because if you’re not, you should be. You are rather fit, if one fancies pale, lithe men.”

“Lithe? Really, Potter, have you been reading the dictionary again to try and improve upon your deplorably middle-class vocabulary in an attempt to impress me?”

The Gryffindor shrugged, but Draco couldn’t miss the smile playing on his lips. They both enjoyed ribbing each other – a much tamer version of the insults they had lobbed at each other in childhood.

“So what are you doing lounging about in nothing but your pants?”

“I was on my way to see you.” He felt a prickle of fear, had Harry used magic to get to him? “How’d you get here?”

“Nothing scary – I took the tube.”

“Merlin, that would scare me. I’ve heard about it – a train funneling you through the bowels of the earth.”

“You’ll have to come on it with me sometime. Show off how brave you are to all the other purebloods.”

Draco found himself grinning at the other boy. He’d like to think that he was daring enough to ride Muggle transportation with Harry – especially transportation not controlled by one Ronald Weasley. Harry grinned back before crossing the room to him and Draco watched as he traced a stray droplet of water on his chest with his fingertip.

“How was your mum?” his Chosen One asked.

He knew he had a lot to tell Harry – the blood oath, the prophecy, his mother’s fear – but he couldn’t just now. He was emotionally exhausted.

“Would it be alright if we talked about my time with my mother later?”

His Gryffindor quirked a brow at him, “Yeah . . . er . . . of course.”

“Thanks. I just don’t fancy discussing her while I’m just in my pants,” he said, trying to lighten his own mood.

Harry grinned again before leaning in and kissing his neck. Draco sucked in a breath. His neck was one of his weak spots, capable of igniting pleasure and desire through his whole body, and the Gryffindor knew it.

“I think,” said Harry, pausing for a moment to torture Draco with another kiss, “That there are lots of things we can discuss while you’re just in your pants.”

“Really? Such as?” he said.

His chosen one lavished another kiss on his neck before pulling back. He smiled a wicked smile – a look that had no business on a Gryffindor’s face – before he sank to his knees, trailing his hands down Draco’s bare chest as he went.

“Oh fuck,” Draco breathed, engrossed by the face of the man looking up at him. Harry’s hands ran over his hips and down his thighs. He felt his body tighten with desire, and the evidence of his interest was on full display – his pants, after all, hid nothing.

“Yes . . . we have lots and lots to discuss down here,” Harry said, the teasing grin still on his face.

He felt the brush of skin as Harry’s fingertips hooked the band of his pants and started to inch them down. He laced his own fingers into the lovely riot of the other boy’s hair. He could feel the elastic of his pants creep lower and lower still until it became caught on his erect cock. Harry’s fingers started to tug forward on the material, and just as his erection was about to spring free, a harsh rapping sound shatters their privacy.

“Christ!” said Harry, falling backward onto his arse at the sound, while Draco clutched at his heart and turned about the room trying to find the source of the noise. Harry’s extreme instincts to both survive and be a hero must have kicked in as he has rebounded quickly, scrabbling to his feet to stand at Draco’s side, wand drawn.

The noise repeats even louder and almost as one their gazes alight on a miniscule owl flapping outside of one of the windows. For a moment Draco can’t believe that something so small is responsible for the noise that almost made his heart stop – and definitely had a negative effect on his cock. The owl seemingly did not care about Draco’s well-being as it beat its talons and beak at the window pane, making the glass rattle in its frame.

“Pig you utter wanker,” said Harry lowering his wand.

“It’s an owl, Potter.”

“Its name is Pigwidgeon. It’s Ron’s.”

It took his brain a moment to catch up. It seemed ludicrous that such a miniscule ball of feathers belonged to the tall redhead. The window rattled again. It was a fierce little bastard, Draco would give it that.

He went to the window and pulled up on the sash and the wee winged beastie hopped on the sill and extended a leg. He removed the letter and bowed to the owl, “Thank you Pigwidgeon.”

The owl cocked its head and then hopped back out and into the night.

“Fucking Ron. He’s got to be the world’s biggest cockblocker,” he heard Harry grumble. He glanced at the letter. He was surprised to see that it was addressed to him. He broke the seal and quickly scanned the page.

“Fuck,” he said. He looked up from the letter to see Harry’s eyes on him. “I’m to meet George Weasley tomorrow to have a lesson on casting a patronus.”

Harry nodded, his jaw set. “Right. Find your trousers Malfoy. We’re going out. Drinks are called for.” Harry gave him a light smack on his arse, “And I’ve been dying to get you into one of the privacy booths at the Haughty Hypogriff. Think of all the deliciously wicked things you could say to me in that posh voice of yours that no one else will be able to hear.”

Chapter 78: Lesson with a Weasley

The next morning he hesitates on the second floor exterior landing behind Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Ron had written where to find George and had said his brother would be expecting him on Saturday in the morning before the joke shop opened. Draco had seen George around Diagon Alley during the last year. It had, after all, been hard not to see the Weasley entrepreneur when his business and Ollivander’s were so close by each other, but Draco had never interacted with him besides a quick nod of the head if their eyes happened to meet in passing. He’d thought any overtures from him would be roundly rejected. But here he was because of Harry.

Harry. They’d gone out and consumed far too many drinks. The blighter had kept buying Draco the fruitiest cocktails on offer, and Draco had been hard pressed to pretend he didn’t like them as they’d turned out to be surprisingly good. Later they’d ended up back at his flat and in his bed curled around each other. It had been hard to leave his Gryffindor this morning, but Harry had assured him that he was theoretically an adult and could fend for himself. He’d chugged a vial of potion to do away with the last of the effects from his night out at the pub and left Harry to his own devices.

He took a deep breath. He could do this. He knocked on the door . . . and waited . . . and waited some more. He checked his pocket watch. It was the correct time. He knocked again. No answer. He wrapped his knuckles on the door hard enough to sting.

“Oi – I’m coming,” he heard someone call. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal a lanky Weasley in an old Gryffindor tee and a pair of plaid boxers. “Next time don’t beat the door down, just send a patronus. Oh wait. . .”

“That was low-hanging fruit,” said Draco, fighting to keep his face blank and not betray the flare of hurt and anger he felt.

“Come now, Malfoy – I can’t imagine why this whole patronus thing is so hard for you. You must have a literal vault full of good memories. You were, after all, born with a silver spoon up your arse.”

He felt his face pull into a scowl – the flare of feelings he felt was impossible for him to ignore without the benefit of occlumency. “You don’t know a damn thing about my life.”

“I think I know enough,” shrugged the other man.

“I don’t know what the fuck your brother was thinking sending me to you,” said Draco. He felt his posture stiffen. At his full height he was taller than Weasley, but the man’s words made him feel small. “You look at me and all you see is a Death Eater.”

The lone twin shook his head, “Nah. I see the twat that showed up at my door too fucking early for this shit. Godric, Malfoy, it’s fucking eight in the morning on a Saturday. I was out last night drinking my weight in firewhiskey.”

Wait – what? “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re giving me hell because you’re . . . hungover?”

“No, no - not just hungover old chap. I’m hungover and tired.”

“But Ron told me to come by before your shop opened.”

“Well he’s a twat too. I’ve got an assistant covering for me this morning. I’m not due in until after lunch. I could have slept another few hours and still had time for a lesson with you. But since you are here,” Weasley threw open the door, “Make some breakfast and I’ll scrounge up some hangover relief potion.”

He followed Weasley into his flat. There was a small kitchen just to the right.

“You . . . trust me to prepare your food?”

The redhead groaned, “Don’t fucking tell me you don’t even know how to cook? What? Have all your meals always been prepared by house elves?”

Draco looked at the other man as seriously as he could and said, “Well not while I was in jail that I know of, but then again, they probably were as well.”

“Oh for the fuck’s sake. Of course my mental little brother sent me a posh pureblood to deal with.”

“That’s rich – the Weasleys are as pureblood as they come.”

The ginger smirked at him, “But we’re infamous blood traitors. Think I’ve got that tattooed on my arse. Wanna see?”

Draco wasn’t exactly sure of the rules to the game they were playing, but he tried his best to follow along. He glanced down the length of Weasley, making sure his eyes lingered. “Nah, I’m good. I’m sure you have a perfectly respectable arse Weasley, but I have a feeling the Saviour of the Wizarding World would be the jealous type.”

“Oh, thank Merlin. So we don’t have to dance around and pretend that you and Harry aren’t shagging?”

“I don’t see the point. You’re a Weasley. Your youngest brother knows and I’m sure you all have hive mind.” He looked around the galley kitchen noting a wire basket of eggs and a bread box. “And I’m not totally useless. I can’t cast a patronus, but I can cook breakfast.”

“Alright then. Start on the breakfast and I’ll be back in a bit looking more human.”

“It’s possible for you to look more human?”

“Tosser,” said the young man heading deeper into the flat. “And call me George. There’s too damn many Weasleys and it’ll get fucking confusing fast if you keep calling me by my last name.”

After Draco heard the sound of a door closing. He rummaged around for a frying pan, filled the kettle, and got to work.

 

He made it to Ollivander’s just in time to help open the shop for the day. Weasley – wait – George, had apparated them to an empty field and spent an hour demonstrating casting a patronus and observing Draco in his attempts to cast. It had been . . . frustrating. He hadn’t been able to even produce the merest wisp of silver, and George had honestly been a bit gleeful at his own success in casting a bird patronus. It had made Draco start to wish that he had poisoned the other man’s breakfast. At the end of an hour George had called the lesson and made arrangements to meet Draco after work on Wednesday to continue.

The shop only had a light amount of foot traffic. Wands were a necessity in the Wizarding World, but most people only had one a time. Sales were most brisk in the lead up to Christmas and in the summer before the start of the school year. When he wasn’t waiting on intermittent customers he spent time at the front counter reading through books on wandlore and wandcraft from the collection Ollivander kept on a bookshelf in the studio. He cast a charm on each book to search for the term ‘Elder wand’ and took careful notes of each reference. He was disappointed to find that there were few mentions of the infamous wand.

At the end of the day he closed up the shop and went upstairs to change into more comfortable clothes before setting out to Harry’s. Upon arriving to his flat he found his boyfriend sprawled on the sofa with a book.

“I didn’t know you could read,” Draco deadpanned.

The Gryffindor scoffed. “Just because I didn’t take my NEWTs and achieve an ‘outstanding’ in every topic doesn’t mean I’m hopeless.”

“How dare you forget my single ‘exceeds expectations.’ I came by that grade honestly,” he walked to the sofa and sat in the space Harry created for him by lifting up his feet. As soon as Draco was settled, the Gryffindor promptly rested his feet in Draco’s lap. “Besides, the only reason you can’t brag about your own NEWT scores is because you didn’t take them.”

“Didn’t really see the point.”

Draco rubbed a hand over one of Harry’s ankles. “Personally, I think saving the world probably earned you an ‘outstanding’ in every subject for the rest of time.”

His Chosen One closed the book. “All that saving the world hype is overrated if you ask me.”

Draco leaned toward Harry and read the book’s title, “Days in the Lives of Social Workers.”

“Doing a little research?” he asked.

He watched as a shy smile bloomed on the Gryffindor’s face. “Er . . . maybe . . . yeah. I keep thinking about that conversation that we had – that no one is – er – looking out for the kids who are abused in our world. Muggles have social workers that help protect children – services might be arranged for a family to get help and get better, or if the child is really at risk, they may remove the child from their home and ask a court to step in and protect the child. Wizards don’t have anything like that.”

“Salazar, you and Lavender are both going to overhaul the Wizarding World for the better with Muggle ideas.”

“What?”

“Lavender, she’s learning to be a physical therapist, but she’s incorporating Muggle ideas and methods into treatment instead of just relying on magic alone.”

“Wicked,” said Harry. “And yeah, that’s kind of what I want to do. I’m thinking of maybe taking some courses through a university. There are some good schools for social work here in London. I’m going to ask Mione to help me with the applications. I can’t exactly list Hogwarts applying to a Muggle school.” The other man paused to look at him before asking, “What do you think?”

Draco took in the sight of him, the strength of the Chosen One haloed by vulnerability. He knew without a doubt that he was the luckiest person in the world to get to see this side of the Boy-Who-Lived. “I think that it’s brilliant, Harry.”

The Gryffindor beamed back at him, before squirming into a sitting up position and pressing a kiss to Draco’s cheek.

“While I’m on my brilliant streak, come out with me. Let’s go out to Muggle London and disappear.” He nibbled at Draco’s ear, “Ever been on the Tube?”

The Tube, Draco later decided, was a great metal wyrm that devoured people whole and hurtled them to their doom. For a while he’d had to cling to a pole with people sandwiched around him, but after a stop the crowd cleared and he and Harry found a seat. They sat on a hard bench with his knees pressing against the seat in from of them. He knew he must look pale between his discomfort and the appalling lighting, and damn it all if his wanker of a boyfriend wasn’t grinning at him.

“I think you are getting off on this,” said Draco. “Not very Gryffindor-like to be amused by someone else’s pain.”

“Only one stop to go,” said Harry, a smile still plastered on his face, “I think you’ll make it.”

The monstrosity of a mode of transit lurched a bit beneath him and he clutched at Harry’s arm.

“Maybe I just like to feel needed,” said his Chosen One as he patted Draco on the thigh. “Who else would take you on such a grand adventure?”

“And here I thought we were passed our nemesis stage,” he grumbled.

“I kept my school gear. I can put on a Gryffindor tie for you when we get to my place if role playing being at odds with each other does it for you.”

Despite himself, his insides tightened a bit at the thought of Harry in a crimson and gold striped tie. The Boy-Who-Lived had always knotted it a bit too loosely – his attention had always seemed to be on something besides his appearance – but Draco had always been painfully aware of Harry’s appearance enough for the both of them it seemed. Thankfully, the metal wyrm ground to a halt and he blamed his inner state on this fact rather than his lecherous thoughts.

He hurried off the train after Harry and followed him along a frankly grotty platform and up the stairs until they reached the sidewalk.

“Islington sweet Islington,” said Harry. “Come on, there’s a pub I want to take you to.”

“The Red Lion?” asked Draco.

“Nah. A different one.”

He walked beside Harry in the dusk, their shoulders knocking against each other companionably. While he hadn’t loved the Tube ride, he knew it had been a safe way for Harry to travel without magic, and he probably would have ridden a real wyrm if it meant he got to spend time with his Chosen One. As they walked, Harry asked about his day and laughed at some of the remarks Draco remembered George making, and Draco found himself grumbling about wretched Gryffindors again.

“You are all in a conspiracy against me – all of you except Lavender. That’s why she is my favorite,” he fake groused.

“Yes, but does Lavender do this?” Harry asked, before pulling him to a stop and kissing him right on the sidewalk. And this kiss was no chaste kiss, no, it was slow and full and left him a bit breathless.

“Umm…well…” he stammered after his boyfriend pulled away.

“I thought not,” smirked Harry before taking Draco’s hand and leading him onward. “We’re going just there by the way.”

Draco followed the nod of Harry’s head and saw a three story corner building with a sign that proclaimed it to be the “King Edward IV.”

“People call it the Eddy. It’s a gay pub. Thought it would be fun to go someplace and just be . . . ourselves.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to grin, “You really are brilliant.” Harry laughed, a smile on his face, and Draco was delighted to be alive with this man in this moment.

They ended up at a table on the second floor where the bar was quieter than on the first floor where people were more clearly looking for hookups. They munched on crisps and nursed pints all while being anonymous and openly affectionate in a way they’d never gotten to be before. It was lovely to hold Harry’s hand on the table in the open and not be worried about what others would think. Here, no one knew them – no one cared about their histories or judged them for wanting to be together. And when Harry left to go to the bar to order another round, he leaned in and kissed Draco. He watched as his Gryffindor walked away and affection for the other man swelled in his chest.

After they finished up their second pints, the alcohol in their veins along with the safety of the atmosphere edged their public displays of affections into something needier. They vacated their seats and walked to 12 Grimmauld. During the walk, it had been hard for Draco not to push Harry against a wall and lean into him. Somehow, they’d finally made it Harry’s home.

“Shhh,” Harry said as he pushed open the front door, his voice nowhere near as quiet as it should be. “We have to be quiet – we don’t want to wake Kreacher.”

Draco rolled his eyes at the earnest Gryffindor even as he closed the door on the world. It still surprised him sometimes how little Harry knew about the magical world and those who inhabited it. “Trust me, he knows we’re here and he is wisely choosing to stay away.”

“That’s probably for the best,” said Harry leaning in to kiss along Draco’s jaw. The feel of the other man’s lips and the merest hint of his tongue tingled on his skin. His Chosen One stepped in even closer and pressed himself against Draco. For his part, Draco wrapped his hands around Harry’s hips and pulled him tighter. The dark-haired boy started to slowly grind himself against Draco, and Draco could feel Harry’s arousal. He buried his face the riot of the other boy’s hair. Merlin, the smell of Harry drove him to distraction, and add to that feel of the lean body against him and he knew he was on the brink.

The Gryffindor planted his hands on Draco’s chest and pushed back, creating space between them. “I think we should continue this upstairs. Wouldn’t want to traumatize Kreacher. Just give me a minute, and then come up,” said Harry with a look on his face that Draco could only interpret as devious.

His eyes were glued on Harry’s arse as the other man ascended the stairs. After Harry pattered away on the landing and he heard the sound of a door open and close, Draco shifted on his feet to adjust himself. He was hard, almost painfully so, but he did as Harry asked and waited. He took a lap around the ground floor to kill the time. Once he was back before the staircase, he took a few steadying breaths and he mounted the stairs. The landing was dark, but he could see a sliver of light from Harry’s bedroom door that had been left open a crack. He took another breath, anxious to get back to Harry and resume what they’d just managed to start downstairs. He placed his hand on the door and swung it open. A single lamp on a bedside table was lit, casting soft light on Harry who reclined on the bed in nothing but his pants and Gryffindor tie. The line of striped silk stretched down his Chosen One’s bare chest and ended just above his waist. Like he remembered, the knot of the tie was more loose than anything Draco would have deemed acceptable either now or in school.

A half-smile flirted on Harry’s lips. Draco realized that the other boy was a bit nervous of the scene he’d created – created just for Draco. He swallowed and said, “Potter, your uniform is a disgrace. That’ll be ten points from Gryffindor.”

The man on the bed chuckled. “Really Malfoy, ten points just for this?” He ran a hand down his naked chest, skimming along the edge of the tie.

“You’re right,” he replied, pretending to study his fingernails as if he were indifferent to the beautiful boy with luscious green eyes. “Your . . . infraction is worth far more. I don’t think ten points is enough.”

“Come on, Malfoy. I don’t think you really want to punish me do you?” Harry said as he grasped the offending tie in his fist and slid his hand down the length of silk.

“You’re right for once, Potter. I don’t want to punish you.” He stalked closer to the bed, working open the button at his collar and then the next one.

His Chosen One sat up on his knees at the edge of the bed. “What is it you want to do to me?”

He took hold of the striped silk and gently pulled Harry closer to him. “I think you know what I want,” he almost purred, getting lost in this fantasy. “I want to fuck you.”

“Yes,” the Gryffindor replied as he tipped his head back, offering himself up.

Draco, still holding the tie in one hand, pressed his lips to Harry’s. He threaded the fingers of his free hand in Harry’s hair. For his part, the Gryffindor pulled the ends of Draco’s shirt free from his trousers and ran his hands up Draco’s side.

Draco broke the kiss, and worked to free himself from his clothes, holding eye contact the whole time. He felt vulnerable, and self-conscious being this brazen, but once he stood naked before Harry, the other boy said, “God, you look like an angel.”

“A fallen angel,” Draco said with a smirk.

“My fallen angel,” said Harry taking his hand and pulling Draco down on top of him.

And Merlin, this was where he was supposed to be - slotted between Harry’s legs. He ground their cocks together, and he cursed that they’d somehow forgotten to get Harry’s pants off. He didn’t want the thin barrier of fabric between them.

“Get them off,” he almost growled with a gentle tug at the waistband of the offending pants.

“Why of course, your majesty,” said the beautiful boy beneath him. Said boy gave him a small shove against the chest and Draco rolled to his side to give Harry room to wriggle out of his underwear. And fuck, he was lovely. Harry started to reach for his tie as if to take that off as well, but Draco batted his hands away. “Leave that on,” he said.

The Gryffindor grinned, “You really like me in this don’t you?”

He licked his lips before answering, “I do.”

“Good to know,” said Harry, running his fingers down the striped silk on his chest.

“Now you wicked tease, where were we?”

Harry laughed and settled back against the pillows. “I think you were about to torture me for my grievous mangling of the Hogwart’s uniform.”

“I think you are right. Now, Potter, try not to make too much noise. We wouldn’t want to get caught.” He reached out and took the length of the other man’s cock in his hand and stroked it. “What would people say if they caught us together?” He watched as Harry’s eyes fluttered shut as Draco continued to stroke him. “Open your eyes and look at what I’m doing to you, Potter.” When those eyes were open and focused on him he said, “Remember, don’t get us caught.”

Then Draco wet his lips and leaned down and took the head of Harry’s cock in his mouth. His tongue swirled against the other man before he slid down as far as he was comfortable. He couldn’t take all of Harry in without feeling like uncomfortable, so he worked the length of his Chosen One in his comfort range. It was all very messy, with saliva pooling, yet it was also rather wonderful. He relished the feel of Harry – the scent of him.

“Yes, Draco - Malfoy,” he heard Harry sigh as the other boy’s hands slid into his hair. “Just like that. Oh God, just like that.” The other boy’s breathy words spurred him on. Almost unconsciously he ground his own hardness into the mattress, wanting the friction. He bobbed and sucked, feeling the anticipation of what was to come until Harry said, “More. I want more. Please.”

After one last slide of his lips, he pulled away from his Chosen One.

“I want you . . . I want you inside me.”

Draco didn’t need further prompting. He conjured lube in his hand and let it slide down his fingertips. His Gryffindor parted his legs in anticipation and Draco leaned forward, caressing the other man’s entrance with the pad of his middle finger.

“Yes,” Harry said, and Draco knew he was being urged on. Despite this, he was still nervous. He’d never done what he was pretty sure he was about to do. His desire to keep going, however, overweighed his nerves. He was, he knew, a fundamentally selfish person, and he wanted to be everything to Harry – wanted Harry to crave him like no other person on this earth. He slipped his finger inside and felt Harry’s body tighten around him before relaxing. He slid his digit further and watched in wonder as it disappeared into the heat of the other man’s body. He glanced up at his Chosen One’s face. Harry’s brows were slightly drawn, but he nodded at him. Draco crooked his finger, exploring Harry and trying to map out what gave him pleasure. As he worked, he heard the Gryffindor gasp and moan, and the sounds further ignited his own lust. He bent down and took Harry’s cock into his mouth again while his finger stroked the other man’s depths.

Harry’s noises became louder, and his hands twisted in Draco’s hair. He sucked Harry’s shaft, reveling in the feel of him. When the other man’s starting tugging at his hair, he pulled off and said, “What, Potter? Not capable of being quiet and ready to beg?”

“I’m not above it.”

“That doesn’t sound like begging,” he said as he withdrew his finger.

“Please, Malfoy. More.”

Draco conjured more lube before he slid two fingers into the beautiful man spread before him. He groaned his own pleasure aloud. He couldn’t believe how deeply erotic it felt to have Harry trust him in this way. He watched in rapture as his dark-haired lover’s head fell back and he sighed with pleasure.

“Eyes on me, Potter. Remember, I want to see them.”

His Chosen One lifted his head and turned those soul searching eyes on Draco. And oh holy Merlin, it was everything Draco had ever dreamed of and he wanted more. “Are you . . . ready?” he asked.

The other boy nodded, “Yeah.”

Draco withdrew his fingers and knew in a moment that he missed the heat of Harry’s body. He didn’t allow himself to linger on this, choosing instead to lie on his back beside his boyfriend. “Can we try with you on top?” he asked.

“Now who is the brilliant one?” said Harry before he scrambled up and straddled Draco. The other man wrapped his hand around Draco’s erection and stroked, and Draco let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The feel of Harry wanking him almost overwhelmed him, but he wasn’t going to spend so quickly.

He stilled Harry’s hand. “I want to come inside of you,” he said.

Harry withdrew his hand, and Draco watched in wonder as the other man rose up and positioned himself . . . then came the exquisite feel of Harry’s heat surrounding his cock in a torturously wonderful slide. His fingers clutched the bedding as he held himself still, letting the Gryffindor take control. When they were finally fully joined, Draco watched as Harry started to rock, slowly at first and then with more vigor.

He ran his fingers up and down Harry’s sides, then tugged lightly at his nipples and elicited a gasp. “You like that?” he asked. The dark-haired boy nodded even as his hips continued to move. Somehow Draco wasn’t surprised that Harry liked to edge his pleasure with a bit of pain. He pinched one of the dark pink nipples and watched as the Gryffindor bit his lower lip.

Everything about this moment was bliss. Harry seeking his pleasure on top of him while his glorious cock bobbed in front of him, hard and lovely. Crimson and gold stripes flashed against Harry’s skin as they bifurcated his torso. Draco lowered his hands to the other man’s hips and started to thrust upward, chasing his own release while helping Harry reach the edge.

“Do you know how good you look right now with your muscles rippling?” he asked as he pressed up into Harry. “It is so fucking hot watching you ride me. Merlin, you look so good . . . do you know what this is doing to me?”

“God, yes. You do the same thing to me. Looking at you like this makes me want . . . to come.”

Draco wrapped his hand around his Chosen One’s cock and stroked in time to their thrusts.

“Come, Harry,” he urged, forgetting that they were supposed to be Potter and Malfoy – for in this moment it was Harry that was here with him – Harry who lit his whole world on fire. “Come.”

The other boy shook his head, “Not yet . . . you first.”

Draco sat up, pulling Harry down onto him before turning them over so that Harry was beneath him with his legs drawn up. Draco braced himself up on his arms and buried himself in the beautiful body beneath him, his eyes on Harry’s. They arched together, holding eye contact, pressing and searching. He felt heat flow from deep in his belly throughout his body until even his ankles felt ablaze with want and need. He fucked into his love, losing himself in everything that was Harry until he couldn’t hold onto himself a moment longer and his release tore through him.

He cried out as he filled Harry and the other man’s hand reached for himself even as Draco continued to drive deep into Harry’s body. With a few quick, hard pulls the Gryffindor joined him, moaning as he striped his own abdomen with the evidence of his pleasure.

Draco sighed as he slipped out of his partner. Not caring about the mess between them, he splayed out on the other man’s chest, pillowing his check on Harry’s obliging shoulder.

“Oh, Christ,” said Harry.

“Mhmmm,” Draco agreed, basking in the aftermath of his orgasm. They smelled of sex and he was quite pleased about that.

Arms wrapped around him, holding him even closer. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Slytherin common room.”

“Really?”

Draco laughed and shook his head against Harry. “No. I learned this with you. It’s only ever been you.”

Fingers carded through his hair. He realized even his scalp was sweaty, but Harry must not have minded, as he continued to sift through Draco’s hair.

“It’s only ever been you as well,” said Harry.

“But you and –” he started to say before catching himself.

“But me and what?”

“But I thought you and . . . well . . . you dated Ginny in school and after the Battle.” Draco was glad his face was turned into the flat of the other man’s shoulder. He was sure he was pinking up splendidly.

He felt Harry shrug beneath him. “Never got this far. Wasn’t right. We’re better off as friends.” A kiss was pressed to the top of his head. “Besides, everyone thought you and Pansy were shagging in school. You would absolutely drape yourself over her.”

“Knew you were always looking at me,” he said. “But really, I think Pansy knew I was gay before I did. I kissed her after the Yule Ball – felt like the thing to do at the time. Turned out, it wasn’t my thing – hers either.”

A hand slipped beneath his chin and angled his face upward. Harry’s lips met his. “What didn’t work for her very much works for me.” Draco smiled even as Harry wriggled out from underneath him. “And on that note, I’m taking this tie off now even though it seemed to work for you.”

“Fine,” Draco said, affecting a lazy shrug. “You soiled it anyway.”

Harry glanced down at his old school tie. “Bloody hell. There’s no way I can ask Kreacher how to get spunk off of silk.”

“Since you put the tie on for me, I suppose I should figure out the laundering.”

Harry loosened the knot and pulled the striped tie over his head. “With your posh background you probably know twenty charms for cleaning silk.”

Draco took the tie from Harry before flinging it over the side of the bed, “You aren’t far from the truth, but it’s probably closer to a dozen charms.” He heard Harry murmur something that sounded a lot like “posh bugger.” Draco stretched contentedly by his boyfriend’s side. “Since you spiffed up with that Gryffindor relic for me, what can I do to return the favor sometime?”

Harry didn’t answer right away, rather he felt the boy beside him fidget. Draco rolled to face him and saw that his face, neck, and chest were covered in a glorious blush. “Oh. I see. You do have something in mind that is capable of getting you all hot and bothered. My, my – whatever can it be?”

“Wanker,” said Harry.

“Teasing aside - which you know is hard for me when it comes to you - what is it Harry? I’m being serious – I want to return the favor.”

“Okay – er – well . . . that night about a year ago I saw you and your friends out late at night walking in Diagon Alley.”

“My birthday?”

“Yeah. Well – er - I liked how you looked that night. All the black – the polish and the eyeliner.”

“You noticed that in the whole twenty second interaction we had walking on the street?”

“Of course I noticed! I could barely keep my eyes off you. You were the hottest thing I’d ever seen.”

Draco snuggled into the crook of Harry’s arm feeling immensely self-satisfied. “I’ll see what I can do about that sometime,” he said.

Chapter 79: Confessions

Draco spent several more mornings before work as well as evenings after work meeting with George to try and master a patronus. Despite the effort George made to teach him, Draco had not been successful. On top of that, he’d been spending most of what was left of his free time in the Manor going through tomes in the secret room. He still hadn’t talked with Harry about the blood oath or the prophecy. It was weak of him, he knew, but if he didn’t voice those things out loud to Harry they didn’t seem as real. He was actively trying not to think of these failings as he sat across a small table from Pansy. He’d met her at a Pret a Manger in Soho close to the vintage clothing store where she worked. He’d never been at this café before.

“I’m on a budget,” she’d said, when she’d met him outside the sandwich shop.

“Looks good,” he’d replied peering in the glass windows. He respected how she’d grown more and more comfortable leading a life outside of Wizarding Britain. Of all of his friends, she was the one who spent the most time in Muggle London.

Draco unwrapped his baguette. The tea was decent and the sandwich looked good as well. “So what have you been up to?” he asked his friend.

“Greg and I are throwing a party. We haven’t had anyone over to our flat yet, and it’s the first place either of us have had before.”

“You want to show it off,” he said with a grin. “When?”

“Next Friday at seven. We expect housewarming gifts.”

“I wouldn’t dare show up empty-handed,” he said before he took another sip of his tea.

“And Potter is invited to come as well.”

He paused with his cup in the air. “You want Harry to come?”

Pansy waved a hand, feigning that she wasn’t nervous, but he knew her well and he could see the signs of her anxiety in the set of her face. “Want is a strong word. I don’t particularly want the boy I’d offered to turn over to the Dark Lord coming to my home and reminding me by his presence alone about what I did, but he is your . . .”

“Boyfriend,” he supplied, smirking when she grimaced at the word.

“Yes - that. And you are one of my oldest friends. He is a part of your life and I want you to be a part of mine. Hence he is invited as well.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Yes, well, let’s talk about something else now, before I self-implode from embarrassment.”

“Right. Tell me about your shop.”

He munched on his sandwich as he listened to her talk about the shop owner, regular customers, random customers, and the merchandise. She looked please when she told of how the owner had complimented her on her ability to put together ensembles that customers loved. His sandwich was long gone by the time she glanced at her watch.

“My half hour is just about up. Time to get back.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. He wondered if either of them had ever used something as mundane as paper napkins before the War. With their pureblood, traditional upbringings he doubted it. “Walk with me. There is a black leather jacket at the shop I’d like you to see. I think you would look devilish in it.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing.” It turned out she was right and shortly after visiting her shop he left for home with fewer Muggle bills in his wallet then when he had left.

An evening later that week he met with George again. He knew the other man was being very generous with his time, but this was getting beyond discouraging. George must have known Draco’s hope was running out, as he insisted that Draco take him to “the scene of the crime” where Draco had cast the Dark Mark. So here they stood, in a glen in rural Scotland. The sun set late here this time of year, so even though it was well past six o’clock, it was still full light out.

He tried to do everything George had been teaching him. He worked on centering himself, focused on a happy memory, and arced his wand in a graceful circle, yet nothing happened. The most he got was a slight surge of light. He didn’t know how the bloody hell being here was supposed to help encourage him to reach for a happy memory to cast a damn patronus as he kept envisioning Harry laying limp and unresponsive on the ground.

“You’re not even getting a non-corporeal patronus yet. Your wand technique is good, but whatever memory you’re using likely isn’t enough.”

Draco felt himself bristle. “I can’t stay focused on a happy memory when I keep remembering Harry falling from the fucking sky.”

George swished his wand in a circle and commanded, “Expecto patronum!” Once again, a silver bird erupted into being and flapped its wings before gliding down to circle Draco where he stood. It had never been that close to him before, and just as the patronus started to fade Draco recognized that the bird was a magpie.

“Your memory doesn’t have to be a happy memory in the traditional sense, or even a memory really – just something that brings you pure joy – a thought – a hope for the future,” he heard George say. “Fred’s patronus was the same as mine. A magpie.” Draco felt his breath catch as George recited the beginning lines of an ancient rhyme about the clever bird, “One for sorrow, two for joy.” Brown eyes glanced at him before looking away into the distance. “I didn’t think I’d get through it. The loss of him. Fred was my first memory. He was my best friend, my rival, my equal, and my brother.” He looked back at Draco again. “My mum had twin brothers – did you know that? Fabian and Gideon. They both died during the first War.”

“Harry carries Fabian’s watch.”

A hint of a smile twitched at George’s lips. “Yeah, I was a bit put out that she didn’t give their watches to Fred and I, but after he . . . died, I understood. She was afraid that our fate would be the same as theirs. She didn’t want the pattern to repeat, so she divided their watches and gave them to others. Ginny got Gideon’s wouldn’t you know. It’s not traditional to give pocket watches to girls, but Ginny’s never been traditional.” George stowed his wand and tucked his hands into his pockets. “For a long time I thought that what happened to us was worse than what happened to mum’s brothers. They never knew what it was like to try to live – to try to breathe without the other. It felt like a part of me had been severed. Death seemed to be a kinder fate.”

Draco dearly wanted to draw up his mental shields. Listening to the sole surviving twin was painful and raw. But his therapist’s advice rang in his mind – he needed to stay present – he needed to feel everything to truly be alive. It took him a few tries, but he finally asked, “How do you do it then? How do you keep on living and carrying around joy?”

The ginger released a long breath before he answered. “It’s what Fred would have wanted, innit? That’s what gives me joy. Fred loved life, and he never would have wanted me to wallow and give up. Trying to thrive brings me a measure of joy because Fred would have wanted that. Somedays are fucking awful – and I feel the despair pulsing through me every second of the day. But I’m still here. I’m my own person – I have my own soul – and I will make a life that would make him proud.”

They stood in the silence of the glen. Draco stared at the spot where he’d held his unconscious boyfriend. If Harry hadn’t made it that day, would he have been able to find joy the way George did? He thought back to the memories he’d channeled when trying to cast a partronus. He’d tried the memory of his first kiss with Harry, then the memory of other firsts with Harry. When those hadn’t worked, he reached further back to his time with his mother at this place and then to the day he’d first learned to fly as a child. Those were all classically happy memories. But after listening to George, he wondered if his memories needed more of an edge to them – memories that were bittersweet? It would make sense – he was a dark wizard descended from the Malfoys and the Blacks.

He lifted his wand and thought of watching Regulus’ memories, pictured Harry reaching out his hand in a dungeon of flames, and remembered Harry offering his hand in friendship after having it denied all those years before. These were the memories that spoke to him – that were part of the core of his being. Regulus and Harry were his in ways that they were no one else’s. He drew his wand through the air and said, “Expecto patronun!”

Silver light streamed from his wand and burst into the form of an elegant beast that pranced through the air on leathery wings.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy!” said George, who stood transfixed at his side.

He felt rooted to the spot as he stared at the majestic creature. Bloody hell was right.

“Merlin’s pants, it’s a thestral,” said the Gryffindor sounding stunned.

The horse-like wraith arched its neck. It was hauntingly beautiful as its hooves pawed at the air. The patronus flapped its wings, but Draco did not feel the slightest ruffle of wind. It truly was a phantom being.

Beside him George started to laugh. “Oh fuck. Only you would produce a threstral when casting a spell that taps into pure joy.”

Watching his ghoulish patronus fly through the sky was a mixture of delight at his achievement as well as trepidation about what this patronus meant about him. Thestrals were thought to be omens of misfortune and had long been classified as dark creatures who lived in dark places.

He heard George cast beside him, and soon the ginger’s magpie and his thestral were circling together.

“If you know anything about me at all, you know I enjoy taking the piss. And believe me, Malfoy, you have presented me with an unparalleled opportunity to do so right now.”

Draco closed his eyes in quiet surrender. Fuck his life.

“But for whatever reason, Harry is taken with your imperious paleness, so I’m going to take the high road.”

“You’re taking long enough about it.”

“Well I’m not a saint. Anyway, thestrals are . . . well . . . they’re misunderstood. They aren’t harbingers of death – nah – they only appear to those who have seen and accepted death. In other words, they can only be seen by the living who have endured loss and grief – they appear to survivors. They are fucking loyal and able to discern friend from foe and will act to protect those who have gained their trust.”

“Thank you Professor Weasley. I did take Care of Magical Creatures for a year at school.”

The other man waved off this comment with little fuss. “Not many wizards have a patronus that is a magical creature – that in itself is quite rare as most of us get common creatures – hell – Ron has a fucking terrier dog for a patronus. I call it his bitch in heat.”

As much as Draco wanted to be diverted by this comment, he was not. “Your point?”

“My point is I can only think of a couple of people with a magical creature for a patronus, and I’ve never heard of anyone casting a thestral. But seeing how Harry has faced and defied death so many times, it would make sense that the person he loves casts a thestral patronus.”

For a moment Draco’s brain shorted out. What the fuck had George just said? “You think . . . that Harry loves me?” The redhead gave him a look that Draco took to mean that he thought Draco was insane. “But he’s never said that to me.”

“Fucking hell, Malfoy. Of course he has - maybe not in words, but in his actions. He’s the bloody Saviour – he could probably be with anyone he wanted and of all the people in the world, he’s chosen to be with you.” George swished his wand and his magpie shimmered out of being. “So don’t get your knickers in a twist about it – you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

He spread his hands wide, “Such as?”

The other man grinned at him, “Working on casting your demon steed again.”

 

He returned to his flat just after dark. He’d stayed out with George casting his patronus over and over again. It came easier each time. He wanted to tell Harry of his success, but he didn’t want to tell him the form his patronus took. It was . . . well . . . it was a lot to think about. Was his thestral related to the prophecy? Was this just another step along the path that would lead him to greet death? If his damn patronus had to take a magical form, why couldn’t it have been a dragon? That would have made sense and would have caused him far less stress. Nobody would have blinked an eye if the man named after the dragon constellation could cast his namesake as a patronus. A thestral though, that would cause tongues to wag.

He was jerked from his thoughts when he heard, “Accio mug,” from the kitchen. He hurried in, and as he suspected, there was the idiot Boy-Who-Lived holding a cup in a his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” Draco asked.

The dark-haired man looked sheepish before he said, “Well . . . er . . . I’ve been –”

The kettle on the hob started to whistle and Harry’s eyes darted toward it, but Draco wasn’t going to give him a chance to get out of this conversation. He cast wordlessly with a flick of his wrist and the burner turned off. The shriek of the kettle faded to a wretched mew before it died away.

“Harry?”

“Hermione suggested it,” blurted out the Gryffindor. “She suggested that I cast small spells – easy ones to try and build up my magical stamina.”

Draco stared at him. He felt his jaw tense.

“I promise it’s just small things. Nothing big.”

“How . . .” Draco paused and cleared his throat. “How long?”

Harry attempted to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. “A couple of weeks . . . I - er – I didn’t want to worry you.”

The weight of everything seemed to crash down on his shoulders. He sank to the kitchen floor and sat down on the cool tile.

“Oh fuck – fuck I’m sorry, Draco.” The Gryffindor dropped to his knees beside him. “I should have told you – but I – I didn’t know how without worrying you.”

He shook his head at his boyfriend, unable at that precise moment to find words. He’d been keeping so many things to himself because he hadn’t wanted to hurt Harry, and here the other boy had been doing the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, his eyes large.

“It’s not just you.”

“What?”

“There have been things I haven’t told you. I didn’t want you to worry, either.”

The other man sat fully down on the floor, his shoulder pressed against Draco, while he still clutched the empty mug in his hands. “Shit. We are bloody terrible at healthy communication aren’t we?”

Draco sighed. “Seems that way.”

The Gryffindor, brave as fucking always, nudged him with his shoulder and said, “It’s just the magic. Little things. Accio, lumos, and nox. That’s all I’ve been keeping from you. I wanted to wait until I was . . . I was sure it was okay before I told you. And it has been fine – I feel fine.”

He took a deep breath. It was his turn to open up now – Harry had led the charge and it time for him to follow. He took another breath.

“Draco?” Harry put the mug on the floor and reached for his hand. He gave it a squeeze. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

He nodded. On a certain level he knew that was true – Harry had already seen the worst him – knew the worst of him. Still, it was hard not to pull his mental shields in place. His therapist’s reminder that he had to feel things fully and learn to cope with them barreled through his mind. Fucking good and righteous Hufflepuffs always being so . . . well . . . bloody good and righteous.

His boyfriend squeezed his hand again. Draco closed his eyes and took another breath, then he squeezed Harry’s hand back. He tried to ground himself in the feeling of his Chosen One’s grip. He opened his eyes and looked at Harry – looked into those avada green eyes. He supposed there were far worse ways to go then baring his soul to the owner of those eyes.

“That night I stayed at my mother’s,” he began, “Well . . . we went to the Manor early the next morning and I . . . I made an oath to the land and bound myself to it – bound myself with blood.” It had been so hard to start to tell Harry about what had happened that he’d avoided it for weeks, but now that he’d started it all came tumbling out. He told him about the promise he’d made to the magic of the Manor, about the secret room, and about finding the prophecy.

“Trelawney prophesized about you too?”

Draco nodded.

“To Dumbledore? He’s the one that heard yours as well?”

“That’s what the label on the prophecy said.”

“And he never told you.”

Draco snorted. He couldn’t help it. It was beyond ludicrous to think that Albus Dumbledore would have ever told him anything in a direct way that concerned him. “No.”

“I can’t fucking believe this,” said Harry. He pushed himself up from the floor and started to pace across the floor. “Both of us – both of us were kept in the dark.”

“My parents knew by my fifth year at least. They didn’t know before.”

Harry whirled around, “And they didn’t tell you?” Draco watched as his boyfriend’s hands clenched into fists at this side.

“Here’s the thing Harry – my parents – especially my father – are the villains in many stories, but not in this one. The prophecy terrified my mother. What it foretold scared her to badly I don’t think she even knew how to deal with its existence.”

The Gryffindor lifted his chin, “And your father?”

Draco laughed. He couldn’t help it. “He didn’t want me to get so lost in a prophecy that I’d forget to live my own life. He said a life is built upon the actions one takes. Rather rich coming from him, but true nonetheless.”

“Oh my god,” said Harry. “Your father was trying to . . . protect you?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“I think we’ve just found the cure for cancer.”

“We’ve what?”

Harry waved him off, “Muggle expression.” The other boy came back to kneel in front of him. “Can you tell me – do you want me to know – what the prophecy said?”

“Not all of it no. I’m still sorting through it honestly. It’s pretty cryptic.”

“Of course it’s bloody cryptic – it came from Trelawney’s mouth.”

“True. One part though – one part seems to be accurate.”

“Yeah?”

“It said I would be bound to the one marked as the Dark Lord’s equal.”

He felt the brush of Harry’s fingertips along his jaw. “That does seem rather true.”

“I swear I didn’t know anything about the prophecy before I . . .”

The fingertips ran beneath his ear and around to the back of neck. Those damn green eyes held his own. “Before you what?”

“Before I fell in love with you,” he said, his voice soft even as his heart pounded in chest. And this was the moment that he felt as vulnerable as he ever had in his life. He’d long ago given his heart to Harry, but saying that he had out loud was something entirely different.

“I know,” Harry said, his tone gentle. With the hand cupped around the back of his head the Gryffindor drew him close and brushed his lips over Draco’s. “That’s why I love you. You love me for me – not because I’m the stupid Saviour or anything. And I love you with or without a prophecy.”

“I chose you, Harry. I didn’t need a prophecy to tell me to do that. It’s always been you.”

“I know,” the other man repeated before pulling him into a kiss. “Is that all of it then? Anything else you want to tell me?”

Draco bit his lip. He didn’t really want to talk anymore, he wanted to go back to the kissing, so he spoke quickly, “I cast a patronus for the first time today and Pansy and Greg have invited us to a housewarming party next Friday.”

Harry blinked at him. “Oh – er – that’s nice. Really, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me . . .”

“What?”

“That now that we’ve talked and declared our feelings like proper adults that we could go shag.”

Draco quickly rose from the floor and held his hand down to Harry. “What are you waiting for then?”

Chapter 80: Redeemed

Notes:

Apologies that it has been so long since I posted. I wrote what I thought the next chapter would be, and then realized I was missing one in between - this chapter as it turns out.

Draco resisted the urge to rake his hands through his hair. It wouldn’t do to mess it up. If he appeared disheveled in a photograph in The Prophet his mother would not be pleased and Lavender and Pansy would never let him hear the end of it.

The Minister of Magic had sent an owl early that morning stating that his afternoon had opened up unexpectedly and that he would be paying a visit to Ollivander’s. Draco had already been dreading the day a bit, as the night before, after he’d taken Harry to bed, the Gryffindor had announced that he was having Teddy for the weekend, and he’d asked Draco spend it with them. At least while he was running around the shop like a headless diricawl tidying the place into submission, he wasn’t worrying about babysitting a toddler. So instead of thinking of his upcoming weekend with Teddy, he focused on the task at hand, and for reasons he couldn’t begin to figure out, he was finding dust bunnies on the upper level of the display floor so large even Hagrid would have been frightened.

“They’re coming!” called Ollivander. Draco peered over the rail to the floor below and saw his mentor, face pressed against one of the large front windows. He cursed, and quickly vanished what he hoped was the last offending pile of fluff and hurried down the stairs. He grabbed Ollivander by the arm and pulled him away from the window - it wouldn’t do to appear too eager – and he stationed them both just before the counter.

He gave the older wizard a glance and decided that he still looked very presentable. While the man tended to dress in a three piece suit of robes, the fabric often had small tears or loose hems from where he snagged it while engrossed in his work. As soon as the owl from the Minister’s office had arrived Draco had sent Ollivander back through the floo to his cottage in Wales and ordered him to put on something that didn’t look like a crup had gnawed on it. The copper robes he’d returned in looked quite fine. The man’s hair was another story, but Draco supposed there was no hope for it, and he also thought that perhaps people wouldn’t recognize Ollivander without his signature hair.

Leaving off on his mentor, Draco gazed down at his own attire. He was dressed in a smart dark blue suit. He’d toyed with the idea of black, but he wanted this visit to be a good advertisement for the shop, so he’d settled on midnight blue. The chain of his pocket watch gleamed against his jacket and on his finger was a ring Harry had sent over after Draco had sent him a quick note about the Minister’s visit. The ring was silver with a black onyx stone. The design of the piece was very simple – the only ornate thing about it was the letter “B” engraved in lovely script on the black stone. Harry’s letter stated he’d found the ring in Sirius’ room and he hoped that it would bring Draco luck today. He’d been deeply touched that Harry had shared something that had belonged to his precious godfather with Draco. So here he stood, armed with a pocket watch and a signet ring that had once belonged to the brothers Black, determined to make the Minister understand that Ollivander had not been foolish to place his trust in Draco.

Two aurors entered the shop and Draco felt himself stiffen. They stationed themselves at either side of the door just before the Minister stepped over the threshold. His robes were a rich blue cut simply, but Draco’s experienced eye could discern the craftsmanship of garment. After him trailed a middle-aged looking man holding a camera.

“Ollivander,” said the Minister in a cheery voice as he extended his hand to the master wandmaker. “And Mr. Malfoy,” he said as he turned to Draco and shook his hand. The camera flashed. For a brief moment, the Minister’s jovial expression dropped, but he quickly recovered it before he said, “And as you see a member of Ministry’s press office is here to commemorate my visit. Photographs and a press release will be sent to all the major papers.”

“Will that include my dear Luna Lovegood’s family paper?” asked Ollivander.

“Ephraim, you’ll be sending the release to The Quibbler, correct?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Of course, sir,” said the staff member, sounding put upon.

“So tell me about the going’s on of your shop. It is, as we all know, an institution in Britain.”

“Mr. Malfoy here has been hard at work learning the craft and lore of wand making. He has rather set this shop to rights.” Here the elder wand maker threw his hands wide to indicate the near pristine shop floor. “He has also become an excellent craftsman and a wonderful companion to an old man. I find that his youth and enthusiasm have rather rejuvenated me.”

The Minister looked over at him, and Draco kept his face calm. He refused to blush at Ollivander’s kind words, as his mentor was right, Draco had worked hard – not just at learning how to make a wand, but on trying to be a better person.

“Let him demonstrate,” continued Ollivander. “Pass him your wand, Minister.”

Shacklebolt stiffened ever so slightly, but tried to pass it off. Draco, however, as a Malfoy, was not fooled. He knew that the Minister of Magic did not want to hand over possession of his wand to him. But the man smiled, and with a flick of his wrist, his wand dropped from an arm holster to his hand in a fluid movement. The man had been an auror after all, and he was a skilled in wand combat, so Draco would have expected nothing less than such a display of grace.

Draco held out his hand, palm up, and waited for a long moment before the Minister placed his wand – his weapon – in Draco’s control. He closed his fingers around the handle and felt the wand with his magic. He smiled. The Minister of Magic had been paired with a wand that seemed abundantly suitable for him.

“This is an excellent wand, sir, of acacia wood and dragonheart string. I think most all magic users in Britain are familiar with the qualities of dragonheart string, but this wood is very rare in wand work. Acacia wands often refuse to produce magic for any but their owners and only truly blossom when handled by the most gifted. No one is sure why this is, but I believe that it is because acacia trees are resistant to drought due to their long taproots that reach deep to access underground water. I think that when crafted into a wand acacia similarly delves deep to pair with the magic of its owner. All of these factors makes this type of wood very hard to pair with a witch or wizard, so we keep only a small supply in stock here at the shop.”

The smile on the Minister’s face was smaller now, but it appeared more genuine to Draco. “I wasn’t aware of all of that,” he said.

The camera flashed. Ollivander seemed not to notice, as he said, “Yes, well, eleven year-olds are often so excited to be matched with their first wands that they often don’t have the ability to listen to all the details of the properties of their wands. I seem to recall that you fell into that category.”

Draco passed the acacia wand back to its owner. In an instant it was once again sheathed in its holster.

“Besides wand properties, what else have you been learning here Mr. Malfoy?”

He glanced at Ollivander, and his mentor nodded his head in encouragement. They’d discussed his answer should he be asked an open ended question like this. He wanted the wizarding public to know what a powerful impact trauma could have on their ability to channel their magic.

“To answer your questions, Minister, we need to talk about the War.” He watched as Shacklebolt’s eyes narrowed. “The War – it changed everyone. The trauma of it – any trauma really – can mean that a person’s wand no longer effectively channels their magic. Trauma can change a person so powerfully that their original wand no longer responds to them the same way. I’ve met people who have experienced this who thinks their magic has been . . . damaged. But it hasn’t been.” The Minister’s expression softened as he spoke. “Rather, they’ve been altered by their lived experience and they need a different wand that better suits who they are now. I’ve learned this here at Ollivander’s, but I don’t think it is widely known, and I don’t want members of the wizarding community to think there is something wrong with their magic – with them.”

“Is this true of everyone who survived the War?” asked the Minister of Magic.

Draco shook his head, “No sir. It isn’t. But I think it is more common than you’d expect. I just want people to know if they feel like their magic is off, that maybe they need a new wand. And probably a therapist – or a mind healer as we often call them. People shouldn’t have to suffer alone.”

“You suffered alone for a while if I recall,” said the Minister.

“But I’m not alone now. This apprenticeship with Ollivander has helped see to that.”

“It seems that you are fulfilling the hope of the Wizengamot through your work here.”

“Time will tell, sir.”

“Quite,” agreed the Minister before he turned the publicist from the Ministry. “Do you think you have everything you need, Ephraim?”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Excellent.” Shacklebolt extended his hand to each of them in turn, bid his thanks, and then departed flanked by aurors. As soon as the shop door closed behind the party, Draco and Ollivander turned to look at each other before they each burst out in nervous laughter they could no longer contain.

“I think, young man,” said Ollivander after he recovered himself. “That you passed the test with flying colors.”

 

“This is an excellent picture of you,” Lavender said as she looked at the front page of The Prophet. It turned out that Draco hadn’t merited the front page of The Quibbler, he’d lost out to a story about a rare plant called niffler’s fancy and its possible magical uses, which he found to be rather fitting.  His story had only earne da spot on page three.

“I agree,” said Pansy. “Look at your posture – you give off a decided air of mastery, yet with that hint of a smile you also look approachable.”

“Oh, yes. He pulls off confident and open at the same time,” said Lavender.

Pansy nodded. “He’s someone who’d hex your enemies without a qualm and then sit down for tea with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” groaned Blaise, “You guys are using so many fucking words when all he wants to hear is that he looks fit. Fit and redeemed.”

Both girls turned to stare at Blaise before swiveling back to Draco. “He’s not wrong… You do look fit in the photo,” said Pansy.

“And redeemed,” added Lavender.

“So do tell Draco dearest, considering all the positive press, why don’t you look more pleased?” asked Blaise.

Draco glanced around the pub. He didn’t often go the Leaky Cauldron, as his presence here was so very conspicuous, but Lavender was on her never-ending campaign to rehabilitate all Slytherins so had suggested they meet at the popular wizarding pub for lunch.

“I’m to spend the weekend with Harry,” he said.

“Isn’t that a good thing? If you are into Gryffindors and Chosen People that is,” said Pansy.

“We’re going to have Teddy for the weekend. Harry’s really excited about it, and I don’t want to fuck it up. I’m not . . . used to children.”

Blaise actually snorted, “Of course you’re used to children. Death Eaters, with the exception of yourself and Snape, had the emotional range of sadistic toddlers.”

Theo appeared at their table and leaned down to kiss Lavender on her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I think I’m missing something vital here as I walked in on the words ‘sadistic toddlers.’”

“You aren’t allowed to speak anymore, Blaise,” said Lavender as Theo sat down next to her. “At least while you are continuing to be fundamentally unhelpful. Draco, let Harry take the lead. Teddy is his godson and he’s spent loads of time with him. He loves you both and wants to spend time with you together. Just be yourself - that’s all he wants of you.”

“Fine,” said Blaise, “What she said.”

The next morning he tried to keep Lavender’s words in the forefront of his mind as he climbed the steps to Harry’s door. Kreacher must have won the battle of wills today, as it was he that answered the door.

“Master Harry and the young one are expecting you,” said the elf with a deep bow. Draco was no longer used to the effusive style of house elves trained in oppressive households, so he found himself gesturing at Kreacher that a bow was not necessary. After the elf rose to his full height he said, “I am a free elf, Master Draco. I shall be doing as I please.”

“Of course,” he said.

The elf nodded before stepping aside as Harry came down the hall balancing a bag on his shoulder while trying to hold a wiggling toddler.

“Hello, Teddy,” said Draco, feeling stupidly formal.

“Zoo!” the child exclaimed.

“Yes, yes you little hooligan. We’re going to the zoo.” The little boy squirmed some more, and for a moment the bag looked like it would slide off Harry’s shoulder. “Careful there Teddy, we’re going to need this bag, it’s got everything you might need.” He readjusted his hold on the child before he grinned at Draco. “Ever been to the London Zoo?”

“As if Lucius Malfoy would take me to such a place.”

Harry laughed. “I thought not. Oh – there’s the cab,” he said, looking over Draco’s shoulder. Draco turned to see a black car pulling past the house. “I ordered it for number 9. Knew it wouldn’t see this house.”

“We are taking . . . a car?”

“Car!” chirped Teddy.

“It’s a bloody pain to take the Tube to the Zoo from here. And Mione still doesn’t want me travelling through magical means.” Harry smiled, “Come on love, it will be fun.”

While Draco did not agree that riding in a Muggle automobile would be remotely fun given his only experience being in the death trap of one Ronald Weasley, he couldn’t help but be charmed by his boyfriend’s use of an endearment.

“To the zoo,” he agreed, holding out his hand to relieve his Gryffindor of the bag.

 

“He just went to sleep – for real this time I think,” said Harry as he crawled into bed.

“That’s what you said the last two times,” said Draco as he wrapped an arm around his Gryffindor.

“I think he napped too late in the day,” said Harry. “We kept him busy at the zoo for a long time.”

“He liked it though. He got so excited by the penguins. Merlin, if I’m honest, they were probably my favorite part. They looked like they were all dressed up and had important places to go.”

He felt Harry laugh against him. “I’m glad you had fun too. I really wanted to take Teddy there.”

“Any particular reason you were so keen on taking him to the zoo?”

The Gryffindor squirmed for a moment before he rallied and said, “I had an experience with accidental magic there the summer I found out that magic was real and I wasn’t a freak.”

“What happened?”

“I talked to a boa constrictor and set it loose while trapping my cousin in its enclosure.”

Draco felt his forehead wrinkle, “We didn’t go to the reptile house today.”

“No,” said Harry. Draco waited, giving his boyfriend a chance to speak some more if he wanted to. He heard his chosen one sigh before he said, “I can’t talk to snakes anymore. I lost that when Voldemort killed the piece of his soul trapped inside of me. I – er – miss being able to do that if I’m honest. It was the only decent thing I ever got from that monster – the ability to speak parseltongue.”

He reached for and found Harry’s hand. “The Dark Lord . . . Voldemort . . . he was a fucking arsehole of the highest order.”

“Fuck yeah he was,” his boyfriend agreed. “And because of him and his miserable existence the Ministry wants us all to commemorate his demise.”

“May 2nd,” said Draco.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “It’s a week from Tuesday, and they want me to come and speak at the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Are you going to?”

Harry sighed and snuggled further into Draco. “I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I didn’t know the date was coming, but I still don’t know what to say. It’ll be two years since we lost so many – Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, and so, so many others. I don’t see how hearing from me will really help people process everything any better.”

Draco threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair. “You give them hope.”

His boyfriend shrugged, sitting in silence as the minute hand worked its way around the clock. Draco just held him. He knew he wouldn’t be anywhere near the remembrance of the Battle of Hogwarts. Even with the recent reporting that had been favorable to him, he doubted anyone would really want to see him there. His presence would be an uncomfortable reminder that the world wasn’t just made up of black and white, but was painted in shades of grey.

“I think,” said Harry, breaking the quiet, “That I’ll talk about Teddy. I’ll focus on the living. Everyone who died sacrificed everything so that those of us who remain can live. Teddy was born in the darkest part of the war and suffered more than anyone, yet he is a symbol of hope and joy.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” he said before he leaned down and kissed the top of Harry’s head.

Later, he awoke well after midnight. Harry continued to sleep soundly beside him, but as much as Draco tried to settle back into sleep, it eluded him. He kept thinking of little Teddy asleep in the ancestral home that did not claim him. It wasn’t right. He rolled onto his side and attempted to clear his mind, but thoughts of the child with Black blood in his veins filled his thoughts. At last, not wanting his fruitless tossing and turning to disturb his chosen one, he rose from the bed and padded softly out of the room and down the hall to the room where Teddy was sleeping. He peered in and the little boy was still asleep, clutching his stuffed wolf. At a loss of what to do with himself, he descended the stairs to the first floor and with a wave of his hand the lights in the drawing room flared to life. He walked toward a bookcase to peruse the titles, but none of them drew him in. It was after all, the Black family tapestry that had his attention, so he gave up trying to avoid it and went to stand before the magnificent hanging. Upon inspection, it was clear that it was larger and even more finely wrought than the copy his mother had at Malfoy Manor, but its singe marks were livid sores marring the work of art.

He traced his fingers from his mother’s face up through the branches of the tree. Andromeda’s name and image had been removed long before he was born, and that act meant the beautiful boy asleep upstairs was not claimed by the family whose blood flowed in his veins. He looked higher up on the tapestry and wondered how many other names should be present that were not due to bigoted thinking. He felt his body tense with anger. If his great-aunt Walburga was still alive she would have burnt him from the tree – hell – if she’d known the truth about Regulus, he too would just be a glaring a mark.

Well fuck it. He was the heir of the House of Black know. The house knew it, Kreacher knew it, and damn it, he knew it. Working on instinct alone he murmured a spell and a cut appeared across his left palm. Blood rose to the surface and spilled over the lip of the wound. He pressed his hand to the tapestry, letting the fine woolen fabric absorb his blood – Black family blood. “Put them back,” he said. “All the names of those lost to this family. Put them back. They belong here. They are of my blood and as heir of the House of Black, I claim them.”

Nothing happened. He almost growled out the cutting spell again, this time bringing forth blood on his right hand. He pressed this bloody palm to the tapestry as well and said, “I claim them.”

The tapestry shivered, as if ruffled by a breeze, then the trunk of the tree started to glow of gold before droplets of crimson flowed from the trunk of the tree along each of the branches. As each drop met a black mark, the scorching faded before withering away entirely. As names were restored, more branches appeared, and new faces and names grew. At last, toward the lower rungs of the branches, Sirius and Andromeda’s names appeared, and he watched in wonder as beneath Andromeda, the face and name of her husband, her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson bloomed into existence. He laughed aloud, filled with joy that his blood and magic had fixed a centuries old wrong.

“Draco?”

He turned to see a sleep rumpled Harry standing in the doorway. He pulled one of his hands from the tapestry and beckoned his Gryffindor over. “Come and see.”

Barefoot and lovely, the dark-haired boy crossed the room to stand beside him.

“They are all back where they should be,” said Draco. “See – there is Teddy.”

He watched as Harry’s eyes widened, taking everything in. “And Sirius – his name – you restored it.” Harry clasped Draco’s free hand and gazed at him. “I can’t believe . . . this is amazing.”

But the tapestry was not done with its surprises, no, for beneath Sirius, the name of Draco’s chosen one knit into being, connected by a delicate tendril of the tree, while Harry’s name was similar linked to that of Teddy, as was Draco’s. The tree, it seemed, had gone further than just filling in those linked by blood, but was also linking in those bonded through claimed family. He was amazed to see a last tendril stitching its way from Regulus’ name to his own.

“Oh my god,” murmured his boyfriend. “I’m on your family tapestry. How? Why?”

Draco stared down at their linked hands. He had a feeling that the tapestry was pulling from their combined magic now, and Harry had been Sirius’ heir, and Teddy was both of theirs.

“Sirius claimed you as his own when he named you his heir.”

The Gryffindor met his eyes, “And Teddy – he is your heir?” Draco nodded. “I didn’t know that. Since when?”

He let out a breath thinking back to the horrid days of uncertainty after the Battle. “The day I turned myself in to the Ministry. I arranged for Teddy to be my heir. I haven’t changed those terms.” He traced the line connecting him to Lupin’s child. “When I’m gone, he’ll get everything – all of my Black inheritance, and now I suppose, all of the Malfoy inheritance as well. But he won’t have my name.” He smiled. “He’ll be free of that lovely inheritance.”

“You really are full of surprises. Does Andromeda know?”

He shrugged, “I’m not sure. Now that I think on it though, I should set him up a trust in life so that Andromeda can use the income to support him.”

“She gets a stipend for him every month from the orphans of the War fund, but I’m sure – Draco? Are you bleeding?”

He looked down at their clasped hands again and saw that blood had started to seep through their entwined fingers. He pulled his hand away from Harry. “Sorry.” He cast a cleaning charm at Harry’s hand before healing his cut. He pulled his other hand away from the tapestry, but before he could cast again, he felt his chosen one’s wandless magic wrap around his hand and heal his wound. “Blood magic,” he explained. “I had a hunch that the tapestry was created with it.”

“Blood magic? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Not necessarily. I studied it my last year of school – the only useful thing I learned about because of a Carrow class. Blood magic has gotten a bad name through time, but it is as malevolent as any magic, meaning it depends on the intent of the user.”

Harry raised a questioning brow at him.

“Dumbledore made a blood vow, you know,” said Draco.

“That isn’t necessarily an endorsement. His . . . intents and motives could be suspect.” Harry took his hand again and turned back to the tapestry. “Still, what you’ve done to this is amazing. You’ve made the tapestry how it was meant to be. You’ve redeemed it.”

Chapter 81: Dance of the Patronus

Notes:

This chapter was a longtime coming. I have not forgotten this story - it is still bursting to get out, but my personal life has imploded in the last couple of months. My relationship of over a decade is ending, and the fallout has taken up my time. I am, however, doing well and I am looking forward to writing a new chapter both in my life and for this story.

“I can hear things whizzing around out there,” Draco hollered. He was shut in the bathroom trying to apply eyeliner like Pansy and Daphne had taught him, but it was a whole lot fucking trickier than he remembered. They’d taught him a spell, but for the life of him it wasn’t working well for him.

“I’m practicing wandless magic,” Harry shouted back before Draco heard the unmistakable sound of something – likely ceramic - shattering. “And wandless repairing magic.”

Oh Merlin. It was a good thing Draco had a thing for Harry Potter otherwise the idea of him breaking, and then likely half-arsedly repairing, the crockery in Draco’s flat would put him over the edge. “The dishes belong to Ollivander you twat, show some respect.”

He heard the sound of a cupboard doors closing followed by footsteps. “Are you still getting ready?” asked Harry just outside the door.

“We don’t all wake up as naturally beautiful as you.” Draco was pretty sure he heard a snort of laughter. “So what’s with the wandless magic?” Draco asked before turning his attention back to the mirror.

“Hermione thought it might be good. You know – not to be tied to a wand – maybe then . . . maybe then it will be okay.”

Draco filled in the words that his boyfriend hadn’t said aloud – maybe then the Elder Wand couldn’t leach him dry of his magic. He didn’t want to dwell upon the darkness that overshadowed them, so he said, “As a wandmaker, I’m not sure if I should have an opinion on wandless magic. Clearly I have a bias.”

Harry laughed. “You are brilliant with wandless magic, don’t even pretend to be put out.”

Draco gave himself one last look in the mirror. He supposed he wouldn’t be able to get the eyes any better, and maybe Pansy or Daphne could help touch them up. He shrugged on his jacket, tousled his hair one last time, and opened the door. His boyfriend was lounging against the wall opposite.

“Oh – er – oh,” said the dark haired boy before he straightened and stepped closer to Draco. He watched as green eyes wandered down his body, no doubt taking in the black leather jacket he’d purchased at Pansy’s shop, the tight black jeans, and, of course, the eyeliner and black nail polish.

Draco raised one of his eyebrows, “I thought this is what you wanted, Potter.”

“Oh, it is.” He watched Harry’s Adam’s apple bob as the other man continued to look at him. “You look so fit right now. So, so good. Do we have to go – er – right now?”

“Good things comes to those who wait,” he replied. His boyfriend actually groaned in response. “Potter,” he warned. “If we are beyond the window of being fashionably late, Pansy will have no hesitation hexing us into next week.”

Harry pulled his pocket watch out. “Fuck,” he whined. “You are right. We do have to go.”

Draco cocked his head. He’d never known punctuality to be high on Harry’s priority list, but he supposed he wanted to make a good impression and be timely. Taking advantage of the situation, Draco led the way out of the flat and through the shop. He doubled checked the wards before stepping out onto Diagon Alley.

“So I realized that you never told me the other night if your patronus takes a form,” said Harry, walking in step beside him.

“Was rather busy that night with your cock in my mouth if I remember.”

“Oh Christ, you need to stop saying things like that if we are to make it on time, otherwise I’m going to have to shove you against a wall and hope like hell you can cast a better a concealment charm then last time we were out on the street.”

“Fine,” said Draco, taking pity on the other man. “My patronus is corporeal.”

Harry darted a glance at him, “What is it?”

Draco shook his head, he wasn’t ready to say yet, but he didn’t want Harry to know how . . . well . . . nervous he was about his patronus, so he tried to keep things light by saying, “Guess.”

“A dragon?”

“I wish.”

“Hmmm . . . a unicorn?”

“A unicorn? Really? You think I’m sweetness and light do you?”

Harry waved a hand at him, “No you wanker, I was thinking of your wand – the core is a hair from a unicorn, right?”

“Oh. I suppose that is a rather good guess after all. But no.”

They walked a few more steps while Harry appeared to ponder the near limitless options before he said, “A snake? A cat? A raven?”

Draco shook his head after each animal named.

“Alright, what about a ferret?”

Draco stopped walking and regarded the dark-haired man beside him. “Right. I think we are no longer dating after that guess.”

And the nightmare also known as Harry James Potter had the audacity to just grin at him. “I guessed it then?” Draco scowled at his boyfriend. “Alright, alright, not a ferret then. How about something noble, like a lion?”

He dropped his face into his hands. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, my patronus is not the bloody Gryffindor lion.”

Harry reached out and brushed Draco’s arm. It was the most physical contact he’d showed while they were in the heart of Wizarding London. “I’m done guessing. I’ll just have to be very good – the model boyfriend – and maybe you’ll tell me.”

Draco grumbled, but resumed walking. Not long after they turned onto Knockturn Alley he said, “You better have brought a housewarming present. Pansy will castrate you otherwise.”

“I’ve arranged for something special to be delivered later tonight.”

“Better hope that it is good enough,” Draco said as they ascended the steps to Greg and Pansy’s first floor flat. He found himself feeling rather brazen, so he punctuated this statement by giving Harry’s arse a light smack.

“Hey,” laughed Harry swatting at Draco’s hand. “You are such a tease when you want to be. But don’t worry, my bollocks will stay firmly attached.”

“Such confidence,” said Draco.

“What did you get them then?”

“Besides the pleasure of my company?” His boyfriend laughed and shoved his shoulder against Draco’s. “I got them a Muggle mixology set and a cocktail recipe book.” When he saw the questioning look Harry gave him he added, “Pansy likes to mix drinks. I’m hoping to help her make them more . . . palatable.”

“Er – so what you’re saying is . . .”

“Accept mixed drinks from Pansy with caution.” He turned away from his wide-eyed boyfriend and rapped smartly on the door. The girl in question opened it dressed in a strappy black dress and platform heels. Her dark hair was styled into an inverted bob with a heavy fringe. “You look lovely,” he said, embracing her.

“As do you. I was absolutely right about this glorious jacket – you look so fit in it,” she said, but as she pulled away from him, he watched as she zeroed in on Harry. “And I see you brought the Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die.”

His chosen one extended his hand to Pansy, “That’s actually incorrect, Parkinson. I did die. Honestly, not the most fun I’ve ever had.” Draco watched as Pansy blanched. “Thanks for inviting me.” He lifted his head and called out over Pansy’s shoulder, “Goyle, congratulations on the new flat,” before he stepped around her and made his way into the room.

“Salazar give me strength,” Pansy murmured before she jabbed at Draco’s shoulder. “I swear your lion had better be housebroken or I cannot be held responsible for my actions.” Then she pasted on a smile and turned to lead him into her home.

The flat opened into a combined living and dining room. A galley kitchen had a pass through window that looked out over the living area and its countertop was filled with bottles of liquor, juice, and fizzy drinks. An elegant sofa took pride of place, but he also noticed a comfortable reclining chair that he figured Pansy allowed in the space for Greg’s sake. People were crammed onto said sofa, and Draco scanned the faces. He and Harry had been a bit fashionably late due to his eyeliner woes, so he found the flat was filled with expected friends: Blaise, Daphne, Astoria, Millicent, Tracey, Theo, and Lavender. Also in the room was a face he did not expect, that of Neville Longbottom.

“I thought Harry and Lavender were going to be the only Gryffindors here,” he said nodding toward Longbottom.

Pansy shrugged, “He and Lavender are good friends. He’s also rather good eye candy.”

“Pansy Persephone Parkinson, are you carrying a torch for Mr. Longbottom?”

“A torch? No. But I wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree. Look at those shoulders.”

He let his eyes linger on Longbottom for a moment. She wasn’t wrong. He was a wonderful specimen of a man with his broad chest and shoulders and defined arms. He supposed karma had to be real because if anyone deserved to have turned into a swan it was Longbottom.

“Now darling, let me see about getting you a drink. What are you in the mood for?”

“Something . . . safe,” he said as he handed her his gift.

She positively squealed in delight as she looked over his present before she recovered herself and said, “No sense of adventure. Let’s see what I can whip you up.” She turned and headed toward the bar. While he waited to see what type of toxic beverage she made for him, he went through the room greeting people, getting hugged by Lavender, and coming to a halt by Longbottom and Harry.

“Sorry, but this is the Gryffindor corner,” said his boyfriend before stretching to kiss Draco on the cheek.

“Everyone here – er – knows about you two right?” asked Longbottom.

Draco shrugged, “I’m not sure if the Greengrass sisters or Millicent and Tracey did before now, but Blaise assures me that no one in our cohort will be remotely surprised.”

“Trust me, Neville,” said Harry wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist, “Slytherin and Gryffindor pairings are all the rage right now.”

Draco watched as Longbottom’s eyes drifted away from them. “I can see why,” said the other young man. Draco turned to follow the Gryffindor’s gaze and was startled to realize that he must be looking at Pansy.

“Really, mate. Parkinson? She did want to turn me over Voldemort,” said Harry.

Draco waved a hand, “You were so irritating then that I’m sure ninety-five percent of the population wanted to turn you over to the Dark Lord. But seriously, she only suggested that to try and protect me. She knew my life was forfeit. She’s very loyal.”

Longbottom grinned, “I value loyalty. And I also value people trying to improve themselves. It’s hard to become a better version of yourself after your family has told you who they think you are for years. I may know something about that.”

“For Merlin’s sake, are all Gryffindor’s so bloody chivalrous? I’m sure that Pansy’s little black dress has nothing to do with your interest, Longbottom.”

The other man took a sip of his drink before he said, “I never said that.”

The hostess herself soon appeared and placed a drink in Draco’s hand. “I would have made you one as well, Potter, but Greg has assured me that you are happy with your pint of ale.”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” said his boyfriend.

“Undoubtedly,” she agreed in an acerbic tone that Draco knew well.

“But before you go thinking the worst of me, I want to assure you that I have arranged for a housewarming gift that I expect to be delivered at any time.”

She turned and looked at Draco, “You better have helped him pick out something passably nice.”

“I had nothing to do with whatever it is that he got you.”

“I’m sure Harry will surprise you – in a good way,” said Longbottom, coming to Harry’s aid like the champion Gryffindor that he was.

“We’ll see,” said Pansy before she held out her arm to Longbottom, “Your class is empty, how about you come with me and I’ll find you something.”

Longbottom smiled at Draco’s friend as he took her arm. “Lead the way Ms. Parkinson.”

After the unlikely pair left for the bar, Draco finally tried the beverage that Pansy had made for him. After his first taste he was shocked at how was wickedly tart the drink was. He hoped the taste would improve the more he had, so he took another sip.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

“You lips are puckering,” Harry said, before he leaned in close and added, “Those lips would look so good on me right now. Or maybe we could see how my lips look on you.”

Draco took his boyfriend’s half full glass of beer from his hands and took a long, long pull, draining the glass. “Let’s go find their bathroom now.”

His Gryffindor grinned before he glanced at his pocket watch. He looked pleased as he raised his head and called, “Oi, Parkinson – Goyle. Your gift is due to be delivered. You should probably get to the roof.”

“The roof?” asked Greg.

Harry nodded, “Trust me – you won’t want to miss this.”

After a brief period time that still managed to threaten Draco’s patience, the group collected their drinks, throw pillows, and blankets and trooped through the door and up the exterior stairs. Greg was the last to leave and he looked back at them, “You coming?”

“Just gotta get a refill,” said Harry holding up his now empty pint.

“Cheers,” said Greg before closing the door behind him.

“Now, Potter,” said Draco. “Let’s take that filthy mouth of yours and put it to good use.”

Harry grinned as he grabbed Draco’s hand and towed him toward the bathroom door.

“Wow,” said his Gryffindor as he paused just inside the threshold, causing Draco to knock up against him. “This bathroom is stupidly nice.”

Draco shushed him, herded him the rest of the way inside, and closed and locked the door. “This is supposed to be furtive remember? I thought you’d be good at furtive ‘Mr. I-Own-An-Invisibility-Cloak.’”

“Oh god, the invisibility cloak. Why haven’t we used that yet?”

“Shit. This is a stupidly nice bathroom,” said Draco turning to look at the room. The space was larger than it should have been based on the size of the building. He guessed there was an expansion charm at work here. Every surface gleamed with white marble – even the floors and the walls were covered in large white marble tiles. Delicate silver fixtures shone throughout and a luxurious soaking tub and separate glassed in shower took pride of place.

“I’m hiring Greg to redo my bathrooms at Grimmauld.”

Draco nodded, slightly dumbstruck, “I think you should.”

“Christ, look at all the marble. Not gonna lie, but I didn’t think my first time sneaking off for sex in a toilet would be like this.” Harry took one last look around the space before he said, “Okay, okay, enough ogling the bathroom.” His boyfriend gently pushed Draco back until he rested against the sink’s generous counter. “I came in here to ogle you.”

“Ogle away, Potter,” he said before Harry’s lips met his in a slightly rough kiss that lit him up from within.

“Do you know what I like most about you when we’re together like this,” said Harry as his reaching fingers breached the barrier of Draco’s waistband. “I like it when . . .” the Gryffindor paused to palm Draco’s cock, causing him to gasp, before leaning in to hum in the shell of Draco’s ear, “I like it when you make noise.”

“Oh, Merlin.” He felt the button of his jeans pop before he heard the sound of the zipper, then watched as Harry sank to his knees. “Oh fuck,” he sighed as Harry freed his cock from his pants and nuzzled his face against his smooth length.

“Remember,” said his chosen one as he stroked Draco, “I want to hear you.” Draco nodded even as he couldn’t help the small stutter of his hips as he rocked into the other man’s fist.

“But we’re in the bathroom,” he said – knowing even as he said it how stupid it sounded as of course Harry knew they were on the bathroom. So he added, “Everyone will wonder where we’ve gone and if they come down looking. . .”

“Then you better cast one hell of a silencing charm,” said Harry with a grin that was somehow equal parts devious and delicious looking before he wrapped his wicked mouth around Draco’s cock. The wet heat that enveloped him felt like heaven – a sinful heaven. Draco groaned as he felt his Gryffindor’s tongue massage his length. He buried one hand in Harry’s hair, while he tried rather valiantly to use the other to cast the requested silencing charm. All the while, his chosen one kept pulling sounds of pleasure from him. When his boyfriend started to tug his balls – first one and then the other – Draco thought he was going to come. He tried to push Harry away, but the other man resisted with a deep slide of his mouth.

“Harry – I’m – oh fuck – I’m going to come.”

Instead of pulling away, Harry moaned around his cock and quickened his movements, sucking and caressing. He placed his hands on Draco’s hips and pulled him in even deeper.

“Harry-,” Draco warned again, feeling his pleasure build and spread through his limbs until he could feel the telltale tingling in his hands and ankles. His Gryffindor moaned again and slid down Draco’s length before lifting those haunting green eyes. And that was it. Holding his chosen one’s gaze – knowing that they were together in this moment - he couldn’t . . . couldn’t hold himself together any longer. With those eyes burning a path of fire to his core, he buried himself in Harry’s wet, warm mouth and came with a shout. In some barely functioning part of his brain he knew the silencing charm he’d cast wouldn’t be enough to extinguish the sounds he couldn’t keep reigned in.

“Fuck,” he said, as his body shivered from his release. Harry gently pulled away, and Draco watched as he ran his tongue around his lips. He felt a quiver of doubt. What if . . . what if it didn’t . . .

His boyfriend must have guessed at his worry, as his face broke into that crooked grin that Draco loved and he said, “That was brilliant. You tasted brilliant.”

He couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped him. “Bloody Gryffindor.” He reached down and clasped Harry’s hand and helped pull him to his feet. He drew his boyfriend’s face to his and kissed him. “You’re a marvel.”

“A marvel?” asked Harry.  "I'm going to have to write that down."

Draco teased at the other boy’s earlobe just as he knew Harry liked. The green-eyed boy sighed.

“What ever can I do to return the favour?” he said into the Harry’s ear, and he was delighted to see that this caused the other boy to shiver.

“I want – I want,” Harry stuttered as Draco traced his tongue around the shell of his ear. “God, you are such a tease. I want to see your fingers with that black nail polish wrapped around my cock.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed, drunk on pleasure. “Unfastened your trousers.” He watched as his Gryffindor eagerly complied. “That’s right. Push them lower,” he said. “And your boxers too.”

His boyfriend did as he was bid, and Draco took a moment to look at the pretty picture he made, with the elastic band of his boxers tucked underneath his balls, his erection on full display.

“That was so good, Harry,” Draco almost purred.

His chosen one seemed to shudder before he said, “God, I like that too much.”

Draco ran a hand over one of his boyfriend’s shoulders and down his t-shirt clad chest. “Like what?”

“When you . . . tell me I’m good.”

He traced his hand lower until his fingertips brushed the other man’s pubic hair. “Oh Harry,” he said, leaning in close to his boyfriend’s ear, “You are good – so, so good. Look at you, all eager for me.”

“Yes.”

Draco let his fingers slide over the silky smoothness of Harry’s length, before he purposely pulled his hand away.

His chosen one whimpered, “Please.”

“Of course - anything for you,” he agreed before he licked the palm of his hand and wrapped it around Harry’s plump, full cock. He set a brisk pace, stroking his boyfriend how he knew Harry liked it. He watched as the other man arched his head back, exposing the delicious line of his neck. He delighted in hearing his Gryffindor start to pant, and then break into soft moans of pleasure.

“Yes, like that,” said Draco. “You are being so good letting me hear how much you like this.”

“Oh Christ,” said his boyfriend as he started to thrust in Draco’s fist.

Draco quickened his movements, wanting to give Harry the release he was clearly seeking.

“Draco-”

“Come,” Draco said. “You would be so good if you came.”

“Oh . . . fuck . . .”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“Come,” Draco said again.

And with a cry, Harry came, coating Draco’s hand with his release. After a few more shuddering thrusts, and a soft whine of pleasure, Harry stilled and dropped his head against Draco’s shoulder.

“Christ,” said Harry, his voice a bit muffled pressed as he was against Draco.

“Well . . . I guess we can cross sex in a toilet off the list,” said Draco.

“Nah,” said Harry, his face still pressed into Draco’s shoulder. “This room too nice to just be a toilet.”

“True.”

“At least it was here and not at school,” said his boyfriend.

“Why?” asked Draco. “You know – besides the fact that we hated each other at school.”

Harry tilted his head and green eyes peaked up at him. “Myrtle would have liked watching too much.”

Draco felt his nose wrinkle. “Ew. I can’t believe that post orgasm you are bringing up Myrtle.”

His boyfriend shrugged. “She had a crush on well – er – both of us I guess. Bet she would’ve loved it.”

“And we are done here. Up, Potter, up. I can’t believe you sometimes. Besides, we need to get up to the roof to see this mystery gift of yours.”

Harry stood, “A cleaning charm, please?” Draco mock glared at his beloved before he obliged, sending gentle magic over both of them before they each fastened their trousers. He glanced in the mirror and made a couple of adjustments to his hair before dropping the silencing charm. Harry cracked open the door and the coast must have been clear as he opened the door the rest of the way. Before he even crossed the threshold, however, the sound of excited shrieks permeated the flat. “Oh – my gift must have arrived.”

“Move,” commanded Draco, not wanting their absence to be horribly noticeable. He scooted Harry out of the flat and up the stairs to the rooftop where the party guests were gathered around Pansy and Greg. Pansy was waving what looked to be a newspaper aloft. Over the top of her friends she must have caught site of his scar-headed boyfriend as she cried, “Potter! I can’t fucking believe you did this!”

She broke free of the throng and scurried over to them. She held the paper up, and Draco saw that it was a special edition of The Prophet, with a headline that read, “Chosen One Chooses Forgiveness.”

“You told The Prophet that you're friends with Greg and I.”

He watched as his boyfriend lifted and dropped one shoulder, “Yeah.”

“Why? Why would you do that?” asked Pansy.

“We were kids, Parkinson. I think we’ve all paid enough of a price as children, don’t you?”

He watched as his friend nodded, her eyes glistening. “Fucking Gryffindor,” she said.

“I think this gives us even more cause to celebrate,” said Blaise. “I vote that the alcohol be brought up here.”

“I’ve got that covered as well, Zabini,” said Harry, who snapped his fingers. With a crack Kreacher appeared with a crate. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

The elderly elf bowed low. “Anything for the House of Black,” he said, before disapparating.

“Zabini, get off your arse and help with this,” said Harry. This, as it turned out, was several bottles of champagne.

“I told you he was a keeper,” said Pansy as she sipped from a champagne flute Lavender had transfigured from a cork.

Draco almost snorted his champagne out his nose. “A keeper? When did you ever say that?”

His friend smiled, but did not answer the question.

By the time most of the champagne was consumed, they had all settled together on the cushions from the flat. The stars were bright in the sky, protected from London’s light pollution by complicated spells in the wizarding neighborhood. Draco felt content to be surrounded by friends.

Apparently, Blaise was not as content as he kept wiggling on his perch atop a cushion beside Draco. “We’re fucking wizards,” he groused. “We don’t have to be packed in like this – we all know how to transfigure things.”

“Speak for yourself,” replied Daphne. “I think I’ve had rather too many of Pansy’s cocktails and Harry’s champagne to safely transfigure anything.”

Theo held out his wand and the cushion he was on slowly morphed into a rather lumpy looking sofa.

“That is hideous,” said Pansy.

Their fellow Slytherin didn’t seem bothered by this assessment of his skill, as he pulled his girlfriend onto his lap. “I think its bloody impressive I was able to pull even this off considering,” said Theo as Blaise threw himself onto the other end of the transfigured piece of furniture.

“D’you know what else is impressive?” asked Harry. “Draco can cast a patronus.”

“That is wonderful Draco,” Lavender beamed at him from her spot on Theo.

“So what is it?” asked Blaise. “Oh – I know – it’s a ferret.”

“That’s what I guessed,” Harry said rather too brightly in Draco’s opinion. “And then he threatened to break up with me.”

“It is not a ferret,” Draco said, trying his best to keep from whining.

“Prove it,” said Blaise.

Draco shook his head.

“Come on sweetheart,” Harry whispered in his ear. “For me?”

“Not fair,” he said before he captured Harry’s earlobe gently with his teeth, making his boyfriend gasp. Draco pulled his lips away from his Gryffindor and said, “Fuck it. Why not?” He was after all, feeling delightfully buzzed and free of inhibitions, so he stood, dropped his wand from its holster, and focused on the memory of Harry reaching for him through an inferno of flame – emerald eyes locking onto him. He felt his magic swell. He cast, and his thestral flared into being in the night sky - its gaunt form careening above them.

“Shit,” he heard Blaise say.

There were other murmurs of astonishment, but there was only one person he really wanted to hear from. His boyfriend squeezed his hand and Draco turned to face him. “Oh my god,” said Harry. “It’s . . . it’s beautiful.”

He looked up at his ghoulish patronus, trying to see it from Harry’s perspective. He supposed that the boy who had died and returned from across the veil would look at a thestral and be able to see its beauty.

“Expecto patronum,” said Harry before the Saviour’s well-known stag burst forth and sprang toward the thestral. The pair tossed their heads back at each other – as if in play. The stag ended the detente by pushing off with its great hind legs and bound through darkness. The thestral, seemingly not to be outdone, took off in pursuit of the other patronus. And so it went, with the pair of patronus dancing and cavorting across the night sky.

“They are beautiful together,” he heard Lavender say.

He turned to look at the boy he was hopelessly and madly in love with – moved beyond reason at seeing the hidden embodiments of themselves weave their way through the stratosphere together, as if weaving a magical tapestry. Green irises met his, and for a long beautiful moment, there was nothing else in world but Harry’s eyes. Then he watched as Harry’s breath caught, his eyes closed, and he collapsed to the ground.

Chapter 82: St. Mungo's

For a terrible moment, time stopped. All Draco could see was the crumpled form of his dark-haired Gryffindor at his feet.

“Move,” he heard someone bellow, and that snapped him into action. He fell to his knees and searched for a pulse – a breath – anything to tell him that the boy was still alive. Just as his probing fingers found what he was hoping for, Longbottom appeared, kneeling on Harry’s other side.

“We’ve got to get him to St. Mungo’s,” said the other Gryffindor. Draco looked up at the sound of command in the voice of the young man who had become an unlikely hero. “Take hold of his head.”

“You can’t apparate from here,” he heard Pansy say.

“I don’t need to,” he heard Longbottom say with such resolve that Draco was reminded of how he’d stood tall while defying the Dark Lord. The Gryffindor grabbed Draco hard on his shoulder. “D’you have him?”

Draco tightened his hold on Harry and nodded. A wand appeared in Longbottom’s free hand and his great lion of a patronus burst forth. He saw the Gryffindor’s lips move, but over the pounding in his ears, he couldn’t hear the words. An instant later, the lion streaked through the sky, and before Draco could even form the words to ask what the young man was doing, Kreacher appeared.

“St. Mungo’s, Kreacher,” said Longbottom. The elderly house elf’s thin hands grasped Harry and Draco felt the familiar rush of apparition, only even more intense. The power of house elves, he realized, was grossly underappreciated.

With a crack they appeared in the lobby of the wizarding hospital.

“Master Harry requires help,” cried Kreacher. Draco watched as the reception witches wand flashed through the air. They didn’t have to wait long before a team of healers appeared around them and started to pull Draco’s hands away. For a moment he struggled, desperate to keep hold of his beloved.

“Let them,” Longbottom urged at his side. He turned his head, and he met the large worried eyes of the other boy. The Gryffindor gently wrapped his hands around Draco’s wrists and drew him away from Harry. The healers levitated the unconscious Boy-Who-Lived, and Draco watched as they guided him through a set of doors, his eyes on Harry until the doors swung closed.

He sat on the tile floor and stared at the double doors that kept him from his chosen one.

“Malfoy . . . Malfoy?”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the doors – not yet – not even to acknowledge the Gryffindor by his side.

“Draco?”

He turned and looked at the other boy, whose earnest light green eyes met his. “Neville.”

A small smile flitted across Neville’s face. “Only took close to a decade to get us to using first names.”

“Some things can’t be rushed.”

“I agree, but for now, we need to get you off the floor.” Neville stood before him and offered his hand to haul him to his feet. That’s when he noticed that Kreacher was standing beside him, wringing his hands together.

“Kreacher, could you fetch Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger? And perhaps make sure the house is ready for Master Harry when he comes home?” The house elf’s hand wringing stopped, and the stooped being seemed to stand straighter.

“Of course Master Draco, Kreacher is proud to be of service.” With another crack, the elf was gone.

An hour passed. Neville sat with him in the lobby, before they were joined by Lavender and Theo. Not long after, the remainder of the golden trio arrived to take up a silent vigil. Watching the minute hand of the lobby clock crawl around another hour, Draco was grateful for Lavender’s hand holding his. He thanked his lucky stars that this magnificent person was his friend as he soaked up comfort and support from her reassuring link.

After three hours, Hermione started to go the reception desk periodically and attempt to extract information, but despite her fame, little was provided.

By the horrible fourth hour, a healer at last appeared. “I’m Healer Hughes. I’m one of the healers on Mr. Potter’s treatment team.” He paused as he referred to his clipboard. “Mr. Potter’s emergency contacts are listed as Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and . . .” His brows furrowed, “Draco Malfoy.” The man cleared his throat. “Well, yes, if you three could please come with me.”

Lavender gave his hand one last squeeze before Draco rose and followed Hughes through the double doors Harry had disappeared behind hours before. They walked through a corridor before entering a lift. The healer pressed a number and the doors closed.

“He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” asked Ron.

Draco waited, watching the healer’s expression. The man, however, had an excellent poker face and revealed nothing. The lift came to a stop and the doors slid open. “Let’s continue this discussion in Mr. Potter’s room,” said the healer. Draco took a deep breath, before following the others off the lift. He knew that whatever the healer was going to say would not be good news.

 

Draco usually enjoyed being right. He really did – especially after years of being so very wrong. But in this moment as the room door closed behind Healer Hughes, he very much wished he had been wrong. The healer and Hermione had engaged in an extensive conversation about Harry, which Draco had found to be very awkward as the subject of said conversation was present, albeit unconscious, beside them in a hospital bed. He’d stood by the foot of the bed, silent, while phrases like, “depleted magical core” and “no known cause” and “his symptoms are worsening” and, worst of all, “no known cure” swirled about the space.

For a long moment after the medical professional left, he, Hermione, and Ron were quiet, as if the weight of the situation were sinking in and they were all grappling with the enormity of the news. This ended, however, when the ginger turned his gaze on Draco and said, “He shouldn’t be here. You were with him. You should have been doing a better job watching him.”

“Really – that’s your conclusion?” said Draco, barely able to keep his tone civil.

Ron gestured toward the prone young man in the bed, “You should have kept him safe.”

“If anything, this is your fault, Weasley.”

“Oh, so I’m back to being Weasley now? And how the hell do you think this is my fault? Are you mental? I wasn’t even there.”

“You’re the one who told me I had to learn to cast a patronus and look where it got me.”

“At least your arse isn’t in Azkaban again.”

“No, but Harry’s is in here again.” Draco threw his arms wide in the hospital room. It wasn’t a very big space, but since Harry was the Saviour of the Wizarding World he at least had a private room.

“How the hell was I supposed to know he’d be mental enough to cast a bloody patronus?” Now it was the ginger’s turn to throw up his hands. “He’d been working on little stuff and then – bam – he casts one of the fucking hardest spells there is.”

“Merlin, you’ve been friends with him since you were eleven. Eleven!” said Draco, his voice rising. “Of course you know he’s mental. You wouldn’t be friends otherwise.”

“Enough. Please,” said Hermione from Harry’s bedside. “I know we are all scared, but we can’t . . . we can’t return to who we were back in school – we can’t go back to how we once treated each other. We are all better than that now.”

“If you say so,” grumbled the redhead. At these words, the witch fixed her boyfriend with a stare that Draco did not envy. The young man held up his hands in supplication. “I know Mione – you are right.” All the fight seemed to drain from his body. “I’m going go fire call mum. She’ll be worried sick.”

The witch’s gaze softened. “Thank you.” Ron walked to her side and bent to plant a kiss on the top of her head before he left the room with a nod toward Draco.

With peace restored, he felt exhausted once again. He walked to Harry’s bed and sat down on his free side.

“Tell me about your patronus,” said Hermione.

He smoothed back Harry’s fringe with his hand and took comfort in seeing the scar that marked him as a consummate survivor before he said, “It’s a thestral. It chased Harry’s stag across the sky.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” she said.

“That my patronus is a dark creature?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He glanced up at the young woman. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, your patronus chased Harry’s stag, right?”

He nodded in agreement.

“How long did you chase after Harry?”

“Excuse me,” said Draco, “He pursued me - kept coming to the bloody shop after hours.”

“I don’t mean when you started . . . um . . . seeing each other,” said Hermione, almost stammering. “I mean you’ve pursued him in some form or another since our first day at Hogwarts.”

He looked away from her, and stared back down at Harry’s face, wishing that those beautiful eyes would open. “He was the brightest star I had ever seen.”

“Says the man named for a constellation and from a family of stars,” said the witch, her voice just above a whisper.

He nodded, unable to speak – he knew if he did he wouldn’t be able to keep from crying. He remembered again his mother’s ominous words, “the brightest stars burn the fastest and never last.”

“You were researching the Elder Wand, weren’t you? You were trying to find a way to break its hold on him,” said Hermione, her eyes intent on him. He noticed then, how tired she looked. Her hair was working its way from the braid she’d plaited sometime earlier.

“I was. I didn’t find anything conclusive.”

“You know what all of this likely means for Harry?”

He took a deep breath trying to calm himself, even though he knew that was impossible.

“All the signs – all of his symptoms. I’ve hoped that they were pointing somewhere else – that the direction they were leading towards was wrong. But I’m not wrong about this am I?”

Draco released a shuddering breath, “I want you to be wrong . . . but I don’t think you are.”

She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “He’s dying,” she said, the words catching. “We tried so hard for years . . . fought so hard to keep him alive – to give him the chance to live.” The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. When Draco was younger, he would have sneered at her – mocked her – for crying. Now he just wanted to cry with her. “Please tell me you have an idea, because I haven’t been able to come up with one.”

“The wand chooses the wizard. The wand chooses the wizard.” The words tumbled over and over in his mind. The Elder Wand had chosen Harry and then the bloody Gryffindor had turned his back on it – turned his back on its power. No one in the history of the Elder Wand had done that – no one had walked away. But Harry had, and now his power was draining, and his old wand didn’t respond to him the way it once had. Harry had repaired his original wand with the Elder Wand had corrupted Harry’s once reliable holly and phoenix feather wand.

Damn. Draco had no idea what this all meant. What was clear, however, was that Harry was slipping away. One solution might be to reclaim the Elder Wand as his own, but that had its own danger. Every fucking dark wizard who fancied themselves to be the next Dark Lord in the wings would challenge Harry to a duel to master the Death Stick. And fuck it all, but Harry had done quite enough fighting in Draco’s not-so-humble opinion.

Draco couldn’t help but think that Harry needed a new wand. He needed a wand that matched him – all of him. The phoenix feather core had been all well and good while he’d been the scrappy Chosen One destined to duel with Lord Voldemort, but Harry wasn’t that boy anymore. He’d fulfilled his destiny. That task was done and he was so very much more than the two dimensional character that he was often made out to be. He was the bloody Master of Death for Merlin’s sake. He’d died and come back.

Draco knew he was a selfish person, and being selfish, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let Harry go – not yet – not so soon after Harry had finally won the chance to live.

“While I don’t have a solid answer, I have an idea. I’ve been researching,” he said. The witch lifted her head at this, and Draco couldn’t help but think that it was a very like Hermione to perk up thinking about research. “The Manor - it has a hidden library – only members of the Malfoy family that have bound themselves to the land can access it. I’ve been trying to find a way to save Harry.”

“Are you close?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I need more time.”

She leaned across the bed and grasped Draco’s hand. “Time is something that Harry does not have.”