Chapter Text
The Malfoy Manor was a mess of rustling excitement and the hushed hustle and bustle of the servants moving around carefully so as to not disturb Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy in the midst of preparing for their meeting with the Minister of Magic. The house elves were nowhere to be seen, most probably in fear of receiving an especially harsh punishment for their mere existence in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lucius Malfoy had that dangerous sort of energy about him. Most people did not want to be on the business end of his wand.
Draco Malfoy was still in bed when a silver tray of tea and scrambled eggs appeared on his mahogany desk with a note instructing him to hurry up, and calling him ‘darling’. Draco smiled despite trying oh so hard to suppress it. His mother was dealing with the elves and his father, yet she still took the time to make sure there was breakfast for her son. Draco had been warned to wake up especially early and to find something to eat himself, or ask the elves in the kitchen, as the family would not be sharing the meal together.
Despite it being Monday, the Malfoys had been eating together every morning at 9 o’clock sharp this summer, while discussing their plans for the day, although from Draco that had mostly been a short re-telling of his correspondence with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. He probably would have written to Crabbe or Goyle, as well, if he wasn’t quite sure they had little skill in writing and no understanding of proper grammar whatsoever, so he had decided not to subject himself to the atrocity that would be their letters. Either way, he received enough valuable information from both Blaise in London and Pansy somewhere in the South of France.
Draco brought the tray to his bed, deciding to stay in the warmth of his sheets (it may have been August, but six in the morning was still no warmer than a crisp autumn day), and ignored the burning sensation in his mouth as he shovelled food into his face without much concern for his silk pyjamas or satin sheets. He was well aware of the fact that he knew three different spells to cool his food down, and that the Ministry was not much concerned about underage spell work outside of Hogwarts when it came to families such as the Malfoys, but he could not be bothered at the moment. He ignored the crusty sleep in the corners of his eyes and powered through. Draco was way too excited about the rest of the day to worry about something as insignificant as hot eggs.
Draco had to pour the refrigerated milk into his tea in order to be able to chug the whole of it, which he was only doing for warmth and in order to make himself get out of the bed. He had already picked out his clothes the previous night. His aunt Mistral had given him a Slytherin green dress shirt for his birthday two months ago which was an ideal opportunity to show his house loyalty today. There was a black, perfectly tailored suit jacket on a hanger on the back of his closet door which, he knew, had quite the effect on the ladies, and a couple of boys, as well. Namely, and most obnoxiously, Millicent Buldstrode and a few closeted Hufflepuffs.
He’d intended on wearing the black cashmere turtleneck his mother had got him a mere week ago, for the colder days in the Slytherin common room before sending her dearest boy away for his fourth year in Hogwarts, but thought better of it, resolving to carrying it in his wallet that Blaise had once used as a guinea pig for an extension charm. Surprisingly enough to almost everyone that had been present, he had succeeded, and Draco now had a wallet with the capacity of a pretty decent backpack. Draco had never liked the money bags everyone carried around, he was no common welder. He was the Malfoy heir and he carried his coins in a leather wallet.
“Draco,” said a voice on the outside of his bedroom door, following a knock at the wood which was unmistakably the work of his father’s ivory walking stick, “it’s time. If you’re not dressed, I will send Londy in there to jump on your bed until he gets sick onto your pillow,” his father warned. Londy was Lucius’ favourite house elf, as much as he loved to deny it. But the elf had a knack for knowing exactly what comfort food to get for Lucius or which linen detergent to use, And Lucius Malfoy loved to have things his way.
The door swung open barely five seconds later and Draco raised an eyebrow at his father whose long platinum hair looked like a halo in the early morning light from the west wing hallway. Clad in a black coat, Lucius Malfoy looked ready to conquer the world, or, at least, confident enough. “Father,” Draco acknowledged, turning back to his ornate silver mirror, slicking his hair back with what he was fairly certain the muggles called hair gel. He didn’t care much what exactly it was, but he’d been using it ever since his father gave him the tub before his first year in Hogwarts. Looking back, he had to admit to himself that he had been going a bit overboard with the amount he put onto his near-white hair when he was eleven, but the tub had never run out, so it wasn’t too much of a worry for him. Provided, it was enchanted, of course.
“Are you ready?” his father asked, apparently having decided not to pester Draco about not answering the door for once. Family legacy is all we have in this world, Draco, I will be respected by my own son, he’d say whenever Draco did something less than up to his standards, “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“I was born ready, father,” Draco challenged and walked over to his father who had wordlessly spelled his suitcase into the air and was now sending it down the hallway.
“Come on then,” Lucious landed a hard slap on his son’s shoulder and balanced it out with a kiss on the top of his head. Draco had noticed his father doing that more often lately. It might have been because his mother had insisted that he show his appreciation and love more. It might have been because Draco was growing up into the wizard his father had always wanted him to be. It might have just been that he actually missed his son during the months he was away at school. Draco had yet to decode it.
His mother was waiting by the dining room fireplace, a smart pencil skirt and a jacket covering a corset laced on her chest. Draco knew the woman had never done a single spell of dark magic, but she sure liked to keep the Black family legends alive with every outfit she decided on. She was currently checking her pocket watch as an elf was standing next to her with a crystal dish of floo powder, the shimmery deep green of it almost bright even in the shadowy morning.
Draco had always been promised a stern punishment for using it without permission and supervision, so the few instances he had actually got to feel the green flames on his skin have mostly been limited to shopping trips with his mother. It was no secret that the Malfoy Manor was connected to the floo network, so Draco had had to sit through several instances when a Ministry official burst into their home in the middle of dinner, and his father would had to bring them to his office on the second floor to discuss something neither Narcissa nor Draco was allowed to hear. Draco was always consoled by his mother in these cases, insisting that his father really did find the ranting about Harry Potter interesting, he was just a bit swamped at work at the moment.
“Go on, sweetheart,” his mother instructed after his father had made two separate trips with his work materials. Draco nodded his head once, determined not to show how nervous he actually was. Flooing was one of his favourite things about being a wizard. He wasn’t even sure why. There was just something about disappearing up in flames that made him feel like apparition was unimaginative and mundane.
He grabbed a handful of the powder and said in his clearest voice possible, “Ministry of Magic,” before throwing the powder onto his feet with a slightly flamboyant movement. He still may not have been used to the experience, but he knew damn well how he’s supposed to do it.
The whole day was a blur of boring for Draco as they met various important people his father worked with. His mother was smiling politely and joining in on the conversation when appropriate, but Draco could see it was her ‘get me out of here this instant’ smile. For all his excitement about this day, Draco almost felt he’d rather be at a History of Magic lesson or Flitwick’s bloody choir practice.
Ludo Bagman, with whom, it seemed, many wizards were interested in talking today, had to leave early, probably to head over to the World Cup, supervise and instruct, although not without giving Draco a few surprisingly knowing smiles and a wishing of a spectacular school year. Draco had been told by his father not to let anyone know about the Triwizard Tournament, or even the fact that Draco knew in the first place. Barty Crouch left in what Draco thought was the middle of their meeting, as well. Apparently, his father had squeezed the last possible consultations in with the Ministry officials before the big game. Draco was pretty sure the celebrations, or commiserations, depending on the outcome of the game, will take at least a week afterwards. A tournament this size was sure to do it.
Lucius seemed somewhat disappointed in not having the chance to meet the Minister, but he was assured he’d be waiting in the box when they arrive, and that their seats were next to each other. Putting a more pleased glint onto his annoyed face, Lucius took his family for lunch and suggested they apparate to their tents. It had taken Draco weeks to convince his father to let them stay for longer than just the night, but there was something about the excitement in the air that made Draco sure his father would come around. There were wizards and witches here from all over the world, he picked up a short conversations in French, ”mais non, les irlandais ont une meilleure chance de gagner au tennis de table”; answered by “au quoi de table?”, a few Americans scattered about, they were always interested in this sort of shenanigans, but mostly loud Brits, drunken Irishmen and what he assumed were Bulgarians, he had no idea if the compilation of noises he heard was their language or literally any other Slavic tongue.
The look on Potter’s face as Draco entered the room, not to mention Granger’s and their little redhead lapdog’s, about to start barking insults at him any moment, while Draco strode in in cool nonchalance, was breath-taking. Or maybe that was just Potter.
Draco noticed his mother scrunching up her nose at the drafty stadium, and his father pass a cool glance over everyone else in their vicinity, the superiority in Lucius’ gaze, that Draco knew he was supposed to feel himself, almost making him roll his eyes in front of everyone here, but Potter was right here, and, as hard as the urge to quip something sharp and painful at the Boy Who Lived tugged at him, he kept his mouth shut. He was better than that.
The highlight of the mostly boring day, though, was meeting the Minister himself, Cornelius Fudge. Draco got to shake his hand and was even asked about his education and plans for the future. He answered as modestly yet superiorly as he could, his chest proudly puffed under the Slytherin-green shirt that was no longer visible as he’d put on his black turtleneck for warmth. The seats were, indeed, very high up and the wind was almost icy at times.
The Bulgarian Minister of magic was left confused and bewildered without Crouch to translate for him, probably still here only as an international curtesy between the two ministries, Draco noticed a second before his father threw a nonchalantly evil remark at Weasley Senior. Draco wanted to laugh. He really did, it was expected of him. It just seemed so crude and unnecessary of his father to say. And then Lucius smirked at Granger like a tabby cat about to attack a fallen bird, but changed the look a moment later. No one else but Draco noticed the warning grasp of Narcissa’s hand on her husband’s forearm.
The summer had been one of the strangest in Draco’s life, and he was almost thankful it was about to be over. As Ludo Bagman made the opening speech, Draco paid little attention and watched the back of Potter’s shaggy-haired head instead. He felt no spite or hatred when watching the other boy, no desire to harm him with either words or actions, it was like not seeing the red-and-yellow scarf around his neck made him less of a Gryffindor. Less of a hero. Less annoying. Maybe Draco had just grown up more than he’d expected. Then again, how the bloody hell were three months enough to make him neutral about his arch nemesis?
He looked at Granger who was wrapped around Potter’s right arm, presumably for warmth, sharing a green-and-white scarf that most probably meant their allegiance with Ireland more than Slytherin, and Draco didn’t feel hatred for her either, then again, he wasn’t sure he ever even had. Sure, he was still jealous – the girl was a genious, almost as smart as Draco was, and she sure knew how to punch, but other than that, he found he no longer even had the urge to call her a mudblood and watch her squirm and angrily stumble for words.
The third one, though, still annoyed Draco with every move he made. His face was annoying and dirty – there was something smudged on his cheek. There was an annoying hat on his head, like some common village idiot prancing around, just waiting for Draco to make fun of him, and Draco was pretty sure he just heard him call the Malfoys ‘slimy gits’ not a moment ago. Like he was one to talk.
Draco wanted to fume more about the red-haired pit stain on the pureblood history, but the whole stadium’s collective sigh of awe made him actually look at the field, which was what he was here for, not to wonder why he didn’t care about hating Harry Potter anymore. A hoard of veela strode onto the field, capturing everyone’s attention, not even Blaise Zabini’s curiously interesting hands could take Draco’s eyes away from the white-skinned creatures. There was something unnervingly Malfoy about them – pale, light-haired, strangely beautiful. Draco wasn’t blind, he knew what he looked like. But, as far as he knew, there was no veela blood in the Malfoy, or Black history.
Draco noticed the look on Potter’s dazed face a second before he got up from his seat, followed by leprechaun superior and the rest of his male siblings. Draco rolled his eyes and looked back at the veela. They were beautiful, sure, but they weren’t exactly to-literally-die-for. Granger and the little Weasley girl, apparently, felt the same as Draco as they scoffed at the two and made them sit back down.
Speaking of leprechauns, Draco thought to himself with a smirk as the Irish came onto the field. Tiny men dancing before them and shooting gold coins into the air, even up to their box. The waste of money was a bit eccentric and stereotypical, yet Draco did not fail to notice that Potter hadn’t reached for a single coin, while the Weasleys were stuffing their pockets full. He wondered if the eager idiots had any idea leprechaun gold disappeared within a couple of hours.
Draco was reluctant to admit to himself that he was excited about the match. He wanted to see the greatest seeker in Europe. He wanted to know who would get the cup. He had, after all, been following along the games all season. He knew his mother was smiling knowingly behind him where he was leaning forward in his seat in anticipation, but he didn’t care much. Krum was on the field, and even Weasel’s excited muttering to Potter couldn’t disturb his joy.
The game was, dare Draco say, legendary. His foot was shaking constantly, his father had to pinch his thigh once in a while, but he gave up after about the eight time. He had to dig his fingernails into the heels of his palms whenever he wanted to scream along to the match, leaving bruising little crescent moons that he only felt after the match was over and his father had sent him to find a tent that sells pumpkin pasties for them both. Lucius had always insisted he hated them and they reminded him too much of miserable Hogwarts Sunday mornings, but Draco also knew that every time he brought some back from the Hogwarts Express, his father gobbled them down with a glass of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey and a reminiscent smile on his face. A smile that Draco had to spy on his father in order to see.
“Come to beat up baby Hufflepuffs?” an all-too-familiar voice asked from behind him once he’d paid and was waiting for the witch to cast a lingering warming spell on the little pastries.
“Potter,” Malfoy acknowledged with a bored glance behind his back. He didn’t look back long enough to watch confusion wash over Potter at the lack of a dig at him. He had a plastic bottle in his hand, probably looking for where to fill it up. Unless he was homesick for Hogwarts as much as Draco was, and was coming to find pumpkin pasties for himself and the Weasleys.
“I’m guessing you’re here plotting with your father,” he said smugly, crossing his arms in front of his chest like the confident prick that he was.
“I’m guessing you have nothing better to do with the Weasels so you had to come torment me,” Draco said without facing the most famous little shit in the wizarding world. “Thank you,” he said to the witch handing him his pastries, and started walking, knowing Potter couldn’t resist following.
“I didn’t deliberately seek you out,” Potter rolled his eyes.
“I’m surprised you can pronounce ‘deliberately’. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m on my way to poison someone?” Draco smirked to himself, pulling out one of the baked goods and shoving half of one into his mouth. Normally he’d hate letting anyone see him eat, but it was dark already and he was sure Potter had broodily watched him across the great hall during meals as many times as he’d watched the Gryffindor. Plus, it was Potter, he already thought the worst of him. “Pumpkin Pasty?” Draco offered just to watch Potter’s face try and figure out if this was a ploy to murder him. The parade of expressions was a whole Shakespearian play in five acts. “They’re not bloody poisoned, you twat, I’m bringing them to my father, you think I’d poison him?”
Potter stared at him calculating, if not a bit pissed off, but refused to take a pasty from the brown paper bag. Draco had no clue how he could resist them, they smelled heavenly. “I have no interest in killing you, you knob. Some people actually grow past the age of five.”
“And yet you can’t seem to be able to stop insulting me,” Potter challenged.
“Old habits die hard, I suppose,” Draco shrugged, shoving the rest of the pasty into his mouth.
“This is a trick, isn’t it?” Potter suddenly stopped in front of him, staring at him authoritatively, despite him being about an inch inferior.
Draco rolled his eyes, “Whatever you want, Potter,” he stepped around him and started walking back towards their tent, not quite sure anymore if he remembered where it was. There were celebrations all around him and the yelling and laughing hadn’t ceased since the end of the match. But during their less-than-friendly exchange, they’d failed to notice the singing and cheering had turned into distant screaming. There was frantic running into the nearby woods, a strange, dry, hurried feeling in the air.
“Say, Potter,” Malfoy dragged, looking around slowly and doing his best not to show how terrified he was, “you wouldn’t happen to know what this circus is about?”
“Not this particular one, no,” he answered, and Draco saw he was already reaching for his wand.
“Maybe don’t go swinging that around in a field full of Ministry officials,” Draco suggested and watched in delight as Potter’s face feel in what looked to Draco like admitting defeat. If push came to shove, Draco would get his own wand out, too, he was quite sure being the Malfoy Heir would get him out of trouble for underage wizardry, but why give his father something to hold over his head unless completely necessary?
Green light illuminated the field in short, angry bursts. Potter was most probably not aware, but Draco was a Malfoy and a Black, his father had told him about dark magic before bed as cautionary tales. He knew very well which of the unforgivable curses was being used and he didn’t even feel like teasing Potter about being inferior in this exact domain.
He noticed a crowd of wizards, moving slowly across the field as a pack, laughing chaotically, a poisonous sound of deranged joy. Draco wasn’t sure whether the creatures had faces, they seemed to slide forwards, floating an inch above the ground, long cloaks dragging on the grass behind them, their heads hooded and their faces masked. Dark and otherworldly. Above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. They were torturing them. The second unforgivable curse of the night. They seemed like an unstoppable force majeure, blowing up whatever was in their way and setting fire to tents, leaving people screaming and running in the opposite direction.
“Muggles,” Potter stated, grabbing Draco’s attention immediately, “it’s the campsite manager.”
“Shit,” Draco sighed and turned around to see if there was anywhere relatively safe to hide. There was a pile of wood a little further, probably to be used for bonfires. It wouldn’t be resistant to most spells, but there would be no spells directed towards them if they weren’t visible. “Potter,” Draco whispered though gritted teeth, having already taken a few steps towards it. Potter didn’t even seem to hesitate before following. Draco was obviously the lesser evil.
“That’s sick,” Potter pointed out, making Draco roll his eyes at him yet again (because no shit) as he squatted behind the pile of lumber, feeling his jacket shoulder ripping, caught on a log. Draco tried to catch his breath, resting his head on the hard planks behind him and closing his eyes.
“The woods,” Potter said and Draco didn’t even have to open his eyes to know his old nemesis was getting up from his spot next to him, “if we go there, we’ll be safer than here.” Apparently, they were cooperating now.
“One of the first smart ideas you’ve had,” Draco conceded as civilly as he could in the situation, as they ran a few dozen meters into the forest across the rest of the field, only stopping for air when it was too dark to keep moving safely at that speed without breaking their necks.
“That’s coming from the guy who tried to jump a hippogriff not a year ago,” Potter sounded as out of breath as Draco was. He couldn’t see him anymore, the light from the fire illuminating the distance, but not reaching far enough into the shadows to reach either of them.
“I did not jump it,” Draco scowled, crossing his arms, “you just looked way too happy with yourself after that flight.”
“Oh yeah,” Potter sallied, “you looked way less cocky with a bandage up to your elbow.”
“Probably still better than you normally d-“
“What’s that?” Potter’s voice switched to a whisper. Draco listened, but didn’t hear anything. His eyes weren’t adjusting to the darkness with the dim glow in the distance still visible, but he sure as hell was not going to jeopardise his safety just to have the last word.
A light flickered a few feet from them before settling on a bright shine and lighting up a couple of familiar faces. “Oh, thank Merlin,” said Wealey’s idiotic voice as Granger rushed forward and threw herself onto Potter, making Draco wonder for the second time tonight whether they were just very good friends, or would he have to listen from every girl in Hogwarts how much she wished she was in Granger’s place as Mrs. Chosen One.
“If the three of you are done snogging,” Draco cleared his throat, “you might want to hurry along before Granger’s next up there,” Draco pointed back towards the campsite.
“Sod off, Malfoy,” Weasley’s nose scrunched up in an extraordinarily unflattering manner, “What are you even doing with him, ‘arry?”
“They’re muggles that they’ve got hanging above their heads, you knob,” Draco scorned, watching Weasley’s face fall, “and the whole lot of them are moving this way.”
“Hermione’s a witch,” Potter pointed out, like the loyal little golden boy he was.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s going to matter much to them, good luck with that,” Draco smiled as sarcastically as he could, least the darkness took from the meaning of his expression, “You might throw a decent punch, but that’s not going to be much help if they slit your throat from ten feet away.”
Potter looked like he was agreeing with Malfoy, now only waiting for Weasley and Granger herself to give in and admit Draco was actually right. “If you’re done with childish rivalry,” Draco was starting to feel restless, “you might want to be on your merry way right about now.”
“What about you?” Granger asked, surprising everyone around them.
“Can you three just get the bloody hell out of here?”
“And what, you’ll stay and join their murder parade?” Potter scoffed, “Come with us.”
“As exciting as joining a Gryffindor rescue party sounds…”
“Oh, have it your way,” Weasley groaned and turned to walk forwards, “Bloody trying to help a Slytherin. Malfoy, no less,” he muttered as Hermione rushed after him.
“Don’t be a twat, come on,” Potter said, having already turned and taken a step to follow his friends, apparently knowing full well that Draco was about to follow suit.
“I hate you,” Draco felt the need to specify, just in case it wasn’t obvious enough.
“Clearly,” there was a smirk audible in Potter’s voice which Draco did not appreciate, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I believe we have some hurrying to do.”
Draco rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth, but ran after them nonetheless. He was not fond of running. Flying was much less of a waste of time. And much more interesting of a sport.
“Where to, now?” Granger demanded once they’d reached another clearing.
“Hold on, I-“ Potter started digging through his pockets, “Where’s my wand?” he asked and both Granger and Weasley’s eyes fell on Draco.
“Yes, I stole Potter’s wand and then joined the three of you on a moon-lit jog in the forest,” Draco sighed dramatically.
“Maybe you left it at the tent,” Granger suggested.
“Did you have it when you showed up out of nowhere and started accusing me of illegal activity?” Draco supplied.
“What illegal activity?” Weasley asked.
“It must have fallen out somewhere in the woods,” Potter ignored him and looked back after having shuffled through the long grass.
“Then it’s long gone, doesn’t matter,” Draco started walking again.
“Doesn’t matter? It’s my wand!” Potter said.
“I’m aware,” Draco moaned, “But unless you want to go back and search for it, all the while gambling with the chance of being slaughtered by what are clearly modern-day reincarnations of Death Eaters, I suggest you get yourself a new one in Ollivanders tomorrow and shut up about it for the time being.” Potter looked like he was fuming, but Draco’s point was good enough for him to hold it in. “Can we go, or would any of you like another point proven by, apparently, the only person thinking clearly here?”
“Yes, yes, let’s go,” Potter agreed hesitantly, giving one last look to the ground in long-lost hope.
They’d barely made it twenty seconds when they heard a sound from behind them. A sort of a rustling in the woods, someone stepping on a branch, or getting caught in the leaves. Granger and Weasley looked around like lost ducklings as Potter shamelessly shouted “Who’s there?” like an idiot, earning a slap on the shoulder from Draco.
“What are you doing?” Draco hissed as Weasley put his hand on Potter’s mouth to stop the git from doing something even more stupid.
In the middle of the silence, the rustling of the leaves in the wind and the anticipation for something terrifying, a voice uttered in a hushed calmness “Morsmordre”. A green burst of light shot into the sky. Draco tried not to blame his father too much for teaching him exactly what that meant. He knew what shape the green lines would take amongst the stars before they were done forming the skull and serpent that chilled Draco to the bone. All he could think was he’s back.
A whole new mess of screaming and panic broke like a tide wave from the other side of the woods behind them. Draco watched Potter’s confusion, knowing Granger was about to explain exactly what it was, as Weasley most likely had never had any interest in learning about the history of wizardry.
It shone on them like bright green neon light, illuminating their features in a grotesque, hollowing and freighting way. Weasley and Potter were still watching the source of light above the forest as Draco shared a knowing look with Granger. “We need to go now,” she pointed out and Draco was already nodding in agreement before she had the chance to finish the sentence.
“What’s the matter?” Potter asked, making Draco wish he was at liberty to punch the git senseless. But, alas, they were in a certain amount of danger and hurry. Mostly to save at least three of their lives. Granger would obviously be the first to go, then Draco, as not many wizards his age had the bright white hair of the ex-death eater Malfoy, and finally, once Potter had done something astonishingly idiotic again, exposing the scar that hid from the world under his absurdly long fringe this summer, the death eaters would have no problem slitting his throat for good measure and praise from the Dark Lord.
“It’s the Dark Mark, Harry,” Granger practically moaned, trying to pull him along, “You-Know-Who’s sign.”
Draco rolled his eyes and helped Granger by shoving the biggest liability they had forwards while he was in the middle of uttering the Dark Lord’s name, like the dimwit that he was.
Before they could get further than two steps, a series of cracking noises announced the arrival of several wizards before their actual appearance. There were about two dozen of them, and Draco suddenly had the same feeling as when he’d broken his father crystal carafe two summers back and had to face his wrath.
Draco looked around, calculating. All of the wizards surrounding them were Ministry officials, all of their wands pointed at the four of them. Two things were clear: since there is a Dark Mark right above them, there would be an attack; and since they were all on duty and none of the four fourteen-year-olds had been proven guilty yet, it would not be lethal.
He could have squatted down and saved himself the trouble of being cursed, but after the trauma shared with the Golden Trio on this evening alone, he opted to shout “Duck!” and pull the closest two, who happened to be Weasley and Granger down with him, Potter, thankfully, complying instinctively with Draco’s order. Though, maybe he had just made the same calculations in his head.
Draco would never admit to this, but his eyes were closed as the angry flashes of red light shot above their heads and, presumably, bounced off innocent trees. Someone’s voice yelled “Stop! That’s my son!” and Draco had never been happier to have Arthur Weasley in his vicinity, because it was sure as hell not Lucius Malfoy yelling to save his child.
“Out of the way, Arthur,” said the familiar voice of Barty Crouch before its owner closed in on them, franticly asking which one of them had conjured the mark, and watching Draco closest of all. Now, that was something Lucius Malfoy is not going to take lightly. There was a whole set of rules and etiquette Draco had had to learn over the course of his life, and gazes and looks were quite the bulky chapter. This was not a look of concern that Mr. Crouch was sporting. It was one of accusation.
“We didn’t do that,” Potter stated firmly, not a single tremble in his voice, something Draco was not sure he’d be able to pull off right about now, especially not when there were twenty wands pointed at them.
“We didn’t do anything! What did you want to attack us for?” Weasley whined, his courage probably fed by his father’s hand on his shoulder. That, or the fact that the moron had no idea when to shut up, even if it could save his life.
Barty Crouch was about to yell something else, eyes big and mad, a vein in his forehead about to burst, when a witch interrupted, whispering a frantic and almost warning “Barty, they’re kids, they’d never be able to do it.”
“Where did the mark come from, you four?” asked Arthur Weasley, not even batting an eye at Draco standing in the middle of the Golden Trio like they were all old friends having a midnight picnic in the woods.
“Over there,” Granger pointed to a black thicket in the woods where Draco also though he heard the voice coming from. “There was someone behind the trees, they said some sort of incantation,” her brain was almost fuming out of her ears as she tried to recall the word.
“Oh, did they, now?” Crouch towered over her, disbelief garnishing his face, “You seem very conveniently informed on how to conjure a Dark Mark.”
“Perhaps because the existence the Dark Mark is not exactly the best kept secret by the Ministry?” Draco suggested, feeling ill that this man had the guts to accuse children of something as serious as this. “Or maybe that there are very few things one can conjure without an incantation.” Draco had no clue where this sudden surge of gryffindorian bravery was coming from, but he had no intention to stand here and listen to someone accusing him of something he clearly does not have the means to do.
Despite Crouch’s nasty, disgusted look, the other Ministry officials did not seem to truly think either of the four was guilty. Someone proposed checking the woods behind them, suggesting the stunning spells had gone through the forest and possibly might have caught whoever the guilty party was. It was a mess of wizards and witches hurrying into the woods to comb them, but Draco had no wish to follow any of this. They were not guilty, not even suspected of illegal activity, and among adults. They were safe.
They’d actually found someone, contrary to what Draco was willing to believe. If he had been the one ballsy enough to do something so stupid as conjuring the Dark Mark, he would have taken off the second he was done uttering the last syllable, and be back at the campsite by now, burying his wand under a bonfire.
Only it wasn’t a wizard with the survival skills of a Slytherin. It was a house elf. One that Draco was only partially sure he’d seen before. “Winky,” Potter whispered, seemingly only to Draco, “Crouch’s elf.”
“Crouch’s?” Draco summoned all of his will not to yell the name in surprise. Now who’s looking guilty? Draco thought bitterly.
As Weasley and Granger discussed something in hushed voices, Potter and Draco listened to a wizard say to Weasley’s dad, “Bit embarrassing.”
“Oh, come off it, Amos,” Arthur Weasley scoffed, “You don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.”
The other wizard, apparently named Amos, leaned in and spoke a little more quietly, yet still somewhat audibly, as both Draco and Potter were pretty good at pretending not to be paying attention, “Yes, and she had a wand.”
Arthur Weasley’s surprise was lost for both Draco and Potter as they looked to each other in silent shock and realisation.
Potter’s wand was not just lost.
It had been used to conjure the Dark Mark.
Ludo Bagman apparating and causing another ruckus didn’t interest either of them anymore. They were more concerned with the whole how the bloody hell are we going to not look guilty once they figure out whose wand it is aspect of the equation.
Once the elf was brought back to consciousness, and had been questioned under the supervision of every wizard left in the clearing around them, only to find out she had no clue what had happened, the wizard Arthur Weasley had just been talking to picked up the wand Crouch’s elf had been found with.
“It’s mine,” Potter admitted, earning a punch in the back from Draco that he was pretty sure no one else saw. If he was going to walk around telling people incriminating shite, Draco would like it to be in a situation where he couldn’t possibly be sent to Azkaban for being an accomplice.
“Excuse me?” the wizard asked, incredulously.
“That’s my wand, I dropped it,” Potter went on and Draco was already wondering if he’ll get a double sentence because of his father’s endeavours two decades ago.
“Is this a confession?” the wizard asked, looking much too excited to get the Boy-Who-Lived convicted for being a Death Eater.
“Amos!” Arthur Weasley warned, “Think of who you’re talking to.” Draco rolled his eyes. Of course, the name alone got Potter out of trouble, didn’t it? “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the Dark Mark?”
“He didn’t lose it here,” Malfoy couldn’t stop his tongue before rushing to Potter’s aid. That was new. “He noticed its absence about a ten minutes’ worth of running in that direction,” Draco pointed towards the campsite where they’d come from, and no one questioned his lie. It had not been ten minutes, it had barely been seconds, but it might get his arse out of a prison sentence.
The Ministry wizards turned back to question the elf and Draco heard Potter let out a shaky breath while Granger and Weasley watched the Slytherin in surprise and suspicion, respectively. The poor elf looked like she was about to burst into tears, and Draco wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have reacted the same way.
“It wasn’t her,” Granger said shakily, looking like she was about to faint, speaking to so many important people, “Her voice is squeaky. The person who did that,” she pointed to the sky, eyes staring straight ahead as if she was afraid to let herself look too long at the Mark, “had a much deeper voice. It didn’t sound anything like Winky, did it?”
“No,” Potter agreed instantly, “It definitely didn’t sound like an elf.”
Weasley agreed something that Draco tuned out, as he watched the elf tremble in fear, before the wizard, Amos, took hold of Potter’s wand to see what its last incantation had been.
Draco didn’t have a doubt in his mind that Crouch’s elf hadn’t been the one to do it, but he also realised, in cold fear, that he wouldn’t hesitate a second to turn her in, as long as it saved his own arse.
“You’ve been caught red-handed, elf! Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!” the Amos person practically screamed.
Arthur Weasley rushed in to urge the man to have some sense, “Think about it, precious few wizards know how to do that spell. Where would she have learned it?”
“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” Crouch intervened in a poisonous tone, “that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?” The silence that followed made it hard not to laugh at the very important, very grown-up wizards that were doing their very best not to look each other in the eye. Draco caught Potter’s gaze of sarcastically bulged eyes and did his best to only shake his head in faked shock with a tiny smirk instead of barking the laugh that was stuck in his throat.
The conversation continued for a while more, Amos trying to convince Crouch that he hadn’t meant to accuse him of anything, and Crouch using every opportunity to play the victim. The two men couldn’t resist bringing Potter back into it, but Draco wasn’t much surprised about it.
Thankfully, Draco was not subjected to the rest of the conversation, as a snapping pop of apparition announced the arrival of someone else, but the relief was soon washed right off his face once Draco saw his father impatiently striding towards him, pushing a wizard in his way. There was no rush in his gait, ever the well-mannered gentleman that Lucius Malfoy was, but his face was a certain kind of ‘cold and expressionless’ that Draco had come to know as the Draco’s-done-something-again kind.
There wasn’t much talk exchanged between Lucius and Crouch, the understanding nod from the Ministry official that seemed to suggest that Lucius was free to do as he saw fit, so he placed his hand on Draco’s ripped jacket shoulder, digging his fingernails warningly into his son’s skin and apparated to the vestibule back at Malfoy manor.
“Father-“
“Bed,” Lucius said in that low, quiet voice he used which made Draco shut up instantly while taking off his dragon hide gloves and throwing them onto the mahogany table by the front door. His father was not in an arguing mood, and he wouldn’t push his luck.
“Yes, father,” Draco bowed his head and rushed up the stairs, avoiding the creaky step, not wanting to be the cause of another reason to annoy his father. He headed straight to his room, no detour to see his mother, and locked the heavy wooden door behind him. There would be wrath to face the following morning for getting caught even near something so incriminating, and there would be hell to pay for getting caught alongside Harry Potter of all people.
Draco barely slept, instead choosing to watch his Eurasian eagle owl snooze merrily in its open cage on top of Draco’s dresser, or out the window at the stars one could only see this far out of Wiltshire. Only once dawn started painting red lines among the trees of the forest behind the manor, did Draco start feeling the drowsiness that should have taken him out hours ago.
When he finally woke, not from a stern shouting from his father, as he’d expected, but from Eagle’s hooted displeasure of the crisp autumn breeze, he closed the window and guided Eagle out of his cage, watching the owl fly over to Draco’s fireplace and rest on the ornate decorations in the stone before daring to exit his room. He did leave the door open. If Draco started screaming bloody murder while being pelted with an ivory cane, at least Eagle would come and peck his father’s eyes out.
“Morning, love,” his mother greeted him from behind a newspaper as Draco sat at their dining room table, a full spread of English breakfast, untouched and still steaming hot, laid out before her. Draco hadn’t noticed the rumbling emptiness in his stomach with everything that had happened in the last ten hours, but it was making itself aware now.
The table was set for two, and Draco pleaded with whatever was left of Merlin’s spirit that his father hadn’t decided to keep him starved until his train to Hogwarts. If there even was to be a year in Hogwarts at this point.
“Sit down, darling, these plates are not going to empty themselves,” his mother smiled warmly, and for a second Draco actually let himself believe that everything was fine.
“Where’s father?” Draco asked, flinching when an elf brought him his slippers, thinking this was a setup before a punishment.
“He had to step out for work,” his mother supplied, “he’ll be back in a few days. Come, eat, I’m starving, I could barely wait for you,” she folded up the newspaper and patted the chair next to hers.
Draco felt immeasurably lighter, letting himself breathe deeper and actually sit down, thanking the elf for his slippers as his feet really were freezing. And his stomach was empty, and his head was pounding, and there was a ringing in one of his ears, and he was pretty sure his right thumb had a splinter in it.
His mother watched him with an odd smirk as he thanked a servant. He never did that. Maybe it was just last night rubbing off on him. “Is that a bruise on your shoulder?” his mother asked and he got up to check his reflection in the mirror on the mantelpiece. “Don’t worry, we’ll floo someone in to heal it later.” She looked perfectly calm, like there hadn’t been a rise of the Death Eaters mere hours ago.
“Was he upset?” Draco asked after three minutes of silence and stuffing his face with beans.
“He will have come to his senses by Christmas,” she smiled back.
“Christmas?” Draco’s head shot up in confusion. “He’s not going to see me off in London?”
“I told you, darling, he’s off on business,” she scoffed lightly as if it wasn’t suspicious. Not that Draco was unhappy with the turn of events. Quite the contrary, he was glad he wouldn’t be yelled at, but his father had always looked proud when Draco got on the Hogwarts Express each September 1st. Draco loved that look.
“Alright,” he sighed, trying his best to look like he doesn’t care that much, but his mother knew him better than that, even if she liked to humour him and pretend she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
Draco had nothing better to do after the healer’s visit than take Eagle on a walk during one of the last warm days of the year and watch him enjoy the scenery before having to live with strange owls from God knows where all school year. And it helped Draco to clear his head before thinking about Potter’s golden trio while stuffing his trunks full of clothes purchased by his mother. He had, as always, joined her on their annual trip to Diagon Alley, but barely on her quest for clothes. Draco preferred to find books, parchment and quills himself, getting something from Zonko’s along the way and watching the Knockturn Alley creeps from a small passageway between Eeyelop’s Owl Emporium and The Leaky Cauldron that connected the two radically different alleys as he fed the display owls his lunch sandwich. No one would notice him from there, but he could see everyone. It was positively the most Slytherin spot in Diagon Alley.
The house seemed eerily quiet without his father here. Not that Lucius Malfoy was an especially loud person, it was just that Draco felt like the house was slightly stiff and hushed without him there. Like everyone in the house knew something that Draco didn’t. He would normally be excited about going back to school. He was the smartest in his year for a reason, Granger excluded, but he always excluded her. Only this time it felt much more different. It wasn’t just that his father wouldn’t be there, now there was the added prospect of figuring out how the hell he should act around Potter and his gang.
His mother had three brand new sets of the Hogwarts uniform sent up to his room, along with a new set of dress robes that he’d never needed before, probably for the ball his father had told him about. There was also a letter. Draco shoved the clothes into his trunk and laid down on his bed to rip the envelope open and unfold the letter with excitement. He didn’t have to read the signature on the bottom of the page to know exactly who it was from – Pansy Parkinson never sent a letter in her life without first bathing it in her perfume.
Dear Draco,
I’ve missed you terribly. Without you in our guest bedroom, there is no one to make fun of the French muggles with. I’m making you swear to come visit us next summer as soon as I see you. There is a new café here, but there are only so many books I can read while pretending to be a mysterious local before I go insane of boredom. I can’t wait to come back to United Kingdom. I can’t believe I mean it, but I miss Hogwarts. I’m meeting Blaise at Kings Cross at 10:30 on the 1st to get our own compartment, if you wish to join us. We should get liquorice wands and watch the first years fumble with their owls.
My father has been quiet for two days now and I am getting worried. I heard about what happened at the World cup from my cousin and I think it might be connected. I know you love to dismiss this theory, but your parents might have just as much to do with this as mine. Please don’t hate me for pointing this out. I am scared, Draco. I don’t want this to be true any more than you do, but you have to admit it is a possibility.
I also heard about your little escapade with the Golden Trio last night, so be warned, Blaise and I will scrutinise you over every detail.
Miss you. Oodles and oodles.
Pans
Draco smiled, despite the whole middle section of the letter. Then again, if they didn’t conspire against something, they wouldn’t really be Draco and Pansy. But he loved receiving letters from her, she was always overly sweet after a long time of not seeing him. Draco used to think it was because she had a crush on him, but she had no siblings, and neither did Draco, and Blaise, as much as they loved him, was a quiet, observing bastard that never indulged in emotions, so Pansy gave all her love to Draco, whether it came in the form of perfume-soaked letters, or late night talks by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room with Blaise already asleep next to them. Pansy liked to cultivate a cold bitch exterior, and she did a great job at it, they all did, really, but they were still just children. They needed at least each other.
He tucked the letter away in one of his desk drawers, in a box where he usually kept his correspondence with Pansy, and pulled out a piece of parchment to write his response, checking if Eagle was rested enough to deliver it. He did not feel like dismissing her worries. He shared them, in fact, and the idea was starting to eat at him as he sat in his room alone. Once his response was merrily on its way across the Chunnel with Eagle, Draco took pity on himself and walked downstairs to talk to his mother for one of the last times this summer.
“We are not going to be late,” Narcissa Malfoy insisted after Draco’s third protest. He’d never been late for the Hogwarts Express in his life, and he was not about to start a tradition. Malfoys were never late. Early for business, on the dot for formal gatherings. Being fashionably late was not fashionable at all. “There’s plenty of time,” she scoffed as Draco shoved his way through a crowd of muggles upon entering the train station.
“With all due respect, mother, three minutes is not plenty of time,” Draco let his elbow dig a way through the people, “I was supposed to be here half an hour ago,” he reminded as platform 9¾ came into his line of vision.
“I’m aware, darling,” his mother sounded out of breath behind him. She never rushed anywhere, and, if he could help it, Draco would never make her, but she was objectively to blame for not leaving on time. His trunks and Eagle were already on the train, but whether or not he got on it himself was still to be determined.
The barrier was luckily still open when Draco and his mother reached it, and they didn’t bother looking like they were leaning against it or whatever else they normally did. They simply walked through a wall. If anyone noticed them, they were gone by then anyway.
“Go on, darling, I’ll see you on Christmas,” his mother nudged, hugging him quickly as his watch showed 10:59.
“Love you,” he kissed her cheek, trying his best not to think about not getting to see her for nearly four more months, as he always did.
The Hogwarts Express was shiny and bright red, looking brand new like every year, and Draco almost couldn’t believe his luck, getting to return. He jumped in right as the door swung shut after him, a loud whistle blowing in warning. He had no clue where Blaise and Pansy were, other than in their own compartment, hopefully. He wished he could have been here earlier. Now he had to walk through the train, checking every compartment like a prefect.
Two carriages later, though, at the end of the narrow, student-filled hallway, Pansy stood in front of an open compartment door, laughing at something someone inside the compartment was telling her. Draco couldn’t help the smile that tugged at him as he saw his best friend for the first time in months. He rushed towards her, completely ignoring every other compartment on his way.
“Draco!” Pansy’s smile widened as she extended her arms to hug him. This, Draco thought, was truly a rare sight for practically everyone, except maybe Crabbe, Goyle and Nott, who tended to hang around the Silver Trio, but were never really accepted into the inner circle.
“Pans,” he laughed into her short hair, “you’ve cut your hair again,” he pointed out as if she wouldn’t know. Draco had always liked this hair on her. The bangs framed her face better.
“Yes I have,” she said, shaking out her black bob, stepping into the compartment where, thankfully, only Blaise was waiting. No Nott, no Flint, no Pike, just the only two people Draco actually wanted to see.
“Zabini,” Draco hugged the other boy, clapping him on the back before checking to see that all of his belongings are in place.
“Malfoy,” Blaise laughed. Neither of them actually ever called each other by their last name, but it worked when they wanted to piss each other off. The train started moving then, the velocity forcing Draco onto the seat next to Blaise. “Shall we get right to business, then?” Blaise suggested.
“Please don’t,” Draco groaned, knowing perfectly well that the two of them wanted to know why he’d been seen helping the three most famous Gryffindors currently attending Hogwarts to get out of the deadly grip of The Dark Lord’s followers.
“Oh, we will,” Pansy crossed her legs from opposite the two Slytherin boys and dug through her black suede purse to pull out two boxes, “but first gifts.”
“Lovely,” Blaise winked, “thanks, Pans.”
Draco looked at the box of sweets and then up to Pansy who was watching him expectantly. “Let me guess,” Draco opened the box to taste one of the sweets and find it to be marzipan, “marzipansy?”
Pansy broke into a fit of giggles and Blaise rolled his eyes. Blaise hated puns. Draco and Pansy loved them. They made them feel smarter, plus annoying Blaise was always worth it. It was moments like these that Draco appreciated the most – Pansy laughing at something either of them said, Blaise rolling his eyes, but failing to hide a smile, and Draco imagining he had a normal life with normal friends, one where he wasn’t expected to be an arse to everyone he passed in the halls.
“Was Lucius angry?” Pansy asked, not even bothering to close the door to their compartment. If anyone was daring enough to listen in on their conversations, they knew their fate.
“I have no clue, I haven’t seen him since he apparated me home that night,” Draco admitted, sinking into the corner of the seat and looking out at the heavy rain. It was soothing, but if it continued that way, his hair would be ruined by the time they get to the front door of the castle. “He’s been away on business for a week.”
“He always sees you off,” Blaise’s eyebrows knitted together.
“That he does,” Draco shrugged. “I’m just glad he didn’t send me off to Durmstrang. Mother would never have allowed it.”
“Hey, who would be our pureblood ringleader then, huh?” Blaise smirked, landing a heavy tap on Draco’s shoulder.
“Honestly? Probably Pans,” Draco answered as Pansy pointed to herself with both thumbs.
“Yeah, that checks,” Blaise agreed.
Pansy and Blaise questioned him about the World Cup for a good two hours before Draco got sick of hearing himself talk and announced he’d go find the trolley and get them the liquorice wands they’d planned on having if Draco hadn’t almost missed the train.
“Six cauldron cakes and a box of Bertie Bott’s, please,” an all-too-familiar voice was saying as Draco stepped out of their compartment. Harry Potter looked up just as Draco pulled a couple coins out of his wallet, and actually smiled. Like a normal, civil person would to another normal, civil person.
“Hi,” Draco said to Potter lamely and then asked for five liquorice wands and a pumpkin pasty. Draco hated liquorice, but it was a tradition, besides Pansy usually finished Draco’s off after his first bite.
“Pumpkin pasty, huh?” Potter smirked.
“Well, last time I bought them, they disappeared somewhere in the woods,” Draco indulged, curious as to where the exchange would go. He’d never had a decent conversation with Potter that didn’t end in one of them getting shoved or worse, hexed. It was an interesting turn of events. “Figured I’d give it another try.”
To Draco’s surprise, Potter actually laughed. That was completely new. By any standards. “Hey, Harry, we should start getting chan- oh, hello, Draco,” Granger looked surprised to see him, and obviously wasn’t sure how to speak to him now that they’d part-taken in an escape from Death Eaters together.
“Afternoon,” Draco said, suppressing the little voice, that sounded an awful lot like his 11 year-old self, which nagged him to say something cruel. Instead, he grabbed his change, the sweets, and walked back to his compartment, closing the door after himself. Maybe fourth years were for second chances.
“Did you just have an honest-to-Merlin conversation with Potter?” Blaise asked.
“Which didn’t sound awkward at all?” Pansy teased, taking her share of the food.
“Just figured we might want to start at least acting like grown-ups for once,” Draco said defensively.
“Hey, we’re not the ones who insisted, for years, might I add, that we need to be sworn enemies with those three,” Pansy scoffed, taking a bite off her candy wand.
“How else am I supposed to keep up the whole pureblood spiel, if I’m not Harry Potter’s number one nemesis?” Draco snickered as Blaise just watched the two of them with a smile. Draco had really missed this. Maybe they could have a normal school year once and for all.