Chapter Text
Along the narrow lanes of Hogsmeade, unseasonable snow flurries drifted off the edge of the roofs and along the windows, coming down in handfuls as students pulled their cloaks tight. The small village seemed to channel the wind over the cobblestones until it whipped over the students and bit through even the staunchest warming charms.
The streets were mostly empty, walked only a handful of locals and the few children who had stayed over summer or come early. Draco's train ticket was still in his pocket. Pansy had been the only other Slytherin with him on a train of mostly empty cars.
His parents had sent him along with little more than his wand and a handful of galleons. Anything to get him out of the manor, out of Wiltshire, out of England completely. If they could have sent him to the continent, he thought they would have, and themselves with him.
The ride had been silent. He held a mandrake leaf in his mouth, as he had done for the past couple of weeks, and the animagus charm required that he hold silent until the month was done. He'd never realized how much he wanted to talk than when he couldn't.
Seated on a lonely bench out of the way, he leaned forward, head bowed. He glanced sideways at the main road, watching students run from shop to shop. Few green scarves lingered in front of the shop windows. Almost all of them were older students, and the few third and fourth years among them walked within arm's reach of a sixth or seventh year. And Pansy, walking by herself, two drinks hovering with her as she stepped out of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop.
He smiled ruefully. Among all the students, she stood out with her light summer robes cut at the knee, the collar draped low on her shoulders as befit a young witch of marriageable age. She kicked up snow, letting it spill in the air around her. Other children rushed away from the cold puffs, wondering how she could stand the chill.
"Got you a Vermilion Sunset juice," Pansy said, brushing snow from the bench before sitting down. Smiling around the straw of her own pink Rose Bloom Tea, she hovered the dark red juice closer to his face until he had to take it. "You're welcome."
He didn't smile. He barely nodded at her. The few galleons he had were too precious to spend on anything this frivolous. He took a long drink, careful not to swallow the leaf.
Side by side, they watched the snow fall over the cobblestones. With a huff, he leaned over until he was pressed against her side, his head on her shoulder.
"Cold?" she asked.
He didn't answer, instead touching the edge of her robe, raising an eyebrow.
"S'the trick, isn't it?" she smiled. The spells she'd cast on her clothing were all of her own doing, a point of pride that she could beat out Madam Malkin's work. "Never bother with charms. You want warm clothes—hit it with a potion of firethorn and hearth ash."
A pack of yellow Hufflepuff students ran by, complaining about herbology summer reading. Their voices faded again, leaving Pansy and Draco in silence.
Their own summer had been consumed by the war.
Pansy didn't know where her parents were. She'd simply woken up one day and they were gone, a note on the kitchen table to stay safe, keep going to school, and they would return when they could. She had hope that they were about their master's work. From snatches of conversation she'd overheard from them before they'd vanished, and from what Draco and Blaise and Theo had heard, they'd slowly pieced together that the dark lord had his Death Eaters moving across the entire countryside like pieces on a chess board.
She hoped Voldemort didn't sacrifice them like pawns.
Her uncertainty made studying feel ridiculous. Still, she had done her own summer reading. All the Death Eater's children had done their summer work, and practiced their craft long into the night as well. Homework was no longer a chore but a preparation for battle. Her potions were lethal. Blaise cast charms like weapons. Theo had even learned the rudiments of crafting little handheld jinxes.
And Draco, whose family served best as politicians and socialites, now took advantage of perhaps the last opportunity he'd ever have to fall silent for a month.
The snow swallowed the sound around them. At Hogwarts, on the train, even in their own homes, they couldn't speak for fear of being overheard. Here on this single bench at the end of the street, finally, they seemed to be alone.
Pansy lifted her drink to her lips to disguise how she murmured. "So…the master's angry. With your family."
Draco nodded once.
She put her hand on his.
"And you…have to do something? For him."
He paused, then nodded once.
"You can't tell me what it is?"
He shook his head once.
"Can't say at all?" she asked.
He shook his head again.
She frowned.
"How can I help?"
He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.
The weight of her offer hung between them. Any other wizard would have thought that Draco simply wrestled with how best to serve the master. The Malfoys were proud dark wizards, always just out of reach of the law, and they had thrown their lot in with Voldemort for years. Of course Pansy knew this.
Pansy also knew that Draco would throw his lot in with whoever gave his family the best chance to survive. That survival instinct was the wagon she would hitch her star to. The dark lord's power wasn't so attractive when it threatened to stomp its own minions into the mud. But a sneaky, conniving, scheming Malfoy? Malfoys who had proven they knew the value of loyalty?
"You heard about the Prewett girl?" she asked.
His eyes narrowed. Yes. He had heard.
Not that anyone else had, not yet. But his mother had whispered to him what had happened—a mudblood miscegenation of a blood traitor and a muggle—Mafalda Prewett probably hadn't even known why she had been killed. But she had been, and her parents as well, and the house burned down for good measure.
She had been all of fourteen years old. And, according to Draco's mother, who had likely been one of the Death Eaters who helped kill the Prewetts, their deaths had been slow and miserable.
To cross Voldemort was to risk a fate worse than death. But to serve him?
The Malfoys had been loyal.
They had discovered that to serve was little better.
"So…" Pansy said, pointedly looking at Draco. "You have a plan?"
Draco gave her a dry, humorless smile. It was the kind of look one condemned prisoner might give to their cell mate.
There was nothing else to say—not out here in the open where anyone might be listening. At least they had figured out where they stood with each other, checked the edges of where their loyalties stood.
Finally, after their drinks were done and the cups disapparated, Draco sighed and stood up.
She walked beside him, following his look to the small cloud of Slytherin students around Blaise, the badge on his collar gleaming even in the glare of a cold afternoon.
"You really didn't want it?" she said.
He grimaced.
Earlier that day, Dumbledore had summoned Draco and Pansy to his office with no explanation. Both of them had wracked their brains trying to remember anything they had done and not been caught for—but in his office, they'd found themselves in a group with Granger and one of the Weasleys, Hanna Abbott and Padma Patil, and a couple of other students he hadn't recognized. And Draco had been in the very awkward position of declining, silently, the Prefect badge.
Everyone had looked at him oddly. Pansy had been in no position to run interference for him beyond a feeble "hellebore accident." And then Dumbledore had locked eyes with him.
Had the old man guessed that Draco was attempting an animagus spell?
"Indeed," Dumbledore had said, as if he completely believed the lie. "Hellebore poisoning can be quite debilitating. The silence may last for…"
Here the headmaster had paused and glanced at his clock, which showed the minutes and hours, days and months, with a moon more than halfway through its phase.
"…another week?" he'd finished.
Draco pressed his lips flat—yes, somehow Dumbledore had guessed. There'd been no point lying. He'd nodded and escaped the meeting swiftly after. This outing of the Slytherins to Hogsmeade had been a welcome distraction.
But now he felt a pang to see the prefect badge on Blaise's collar.
"'Bout time you came back," Blaise said, ushering the Slytherins toward the end of the lane where two Hogwarts carriages stood waiting. "Leaving me with all the kids, and don't think I didn't notice I didn't get a drink."
Pansy made a show of reaching into her pocket, bringing out a bag of gummy bears that she slipped into his hand.
"Only the best muggle contraband for you," she said. "And they're already warm."
Breaking into a smile, Blaise didn't say thanks, sliding the bag quietly into his own pocket. "Glad you made it before time. Sun's about to set and somehow it's even colder."
Oh.
Draco breathed in sharply.
Of course.
Rim-bryne.
Cold that cut like this in the summer should have been a dead giveaway.
Draco didn't pause in his step, but he did put his hand down into the long pocket of his robes where his wand lay. Putting a hand on each of their shoulders, he caught their attention, giving them a look.
Pansy's expression turned stony. But Blaise faltered, facing forward while his gaze swept the street, the small nooks between the shops, and he gripped his wand too hard. He snapped suddenly at the children, hustling them with sharp words. The carriages were only a few feet away—too far—too far—
Behind them, something exploded. Blaise and Pansy started to look, and Draco grabbed their shoulders and forcibly turned them to keep going.
This time it was the windows across the street from them that exploded outward, sending shards of glass flying into the air. Windows were followed by bricks and chunks of stone as the front wall of the tea shop blasted into the street, knocking prone those unfortunate students who'd been too close.
He didn't know why he turned—morbid curiosity, a need to see. The fear that something dreadful might be expected of him. He expected Death Eaters, dark cloaks, masks, perhaps the Dark Lord himself.
Instead his eyes widened. He saw blood as if someone had splashed buckets across the snow. He saw adults and scarves—red, yellow, a blue one here and there. And he saw dark cloaks, yes, a handful of people with their faces and bodies hidden by hoods so shadowed that they must have been charmed to keep out the light.
Each of them was scooping handfuls of blood red snow into their hands, lifting them up to their mouths. At his gasp, one of them turned toward him, the tiny pinpoints of its eyes gleaming out of the darkness of its hood.
"There you are," she hissed.
Years later, Draco would look back and realize that this was where the dark lord's plan had gone awry. Vampires made for fine foot soldiers—stealthy, cunning, resentful under the Ministry's boot—but surrounded by so much blood, of course they would lose control. They would frenzy, like sharks, forgetting the plan or escape in the hunger for the prey around them.
Later on, he would realize he'd been in an impossible position—defend himself against the vampires who were so clearly doing Voldemort's work? Or run away to be pounced on from behind and devoured?
Now, caught up in the shock of people screaming, of seeing a vampire coming toward with her gloved hands stained red and stretched toward him, all he could think of was the endless practice his father had drilled into him over the summer at home.
Do not hesitate, Lucius had said. Cast to kill.
Draco felt like he was made of lead. It took all of his strength to bring the wand up. By the time he could aim, the vampire was front of him, pressed close, too close. When Draco breathed in, there was the stench of blood. The vampire's hood fell back, revealing dark eyes in pale skin and sharp teeth tilted to meet Draco's throat.
It was not a gentle assault. The vampire hit him with all of her weight, slamming them both down on the stones. Pain froze his voice. Draco fell against the curb and stars swirled in front of his eyes even as his wand's tip pressed against her side.
He couldn't speak to form a spell. He couldn't think past the burning pain of her claws, the lacerations that drew like lines of fire across his arms and shoulders. He felt like pain like flames.
He couldn't breathe as her weight crushed the air out of him. Something in him moved, something raw and vital in his blood summoned to his will, gathering wordlessly in his hands. The air around him was silent. All he could hear was the snarl and snap of teeth above his face.
And then the snarls turned high pitch. The weight on him grew hot, painfully hot—his clothes singed as the creature on him started to glow from inside, black lines cracking over her skin, ashes drifting off her face and falling in clumps as fire smoldered up from inside her body. She stared at him in dawning horror just before her eyes blackened and charred.
Then all of its weight vanished in one blast of cold wind. Its shape crumbled into charred embers, grey and red, that blew across the cobblestones.
The street was blessedly silent.
Silent except for the cries of wounded children. The snarls of vampires feasting. The snap of aurors apparating in and attacking.
Aurors.
Fresh fear washed through Draco.
No. He couldn't let himself be found like this.
He sat up slowly, the pain in his head growing with every heartbeat. In a few minutes, it would hurt too much to think. He didn't have time. He turned on his hands and knees, pushing himself up to his feet, staggering down the road. He had to lean on the wall beside him to catch his breath, gathering his strength. One by one, he flicked away the wounds on his arms. The deeper ones would take real charms. He'd ask Pansy to do it for him later.
To his surprise, the Hogwarts carriages were still there, waiting to take the children back to the school. He blinked stupidly. Why were they so empty?
"Draco!"
He barely registered the two people coming beside him, drawing him along to an empty carriage, helping him up and in. Pansy immediately started healing the deeper gouges in his hands as Blaise set their carriage to follow the other Slytherins, the only other carriage returning to school.
Draco slumped back in his seat. The headache was already blinding. The wounds were gone or fading, but everything still hurt.
Blaise stared at the blood on Draco's clothes, one hand over his mouth.
"It hit you so fast," Pansy said, breathless. "I saw it from here. It…you were under it. I thought it was going to eat you. And then…"
He heard it in her voice. She wasn't thinking of how he had then killed it. She was thinking that it would kill him, and then it would come after the students. After her.
Draco smiled despite the wounds across his hands and arms. None of them had had the sense to cast a spell to help. As he had discovered over the summer, it was one thing to prepare for war and violence. Quite another to face it for themselves.
The ride back to Hogwarts was silent.
In hindsight, the violence at Hogsmeade was over in seconds. By the time the carriages arrived, the school was on high alert. Blaise rode on the front of their carriage, wand at the ready, and he was off before the wheels came to a full stop at the doors, ushering the children in. The Slytherins passed by McGonagall and Flitwick, with Snape taking a headcount before striding toward the back of the line where Pansy helped Draco step down.
"How were you wounded?" Snape demanded, turning Draco by the shoulders.
Draco froze. He couldn't think past his headache. Stepping into the glaring light only made turned the pain into something sharp behind his eyes.
"The window by us exploded," Pansy said. "I've been trying to get rid of the cuts—"
A moment passed. Snape looked at the blood on Draco's robes, the pattern of spray and drip. His head lifted slightly, and he glanced once at the other teachers. No one was looking at them.
"…take him to Pomfrey," Snape said without any weight in his voice.
"Yessir," Pansy said, putting her arm around Draco's shoulders and guiding him in.
Through the great hall, into the corridor, finally alone from prying eyes, both Pansy and Draco walked past Pomfrey's infirmary without a word. Their step quickened as they headed straight for the Slytherin common room, with Pansy guiding Draco around turns and down stairs as he had to put his hand over his eyes, hissing in pain.
"He didn't believe us," Pansy whispered.
Draco shook his head.
"But I got rid of most of the cuts!"
He snorted.
"We're going to get in trouble," she said. "Pomfrey'll—"
By the time they had reached the dungeons and she was giving the password, Draco was leaning heavily on her shoulder. He got into the common room as far as the first chair, collapsing and curling up on plush sofa.
Pansy knelt by one of the cabinets and pushed aside the school books, withdrawing a tray of bottles hidden in the back. She didn't bring them out but rather opened them there on the floor, pouring dried blossoms and smoked roots into a single cup, adding a bit of alcohol and boiling it all with a quick charm.
The glass noisily clinked as her hands shook. She cursed under her breath and set everything down, wiping her hands on her skirt and smearing drying blood along the hem. She took a sip of her own from the alcohol. After a long breath, she gathered everything up again. Only after she carefully hid it all again did she bring the cup over to Draco, putting it in his hands.
"It'll help kill the pain," she said. "Try not to throw it up."
He didn't answer, holding it close to his lips for long seconds before he worked up the strength to take a sip. Grimacing, he forced himself to keep going, glancing from the drink to Pansy.
"It's safe, just something for my monthlies," she said, lying down on the couch across from him. She stretched out as languidly as a cat, somehow claiming the largest piece of furniture for herself. "Stronger than Pomfrey gives out."
He couldn't argue that. The relief came in a slow tide washing over his head, easing the pain away in waves. The furniture in the room came back into focus, going from a blurry silver green to the edges of old furniture, the window into the lake, the door of the common room opening as an ominous shadow of billowing robes came toward them.
Bitter taste or not, Draco bolted the rest of the drink and pocketed the cup.
"'Window exploded', indeed," Snape muttered, pulling up a chair as he moved to examine Draco. "Tell me it didn't bite you."
Draco shook his head once. He allowed Snape to take his hand and turn it over, pushing up the sleeve to see the deeper wounds.
"If it was going for the kill, it might not have tried to bite you." Snape glanced over his shoulder at Pansy. "What did you give him?"
"Clover potion," she said innocently. "Just my usual."
Snape narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to give him a sanguiline draught. Will there be any interactions?"
A flush crept over her cheeks. She was advanced enough to know what he meant—drinks meant to fortify the blood would exacerbate the effects of any alcohol in the system. A little clover was one thing, but mixing sanguiline with liquor could range from a little fever to blood catching on fire.
"It had a kick," she admitted. "But not much. Just a splash. We're not getting drunk down here."
He ignored that, turning back to Draco.
"Now," he said. "I assume from your silence that you've managed to keep from speaking?"
Draco gave a sharp nod.
Snape gave him an appraising look. The blood splashes were clear. The violence of the attack couldn't be questioned.
"Impressive."
Draco couldn't help feel a swell of pride. Praise from his godfather was rare indeed.
By the time Draco had Snape's potion, the Slytherin students started to come into the common room. Blaise stood outside for a moment, quietly speaking with the Bloody Baron, and then the ghost turned to stand guard as Blaise shut the door, coming in with an eye toward the couch. When Pansy didn't move to make room, he sat down on her legs, ignoring her huff.
"God, that Pomfrey," Blaise sighed, staring at the ceiling. "I told her everyone was fine. She just shooed me away and looked over every damn one of us."
"Not everyone's as honest as you are," Pansy muttered as she shifted under his weight and didn't move him an inch. "Oh for—have you been hitting the butterbeer hard?"
Snape waited to make sure that Draco had finished the potion and took the cup back, then kept his hand out expectantly. Draco sighed and put the previous cup in Snape's hand, with a strong scent of alcohol wafting after it.
"Do not drink anything else," Snape said sternly. "Unless you want to catch on fire. Now, since Pomfrey has released the rest of you…"
Here he turned his attention to Blaise.
"No one else knows that our house has otherwise escaped injury. Keep everyone inside the common room for the foreseeable future. Other houses were not so lucky, and the headmaster is concerned about resentment and reprisal."
"Typical," Blaise said with a frown. "Not like we had anything to do with it."
But he hedged that by glancing at Draco, waiting until Draco shook his head that no, they hadn't planned anything.
"Be that as it may," Snape said. "It was a wise decision to bring the baron in on keeping the rest of them out…and our own lot in."
Blaise's head lifted slightly with the praise.
Pansy gave up trying to dislodge Blaise and pillowed her head in her hands.
"We didn't see much," she said. "Were there students hurt?"
Snape held silent a moment. "I'm sure the Prophet will have all the details."
There was nothing else to say. Once Snape left, Draco looked around at the handful of Slytherins. Most of them were third and fourth years, sent a little early to avoid the rush of children and parents buying supplies and packing onto the train. At least, that was the reason they could admit.
In truth, they were all children of Death Eaters or dark wizards who knew that the school was perhaps the one spot they were safe from Voldemort. Or at least they had thought so.
Dinner came late, with the elves bringing dishes to the common room. Draco barely touched his food. When Pansy gave him a look, he motioned at his hands, the faint discoloration where he'd been clawed. His wounds were healed but his body ached, and a shadow of pain lingered in his head. He was still reeling from the attack. His expression told her that of course he didn't feel hungry.
Which was a lie.
He absolutely wanted to eat.
A vampire's curse was so infectious. Already he felt a desire for something more than normal food and drink.
He poured his glass from the pitcher of pomegranate juice on the table. Dark red and bitter, no one else would drink it. But the sharp tang was enough of a distraction from the deep thirst growing inside him.
He'd only been attacked that day. What would he be like in a week? A month?
Had the dark lord meant for him to turn, an added curse and a punishment to his family? Was Voldemort simply dragging out the Malfoys' misery? Did his parents know?
A stupid question. Of course they knew. His parents would have planned the attack even knowing the risk to him, to prove their unswerving loyalty even as they broke inside. And if Voldemort didn't tell them before the attack, then certainly after it, to dangle his impending vampirism in front of them. If nothing else, Snape would send word to them.
They would send help. He had to believe in them.
He went to bed early, escaping to his room which was still empty of other students. A relief to be away from people. As he lay down, he tucked his tongue against his teeth, holding secure the leaf in his mouth. He'd kept it there for weeks—just a little more and he could finally speak again. Just to the full moon.
Before, he'd hoped that his animagus wouldn't be a ferret.
Now he hoped he wouldn't be a bat.