Chapter Text
Draco should have expected it.
His father was never one to let things go.
But he had never taken it this far.
Draco had been beaten before, of course. He remembered the time he had knocked over an antique vase when he was seven—his father’s fury had been swift, the belt lashing across his back, Severus later quietly healing the bruises when his mother had insisted.
Or the time he was eight, when he had spoken out of turn at a gathering, and Lucius had snapped a rib to remind him of his place.
But this?
This was worse.
Within minutes of arriving home, his father had seized him by the collar, dragging him toward the dungeons, his mother’s voice shrieking after them.
Draco had never heard her scream like that before.
But Lucius had simply flicked his wand, disarming her, locking her out without so much as a glance.
Draco had barely caught his breath before he was tossed into a cold stone room, landing hard against the floor.
And then—
The pain struck before he even had time to brace for it.
His father’s wand was already raised, aimed with practiced precision at his chest.
A sharp, searing hex landed first, stinging like fire against his ribs. Draco hissed, his back pressing involuntarily against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.
Lucius stood before him, composed as ever, not a single strand of his pale hair out of place. His voice, when he finally spoke, was not raised—there was no need for volume when every syllable dripped with disgust.
"I don’t know what’s gotten into you." The words were sharp, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.
Another hex—stronger this time—struck Draco’s shoulder, sending white-hot pain down his arm. He bit back a sound, jaw locking tight.
"Blood-traitors and Mudbloods." Lucius all but sneered, as if the very words tasted foul on his tongue. "How utterly revolting that you allowed yourself to sink so low. I warned you, did I not?"
His fingers tightened around his cane, the silver handle gleaming coldly in the dim light.
"You were told to remember who you are. You should have heeded that warning."
Draco swallowed hard, the damp stone beneath his fingertips grounding him just enough to keep his hands from shaking. His father took a measured step forward, his polished boots silent against the dungeon floor.
"You are going to count."
Draco's breath hitched. He lifted his head sharply, pulse hammering against his ribs.
“T-To what?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice weaker than he would have liked.
Lucius’ expression barely shifted, but there was something sharp in his gaze now—something far colder.
"Twenty," he said smoothly, almost lazily, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. "For that stutter, you insolent boy."
He adjusted his grip on the cane, letting the weight settle in his hand before continuing.
"You will count properly, Draco. If you fail to do so, I will repeat the stroke. I trust that is clear?"
Draco knew this ritual. He had been made to count before.
Once.
When he was seven, after the accident in the drawing room—five swift lashes with a belt, sharp but controlled, followed by a lecture about the importance of poise and refinement befitting a Malfoy.
"On your knees, Draco. Face the wall. Maintain your posture. Should you falter, we shall begin again."
But this was not a belt.
And twenty was not five.
Draco’s breath came shallow and sharp, though he tried not to let it show. His father detested weakness, and he knew it would only make things worse if he showed his fear.
He turned around, the hair on the back of his neck standing as he faced away from the danger. He sat on his knees, and squared his shoulders, holding his chin high. He knew it would be difficult to hold the position once his father started with the cane but he had to try.
Lucius' voice broke the silence, low and precise. "Begin when you are ready."
Draco forced the words out, his voice tight and controlled, each count dragging from him like the weight of a thousand stones.
"One."
The cane whipped through the air with a sharp crack, striking across his back with precise, practiced force. The pain blossomed instantly, a sharp sting spreading like fire under his skin.
Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers curling against the cold stone floor. He could feel the ornate handle of the cane pressing against the small of his back as his father adjusted his grip, preparing for the next blow.
The pause was deliberate. Calculated. Just long enough for the pain to settle before the next strike landed.
"Two."
Another crack—sharper this time, landing precisely over the first. Draco’s shoulders tensed, but he did not flinch.
"Three."
"Four."
His breath came sharper now, his nails biting into his palms, the cool stone beneath his knees a grounding force he desperately needed.
"Five."
He could endure this.
"Six."
He had to endure this.
"Seven."
"Eight."
His skin burned, raw and stinging, every nerve alight with pain.
"Nine."
His voice cracked. Just barely.
Lucius did not acknowledge it, but Draco felt the moment his father took note of the weakness, the slight pause that followed as if deciding whether to start over.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the next strike landed harder.
"Ten."
His breath came heavier now, sharp and uneven, a tremor threatening at the edges. He locked his jaw tighter, forcing the sound back down.
"Eleven."
"Twelve."
His vision blurred.
"Thirteen."
His hands trembled where they pressed against the cold stone. His arms barely held his weight. His body had buckled.
He had fallen.
A sharp sting flared up his spine, the throbbing pain in his back now unbearable. Tears burned at the edges of his vision, threatening to spill.
Draco gritted his teeth, blinking furiously, forcing himself to breathe through the pain.
Do not cry.
Malfoys did not cry.
Lucius exhaled softly, the sound of utter disappointment.
"Get up."
Draco stiffened, heart lurching.
"We are starting over."
Draco swallowed hard, forcing his body upright, muscles screaming in protest.
The second time around, he only made it to four before his arms gave out, sending him crashing onto his hands and knees. His breath came ragged, sharp gasps echoing against the stone walls.
Lucius didn’t tell him to get up.
Didn’t make him start again.
He simply continued.
The cane came down with brutal precision, each stroke sharper, harder than the last.
Draco tried—he tried—to hold it in, to grit his teeth, to endure it as he had before.
But this time, his body betrayed him.
A raw, broken scream tore from his throat, echoing through the chamber as he finally broke.
Lucius did not pause.
The cane struck again, white-hot pain slicing through his already bruised and battered back. Draco’s arms shook violently beneath him, his breath coming in gasps, barely able to hold himself up.
He knew his father wanted him to fall. To collapse entirely.
But before the next blow could land—
A sharp crack of Apparition shattered the suffocating silence.
Draco barely registered the sound before a voice—fierce, sharp, unlike he had ever heard it before—rang through the room.
"Lucius—enough."
Draco slowly raise his head up just in time to see Narcissa Malfoy standing in the middle of the dungeon, her pale blue robes pristine despite the damp, her icy gaze locked entirely on her husband.
Lucius froze, cane still raised, expression dark with irritation. “Narcissa,” he said, voice clipped. “You are interrupting.”
"And you are beating our son within an inch of his life."
Draco had never heard his mother’s voice like that before. Cold, yes. Controlled, always. But this—this was something else.
Lucius’ grip tightened on the cane. “This is discipline.”
"This is too far."
Narcissa’s voice did not rise—it didn’t have to. There was something in her tone, razor-sharp and honed to precision, that cut through the air like the edge of a dagger. It was not a plea. It was not a request.
"Give me my wand, Lucius."
Draco, still half-dazed from pain, watched as his father turned slowly to face her. The tension in the room shifted—cold, electric, the weight of unspoken battles stretching between them.
Lucius arched a single, elegant brow. "You presume to make demands of me?"
Narcissa’s expression remained unreadable, but her outstretched hand did not waver. "Give me my wand," she repeated, her tone so controlled it was terrifying.
Lucius did not move.
"Dobby," she said smoothly. "Take Draco to his room. Now."
Draco hadn’t even noticed the eld in the room. But he did now. His large green eyes darting anxiously between Narcissa and Lucius, his ears quivering.
"Mistress—"
"You are not to touch him, Dobby."
Lucius’ voice cut through the air like a whip, low and vicious, each syllable dripping with cold fury.
"That is a direct order." His fingers curled tightly around the silver handle of his cane, his pale eyes flashing. "Disobey me, and you will receive clothes. Is that understood?"
Dobby’s wide green eyes blazed.
Before Draco could fully process what was happening, before Lucius could react—
Tiny hands grasped his arm, firm and unyielding.
And with a sharp crack—
Draco was gone.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
It didn’t take long for his mother to arrive.
The door whispered open, and there she was—graceful, composed, but her usual poise was shadowed by something shaken.
She said nothing at first, simply kneeling beside him, her cool hands ghosting over his shoulders as she assessed the damage. Her wand hovered hesitantly over his back, the soft glow of a healing spell casting flickering light against the dim room.
She did what she could.
But Narcissa Malfoy was no Healer, and neither of them wanted to risk a trip to St. Mungo’s.
Still, her touch was careful, her magic delicate, her presence enough.
Draco exhaled slowly as the worst of the pain dulled, exhaustion weighing heavy in his limbs.
Then, softly—so softly he barely heard it—she spoke.
"I’m sorry, my darling."
She leaned over him, pressing the lightest kiss to his forehead, her fingers smoothing back his hair in a gesture so tender it ached.
Draco swallowed, his throat tight.
"I-It was my fault."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unsteady.
His mother stilled.
Then she cupped his cheek, tilting his face toward hers.
Her blue eyes, sharp and knowing, met his with an intensity that left no room for argument.
"No, Draco." Her voice was firm, but soft.
Draco swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing against the raw ache in his chest.
Then, just as smoothly, just as effortlessly, her tone shifted—lighter, but no less resolute. "Now, pack your things, darling."
Draco blinked. What?
"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice still hoarse, unsteady.
Narcissa stood, smoothing the folds of her elegant robes with effortless precision. When she looked back down at him, there was something different in her expression.
Something defiant.
"Away." Her voice was quiet, but resolute. "We will leave in a week. I need time to set my affairs in order, but then, we are going."
Draco’s breath caught.
"Does—does he know?" he whispered.
His mother’s lips pressed together briefly before she shook her head.
"No." A pause. Then, softly but firmly— "Just keep your head down a little longer, darling."
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Dobby did receive clothes for his blatant disobedience of Lucius’ orders, but he didn’t leave the manor.
The little elf hid away in Draco’s room, slipping in and out of sight like a shadow, avoiding Lucius at all costs. Draco had expected him to disappear entirely, to be banished—but he remained, persistent as ever.
"Dobby will leave when young Master Draco leaves," the elf had declared stubbornly, his large green eyes gleaming with something fierce.
Draco had been too exhausted to argue.
At least the elf was useful.
As the days passed, Dobby busied himself, helping Draco pack what was probably too many trunks—sorting through expensive robes, carefully placing his collection of books into enchanted cases, and stuffing an unnecessary number of skin and hair potions into velvet-lined compartments.
"Young Master is taking too many things," Dobby muttered disapprovingly as he attempted (and failed) to close a particularly overstuffed trunk.
Draco huffed, folding another set of neatly pressed dress shirts. "I am not about to leave half my wardrobe behind, Dobby."
The elf let out a long-suffering sigh, snapping his fingers to resize a stack of robes before shoving them deeper into the case. "Dobby is thinking that young Master will not be needing seventeen sets of dress robes where he is going."
Draco shot him a glare. "Seventeen is a reasonable number."
By the time Draco had packed everything he absolutely could not live without, he had six trunks stacked neatly beside his bed, three smaller cases dedicated solely to books and potions, and an enchanted leather bag stuffed with personal items he refused to leave behind.
Dobby stared at the towering pile, his large ears twitching.
"Dobby is thinking young Master is not quite understanding the meaning of ‘leaving discreetly.’"
Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "I refuse to travel like a common fugitive!”
Dobby sighed again, shaking his head before snapping his fingers—the trunks and cases immediately shrinking into compact, palm-sized cubes.
"There. Now young Master can keep his unnecessary nonsense and still fit through the door."
Draco rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore the elf’s fussing and instead slipped into the bathroom, his movements slow but deliberate.
For what felt like the hundredth time, he turned toward the mirror, lifting his shirt and tossing it aside with a quiet huff.
Tilting his body, he inspected the damage.
The bruises sprawled across his back, deep and dark against his pale skin, spreading like ink beneath the surface. He pressed cautiously against one along his rib—one of the worst—and instantly regretted it. A sharp, biting pain shot through him, forcing him to suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
Even with his mother’s healing spells, which had accelerated the worst of the damage and dulled the sharpest edges of the pain, the bruises lingered. A deep, persistent ache that settled into his bones, refusing to fade completely.
More than that—he hated the way they looked.
Draco’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to keep looking.
"You keep frowning like that, and you’ll give yourself lines before you’re twenty."
Draco startled slightly, his mother’s voice cutting through his thoughts.
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable—but there was something softer in her eyes, something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
"It will fade," she murmured, stepping closer, her fingers ghosting over the edge of the counter as she studied his reflection in the mirror.
Draco swallowed. "Will it?"
Narcissa arched a delicate brow. "Yes, you vain boy," she said, her voice touched with dry amusement. "If I were a more skilled healer, they would likely be gone by now."
Draco huffed a quiet breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough at the faint humor in her tone.
"Perhaps you should practice, then," he muttered, tilting his body slightly to inspect the bruising once more.
Narcissa exhaled through her nose—a soft, knowing sound—as she reached for a vial on the counter. She uncorked it with delicate fingers before dabbing a bit of the salve onto her fingertips.
"Hold still."
Draco obeyed, barely suppressing a flinch as the cool balm met his skin. He hated this part—not the pain, not even the lingering soreness—but the tenderness. The way she touched him carefully, the way she cared.
Because it made it real.
"You’re quiet," Narcissa observed, pressing lightly against a particularly dark bruise along his shoulder. "That’s never a good sign."
Draco exhaled through his nose. "Just thinking."
"About?"
His throat tightened.
"Father."
Her hands stilled for half a second—just a fraction of hesitation—but it was enough.
"Draco—"
"He’ll come after us." The words slipped out before he could stop them. He clenched his fists against his thighs, jaw tight. "You know he will."
Narcissa was silent for a long moment. Then, gently, she set the vial down and turned him slightly, guiding his chin so he was facing her instead of the mirror.
"Let him."
Draco blinked.
She was calm. Unshaken.
"We are not running, Draco," she continued, her voice quiet but unyielding. "We are leaving. There is a difference."
Draco wanted to believe that.
But he knew his father.
And Lucius Malfoy did not let go of what belonged to him.
Still, his mother’s grip was firm, steadying him as though she could hold him together by force alone.
"You are my son," she said softly, her thumb brushing lightly against his cheekbone, as if memorizing him. "Not his heir. Do you understand?"
Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded.
Narcissa studied him for a moment longer, her gaze searching, before she drew back with a quiet exhale.
"Dobby tells me you're all packed?" she asked, her tone lighter now, effortlessly shifting back into something composed, something normal.
Draco huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Mostly," he muttered. "Dobby shrank them all, so I suppose it doesn’t look excessive."
Narcissa arched a delicate brow, amusement flickering in her expression. "Six trunks, was it?" She tsked, shaking her head. "Even I only packed five."
Draco shot her a flat look. "That’s hardly fair—"
"Seventeen dress robes, Draco?" she interrupted, lips twitching. "I doubt you’ll even need one where we’re going."
Draco stared at her, aghast. "Where on earth are we going that I wouldn’t need dress robes?!"
He yanked his shirt back on, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against his back, and hurried after her as she swept gracefully out of the bathroom.
"It’s a surprise, darling," she said airily, "but let’s just say you likely won’t be attending any parties."
She paused by his bed, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing smirk.
"At least, not the kind you’re used to."
Draco stared at her, incredulous. "Mother, what in Morgana’s name is that supposed to mean?!"
"Hush, Draco, you’ll survive," she said breezily, utterly unbothered by his distress. She plucked the enchanted cubes off the bedside table and slipped them effortlessly into her pocket.
Draco gawked at her. "You can’t just—"
"We’re leaving.”
Draco froze.
“Like, right now?”
His mother adjusted the cuff of her sleeve as if she had merely announced they were going shopping. "Dobby has kindly agreed to Apparate us there directly, so we can avoid any… unnecessary encounters."
"Oh."
Draco turned, his gaze sweeping slowly across the room—the towering shelves lined with books he’d carefully arranged over the years, the emerald-green drapes framing the windows, the ornate desk where he had spent countless hours drafting essays, letters, plans.
He would never see this room again.
Everything here had been his world.
And now, he was leaving it behind.
For good.
A soft crack rang out, breaking the silence as Dobby appeared.
"Is Mistress and young Master being ready to leave?" the elf asked, his large eyes glancing between them.
Narcissa nodded, extending her hand toward Draco in silent expectation.
Draco hesitated—only for a breath—before stepping forward and taking it.
Another crack—
And they were gone.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
The house they Apparated in front of was… well, it was certainly no Manor.
Gone were the towering marble columns, the grand archways, the sprawling gardens trimmed to perfection. Instead, before them stood a modest two-story home, built of warm red brick, its curved bay windows framed with ivy that curled lazily up the walls. A wrought-iron fence lined the front, more for aesthetic charm than security, and a small garden sat tucked beneath the windows, filled with neatly tended flowers.
It looked… cozy.
Draco stared, momentarily lost for words.
"Be polite," his mother whispered in his ear, her tone firm but quiet.
Draco barely had time to process the warning before his mother ascended the front steps, her posture as effortlessly elegant as ever. With a composed flick of her wrist, she lifted a hand and knocked against the wooden door.
The door opened almost immediately, as if their arrival had been anticipated.
It must’ve been.
The woman standing before them startled Draco—not because she was unfamiliar, but because she was both too much and not enough like the family he knew.
She carried the sharp, aristocratic features of the Black lineage, the same delicate bone structure as his mother and aunt Bella, but softened by warm brown eyes and light chestnut hair that framed her face in loose waves.
Andromeda.
Draco had heard her name only in hushed tones, spoken with disdain by his father. A traitor to her blood. A disgrace to the House of Black.
And yet, here she stood—alive, and well.
"Cissy," Andromeda sighed, pulling Narcissa into a long hung.
Andromeda pulled back just enough to study Narcissa, her hands still resting lightly on her sister’s arms. "You look well," she murmured, though there was a touch of sadness in her gaze.
"As do you," Narcissa replied, voice smooth but laced with something unreadable.
It was then that Andromeda’s attention shifted, her gaze landing on Draco.
"Let’s have a proper look at you," she murmured, stepping forward.
Draco stiffened as she reached out, tilting his chin up with a light touch of her finger. Her eyes swept over him, assessing, searching for something only she seemed to know.
"Merlin," she breathed, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You look just like your mother."
Draco barely had time to process the comment about looking like his mother before Andromeda turned away, ushering them inside with an ease that suggested they were merely guests dropping by for tea—not estranged family members stepping across the threshold for the first time in decades.
“Come in, come in,” she said, her voice light but firm. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she added dryly, “And tell that House Elf to stop lingering out there, the neighbors might see.”
Draco turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Dobby peeking anxiously from the walkway, wringing his hands in distress. At Andromeda’s words, the elf let out a startled squeak, his ears twitching furiously as he scrambled inside after them.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them inside a space that felt entirely foreign to Draco.
The house was warm. Not just in temperature—the air carried the rich scent of polished wood and freshly baked bread—but in a way that unsettled him. It lacked the cold, carefully curated elegance of the Manor, where every room was pristine and untouched, more for show than for living.
Here, books were stacked haphazardly on the sitting room table, a half-knitted scarf lay abandoned over the armrest of a chair, and the walls were lined with framed photographs, scattered between shelves and along the mantle.
Draco stopped in his tracks, his gaze catching on one of the frames. He reached out, carefully picking it up.
It was a picture of Andromeda and a man he could only assume was her husband.
And it was still.
Draco's breath hitched slightly as he stared at the unmoving image. The figures in the photo did not wave or shift. They did not look up at him or acknowledge his presence. They were simply... frozen, as if locked in a single moment in time.
He hastily set it back where it belonged and turned away, striding quickly to catch up with his mother and aunt, who were already making their way up the staircase and down the hallway.
"Narcissa, I’ve made this room up for you," Andromeda said, pausing by an open doorway. "And Draco, yours is just next door."
Draco glanced toward the second door, the wood painted a deep, neutral blue.
"Ted and I are in the room at the end, and Nymphadora stays there when she’s home," Andromeda continued, gesturing toward another closed door.
Draco barely stopped himself from grimacing at the name. Nymphadora.
"The bathroom is here," she added, motioning to another door further down. "It’s one of three—there’s another downstairs, and of course, you won’t have access to my en suite."
Draco almost rolled his eyes. As if he would barge into his aunt’s private quarters like some ill-mannered guest.
"Ted will be home soon, and dinner will be ready shortly," Andromeda finished, her tone polite but brisk. "So settle in, unpack, and we’ll see you then."
And just like that, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall.
Draco stood frozen for a moment, staring at the doorway to what was now his room.
His mother led him into his room first, stepping inside with her usual effortless grace. Draco followed hesitantly, his gaze sweeping over the space that, for now, belonged to him.
It was… small.
Not unreasonably so—by most people’s standards, it was a perfectly normal bedroom—but compared to what Draco was used to, it felt suffocating. The room was rectangular, the walls painted a deep navy, a shade that looked richer in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. A single bay window faced the backyard, framed by plain gray curtains, and the bed—a full, not even a king—sat neatly against the far wall, a navy and white striped duvet folded over it.
A wooden desk, modest in size, was tucked in the corner beside a small bookcase that held a mix of well-worn novels and a few framed photographs. A wardrobe, half the size of the one he had at the Manor, stood against the opposite wall.
Draco’s six trunks would never fit here.
Already, he could feel the tightness in his chest, the unsettling knowledge that most of his possessions—his books, his robes, the artifacts of his carefully curated life—had nowhere to go. He was used to rooms with endless space, with walk-in closets and armoires that could hold twice what he owned. Here, he’d be lucky if his essentials fit in the wardrobe at all.
His mother, ever perceptive, turned to him.
"It’s temporary, darling," she said quietly, as if sensing his discomfort.
Draco forced himself to nod, though he wasn’t sure he could make his mouth form actual words.
Dobby, who had been hovering anxiously in the hallway, suddenly appeared at his side, his large green eyes taking in the room. He frowned, ears twitching.
"Dobby told Master Draco he is packing too many things," the elf huffed, crossing his arms as if personally offended by the lack of storage space.
Draco exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Dobby, I realize that now."
His mother gave him a knowing look but said nothing, simply reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I’ll leave you to get settled," she said, before stepping toward the door. She hesitated, turning back once more. "If you need anything, I’m right next door."
Draco didn’t respond, only nodded absently as the door clicked shut behind her.
A sharp snap of Dobby’s fingers echoed in the room, and Draco turned just in time to see his trunks arranging themselves neatly by the wardrobe.
"Dobby will help Master Draco unpack the essentials," the elf announced, already levitating a carefully folded pile of robes toward the closet.
This time, he listened to the elf about what was truly essential.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Draco didn’t end up dwelling too much on his current situation—it was easy enough to settle into… for the most part. The telly was baffling, as was pretty much everything his aunt referred to as technology. But at least he wasn’t alone in his confusion—his mother, with her usual grace, had maintained an air of polite indifference while clearly struggling just as much as he was.
No, what did occupy his mind was the fact that he had sent multiple letters to Harry—letters that had all gone unanswered.
At first, he’d been angry, assuming Harry was ignoring him. Maybe deciding, now that school was over, that their unlikely friendship wasn’t worth the effort. The thought had stung, more than he’d expected it to.
But when he finally heard back from Ron and Hermione, he realized something far more troubling.
Harry hadn’t responded to anyone.
Not a single letter.
Draco’s irritation quickly turned to unease.
He didn’t know much about the Muggles Harry lived with—only small things, bits and pieces Harry had reluctantly mentioned over the holidays. That he had never received Christmas presents before. That his clothes were all too big and falling apart.
At first, Draco had assumed they were simply poor. That would explain some things, wouldn’t it?
But the longer the silence stretched—the longer Harry remained unreachable—the more Draco thought about it. And the more he thought about it, the more wrong it felt.
It didn’t add up.
And now, with weeks of silence and no indication that Harry was safe, Draco wasn’t just irritated anymore.
He was scared.
It had gotten bad enough that he and Weasley—of all people—were now actively discussing an intervention.
"Is something the matter, Draco?"
Andromeda’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, grounding him back into the present. He blinked up at her from across the dinner table, momentarily caught off guard. She was watching him closely, head tilted slightly, her sharp brown eyes filled with quiet curiosity.
Now his mother was looking at him too, her gaze softer but no less attentive.
Draco hesitated, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his plate. He hadn’t intended to say anything—not yet, at least—but the words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"It’s just that… Harry hasn’t replied to any of our letters."
"Not a single one?" Mother asked, setting down her glass.
Draco shook his head. "Not to me. Not to Weasley. Not to Granger. Nothing."
A flicker of concern passed across Narcissa’s face, her carefully composed expression tightening just slightly at the edges.
Andromeda leaned back in her chair, studying him. "Is that unlike him?" she asked, her tone thoughtful.
Draco shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
His mother and aunt exchanged a glance, something silent and unreadable passing between them.
Draco hesitated, fingers tapping idly against the table. Then, cautiously, he said, "I was thinking, maybe, if it was alright… we could—"
He stopped, unsure how to phrase it.
His mother arched a delicate brow. "We could what, Draco?"
He exhaled sharply, then forced himself to meet her gaze. "We could go check on him."
"You’re really that worried about him?" she asked.
Draco hesitated—only for a moment—before nodding.
"Yes."
Andromeda and his mother exchanged another look, silent but heavy with meaning.
It was infuriating.
They must be able to communicate telepathically—how else did they manage these entire wordless conversations while leaving him completely in the dark? It drove him mad.
Then, after a moment, Andromeda exhaled and nodded.
"I’ll take you," she said simply. "I’m more familiar with Muggle neighborhoods."
Draco blinked. He had been expecting resistance, another flat absolutely not, but instead, she was… agreeing?
Before he could process that, she gestured toward his robes with a faint smirk.
"You’ll need Muggle clothes, of course."