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Regardless of Desire, Life Hands You Who You Are

Summary:

Draco Malfoy was many things, but a hero was not one of them, and he had never once claimed otherwise.

In which Draco travels back in time to the beginning of his Fourth Year at Hogwarts.

[on hiatus, rewriting]

Chapter 1

Notes:

I couldn't find a Draco Malfoy time-travel fanfic that wasn't centered around the Golden Trio, so I wrote one lol

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy hated Azkaban.

He’d been imprisoned here for four months already, impatiently awaiting his impending trial. Draco was tired—so very, very tired. He could not fathom a life for himself after this. If, by some sodding miracle, he was acquitted of his crimes, he did not dare presume that he would have a place in society. He was a former Death Eater, and even if he had received the Dark Mark unwillingly, it would not matter. As far as the wizarding world was concerned, he had been given it of his own volition, and Draco doubted that anything he had to say would persuade them otherwise.

Draco rolled up his sleeve, glancing down at the black mark that marred his left forearm. His face twisted in revulsion and he turned away with a noise of disgust. He fixed his gaze on a crack in the wall, ignoring the unshed tears that burned in the back of his throat as an overwhelming, all encompassing sense of utter hopelessness washed over him.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, tipping his head back so it rested against the wall. The sharp chill of the bricks against his skull sent a shudder running down his spine.

Draco felt so empty, irreparably so. He had failed to save his mother, and he knew that Lucius had received a life-sentence in Azkaban; the guard had been all too glad to inform him of such. All Draco had wanted was to keep his family safe. And yet, Draco had failed. As he always did. His mother, the person he loved above all others, was dead—mauled to death by that barbaric half-breed Greyback.

He choked down the sob that rose in his throat. His mother was a victim of war, just as much as anyone on the ‘Light side.’ Narcissa didn’t even have the Dark Mark; she’d been forced into this because of her love for Lucius, just like Draco had. 

His throat finally released the tears that had long since been threatening to spill, and he didn’t move to wipe them away. He sat there, the sound of his sobs cutting through the silence, filling his cell. A cold despair spread through Draco’s veins, invading every corner of his body until he was singularly consumed by the emotion.

Draco sat there crying, for how long he did not know—there was no time in the cells of Azkaban, until exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep. 


Draco’s eyes blinked open, his bleary gaze coming to rest on a cream-coloured ceiling—one that most certainly did not belong to his cell in Azkaban.

He scrambled backwards in shock. His eyes rapidly flicked around the empty Hogwarts Express compartment, surprise quickly melting into confusion. He absently scratched at his left arm; he liked to imagine that if he clawed at the flesh hard enough, he could scrape it off. Yet, all he got in return for his efforts was raw, damaged skin, and a perfectly intact Dark Mark. His hand trembled as he tugged at his sleeve, wanting nails on flesh. He yanked the material down to his elbow, and froze, whimpering. 

The Dark Mark was gone. 

He let out a choked sound as he tenderly stroked the smooth, pale unmarked skin of his left forearm. This had to be a dream. It was just like his subconscious to show him what he wanted most, only for it to be gone when he woke. Draco ran his fingers through his hair, scowling when he felt gel against his fingertips. Salazar. When was the last time that he had applied that? He glanced back down at his unmarked forearm, chest swelling with so many emotions he could scarcely breathe.

He pushed himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs, and peered outside the compartment, only to find the corridor empty. He headed to the nearest bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror, eyes going wide with shock. The face staring back at Draco was his, but younger, healthier. He could barely remember the last time he had looked anything but gaunt. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw static.  

Draco didn’t like this dream; it reminded him far too vividly of what he once had. Not that he had particularly fond memories of his past self; a cowardly, self-centered git with a severe father-complex. Draco sighed, forcing himself to look in the mirror again, only to blanch at the sight of his radiant, innocent, youthful appearance. His skin feel too tight, and he resisted the urge to claw it all off.

He turned on the tap, adjusting it to full pressure and promptly stuck his head under the running water. He stood there, letting the cold water wash over him, removing that awful gel from his hair and simultaneously clearing his mind. He slowly pulled away, staring blankly at his reflection. His white-blonde was damp and mussed, with water droplets trickling along the side of his face, down his neck before disappearing beneath his collar. He glanced down at his matching black blouse and slacks. He had yet to change into his Slytherin robes. Not that it mattered—this was a dream.

Draco, cautious and tentative, stepped out onto the platform, unsurprised to find it utterly, eerily empty.

He took the nearest thestral-drawn carriage to the castle, body slumping against the soft cushions, revelling in the sensation. The cushions were, in all honesty, low quality—but after months of sleeping on a cold, hard slab of stone, they felt luxurious.

He emerged from the carriage, only to halt, going dead still, staring blankly at the sight before him. The last time he’d been here, the castle had been in ruins—the walls had been reduced to rubble, and corpses from both sides had littered the ground like leaves. He wondered, absently, whether Hogwarts had been repaired in real time. 

He slowly made his way through the castle, and came to an abrupt halt in front of the door to the Great Hall—he could hear voices coming from the other side. He wasn’t alone. Draco took a deep breath, refusing to drown in the anxiety and nerves that chased each other in his stomach. He continued to breathe deeply until his panic was reduced to a small bubble in the pit of his stomach. Once he reached a reasonable approximation of calm, he placed his palms against the door and pushed.

He stepped into the Great Hall, completely unprepared for the wall every single bloody head swivelled to face him. He froze, paralysed under the sudden attention. He hadn’t spoken to anyone other than that idiot guard and the occasional Ministry official in over four months. He gulped, swallowing down his steadily rising fear as his gaze swept across the room, taking in the varied expressions of shock. 

Draco glanced down at himself. Merlin. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that his hair was wet, and that he hadn’t changed into his robes. All thought of embarrassment flew out the window as he took in the man standing behind the podium at the head of the Great Hall, staring directly at him.

Dumbledore.

His eyes widened with equal amounts of shock and fear. He took a step back, throat going dry with dread.

“Mr Malfoy?” Dumbledore’s voice rung out across the Great Hall. Draco full-body flinched, and quickly snapped back to himself, suddenly very aware that he had been staring at Dumbledore like an idiot for Salazar knows how long. Draco swallowed, forcing himself to move towards the Slytherin table. He kept his gaze glued to his feet, terrified of meeting those twinkling blue eyes that haunted his nightmares.

He sat down at the far end of the table, and ran a trembling hand through his damp hair. He could feel eyes on him even as Dumbledore continued his speech. His throat was thick with the beginning of tears, and he felt incredibly overwhelmed. Draco dragged his fingers down his face, exhaling deeply. He slid his gaze along the staff table, if only to avoid looking at the man he had attempted to murder, and found Severus staring directly at him, black eyes unreadable. Draco jolted. Severus was alive.

His breathed hitched, and a flood of emotions clawed up his throat. Draco stared at his godfather, greedily taking in the lines of his face, his furrowed brow, his signature black robes, and his greasy, shoulder-length black hair. He tore his gaze away from Severus before he burst into tears. 

“—It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” Draco tuned back into the Headmaster’s speech, listening as cries of outrage broke out across the Great Hall. “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—” 

Dumbledore cut himself off at the sight of a man standing in the doorway, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Draco inhaled sharply, dread unfurling in his chest, when the figure slowly lowered his hood. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.” The bitter tang of bile crept up his throat—the fear and humiliation of being turned into ‘Draco Malfoy the Bouncing Ferret’ still fresh in his mind. He eyed the man warily as he took his place at the staff table. 

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore continued. “We have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.” Draco’s mind went blank. The Triwizard Tournament? This dream was showing him a time before the Dark Lord had returned. It explained his unmarked arm. It also meant that his mother was still alive, and that his father had yet to be imprisoned in Azkaban. 

He curled in on himself. How cruel. He had never had a dream so vivid before. He had to compliment his mind; the world he had created inside his head was unbelievably realistic. Draco was astounded that he remembered Hogwarts in such details that he was able to recreate it to such an extent in his dreams.


It wasn’t a dream.

The next several days passed in a blurry haze, and each morning when he opened his eyes, he fully expected to wake up in his cell—only he didn’t, and it left him with no choice but to begrudgingly accept his new reality. He stared at the ceiling in a daze, unsure as to whether he wanted to laugh hysterically, cry, or scream.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, hands fisting the sheets. Why him? Draco was not someone worthy of a second chance, literally anyone would’ve been a better choice. He let out a long, shaky exhale, a wave of panic surging over him, so intense that for a moment his ears buzzed. He didn’t want to relive the war. 

He swept his gaze across the Room of Requirement—where he’d taken refuge after he’d left the Great Hall in a rush that first night. It had constructed him a large room, empty save for a plush bed adorned with green silk blankets and sheets of the finest quality. He had no clue as to how long he had been here, but sincerely hoped it wasn’t long enough to have him declared missing; he could only imagine the havoc his parents would wreck upon the school. 

He bathed in a large, porcelain tub that the room provided, and, for the first time in months, he felt clean. Hysteria gurgled in his throat. He was Draco Malfoy, and yet, he felt grateful, awed by basic hygiene. 

He dressed in the pair of Slytherin robes—not his personally tailored ones, unfortunately—that the room had supplied and pushed the door open, only to pause. He had yet to receive his class schedule, which meant that he needed to pay Severus a visit. He bit his lip. He had no plausible explanation prepared for his disappearance, but Draco had developed a talent for avoiding and dancing around topics he had no desire to speak on. He should be fine.

He soon stood before his godfather’s office door, his thoughts a panicked clamour. He twitched, uneasiness filling his lungs like water. He took it all back—this was an awful idea. Severus would spot the lie immediately—

“Draco?” There was an incredulous expression on his usually calm, placid face. Severus snatched him by the arm, hauling him inside. Draco let out a shaky exhale, slowly lowering himself into an armchair. Severus rounded on him, staring him down, eyes dark and unreadable. “Well?” 

He opened his mouth, but panic rose up, tightening his throat, choking the words before they could come out. Draco shook his head frantically, feeling dazed, and more than a little overwhelmed at seeing his godfather alive. How was he supposed to lie to this man? Severus continued to gaze down at him impassively, unyieldingly. He felt it, then—a small caress, a nudge against his Occlumency shields. Draco froze, slamming up and tightening his mental walls. 

Severus’ beady eyes narrowed. “Since when do you know Occlumency?”

He felt a small and inexplicable shiver of apprehension run up his spine. “Since this past summer.” It was a terrible lie. He’d been taught by Aunt Bella after he’d received the Dark Mark. 

“Oh?” Severus scrutinised him suspiciously. “And what, pray tell, has encouraged you to learn such a difficult branch of magic?”

“Self-preservation.” His insides recoiled under Severus’ searing gaze. “It was not as hard as you would believe. A lifetime of repressing one’s emotions tends to help.”

Severus stared at him, black-eyes dubious, and asked the dreaded question, “How did you come to learn it?”

“I’m self-taught.”

“Your Occlumency is extremely advanced for a self-taught fourteen year-old.” There was a quiet calm in his godfather’s tone that Draco did not like. He swallowed, almost audibly, throat clicking with it. Severus suddenly sighed, sounding rather resigned. “I gather that you’re here for your class schedule, considering that you’ve missed four days of schooling. Also, word has reached Lucius regarding your… absence.” 

Severus handed him his timetable, and a sleek, black envelope with an obnoxiously large Malfoy family crest printed on the front. Draco sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He didn’t want to deal with this. He stole one last, too-long glance at his godfather, memorising the sight of his face before bidding him farewell, quickly leaving his office before he could something humiliating like cry. 

Draco headed towards the Slytherin dormitory, panic spiking through his nerves. He could think of fewer things he’d rather do than face his housemates. But it needed to be done. He stared at the envelope in his hand, slowly undoing the large Malfoy seal. 

To Draco Lucius Malfoy,

It has come to my attention that you have been conducting yourself in a manner unbefitting a Malfoy.  

Draco stifled a snort. 

I would take care to remind you that your behaviour and decorum affects, not only the opinion of you, but that of our family. You are the heir to the Malfoy name, I should not have to remind you to act as such.  

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

He shook his head in fond exasperation; having Lucius write to him berating his lack of decorum was incredibly nostalgic. Salazar, he missed his parents. Draco’s need to see them was a fierce and desperate thing. Yet, in order to do so, he would have to go back there. There was a desperate feeling in the pit of his stomach—a sharp and sickening bloom of fear—at the thought of returning to the Manor.

“Draco.” He snapped his head to the left, grey eyes flaring wide. Theo, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, stood at the end of an adjoining corridor. His blood ran cold as he stared, unabashedly, at Crabbe—who was alive. 

“Theo,” he greeted. The two of them had never gotten along. They’d only interacted with considerable civility due to their parents’ shared ‘extracurricular activities.’

“I haven’t seen you all week,” Theo arched a condescending brow, a small, horribly smug smile on his face. “Not since your little display at the opening feast.” Draco itched with the desire to rake his nails across Theo’s face, to shred that superior look into tiny, unrecognisable pieces. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath, willing his burst of rage to quell, and hoisted a polite look on his face.

“I appreciate the concern, truly,” he tried to reign in the sarcasm, but from the way Theo bristled like a wet cat, he failed. “But I have more important matters to attend to.” He waved the envelope in the air lazily, purposefully flashing the large Malfoy seal. Theo’s expression soured, but he acquiesced, allowing Draco to stalk past them. He exhaled out a sigh of relief. That was one potentially disastrous encounter successfully avoided. Now, he just needed to survive the rest of his housemates, which was easier said than done. 


It quickly became apparent that Theo had taken on Draco’s role from the Before. To his immense relief, Crabbe and Goyle, quick to see the shift in Draco’s demeanour, had taken to acting as Theo’s bodyguards instead. Theo was clearly aiming for his position as ‘Slytherin’s Prince,’ and Draco made no move to stop him. The title was burdensome—and considering the animosity Slytherin faced at the end of the war, he was glad to be rid of it.  

Draco had made it his mission to avoid Moody like the plague, and was pleased to note that he had missed the lesson on the Unforgivables—he had no need for it, anyways. His classes were mind-numbing, the spells too easy. He forced himself to downplay his abilities after receiving one too many considering looks from his Professors.

He had also avoided any and all interaction with the Gryffindors. He had no desire to continue his meaningless rivalry with Potter. Draco made a firm point not to antagonise anyone, even the Weasel, whose taunts were so pathetic, so irritating that it took him immense restraint not to sneer and snark back. The biggest change, however, was his dynamic with Blaise and Pansy. Draco could not remember them ever being this close, not even as children. 

When Draco was without Blaise and Pansy, he spent his time thinking. He had convinced himself that if he didn’t actively think about the impending war, then it wasn’t going to happen, which was utterly foolish, but it was the only way that he could feign any semblance of calm. 

He had, of course, considered destroying any chance that the Dark Lord would have at returning this year. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that if He lost the opportunity this year, then the Dark Lord would just keep trying. Also, if He returned this year, then the timeline would continue to follow a pattern that was predictable to Draco—if he changed a major event such as this, then the timeline would be all but lost, and he would lose his only advantage. Draco could not let that happen.

Then, there was the issue of his parents. His family’s survival would be easier to ensure if the Dark Lord emerged victorious, but Draco desperately did not want Him to succeed. He knew that no matter what he said to convince his father otherwise, Lucius would undoubtedly rejoin the Dark Lord. His dear mother, forever faithful, would ultimately stand by her husband’s choices, however damning they may be. He refused to lose Narcissa again; he was willing to die, to travel into the depths of hell itself to ensure her safety. 

It was a dark, morbid train of thought—one that he found himself travelling down more often than not, one that threatened to swallow him whole. 

Before he knew it, the end of October was rapidly approaching, and along with it, the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students.


Having experienced this before, Draco was the only one who did not marvel at the sight of the blue, horse-drawn carriage soaring towards them. He smirked, amused at the flabbergasted expressions on Blaise and Pansy’s faces when the She-Giant emerged, towering over everyone—including Hagrid.

Draco shivered, breathing out a cloud of frost, inwardly cursing the Durmstrang attendees. The dramatic late entrance was unwelcome when the air was this icy, this biting. As if summoned by his internal plea, a ship slowly rose out of the water. It looked exactly how Draco remembered it; ugly. A few moments later a plank was lowered onto the bank and people were disembarking. He immediately recognised Karkaroff; the Death Eater who fled upon the Dark Lord’s return, only to be murdered for deserting the cause. Draco felt a pathetic sense of camaraderie with the man. 

When the headmasters finally ceased their unnecessarily lengthy greetings, Dumbledore ushered them all inside. Draco filed up the stairs along with the rest of the students, gritting his teeth as bodies pushed up against him on both sides, resisting the urge to snap and snarl at the invasion of his personal space. 

He settled in at the Slytherin table, Blaise and Pansy on either side, shielding him from pointless, unwanted conversation. Draco watched in barely concealed dismay as Theo tried to impress Krum—and judging by the look on Krum’s face, he was failing. Badly. 

The true highlight of this Salazar-forsaken tournament, in Draco’s opinion, was the French food—specifically the bouillabaisse, of which he had multiple serves. He spent the designated mealtime quietly observing the staff table—Severus was eyeing Karkaroff with thinly veiled disgust, the oaf Hagrid was attempting to engage the She-Giant in conversation, and Moody was glaring at Crouch with pure, unadulterated hatred—how interesting.

Dumbledore, at the conclusion of the feast, stood up, instantly casting the Great Hall into silence. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. But first, let me introduce Mr Bartemius Crouch, and Mr Ludo Bagman. Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch have worked tirelessly on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and—”

He zoned out. It was hard not to; the old coot’s speech was as dull as ditchwater. Draco was just grateful he kept it short. 

It was as the Slytherins made their way towards the dungeons, that Theo sidled up to him, eyes glinting. “I think I’m going to try and enter.”

Pansy looked appropriately alarmed. “Do you think that’ll be possible, Theo?”

“Are you doubting me, Pans?” Theo raised a single brow.

Draco rolled his eyes, deciding to put an abrupt end to this idiotic conversation. “I can tell you right now, with confidence, that it won’t work.”

“Draco,” Theo said exasperatedly, like he talking to an errant child. Draco seethed silently. “I don’t think it would be that hard to—”

“The old coot would have placed an enchantment of sorts that acts as an age-restrictor. How do you plan on bypassing Dumbledore’s magic?” Draco snapped, beyond irritated by Theo’s stupidity. Theo opened his mouth to retort, but was quick to snap it shut.

Draco sighed through his nose. This was going to be a long year.


Severus swooped into the Potions’ classroom like a bird of death, his black robes billowing behind him—so unnecessarily and endearingly dramatic. He stalked to the front, beady eyes raking slowly over the class. “You will be learning how to brew a Wit-Sharpening Potion,” Severus voice was blunt, to the point. “I have taken it upon myself to assign you each a partner for today’s lesson.” 

Draco clenched his jaw. In the Before, Severus had, for some unfathomable reason, taken great pleasure in pairing Draco with Potter. He desperately tried to catch Severus’ eye because Sweet Salazar, he was not ready to interact with Saint Potter just yet. 

“Parkinson and Granger, Weasley and Zabini, Goyle and Finnigan, Thomas and Greengrass, Brown and Bulstrode,” Severus drawled, his indifferent gaze sweeping across the classroom. His unreadable black met Draco’s pleading silver. “Crabbe and Potter, Malfoy and Longbottom.”

He was equal parts relieved and despondent. Longbottom was atrocious at Potions. But it wasn’t as though his lack of skill mattered; Draco had enough talent and knowledge for the both of them—he’d already taken N.E.W.T. level Potions, after all. He reluctantly gathered his belongings and approached Longbottom’s desk, inwardly grimacing at the look of sheer trepidation on poor Longbottom’s face.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” Unsurprisingly, it did very little to placate the Gryffindor who turned several shades paler. Draco’s eyebrow twitched. Longbottom was the man who bravely stood up to the Dark Lord when no one else dared to. He was the man who wielded the Sword of Gryffindor and decapitated Nagini. He had no business cowering before someone like Draco. “Longbottom, would you mind retrieving the ingredients?” 

Longbottom blinked slowly as Draco continued to stare, waiting patiently. He snapped out of his reverie, eyes going wide. “I—yes, I—I will.” Draco blew out a frustrated breath, watching Longbottom scramble towards the ingredients cabinet. This was a relationship he didn’t know to fix, didn’t know if it was worth the effort, didn’t even know if he wanted to.

When Longbottom returned, cradling the ingredients against clumsily his chest, Draco slowly took them from his grasp, lest he drop them and cause a disturbance that would undoubtedly earn him Severus’ ire. The pair work amicably, what with Draco giving Longbottom careful instructions and patiently correcting his many mistakes. Longbottom kept sending him alarmed yet thankful looks, which Draco dutifully ignored. 

The lesson passed surprisingly quickly, and he was pleased to note that Longbottom’s minimal assistance did not cause a disaster, and even resulted in their potion turning a vibrant shade of purple; a perfect Wit-Sharpening Potion. Longbottom stared into their cauldron, looking positively gobsmacked. Draco wondered if he had every brewed an even remotely successfully potion before. If his expression was anything to go by, he would guess that this was a first.

Severus scrutinised their potion, flicking his gaze up to Draco who merely smirked. His godfather turned his beady gaze on Longbottom, who instantly recoiled. Severus cleared his throat, drawing the attention of their classmates. “Five points to Slytherin and… Gryffindor for brewing a perfect Wit-Sharpening Potion.” 

A wave of disbelieving murmurs broke out across the classroom. Draco raised an eyebrow at Severus, who merely glared back at him, expression screaming ‘it was your fault that I was forced to award points to Gryffindor.’ Draco shrugged unrepentant, lips quirking in quiet amusement. He spared a glance at Longbottom, who was still staring at Severus in shock, and let out a low, pleased chuckle. 


Draco stared, dumbfounded at the child curled up on the cold, stone floor—the empty corridor filled with her broken, muffled sobs. He edged closer, careful to keep his movements slow, telegraphed, and non-threatening. The girl, who couldn’t be older than ten, was dressed in a satin-blue Beauxbatons’ uniform. Her long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist, and she had large, deep blue eyes, which were lined with tears. She sniffled, gazing at him curiously.

He froze, lost and unsure, not having the faintest idea as to how to handle the situation. Draco swallowed thickly, slowly crouching down beside her, and at that moment, he’d never felt more grateful for his proficiency in French. “Are you alright?” 

The child blinked, her pale lashes wet. “You can speak French?” There was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. Draco softened involuntarily, nodding slowly. It must be terribly difficult living in a foreign country, especially one whose language you did not speak. “I got lost. I wanted to explore the castle, but I took one-too-many wrong turns.” Her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. Her big blue eyes stared up at him quizzically. “Are we related?”

Draco twitched. “Pardon?”

“You look like me.” She wasn’t wrong—what with their pale skin, silver-blonde hair, light eyes, fine bone structure, and lean builds. 

“I do,” he admitted. 

The child flashed him a blinding smile. “What’s your name?”

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Her pale brows furrowed, lips twisting into an adorably petulant pout. “I don’t recall there being any Malfoys in our family tree.” 

Draco bit down on his lip, swallowing down a bubble of laughter. “That’s because there isn’t.”

“Then, why do you look like me?” She folded her arms across her chest, frowning.

He sniffed imperiously. “It’s you who looks like me. I was born first.” The girl giggled. Draco’s lip curled into a small, faint smile. “Do you have a name?”

“Gabrielle Delacour.” Ah. The mini-Fleur. The child was a quarter-Veela, and yet, the similarities between their appearances were indisputable. It made him seriously question the presence of a Veela in his ancestry, even when he knew that his delicate looks were most likely attributed to generations of in-breeding.

“Well, Miss Delacour,” he elegantly rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, and extended his hand. “Shall I help you find your way back?” Gabrielle nodded eagerly, allowing him to pull her up. He made to let go of her hand, but she only tightened her grip, refusing to relinquish her hold. He stole an apprehensive glance down at her, arching a single brow in a silent inquiry. Gabrielle merely shrugged sheepishly, flexing her tiny fingers around his hand. He huffed a laugh, giving her palm a reassuring squeeze, before tugging her towards the corridor from whence he came.

The two received strange looks as they leisurely strolled throughout the castle hand-in-hand, conversing in rapid fire French. Gabrielle, he quickly learned, was inquisitive—everything seemed to amaze her, and once she realised that he was willing to answer her many questions, she was relentless. Draco, against his better judgement, found himself endeared. It was shocking—truly, considering his inherent dislike for both children and mindless chatter.

He left her in front of the Beauxbatons’ make-shift accommodations with a promise to meet again, and a light, warm feeling curling in his chest.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco loathed Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Moody had made it his life mission to antagonise and taunt Draco at every given opportunity. Hence, why he was wary as all hell when, at the conclusion of their lesson, Moody said, “Mr Malfoy, if you would stay behind.” 

He gritted his teeth, mouth tight with bottled annoyance. Blaise and Pansy shot him matching looks of mild horror as they followed the sea of students out the door. Draco remained seated, levelling Moody with a glare—eyes hardening into a stony grey.

“It has recently come to my attention that you were absent from my very first class,” Moody drawled slowly, lips twisting into a crooked grin. He kept his expression eerily blank, masking his rising trepidation. “The Unforgivables are an integral part of the school curriculum. It’s just too bad that you missed such an educational lesson.” The sweet, dark, unhurried tone in which Moody spoke with made Draco’s nerves sing with sudden dread.

He had no need for a one-on-one lesson in the Unforgivables. He may never have cast the Killing or Cruciatus Curse, but he’d born witness to both numerous times. The Imperius Curse, on the other hand, he had a penchant for—which was unsurprising considering his proficiency at the Mind Arts. 

Yet, he could not think of a single plausible excuse to leave, and so he made his way to Moody’s desk, resigned. Draco could only pray that Moody wouldn’t demonstrate the curses on him. Moody re-emerged from his office, a large, black spider resting on his palm. He felt relief crash through him; he was not going to be subjected to Crucio today. 

“The first Unforgivable I’ll be teaching you is one that your dear old father is very familiar with.” Draco pursed his lips, checking his irritation. “Any idea what it is?”

“The Imperius Curse.” 

“Care to demonstrate?” Moody smirked, maddeningly smug. He was clearly looking to humiliate Draco. It was impossible to cast an Unforgivable successfully on the first try. His first attempt at the Imperius Curse had been on a cockroach in the Manor’s dungeons. He’d spent the better part of a half-hour willing it to move even an inch in the direction he wanted. 

He raised his wand, exhaling steadily. “Imperio.” He felt the spider’s heartbeat almost immediately, beating alongside Draco’s as if it was his own. It was a heady, addicting feeling—having complete control over another. 

“Give it a command,” Moody sounded triumphant, eyes lighting up with vindictive glee. The bastard truly expected him to fail. Draco was loath to draw unwanted attention to himself, but anger simmered low in his gut, pent up from that ferret transfiguration from Before. 

He glanced between the spider and Moody.

Bite him.

Draco’s eyes gleamed with vicious satisfaction as the spider scuttled towards Moody, climbed onto his hand and bit down hard. He stifled a laugh at the outraged disbelief on Moody’s face, lips twitching as he aggressively shook his hand, dislodging the spider and flinging it across the room. Moody rounded on him, expression unreadable, and Draco pursed his lips into a thin line to suppress his smile. 

He cocked his head to the side innocently. “Is there a problem, Professor? I only did as you asked.” 

“You’re bloody lucky that spider was non-venomous,” he snapped, levitating the spider back onto the table. Moody glanced over at Draco, eyeing him up, stare appraising and intense. “That wasn’t your first time.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” He fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but failed if Moody’s knowing smirk was anything to go by. “You asked me to do it, and I did.” His skin crawled as Moody observed him with a renewed interest that Draco did not care for. “If I may be so bold, Professor. Seeing as we do not have to perform the Unforgivables in the final exam, and we only require sufficient understanding, perhaps it would prove more beneficial if you demonstrated the remaining two? That is, assuming that you can cast them. I understand if you cannot, it is advanced Dark Magic, after all.”

Moody looked truly, thoroughly offended at the insinuation. He let out a breath, satisfaction mixed with relief. It looked like he wouldn’t be casting anymore Unforgivables today. “Can you name another?” 

“The Cruciatus Curse.”

Moody snickered. “Yes, your Aunt was particularly fond of that one.” Draco couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him. It was almost comical how casually Aunt Bella had used the Cruciatus Curse. “Think that’s funny do you, boy? Crucio.”

Draco watched the spider squeal, squirm and twist apathetically. He’d seen Aunt Bella use it to torture a Muggle to death. This felt anti-climatic. He could feel the weight of Moody’s stare, but resolutely refused to acknowledge him, keeping his gaze glued to the twitching spider. 

“I take it that you can name the last one, too?”

“The Killing Curse,” Draco’s tone was curt, short. 

“Did you know that Harry Potter is the only person to have ever survived it? A Killing Curse cast by the Dark Lord no less.” He stared, incredulous. Did Mad-Eye Moody, Dark Wizard catcher extraordinaire, just refer to Him as the Dark Lord? It was a title of reverence reserved for Death Eater sympathisers. He filed the information away for later. “Avada Kedavra.” A jet of green light shot from his wand, and Moody turned to him, his eyes gleaming with dark, quiet amusement. “Why do I feel like this lesson was pointless for you?” 

Draco gave him a bland smile. “Of course not, Professor. It was most educational.” 

Moody let out a bark of raucous laughter. “Somehow, I highly doubt that. You can go.” 

Draco all but ran out of the classroom.


The day that the Champions were to be announced arrived, and unlike the rest of the student body, Draco was truly , wholeheartedly dreading the entire tournament. By the time he finally entered the candlelit Great Hall, it was almost full. He quietly sat down at the Slytherin table, pointedly ignoring the chatter around him as he ate his bouillabaisse, until—

“So, Draco,” Theo drawled. “Who do you think the Champions will be?”

He felt a wave of frustrated anger at the attention, but pushed it back. “Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, Cedric Diggory.” 

“You seem fairly sure,” Theo grinned, malicious and self-assured. “Care to place your money where your mouth is?”

Draco stared, face blank. “Ten galleons.” His voice was flat, unimpressed.

“Deal,” Theo crossed his arms, features set in smug satisfaction as Dumbledore got to his feet. 

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said the old coot. “Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions.” 

He took out his wand and gave a sweeping wave with it, extinguishing all the candles at once. The flames inside the Goblet of Fire shone turned red as a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it. 

“The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum.” 

Draco arched a single brow, staring pointedly at Theo. 

“Don’t get cocky,” Theo smirked, rolling his eyes. “You still have two more to go.” 

Krum rose from his seat further down the Slytherin table, disappearing through a side-door as the goblet turned red once more—a second piece of parchment shooting out of it. “The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

Blaise’s eyes went wide. “No way.” 

When Fleur, too, had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, the goblet’s flames turning red once more. “The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!” 

Theo gaped at him, shell-shocked and speechless. It was a beautiful sight.

“Draco, darling! You didn’t tell us that you were a Seer,” Pansy gasped. 

Oh, for the love of everything green and silver. “Pans, I am most certainly not a Seer.”

Blaise looked skeptical. “The Black family have a history of Seers.” Draco averted his eyes, grinding down on his incisors so hard, his jaw clicked. If only they knew. 

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster—” The fire in the goblet flared again, shining a bright crimson, a new piece of burnt parchment fluttering out. Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out, “Harry Potter.”

Draco stared at Potter, watching confusion chase its way across his face. He grimaced—how anymore missed Potter’s blatant anxiety was beyond him. A twinge of discomfort unfurled in Draco’s gut. He’d accused Potter of entering for the supposed ‘fame and glory’—but he’d been blinded by hatred and vicious jealousy. Potter’s sycophants, his friends, had no such excuse. 

“I can’t believe it. Stupid bloody Gryffindors,” Theo sounded murderous. 

“How did he get past the age-line?” Pansy frowned, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Potter, who was currently engaged in a heated conversation with Granger. 

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore shouted, voice echoing. “Harry! Up here, if you please!” Potter made his way towards the staff table, waddling along like a lost duckling, harsh whispers haunting his every step. Honestly, he seemed to become a social pariah almost every year.

The second Potter disappeared through the side-door, the Great Hall broke out in cries of outrage. Draco stared dully at the table, patiently enduring all the insulting words directed at Potter, reluctantly listening to all the ludicrous theories as to how he bypassed the age-line. 

He was incredibly grateful when it was time to return to the Slytherin dormitory.


Potter’s friends completely shunned him. 

The small, cruel, dark corner of Draco’s heart hissed in delight, but the rest of him twisted in pity. He’d known this was coming—having witnessed it in the Before—but it still made him nauseous.  

But, Potter’s newfound isolation presented a unique opportunity. It couldn’t hurt to get on the Golden Boy’s good side. If Potter, poster-boy for the Light, believed that Draco had the potential to change, then others would be forced to see it, too.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Potter spat, venom dripping from his tone. Draco winced inwardly. Not a good start. “If you’ve come to insult me, just get it over with.”

Draco blinked, startled. “If you would let me speak, then you would know that that wasn’t my intention.”

“You’re not going to insult me?” The sheer disbelief in his voice was mildly offensive—and, admittedly, well-deserved. 

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, Potter,” he snapped, then cringed immediately. It was far too easy to slip back into old habits. “I am here to tell you that I believe you.”

It took Potter a long moment to process—Draco could literally hear his brain straining to comprehend his words. Then, realisation dawned, shock flooding his mouth, mouth dropping open. “You believe me?”

“Close your mouth, Potter. You’ll let the flies in.”

Potter flushed pinked, but complied, mouth snapping shut. He looked genuinely perplexed. “But why?” 

“Because, as idiotic as you are, you’re not stupid,” Draco sniffed imperiously. 

“I think you’ve just contradicted yourself,” Potter had the gall to look amused.

Draco scowled, irritated. “Stupidity and idiocy are different.”

“Are you sure, because—”

He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Merlin’s beard, Potter. I did not come here to debate the technicalities of the English language.”

“Right. You’re here because you ‘believe me,’” his tone dripped with sarcasm, green eyes dark with suspicion. 

“I do—”

“You hate me.” Not a question.

“That’s beside the point,” he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t need to ‘like you,’ to posses a modicum of common sense.” Potter still looked unconvinced. Draco sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Look, this tournament is dangerous. You, despite your penchant for attracting disasters, aren’t so stupid that you would willingly put yourself in harm’s way.”

“Moody did say that someone wanted me dead.” There was a curious thoughtfulness in Potter’s tone.

Draco snorted. “That wouldn’t be anything now, would it?” He knew that Potter had been entered in this tournament to get to the portkey at the end of the Third Task and revive the Dark Lord. But, he could not figure out who was responsible. Karkaroff? No. He fled the moment the Dark Lord returned—it wouldn’t be him.

“Do you know something?” Draco was startled out of his inner musings by Potter, who was observing him with oddly intense green eyes. 

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

Potter folded his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes. “It’s strange, is all. You’re the first person, besides ‘Mione, to ‘believe me.’ It’s total bollocks. You hate me—yet, you believe me.”

Draco shot him an odd look. “I told you, this has nothing to do with hate. This is simply a matter of me possessing enough intelligence to consider the possibility that somebody wants to hurt you—”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Potter interjected, growing visibly agitated. “You weren’t at all surprised when I mentioned Moody’s theory.”

Draco blinked in confusion, brow furrowing. Where was this going? “It’s the most obvious conclusion.”

Potter was unnervingly silent and still, content to stare—green eyes narrowed, gaze speculative. “Did you put my name in the Goblet of Fire?” He demanded at last, expression darkening.

He went utterly still, something in him shattering at the accusation. “You don’t seriously think that.” 

“Don’t I?” Potter stepped forward, his voice thick with barely constrained anger. “If you wanted to hurt me, then this is the easiest way, right? No one would suspect a thing.” 

Draco stared at him with his mouth open. That was unfair. So fucking unfair. “Do you even hear yourself, Potter?”

“You’re always trying to get me punished. Have been since first year,” he argued—and yes, okay, Potter had a point. But, there was a significant difference between landing Potter in detention for his illegal possession of a dragon egg, and entering him in a death tournament. Draco told him as such. Potter hesitated, uncertainty passing over his face, before hardening into steel. “Did your father put you up to this?” 

“That’s a serious accusation, Potter,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

“It is,” his green eyes blazed up with a sudden light of anger. “It’s not an unfounded one, though.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember second year?” His expression was dark, pulled in anger. “Your father gave Ginny the diary that opened the Chamber of Secrets.” Draco gave a violent flinch. It was as if Potter had physically struck him. Ah. That. “So, you can understand why I’m skeptical.”

He could—he really could. And, yet—“I’m not my father.”

“No?” The incredulity in his voice stung. “You regurgitate his beliefs, preach his bloody supremacy ideals, and treat Muggleborns and Muggles like dirt—just like him.” 

“Stop.”

“What?” Potter scoffed, lips pursed. “Can’t handle the truth?” 

No, he couldn’t. Not when the truth was so ugly. But, Draco wanted to, had been actively trying to change. It wasn’t as though he could unlearn eighteen years of bigotry in two bloody months. He was trying to see the error of his ways, trying to treat non-pure-bloods with less cruelty, trying to be better. Draco was not going to allow Potter to make him feel like shit, not about this. 

He stalked up to Potter until they stood nose-to-nose, grey eyes flashing with rage.

“Listen here, Potter. I do not want to argue with you, in fact, I can think of nothing I’d want less,” Draco snapped, anger sweeping through him like brushfire. “I approached you, because I thought that you would take comfort in knowing that at least one person believed you, even if it was someone such as myself. However, I do not appreciate your childish accusations. If you must take your pent up anger out on someone, please go and find a more suitable victim.”

He turned on his heel and stalk off, as elegantly as one could possibly storm away from one’s teen rival, chest heaving with an onslaught of despair. The universe had given Draco a second chance, but what did it matter if no one else was willing to? 

He had, once upon a time, desperately wished to be Potter’s friend—but little Draco had no experience in befriending those who weren’t enamoured by the Malfoy name, prestige and wealth. The only children he’d had interactions with up until that point were those who Lucius had arranged a ‘play-date’ with. 

Draco had craved Lucius’ praise a great deal, and just as Potter had mentioned, it had led him to mirror the man’s every thought and action in a desperate attempt to gain his approval. Yes—Draco had been an obnoxious prat, but he’d only been eleven when the Weasel had passed judgement—he’d heard the name ‘Malfoy,’ and declared him to be as wicked and evil as his Death Eater family. The Weasel was prejudiced and bigoted, but, apparently, his was the acceptable kind. 

Draco wanted to scream in rage at the unfairness of it all.

There was not a single individual who’d been willing to give Draco a chance—no one believed that he had the capacity for good. Yet, they still wondered why he was fiercely loyal to his Death Eater family, when his parents were the only people who truly cared for him. 

He ached for an opportunity to show that yes, he could change, had changed, was changing. Yet, if all his attempts to be civil were met with hostility, then what was he supposed to do? It made him slightly hysterical, which he was feeling more often than not these days—not a good sign for a Black; he didn’t fancy inheriting the family madness. 


Draco sat on the edge of the Black Lake, marvelling at the sunrise. 

The sun washed the water with a golden glow, harp strings of light chasing away the shadows lingering on the lake’s surface. In the distance, the Forbidden Forest was silhouetted against the sky, and he could see the faint shadows of birds sweeping above the tree-line. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the fresh November air, allowing it to fill his lungs.

He twitched, spotting movement out of his peripheral vision. He turned, watching as a shadowed figure disappeared around the edge of the Forbidden Forest’s tree-line. Curiosity piqued, Draco pushed himself to his feet, quickly making his way around the edge of the Black Lake. The thin path that ran alongside the forest was dark—cast into shadow by the tall, menacing trees. 

Draco stilled as a deafening, earsplitting roar sliced through the silence. His blood went cold, an anxious tingle searing his nerves. Was that—? He ducked beneath a low, overhanging branch, and froze, jaw slackening.

Dragons. 

There were four—the ones from the First Task. He tiptoed towards the dragon closest to him, heart hammering against his ribcage. The dragon before him was red, with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, and was tied down by chains that were connected to heavy leather straps around its neck and legs. 

Chinese Fireball, his brain supplied. 

He edged closer, both awestruck and terrified. Draco’s heart leapt into his throat as the dragon’s head snapped towards him. Fear knotted in his chest, and he instinctively drew his wand, scarcely breathing. The dragon’s slitted eyes narrowed, and it reared back on its hind legs. 

Fuck. He should have learned his lesson after that damned Hippogriff. 

Its jaw stretched wide, letting out a horrible yowl that rattled his bones. Panic slammed into Draco, hard and unrelenting. He saw a flicker of fire ignite in the back of the dragon’s throat, and his hands trembled so uncontrollably that he dropped his wand. Draco stumbled backwards, fear jumping in his chest. He threw himself onto the ground, pressing his body against the dirt as the dragon’s fire filled the empty space above him—failing to notice the Protego that had been casted over his body.

The scorching flames were so unbearably hot that he was certain that they’d melt the flesh right off his bones. He snuck a terrified glanced over his shoulder, and bright red filled his vision. Suddenly, Draco was no longer in the Forbidden Forest, but in the Room of Requirement, surrounded by untameable Fiendfyre. 

Vicious Flames. Serpents and Chimaeras twisting and dancing in the uncontrollable fire. Crabbe burning. Goyle’s terrified face. Potter. A broom. Blazing, blistering heat. Crabbe…falling, falling, falling. 

Draco’s chest burned. He couldn’t breathe. Panic curled into his lungs, and he clawed at his chest, clutching his shirt with both hands. His stomach churned, and his vision blurred as tears collected in the corners of his eyes. His head spun, and his lungs tightened. He let out a heaving sob, his throat burning. He started to choke on his own breath, unable to breathe. 

There was a voice telling him something, and he could vaguely feel hands firmly gripping his shoulders. Draco’s entire body shook violently, and black spots danced on the edge of his vision. He heard the distant mumbling of someone beside him, which became clearer as Draco begun to calm down. 

“You’re okay,” a deep voice soothed. “You’re okay.” Draco’s breath stuttered as it slowed. He blinked through his tear-blurred vision, squinting at the person in front of him. He was ruggedly handsome, well-muscled, freckled, artfully tattooed, and had long, fiery red hair that was tied into a low pony-tail at the base of his neck. 

It was a Weasley. Not one that Draco recognised. Though, if he were to be honest, he hadn’t cared enough to learn how many Weasley spawn there were, let alone their names. 

“What were you thinking approaching a dragon like that?” The Weasley reprimanded. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” 

“A Weasley worried about a Malfoy?” Draco tried for haughtiness, but fell short. He was unnerved by his reaction to fire—unaware that his trauma ran so deep. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.” 

He was mortified that a Weasley of all people had seen him afraid, vulnerable, disgraceful. Would this Weasley blackmail him? The Weasel wouldn’t have qualms about using Draco’s fear against him. He didn’t expect anything less; all of Draco’s family had been downright cruel to the Weasleys. The eldest Weasley’s face had been mauled when Draco had unknowingly allowed Fenrir fucking Greyback into Hogwarts. Lucius had given the She-Weasel the Dark Lord’s diary—which had nearly killed her. 

He found that, despite his father’s insistence that the Weasleys were nothing but disgusting blood traitors, he didn’t hate them. Well, actually, no. That was a lie. He absolutely loathed the Weasel—even more than Potter.

“A Malfoy?” Weasley’s gaze flicked up to his white-blonde hair, recognition flickering through his eyes. “Oh. Ron told me about you.”

He did? “All good things I hope,” he remarked dryly, voice dripping with acid sarcasm. The Weasley winced, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Draco rolled his eyes. “Relax. The hatred is mutual.” 

Weasley nodded slowly, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. “Draco, right?”

He arched a single brow, inclining his head in affirmation. “And you are?”

“Charlie,” he shot Draco a warm grin. He blinked, startled by the open friendliness on Charlie’s face. The Weasel’s descriptions of him couldn’t have been… flattering—and yet, this Weasley seemed to disregard all of that. 

“Were you a Hufflepuff?” Draco stared at him curiously. 

Charlie huffed out a surprised, breathy laugh. “Gryffindor, actually.” Draco blinked, surprised. “I suppose I should be flattered that you thought I was a ‘Puff.” 

“You take that as a compliment?” His voice was thick with incredulity. 

“You think of it as an insult?” Charlie tilted his head to the side, expression speculative. 

Draco sniffed haughtily. “If someone mistook me for a Hufflepuff, I would be forced to re-evaluate my entire existence. But not before I hexed them into unconsciousness for daring to insinuate such a horrid impossibility.”

Charlie let out a low chuckle. “Somehow, I doubt anyone would mistake you for a ‘Puff.” Draco’s mouth pulled into a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m surprised that you haven’t asked me about the dragons.”

He arched a single brow. “Despite what your brother may have told you, I do possess the basic levels of intelligence required to put two-and-two together.” And the advantage of being from the future. 

A small smile lifted the left corner of Charlie’s mouth. “Right, well, this,” he gesticulated at the dragons, “is confidential, so I would really appreciate it if you didn’t share what you’ve seen here.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Weasley,” he conceded easily, expression softening. 

Charlie’s face split into a warm smile. “Thank yo—” He cut himself off, gaze dropping to the ground beside Draco—the smile melting off his face. He leant forward, picking up something off of the forest floor. “Is this yours?”

Draco stared, eyes widening in horror—balance precariously on Charlie’s open palm was his wand, now snapped in two.


Draco was eternally grateful to discover that the Saturday on which he had broken his wand was a Hogsmeade weekend. He genuinely couldn’t believe his luck—coincidences such as this were reserved for heroes of the Potter variety. He snuck away from Blaise and Pansy upon their arrival in Hogsmeade, and illegally apparated directly into Diagon Alley. It was eerily quiet, which he was grateful for—it lowered the risk of him getting caught. 

Ollivander was sat behind the counter, and offered Draco a small smile, seemingly unperturbed by the presence of a Hogwarts’ student in Diagon Alley during the school term. “Ah, Mr Malfoy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Draco’s throat clicked—the image of an emaciated and tortured Ollivander imprisoned in the Manor’s dungeons flashed behind his eyes. He inhaled sharply, and walked forward, placing his broken wand on the counter.

“Hawthorn, ten inches, with a unicorn hair core.” Draco met Ollivander’s warm, kind gaze. “I must admit, I was rather surprised when this wand chose you, Mr Malfoy.” He snorted. He was a Black and a Malfoy—two dark, ancient pure-blood lineages. Lucius had been appalled when his chosen wand core was the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. “Now, let’s see…” Ollivander trailed off, disappearing into the storage room.

Draco knew that he should be reluctant to part with his wand, but all he felt was relief—it had been awkward using the wand that defeated the Dark Lord to cast mundane classroom spells. 

Ollivander reappeared, placing several boxes on the counter. Draco tried them in succession—but none were compatible. He reached for the last wand, but a simple wave caused books to fly out of the bookcase, splattering across the floor. The process repeated itself, yielding no results. He shifted on his feet as Ollivander disappeared to—yet again—receive more wands. He returned holding a single box, which he set on the counter, watching Draco’s reaction very carefully. Draco  stiffened at the attention, but reached out nonetheless—only to immediately relish in the astounding rush of magic that surged under his skin.

“Yew, eleven inches, with a horned serpent horn core.” Draco’s eyes went wide. “The yew wands are among the rarer kind, and it retains a particularly dark and fearsome reputation in the spheres of duelling and all curses. Wands made from horned serpent horn core tend to be exceptionally powerful, have a certain sensitivity to parseltongue, and often warn its owner to danger by emitting a low musical tone. It is both a rare, and a fine wand.” 

Draco raised his eyebrows, and stroked his new wand lazily. His finger paused, and he glanced up at Ollivander, who was watching him with a particularly thoughtful expression. “I was not aware that the horn of a horned serpent was used in wand cores.” 

“It is rather rare. I received the horn as a gift from an American acquaintance of mine,” Ollivander tilted his head to the side. “Are you able to speak parseltongue?” 

Draco was momentarily taken aback. “No. Not at all.”

Ollivander was visibly disappointed. “Your wand responds better to spells cast in it.” And once again, Draco found himself totally not envying Potter’s parseltongue abilities. “I must say that I am surprised that this wand chose a non-speaker as its owner.” He sighed dejectedly. What was the point in him having a wand with an affinity for parseltongue if he could not speak it? Honestly, it was so typically unfortunate that Draco didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or cry.

He arrived back at Hogsmeade at midday, only to find it practically empty—the students most likely returned to the castle to escape the chill. He walked through the entrance courtyard, pausing at the sight of the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges pinned to several chests. He frowned, face crinkling in confusion.

The answer to his unspoken question appeared in the form of Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle.

“Draco!” Theo hollered, forcing him to stop and engage in useless conversation. “What do you think?”

He stared, face blank. “You’ll need to clarify.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “The badges of course.” 

Oh. “Right.”

“Aren’t you impressed?” Theo folded his arms across his chest. “The charms involved were quite complicated. I made a lot of them, too.” Draco sighed. He knew that. Of course, he knew. He was the one who had made them in the Before.

“Yes. Well done, Theo,” he fought to keep the exasperation out of his voice. 

“Here,” Theo offered him a badge. He took it, then all but ran away before the conversation could spiral into something even more mind-numbing. 

Draco hastened to the seventh floor, and paced back and forth in front of the tapestry, whispering, “I need a room to practice magic, I need a room to practice magic.” A large oak door materialised before him, and he slipped inside, eyes widening at the large, empty room with mirror lining the walls. 

He raised his new wand, and murmured, “Reducto.” Draco was nearly blown back by the sheer force of the blast that sprung from the tip of his wand. He stared down at his new wand, blinking in disbelief. This was his magic? Had his hawthorn wand truly inhibited him that much?

He paused, mind whirring. If he considered his circumstances, then it made sense. The Dark Mark’s vile, potent magic had tainted not only his skin, but had seeped in and corrupted his entire magical core. Draco, if he were honest, had been average in term of magical ability up until he’d taken the mark and begun his intensive training with Aunt Bella. So, by the time Draco had grown relatively powerful, his unicorn hair core wand could no longer conduct his tainted, corrupted magic properly. It had still worked for him—it was his wand, after all—but there was no denying that, in the end, it was better suited for Saint Potter.

Draco had truly not expected his magical core from the Before to time-travel with him. He had assumed that, since he was in his fourteen year-old self’s body, his core would be the one belonging to the Now—evidently, he was wrong. 

He turned and made to exit, only for the Room of Requirement to change, shifting into the room he had occupied for four days upon his arrival. Though, this time, there was an unwanted addition; a magnificent mirror with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. He frowned, approaching it with caution, eyes going wide when he stood directly before it. 

Draco could not see the Room of Requirement, nor his own reflection. The mirror reflected back an image of what looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket.

He stared, completely and utterly dumbfounded. What was it doing in here? Draco hadn’t summoned it. He tried to will it away, but to no avail—the stubborn thing refused to disappear. He had just made the decision to ignore it, when the image rippled. 

Draco stared in morbid fascination as a figure stepped into view.

 

Notes:

so, I decided to play around with wand law. I don't know if any of it is canon compliant, but I hope you don’t mind. I don’t know if I particularly like the way this chapter turned out, but thank you for reading! ♥

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It was a boy. 

A tall, lithe, impossibly pretty boy who looked to be Draco’s age. He was as pale as Draco was, but where Draco was white-blonde and silver, the boy was all ink-black and smokey obsidian. His features were sculpted—high, sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and arched brows. Draco noted that whilst his robes bore the Slytherin crest, the style was different—outdated.

He blinked slowly, uncomprehending, unsure as to exactly what he was looking at. 

“Hello,” Draco said evenly, keeping his tone polite, detached. The boy’s eyes widened a fraction, flickering with surprise, but then he blinked, and a wall erected behind his eyes, hiding the emotion almost immediately.

The boy’s dark gaze flitted over his face voraciously, before flicking up to his white-blonde hair. “You’re a Malfoy,” the boy said slowly, as if he were tasting the words on his tongue. Draco did neither confirm, nor deny his declaration—not that he needed to; his distinctive hair was proof in and of itself. 

Draco waited, but the boy did not offer his name. He felt a surge of annoyance. He did not want to give him the satisfaction of asking, but Draco’s curiosity was a terrible, insatiable thing. “I regret to say that I do not recognise you.” 

“I find myself disinclined to provide you with a name,” the sweet, unhurried tone with which he had spoken made his skin crawl. Draco’s eyes went flat, stone cold. The lack of a name put him at a disadvantage—and judging by the gleam of muted satisfaction in the boy’s eyes, he clearly knew it.

Well—if that’s how he wanted to play.

“Ashamed of your name, are you?” Draco drawled, regarding him with a bored expression. If he were a pure-blood, he’d have laid claim to almost immediately.

The boy’s mouth curved into a small, cold smile that did not reach his eyes. “How typical.” Ah. Draco had offended his delicate sensibilities. 

“Are you offended that I failed to recognise you?” Draco’s tone was sharp with a sort of cruel delight. The boy’s expression shifted—his face went very, very still. 

“Pray tell, do you take pride in the fact that your features are distinctive due to in-breeding?” The boy tilted his head to the side slightly—an eerily serpentine gesture, and observed him with his unnervingly dark, leering gaze. 

Not a pure-blood, then; in-breeding was an extremely taboo topic.

“Do you take pleasure from insulting pure-bloods?” Draco’s grey eyes flickering back and forth between each of the boy’s, his lips stretching in a vicious smirk. “Tell me, does your distain stem from jealousy?”

The boy’s face twisted in a mask of sheer rage, before he wiped the expression carefully from his features. “That would imply that you are worthy being jealous of. I have yet to see any traits that would inspire such an emotion,” he commented, his mouth twisted into an expression that could also be called a smile, if not for the utter lack of humour on his face. 

“I find myself in agreement with you,” he responded blandly. It was true—he had no admirable qualities, only plenty of revolting ones. A brief flicker of surprise crossed the boy’s face at Draco's sudden acquiescence, vanishing in a blink. “Though, it is rather difficult to rid oneself of over a decade’s worth of instillment.”

The boy threw Draco a long, cold, calculating look, absently tucking a dark curl behind his ear. “You’re rather introspective for a Malfoy.” Ah. There it was—that passive aggressiveness. The boy evidently held a dislike for his family. 

He hummed softly. “Is that a quality worthy of your jealousy?” 

The boy raised a single brow, as if he found Draco’s words amusing. “It is certainly unique.” His tone hinted at a double meaning, and whilst he couldn’t figure out exactly what coated the underside of his words, he knew—with absolute certainty—that no Malfoy was unique.

Draco’s life and ambitions had been a product of Lucius’ choices. His admiration for the man had led Draco to be nothing but a puppet; a vessel to carry out the narrow-minded and bigoted beliefs of a prejudiced man. Though, he did not blame Lucius, because he too, was a replica of his father, Abraxas, who in turn, mirrored his own father. 

He could hear the distinct murmur of voices coming from the mirror. The boy turned slightly, gazing impassively in the direction of the noise, then glanced back at Draco. He inclined his head in farewell before exiting the room, leaving an utterly baffled Draco staring at an empty classroom. 


He squeaked in surprise as a silver-blonde blob rammed into him, fragile arms wrapping around his waist. Gabrielle buried her head into his stomach, and his hand automatically lifted to stroke her hair. He glanced up, and stiffened—limbs tensing, muscles coiling.

Fleur Delacour stood before him, hands on her hips, mouth twisted into a scowl. He eyed her warily, his grip on Gabrielle tightening. 

“I wanted to meet the boy my little sister was spending so much of her time with,” Fleur said curtly, a hard edge to her voice. 

“I apologise for not introducing myself sooner,” he clenched his jaw, speaking with a forced politeness. “I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Recognition flickered through her deep blue eyes. “I’ve heard of you.” Her tone implied that it wasn’t anything remotely good, nor flattering. He felt a wave of irrational anger. Fleur had already formed an opinion—one based on gossip, on rumours, on the words of those who despised him.

Gabrielle made a soft noise in the back of her throat, and he broke his staring contest with Fleur to glance down. “Can we go now?” He nodded as Gabrielle slipped her hand into his. 

Fleur’s face twisted, her mouth open to object—

“Would you care to join us?” Fleur eyed him balefully. Well, he tried. She did relent, eventually—if only because she didn’t feel comfortable leaving Gabrielle alone with him. Fleur was a silent shadow at their back, observing their interactions with a pinched expression that eased the longer they spent together.

Gabrielle was smitten with the view from the Astronomy Tower. Draco, on the other hand, stood stock still—fending off an impending panic attack. He leant against the railing, the icy November wind whipping relentlessly at his face, and looked downdowndown. He shouldn’t have indulged Gabrielle. He shouldn’t have come back here—

He jerked violently at the press of heat against his arm. 

“You’re misjudged.” He head snapped towards Fleur, grey eyes wide with shock. He blinked, swallowing thickly, remnants of his earlier panic still bubbling, lingering under his skin. She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. “I should know better than to listen to gossip.” 

He blew out a cloud of frosty air. “I wasn’t a nice person, Fleur.”

“‘Wasn’t?’” Fleur tucked a loose strand of her blonde-silver hair behind her ear.

He sighed, long and drawn out. “I’m trying to be better. Not sure it’s working, though.”

“It is,” Fleur said, tone firm and unwavering. “Trust me. I wouldn’t let my little sister hang with just anyone.”

He offered her a wan but grateful smile.


Moody was late—a feat which had never occurred before, and Draco secretly, desperately prayed they had a substitute Professor instead. The classroom door slid open, revealing a disgruntled Pansy. His gaze followed her as she dragged her feet across the room, sliding into the free seat on his left. 

“Good morning,” she mumbled sulkily. She looked tired—the skin stretched thin under her eyes. 

“What’s got you in such a good mood, Pans?” An amused glint passed in Blaise's eyes.

Pansy shot him a nasty glare. “I overslept.”

“I can see that,” Draco remarked, throwing a pointed look at her bed-hair. Pansy scowled, running her fingers through the dark strands in a poor attempt to smooth it out. He snorted, sliding his wand out of his robe sleeve, absently twirling it between long, thin fingers. It still felt foreign in his hands. 

“Is that a new wand?” 

Draco blinked, startled—genuinely having forgotten that they had yet to see it. “Yes,” he said dismissively, studiously ignoring the curious looks his comment garnered. Draco had no desire to explain his early morning traipse that resulted in a panic attack, dragons, a Weasley, and a broken wand. 

Blaise opened his mouth, but was cut short by the door slamming open. Draco jolted, swivelling to face the imposing figure in the doorway. Ugh. Moody didn’t bother with apologies or excuses for his lateness, he just limped to the front of the classroom. 

“Today I will be putting the Imperius Curse on each of you in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see if you lot can resist its effects,” he growled bluntly, skipping the pleasantries. The class broke out in hushed murmurs. Dread was cold on Draco’s spine. How had he forgotten this lesson? He would rather have a fucking tea party with Nagini than be put under Imperius by Moody.

Moody begun to clear away the rows of desks, forcing them to stand, and leaving a large space at the front of the room. Draco barely registered the mob of Gryffindors he now stood beside—his mind too busy jumping from though to thought, desperately searching for a plausible excuse to get him out of this. 

“Bu—But you said it’s illegal, Professor,” said Granger uncertainly. “You said to use it against another human was—”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” said Moody, his magical eye swivelling. “If you’d rather learn the hard way—when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely—fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.” 

Draco’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. Moody was bizarrely passionate about resisting the Imp— Wait. Could he seriously leave? He couldn’t tell whether the offer was genuine or not. If it was, then Draco was going to take him up on it, pride be damned—staying and placing himself under Moody’s control would be far more humiliating than fleeing like a coward. He shifted, making to leave, but was stopped by a vice-like grip on his arm.

“Pansy!” Draco hissed under his breath. Unfortunately, it came out louder than intended, drawing the attention of the students closest to him. The Gryffindors in his immediate vicinity snickered, and he turned, accidentally making direct eye-contact with the Weasel. The awfully smug, condescending look on his freckled face made Draco’s stomach roil with hatred. He opened his mouth, fully prepared to hurl insults and curses at the red-headed abomination, when Pansy’s fingernails suddenly dug into his forearm, her grip unrelenting.

He jerked in surprise—and glanced at her, only to find her staring at him imploringly. He exhaled sharply through his teeth, checking his irritation. Moody began to beckon students forward in turn, placing each of them under the Imperius Curse. He watched as, one-by-one, his classmates did mindless, embarrassing things under its influence. Though, like in the Before, none managed to fight it off—no one except Saint Potter. 

“Now, that’s more like it!” Moody growled. “Look at that, you lot—Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it!” He hated that he found Potter’s ability to resist Imperius impressive. Aunt Bella had often placed him under it for fun, and Draco, regardless of how hard he tried, couldn’t resist it. It was a matter of willpower and mental-strength—two things Draco lacked, but Potter had in spades. 

“Malfoy,” Moody barked, a cold, twisted smile splitting his face. Draco wanted to scream at him to get absolutely fucked. “You’re next.” 

“I refuse,” he said immediately, without hesitation. He had planned on being subtle with his refusal, but it would appear that panic had rendered his silver-tongue all but useless. Whispers broke out around him, but Draco ignored them in favour of staring down his Professor. Moody’s gaze was avid and intense, and he fought the overwhelming urge to recoil under its scrutiny. 

“Do you now?” Moody said—something underlining his words that Draco couldn’t read. He felt his nerves tighten. 

“Yes, Professor,” he kept his voice as flat as his expression. He braced himself—Moody couldn’t force him to participate, but he could just cast the Imperius Curse on him, anyways. He didn’t. Moody simply continued to stare at him with a gaze so calculating that it almost felt as if he was attempting to dismantle Draco with his eyes alone. If he were an honest man—which he wasn’t—he would admit that Moody’s unblinking stare deeply unnerved him. It didn’t stop him meeting his gaze head on, unwilling to be the first to break eye-contact. 

In the end, it was Granger who interrupted their staring contest, spouting some rubbish about the law, and the Unforgivables, and wasting class-time. Moody looked extremely disgruntled at being called out, and Draco spent the rest of the lesson tense and on-edge, waiting for Moody to spontaneously cast the Imperius on him and make him do something soul-crushingly humiliating. 

Only it never happened, and now Draco felt like he owed Granger. Salazar. Did he actually have to go and thank her? He blanched at the idea, promptly shaking off such horrid thoughts as he exited the classroom. 

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” Draco jolted at the sound of Theo’s voice. He hurried his steps and rounded the corner, only to find the Golden Trio facing off against Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle. “Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” Theo brandished a copy of the Daily Prophet, speaking loudly as to draw a crowd.

Draco blanched. That had been him—he had read that very article out-loud. He felt numb with the realisation that, for some unfathomable reason, fate had replaced him, his role in Potter’s life. He did pity Theo for assuming his old role, but was secretly, overwhelmingly grateful that it was no longer him taunting, antagonising Potter. He was dragged out of his musings by Theo’s brash, mocking tone. 

“—Picture of your parents outside their house—if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?” Draco could have choked on his self-hatred, knowing those words had once spouted from his mouth. He admired the Weasel’s restraint. If someone had insulted his beloved mother like that, Draco would have unleashed every dark curse that Aunt Bella had taught him in rapid succession. 

“Keep your fat mouth shut, Nott,” Potter snapped. “C’mon, Ron…”

A resounding bang echoed throughout the corridor, causing several people to scream. Draco flinched violently, panic skittering down his spine. He heard a second loud bang, followed by a roar, “Oh no you don’t, laddie!” Draco spun around. Moody was limping towards them, brandishing his wand threateningly. He instinctively pressed himself up against the wall, watching Moody with wide eyes. 

Not again, not again, not again—

A terrible silence filled the corridor. In the place where Theo had stood only moments before was a dark brown ferret, shivering on the stone-flagged floor. 

Theo. Theo was the ferret. Not Draco. 

He felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest as his legs gave out. He slid to the ground in pure, sweet relief.


Draco dragged his fingers through his sweaty hair, sincerely grateful that he’d remembered to put up silencing charms—Blaise wouldn’t take kindly to being woken up by screams, and he would prefer not to explain why. 

His eyes fluttered shut, and he floated in the calm stillness of his mind, drifting further inside until he found his mental shields; obsidian walls that were several metres thick, running hundreds of metres upwards. He had taken to training his Occlumency after his nightmares woke him; the familiarity of strengthening and building his mental walls was soothing. Aunt Bella, for all her insanity, had been incredibly talented at Occlumency, not to mention a brutally efficient instructor. His foundations were solid—and now that he had time to dedicate to it, his Occlumency was rapidly improving. 

Draco wondered if all his efforts were pointless—no one could keep the Dark Lord out of their mind indefinitely, but one could mask their surface thoughts. Severus had lied to the Dark Lord whilst remaining eye-contact, convincingly enough that He had never used Legilimency. He could not even begin to fathom the outcome of the war if Severus had been discovered. 

He practiced his Occlumency until he heard the tell-tale signs of Blaise rousing. Draco sat up, leaning back against his headboard with a long, drawn-out sigh, a scowl tugging at his lips. He was not in the mood today; not for anything, nor anyone—and especially not for the First Task. 

“Good morning, happiness,” Blaise’s voice was thick with sleep. 

He tilted his head to the side, frowning at a lazily smirking Blaise. “Well, excuse me if I don’t share your enthusiasm for standing in the blasted cold for several hours on end.” 

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Please. I know that you’re secretly looking forward to this.” 

Draco blinked. “Pardon?”

“Draco,” Blaise sounded exasperated. “You cannot tell me that you aren’t the least bit excited to watch Potter make a fool out of himself today.”

His shoulders sagged. He had forgotten that to everyone else, Draco had, only a mere three months ago, been obsessed with outdoing Potter at every turn. He hadn’t taken steps to rectify their opinion—it would have been useless, anyways, as since their rather hostile confrontation a month ago, Potter had taken to glaring murderously at Draco every time their paths crossed. It had only served to reinforce everyones’ view on their ‘rivalry’—no matter that Draco had been blatantly ignoring Potter’s provocations in hope that he would drop the enmity. 

“I swear to Salazar that if you make one more Potter reference I will castrate you.” 

Blaise held his hands up in mock surrender. “Touchy.”

Draco sighed, rubbing his fingers over tired eyes, blinking back frustrated tears. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Blaise paused at his despondent tone. “I bet seeing him lose will cheer you up.”

“He won’t lose,” he tipped his head back, blinking blearily at the ceiling. 

“You have far too much faith in someone you claim to despise,” Blaise pointed out, expression unreadable.

He let out a hollow laugh. “It’s not faith so much as luck.”

Blaise stared at him, long and hard. “One day his luck will run out.” 

Draco’s smile was bittersweet. Blaise had no idea just how wrong that statement was.


The rest of the morning went by suspiciously quickly, and before he knew it, Draco was being dragged to the edge of the Forbidden Forest by Blaise and Pansy. They followed the hoard of students towards the entrance of the newly-erected viewing stadium, and climbed up the steps, only to run right into the Weasley twins. 

“What will it be, Slytherins?” 

“Care to place a bet?”

“Who do you propose we bet on?” Blaise inquired, dark eyes regarded them curiously. 

“Well, we placed bets…” 

“…On Harry,” the Weasley twins flashed them identical grins.

“Colour me surprised,” Draco muttered. Pansy snorted.

“Thoughts on Diggory’s chances?” Blaise cocked his head to the side. The twins exchanged looks, but before they had a chance to reply, Theo interjected himself into the conversation. 

“Ten galleons that Potter gets burnt to a crisp,” Theo’s mouth was twisted into a smug smile. Burnt to a crisp. Draco’s eyes traitorously flickered to Crabbe who stood behind Theo—reminding him exactly why he had desperately wanted to avoid the First Task; the dragons and their horrible fire-spitting tendencies.

“Pleasure doing business…”

“…With you, Nott.”

Pansy, with her arm still linked through his, was quick to lead both him and Blaise down the stairs, closer to the barrier that separated the audience from the arena. Draco abruptly halted in his tracks, causing Pansy to jerk and stumble clumsily on the stairs.

“Draco?” Pansy asked tentatively, hesitantly. He eyed the large group of Slytherins congregated around the railing apprehensively. 

“I have someone to see,” he muttered. “I’ll see you both later.” He untangled himself from Pansy and stalked up the stairs, scanning the crowd for a place to stand—one that would be far away from any potential stray flames directed at the audience. 

Pansy and Blaise could have accompanied him, but there was the possibility that he may breakdown at the sight of fire. He did not want them to see him in such a pitiful state. It was his own fault for chasing after Potter, for bringing Crabbe and Goyle to the Room of Requirement. If Draco had left Potter well enough alone, then Crabbe wouldn’t have cast the Fiendfyre, Crabbe wouldn’t have died.

He spotted a familiar head of silver-blonde hair and made a beeline for the Beauxbatons’ section of the stands, studiously ignoring the wary looks sent his way. He halted beside Gabrielle, resting a hand gently on her head. “Nervous?” 

Gabrielle looked up at him with watery eyes. “What if something goes wrong and she gets hurt?” 

“She’ll be fine,” he kept his voice firm, but Gabrielle still looked skeptical. He resisted the urge to wince; reassuring children was not his strong point. He felt a tiny hand slip into his and Draco squeezed it tightly. The Beauxbatons’ girls, albeit reluctantly, made a space for him to sit beside Gabrielle.

 Draco sat, finding comfort in being surrounded by individuals who didn’t know him well-enough to notice any distress on his part—unless he had a full-blown panic attack; that would prove difficult to hide. Though, on the off-chance that happened, he would, at the very least, never have to see these people again. 

Diggory went first, but Draco’s attention was elsewhere—namely, the flames. He was rapidly becoming aware of just how detrimental his fear of fire had the potential to be. What was he planning on doing if someone casted a fire-based spell in the midst of battle? Have a panic attack? Freeze? Draco didn’t even allow himself to contemplate the consequences of the Death Eaters discovering his fear. It would be used against him, both unrepentantly and ruthlessly.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a tug on his arm. Draco blinked down at Gabrielle who drew his attention to the arena. It was Fleur’s turn. He cheered along with the rest of the Beauxbatons’ students—looking very out of place; he was the only black uniform in a sea of light-blue. Fleur, as expected, successfully immobilised the dragon and retrieved the egg, but not without her skirt catching on fire. She held it high in air—a wide, victorious grin on her face. He gently wiped away the tears trickling down Gabrielle’s cheeks as the Beauxbatons’ stands erupted into cheers.

Krum went next. Draco took one look at the dragon—Chinese Fireball—opening its mouth, presumably to subject the audience to its awful orange fieriness, and abruptly turned away. Then, it was Potter’s turn. He summoned his broomstick and flew expertly around the stadium, also securing himself a golden egg. Draco scowled—as much as he loathed to admit it, Potter was a brilliant flyer. 

At the conclusion of the First Task, Gabrielle latched onto him, drawing him towards the Champions’ tent. He ducked under the tent flap, only to be graced with the unwanted sight of the Golden Trio, staring at him with matching expressions of disdain. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” The Weasel spat. 

Draco ignored him, allowing Gabrielle to drag him over to Fleur, whose entire face brightened at the sight of her little sister. Gabrielle threw herself into Fleur’s open arms. Draco lurched forward as Fleur’s hand clasped around his wrist, tugging him into a three-way hug. He melted like candle wax. He pulled back, watching the two of them—lips twitch upwards, something unbearably fond tugging at his heartstrings.

Gabrielle gasped. “You nearly smiled!” 

Draco sniffed haughtily. “Consider that Fleur’s reward for not getting turned into dragon fodder.” Gabrielle let out a bubble of startled laughter, Fleur merely rolled her eyes. 

“Fleur! My darling!” Madame Maxime burst into the tent, making a beeline for them. Draco narrowly avoided tripping over his own feet as he ducked out of her warpath. “You were incredible. I am so very proud!” Madame Maxime erupted into tears, which Draco took as he cue to leave—he wasn’t sure he could handle it if all three of them started crying. He turned to leave, only to find himself staring at the incredulous faces of the Golden Trio.

Ah. Bugger. They saw that. 

Draco would have thought that they had better things to do than observe him, but when taking Potter’s sixth year stalking escapades into consideration, he knew that he was giving them too much credit. 

“You can speak French?” The Weasel blurted. 

“Considering that I was just conversing in it, the answer to your question should be fairly obvious,” he drawled. 

The Weasel scowled, his face flushing a remarkable shade of red. “You don’t have to be such a git, Malfoy.” 

And Draco had definitely just reached his social interaction limit for the day.

Wait. He distinctly remembered Potter and the Weasel being at odds up until after the First Task—the rumours of their infamous ‘marital spat’ had quickly circulated throughout the school. But he’d seen them interacting amicably recently. Had Potter accusing Draco of placing his name in the goblet actually helped to rekindle their friendship prematurely? 

Dark, cold amusement bubbled in his lungs. Of course Draco’s failed attempt at civility worked out in Potter’s favour.

He felt eyes boring into the side of his head, and he turned, recoiling internally at the anger in Potter’s extraordinarily green eyes. He wondered how low Potter’s opinion of him truly was. He evidently believed that Draco was cruel enough to enter him in a death tournament, and thought him capable of bypassing Dumbledore’s magic, which would be flattering in any other situation.

It wasn’t as though his skepticism and animosity were unwarranted. Draco had been a Death Eater—a follower of the very individual who was the direct cause of all the death and emotional upheaval in Potter’s life. Draco had bowed to that man, had followed His orders, had allowed Him to permanently brand him like cattle.

He pushed past the Golden Trio, shoving his way out of the tent, only to crash into something solid. He landed on the ground, pain jolting up his spine at the jarring impact. 

Salazar. Today was not his day. 

Draco blinked, staring up at the perpetrator dazedly. Oh. It was the dragon-Weasley. Honestly. How many Weasleys was he going to encounter today? 

He grasped the hand offered to him, allowing Charlie to haul him to his feet. Draco begun to dust off his black slacks, only to freeze mid-movement, abruptly coming to the mortifying realisation that both times he had met Charlie, Draco had ended up sitting in dirt. “We have got to stop meeting like this.” 

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I should have watched where I was going.” His gaze flicked to the closed tent flap behind Draco, a small frown tugging at his lips. “You’re friends with one of the Champions?”

Draco didn’t blame him for his confusion. In fact, he found it amusing. “Yes.” 

“Who?”

“Fleur Delacour.” 

Charlie’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Really? I didn’t know that you two knew each other.”

“We met through a mutual acquaintance,” Draco waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh?” Charlie tilted his head to one side, like a curious child. Draco did not find it endearing. Nope. Not at all. 

Draco sighed, resigning himself to indulging the Weasley in an explanation. “I was acquainted with her younger sister, Gabrielle, first.” 

His lips parted in surprise. “How did that happen?”

“Gabrielle was lost, I assisted her,” he stated blandly. Charlie hummed softly, a curious thoughtfulness creeping into his blue eyes as he observed Draco.

Draco inhaled sharply as the Weasel’s distinctly irritating voice grew louder as the Golden Trio approached the tent flap, which he was inconveniently standing right in front of. Merlin. He didn’t want to deal with the fallout if the Weasel found him conversing amicably with his older brother. He would accuse Draco of ‘corrupting him,’ or some other paranoid nonsense. 

“If you do not mind, I’ll be going now.”

Charlie blinked, snapping out of his reverie. “Ah, yeah, of course.” 

Draco quickly spun on his heel, heading back towards the castle.

 

Notes:

I find Tom Riddle incredibly difficult to write, so I’m sorry if his characterisation here is inaccurate or just plain terrible. I really did try my best!

quick disclaimer: what they desire is not each other ♥ and keep in mind that I based this off a fourteen year-old Tom Riddle’s deepest desire - not Voldemort's. I'll explain the reasoning behind it later on!

Chapter 4

Notes:

I'm not really satisfied with this chapter but asdfghjkl *throws chapter at you*

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When Severus had swooped into the Slytherin common room earlier that week looking as though Potter had eaten all of his potion’s ingredients, Draco should have known; the dreaded Yule Ball.

He had desperately trying to pretend that it didn’t exist, but what with the whole goddamn castle buzzing with obnoxious gossip about who was taking who, it was nigh impossible. He’d accompanied Pansy in the Before, which had led to his parents unfortunate misinterpretation of their completely platonic relationship. He was entirely unwilling to relive that mess of an ordeal. 

It had only been a week since the announcement, and Draco was prepared to travel even further back in time if only to strangle the bastard responsible for the tradition. 

The sound of his footsteps on the cold, stone floors echoed around him as he stalked towards the entrance courtyard. It was the last Hogsmeade before Christmas, and Draco, for some unfathomable reason, had agreed accompany Fleur and Gabrielle. Draco nuzzled down into the Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck, suppressing a shiver at the cold air that somehow managed to seep into his skin despite his many layers of clothing. 

He found them waiting beneath a stone archway, bundled in matching baby-blue cloaks. Gabrielle immediately latched onto him, like the adorable little leech she was—and Fleur huffed a laugh. As the trio trudged along the snow laden paths towards Hogsmeade, Draco expertly ignored the stares and whispers they received; he was accustomed to them by now, and judging by the way Fleur looked pointedly ahead, she was, too. 

The three of them were making their way down the main street when they ran into Draco’s current least favourite people; the Golden Trio. He swore under his breath.

“Malfoy.” Draco arched a single brow, surprised Potter had acknowledged him. He assumed that Gabrielle and Fleur’s presence had everything to do with it.

“Potter.” He forced himself to take the sneer out of his name. It was harder than it looked. 

It was then that Draco noticed the Weasel staring at Fleur as if she was God’s gift to humanity. Oh, Merlin. “Fleur,” the Weasel blurted out. He bit the inside of his cheek. This was going to end horribly, he could just tell. “I—I was wondering if y—you had a date to the Yule Ball?” 

It was clear that Potter and Granger hadn’t expected that, if the way they were staring at the Weasel as though he’d suddenly grown a second head was any indication. Fleur stared at the Weasel in distaste. Granger, realising that Fleur’s reply was going to humiliate the Weasel even further, grabbed his arm and dragged him off. Potter mumbled a string of apologies before following suit. 

He barely had time to snicker before Gabrielle eagerly hauled him down a narrow side-street. The rest of the morning continued in a similar pattern; Gabrielle quite literally dragging them into every shop that piqued her interest—which resulted in them browsing stores that were unfamiliar even to Draco.

Eventually, Gabrielle grew hungry. Draco did not want to visit The Three Broomsticks due to the presence of a certain Madam Rosmerta, and he was disinclined to take the Delacour sisters to the disreputable Hog’s Head. So, he settled for Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. The tuneful tinkle of a bell announced their arrival, and he wrinkled his nose at the tacky and frilly interior. 

Draco watched on in poorly concealed amusement as Fleur was approached by—oh. That was Roger Davis; the boy Fleur accompanied in the Before. He and Gabrielle exchanged knowing looks, and went to sit at a free table in the back. Imagine Draco’s complete and utter shock when Fleur joined them moments later, looking irate.

“I will hex the next person who asks me to the Yule Ball,” Fleur scowled, arms folded across her chest.

“Normally, one would be flattered with this kind of attention,” he pointed out, voice flat—still gobsmacked that Fleur had just rejected Davis. It would seem that events could change even without Draco’s direct interference. 

“Not when it is only because of the Veela allure.” Bitterness and resignation coloured her tone. Draco could sympathise. Before the Malfoy name went to shit, he found it unbelievably difficult to differentiate those who liked him for him, or those who were aiming for his wealth, political clout, or family name via marriage.

“She’s never even had a boyfriend,” Gabriella whispered conspiratorially. Fleur flushed crimson, mortified.

“Not to worry, Fleur. I have never been in a relationship, either.” Draco was an eighteen year-old virgin with no relationship experience. How depressing.

“You aren’t dating that Pansy girl? You two are always together.”

“Pansy is like my sister. You don’t date your sister,” he pointed out, blanching at the mere idea. 

“Oh? Then who are you taking to the Yule Ball?” Draco sighed, long and drawn-out. He had considered asking Pansy again—aftermath be damned—but Blaise had beaten him to it.

“People aren’t exactly lining up to go with Draco Malfoy,” he said flatly, then wince inwardly, thinking of the Howler his father would undoubtedly send for attending a social event on this scale alone.

Fleur’s eyes lit up. “Draco! Go to the Yule Ball with me.” Shocked speechless, Draco could only stare at her, his grey eyes flickering back and forth between each of Fleur’s, assessing the sincerity of her offer.

“Salazar. You’re serious,” he couldn’t have kept the disbelief out of his voice even if he tried.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.” 

He hesitated, blinked slowly, then sighed softly. If that’s the case, then I would be honoured to accompany you.” Fleur flashed him a brilliant grin, and begun to detail her dress, which was silver, and demanded that he accommodate her. 

Maybe the Yule Ball wouldn’t be a disaster, after all. 


The weeks leading up to the Yule Ball passed by in a heartbeat, and before Draco knew it, Christmas Dat had arrived. 

He awoke to a large pile of presents stacked at the end of his bed that he was disinterested in opening. He glanced across the room, unsurprised to find Blaise already awake, mid-way through unwrapping his own gifts. Blaise’s bed was covered in foreign clothes, all obviously worth a ludicrous amount of money. Draco rolled his eyes fondly.

“Merry Christmas,” he said by way of greeting, to which Blaise responded in kind. He eyed the velvet suit jacket in Blaise’s hands. “Mrs Zabini clearly spared no expense.” 

“Does she ever?” Blaise’s eyes glinted with amusement. Draco’s lips twitched upwards in response. Mrs Zabini was the most flamboyant and luxurious woman that he’d ever met. She could afford to be, of course, what with the large amounts of inheritance left to her by her numerous deceased husbands.  

He grabbed his present for Severus off of his desk, bid Blaise farewell, and left the room. He weaved his way through the crowded common room, watching as his housemates boasted about their brand-new this, and their upgraded version of that. If it had been any other year, the majority of Slytherin house would have returned home; they all had their own family traditions or lavish parties to attend. But the Tri-wizard Tournament created an exception. It was utterly bizarre.

In all honesty, the normalcy of it all deeply unsettled him; Draco’s last Christmas had been a rather morbid and disturbing affair. In lieu of a Christmas lunch spent with his parents, the Dark Lord had arranged a ‘party.’ It was an ill-suited term for an extravagant luncheon served with a side dish of Muggle torture, blood, and death. 

Draco walked through the dungeons, shuddering at the icy-cold air. He always looked forward to Severus’ presents; they were never the most expensive, but were easily the most heart-felt and interesting. 

He knocked on the door, engulfing his godfather in a hug the second it opened. “Merry Christmas.”

Severus sighed. “Yes. Merry Christmas, my burdensome godson.” 

He moved to sit in his designated, velvet armchair, a fond smile curling at his lips. Severus had a house-elf deliver them hot chocolate, and he peeked at his godfather over the rim of his mug as he took a sip. “Can I give you my gift first?”

“If you insist,” he conceded, sounding vaguely amused. Draco huffed, handing Severus a small black box, who eyed it apprehensively—forever the skeptic. Severus’ face was unreadable as he opened it, and pulled out a dainty silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a regal-looking doe, which had beautifully carved diamonds for eyes. It was dreadfully expensive—but presents for Severus did not have a price limit. 

The look on his godfather’s face had him reconsidering. Had he overstepped? No. Severus wasn’t mad; his expression was one of grief. If he pressed for answers, then Severus would shut down. He was an extremely private man, with walls as high and impenetrable as a mountain.

“Why?” It was spoken so quietly that Draco very nearly missed it.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, hesitating, choking over his own answer—which he kept short, not trusting himself to speak. “It’s your Patronus?” It had seemed so obvious only a moment ago, but now he felt uncertain.

Severus’ expression softened, gently placing the necklace back in the box. “Thank you, Draco.” 

He unstuck his tongue from where it had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

His godfather fixed him with a fond look that instantly had the tension bleeding out of Draco’s shoulders. Draco set his hot chocolate aside, accepting Severus’ gift with two hands, quickly unwrapping it. ‘A Complete Guide to Dark Wards.’ He quirked a single brow. Severus hadn’t gifted him this in the Before.

“Sev, are you encouraging the use of Dark Magic?” 

“All of the most complex, and therefore useful wards are Dark in origin,” Severus drawled. “I thought that you may use it to preserve your privacy.” He threw Draco a pointed look. Ah. He had doubt that Theo would search through his belongings at one point, and he could use it to ward his bedroom when the Dark Lord inevitably invaded the Manor.

 “You always give me exactly what I need,” he trailed a finger along the book’s spine. “Are you perhaps a Seer, Sev?”

He snorted. “My life would have turned out very differently if I could see the future.”

Draco’s insides recoiled—those words hit far too close to home. He cleared his throat, shoving aside his disconcertment. “Have you had the opportunity to interact with Moody since he begun teaching?” 

“It’s Professor Moody to you,” he reprimanded lightly, reclining back in his chair. “And naturally, seeing as we are both members of staff. Not to mention that his… personality is quite impossible to ignore.” 

Draco pursed his lips, tapping his finger listlessly against the book in his lap. “Has he always been like that?” 

“Impertinent and incorrigible?” Severus raised an eyebrow. Draco inclined his head in affirmation. “Yes, I suppose so. Why do you ask?” 

“It would appear that he has made it his life mission to humiliate me,” he muttered, irritation saturating his tone. “He’s not particularly fond of Lucius.” 

His godfather snorted softly. “Not many Aurors are, Draco.”

“I am well aware,” he said with a bitter twist to his mouth. “But I do not particularly enjoy when their hatred for him is projected onto me.” 

“It’s part of the baggage that comes with being Lucius Malfoy’s son, I’m afraid.”

“I should polyjuice myself for a day,” he mused. “Maybe I’ll try my hand at being Saint Potter.” Severus looked so appalled by the idea that Draco had to stifle a laugh. 

“Speaking of polyjuice potion,” Severus paused, something contemplative in his gaze. “Have you perhaps heard of anyone in need of it?”

He blinked. “None that I can recall. Why?” 

Severus pursed his lips. “The ingredients for it have been disappearing from my stores.”

Draco bit his lip. “Pansy heads the Hogwarts rumour-mill. I can ask her to keep an ear out.”

“I would appreciate it.”

Draco returned to find the Slytherin common room in a complete uproar. Right. The Yule Ball was tonight. He had genuinely forgotten. He glanced at the untouched pile of presents, then looked away, still as disinterested as he was an hour ago. He had several hours until he needed to begin preparing, and he was certainly not spending it here. So, he headed to the Room of Requirement, Severus’ gift in hand.

His usual appeared, and Draco settled on the floor, legs crossed. He leisurely flicked through the pages, searching for a ward that would ensure he had at least one safe haven within the Manor. He perused until—

“‘Sub Tuum Praesidium,’” he murmured in interest, noting that it was a Blood Ward. There were two basic components to any Blood Ward—the warding itself, and the blood runes interwoven in it. Unfortunately, the asshole of an author had neglected to include the very essential Blood Magic required for it work. But the Black family was infamous for Blood Magic, so perhaps he could write to his mother and request the address to the Black family home. He vaguely remembered her mentioning an extensive library with a vast selection of Dark Magic texts. 

He read over the instructions, grimacing; wards were extremely complex. He raised his wand and channelled his magic, watching on in surprise as the tip of his wand immediately emitted a blue hue. He let the light dance in air momentarily before chanting the incantation, slowly drawing the complex patterns shown in the book.

It was easier than he’d expected, and Draco accredited it to his harrowing year-long experience in sixth year; the finer details and intricacies were extremely similar to the reparative magic that he’d used to mend the Vanishing Cabinet.

Salazar. That goddamned cabinet was determined to haunt him until the day he died. 

Draco’s brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully weaved the ward, watching the tendrils of magic slowly knit themselves together. But when he stepped back to admire his handiwork, the warding collapsed. He stared, dumbfounded, at his evaporating magic before trying again. He repeated the process for the next few hours, following the precise wand movements and incantations obsessively—desperate for his wards to stay. It was infuriating knowing that whilst he was able to construct them, but unable to maintain them. 

Draco was snapped out of his wallowing by a deep, smooth voice that resounded throughout the Room of Requirement.

“Malfoy?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, instinctively raising his wand in the direction of the intruder. He blinked, surprised, when he came face-to-face with the mirror. The handsome Slytherin boy was staring down at him, dark eyes glittering with amusement. Draco scowled and lowered his wand, stubbornly refusing to move from his spot on the floor.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“You are, actually,” Draco said dryly. Mirror-boy glanced down, gaze resting on the open book in Draco’s lap.

The boy turned his curious face to Draco. “May I inquire as to what you’re reading?” He slowly held up Severus’ gift, watching as the boy’s eyes roamed over the cover, gaze tracing the title. 

“Merry Christmas,” he’d only said it out of politeness, to fill the awkward silence—but took a vindictive kind of satisfaction in the blank shock that briefly flitted across the boy’s face. Draco tilted his head to the side. “Is it not Christmas where you are?”

“It is.” Mirror-boy’s expression was utterly unreadable.

The silence that settled over them was heavy as he stared at the boy with an acute intensity, hardened grey eyes searching and assessing. The boy merely stared back, wholly unbothered under the weight of Draco’s gaze. The boy’s outdated robes suggested that he was not from Draco’s time—though, he was unable to determine which decade.

Mirror-boy’s eyes darted over his face voraciously. He faltered briefly—the intensity reminded him of Lucius, which in turn led his thoughts to his pile of still unwrapped gifts. He’d once bragged and boasted endlessly about his family’s wealth, but now recognised the futility of it all. For all the importance Lucius had placed upon it, their wealth hadn’t saved their family; Lucius had a life-sentence in Azkaban, Narcissa was dead, and Draco was left awaiting a trial that, regardless of the outcome, would leave him with no future in wizarding society.

He bit back the overwhelming urge to let himself go, to spiral so deep into his thoughts that he may never claw his way out. He forced his attention back to the conversation—not that their interaction could even qualify as one. The boy, for some unfathomable reason, seemed unperturbed by the silence, content to simply scrutinise Draco. He tried to discern the emotion in mirror-boy’s half-mast eyes, but only found a mask staring back at him.

“I’m aware that my face is pretty, but it’s rather rude to stare,” he taunted, swallowing his discomfort, and forced himself to maintain a carefully constructed mask of nonchalance that he was certain the boy could see through.

“Are you aware of this mirror’s purpose?” The quick topic change gave Draco whiplash. Mirror-boy simply raised a single brow and moved a loose, dark curl out of his eye, gaze unreadable. 

“No. But I take it that you are.” 

The boy nodded slowly, his gaze heavy with something that Draco couldn’t decipher, but then he blinked and walls erected behind his eyes, any and all emotion replaced by utter blankness. “You did not return home for Christmas.” 

“Neither did you,” Draco said softly, hesitantly, staring directly into the boy’s dark, piercing eyes.

“A Malfoy choosing Hogwarts over his palatial Manor,” he mused, cold and cruel, eyes swirling with furious emotion.  Technically, there was no choice—he’d been required to remain due to the Tri-wizard Tournament. But Draco wasn’t about to correct him—let the boy make his own assumptions. “What a novelty.”

Ah. The topic of his family never failed to ignite a dark, simmering bitterness in the boy. But why? Surely this was not about his wealth? His blood-status? The Malfoy name and the prestige associated with it? He forced himself to swallow the scathing retorts that rested on the tip of his tongue. It would not be prudent of him to resort to childish squabbling. 

“Does my wealth bother you?” Draco kept his voice even, polite—non-confrontational. 

“I think,” he drawled slowly, quietly—his voice like silk, “that it's wasted on you.”

Draco snorted, deeply amused. He wasn’t at all subtle with his resentment, was he? “I think you’ll find that wealth is overrated.” He’d contemplated what would happen if he handed the Dark Lord the entire contents of the Malfoy vault. Would that buy his family their freedom? Draco suspected that the Dark Lord would just cackle in his face for his efforts. 

The boy hummed in consideration, his smirk audible when he playfully murmured, “You are truly unique for a Malfoy.” 

He blinked. ‘Unique.’ He was not so shallow as to believe it was a compliment. He considered the context in which it was spoken, and—oh. It was a slight against the unoriginality of the Malfoys. If a few ‘uncharacteristic’ remarks and actions were all it took for him to warrant the word ‘unique,’ then it spoke volumes of the conformity of his ancestors. 

“Your insults are so cleverly disguised as compliments,” Draco remarked dully. 

The boy merely blinked, affecting an innocent look. His gaze traced a burning line along the edge of Draco’s face, dissecting him. “Your hair has grown.”

Draco’s lips parted in surprise at the nonchalant, offhand observation—leaving him feeling off-kilter. He reached up, self-consciously twirling a loose lock of hair around his finger. It was true— his hair had grown to such an extent that it now curled underneath his ears. It was longer than it had ever been in the Before.

“Hair tends to do that,” he retorted sardonically, running thin fingers through his mussed, white-blonde strands. He glanced up, only to find mirror-boy’s eyes following the movement. “Is that an issue?”

“Did I say that it was?” The boy canted his head to the side. It was an innocent enough gesture, but to Draco, it felt insufferably condescending. His jaw clenched, tightening in anger. Was this boy truly incapable of answering questions like a normal human being? Draco pitied those who were forced to interact with him on a daily basis. He exhaled deeply, clamping down on the frustration that swelled unbidden in his chest.

Draco, eagerly looking for an out to this conversation that was testing his patience, checked his watch, letting out a string of curses in French. If he wanted to be ready on time, he would need to leave immediately. “I sincerely hope that the rest of your Christmas will be far more pleasant than mine.”

“Judging by the look on your face, that shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish.” 

Draco pinned him with a cold, flat look that made the boy’s mouth curve up into an amused smirk. Draco snapped his book shut with an irritated sigh; there would be ample opportunity to work on his warding at a later date. He stood up, brushing the dust off of his black slacks. He went to bid farewell to his new, unwanted companion, only to find that the mirror had already vanished. 


Draco knew that he was taking longer than the average male to get ready, but the average male wasn’t the Malfoy heir who had incredibly high expectations to live up to, nor the date of Fleur Delacour, whose beauty could easily make him look like a Blast-Ended Skrewt if he wasn’t careful. 

He stood before a floor-length mirror, carefully scrutinising his reflection. He was not blind to his own looks, and was aware that such an appearance would disarm more people than it wouldn’t. He carefully adjusted the diamond encrusted cufflinks that his mother had sent him for Christmas, and watched, enraptured as they glinted beautifully when the light reflected off them.

The only issue was his hair. Draco had lived the majority of his life gelling his short hair, and now that it had grown longer, he was absolutely clueless as to how to style it. After an hour of useless fiddling, he charged into the girl’s dorms and demanded that Pansy and Daphne save his hair. The girls simply rolled their eyes at his dramatics and shoved him in front of a mirror. 

“Honestly, Draco,” Pansy fussed. “Why grow your hair out if you can’t even style it at this length?”

Draco scowled, folding his arms across his chest petulantly. “It looks better longer.” 

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Pansy conceded easily, her fingers expertly combing through his hair. “I must admit, it’s a great improvement.” 

“I agree,” Daphne commented, handing Pansy a bunch of hair products and tools. “I can’t say that I miss your short hair.”

“And why, pray tell, did no one care to inform me just how horrible I looked with short hair?” Draco arched a single brow.

Pansy snorted, shooting him a dry, flat look. “Would you have listened to our advice?”

“You would have sooner murdered us,” Daphne added, nodding sagely.

“You’re both horrid,” he snapped defensively, embarrassed that they were both entirely correct in their assumption that the old Draco would have clawed their faces off for the mere insinuation. Pansy rolled her eyes, and Daphne’s lips quirked upwards in amusement. 

Pansy ran her fingers through his soft locks experimentally. “Well, darling, I regret to inform you that I do not currently own any gel—”

“No gel,” Draco interrupted hastily. “Never again.”

“It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” Pansy sounded far, far too pleased by his declaration. Draco opened his mouth, ready to defend his past gel-wearing tendencies, but Pansy bulldozed over him, “You never told us who your date was.”

“That,” he declared haughtily, “is a surprise, Pans.”

“But I hate surprises,” Daphne whined, pouting. Draco flashed her a sharp smirk, causing her to pout to deepen into a scowl. 

“Hold still,” Pansy instructed, firmly gripping both sides of his head to hold him in place. He let out a long-suffering sigh—this was going to be a long night. 

Pansy’s advice, unsurprisingly, was revered amongst the Slytherin girls—resulting in constant interruptions. Though, in the end, it was worth the wait; the end product was far beyond what his meagre skills could ever accomplish. Draco, despite having observed the entire process, was left reeling as to how she had achieved it—and Pansy adamantly refused to divulge her secrets. 

Daphne was in the midst of retelling the rather entertaining tale of how Theo asked her to the Yule Ball, when they were interrupted by a sharp knock.

“Pansy?” Blaise’s muffled voice came through the door. Pansy was on her feet in an instant, rushing to the door. From his position on the bed, Draco could see the way in which Blaise’s eyes widened as he beheld the stunning sight that was Pansy. He exchange an amused glance with Daphne. The pair had dated in the Before, and Draco was almost certain that, judging by the way they were shamelessly ogling each other, they would end up as a couple in this one, too. 

“Daphne?” He was snapped out of his musings by Theo, whose cheeks dusted pink when Daphne sauntered towards him confidently. 

“You coming, Draco?” Blaise cocked his head to the side. 

Draco blinked slowly, then shook his head. “I have to go pick up my date.” Pansy raised her eyebrows, exchanging an unreadable look with Daphne, who nodded at something Draco didn’t understand, before they hauled the protesting boys out of the room, leaving him alone. 

He rubbed his pale, too thin fingers over his tired eyes. If he was not accompanying Fleur, he honestly would have bailed right then and there, consequences be damned. Draco’s head lolled forward, staring blankly at his lap. It was childish, but he yearned for his parents. He wanted to bask in the warmth that his father only ever openly displayed on Christmas, wanted to spend the morning baking Christmas cookies alongside his mother. 

He missed them, so much so that he could feel their absence like a physical ache in his chest.

Upon his return to the Slytherin dormitory earlier, he’d finally unwrapped his presents. It had gone smoothly up until he came across a card written in his mother’s elegant handwriting. It was so overwhelmingly nostalgic that, much to Draco’s horror, he had dissolved into tears, cursing himself for the blatant show of sentimentality. 

Sweet Circe, this was not the time for wallowing and brooding. Draco schooled his features, pushing himself to his feet—ignoring the leaden feeling in his legs—and slowly made his way towards the Beauxbatons’ accomodations. He’d suggested to Fleur that they make a dramatic entrance by arriving late, and she had wholeheartedly agreed, never one to shy away from extra attention.

The instant he arrived, he was surrounded by a hoard of curious girls who greeted him courteously in French before ushering him inside. Draco complied without resistance, equal parts baffled and impressed by the attention and efficient man-handling. 

“Draco!” He staggered backwards as a small force crashed into him.

“Gabrielle,” he greeted pleasantly. “I hope Fleur has not been waiting for too long.”

“Not at all!” Gabrielle chirped, abruptly seizing him by the wrist and dragging him down a long corridor. Draco followed her into a room at the end of the hallway, only to freeze, inhaling sharply at the sight before him.

Fleur looked truly breathtaking. Her gown was floor-length and strapless with a neckline that cut straight across, accentuating her thin shoulders. The silver silken fabric of her dress rippled when she moved, the sequins scintillating their reflections across the room. Hanging from Fleur’s neck was a simple white gold chain from which an exquisite pear-shaped diamond hung, and her hair was styled into a complicated updo that Pansy would be incredibly jealous of. 

“You look beautiful, Fleur.”  

She sniffed. “I would hope so. This dress cost a fortune.” Fleur eyed him appraisingly. “I must say that you have exceeded my expectations, Draco Malfoy. You are truly worthy of being my date.” Draco rolled his eyes fondly and extended an arm, which she took, a soft smile playing on her lips. 

Fleur and Draco headed the Beauxbatons entourage as they made their way towards the Great Hall, fashionably late as planned. They came to a halt at the top of the grand staircase when he heard Fleur take a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Nervous?” She nodded, her grip on his arm tightening. “Don’t be. You are easily the most beautiful girl here.” 

Fleur pouted. “You haven’t even seen any of the other girls yet.” 

“I don’t need to,” he retorted slyly. Fleur flushed, but took the compliment in stride. “Shall we?” Draco flicked a glance over his shoulder at the group of Beauxbatons students congregated behind him, waiting patiently. 

He inhaled deeply, and together they begun to descend the stairs.

 

Notes:

gah Tom Riddle is so hard to write. I'm so sorry if my interpretation of his character isn't accurate~!

out of curiosity, is there anything specific you all would like to see me include in this fic?

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco absolutely revelled in the way that every single head swivelled to face them. He didn’t even bother hiding his smug smirk. He was very aware of just how stunning they looked together; like living embodiments of liquid moonlight.

His housemates lingered at the base of the stairs. Theo gaped like a fish, whilst the girls simply gave him approving thumbs up, to which he responded with a wink. Blaise shook his head, a fond smile playing across his lips. 

What could he say? Draco Malfoy didn’t do subtlety; he had a penchant for being dramatic. 

As Draco and Fleur led the Beauxbatons entourage down the staircase, he took the opportunity to discreetly survey the crowd below him. He noted, with vicious satisfaction, that the large majority of the boys donned painstakingly ordinary black suits, with sporadic splashes of white and navy here and there. The rare grey suit he did see, were all remarkably inferior to his ludicrously expensive tailored suit. 

The pair, upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, were presented with the sight of an exasperated McGonagall making her way towards them, weaving through throngs of excitable students. Draco smirked at the double-take McGonagall did when saw them together. She recovered admirably quick, ushering them to stand alongside the other Champions.

If he were anyone else, Draco would have been gobsmacked at the sight of Granger accompanying Krum, but seeing as he had experienced this before he, much to Granger’s shock and horror, simply politely inclined his head in greeting. His gaze swept over the rest of the Champions, noting that Cho had still accompanied Diggory, and Potter the Patil girl. 

Speaking of Potter, he was currently staring at Draco, his eyes wide and jaw dropped. Draco, feeling supremely smug, flashed him one of his signature smirks.

“You are right.” Draco turned to Fleur, who had a satisfied smile on her face. “I am the best looking girl here.” 

“You should know by now not to doubt me,” his lips quirked. Fleur merely rolled her eyes fondly.

“Do they have an award for the best dressed couple?” She asked, her eyes scanning the room, shamelessly scrutinising the other couples. “We would win.”

“Your vanity knows no bounds, Fleur Delacour,” Draco remarked dryly, highly amused. 

She turned back to face him, her eyes alight with mirth. “Why thank you.”

The Champions stared at them in open-mouthed shock. He raised a quizzical brow, turning his gaze to Potter, who was glancing between Fleur and Draco with an unreadable expression. Draco was quick to dismiss him and cast his gaze about the room, searching for a particular red-head who had been turned down by Fleur. His eyes lit up when he spotted him standing across the hall, wearing those hideous dress robes and glaring daggers at Krum. He felt malicious glee bubble up inside of him at the sight. 

His issues with the Weasel ran deep—mainly due to his blatant prejudice against Slytherins, but also because Potter had chosen him over Draco in first year. He didn’t blame Potter for his choice—Draco had been an obnoxious little shit, but he’d been thoroughly humiliated at the time.

The Champions lined up in their respective pairs, and Draco exhaled deeply, mentally preparing himself to enter. He schooled his features into a perfectly neutral expression. It would not do to show any emotion in a situation where he would be under so much public scrutiny. The doors opened and the sound of applause thundered in his ears. The Hall was decorated as beautifully as Draco remembered; covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. 

He purposefully met the Weasel’s eye, smirking as his freckled face twisted in a combination of anger, irritation and shock. Draco, feeling smug and spiteful, winked playfully, and watched as the Weasel’s face turned as red as his hair. 

Dumbledore smiled indulgently as they approached the top table, his gaze solely on Potter. He snorted. Typical favouritism.

He took his place beside Fleur on the table designated for the Champions, eating his meal in contemplative silence, gaze flickering across his peers before him, observing which couples were paired together, and how different they were from the previous timeline, and which remained the same.

When all the plates had been cleared, Dumbledore stood up, gesturing for the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his hand, he conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. Draco stood up and extended his hand to Fleur, guiding her to the designated dance floor. He gently placed one hand around her waist, and clasped the other in his own. The Weird Sisters begun to play a slow, mournful tune, signalling the start of the Champions’ dance. Draco and Fleur glided around the room seamlessly, and with each twirl the sequins on Fleur’s dress glinted under the lights, casting flattering shadows across their faces.

He spared a glance at Potter and had to stifle a laugh; he looked both positively miserable and clueless. Slowly but surely, other couples began to join the Champions on the dance floor. Draco had to commend Longbottom on his dancing technique. He was surprisingly sure-footed for someone so naturally clumsy. 

Eventually, the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, one that was too fast for traditional ball-room dancing, and a group of Beauxbatons girls unapologetically snatched Fleur from him, joining the crowd of students gathering at the base of the stage. Draco exhaled in relief—the jealous, contemptuous looks shot his way had long since grown old. He weaved through the crowd of dancing students, moving towards his waiting housemates. 

Blaise’s face lit up, lips stretching into a smirk. “Well, well.”

“Fleur Delacour?” Theo exclaimed incredulously. Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “Wait, you’re not… dating, are you?”

Draco’s eye twitched. “No.”

Pansy patted him on the back. “Well, I for one, am proud of you. I honestly thought that you were going to show up alone for a while there.”

“So did I,” Draco admitted reluctantly, accepting the glass of something that Daphne handed him. He downed it quickly. “Does anyone care to dance?” There were cheers of agreement, and together they re-entered the dance floor. 

He realised, as he danced alongside his housemates, that he could not remember the last time he simply just let go. It was odd yet exhilarating. He snorted at Theo’s dancing skills. He looked like an angry chicken as he flailed his limbs about with reckless abandon. The absolute horror on Daphne’s face as Theo tried to dance with her, completely offbeat, was comical. 

Draco observed his housemates’ dance moves with fond exasperation. They all looked so genuinely happy. He stole a glance at the other students in his near vicinity. In fact, everyone looked happy. The thought made him pause, and he stood, unmoving, in the middle of dance floor. He swallowed hard, the knowledge that their joy would soon be replaced by dread, by fear weighing him down. The music in his ears sounded as though it was filtered through water, and he felt as though he had been expelled from his body, and was now observing the scene from afar. 

His gaze landed on Lavender Brown. You died. Then he spotted Fred Weasley. Dead. He turned to face Vincent Crabbe. Burnt alive. The continued existence of those individuals was reassuring. They shouldn’t be alive, and yet—

It was confirmation that this was real. That even though Draco should be imprisoned in an Azkaban cell, he wasn’t. Here was here. Wasn’t he?

He balled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. The pain was grounding, and he exhaled deeply as the deafening sound of music suddenly assaulted him, flooding his senses as if it were his first breath of air after being submerged deep underwater. He spun on his heel, overcome with the need to get away, only to stumble into Longbottom of all people.

Longbottom grabbed him by the shoulders, preventing him from tripping over his own bloody feet. He cursed himself inwardly at his display of uncharacteristic clumsiness, and for getting lost in his own despair in a public setting. Draco’s first instinct was to recoil away from the touch, and state that he did not require help from the likes of Longbottom, but he forced himself to endure it. He was supposed to do better, be better this time around. 

“Are you ok—” Longbottom blanched as he realised just exactly who he had assisted. His hands withdrew from Draco’s shoulders as if burned, and he didn’t know whether to feel offended or guilty that he invoked such a response. Guilty. He decided. Definitely guilty. 

“I’m fine,” Draco straightened his jacket. Longbottom nodded, looking distinctly nervous in his presence. It was rather upsetting; there was nothing threatening about Draco Malfoy. “You are surprisingly adept at dancing, Longbottom.” 

The shock on Longbottom’s face was comical. Draco raised an eyebrow, patiently awaiting a reply. “O—Oh,” he stuttered sheepishly. “I—I practiced. A lot.” 

Draco sighed internally. Longbottom was a hopeless conversationalist. “As riveting as this conversation has been, I regret to say that I must take my leave now.” He abruptly turned on his heel and headed for the exit. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at his housemates, who were still dancing along to the Weird Sisters at the edge of the crowd. His chest constricted with an emotion he couldn’t, nor wanted to name, and he quickly turned away, clenching his jaw. 

He deeply envied their innocence and ignorance. 

The front doors were open when he arrived, and Draco breathed in the cold, fresh air like a drowned man. The fluttering fairy lights twinkled as he walked down the stairs, stepping into a small courtyard surrounded by bushes, ornamental paths, and large stone statues. Draco cast his gaze around, only to almost choke on his own spit at the ghastly sight of Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies snogging half-concealed behind a rosebush. Oh, Salazar. It would seem that taking different partners could not prevent their fleeting attraction for each other.

Draco walked onwards past a grand fountain and numerous carved benches, straying down a winding path that led him through the rosebushes. He had only travelled a short distance when a very familiar voice broke through the silence. 

“—Don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.” Draco’s blood ran cold. That was definitely Severus. There was no mistaking that dark drawl. But why in Merlin’s name was he with Karkaroff? 

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious, and Draco blanched as the sound of their footsteps drew closer. He hastily dived behind the nearest rosebush, heart pounding erratically against his chest. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it—”

“Then flee,” said Severus curtly. 

“Malfoy?” Draco jumped out of his skin, panic welling up in his chest. His head snapped to the left, only to be affronted with the sight of a gaping Potter and a furious Weasel. 

“Potter?” He whispered back in sheer disbelief. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised that Potter of all people was spying on Severus—it seemed to be a hobby of his. 

“Flee. I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.” Severus’ voice sounded far closer than before. Draco instinctively held his breath, frozen to the spot. He did not want to be caught eavesdropping on his godfather, even if it was by accident. Severus’ disappointment was far worse than Lucius’.

“What are you doing here?” Potter hissed, totally missing the intense ‘be quiet’ vibe that Draco was projecting. He didn’t deign Potter with a reply, opting to peek through the rosebushes to stare at the retreating figures of the two men.

What had they been—No. Karkaroff spoke of fleeing. Merlin. The Dark Mark was reacting already? That had to be it. Draco knew that His return was coming, but there was still six months left. Had the Dark Mark reacted prematurely in the last timeline? He didn’t know, and Draco didn’t like not knowing. Deep, familiar panic settled in his bones. Fuck. 

“Malfoy?” There was a warm hand shaking his shoulder. “Malfoy!” 

“What?”

Potter blinked, surprised by his harsh tone, face twisting into a scowl. “I asked you what you were doing out here.”

“I could ask you the same question, Potter.”

“He’s probably just upset because his date was snogging someone else,” the Weasel interjected, voice taking on a haughty edge. “I’m not surprised that Fleur traded you in for Davies, since you’re a—”

“Let us not forget who it was that Fleur rejected without so much as a second glance,” Draco drawled, taking joy in the way the Weasel’s face contorted in anger. “I highly doubt that she even knew your name, or even remembers you at all.”

“You slimy git, I swear to—”

“Ron!” Potter interrupted hastily. “Don’t. He’s not worth it.” Draco swallowed heavily. That stung. He’d rather be insulted than dismissed. He exhaled sharply as he stood, brushing the dirt off of his grey trousers. 

Draco could scarcely believe that these two idiots were major players in defeating the Dark Lord. Granger, he could begrudgingly understand—she was incredibly intelligent. But the Weasel? What did he have to offer besides an inferiority complex, and a constant, all-consuming jealously for his ‘best friend?’ 

Without so much as another word to the two banes of his existence, he spun on his heel and stalked back towards the castle. He started on the path towards the dungeons, but paused at the sound of muffled sobs. He turned, eyes going wide when he realised it was Granger. 

Draco snorted. The Golden Trio were always having drama.

He purposely made his footsteps loud, alerting her to his approach. Her brown eyes snapped to his as Draco stopped before her, staring down at her slumped figure. “If you don’t want people to see you, then I would suggest not crying in such a public area.”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she snapped, but there was no real venom behind the words—she just sounded exhausted. 

Draco knew exactly who had caused this. “I don’t understand why you insist on associating with the Weasel when he reduces you to,” he gestured to her miserable state, “this.”

“Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.” 

“I sincerely hope that I am never able to,” Draco snorted, deeply amused. “The day I recognise the benefits of having the Weasel as a friend is the day I die.”

Granger shot him a weighted look. “You know,” she sniffed, drawing herself up. “I’m surprised you haven’t taken to insulting me yet, or calling me a mudbl—”

Draco barely resisted the urge to flinch, hastily interrupting her. “You know, Granger. I actually dislike that word.”

Granger looked shocked at that, her lips parting slightly in surprise, as if it had never occurred to her. It probably hadn’t. He didn’t blame her. “You—what?”

“You heard me,” he muttered. He had no idea why he was telling her this.

“What made you change your mind?” Granger pressed, looking both highly suspicious and curious.

Well, it all started when I saw Aunt Bella torture you in my home by carving the damn word into your arm.

“It was an accumulation of things,” he said vaguely.

She was silent for a long moment. Then, “I don’t believe you.”

Draco choked over a humourless laugh, scrubbing thin fingers over his face. “That is understandable.” 

Granger shot him another odd look, probably wondering why he was being so bloody agreeable. In all honesty, he was terribly weirded out by his own actions, but took reassurance in the fact that his ‘kindness’ stemmed from pity. He didn’t like her, not by any means, but she hadn't deserved the horrible things that had happened to her whilst trying to save them all from the Dark Lord.

Draco sighed deeply, and continued on his original path to the dungeons.


The following morning found Draco slumping into his seat at the Slytherin table, fighting off a throbbing headache. The conversation between Severus and Karkaroff had left him paranoid—so much so that he had barely slept. He doubted that he had achieved even three hours of sleep.

“You look like shit,” Blaise mused, observing him with thinly veiled amusement. 

Draco scowled, reaching for the coffee. “Your ability to state the obvious is unprecedented.” 

It was then that Pansy arrived, looking even worse then Draco, if that was at all possible. 

“Wow, Pans,” Daphne commented, observing her over the rim of her cup of tea. “You truly look like death warmed up.” Draco turned to Pansy, raising an eyebrow in a silent question.

She scowled. “Some asshole slipped firewhisky into my drink.” Draco stifled a snort, but she seemed to sense his amusement anyway, and cuffed him on the back of his head. “It’s not funny, Draco. I feel as though a herd of stampeding Hippogriffs trampled across my skull.”

“Thank you, Pansy, for that vivid imagery,” Blaise remarked dryly.

Pansy grinned sharply. “I aim to please, darling.”

The Great Hall was suddenly filled with the obnoxiously loud hooting of owls delivering the morning post. Blaise’s owl dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him, and he wasn’t at all surprised to see Harry bloody Potter plastered across the front page. He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shit.” Draco glanced up to see Pansy gripping a letter tightly, her nose scrunched up in displeasure. 

“What?” Daphne frowned as Pansy offered her the letter. Daphne’s eyes went comically wide as she read, flicking an apprehensive glance at Blaise. Draco immediately knew exactly what had occurred. This had happened last time, except it had been him, not Blaise, on the receiving end. 

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Pans?”

Pansy groaned mournfully. “My parents are under the impression that we are now courting, and have given us their blessing.” 

Blaise’s jaw literally dropped. “What?” 

“It could be worse,” Daphne suggested. Blaise gave her a blank look, and she had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Blaise sighed, sounding anything but fine. 

“I’ll send her a Howler,” Pansy said, voice hardening with determination. Blaise opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted.

“Did you see my article?” Draco glanced up to see the malicious smirk on Theo’s face. Blaise shook his head, picking up the discarded Daily Prophet from the table. 

“This is about Hagrid and his giant heritage,” Blaise sounded thoughtful. Draco blanched. He had been the one to make that quote in the Before. “I see that you made a contribution.”

“Naturally. That half-breed shouldn’t be teaching at Hogwarts.” 

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, raking his trembling fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to think of Hagrid, because when he did, all he could see was him carrying a limp Harry Potter in his arms as the Dark Lord declared him dead.

He was drawn out of his thoughts when a letter from Narcissa was dropped on his empty plate. He softened at the familiar handwriting on the envelope, and quickly opened it, scanning over its contents. He hummed softly, grateful that she didn’t questioned as to why he needed the Black family house address. Though, he was surprised that there was no parting comment from his father.

Speaking of Lucius, Draco hadn’t received word from him since his week long disappearance at the beginning of the year—which was almost four months ago. He shrugged off his uneasiness, and turned his focus to planning a visit to the Black family house.


Draco slumped down in his chair, fingers tightly clutching his glass of butter beer as he tipped his head back, his bleary gaze coming to rest on the ceiling of the Hog’s Head. He wasn’t fond of the establishment, but the alternative was the Three Broomsticks, and he was not ready to face Madam Rosmerta just yet.

“You alright, Draco?” He blinked sluggishly, straightening up to stare at Blaise and Pansy. He hummed softly in acknowledgement and closed his eyes, missing the concerned look exchanged between them. 

He tapped his fingernail against his glass absently, silently wishing away the sense of unease that had persisted since he had locked himself inside the Room of Requirement earlier that morning, continuously exposing himself to simple fire-based spells. Draco tightened his grip on the glass as the image of dancing orange flames flittered unbidden through his mind. It was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

“I sent mother a Howler,” Pansy’s voice broke through his despondent thoughts. 

“Oh?” Blaise asked with fake nonchalance. “How did that go?” 

Draco opened his eyes in time to see Pansy grimace. He suppressed a snort. He could have told her as much. In the Before, he’d sent letter upon letter in an attempt to convince both their parents that their relationship was completely platonic, only for his efforts to be brushed aside under the assumption that he was too damn shy to admit to his ‘feelings.’ As if Draco Malfoy would ever be shy. The insinuation was as insulting as it was infuriating.

“That’s inconvenient,” Blaise raked a hand through his short hair. Pansy made a small noise of agreement. Draco allowed their conversation to wash over him as he pondered over his impending trip to the Black family house. He was aware that the house was located in, much to his disgust, a Muggle neighbourhood, and that it had ancient enchantments in place to keep it hidden. It left Draco unsure as to whether the house would even allow him entry.

He snuck his hand into his inner coat pocket, searching for silken drawstring bag that he had cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on in preparation for his visit. 

“Draco?” He glanced back up to find his friends staring at him expectantly. Pansy sighed exasperatedly at his inattention, rolling her eyes. “I asked if there was anywhere that you would like to go?” 

He blinked slowly. “I have plans.” Pansy’s eyes narrowed curiously, and she opened her mouth to inquire further, but Draco immediately cut her off. “Alone.” Her mouth snapped shut and she pouted petulantly, but ultimately dropped it. 

He quickly downed the remainder of his butter beer and exited the Hog’s Head, trudging through the snow laden streets towards the edge of Hogsmeade, far away from prying eyes. He withdrew his mother’s letter from his pocket, double checking the address before apparating. 

He landed on a street in what he assumed was Muggle London. He had never visited a Muggle neighbourhood before, and the grimy fronts of the surrounding houses weren’t making a very good first impression. He, once again, found himself lamenting at the barbaric nature of Muggles. 

Draco glanced around—to his left was number eleven and to the right was number thirteen. He scowled, irritated. He was certain that Narcissa had written ‘number twelve.' He took a few tentative steps forward, only to jerk back in shock when a battered door emerged between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. 

He stared blankly at the newly materialised door. There was a silver door knock welded to resemble a serpent— typical Blacks, but no keyhole. He glared at the shabby door. How was he supposed to open the bloody thing? He reached out, tentatively touching the fading black paint. Draco flinched as he felt an invisible force ripple beneath his fingers, followed by a series of loud, metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, the door creaking open.

Blood Wards. 

Draco blinked in shock, then stepped over the threshold into total darkness. Salazar. The house smelled downright horrible—rotten almost. He screwed up his nose in disgust. The old-fashioned gas lamps suddenly sputtered into life all along the walls, making him jolt in surprise. 

It looked, well… awful.

Draco could scarcely believe that he was standing in The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He walked down the hallway, keeping his footsteps light, adamantly refusing to acknowledge the unease that wrapped around him like a cloak. The sight of the mounted house-elf heads on the walls made him shudder in disgust. Draco sincerely hoped that they were cut off by someone who had succumbed to the infamous Black family madness, and that this was not a normal past-time of his ancestors. 

His focus on the gruesome house-elf heads led to his accidentally tripping over an umbrella, setting off a horrible, earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech. Draco felt an icy tumble of panic crash through him. Was he not alone?

He summoned the Gryffindor-like courage he didn’t possess, and tiptoed back down the halls, searching for the source of the scream. Draco peeked around a corner, only to freeze in surprise. The moth-eaten velvet curtains he had passed earlier had flown apart to reveal a portrait of old woman in a black cap, who was screeching, “Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers—”

Draco walked closer, and he gaped, flabbergasted. “Great-Aunt Walburga?” 

The old woman ceased her screaming almost immediately, and an eery silence settled over the house. She narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you call me, boy?”

“Great-Aunt Walburga,” he repeated in incredulity. Her shrewd eyes raked over him, accessing him. There was a short, tense silence as she contemplated him. Then, her eyes lit up with delight. 

“Cissy’s son! Both a Malfoy and a Black. The purest of pure-bloods!” She exclaimed shrilly, nodding her approval.

Draco smirked up at the morbid old woman. “I am truly unfortunate to never have had the honour of making your acquaintance when I was younger.” When you were alive went unspoken. Draco didn’t think it would be a great idea to remind the volatile woman of the fact that she was very much dead. She didn’t seem like the type to appreciate it.

“It is a shame, isn’t?” Walburga sniffed, looking rather pleased. Ah. It was sad how happy Draco’s empty words of flattery made her. 

“Great-Aunt Walburga,” Draco begun, slipping into the politest tone he could muster. “Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the Black family library?” 

“Naturally,” Walburga said haughtily, as if the mere assumption that she didn’t know her way around her own house was the greatest insult he could possibly bestow. “Its on the third floor, the last room on the right. You’ll find the door locked, my dear, but your Black blood will open it.” 

“I appreciate your assistance, Great-Aunt Walburga,” he flashed her a disarming smile before turning around and heading up the stairs, winding his way through derelict hallways. He paused in front of the supposed-library door, placing his palm against it. He, once again, felt an invisible force ripple beneath his hand, the door unlocking with a sharp click. 

Draco pulled out his wand, and whispered, “Lumos maxima,” bathing the room in a bright, white light, illuminating shelves upon shelves of books. He trailed his finger along the dusty spines, noting that the vast majority were dedicated to the Dark Arts. It was rather upsetting to see such knowledge gather dust. 

Draco spent the next several hours perusing the library, collecting titles ranging from Blood Magic to ones that contained in-depth descriptions pertaining to the various applications of Dark Magic. All of which he stashed inside his drawstring bag—thank Salazar for extension charms. He’d only just sat down on the floor, a rather peculiar book on Dark Curses in his lap, when he heard the floorboards creek. 

Draco’s blood went cold, and he slowly raised his head, only to find himself staring into a pair of grey eyes identical to his own. Sirius Black. His infamous, recent Azkaban-escapee, mass murdering cousin. Well. He wasn’t certain about that last part. Draco remembered how bloody devastated Potter had been when Aunt Bella killed him. He was fairly certain that Potter wouldn’t mourn the man who sold his parents out to the Dark Lord. 

Sirius had his wand pointed directly at Draco’s face. “Who are you?” Sirius demanded. Draco sniffed imperiously, offended—even mirror-boy had immediately recognised him as a Malfoy. When Draco failed to respond, he growled lowly, “How did you get in?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “The blood wards, cousin.”

Sirius froze, a disbelieving look of confusion passing over his face. “Cousin?”

He still didn’t recognise him. Honestly. “I do believe that my identity is quite obvious.”

Sirius scowled. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinising him intensely. Draco could literally see the exact moment Sirius recognised him; his grip on his wand tightened, and his scowl, if it were possible, deepened. “Lucy and Cissy’s brat.”

“Yes. I gather that answers both of your initial questions?” Draco quirked an eyebrow. 

“I need to change the wards on this Merlin-forsaken house,” Sirius mumbled, sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes with his free hand, his wand still pointed at Draco. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought that was fairly obvious.” Draco gestured to the open book situated in his lap. 

Sirius’ face crinkled in confusion. “You seem suspiciously comfortable around me.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

“I’m a mass-murderer who escaped from Azkaban,” Sirius deadpanned. 

“An innocent mass-murderer,” Draco corrected. 

Sirius looked genuinely startled, before his eyes narrowed into a glare. “You know?”

Oh. Fuck. Draco wasn’t supposed to know that, was he? He quickly employed mirror-boy’s signature tactic; deflecting by answering a question with another question. “If it wasn’t you, then who did betray the Potters?”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Sirius spat, his face turning white with fury.

“Wormtail?” Draco spluttered in absolute disgust. If it had been bloody Wormtail who had given away their location, that meant that the Potters had trusted him enough to make him Secret Keeper, which meant… Oh, Salazar. “You were friends with Wormtail?”

Sirius nodded slowly, gaze hardening. “I was.” 

“But why? He’s—he’s… well, he’s Wormtail.” Draco shuddered at the mere thought of the repulsive man. 

Sirius eyed him suspiciously. “You sound awfully familiar with him.”

Oh, Merlin. Have fun bullshitting your way out of that one, Draco Malfoy. 

He was saved from answering by the appearance of his old Professor. Draco had never been so grateful to see the scraggly man in his life. Wait. What in Merlin’s name was Professor Lupin doing here?

“Sirius,” Lupin greeted with a small, but genuine smile. Draco could only stare with raised eyebrows.

“Remus!” Sirius spun around and engulfed Lupin in a hug. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” his voice was soft. “I bought lunch. It’s downstairs if you’re hungry.”

“This… house doesn’t seem like the type of place for domesticity,” Draco drawled, honestly appalled that, despite two people clearly living in it, it still looked utterly inhabitable. Sirius snorted his agreement. Ah. He clearly had no lost love for this place. It wasn’t at all surprising; Narcissa had told Draco that he’d had been disowned and burnt off the family tree after running away at sixteen.

“Then again, I suppose it is an improvement from Azkaban,” Draco commented idly, glancing at the sorely neglected bookshelves. “If only barely.” Sirius’ responding grin was sharp and malicious. 

Draco then made the colossal mistake of making eye-contact with his ex-Professor. Amber eyes. Werewolf eyes. A cold spike of fear went through him. He cursed himself for forgetting that Lupin was a werewolf. Like Greyback. The beast that mauled his mother to death. Draco swallowed hard. Lupin was different—he was a good man. Whereas Greyback deserved to rot in a special kind of hell for defiling and murdering his mother. 

He drew his gaze back to the book in his hand, squashing his rising panic. 

“How did you even find this place?” Draco flicked his gaze back up to Sirius who was eyeing him with thinly veiled suspicion. 

“Mother.” 

“Ah, continuing the family legacy are we?” Sirius remarked derisively, staring at the book in Draco’s lap with disgust. 

“You don’t mind if I take it, do you?” Draco asked, voice deceptively sweet. Sirius bristled at his tone. “Unless you plan on redeeming yourself by honouring our family’s traditions.”

Sirius' mouth twisted into a snarl as he took a menacing step forward, only to pause when Lupin placed a hand on his shoulder. Lupin directed his kind gaze to Draco. “Are you staying for lunch?”

Sirius whipped his head around to stare at Lupin, his face a mixture of shock and horror. “He’s already overstayed his welcome. I told you that I don’t want anything to do with this family!” Draco let out a low whistle. There was definitely a shit ton of unpacked family trauma hidden behind all of Sirius false bravado. Sirius shot him a glare that would have intimidated a lesser man. Draco simply smiled blandly in return. 

“You can’t redirect your anger at your parents towards him,” Remus said knowingly, softly.

“Why the hell not?” Sirius demanded indignantly. “He’s not just a Black, he’s also a Malfoy, which makes him even worse—”

“I would like to point out that you know absolutely nothing about me,” Draco interjected. He could hear the irritation in his own voice.  

“Oh?” Sirius’ voice dripped with mock disbelief. “Is this the part where you try and convince me that you’re nothing like dear old Lucy?” He pointedly angled his head towards the book in Draco’s hands.

Salazar, Draco was so sick of all the stupid Light propaganda against Dark Magic. 

“I have nothing to prove to you, Black,” he snapped, his temper flaring. “I just don’t appreciate people making assumptions based off of my family name. Surely you can relate to that.” 

Sirius’ expression darkened, and Draco met his gaze head on, refusing to back down. “You’re making the mistake of assuming that our circumstances are the same,” he growled. “You’re a Slytherin, you delve into Dark Magic, you believe in all that blood-purity nonsense—”

Draco snarled wordlessly, snapping his book shut. “Being a Slytherin does not make you a bad person—”

Sirius barked out a dark, humourless laugh. “Name one decent Slytherin, I dare you."

“Aunt Andromeda.” 

Sirius’ grey eyes widened in surprise. “You know of her?”

“She’s my Aunt,” Draco said dryly.

“Cissy actually told her son about her disowned sister who married a Muggleborn?” Sirius laugh was hollow. “Cissy? Who’s a nasty bigoted—”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that,” Draco snapped with a flash of barely leashed anger. “You’re unbelievable. You say that you despise your family for being blood-supremacists, but you’re no better.” He didn’t hate Sirius, not by any means, but he was not going to sit around idly and let himself be used as a scapegoat for Sirius’ hatred of their pure-blood family. 

“Listen—”

“No,” Draco interrupted, voice so cold that he barely recognised himself. “You listen, Black. You judged me based on my family name and my blood-status, which makes you the exact same as those pure-blood bigots you claim to despise with every inch of your being. You’re just as prejudiced as our family is, but you’ve deluded yourself into believing that your prejudice is the acceptable kind, when you are also discriminating against individuals due to their upbringing and blood-status.”

Sirius looked taken aback. “Have you ever considered that the prejudice against Slytherins is deserved?”

Draco clenched his jaw. He was aware that Slytherins were unnecessarily cruel to Muggleborns, but the mere thought of attempting to change the pure-blooded Slytherins’ views was terrifying—it was a prejudice that went back centuries. A literal war had to occur for Draco to alter his perspective, for Salazar’s sake.

“Everyone judges us, and they aren’t kind to us, because they don’t like what we represent,” Draco swallowed hard. Those whose had been destroyed by the Dark Lord redirected their hate to Slytherin house—which had become synonymous with the Dark Lord, with Dark Wizards, with evil. “They hold the actions of past Slytherins over our heads because they needed an outlet, someone to blame, to unleash their anger and grief on. Slytherin house is the perfect scapegoat.”

Slytherins were victims of bullying, too, as due to prejudice, Slytherin house had become an isolated body, left to fend for themselves. The Professors would never reprimand a student for targeting a Slytherin, and as a result, they’d tightened their ranks, grew bitter and defensive, and verbally lashed out at the slightest provocation. 

“Slytherins obviously do not help their own reputation by responding to cruelty with more cruelty. But when everyone assumes the worst of you, it is far easier to live up to their expectations rather than try to change for the better, because no one would believe us if we did, or we would undoubtedly be accused of harbouring hidden motives.”

If Draco suddenly begun to treat people civilly, he’d undoubtedly be accused of being ‘up to something,’ as Potter had so elegantly put it during their sixth year.

“You claim that Slytherins’ prejudice and cruelty towards others is what separates us, but even if the Slytherins managed to change, do you really think that the other houses would be able to put aside past differences and actually accept us?”

Sirius stared at him, expression unreadable, but Draco could see the answer hidden deep within his grey eyes—no, they would not. 

It was Lupin who broke the strained silence. “How about some lunch, Draco?” 

Draco exhaled through gritted teeth. “Yes, Professor, that would be lovely.” He stored the book in his drawstring bag before sliding it back inside his coat pocket.

Lupin chuckled. “Just Lupin. I’m not your Professor anymore.” Draco inclined his head, meeting Lupin’s amber eyes, panic resurfacing like a cluster of sparks in his abdomen. 

No. Stop. It’s just Lupin. Greyback isn’t here.

He slowly rose to his feet, eyes darting between Sirius and Lupin apprehensively, fingers twitching at his sides.

“Follow me,” Lupin turned on his heel, disappearing down the hallway. Draco resisted the urge to childishly knock Sirius’ shoulders as he stalked past, trailing after Lupin to the bottom floor and into the dining room. He eyed the collection of take-out containers on the table, and took a seat directly in front of them.

Lupin moved to the opposite side of the table, rolling up his sleeves. Draco’s gaze caught on Lupin’s large, faded bite mark, a fresh bolt of terror shooting down his spine. The knot of fear tightened, a cold fist now, pressing against his chest. The mocking bite mark that Greyback left on his mother’s corpse flashed through his mind.

No. Lupin isn’t Greyback. Calm down. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the image of his mother’s defiled corpse, but it was as if it were branded onto the back of his eyelids. His breathing became more rapid, more shallow, and he clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. 

“Draco?” His eyes shot open, only to find that Lupin was leaning across the table, his amber eyes were shining with concern, and his face—his teeth were close—too close. He jerked back, his fear like a flood of icy water, stealing away his air, trapping him. It felt as though his ribs were bound by rope, and his lungs burned in agony as the amount of air trapped in his throat increased. He couldn’t breathe, the lack of air only worsening his panic. He shut his eyes, withdrawing behind his Occlumency shields, focusing on regulating his breathing. 

They were different; Lupin was kind, and he’d offered him lunch, Greyback was cruel, and would eat him for lunch. 

His breath stuttered as his shaking slowly begun to reduce, throat burning with unshed tears. Draco’s eyes blinked open, only to discover that Sirius was staring at him, his eyes dark, expression unreadable. Lupin was standing, pressed against the opposite wall, amber eyes heavy with emotion. Draco noted the distance he’d placed between them, and decided that his old professor was frightfully perceptive. Perhaps it came with a lifetime of dealing with prejudice, but Lupin seemed to understand that he was the trigger.

Draco wanted to apologise, but the words were stuck in his throat. Judging by their expressions, he wagered that both Sirius and Lupin were under the impression that Draco’s negative reaction was, despite his speech earlier, the result of prejudice. It seemed that people would always assume the worst of him. Draco tried to rectify their biased opinion of him, had indirectly asked for a second chance, only to blow it within ten minutes. Typical. 

He ached to explain that his reaction wasn’t due to prejudice, but fear. Though, that would result in pity, or they’d assume that he was lying—because the spoiled, coddled Malfoy heir couldn’t possibly have been exposed to anything horrifying enough to result in trauma. Draco felt something akin to despair swell in his chest as he pushed himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs.

“I think it would be best if I take my leave,” Draco said slowly. He stared directly at Lupin, clamping down on the stab of fear that shot though him. Lupin gave him a small, sad smile, but nodded. Draco turned to Sirius, who was staring back at him with an indefinable expression. “It was nice to meet you, cousin.”

Draco exited the Black family house, took a deep, shuddering breath of fresh air, and apparated back to Hogsmeade.

 

Notes:

for the sake of the plot, Grimmauld Place is not under Fidelius just yet~

thank you for reading! ❤︎

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest terrified Draco Malfoy. 

He hadn’t had a single pleasant experience in these woods; Quirrellmort drinking unicorn blood, getting mauled by a rightfully offended Hippogriff, fleeing Hogwarts with the Death Eaters after his failed assassination attempt on Dumbledore. All of those disastrous events had taken place within the dreaded Forbidden Forest. The very same forest that Draco was currently walking through.

He desperately craved the privacy that the forest provided, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth being scared out of his wits every time he saw a shadow move, which was all the goddamn time. At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised if a horde of Centaurs suddenly charged towards him and trampled him to death. 

It would, at least, be on par with all of the other experiences he had in this blasted forest. He prayed to whatever divine beings that were listening, that he didn’t get lost and die. He wasn’t sure that anyone would look for his body here, so dying would be really inconvenient. 

Draco pulled his coat tighter against him as to avoid the sharp chill of the winter air that crept through the trees. He sighed, breathing out a cloud of frost as he wove his way through a sea of protruding roots that twisted like the back of a Basilisk.

It had been two weeks since his disastrous visit to the Black family house, and he still had no idea how to tackle his aversion to werewolves. He couldn’t exactly seek-out werewolves for exposure therapy. Draco would inevitably come face-to-face with Greyback, and he couldn’t very well have a panic attack at the sight of him. He was, unsurprisingly, rather determined not to made into a source of entertainment for bored Death Eaters. He could easily picture it now—the laughs, jeers, taunts, and even Aunt Bella’s infamous crucio. 

He slunk through the thick foliage, sliding behind a tree as a small clearing came into view. He peered around the edge of the trunk to see a herd of Thestrals milling about. He, of course, had been able to see them since his sixth year, but had feigned ignorance as he’d felt uncomfortable acknowledging that he had witnessed death.

Salazar, had he truly lowered himself to seeking comfort in the Forest of bloody Doom and Gloom? If that wasn’t a damningly accurate representation of his current mental state, then he didn’t know what was.

Draco slowly padded into the clearing, keeping his footsteps light on the forest floor. Thestrals were fascinating; morbid yet beautiful. He tentatively walked towards the Thestral closest to him, admiring how its dark and sleek skin gleamed under the stray chords of light that snuck through the dense canopy above. It snapped its head towards him, and he froze. He really didn’t want yet another creature to attack him. The image of a rearing Hippogriff flashed before his eyes.

Ignoring all those cowardly instincts of his that told him to run the fuck away, Draco gritted his teeth and took a small step closer. Did he have to bow for this one, too? He didn’t know anything about Thestrals, which was, in hindsight, rather stupid. Yes, Draco. Let’s charge into the Forest of Certain Death to find a pack of sinister creatures that you know nothing about. 

Draco held out his hand, watching as the Thestral sniffed it. His breath caught in his throat. It could totally chomp off his hand right now. Instead, it butted his hand with its head. Draco slowly stroked it, relishing in the glossy feeling of its coat. It was such a shame that it took witnessing death for these creatures to be visible.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” A soft voice floated across the clearing. Draco’s blood went cold. He whipped around, eyes wide. 

Oh. It was just Loony—Luna Lovegood. 

Draco breathed out a sigh of relief. Lovegood seemed to take the fact that he didn’t automatically hex her into oblivion as permission to come closer. Draco tensed as she approached the Thestral closest to him, hand extended as she begun to stroke its leathery wing. Draco watched her, unsure how to interact with the girl that the majority of school had branded as a special kind of crazy. 

“You’re the first person I’ve seen here,” Lovegood said, her voice unnaturally soft. “I usually visit them alone. It’s nice to have company.” Draco looked up at her. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Lovegood looked rather lonely. He gathered that her individuality wasn’t a winning trait in Ravenclaw. 

“How long have you been visiting them for?”

“Since first year,” she gazed around the clearing. “She was a brilliant witch, my mum was. I was nine when she died.” Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat, his own mother’s death flashing behind his eyes. 

“You’re troubled.” 

The hysterical knot in Draco’s throat tightened. “Is it that obvious?”

Lovegood nodded sagely. “The Blibbering Humdingers told me.” 

“The—Right.” That made no sense, but Draco didn’t bother asking her to elaborate lest she launched into an explanation that would undoubtedly confuse him further.

“Wrackspurts, too.” There was an airy quality to her voice that suggested that she wasn’t all entirely there. He wasn’t in the position to judge. Ever since travelling back in time Draco found that, much to his disconcertment, he got lost inside his own head more often than not.

“Wrackspurts,” he deadpanned. Lovegood nodded solemnly. Draco sighed, rubbing his fingers over tired eyes. This girl saw invisible creatures yet she was still saner than his dear old Aunt Bella. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought.

“Yes. They float in your ears and make your brain go all fuzzy,” Lovegood said absently, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation to have. 

Draco raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I see,” he grimaced. 

“You dispel them by thinking positive thoughts. I find that talking about your problems helps,” Lovegood smiled, her eyes still rather vacant. Draco blinked. Was that an indirect invitation? Was playing therapist for strangers a common thing for her? This was not what he had in mind when he retreated to the Forbidden Forest.

“We should go back. The forest creatures don’t like to be disturbed at night.” Draco glanced at the slowly darkening sky. Lovegood didn’t have to say that twice. The pair walked back towards the castle in companionable silence, and Draco silently cursed the winter and its short day-light hours. Despite the eerie ambience, the isolated nature of the forest was preferable to the castle, where he felt the constant prickle of the portraits’ eyes on his skin.

As they reached the entrance foyer, Lovegood turned to him. “Farewell, Draco Malfoy.”

“Farewell,” he said stiffly. She bounced off and disappeared around the corner, leaving Draco baffled by the enigma that was Luna Lovegood.


Draco let out a relieved breath. He’d finally successfully cast the complex warding spell required for ‘Sub Tuum Praesidium.’ It had only taken him a month, and he supposed that his experience in the reparation of complex magical artefacts—a.k.a the sodding vanishing cabinet—had enabled him to fine-tune his wards at a rather fast rate.

He’d also discovered a combination Blood Magic spell in one of the texts that he had pilfered from the Black family library. It contained an intricate binding that only he could bypass, as he was the only individual alive who had both Black and Malfoy blood.

Immensely satisfied, he shoved the books back into his extendable draw-string bag and made for the dungeons.

Draco had just turned down yet another corridor, only to flinch at the sight of Cedric fucking Diggory walking past him. He swallowed hard. He'd been actively avoiding him—always running away whenever Diggory came within close proximity. Why? Because Draco had no bloody idea how to prevent his death, and at the rate he was going, he was resigned to letting it happen. It felt inevitable at this point. What was Draco supposed to do? Infiltrate the Third Task, tackle Diggory to the ground, and place him under Imperius? Knock him out? Forcefully drag him out of the maze? 

Because those actions were reserved for individuals of the heroic variety—of which Draco was most certainly not. 

Draco was not brave, nor selfless, and he would be the first to admit that his morals were rather skewed. He wasn’t like Potter with his saviour-complex, or his apparent invincibility against authority figures sans Severus. Honestly, Potter could probably blow up half of Hogwarts and still get away with just a slap on the wrist. 

The only real way to prevent Diggory’s death was to incapacitate him before the Third Task, and leave him in a coma that even Dumbledore couldn’t awaken him from until good old snake-face’s dodgy ritual was over. Draco snorted inwardly at the impossibility of succeeding at that. 

He let out a low growl as he stalked down the corridors. He shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. He didn’t want to feel responsible for Diggory’s life, because he wasn’t—he didn’t have an obligation to save his life. He was just an unfortunate ex-Death Eater, time travelling, Azkaban-convict who knew things he really shouldn’t. He shook off his thoughts as he neared the dungeons. He could ponder over the conundrum that was Diggory’s impending death later. 

Draco was almost—so bloody close—to the Slytherin dormitory, when an entirely unwelcome and unfortunately familiar voice halted him in his tracks.

“Malfoy!”

Salazar. How did he even find Draco?

“Potter,” he kept his voice even, refusing to turn. He gritted his teeth, listening to the sound of Potter’s approaching footsteps. The corridor settled into silence as Potter came to a halt in front of him, his bright green gaze boring into him. The intensity of the stare made Draco twitch uncomfortably. “Well?”

Potter blinked, clearing his throat. “I spoke with Sirius.”

Ah. Draco mentally braced himself for the incoming speech on his insolent attitude towards both Lupin and Sirius, and how he was wrong—that Slytherins would never change, were incapable of change, and blah blah blah.  

“He said that you two were…” Potter’s nose wrinkled, as though he had smelt something particularly foul.

“Yes?” Draco prompted, biting back a flare of impatience.

Potter pursed his lips, and spoke slowly, almost reluctantly, “Related.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes. We’re cousins of sorts.”

He nodded stiffly. “Right.” Of course Potter would be disgusted by that. He stifled a snort. If he was this upset about Sirius’ relation to Draco, then he would be downright horrified when he met both Great-Aunt Walburga and Aunt Bella.

“Look, Potter, as much as I enjoy our time together, I would very much like to return to my dormitory, so unless there’s an actual point to this conversation, I’ll be taking my leave.”

Potter visibly collected himself, clearing his throat. “He said you weren’t what he expected.”

“What? Instead of being absolutely terrible, I was only moderately terrible?”

Potter’s lips twitched. “Well, we’d told him about you and—”

Draco made a choked sound. “You told Sirius about me?” It certainly explained why the man had been so antagonistic, as if Draco’s entire everything—family, Hogwarts house, blood status—hadn’t been reason enough already.

Potter scowled. “You happened to come up—”

“I had no idea that I played such an important role in your life, Potter,” he smirked devilishly at Potter’s blatant discomfort. “Consider me flattered.”

“Don’t get cocky, Malfoy,” he retorted irritably. “I never said it was a positive role.”

“Well, now that’s not very nice.”

“It’s your own fault,” Potter’s accusing tone made Draco bristle. He didn’t need another fucking reminder. “Look, I just wanted to see if Sirius was right about you."

Draco stared. He’d made an utterly terrible first impression, so he could guess as to what kind of opinion Sirius had formed of him. Though, it wouldn’t hurt to get clarification. “Must you always be so vague, or would you care to elaborate on that? Unless you are actually incapable of forming a sentence containing more than five words.”

Potter’s face twisted unpleasantly. “I don’t even know why I bothered. You must have done something to Sirius, because your personality is exactly how I remembered it—”

“What an excellent elaboration,” his voice sharpened in irritation. “Thank you, Saint Potter, for allowing such detailed insight as to exactly what Sirius thought—”

“Will you just shut up and let me finish?” He growled, running a hand through his stupidly shaggy hair. “Sirius said you weren’t half as bad as we made you out to be, but I don’t see it.” Draco's eyes went wide with barely concealed shock. Sirius said what?

“Look, I don’t like you, nor do I care for your opinion of me.” Potter’s eyes flashed with surprise, as if Draco’s disinterest was news to him. He’d been avoiding Potter for the majority of the year. Wasn’t that indicator enough? “So, I would appreciate it if you would just drop it.”

“Why are being so difficult?” Potter demanded with a frustrated growl. “I don’t even understand what I did to make you hate me so much. Is it because I’m a Gryffindor? Because I defeated Voldem—”

“Salazar,” he breathed, exasperated. “Have you ever considered that it is simply your personality that I dislike? Or is your ego too big for you to even contemplate that as a possibility?”

Potter pursed his lips, brow twitching in annoyance. “I don’t have an ego—”

He let out a hollow laugh. It was as though Potter couldn't comprehend that someone disliked him for him. He’d even assumed that Draco's dislike was rooted in a reason as superficial as his Hogwarts' house. Draco was petty, but not that petty. “Do you truly think that you’re that likeable? Or, have you just grown so accustomed to the masses fawning over you that—”

“You’re insufferable,” Potter snapped, eyes bright with anger. “I don’t understand how a slimy git like you even has friends. But then again, they’re not really your friends, are they? I bet your daddy hired them to—”

“Shut the fuck up, Potter,” Draco snarled, a cold fury behind his words. 

“Why?” The asshole smirked. “Did I hit a sore spot?” 

“Your sanctimonious, holier-than-thou attitude is really fucking annoying,” Draco hissed through gritted teeth, clenching his wand. “It’s not as though you don’t have flaws of your own—”

“And I bet you’d just love to point them all out to me,” he snarked, lip curling back.

Frustration and anger surged up in equal measures. “Can’t you just accept that I dislike you and move on with your life? Why is this even important to you?”

“Sirius and Remus were willing to speak on your behalf,” Potter explained, his eyes filled with frustration. “They must’ve had a reason. ”

Draco bristled. “I’m not a puzzle to be solved.”

“I never said you were.”

“No?” Draco arched a single brow, incredulous, pale fingers tapping listlessly against his wand. Potter had certainly implied it. It was glaringly obvious that Potter had no interest in him as a human being—Draco was just a means to satisfy the curiosity that Sirius had presented.

“No,” Potter reaffirmed. “He doesn’t think you placed my name in the Goblet. I don’t believe him—”

“Of course you don’t,” Draco muttered, bitter and exhausted. Potter pointedly ignored him.

“-but Sirius made several points that were… logical.”

“Logical,” he deadpanned. “You mean that they made perfect sense, but your ego forbade you from accepting that you fucked up?”

Potter’s lip twisted in the beginning of a snarl. “I already told you! I don’t have an ego—”

“No, you just assumed that your opinion was the right one.”

“You have to admit that you’re suspicious.”

“Why? Because my father was a Death Eater?” Draco said in disbelief, choking back a hysteric laugh. “In case you’ve forgotten, Sirius and I come from the same family. Sirius’ own brother was a Death Eater, and his mother was an even worse bigot than Lucius. Tell me, do you consider Sirius suspicious?”

Potter looked offended by the insinuation. “What? No! Of course not.” 

Draco idly wondered if Potter was acquainted with the term ‘double standards.’ 

“Then will you show me the same courtesy and give me the benefit of the doubt? I literally haven’t done anything to warrant such baseless suspicion.” It was true. In this timeline, he was completely innocent. 

Draco’d assumed that the conversation was finally over, but then Potter went and opened his big mouth. 

“I need you to be honest with me, Malfoy,” he narrowed his too-green eyes. “Did you, or did you not put my name in the Goblet of Fire?”

Draco stared in blatant disbelief. Potter wanted to revisit that disaster of a conversation? Oh, fuck no.

“I have already told you that I did not,” he replied shortly, tone sharp and laced with irritation. Potter raised an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes dark with a curious thoughtfulness. “Will that be all?”

“No, I—” Potter blew out a frustrated breath.

Draco sighed inwardly. He should have more patience, be more understanding. Draco had lived through a sodding war—he’s had time to work through his prejudice. Potter’s had no such opportunity. He most likely hadn’t even realised that he even was prejudiced—isolating and condemning Slytherins was such a commonplace thing, after all.

Potter stared at him, his gaze unreadable. “You,” he murmured, “are extremely difficult to understand. You make absolutely no sense.”

“I’m not obligated to make sense to you,” Draco said, with a mixture of deliberate calm and faint exasperation. This conversation was an absolute train wreck. “Look, Potter, all I want is for you and your sycophants to leave me alone. Is that too much to ask?”

“You—what?”

“Look,” Draco held up a hand to silence whatever bullshit Potter was about to spew. “Believe me, or don’t believe me, it makes no difference to me.” He pushed his way past Potter. “Just leave me alone.”


Draco sat on the Slytherin designated stand, squashed in between Blaise and Pansy as the Second Task took place. The ice cold wind whipped at his face, stinging his cheeks, and he burrowed his face further into the Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck, repressing a shiver.

The task had been underway for at least twenty-five minutes now, and yet, no one had returned. He let out a deep, shuddering exhale and cast his gaze around the stands, grimacing at the hoards of shivering students. Honestly, whose brilliant idea was it to hold an aquatic event in bloody winter?

Draco’s musings were interrupted by Fleur’s emergence from the Black Lake.

He was on his feet in an instant, shoving his way through the crowd. He spotted her, and froze. Fleur was sobbing, curled up into a ball on the ground, knees drawn to her chest. He went to her side, dropping to his knees, ignoring how wet and cold she was as he pulled her shivering form into his arms. Draco stoked her back soothingly, murmuring consoling words in French until her breathing evened out. Fleur glanced up at him with sad too-blue eyes.

“I couldn’t get past the Grindylows,” her voice wobbled. “I—I failed. I couldn’t—”

“Fleur,” Draco interrupted, his voice firm. Fleur pressed her lips into a thin line as Madam Pomfrey bustled over, creating a fuss. It was then that he noticed the numerous cuts on her arms and her torn swimsuit.

“Have you seen Gabrielle?” Draco feigned glancing around. He, of course, knew exactly where she was. But, he didn’t think Fleur would take the news that her little sister was currently floating at the bottom of the Black Lake very well.

“Not since we ate lunch together yesterday.” Fleur nodded absently, shifting her searching gaze to the crowd. He silently prayed that Fleur wouldn’t cause a scene.

Then, Diggory emerged from the lake. 

Draco moved without conscious thought, reaching to help pull Cho Chang out of the Black Lake. He was surprised at her easy compliance, even more so by her soft, mumbled, “Thanks.” He nodded jerkily, gently guiding her over to Fleur, who was now wrapped in layers of blankets. Draco sat Chang down, sneaking a hesitant glance at Fleur, who was staring at Chang with an eerily blank expression. Fleur’s blue gaze flitted rapidly between Diggory and Chang, something like horrified realisation settling on her features. 

She had evidently figured out the line, ‘we've taken what you'll sorely miss.’ Fleur shot to her feet, a murderous look on her face as she marched up to Dumbledore, proceeding to shout at him, angrily, in French. Her possy of Beauxbatons’ girls were quick to join. He watched on in vicious amusement as the old coot tried and failed to calm them down. Yeah, no. Draco was absolutely not getting involved. The whole scene was completely and utterly terrifying. 

Then, Krum returned, accompanied by Granger, whose wet, bushy hair gave her the appearance of a drowned rat. He turned his attention back over to where Dumbledore was still trying to placate Fleur. He stifled a laugh at his lack of progress. 

After forever had passed, the Weasel and Gabrielle finally surfaced. Fleur immediately reached for her sister, pulling her ashore. The two sisters embraced, clinging onto each other tightly. Then, Potter emerged in all his drowned glory, causing the audience to break out into a resounding applause that hurt Draco’s ears. He watched, deeply amused, as Fleur kissed both Potter and the Weasel on the cheeks, their faces flushing a bright shade of red. He rolled his eyes, sitting down beside Gabrielle, who was trembling and staring blankly out at the Black Lake. 

He swallowed hard. “Gabrielle?” There was no reply, no indication that she'd heard him. He caught movement out of his peripheral vision and glanced up, catching Fleur’s worried eyes. She pursed her lips, crouching in front of her little sister, trying to get her attention. He turned away, unable to take Fleur’s anguished expression, only to lock eyes with Potter. 

He went dead still. They hadn’t parted on friendly terms, but Potter had complied with his request to be left alone, and had stayed away from Draco these past few weeks. Potter’s lips curled into a thoughtful frown as he gazed steadily back at Draco. The moment was lost when Granger bounded up to Potter, wrapping him up in a fierce hug.

He turned his attention back to the Delacour sisters, who were embracing each other once again. Draco made to remove himself from the scene, feeling awkward for intruding on a private moment, only to freeze as a hand latched onto him. Draco turned to find Gabrielle looking up him with pleading, watery eyes, her fingers tightly clutching at his sleeve. His expression softened as he crouched back down, and pulled the soaking wet girl into a hug.

It was then that Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out, causing the crowd to go silent. Draco listened half-heartedly as the points were announced, barely batting an eye when Potter got additional points.

Draco, in his desire to avoid the crowds, left the Black Lake the instant the announcements finished. He might scream if he was coerced into useless conversation revolving around Potter and how he ‘cheated,’ or whatever rubbish rumours the Champions' actions had instigated this time. 

He shoved his fingers deep into his coat pocket. His day had been going well so far, which was unnerving. He had ‘not bad’ or ‘average’ days, but never ones that went anything remotely resembling ‘well.’ So, Draco wasn’t surprised at all when he was accosted by the very suspicious Moody on the way back to the castle. 

“If it isn’t the spawn of Lucius Malfoy,” Moody jeered.

 Draco blinked, long and slow, barely resisting the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “Is there a reason behind your animosity towards my father?” 

“Your father was a Death Eater. He should’ve been locked up along with the others who served the Dark Lord,” Moody spat, mouth set in a tight, grim line. 

Ah. There it was again. Draco’s mind twisted desperately from thought to thought. He had dismissed it last time because he had not thought it was possible—Draco'd just assumed that he overly paranoid. Now, however—

“If you want to pretend to be an Auror, then I suggest that you don’t refer to Him as the Dark Lord. It’s a bit of a dead giveaway, no?” Draco taunted—near certain that his deduction was correct.

And judging by the way Moody’s face froze, he was right. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I, now?” He cocked his head to the side, a twisted grin on his face. “Severus has been complaining about the ingredients for Polyjuice potion going missing. He blames Potter, but I’m inclined to believe differently.”

“You’re out of line, Malfoy.”

“Let me see. There’s Carrow, Dolohov, Rookwood, Avery, Lestrange, Yaxley, Mulciber, Macnair, Crouch—” It was a minuscule twitch—a different man might not have noticed it, but Draco had been training to read impossible people since birth. “Ah. Barty Crouch Jr.”

“You know an awful lot of Death Eater names for a child,” he raised an eyebrow, intonation and cadence shifting into what Draco suspected was his normal pattern of speech. He stamped down the urge to snap back that he was not a child. 

“Is that the reason you hate Lucius? You served the same Lord, and yet, you were sent to Azkaban whilst he walked free?” It was comical how quickly Barty dropped his facade. Maybe all those years imprisoned in Azkaban had ruined his ability to think—only an idiot would give into juvenile taunts so easily. 

“Not all of us have a generation of wealth and prestige to back us,” Barty’s tone was terribly bitter, deservingly so; the Crouch family was one of the poorer pure-blood families.

“The Lestranges possess an enormous amount of wealth, and yet, it didn’t save them from Azkaban,” Draco drawled, a sarcastic smile on his face as he crossed his arms, his hip slightly tilted.

Barty’s eyes narrowed. “Your point being?”

“Father may be the wealthiest Lord in wizarding Britain, but it was his ability to manipulate and charm that saved him from Azkaban."

“Is that supposed to make me like him?” Barty said, a tinge of disgust colouring his voice.

“Oh, no. Not at all. I’m aware that Lucius isn’t well liked. His personality is something of an acquired taste,” Draco waved his hand dismissively. “I am simply pointing out the flaw in your hatred for my father.”

“If you truly believe that’s the reason, then you’re not half as clever as I thought.”

Draco’s mind whirred—oh. “When manipulating his way out of Azkaban, he renounced his loyalty to the Dark Lord. That’s it, isn’t it?”

A myriad of expressions crossed over Barty’s face before settling on raw, unadulterated rage. “He was the Dark Lord’s right-hand!” He seethed, flushing an angry red. “He was in the most honoured position! But he denounced the Lord he swore his life to and—”

“He avoided Azkaban,” Draco interrupted, voice sharp and jagged and full of ice. “Would the Dark Lord prefer faithful servants locked up in Azkaban, where they are unable to assist him, or those who evaded capture and could continue working for his cause?” Barty faltered, uncertainty mingled with righteous anger marring his features. 

He knew the real answer to that. The Dark Lord undoubtedly preferred those who retained their loyalty. He’d always spoken fondly of the Lestranges, who had been so loyal as to spend thirteen fucking years in Azkaban for him. Draco, on the other hand, immensely supported Lucius’ decision to publicly renounce Him. It hadn’t pleased the Dark Lord upon His return, and the Malfoys had fallen out of favour as a result, but Lucius’ thirteen years of freedom was worth it. 

Even if the Dark Lord had never returned, the Malfoys would always be shackled by Lucius’ past allegiances—regardless of whether the Ministry could determine if his allegiances were a choice of his own making, or the Imperius. It left Lucius in a grey-zone; respected by the upper echelons of society, but scorned and hated by the rest. Either way, it was far preferable to Azkaban, and Draco would never begrudge Lucius for scheming his way out of a prison sentence.

“You’re incredibly vocal with your opinions,” Barty observed dryly. “That could get you killed someday, boy.”

“And you’re any better?” Draco couldn’t keep the razor edge of disbelief from his voice. “You’re supposed to be imitating a Dark Wizard catcher, and yet, you keep openly referring to Him as the Dark Lord. You have as much subtlety as that oaf Hagrid, and he’s a half-giant. Severus is already suspicious—”

Barty snorted, loud and derisive and ugly. “Severus is—”

“An intelligent, perceptive man who will easily put two-and-two together, if you don’t—”

“I can out-smart Severus,” Barty scoffed, his expression the perfect picture of ignorant arrogance. 

Draco’s mouth parted, ready to defend his godfather, but closed it as an idea came to him. Barty was an ardent follower of the Dark Lord. He was extremely loyal, eager to please, and surprisingly capable. Maybe—just maybe—Barty could replace Lucius as His right-hand. It would be utterly humiliating for Lucius, but if the Dark Lord had a suitable alternative, then his father wouldn’t commander the failed Ministry operation. If Lucius didn’t go to Azkaban, then the Malfoy name would remain untarnished. There would be no Dark Mark, no smuggling Death Eaters into Hogwarts, no year wasted repairing that fucking cabinet, and no assassinating Dumbledore. 

His heart stuttered, hope swelling in his chest, before reality hit hard. If Barty was instated as His new right-hand, Lucius, in his humiliation, would be desperate to weasel back into His good graces. The slight of the Dark Lord replacing him would ignite Lucius’ desire to defend his wounded pride, even if it meant volunteering himself for the Ministry task.

Draco stared at Barty, who was squinting back at him, confused and wary at his extended silence. He exhaled. It was time to end this awful, horrible, no-good conversation. 

“That may be so,” Draco drawled, “but, you will get caught.”

“Is that a threat?” Barty sounded deeply amused. Did the man truly expect to emerge from all this victorious and unharmed? Draco was uncertain as to how it occurred in the Before, but the real Moody had returned at some point, and Barty was never heard from again. 

“Take from it what you will. But, I meant what I said.” 

 

Chapter 7

Notes:

I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter, but here you go~

Chapter Text

Draco was nearing the threshold of the Great Hall, eager for his awaiting breakfast, when something slammed into his shoulder. He stumbled, shocked, and looked up, only to find the slowly receding backs of the Weasel and Granger as they headed into the Great Hall.

“—I don’t know what Sirius and Remus see in him—” 

His ears strained to catch the Weasel’s irritated mumbling as he moved further away. The Weasel, as if sensing Draco’s gaze on him, flicked a smug look over his shoulder. His eyebrow twitched in irritation. Draco knew that he should not kill the Weasel, if only because he had no desire to return to Azkaban, but the git was making it extremely difficult for him to keep his temper at bay. 

Draco stepped into the Great Hall, gaze following the flash of horribly orange hair as the Weasel took a seat at the Gryffindor table. His pulse spiked with a flare of anger, and he let out a shuddering exhale, schooling his features to mask his lingering irritation, and trudged over to the Slytherin table.

He slumped down in his seat, immediately realising that he must be doing an utterly abysmal job at hiding his frustration, if the wary, concerned looks sent his way were any indication.

“Draco?” Blaise asked, a question clear in his voice. He blinked slowly, flicking his gaze to Blaise, who was staring back at him with an unreadable expression.

“The Weasel,” Draco’s lip twisted in contempt, and he resisted the urge to sneer childishly. Blaise grimaced knowingly.

“Blood-traitors,” Theo agreed, sounding disgruntled. Draco bit back an exasperated sigh. The Weasel being a blood-traitor really wasn’t the issue here. Leave it to Theo to bring blood-status into any conversation.

He paused himself coffee, tensing when he felt eyes boring into the side of his head. He jerked his head up, meeting the curious gaze of Moody-Barty. A shudder chased down Draco's back, unease unfurling in his chest. He’d been swept up in the euphoria of outsmarting, of uncovering his real identity that he neglected to consider the repercussions. Of course Barty would keep a close eye on him. If Draco opted to expose him, then Barty’s plans would be shot to hell. 

He was, however, genuinely surprised that Barty hadn’t threatened him yet. His faith that Draco would remain silent was equal parts perplexing and foolish. Was Barty relying on his inherent intimidating presence to deter him from speaking out? He was tempted to inform Severus, but, the urge to keep the timeline as similar as possible won out—so, Draco kept the knowledge to himself.

Then, there was Diggory. Draco could potentially save his life. But, he was unsure as to how his survival would affect the timeline. The saying, ‘a life for a life,’ came to mind. Would someone else die in Diggory’s place? Besides, Draco had failed to discern a way to save Diggory without incriminating himself.

“Are you coming to Hogsmeade with us today, Draco?” He glanced up to find Daphne staring at him, her head tilted to the side.

“Ah,” he said, all too intelligently. “I am.” Daphne flashed him a small, pleased grin before turning back to her conversation with Theo. 

“Are you sure that you’re alright, darling?” Pansy asked, a small frown tugging at her lips, brows creased in concern.

“I’m fine, Pans.” Her face was caught between disbelief and worry. “I am. Really.” 

Pansy nodded slowly, still looking rather troubled, but ultimately, thankfully dropped it. 


Hogsmeade looked so incredibly different without a blanket of snow covering it. It was also, much to his disgruntlement, far busier—apparating unnoticed would prove to be rather difficult.

Draco was both eager and loathsome to return to the Black family house. He ached to delve into the vast knowledge available in the library, but was reluctant to encounter his ex-Professor and estranged cousin more. Despite Potter’s claims to the contrary, Draco doubted they would take kindly to his presence.

He stood before Grimmauld Place, a flicker of apprehension in his chest. Draco, whilst confident he could face Lupin this time, would prefer it if he wasn’t there at all. Sirius’ deep-rooted issues with their family made him hostile, and he was not keen on engaging in another futile argument. 

He blew out a frustrated breath, nose screwing up in disgust at the dingy Muggle street. He would never understand why the Black family chose this neighbourhood to build the family house—not that he would ever voice his opinion to Great-Aunt Walburga, he valued his ear-drums. 

Draco stepped into the horribly grimy, dusty entrance hallway, silently praying that Sirius and Lupin weren’t here. He headed towards the curtain hiding his Great-Aunt’s portrait. 

“Draco, my dear!” Walburga beamed. “I was beginning to worry that you would never return. My beautiful house has been tainted by a filthy half-breed and my blood-traitor son. It is absolutely disgraceful!” Salazar. How dramatic.

“It truly is a travesty, Great-Aunt Walburga,” he conceded, tone dripping with false sympathy. “However, the purpose of my visit today isn’t to remove them from your lovely home.”

Walburga harrumphed. “Then, pray tell, child, what brought you here?”

“The Black family library,” he flicked his gaze to the stairs. “I was quite enamoured with the extensive collection.”

The old woman sniffed, tilting her chin up imperiously. “I am only glad that there is still a Black left to appreciate it.”

Draco could only nod in agreement. Sirius was undoubtedly displeased by the presence of so many books dedicated to the Dark Arts. “It was lovely to see you again, Great-Aunt Walburga.” 

“Please do visit again soon, child.” 

He slid the curtain shut, quietly making his way upstairs—pausing periodically along the empty hallways, listening out for any sign of its owners, only calming when he was certain that he was alone. The next several hours were spent perusing the shelves, pocketing any title that caught his interest, which was, if he were honest, the majority of them. 

He drummed his fingers down the table of contents, eyebrows shooting to his hairline in recognition. Aunt Bella had once taught him these spells. If this book had her approval, then he’d definitely be taking it. Draco, if only to assuage his guilt, searched for a spell that could, hypothetically, incapacitate Diggory, and enable him to remain comatose even with Dumbledore’s interference. Unsurprisingly, he failed to find one. 

After having collected enough books to temporarily satiate his thirst, Draco perused the remainder of the house. It was truly neglected; the wallpaper was peeling, the carpet in the main hallway was threadbare, the chandeliers were covered in dust and cobwebs, and the portraits were both age-blackened and crooked. He was shocked that the Black family house-elf—whom he had yet to see—had let the house reach this state.

He stepped into a room on the second floor, surprised by the sheer amount of rubbish occupying it. The layout was eerily similar to that of the Room of Hidden Things. Draco made to leave, but froze at the sound of a low-pitched hum. His eyes darted frantically about the room, unease snaking through him, twisting into an anxious coil in the pit of his stomach. He was quick to draw his wand, only to discover that it was responsible for the noise. Ollivander’s words rung in his ear; ‘it often warns its owner to danger by emitting a low musical tone.’ Draco ignored the fear knotting his throat and slowly walked further inside the room, the soft hum growing louder with each step.

Draco’s stomach churned, but sheer curiosity forced its way past terror as he begun to search for the source of ‘danger.’ The humming increased as he neared a large, oak trunk in the corner. He knelt beside it, tentatively flicking the latch open, sifting through the trinkets. The instant he laid eyes upon it, he just knew it was the cause. It was a locket of heavy gold with a serpentine S inlaid with glittering, green stones on the front. It felt wrong. Ominous. He didn’t hesitate to stash in his charmed, extendable silken bag—the humming ceasing instantly.

The sound of a Floo flaring to life had his blood running cold. He slid the bag into his coat pocket, proceeding to tiptoe down the stairs, praying to avoid whoever had entered. His breath caught, pulse thundering in his ears, as he paused on the bottom step of the staircase. Draco’s gaze flicked left, then right, before creeping towards the exit. 

Almost there. Almost the—

“Draco Malfoy?” He went dead still. Then, he slowly turned on his heel. Lupin looked shocked. Draco smiled, bland and insincere. “What are you doing here?”

“The library.”

“Ah,” Lupin nodded. Then, cocked his head in a way so animalistic that Draco twitched in alarm. He didn’t want a reminder of what lurked beneath his ex-Professor’s skin. “How have you been?”

He blinked slowly—like a cat, bewildered by the civility. “I’m fine.”

“I’m glad,” Lupin’s voice was soft, kind. Draco should apologise, wanted to apologise—but, then his ugly pride reared its head, choking the words. He chewed on his lower lip, Lupin’s sad, self-condemning expression after Draco’s panic attack flickering behind his eyes. Ah—Fuck it.

“I would like to apologise for my past behaviour.” It was stilted, but genuine.  

Lupin’s eyes went wide. “It’s oka—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice firm. “No, it’s not.”

“Draco…” His tone was weary, cautious, a little sad. 

Draco’s gaze flitted to his forearm, where his bite mark was hidden behind layers of fabric. He felt a surge of fear, but stifled it. “I had a rather traumatic encounter with a werewolf once.” He struggled to keep his voice even, unaffected. Lupin certainly heard the waver in it, but thankfully, did not comment. “It isn’t you—” It was. But, Lupin didn’t need to know that. “—It’s your bite mark.” 

His amber eyes flashed, face unreadable. Draco patiently awaited his judgement. “I wasn’t born like this. I was turned when I was four,” Lupin voice was hesitant, quiet. Draco was taken aback by the show of honesty. “By Greyback.”

His heartbeat stuttered as a spasm of terror gripped him. “Greyback?” He echoed, choking over the name, shock mingling with horror. Lupin’s gaze sharpened, nodding slowly. He wondered if Lupin could smell his fear. 

This was another reason to add to his ‘Why Greyback Should be Wiped from Existence’ list.

“My father worked at the Ministry of Magic,” Lupin’s gaze turned distant. “Greyback was on trial for killing two children. He was released, but my Father disagreed and had voiced that Greyback deserved nothing but death for what he had done. Greyback wanted revenge, so he forced his way into my room at night and turned me.”

Regret pierced Draco like a spear, stomach churning with hot, bubbling guilt. Draco, during Lupin’s brief stint as a Professor, had been so awful, so horrible to him. He failed to comprehend how this man was able to even smile at him.

“Why don’t you hate me?” The words slipped out without his permission. He regretted them the instant they passed his lips. 

“I have no reason to.”

Draco gave a strangled laugh. “No reason to? I was awful to you. You have every right to despise me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” 

“I’ve received much worse,” he admitted sheepishly. “Your attitude was rather tame in comparison.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Draco’s voice was quiet, uncharacteristically subdued. He swallowed hard. “My apology still stands, whether you accept it or not.”

Lupin stared at him, expression soft. “You’re a good kid, Draco.” Hysterical laughter gurgled up his throat. Draco was most certainly not. His disbelief must have shown because Lupin frowned, brows creasing. “It’s true.”

He hummed noncommittally, disbelieving, but unwilling to argue the point further. “I appreciate it, Professor.” Because he did, truly. He seldom received compliments, and when he did, they were never for his personality. 

“Lupin,” he corrected, not unkindly.

“Right. Lupin." The corner of Draco’s lips twitched upwards into a ghost of a smile.


Draco turned the golden locket over in his hands, fingers absently tracing the green, glittering stones. He had done his research, combed through tomes on magical artefacts, only to discover that he had Salazar Slytherin’s personal locket in his possession. He had, however, failed to find anything that alluded to the source of the menacing, oppressive magic that oozed from it.

He placed the locket on the ground beside him, and turned his attention back to the old, elegant oak box that laid before him. He carefully crafted the complicated wards for ‘Sub Tuum Praesidium,’ then flicked the book on Blood Magic open to the page detailing the combination blood ward. 

He used the tip of his wand to draw a sequence of blood runes, weaving them intricately into the layers of the wards. He raised a small knife to his palm and sliced, creating a razor-thin cut from which his blood slowly dripped, intertwining with the runes. Draco inhaled sharply, watching, transfixed, as the wards glowed a deep crimson before fading back to their original translucent colour, once again invisible to the naked eye. 

Draco laughed shakily. It may have taken him almost five months, but he had done it. He turned his attention back to the box and squeezed his palm, watching as the blood slowly trickled onto the warded box. Draco held his breath as the ward begun to unravel itself. Success. He dropped the locket inside and reactivated the wards, exhaling in relief when his wand finally stopped humming—warning Draco of a danger he could not see. He cast a shrinking charm on his newly-warded box, and slipped it into his robe's inner pocket before heading off to class.

Draco stepped inside the Potions classroom, closing his eyes in dismay as the Weasel’s irritating voice rung throughout the room. “—I told you! I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of—of scarlet woman!” He blew out an irritated breath, opting to ignore them as he sat at an empty table, bag placed on the seat beside him to discourage others from joining.

“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” Granger sniffed in distain. “What a pile of old rubbish.” Draco spun in his seat and snatched the Daily Prophet off of the desk behind him. He took one look at the title ‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache,’ and made a sound of disgust.

Draco’d never been so grateful for Severus’ reputation, as upon his entry, the entire room immediately fell silent. He stalked to the front of the classroom, beady eyes roaming over them, condescending and impatient. “Today you will be learning how to brew a Pepper Up potion. I’m certain that I can entrust you all with the simple task of assigning yourself a partner.” He didn’t bother seeking-out a partner, just as no one approached him. Draco’s preference for working alone, unless forced to do otherwise, was well-known.

The lesson passed in blissful silence. Except for—

“—And Viktor did say that he’d never felt the same way about anyone else—”

“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger,” an icy voice interrupted. “I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.” 

Granger flushed bright scarlet. “Profess—”

“Ah. Reading magazines under the table as well?” Severus sneered. He snatched up her copy of Witch Weekly, a viciously amused smile curling at his lips. “‘Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.’ How very touching.” The dungeon rung with the Slytherins’ raucous laughter. “I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, beside Mr Malfoy. Potter, the table in front of my desk.” 

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it shut when Severus’ glittering black eyes landed on him, silently daring him to disobey. He didn’t spare her a glance as she sat beside him, opting to continue preparing the Mandrake root in silence. But, because Granger was a nosy sod who believed that boundaries didn’t apply to her, went and asked questions. 

“How did you meet Sirius and Remus?” Draco’s hand stilled mid-movement, rapidly contemplating what would constitute as a plausible answer. He was not telling her that he’d been illegally apparating to Grimmauld Place.

“Accidentally," he said curtly, making eye-contact with her narrowed, brown eyes. Granger pursed her lips in irritation, but relented, enabling them to complete the potion in silence, which, unsurprisingly, turned out a perfect crimson colour. The instant Potions ended, he stood up, hastily returning his belongings to his bag.

“What is that?” Granger’s voice was sharp, cracking like a whip in its intensity. Draco followed her gaze, only to find that his damn Blood Magic book had slid out in his haste to leave. 

“Reading material,” he spoke with careful nonchalance, absently tucking a white-blonde curl behind his ear.

“That’s Blood Magic,” she hissed lowly, sounding positively scandalised. 

Draco blew out an irritated breath. “Astute observation, Granger. You truly are the brightest witch of our age.”

Granger flushed at his sarcasm, but was quick to compose herself, refusing to be side tracked. “It’s forbidden.”

“Is it?” He canted his head, voice light and airy. 

“Of course it is! It’s classified as Dark Magic and—”

“And what, Granger?” Oh, how he hated Light propaganda. “Are you going to report me to Dumbledore?” It would characteristic of her. Granger broke about a million school rules each year, but only seemed to consider it acceptable because it was the ‘Golden Trio’ that had done it. How hypocritical. 

Granger stared at him for a long moment. Then, she shook her head. Perhaps, she was concerned that Draco would pull a, ‘just wait til my Father hears about this.’

“Then, we’re done here.” He grabbed both his bag and vial of Pepper Up, and left the classroom.


Draco was curled up in the corner of his filthy cell, covering his ears with grime-caked hands. 

The Dementors were long gone from Azkaban, courtesy of the Dark Lord, and yet, his memories were enough to torment him endlessly. The sounds of bone-chilling screams echoed eerily, ricocheting inside his head; the crazed, broken cries of the inmates in his cellblock, the distorted wail of Crabbe as he was swallowed by Fiendfyre, the tortured, shattered shriek of his mother as Greyback had his way—

He yanked at his grubby, white-blonde hair, blunt nails digging painfully into his scalp in despair. The sound never left him, awake or asleep. All he could hear was their screams—

Draco awoke with a start, a cry half-formed on his lips. His body was slick with sweat, limbs twisted uncomfortably in his silk sheets. He sat up, dragging his fingers through his hair, swallowing hard as he stared at the curtains encasing his bed. His throat tightened. It was unwillingly reminiscent of his cell in Azkaban; four walls confining, imprisoning him.

He removed the charms on his curtains, and yanked them open with trembling fingers. He shifted to the edge of his bed, sitting with his face buried in his hands as he took deep, calming breaths. He felt like he was suffocating, choking, drowning, and—and Draco needed to get out— 

He wasn’t half as quiet as he should’ve been, stumbling through the Hogwarts corridors, desperate to get out—

Draco flung himself outside, greedily gulping down breaths of cold, fresh air. His feet moved of their own accord, the tenseness in his limbs loosening with each step away from the castle. Draco absently made his way past Hagrid’s hut and the illuminated Beauxbatons’ carriage, relishing in the grounding sensation of his bare feet sinking into the grass.

His wandered behind the Beauxbatons’ horse paddock, only to still, mouth going dry at the sight of two shadowed figures conversing under the shade of the trees. He cautiously, slowly crept closer, slinking behind a tree. He peeked around the trunk, brow furrowing as he recognised the pair. 

“—Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” Krum divulged, staring down at Potter. Wait. Did Krum seriously drag Potter out to the edge of the Forbidden Forest in the dead of the night to discuss his relationship with Granger?

“Yeah,” said Potter slowly, uncertainly, “because we’re friends.” 

“You haff never… you haff not…” Draco rolled his eyes. This was utterly ridiculous.

“No,” Potter’s voice was firm, and Krum’s expression brightened. Draco twitched irritably, unable to comprehend what both Krum and the Weasel saw in bloody Granger. 

Krum stared at Potter for a short moment. Then, “You fly very vell. I vos votching at the First Task.”

“Thanks,” Potter grinned broadly. Draco scoffed derisively. “I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really—”

Panic, pure and unadulterated, seized Draco as something moved in the trees behind Krum. He reached for his wand, only to freeze, realising that in his haste to get out, he’d left his wand behind. 

Then, a man staggered out from behind a tall oak tree. Draco blanched. Crouch? What in Salazar’s name—? His robes were torn and bloodied, face scratched and unshaven, and his hair was in desperate need of a wash. He was mumbling under his breath, gesticulating at a tree. 

What in Merlin’s name was this? Had this occurred in the Before, too? The amount of crazy shit that Potter experienced was unreal. 

“Vosn’t he a judge?” Krum stared at Crouch, a look of utter confusion in his dark eyes. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?”  

Potter nodded, slowly edging towards Crouch, who was still gabbling at the goddamn tree. Draco didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically, or run the fuck away. “Mr Crouch?” There was no response. Was this what the Black family madness looked like? He hoped not. Crouch staggered sideways, collapsing to his knees.

Draco should’ve stayed in bed.

“Mr. Crouch?” Potter repeated, voice tinged with panic. “Are you all right?”

“Dumbledore!” Draco jerked backwards, surprised by Crouch’s outburst. The man reached out, seizing a fistful of Potter’s robes, dragging him closer, his eyes glazed and unseeing. “I need to see Dumbledore.”

“Okay, okay,” Potter said placatingly. “If you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the—”

“I’ve done a stupid thing,” Crouch breathed hysterically. Draco watched, horrified, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, spit sliding down his chin. “Must tell Dumbledore.” 

“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” Potter demanded, the wavering of his voice betraying his unease. “Get up, and I’ll take you to Dumbledore!” 

Crouch’s eyes snapped towards Potter with a razor-sharp intensity. “Who are you?” Well, that settled it. If Crouch was unable to recognise Saint Potter, then he definitely wasn’t sane. “You’re not… His?” Crouch’s eyes darted back and forth, paranoia haunting his every movement. His? As in the Dark Lord? Draco paled. “Warn Dumbledore!”

Had Crouch finally realised that his Death Eater son was parading around Hogwarts in disguise? If so, then Draco assumed that Barty was responsible for Crouch’s current state. Barty was certainly capable of cruelty of this caliber. Lucius and Severus had shared stories of Barty from their ‘good-old-days,’ subtly insinuating that he was just as insane as dear old Aunt Bella.

“You stay here with him!” Potter’s voice startled him from his musings. “I’ll get Dumbledore, I’ll be quicker, I know where his office is—”

“He is mad,” Krum stared doubtfully down at Crouch who continued gabbling at the tree.

“Just stay with him.” Potter begun to rise, only to be pulled back down by Crouch, who was frantically clutching at Potter’s legs.

“Don’t leave me!” Crouch’s eyes were wide and glassy. “I escaped… must warn Dumbledore… my fault, all my fault… Bertha dead… my son, my fault… tell Dumbledore… Harry Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger…” 

A burst of panic buzzed through Draco like wildfire, twisting and licking at his insides, shooting through his veins. Crouch had discovered his son’s machinations, and Barty had driven him to this. So, what did this mean for Draco—who had foolishly confronted Barty, had revealed that he knew of his true identity? Would Barty come for him, too? He wouldn’t just let Draco be. He paused. Would he? 

His eyes darted about the clearing, and his spirit nearly left his body as his gaze met fucking Barty’s. 

Barty raised a single finger to his lips—a command to remain silent. He slowly lowered his finger, revealing a cruel, twisted smirk, eyes glinting maliciously. Terror rose and broke over Draco like a wave. Fuck this, he thought hysterically—he wanted nothing to do with any of this. 

Draco turned on his heel and sprinted away from the edge of the forest, tearing his way up the dark grounds and through the castle, retreating to the safety of the Slytherin dormitory. He collapsed bonelessly on his bed, casting a quick Tempus. He let out a low, hollow laugh at the ‘June 5th’ that flashed before him.

“Happy birthday to me.”

 

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco laid in his bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. 

It was June 24th; the day of the Third Task and the Dark Lord’s return.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, rubbing his thin, pale fingers over tired eyes. He was utterly exhausted; the numerous sleepless nights were finally catching up to him. He rolled over slowly, body twisted in the sheets, and grimaced as the silken fabric clung to his sweat-coated limbs. 

He exhaled into his pillow. The Dark Lord’s eminent revival had brought forth worries that he had pushed into the deepest crevices of his mind - like how Draco was going to save his family. His father would never be convinced into abandoning the cause, and his mother would always follow Lucius’ decision. It was hopeless, and he felt himself rapidly spiralling into a dark tunnel of despair.

Cedric Diggory was going to die today, he realised distantly. Draco had been unable to find a solution that did not implicate him, though admittedly, he did not try all that hard. Diggory’s death held no particular consequence to him; he had never spoken to him, and his survival did not personally benefit Draco in any way. It was horrible of him, but Draco didn’t have the energy to waste on unnecessary sentimentalities. 

He stole a glance up at Blaise’s bed, only to find it empty. He blinked in surprise and cast a Tempus, and cursed inwardly; his History of Magic exam started in fifteen minutes. He forced himself to shower and dress in record time, and ran all the way to the designated classroom.


Draco’s exams went as well as expected, which was rather poorly. He struggled to focus, and found himself glancing at his watch every five-minutes. It was fortunate that he had taken these exams once before, or else he was certain that he would have failed. 

Before he knew it, Draco was seated in the Great Hall for the evening feast. The hall was abuzz with excitement and anticipation, a sentiment which Draco didn’t share. He spent the entire meal expending every effort into maintaining his indifferent mask, which was seconds away from fracturing.

Finally, the enchanted ceiling overhead begun to fade, and Dumbledore rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the Champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”

Draco watched in silent despair as Diggory stood to leave, the thundering applause from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables echoing relentlessly in his head. He swallowed heavily, clenching his hands into fists underneath the table.

“Who do you think will win?” Pansy asked, her gaze following Potter, Diggory, Fleur and Krum as they exited the Great Hall.

“I just hope it isn’t Potter,” Theo grumbled. “The Gryffindors are insufferable enough as it is.”

Draco flicked his gaze to the staff table, watching in thinly veiled trepidation as the Professors begun to stand. He clenched his jaw; there was no delaying the inevitable. He filed out of the Great Hall along with the other students, Pansy and Blaise on either side. He could feel the excitement radiating off of the crowd. There was a part of him that wished he was that innocent, but the other part - the stronger part, was entirely thankful that he knew what to expect.

The Quidditch field was completely unrecognisable; a twenty-foot-high hedge ran around the edge of it, encompassing them. The entrance to the maze was directly in front of them, the passage beyond it shadowed and eerie. The air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. Draco’s Malfoy mask was firmly in place, betraying none of his rampaging inner turmoil. It was times like this that made him grateful for his strict, pure-blood upbringing.  

Bagman pointed his wand at his throat, his magically magnified voice echoing into the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand. Tied in first place, Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” 

He frowned as Diggory waved enthusiastically to the crowd, disquieted by how little the thought of Diggory dying affected him. But, then again, Draco knew that Avada Kedavra was a peaceful way to die, especially at the hand of the Dark Lord; he could have suffered far worse.

“In second place, Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute! And in third place, Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!” Draco’s eyes widened in horror. He had been so preoccupied by His imminent return that he had forgotten to wish Fleur good luck. Draco stared, burning holes into the side of her head until she turned in his direction. When they made eye-contact, Draco gave her an encouraging smile and was rewarded with a shaky grin.

“So, on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said Bagman. “Three, two, one-” He gave a short blast on his whistle, causing Draco to inwardly wince at the sheer volume of the cheers. He kept his eyes glued on Diggory until he was completely swallowed by the maze - that was the last time any of them would see him alive.

Bagman’s whistle sounded for the second time and Krum disappeared into the maze. Draco scanned the staff-allocated seating, his gaze coming to rest upon Severus. He glanced down at Severus' left arm, which was covered by swathes of black fabric, and pursed his lips into a thin, grim line.

The whistle blew for the third and final time, and Fleur disappeared into the maze. The crowd murmured amongst themselves in hushed whispers, their previous excitement replaced by a nervousness that Draco could feel thrumming under his very skin.

Draco did not know how much time had passed, but suddenly, a jet of red sparks shot into the sky. Pansy’s grip on his arm tightened, the physical contact grounding him. Draco found himself constantly flicking his gaze to either Severus or Karkaroff, waiting for the telltale signs of the Dark Mark reacting to its Master’s summons. 

He felt his heightened nervousness in his spine, in the pulse of his wrists, and in the blood pounding in his ears. He spared another glance at Severus, only to freeze in horror. His godfather was clenching his left forearm, his eyes wide with visible shock. Draco tensed. He balled his hands into fists, swallowing down his rapidly rising dread. Pansy, who was scarily perceptive, immediately noticed his change in demeanour. 

“Draco?” Her voice was soft, concerned. Draco mutely shook his head, his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. He glanced down at Karkaroff, and Draco had never seen a more panicked man. Karkaroff turned and openly stared at Severus, whether in search of reassurance, comfort or merely confirmation, Draco didn’t know. His godfather didn’t acknowledge him, for he was busy making his way towards Dumbledore, face drawn tight, his features pinched. Draco squeezed his eyes shut, withdrawing behind his Occlumency shields as his emotions became far too overwhelming.

The sky faded to a blue so dark it was almost black, and the longer he waited, the worse Draco felt. 

Just what in the bloody hell was going on in that graveyard? Severus’ and Karkaroff’s Dark Marks had burned ages ago, so where in Merlin’s name was Potter?

As if summoned by Draco’s impatient thoughts, Potter appeared, slamming flat into the ground. His face was pressed into the grass, hands clutching at both the the Triwizard Cup and Diggory’s corpse. A torrent of sound exploded from around him; the crowd was cheering, and the sound of footsteps thundering as they descended the stand’s reverberated along his spine. Draco remained frozen, unable to move from his spot.

It was done. Fuck. 

He was distantly aware of Blaise talking frantically at him, of Pansy gently tugging on his arm, but he couldn’t move; his legs would collapse out from underneath him if he tried. Draco kept his eyes firmly fixed on Potter even as the crowd pressed in around him.

Suddenly, a screeching voice shouted, “He’s dead. He’s dead! Cedric Diggory. Dead!”

Blaise and Pansy immediately fell silent, going stock-still beside him. Dumbledore lifted Potter off the ground, setting him on his feet. Draco watched in disgust as the crowd jostled, fighting to get closer to Potter and Diggory’s corpse. Animals.

Scared voices carried through the stands. 

“What’s happened?” 

“What’s wrong with him?” 

“Diggory’s dead!” 

The sound of hysterical screaming and sobbing filled his ears, and some Hufflepuff vomited on the grass. It was just as big of a cluster fuck as Draco remembered.

Draco jerked, spine straightening as he quickly scanned the crowd, eyes searching for a specific person. He spotted him easily, watching as he limped his way towards where Potter and Dumbledore stood. As if sensing eyes upon him, Barty lifted his gaze. His eyes met Draco’s, and it was as if time had stopped as they stared at each other from across the crowd. 

Draco’s brow furrowed, betraying his confusion. The Dark Lord was back; Barty’s task was complete, so why was he still here? His continued presence only increased the chance that he would get caught, especially if was going to converse with the old coot and Potter of all people. Barty finally tore his gaze away, but in the short time it had taken for them to stare at each other, Potter had vanished, whisked off to the staff tent by Dumbledore. Barty looked extremely disgruntled at having missed his chance to approach them, and abruptly stormed off in the other direction, vanishing into the crowd. Draco frowned. 

He soon found himself stuck in the middle of a sea of distraught students heading back to the castle. He allowed the crowd to shove him along, too exhausted to snap at every individual who bumped into him, even though he very much wanted to. 

Draco all but threw himself onto his bed, not even bothering to change into his pyjamas, staring at the dark ceiling with a blank, glazed expression. His chest was filled with cold despair, and an emptiness had settled itself into his stomach. 

The Dark Lord was back. 


Draco barely slept that night, and was therefore in a horribly irritable mood the next day - a mood which only worsened when he was accosted by Potter in the hallway. Potter seemed to forget that he had a wand that he could hex Draco with, and instead settled for slamming him up against the wall Muggle-style. 

He was thrown against the stone wall with enough force that a burst of dizziness momentarily blackened his vision. Potter pressed his arm against Draco’s throat, trapping him so that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. The feeling was so similar to that of his panic attacks that hysteria slowly clawed its way up his throat. 

Potter’s green eyes were brilliant with anger, and Draco could already tell he was going to be blamed for something he wasn’t responsible for.

“I was right,” Potter spat. Draco merely blinked, uncomprehending. “Do you know what happened last night?” 

“No. I do not,” Draco decided to play dumb. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

Oh. Now that pissed Potter off. He rammed his forearm harder against Draco’s throat, increasing the pressure. Draco choked over his own breath, a dull ache forming in the back of his skull from where it was currently being bloody grounded into the wall.

“Your Lord returned, that’s what.” Well, no duh. 

“Right. So, why are you pinning me to a wall?” Draco growled. Potter was so stupid, so prejudiced, so fucking unfair-

“Because your bastard of a father was one of the men who was there!” Potter shouted, and the retort immediately died on Draco’s tongue. 

“What?” Draco didn’t understand Potter’s anger. Yes, Lucius was a Death Eater, that was no secret, so naturally he would be there. 

“Drop the act, Malfoy,” Potter snapped. “There’s no-”

“You already knew that Lucius was a Death Eater,” Draco interrupted, bewildered. “It’d only makes sense that he’d be there.”  

Potter decided to act as though he hadn’t spoken. 

“You put my name in the Goblet so I could get to the portkey at the end of the Third Task.” The anger in Potter’s voice truly startled Draco, who expertly kept his face very blank. No. Actually, that was Barty - who Draco couldn’t even blame it on because if he revealed the truth, then that would imply that he knew all along - which he did, and he would most likely get arrested as a co-conspirator. Fuck. “You two planned this together, didn’t you?” 

His mind went utterly blank as he stared at Potter, his brain refusing to make sense of Potter’s words.

“No.” It was all he could say, because it was not true. Potter was speaking as if Lucius had something to do with His resurrection, and that Draco had assisted him, which was wrong. Draco had lived through this all before; he knew that Lucius didn’t know of His return until he was summoned to that graveyard. So why was Potter speaking as if Lucius had played a bigger part than he actually had? Potter had to be lying, or attempting to manipulate him into… something. Because it just wasn’t true. 

It irked him because Draco had not done anything that could incriminate Wormtail, so there’s no valid reason as to why he did not revive the Dark Lord. Then again, there had been no word from Lucius during the second-half of the school year, even though there usually would have been. But that just meant that he was preoccupied with his work at the Ministry. It did not mean that he was busy planning for the Dark Lord’s return. Right? Draco swallowed heavily, his throat dry with dread.

If it weren’t for his deeply ingrained pure-blood training, Draco would have broken his expression. But, no. He kept his face very, very still as he desperately jumped from thought to thought, searching for a plausible explanation. 

Exactly where the fuck was Wormtail in all this? The little rat had one job. One job.

Potter suddenly stepped back, and Draco slumped against the wall, taking in large gulps of air, massaging his throat gently. Draco glared at him from underneath his eyelashes, silver eyes narrowed in irritation.

“Haven’t we already established that I couldn’t possibly bypass Dumbledore’s magic?”

Potter snorted. “No, but your father certainly could have taught you how.”

Draco’s brain resorted back to denial mode, because if his father had helped revive the Dark Lord, then Draco’s fragile hope that he could convince his parents to defect would be shattered. When Potter won, Lucius was doomed. There was no way he’d receive anything less than a life sentence in Azkaban. Again.

Despair sunk deep into his bones. Draco, refusing to face reality, kept arguing like an idiot. “I didn’t put your name in that Goblet, Potter.”

Draco could feel the force of Potter’s sudden anger like a wave threatening to knock him off his feet. “You’re just pathetic, Malfoy.”

“I did not do it,” Draco snapped, his silver eyes sparking with fury.

“Deny it all you want, but no one will believe you,” Potter said, and his voice was smug. “Not when your father is in the service of Voldemort.”

Draco felt a cold, aching sort of desperation laced with rage. He was innocent, but knew very well that there was absolutely nothing he could possibly say to convince Potter otherwise. He was the most stubborn git that Draco had ever had the displeasure of knowing. 

What Draco needed was confirmation. And he was going to get it. 

“You’re saying that my father helped bring back the Dark Lord,” he said slowly, carefully watching Potter’s expression. 

“What? No, that was Pettigrew.” Draco blinked, tension draining out of his shoulders so quickly that he slid bonelessly down the wall. He stared up at Potter in absolute incredulity. Draco let out a hysterical bout of laughter, which sounded more like a crazed wheeze due to his bruised throat.

Potter had actually managed to make Draco - who knew the goddamn future - question and doubt himself. He had known that Wormtail had revived the Dark Lord, and yet Potter had managed to twist his wording in a way that had convinced Draco that his own father was guilty, despite knowing otherwise. If Draco could be tricked so easily, then manipulating the others - whether it was intentional or not - would be child’s play for Potter.

Draco looked into Potter’s furious green eyes, and knew that whatever he said would fall on deaf ears. If Potter went and told everyone that he collaborated with his father to bring back the Dark Lord, then Draco was absolutely screwed. Everyone would believe the Chosen One’s word over his, after all. Draco didn’t stand a chance. He had never really stood a chance where Potter was concerned.

Draco forced his spiralling despair into a tight, coiled ball and shoved it into the furthest recesses of his mind. He rose to his feet, straightened his spine, and pinned Potter with a glacial glare, relishing in the way Potter flinched. Without another word, Draco turned and stalked off down the corridor with as much pure-blood elegance and haughtiness as he could muster, even though he was a second away from shattering into pieces.

He expected no less from Potter - really, he hadn’t, but it still stung. Draco hadn’t antagonised a single Gryffindor all year, and yet somehow, Potter’s opinion of him was worse than in the other timeline, when he had been bigoted and cruel.

He exhaled deeply, chest shuddering with the force of it. It would be an utter waste of time trying to change people’s opinions of him; it was far too late for that. He frowned, irritated that he was so concerned with what others thought of him. The need for approval was an intrinsic trait of his - born from a childhood of seeking his father’s verification - and it needed to stop. 

Draco collapsed onto his bed in the Room of Requirement, and stared up at the ceiling with dead eyes. 

The very idea of the Dark Lord’s return had kept him in a near-constant state of panic for the past year, and now he was just tired - so very, very tired. Draco didn’t meet the Dark Lord until the Christmas holidays of his fifth year, which gave him approximately six months to mentally prepare. He absently rubbed at his eyes, his thoughts drifting.

Draco had allowed himself to become complacent. He had a new wand that actually resonated with his magic, but he had not taken advantage of it. He had become so single-mindedly obsessed with warding, that he had disregarded everything else. His fixation was justified, though. In the other timeline, there had been one too many occasions in which a Death Eater, namely Aunt Bella, had wandered into his room at random, only to drag him out for an ‘activity’ that often left him traumatised. 

He balled his hands into fists, clenching at the silk sheets. He would be fine. Draco had the entire summer to train; the Manor’s wards would enable him to use magic outside of school undetected. 

Draco jerked when he spotted a gleam in his peripheral vision, and he blinked in bewilderment as the mirror suddenly shimmered into existence. 

 

Notes:

don't worry - Draco's innocence will be revealed eventually~

sorry if you're upset that Cedric died, but *shrugs* - Draco isn't going to go around saving everyone, that's just not who he is.

Chapter 9

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco turned his head, cheek plastered against the silken sheets, watching as the boy’s image flickered to life in the mirror, his reflection towering over Draco.

“Malfoy?” Draco met his gaze evenly. The boy stared down at him, an indefinable look passing over his face. He idly wondered what kind of picture he painted; lazily sprawled across silk sheets with his shirt untucked, collar unbuttoned, tie absent, and his hair messily fanned out across the pillow like a halo. Certainly a far cry from his usual appearance.

“Hello” he greeted dully, voice slightly raspy due to his bruised throat. Draco lamented that he could not banish the mirror through sheer force of will; his brain was not equiped to handle Slytherin-level mind-battles right now.

“You look,” he paused, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face before settling on derision, “comfortable.” Draco’s lips twitched in muted amusement. He would bet his entire inheritance that mirror-boy had never seen a pure-blood look so… uncouth.

“That’s because I am,” he intoned flatly, regarding the boy with a bored expression.

“I was not aware that you found my presence relaxing,” mirror-boy commented, his smile polite, eyes cold. Draco blinked, baffled. Did he honestly find Draco’s lack of decorum offensive? Had he assumed that Draco was looking down on him? Deemed him not worth the effort to maintain some semblance of propriety?

He bit back the urge to roll his eyes, resigning himself to soothing the boy’s ruffled feathers. “How arrogant of you to presume so. I’m merely too exhausted to bother with pleasantries.”

It seemed to placate the boy somewhat, if the loosening of his shoulders was anything to go by. “I take it that something happened.”

Draco remained silent for a long minute, features closed off, but eventually said, “Have you ever contemplated death?”

“More often than I should,” the boy said smoothly, but there was something in the way he said it, a flicker of hesitation before he spoke, that had Draco double-taking.

Draco frowned, his gaze darting back and forth between the boy’s dark eyes, scrutinising. “You want to die?”

The boy looked at him, first with disbelief, and then with amusement flickering in his eyes. He revealed his white teeth in a predatory smile. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Ah. You wish to cheat death?” Pansy was of the same mind, constantly lamenting about how that one day she would, Salazar forbid, get wrinkles and grow old. Draco had always been amused by the sheer vainness of her dramatics. 

He merely lifted his brows and answered calmly, “If I can.”

Draco stared, unblinkingly. Oh. The boy was completely serious. In order to hide the unease that snaked through him, Draco simply nodded sagely. “A valiant endeavour.”

“You think so?”

“Not one that I’ll ever be interested in,” Draco murmured softly, mouth pinched together, uncomfortable with the topic.

“You don’t see the appeal to immortality?” Mirror-boy stared at him, his eyes like two voids.

“You do?” He wondered if he sounded as incredulous as he felt. Draco had already received an unwanted ‘second chance,’ and the thought of spending an eternity as Draco Malfoy was utterly unbearable. There was a long, tense silence as they contemplated each other.

“Not that I particularly mind,” the boy’s lips twisted into a wry smile, “but may I inquire as to why we’re contemplating death so early in the morning?”

“A student was murdered yesterday,” Draco stated blandly, watching as a thousand unasked questions flickered behind the boy’s eyes.

“You don’t sound all too bothered by that fact,” the boy quirked a corner of his mouth in amusement.

After a brief staring contest, Draco lowered his gaze and said quietly, as if to himself, “Should I?” 

He truly wondered if he should feel something over Diggory’s death. He hadn’t in the previous timeline, but it was different this time; he had the knowledge necessary to prevent his death, but didn’t, and he honestly did not feel any remorse. Draco wondered, not for the first time, if there was something truly wrong with him. If the war and Azkaban had somehow robbed him of something crucial, broken him irreparably.

Mirror-boy tilted his head, curious. “How did they die?”

Draco blinked, staring blankly at him. “The Killing Curse.”

“An Unforgivable,” there was a pause, and the boy’s eyebrows ticked upwards. There was a calculation to his expression that Draco didn’t like. “And yet you remain unaffected.” Not a question. 

Draco responding smile was one without mirth. “There are worse ways to die.” The boy’s other eyebrow joined its twin, the light reflecting wildly in his eyes as he observed Draco with a distant sort of curiosity. Diggory was fortunate that the Dark Lord had used the Killing Curse; it was a clean, quick, and easy death. He would never voice that opinion out loud, though; he doubted that it would be well-received. 

The boy sent him a quiet, searching gaze, something sharp and hungry lingering just below the surface. Draco swallowed thickly, unnerved. He broke eye-contact and turned his gaze back up to the ceiling.

“What do you think are the requirements for the mirror to appear?” He pondered out-loud, deliberately changing the topic.

“I believe that it appears when we both stand before it in our respective timelines.” 

Draco blinked slowly. There was so much wrong with that statement. Draco had never visited the mirror willingly; it had always appeared before him at random. Mirror-boy was implying that the mirror only appeared if Draco was in the Room of Requirement at the same time that the boy sought out the mirror in his timeline. But that would insinuate that the boy was actively seeking the mirror out, knowing that Draco was on the other side, which couldn’t be true, especially considering the passive-aggressive undertone to all their interactions.

“You have no desire to know the future?” Draco voiced the question that he had been pondering over since their initial encounter. He shifted his gaze back to the boy, whose dark eyes hadn’t left Draco's face once.

“Naturally,” the boy smirked meaningfully. “Though, I doubt you would indulge me.”

“You’re correct,” Draco agreed easily, fingers absently tracing circles on the silk sheets. “I would not.”

“May I inquire as to why?” It was a seemingly harmless inquiry, if not for the dark, eager gleam in the boy’s eyes.

“I fail to see how I benefit from it.”

The boy looked irritated and pleased in equal measure. “How very Slytherin of you.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Draco arched an eyebrow, staring coolly.

“I don’t know,” the words rolled slowly, as if he were unused to speaking them. “You’re irritatingly unpredictable.” Draco blinked. He wasn’t certain that he agreed with that assessment, but made no move to correct him. Let the boy think of him what he will.

“And you seem to posses an innate talent for deflection,” Draco offered in return. The boy hummed noncommittally.

“Does it bother you?” He tilted his head, and lifted one corner of his mouth in a jeering smirk.

“That my questions tend to go unasked?" The boy merely stared at him, gaze expectant. Draco swallowed thickly, then said in a low voice, “It does. Though, not to the extent I imagined it would.”

“Oh?" The boy breathed softly, a question clear in his voice.

“I think,” Draco drawled slowly, carefully contemplating his next words, “that sometimes, it is better to not know than it is to know.”

The boy clicked his tongue in light admonishment. “You would willingly deny yourself knowledge?”

“Some things are best left unsaid,” Draco countered icily, instantly defensive at the derisive edge in the boy’s tone.

Mirror-boy held his hands up in mock surrender, quirking an eyebrow at Draco’s cold tone. “I can agree with that.” There was a long pause as mirror boy stared at him, eyes like knives slipping under his skin. “Excuse me for saying so, but you seem rather stressed.” 

Draco let out a startled, slightly hysterical laugh. “Do I?”

“Is it, perhaps, to do with the death that you mentioned?” The boy leaned forward, head tilted like a bird.

“It’s indirectly related,” Draco said, waving long, white fingers in a dismissive manner.

There was the faintest twitch of the boy’s jaw, but it was gone in an instant. “Do you enjoy speaking in riddles, Malfoy?” Draco suppressed a snort. He acted as though Draco owed him answers. For a person that outright refused to tell Draco his name, he was awfully entitled and presumptuous.

“I’m truly sorry for having inconvenienced you,” he said, tone dripping sarcasm.

The boy’s expression went from quizzical to something much darker, his mask briefly cracking, before he expertly wiped his face blank. “You know, these meetings could prove beneficial to the both of us,” he recovered smoothly. 

The corner of Draco’s mouth twisted in sharp amusement at the boy’s attempt at manipulation. “I will not share knowledge of the future with you.” 

The boy’s eyes flickered with a deadly sort of annoyance, but then his expression smoothed over like a wrinkled sheet pulled tight. Draco rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze back up to the ceiling in a silent dismissal.


“You’ll write, won’t you?” Gabrielle’s voice was thick was tears. Draco swallowed thickly, arms tightening around her as he nodded. He eventually released her and stepped back, quietly admiring the sight that the two of them made as they stood side-by-side in their matching baby-blue satin uniforms.

“Next time you’re in France, come visit us,” Fleur added on, flashing him a warm, brilliant smile that he didn’t deserve. 

“Of course,” he lied through his teeth, inwardly despairing at the empty promise he had just made. Draco would, in his seemingly doomed attempt to save his family, most likely either end up dead or in Azkaban at the end of the war. Gabrielle engulfed him in one final hug, and Fleur kissed both his cheeks before they headed over towards the Beauxbatons’ entourage. Madam Maxine caught his eye and waved enthusiastically, and Draco’s heart ached as he returned it, feeling undeserving of their affection. 

He clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood, and turned away. He cast his gaze across the courtyard, and made the colossal mistake of making eye-contact with Potter. Draco barely restrained himself from flinching at the sheer amount of hatred in those green eyes. He wasn’t surprised; Potter blamed him for his entry in the Triwizard Tournament, and therefore, all the subsequent events that followed, including Diggory’s untimely death, were his fault, too. Draco continued to hold Potter’s unyielding stare, keeping his face utterly blank. 

It was then that he noticed that the Weasel and Granger were also glaring at him with an indescribable vitriol to their gaze. It was hardly surprising; Potter was incapable of keeping his opinions to himself, even when his suspicions had no real basis or evidence. He averted his gaze, and- Oh. It wasn’t just the Trio; he was receiving some very impressive glares from a lot of people. 

His mind went blank, ice suffusing in his veins. Draco blinked, and their faces overlapped with that of his classmates - bloodied, filthy, exhausted, and grim with loss after the final battle, glowering at him in disgust. The glares were so eerily similar that panic curled into his lungs as he choked on his own breath, rendering him unable to breathe. It was as though an invisible hand had wrapped itself around his throat, squeezing. He raised a trembling hand to his neck as if to pry away the unseen fingers. Tears scalded the backs of his eyes, and he blinked them back, willing them not to fall.

“Draco,” there was a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he flinched violently, turning to see Blaise and Pansy standing behind him, their eyes tight with concern. Blaise squeezed his shoulder, and Draco’s chest tightened, his stomach lurching into his throat at the gesture, unaccustomed to comfort.  

“I’m fine,” he muttered, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice cracked. He took measured breaths, trying to calm the mess of emotions tangling up in his chest, filling his lungs. 

He couldn’t comprehend why he was suddenly so overwhelmed. Perhaps, it was because Draco was forced to say farewell to the only three individuals besides Blaise, Pansy and his parents who had treated him with genuine kindness. Maybe, it was due to his impending return to the Manor - a place where his nightmares roamed freely. Or, perhaps it was the continuous accusations and slander against his person, when for once he was well and truly innocent. It could also be because of the Dark Lord’s return, and all the madness and cruelty that was yet to come.

Exhaustion washed over Draco in waves; he was completely and utterly done with this Salazar-forsaken war before it had even begun.

Pansy slowly drew him into a hug, and it was accredit to how out of it he was that he didn’t even snap at her for the public display of affection. He simply went limp in her hold, nuzzling his face into her black hair that smelled distinctly of strawberries. A hand came up to softly stroke his white-blonde locks. Draco swallowed the tears that were threatening to spill. He didn’t deserve this comfort. 

“It’s okay, darling,” Pansy soothed. “You’re okay.”

He nodded numbly against her hair, knowing that he was very much not okay.


Draco slumped further into his seat on the Hogwarts Express. He sighed inwardly and fixed his gaze on the window,  staring out at the seemingly endless rolling-fields. He could feel his housemates eyes on him as they shifted impatiently and uneasily in their seats. Draco knew that they wanted to ask him about that.

Without even sparing his housemates a glance, he spoke, “Just ask. I know you want to.”

“Did you know?” Goyle demanded immediately.

“That the Dark Lord was going to return?” He asked dryly, glancing over at Goyle.

“I heard that you put Potter’s name in the Goblet to help your father,” Crabbe sounded ridiculously eager. Pansy slipped her hand into his, squeezing it in silent support, and even though her face was impressively blank, he could see the hidden tension in her jaw.

Draco pursed his lips, checking his irritation. “I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but contrary to Potter’s claims, my father had no hand in the Dark Lord’s revival, nor did I. I suspect that Lucius wasn’t even aware of it all until he was summoned that night.”  

“Lucius didn’t know?” Daphne made a shocked disbelieving noise. Draco snapped his head towards her, silver eyes flashing dangerously, silently daring her to continue. 

Surprisingly, Theo was the voice of reason. “I got an owl from my dad this morning. He was the same position as Draco’s dad. Most of them were, Daph.”

“But Lucius was His right-hand,” Goyle pointed out. The use of past tense did not escape his notice, nor Blaise’s judging by the way he stiffened beside him, or Pansy’s as she tightened her grip on his hand.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not privy to my father’s every move, Goyle. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been at school, just like the rest of you.”

“He didn’t even send you a letter?” Crabbe sounded put-out at the prospect.

“Oh, yes. That’s a brilliant idea,” he snarked, temper fraying at the edges. “Let’s send a letter detailing the Dark Lord’s revival to my son, completely disregarding the very real possibility that it could be intercepted. Not that Lucius would have had anything to write, seeing as he was as blindsided by His return as everyone else.”

Crabbe looked rightfully chastised. Pansy rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand soothingly, whilst Blaise pressed himself against Draco’s side in silent support.

The Slytherins barely spoke after that, all of them content with riding in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Draco felt a blanket of envy wash over him; Blaise’s family was neutral, which, in an ideal world, the Malfoy family would have been, too. But instead, Lucius went and condemned their family by supporting a psychopathic megalomaniac. 

Draco absently wondered whether he had officially been declared responsible for entering Potter in the Tournament. He was soothed by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be arrested; Potter had no proof.

The Hogwarts Express arrived at the station far sooner than Draco would have liked; he wanted to delay his inevitable return to Malfoy Manor for as long as humanly possible. But, he reasoned, he would finally get to see his mother. The thought made his heart swell with longing. He swallowed his nerves and stepped out onto the platform, eyes impatiently scanning the crowd. Draco spotted her standing off to the side, and had great difficulty restraining himself from sprinting over to her and throwing himself into her arms. 

Narcissa looked beautiful. There were no other words for her. Draco could scarcely remember how she looked before the war, before stress and fear made her into the shell of the dignified and proud woman she once was. But here she was, alive and untouched by war; standing tall and radiating elegance. 

He swallowed down the giddiness that bubbled up his throat, and walked over to her.

 

Notes:

I was re-reading the fifth book in preparation for this fic, and I hatehatehate that Sirius fucking died without ever knowing the truth about my baby Regulus. What kind of bullshit is that?! #RegulusBlackDeservesBetter

also, Tom is so hard to write - I wrote like 24890 drafts for that scene. Did it turn out okay? I'm nervous.

Chapter 10

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Dragon," she greeted him, her voice soft and warm. It felt like coming home. Draco swallowed thickly, and tears scalded the backs of his eyes, causing Narcissa’s serene expression to morph into one of worry. “Darling?”

Draco, much to his mortification, made a low keening noise in the back of his throat. It was barely-audible, but it still made Narcissa’s eyes flare in alarm. She placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, silently steering him towards the Apparition point. The sounds of families greeting each other faded to the background as he focused on keeping his emotions in check. Judging by the side-glances his mother kept giving him, he was doing an utterly abysmal job.

He took his mother’s offered arm, and with a tight pop, they apparated. He barely had a moment to orientate himself before Narcissa strode forward, keeping a firm grip on Draco’s shoulders as they passed through the wards which secluded the Manor. He suppressed a shudder as the wards washed over him; the feeling reminiscent of ice-water being poured down his back.

She quickly led him across the grounds, Draco stumbling after her like a newborn fawn. When the Manor’s shadow loomed over him, Draco dug his heels in, forcing his mother to come to an abrupt halt. Draco stared. The Manor stood as tall as always, swallowing up the sun behind it. His throat tightened up at the sight. 

The front door swung inward at his mother’s approach as she forcefully dragged him inside. He stood in the centre of the foyer, his heart stuttering with a mixture of terror and dread. He tried to quell the sheer amount of emotion filling his lungs, flinching when he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders. His gaze snapped up to meet a pair of grey eyes identical to his own, shining with worry.

Draco made a strangled sound and threw himself at his mother. He felt her stiffen upon the sudden contact, but then easily melted into his hold. Draco had put a stop to physical affection when he left for Hogwarts at eleven - he knew that Narcissa had been disappointed, but ultimately abided by his wishes.

He was taller than her now, he realised belatedly. Not by much, but Draco knew that he would continue to grow until he was at least a head taller. He buried his nose in her blonde hair, breathing in her familiar, comforting scent of lavender.

“I missed you,” he murmured into her hair, hating how his voice cracked and wobbled, “so much.” 

“Oh, my Dragon,” she said breathlessly. “I missed you, too.”

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling fresh tears pooling behind his lids. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and let out a shuddering exhale. He held her tighter, silent tears sliding down his cheeks. Draco eventually drew back, and the world swum before him in a blur of tears. He blinked, equal parts startled and mortified that he had broken composure so thoroughly. He was incredibly fortunate that Lucius wasn’t here to witness this. Right. Lucius.

“What of father?” He sniffled, wiping the stray tears on the back on his hand.

Narcissa’s expression darkened, her lips pursed into a thin line. “He has been rather preoccupied as of late.” 

Draco blinked, startled. “He’s not here?”

“No. Not at the moment,” said Narcissa, after a brief hesitation. “He has… business to attend to.”

“Right,” Draco murmured, jaw clenching. “Is it perhaps related to His return?”

Draco watched as Narcissa’s face did some quick, unexplainable gymnastics. “You believe the rumours, then?”

“Should I not?” Draco tilted his head, curious as to whether she would try and hide this from him.

Narcissa looked at him, an incomprehensible look in her grey eyes, before sighing deeply. “You must know that your father had no part in all this.”

“I gathered as much,” he said slowly. Draco stared at her with narrowed eyes. Narcissa was hiding something from him, he realised, observing her carefully crafted expression. Narcissa excelled at masks, but she had always been readable to him, always allowed him to see her true emotions - but now she was shutting him out. He knew that she meant well, that Narcissa was trying to protect him, to shield him from what was to come. It was as endearing as it was frustrating.

“You’ve changed, Draco,” she murmured softly, her eyes roaming over his face intently. 

Draco stiffened. “Mother-”

“Hush. It’s not a bad thing, dragon.” She reached up, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “Why don’t you go and settle in?”

“Right,” Draco cleared his throat. “Of course.” Narcissa she pulled him in for one final hug before ushering him off to his bedroom. 

He turned around the corner and stilled, his mind buzzing as the reality that he was alone inside the Manor finally sunk in. Cold dread settled on his spine, and his movements were sluggish as he relied on muscle memory to make his way towards his room. He clenched his fists as he thought of all the monsters that had walked down this very hallway. He kept his gaze firmly glued to his feet as he walked, unease snaking through him and twisting into an anxious, rustling coil. He refused to look up, all too aware of the portraits’ eyes trained on him.

Draco all but stumbled into his room, quickly slamming the door shut. He tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Draco choked back a wet laugh, his bottom lip quivering. He was so utterly pathetic. He moved to stand before his floor length mirror and stared unblinkingly at his reflection. Sweet Salazar he looked exhausted. 

The dark circles under his eyes were rather pronounced, and his grey eyes were dulled, red-rimmed from his tears earlier. His hair now reached to his mid-neck, and it was so pale a blonde that it almost looked white, the shade not all too dissimilar to that of his incredibly fair skin. It became increasingly obvious as he grew older that, besides his distinct Malfoy hair, his features were entirely that of his mother’s, hence his rather feminine appearance. Draco had never had an issue with how delicate he looked; he gladly welcomed any resemblance to his mother with open arms.

He turned back to his bedroom door and set about warding the room. It took him several hours, and he was utterly exhausted by the end of it. He collapsed onto his bed, relaxing into the soft blankets. He withdrew the shrunken, warded wooden box from his coat pocket and slowly turned it over in his hands, contemplating the locket hidden within. 

He was curious as to why the personal locket of Salazar Slytherin was in the Black house, and why the magic imprinted in it felt so wrong, and was so unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He went and hid the wooden box in his desk drawer, then sat down at his desk with a sigh, making a mental note to write letters to Gabrielle and Fleur later on. 

He withdrew a thin, black book from his drawstring bag, and trailed his finger along the spine, the creases betraying how well-read it was. ‘Grindelwald’s Guide to Dark Magic’ was both very illegal and very rare, banned in England after Grindelwald’s defeat and subsequent imprisonment at the hands of Dumbledore. He was unsurprised that the Black library had a copy. 

He scanned the contents page, pausing on a familiar name; Protego Diabolica. Draco knew that it was an incredibly dark spell that whilst difficult to cast, was also extremely effective and powerful. He frowned, eyes flickering over the page. Protego Diabolica was a fire-based spell, and whilst Draco’s tolerance to fire was improving, it was a very slow and arduous process. It was daunting enough that Draco was ready to give up before he had even begun; he did not enjoy setting himself up for inevitable failure. 

He sighed, tired to his bones. Well. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose; he had plenty of time this summer, and even if all of his attempts to learn Protego Diabolica ended in complete failure, no one would know of his humiliation but himself. And if Draco spent the next week in an empty wing of the Manor learning Protego Diabolica and practicing the duelling techniques that Aunt Bella had taught him, then no one had to know. 


A week later Draco was sat before his father, taking small, measured breaths, trying to calm the mess of emotion in his chest. Draco could scarcely recall the last time he’d been summoned to Lucius’ study like this. His father gazed back at him steadily, icy-blue eyes assessing. Draco carefully kept his face blank, his grip on the armrest tightening almost imperceptibly, fingernails digging into the dark, plush upholstery.

“Draco,” Lucius drawled, tone indiscernible. Draco stared unblinkingly at his father who looked healthy in a way he hadn’t been since his stint in Azkaban. “I see that your grades have improved.”

Lucius pulled out his report card, waving the paper about lazily. In the previous timeline, Draco had been terribly ashamed that, despite his best efforts, he had continuously come second to Granger, to a Muggleborn. Now, he struggled to feel anything besides indifference at his new position as top of the year.

“Yes,” he agreed for lack of nothing better to say. 

Lucius hummed softly, leaning back in the seat. “It’s about time. It was utterly mortifying to have my son and Heir lose to that Mudblood each year,” he remarked, his voice gaining a hard, cold edge.

It felt as though he’d been slapped.

Ah. How naive of him. There was no pride, no congratulations for his efforts - just disappointment that Draco had not achieved first place prior to this year, especially since Lucius now knew he was capable of it. Lucius’ release from Azkaban at the end of Draco’s sixth year marked a change in his father; Lucius had finally begun to treat Draco as his son, and not just as his heir. The Malfoys, from that point onwards, had relied solely on each other in order to survive in their own Salazar-forsaken house, and had grown close as a result. It was jarring to return to the relationship they had before all that.

The man before him was not the father he had left behind. He swallowed against the acid flash of bitterness in his mouth.

“I apologise, father.” Lucius levelled him with a bored yet intense stare. Draco neither instigated nor avoided eye-contact, very careful to keep his face utterly blank.

Lucius’ gaze flicked up to Draco’s hair, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Are you aware of the state that your hair is in?” His voice was stiff with disapproval.

Draco cringed inwardly, painstakingly aware of the awkward ‘in-between’ state that his hair was in. “Yes, father.”

Lucius clicked his tongue in admonishment. “I ordered you to keep it short for this exact reason.”

“I’m in the process of growing it out,” he drawled. Something akin to approval flashed through Lucius’ eyes. Draco blinked, surprised that he had earned his father’s approval so easily. Ah, he realised dully, eyeing Lucius’ long hair. He must have taken this as a sign that Draco wished to take after him. He snorted inwardly. Draco may love his father, but he would rather endure Aunt Bella’s crucio than become the man his father is. His desire to grow his hair was merely a personal preference.

“How was school?” Lucius drummed his fingers on the desk absently.

“It was fine.” If you discount the numerous nervous breakdowns and constant nightmares.

“Really?” He quirked a single brow, tone mocking. “I received word that you have distanced yourself from both Crabbe and Goyle.” 

Draco clenched his jaw, acid burning up his throat. “Their presence worsens my reputation.”

Lucius’ face was set in a look of disapproval. “They are both a part of respectable pure-blood families-”

“Respectable,” Draco deadpanned, disbelieving.  

Lucius stared silently at Draco for a long moment before his expression twisted into something darkly amused. “Regardless, we cannot afford to lose allies. Now more than ever.”

Draco straightened at his tone, and at the insinuation behind his words. Lucius noticed his sudden attention, and his expression sharpened, mouth twisting into a smirk.

“I’m sure that you’ve heard the rumours about His return,” Lucius remarked with a casualness unsuited to the topic.

Draco nodded slowly. “Yes. Potter claimed to have witnessed the Dark Lord’s return.”

“For once, Potter’s claim is correct.” There was lazy amusement in Lucius’ expression. “The Dark Lord has returned to us, and I have entered His service once more.” Draco exhaled sharply, chest constricting with something ugly at the pride in his father’s voice.

He felt hot and cold at the same time, frustration and bitter disappointment welling up inside him. There was anger, too, at Lucius’ eagerness to serve and bend to the whims of a madman. Draco quickly schooled his features, hiding his rebellious emotions behind a blank mask. He couldn’t have Lucius thinking he was anything but loyal.

“I am glad, father,” he kept his voice flat, devoid of emotion, knowing that the slightest inflection would betray his true thoughts on the matter.

“As am I,” he murmured, eyes turning contemplative. “You are aware of our allegiance to the Dark Lord?”

“Nothing short of the utmost loyalty,” he echoed the words Lucius had sworn by in the previous timeline. 

His father looked inordinately pleased. “In that case, I’m sure that you’ll be glad to hear the news.”

Draco blinked. “Father?”

Lucius’ expression was maddeningly smug. “We will be receiving guests starting this week.” Draco felt something wither, crack and die in his chest. “It goes without saying that you will be on your best behaviour this summer.”

Draco pulled on the lazy, arrogant smirk that almost used to live on his face. “Of course.”

Lucius watched him for a long moment before nodding. Draco didn't know what expression he made, but it was clearly enough to satisfy his father. “I assume you have questions.”

Oh, he most certainly did, but they strayed into the traitorous kind. Namely, ‘What the bloody hell are you thinking?’ But Draco knew better than to question his father when it came to the Dark Lord; Lucius’ opinion of him was absolute, and had remained so even when they were reduced to mere prisoners in their own home. His unwavering devotion had lasted up until he final battle where he had ‘defected,’ which had been more out of self-preservation than a change of loyalty.

“None, father. I trust your judgement.” Delighted surprise lit Lucius’s eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat, quickly smothered by calm indifference.

“You’re different.” There it was again. First Narcissa, now Lucius. Was his change in maturity truly that obvious? Draco remained silent as his father observed him through narrowed eyes. Lucius opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Enter,” Lucius said, wearing an expression of barely controlled annoyance. The doors swung open with a resounding and overly dramatic bang. Draco’s head snapped towards the door, and he forcefully swallowed down the bubble of horror that clawed its way up his throat.

In the doorway stood none other than Barty Crouch Jr.

 

Notes:

I received a lot of comments about making this a Draco/Tom pairing, which I'm considering as it definitely has potential, and I have several ideas for it. Though, as I mentioned in some of my replies on the last chapter, I have no idea how to make it endgame.

Not to mention that there is also some that are against a Draco/Tom pairing, so I’m currently at a loss on what to do.

Chapter 11

Notes:

I cannot thank you all enough for all the support and advice that was left on the last chapter~ it meant the world to me ❤︎

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Bartemius,” Lucius’ mouth curled downwards in distaste. Barty’ face twisted in disgust, lips pulling back from his teeth. 

“Lucius,” he sneered, honeyed venom dripping from his tone. Their mutual dislike was so obvious that it was borderline comical.

“Why are you here?” Lucius asked brusquely, tone thick with displeasure.

Barty smoothed out his ghastly dark purple suit, his features set in smug satisfaction. “I’ve come to steal your brat.” 

The air itself seemed to still, the tension in the room palatable. Lucius glared at Barty, frustration and anger warring in his expression. Draco knew that Lucius absolutely loathed being ordered around, but Barty held the Dark Lord’s favour - it would not be in Lucius’ best interest to upset him.

Barty turned to Draco, and he resisted the urge to flinch under the intensity of his stare.

“Come on, Lucius!” Barty goaded, cackling, gaze still trained on Draco. “I don’t get much free time, ya know? What with me pretending to be Mad-Eye and all.” Barty’s act as Moody had been disturbing in itself, but this? It reached a whole other level of unsettling.

Lucius eyed him for a moment longer before sighing, resigned. “Fine,” he gritted out reluctantly, evidently displeased. Barty grinned, blue eyes gleaming with vicious satisfaction. Panic writhed in Draco’s gut, but he pushed it away and steeled himself, lifting his chin. 

“What are ya waiting for?” Barty snapped, sauntering out the door. Draco gave his father a stilted nod before following the madman out the room. The moment they were out of ear-shot, Barty rounded on him, his smile resembling that of a grinning skull’s; half-manic and wicked.

“You didn’t turn me in!” He sounded disgustingly gleeful.

“Would you have preferred it if I did?” Draco snapped, nerves all tense and coiled, like a spring, tightly wound. Barty merely looked amused, and Draco resisted the urge to snarl. He didn’t turn in Barty for his own sake, but he let Barty believe what he wished. 

“You surprised me, kid,” Barty mused, licking his lips. “You actually have a spine, unlike your coward of a father.” Draco found that despite how much he loved his father, he couldn’t disagree. Barty let out a loud bark of laughter at his silence, taking it for the admission that it was. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

Draco raised his eyebrows skeptically, cautiously eyeing the mad gleam in Barty’s electric blue eyes. His stomach churned with the makings of a storm, uneasiness unfurling in his chest.

“I take it that daddy dearest isn’t aware of your proficiency for a certain Unforgivable?” Draco stole a glance at Barty whose eyes were glimmering with dark mirth, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking smile.

“What makes you say that?” He asked innocently, tone deceptively light. 

A knowing smirk lit Barty's lips. “I won’t spill the beans. Think of it as a thank you for not running your mouth.” Draco hated that he appreciated the gesture. He didn’t want Lucius asking questions that he couldn’t answer. “Hey, hey, should I teach ya the other two?” 

The bitter tang of bile crept up his throat. “Pardon?”

Barty’s mouth curled downwards, nose wrinkling. “Don’t play dumb, kid. You got the first one down, care to learn the other two?”

Barty wanted to teach him the Cruciatus and Killing Curse? A shiver ran down his spine. Absolutely not. “Aren’t you rather preoccupied with pretending to be Mad-Eye?”

Barty’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Ugh. Yeah. You would not believe how busy that old bastard is. Great for information, though. What with him being a Dark Wizard catcher and all,” Barty said with a frightening expression on his face, somewhere between a grin and a snarl. Draco swallowed uneasily. “So, how do ya feel about a round of Quidditch?” 

“Quidditch,” Draco deadpanned, hysteria bubbling up in his chest. Barty had dragged him away to play Quidditch.

“Yup,” he nodded, snickering at the dumbfounded look on Draco's face. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s up to me how I wanna spend my precious free-time.”

“You played Quidditch?” 

Barty snorted. “Of course not. Reggie did, though. Dragged me out for practice all the bloody time.”

“Reggie?”

“Yeah, Regulu-” Barty cut himself off, expression shuttering, unable to speak the name out loud. Ah. Regulus Black; the cousin that died before he was born, the man who was supposed to be his other godfather. He was disappointed that he never had the chance to meet him; mother always spoke highly of him, and it looked like Barty was fond of him, too. Barty cleared his throat. “A little birdie told me that you’re Slytherins’ seeker.”

“And if I am?” Barty grinned wolfishly, the challenge clear in his gaze. Draco raised an eyebrow. “You want to challenge a seeker?”

“There’s no way in Salazar that you’re a better seeker than Reggie,” Barty retorted sharply. “And I almost beat him on a few occasions.”

“A few?”

Barty’s expression soured. “Alright, only once. But Reggie was a bloody prodigy so it hardly counts, yeah?”

“We shall see.” It was peculiar; the conversation itself was harmless, but Draco was still uneasy. The longer they spoke, the more opportunities Draco had to let something slip that would betray his disloyalty, and Barty would undoubtedly volunteer to torture him into insanity for his betrayal, just like he did the Longbottoms. 

Draco pushed open the door to the Quidditch supply room, stepping inside. Barty let out a low whistle, and Draco preened inwardly. The Malfoys did have a rather extensive collection.

“Salazar, you really are a rich little brat, aren’t you?” He ran a hand through his choppy, straw-blonde hair. They each grabbed a broom and headed onto the large sprawling fields at the back of the Manor. Barty released the snitch as they kicked off the ground, ascending into the air.

The wind ruffled his hair like an old friend, and he relished the feeling of the cold breeze whipping at his clothes as he raced through the air, eyes darting about for the snitch. His concentration was broken by Barty, who let out a loud, manic cackle.

“I forgot what it's like to fly!” He let out a whoop and soared higher, completely neglecting to look for the snitch. As Draco watched him, he realised that this wasn’t about Quidditch, Barty just wanted an excuse to revel in the freedom that came with flying. Draco himself could scarcely remember the last time that he had flown. He wanted to quit Quidditch, no longer eager to compete against Potter, but how could he possibly give this up? There was nothing quite like the adrenaline that came with chasing after the snitch, the blurred earth beneath his broom, the wind tangling in his hair.

Time seemed to blur as they played round after round. As predicted, Draco won repeatedly, what with him having actual experience as a seeker, and because Barty was constantly distracted by flying around like an utter idiot, often forgetting to look for the damn snitch.

It was then that he noticed a dark-cladded figure exiting the house, strolling out onto the field. Draco dove down to greet him, immediately forgoing the game, certain that Barty wouldn’t care; the man was currently doing loop-de-loops in the air above him.

He landed in front of Severus, still riding an adrenaline high from being in the air, his white-blonde strands sticking up chaotically, looking as though he’d just walked through a tornado. Severus looked appropriately startled; Draco’s hair was usually immaculate.

“Draco,” Severus greeted with poorly concealed amusement as Draco furiously batted his hair down. 

“Sev,” he inclined his head. “What brings you here?”

“I am-”

“Severus!” Draco jerked, startled as Barty landed beside him, lips stretched into an unsettling grin. Severus looked appropriately alarmed to see Barty Crouch Jr, who was supposed to have died in Azkaban, in Draco’s backyard, playing Quidditch with his godson.

“Barty,” Severus sounded strained. “I wasn’t aware that you were alive.”

“You can thank dear old dad for that,” Barty’s smile was hateful, his face lined with icy resentment. Severus raised an inquisitive brow. “Bastard got me out of Azkaban only a year after he put me in.” 

“And he just let you roam free?” Severus drawled in an incredulity that came from knowing full well just how strict and uptight Crouch was.

“Of course not,” Barty scoffed derisively, voice taking on a hard, cold edge. “The bloody asshole kept me under Imperius.”

Something ugly twisted in Draco’s chest at that. He remembered that Barty-as-Moody had spent a whole lesson dedicated to resisting the Imperius Curse. “That’s why you gave us that lesson.”

Barty’s responding grin was one without mirth. “A lesson that you refused to participate in,” he sounded accusatory.

Draco gritted his teeth. “I am well aware of my own limits, and that includes not being able to resist the Imperius Curse.”

“Oh?” Barty rounded on him. “And how would you know that? Unless you’ve been in a position where you’ve had to resist it before?” 

Draco blanched. Oh, Fuck. Draco had, but that had been under Aunt Bella’s instructions. 

Barty and Draco stared at each other in strained silence. He couldn’t discern a single emotion on Barty’s face, which was somehow more unnerving than receiving one of his manic grins. Severus cleared his throat, effectively snapping them out of their staring contest. Severus shot Draco a look, but he kept his expression blank, frustrated with himself for speaking so carelessly.

Barty glanced down at his watch, and let out a string of crude curses. “Sorry to cut this short, boys, but I’ve got places to go, people to see.” He winked in Draco’s direction, and Oh- Draco had momentarily forgotten that Barty was fulfilling Moody’s role as an Auror. He couldn’t suppress his snort. What a joke. “I didn’t know you found my task amusing.”

“It’s ironic, is all.” And it was; one of the Dark Lord’s most ardent followers successfully pretending to be the Ministry’s best Dark Wizard catcher. 

“Isn’t it?” Barty smiled. It was a slow, almost manic thing, quiet and sharp. “Later!” He carelessly dropped the broomstick on the ground before waltzing back into the Manor, disappearing from view. 

Severus quirked a single brow. “Task?” He inquired. Ah. Draco faltered. Right. He doesn’t know that Barty is Moody. Severus must have sensed his hesitation because he quickly changed topics. “You seem comfortable around him.”

Draco blinked, startled. “Do I? I must be a better actor than I give myself credit for.” Severus gave him a disbelieving look. Draco groaned in frustration. “Come on, Sev! You’d have to be insane to feel even remotely safe in his presence. He’s mad.”

"Are you certain?" Severus drawled, dubious.

“I’m a Slytherin. I’m all about self-preservation, and acting myself around him is in my best interest,” Draco huffed, affronted. “So, what brings you here?”

Severus demeanour changed to deadly serious so quickly that Draco almost got whiplash. “I have been tasked with brewing Polyjuice potion.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. Severus had already met with the Dark Lord? Did Severus know what it was for, then? Was he just acting when he saw Barty? If he was, then he deserved an award because that acting was flawless. “What is it for?”

“I have not been made privy to that information,” Severus said dryly. Huh. It seemed that Draco was, for once, privy to information Severus wasn’t. He briefly wondered why Severus was not told, then pushed those thoughts aside; he had bigger issues. “And even if I had, I would not tell you.” 

That was fair. Especially considering that Draco had no plans to tell Severus that it was for Barty. He didn’t want the leak to be led back to him. Draco summoned a house-elf to return the brooms and followed Severus down to the Manor’s lab. Draco sat on a stool, gaze trailing after his godfather as he gathered the required ingredients.

“Sev,” he started, hesitant. His godfather glanced up, raising an inquisitive brow. “You’re good at Legilimency, yes?”

Severus blinked slowly. “I would consider myself rather masterful of the subject, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Masterful enough to read surface level thoughts?” Severus nodded slowly and titled his head to the side, expression radiating reluctant curiosity. “How would your abilities fare in comparison to the Dark Lord?”

“Draco,” Severus drawled slowly, his beady eyes narrowing. “What is this about?”

“Just answer the question,” he scowled, biting back a flare of impatience.

“There is no Legilimens alive whose skill can compare to that of the Dark Lord,” Severus stated bluntly. Draco stared at him expectantly. Severus sighed, sounding put upon. “Excluding the Dark Lord and Albus, I would say that I’m one of the most proficient. Why do you ask?”

Draco licked his lips nervously. “If you are willing, I would like for you to try to read my surface-level thoughts.”

Severus jerked, scowling. “Draco-”

“Please,” he said, lips pursed into a thin line. If Severus was able to read his thoughts, then it was guaranteed that the Dark Lord could as well. Severus observed him in silence for a long moment before letting out a long, resigned sigh.

“Ready?” Draco nodded, staring directly into Severus’ black eyes. He allowed his thoughts to drift, thinking of harmless topics such as Quidditch, Blaise and Pansy, and holiday homework. He searched Severus’ face for any kind of reaction, but found none; Severus’ face was utterly blank.

“Well?” Draco pressed, leaning forwards, cheek resting on his knuckles, elbow on the counter. Severus blinked, coming back to himself.

“Impressive,” he complimented, sounding equal parts sincere and baffled. “I could not glean anything from your thoughts.” Draco stared up at him in confused disbelief. “Draco, what is this about?”

“We both know who will be moving into the Manor soon,” Draco said, his raging internal anxiety causing his voice to waver.

Severus stared at him for a long moment, expression inscrutable. “You’re scared,” he said at last, sounding bewildered by his own conclusion. 

Draco snorted. That was an understatement. “I’m terrified,” he corrected.

Severus scrutinised him. “You are aware that you cannot keep him out of your head should he choose to delve into your mind, yes?”

“I’m aware,” Draco snapped, “but he won’t bother to do so unless there is a good reason to.”

“Oh? Pray tell, why would your thoughts be cause for that?” Draco swallowed, heart lurching into his throat. Severus sighed irritably, and cast a muffliato. “Is this, perhaps, related to your earlier comments regarding your certainty of the Dark Lord's return?”

Draco stiffened. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what-”

“Don’t play dumb, Draco. It doesn’t suit you.”

Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I didn’t know,” he lied through his teeth.

“Draco,” Severus’ voice held a warning of displeasure. “You told me that He would return-”

Draco lips curled back in the beginning of a snarl. “Did I specify when?” Severus visibly faltered. Draco took advantage of his stunned silence, hurrying on, “When I told you that He would return, did I specify when?”

“No, you-”

“Exactly. I did not. Because I didn’t know, Severus. It was a general observation,” Draco was ashamed to say that he was getting rather talented at lying. “He’s made an attempt to return nearly every year. Did you truly think that none of them would succeed?” 

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Severus’ shoulders slumped. He dragged hand down his haggard face, looking exhausted. “I apologise, it’s just that with Potter’s accusations-”

“You’d believe Potter over me?” Draco clenched his jaw - anger, confusion, and betrayal warring against each other.

“Of course not, you daft fool,” Severus snapped. “But when Potter spread the word that you were responsible for entering him in the tournament, which he claimed you had done so to assist your father in his task of resurrecting the Dark Lord, you did nothing to defend yourself!”

Actually, Draco had defended himself, but all his protests fell on deaf ears. He didn’t think Barty’s freedom was worth taking the fall for this. Truly. He should have come clean the moment he knew. But it was too late for that now.

“You and I both know that your father was caught unawares by the Dark Lord’s return,” Severus drawled slowly. “But Potter does not share that knowledge, and I doubt he’d believe it even if it came from Albus himself. The boy is too prejudiced for his own good.”

“You can say that again,” Draco murmured with a sudden feeling of overwhelming tiredness.

“Help me with the Polyjuice, will you? It’s about time you learned how to do it.” Draco perked up, offering Severus a wan but grateful smile.

 

Notes:

me sneaking in mentions of Regulus like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Chapter Text

There had been a heavy, suffocating blanket of oppressive Dark Magic weighing down on the Manor since the Dark Lord’s arrival several weeks prior. The sickening, gut-churning miasma of despair His very essence ignited had worsened Draco’s nightmares to the point where sleep was something he now considered a luxury, rather than a necessity. The bone-deep exhaustion showed in the very way he moved and interacted, in how he could barely gather to energy to speak, in how the shadows under his eyes grew darker, deeper with each passing day. 

Draco clung to his mother’s side, terrified that if he looked away, one of the Dark Lord’s guests would get their claws into her, and she would disappear. He knew that Narcissa was alarmed by his abrupt clinginess, but she never brought attention to it, for it enabled her to keep a close eye on him in return. The arrival of His guests also prevented Draco from sneaking down to the dungeons to practice his duelling and Protego Diabolica, for he greatly feared running into them. 

Draco, instead, spent his time locked in his bedroom, practicing his Occlumency with near manic intensity, and drowning himself in the books he retrieved from the Black family library. He thoroughly read through the book that contained the curses taught to him by Aunt Bella, deeply appreciative of the in-depth descriptions; Aunt Bella’s best attempt at detailing their effects was simply her categorising them by varying levels of pain. 

He went to turn the page, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Enter,” Draco called without looking up, eyes glued to the text in front of him. He heard the telltale sign of the door creaking open, and he flicked his gaze up, eyebrows shooting to his hairline when he spotted his father, who refused to meet Draco’s gaze. He froze, his stomach filling with sudden dread, his nerves screaming with alarm. Draco gently set the book down on the bed and slowly moved towards his father, who was unable to cross the threshold due to his wards.

“Father?” Draco swallowed thickly, unease slithering down his spine at his father’s uncharacteristic demeanour. 

Lucius’ expression looked forcefully blank, like he was trying not to show how affected he was, and Draco could see the tenseness in his frame, the wariness in his eyes. “The Dark Lord requests your presence.”

Draco’s mind went utterly blank. His thoughts came to a screeching halt, brain momentarily short-circuiting.

He stared at his father in undisguised horror. This hadn’t happened last time. Draco’s first meeting with the Dark Lord had been in the Christmas break of his fifth year at a party, not a one-on-one summoning.

He glanced down and fought back a grimace at his current state of dress. Draco opened his mouth, but panic rose up like a crescendo inside him, tightening his throat, choking the words before they could come out. Lucius, whose face was expressionless but growing paler by the second, heard his unasked question. 

“You do not have time to change,” Lucius said, a real note of alarm in his voice now. Draco swallowed, his throat dry with dread, panic loose and banging in his chest. He let out a shuddering exhale, steeled his nerves, and forced his expression to go blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Draco trailed after his father and clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. He reached for his Occlumency shields, slamming up and tightening his mental walls. He was utterly terrified that the Dark Lord would take one look at him and just know. His reputation as an unmatched Legilimens was not without merit, after all. That he was attempting to mislead such an individual made him feel nauseous.

If the Dark Lord discovered the knowledge that lurked inside Draco’s head, then it was over - not just for him and his family, but for the entire Wizarding World.

He felt strangely detached from his body, as though he was having an out of body experience. He assumed that it was his mind’s way of coping with his terror-induced panic, which only continued to grow as they crossed the main hall and reached his father’s study.

The door was cracked open, firelight bleeding out into the dark corridor in a long, golden chord of light. Lucius turned to him, his severe expression gaining an eerie edge as the shadows danced lazily across his skin. A tremor of fear rolled through Draco as he gave a stilted nod to Lucius, who slowly stepped back, his icy-blue eyes not once leaving Draco's face.

Draco slowly stepped through the doorway, only to immediately still as the heavy, oppressive pressure of the Dark Lord’s magic crawled over him, like snakes sliding under his skin. He swallowed around the lump in the hollow of his throat, and slowly walked further in. 

He kept his gaze glued to his shoes, taking several careful steps towards the large, ornately carved desk at the other end of the room. The Dark Lord’s magic became increasingly suffocating as drew closer, wrapping Draco in a cocoon. He came to a halt, standing before the desk, watching as the orange firelight chased the shadows across the floor. A cold sweat broke out across the back of Draco’s neck as he waited in silence. There was only a metre of distance between them now, and the close proximity had his mind screaming at him to flee, but his muscles were stiff, his feet glued to the floor.

“Sit.”

Draco carefully, slowly lowered himself into one of the armchairs, pulse pounding in his ears. The sensation of death and rot in the air thickened as the Dark Lord’s magic turned heavier, bearing down on him. It was an intimidation tactic, and a very effective one at that. Draco was all too aware of how easy it would be for the Dark Lord to end his life right here, right now. Draco had always felt so very small, so insignificant - like an insect, in His presence. 

He withdrew behind his Occlumency shields in an attempt to regulate his emotions, to slow his breathing. He was drowning in His magic, the oppressive feeling filling up his lungs, and he kept the fear off his face out of sheer willpower. He stared down at his lap, hands clasped together tightly. He kept himself very still, muscles locked together, as he waited with bated breath for the Dark Lord to do something; the silence was utterly stifling. 

“Look at me, child,” the Dark Lord demanded. His smooth, sanguine drawl made Draco’s skin crawl.

Draco slowly lifted his head, dragging his gaze upwards with visible reluctance. He swallowed as his eyes laid upon familiar black robes shrouded in shadow, noting the elegant manner in which the monster of a man sat; legs crossed regally, elbow resting on the plush armrest, the back of his hand supporting his ghostly-white chin. Draco let his gaze rest upon the slits that constituted as the Dark Lord’s nose, not daring to move an inch higher lest he meet those cruel red eyes.

“Draco Malfoy.” The Dark Lord’s lipless mouth curled into a mirthless smile at Draco’s full-body shudder. He inwardly cursed himself at his inability to suppress it. “Lucius mentioned that you’ve shown an interest in my cause.”

Draco couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that Lucius had already tried to sell him to the devil.

“Tell me,” his voice was a high-pitched hiss, echoing around the room, and Draco wanted to flee, to run as far as possible, yet he forced himself to stay seated. The Dark Lord’s unnaturally long, spider-like fingers drummed along the armrest. "Why do you wish to join my ranks?”

Draco swallowed nervously, the knot in his throat tightening as his mind twisted desperately from thought to thought. He could mention his father; the Malfoy family’s loyalty, and that Draco wished to follow in his predecessors footsteps. He could fabricate a tale that spoke of his own desire to see a world rid of those with ‘dirty blood,’ a world of pure-blood supremacy. He could spin lies about his hatred for Muggleborns, and how their existence threatened everything that pure-bloods hold dear. 

He squeezed his hands together until they turned bone-white as he felt the Dark Lord’s magic turn heavier, more potent at his continued silence. He could taste it on the roof of his mouth, feel it prickle the back of his skull. 

His nails bit into his hands. There were a plethora of answers he could give, but He would have undoubtedly heard them all before. The Dark Lord hated liars, and would certainly notice if his words weren’t layered in truth; he couldn’t have the Dark Lord thinking he was anything but loyal.

“Why would I not?” Draco let his sincerity bleed into his tone. It wasn’t as though he had a choice to be anything but devoted - there was too much at stake. He awaited his judgement in tense silence. Draco clenched his jaw as an overwhelming spike of magic invaded his senses, as though tendrils were slowly coiling around his legs and slithering over his body, sinking into his skin, tightening around his neck-

The Dark Lord’s magic slowly receded, until it resembled a soft caress instead of a thick, suffocating blanket. The tense line of Draco’s shoulders loosened, and he attempted to gulp in air subtly, but judging by the amused, mocking smirk tugging at His lips, it did not go unnoticed.

“Bartemius informed me that Harry Potter has accused you of conspiring with me,” the Dark Lord tilted his head curiously. “Your problems would have been solved if you had simply turned Bartemius in, and yet you refused to. Why?”

What did he expect Draco to say to that? His reasons for not selling Barty out were purely selfish. If the Dark Lord expected a speech about his devotion to the cause and blah blah blah, then he was sorely mistaken. He swallowed nervously. Draco was a brilliant liar, but the Dark Lord was infinitely better. It would be foolish to lie to his face. “I hadn’t even considered that as an option.” 

Which was true, but just not for the reasons the Dark Lord might assume. Wait. Had Draco made a mistake by not turning him in? Had the plan been for Barty to die, like he had last time, and Draco had unknowingly interfered? 

“Would it be better if I had?” Draco’s mouth moved faster than his brain could progress. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, body locking up, dread assailing him. That was too presumptuous; he shouldn’t presume nor question the Dark Lord’s motives. Salazar. He was going to die for his insolence, and there would be no witnesses, they wouldn’t even find the body-

He was snapped out of his inner-panic by a darkly amused chuckle. Draco stilled, breath caught. The Dark Lord’s amusement was never a good thing. He had often heard him laugh before crucio-ing his followers, entertained by their pitiful squabbling.

“No. You did what was expected of you as the son of a loyal Death Eater.” A cold dread climbed from the pit of his gut at the cruel amusement in the Dark Lord’s sibilant voice. “He has also informed me of your prowess at the Imperius Curse.” Well. It would seem that Draco’s plan to stay under the radar had flown out the fucking window. In the other timeline, that one meagre compliment would have made him preen, but now, knowing that he’d earned the Dark Lord’s approval just made him physically ill. “Yet you declined his offer to learn the remaining two. Why?”

He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably. Why? Because Barty terrified Draco. But he couldn’t exactly say that. “Father was planning to teach me.” It wasn’t a lie exactly, Lucius had mentioned it once. His father had learnt the Unforgivables from Abraxas, and Abraxas from his father before him. Lucius had always placed great importance on traditions.

The Dark Lord’s lip curled in distain. “Ah. I will speak with Lucius. Bartemius is far more proficient at the Dark Arts. You stand to learn a lot under his tutelage.”

Terror crawled up from the pit of his stomach and into his throat; there was no way out of this. 

“I would be grateful for the opportunity, My Lord,” his chest knotted with dread, but his voice was steady when he spoke. The Dark Lord hummed noncommittally. Draco gaze drifted to the wall behind Him, noting that the portraits had been taken down. It made sense; portraits were excellent spies.

“I see that you have shown an interest in warding.” A chill ran through him. The Dark Lord had visited Draco’s room. When? And why he hadn’t torn the wards down? He could have done it easily- Oh. He let them stay; his safe haven only remained safe because the Dark Lord allowed it to be.

Hysteria rose and broke over him like a tidal wave. That was a threat. Definitely a threat; a display of power disguised as benevolence. A faint, vile amusement curled the tips of His lipless mouth, knowing and mocking.

“The warding was adequate.” Gooseflesh appeared on his skin; making him feel as though something was crawling under it, desperately trying to escape. “But there’s always room for improvement.”

Ah. Insults cleverly disguised as compliments. That was familiar territory at least; reminiscent of mirror-boy’s irritating habit. It made him relax against his will. Draco could feel the Dark Lord’s scorching crimson gaze boring into him, tracking his every twitch, every expression with unnerving intensity. Draco was utterly perplexed; he wasn’t interesting enough to warrant this level of scrutiny from the Dark Lord. 

The tense silence was broken by a long, spine-chilling hiss. Draco’s muscles locked up, a high whine of terror filling his head.

Nagini. 

She slithered out from underneath his chair, and it took everything in him not to violently jerk out of his seat. Nagini slid up the side of the armchair, slowly coiling around the Dark Lord’s shoulders. He looked up, icy hollowness making his body frozen as he met too intelligent slitted eyes. Nagini flicked her tongue out, and Draco knew that she could taste his fear.

Nagini let out a low hiss, to which the Dark Lord responded in kind. Draco sat there, dread pooling cold in his stomach, listening to the casual, blatant use of Parseltongue. The exchange between the Dark Lord and Nagini abruptly ceased, plunging the room into a tense silence, only broken by the faint crackling of the fire. Draco counted the passing seconds in his head, apprehension like a lead weight in his chest.

When five minutes had passed without a word, he sucked in a deep breath, fending off an impending panic attack. Draco scrambled to compose himself, locking his inner turmoil and spiralling panic into the deep recesses of his mind. He had separated himself from his emotions enough times that it was as easy as breathing now. 

He had never once had the desire to understand the inner workings of the Dark Lord’s mind, but at that very moment, he ached to have even an inkling of insight into the thoughts inside His head. Draco had no reference for this situation; he had never been in His presence alone before. It unnerved him greatly that he had unknowingly altered the timeline to the point where He had sought out a private audience.

“You are dismissed.”

Thank Salazar.


The knowledge that even his bedroom was no longer safe made him feel every bit like the prisoner he was. The meeting with the Dark Lord had rendered him to a twitchy, paranoid pile of nerves, so when his mother suggested that he visit Diagon Alley, he practically jumped at the chance. Stepping out of the Floo and into the Leaky Cauldron was certainly an experience; every single eye in the vicinity had turned to focus on him with an unnerving intensity. He swallowed thickly, forcing his legs to move towards the brick wall that led to Diagon Alley. 

He faltered mid-step, staring at the copy of the Daily Prophet boldly displayed in the window, gaze skimming over Potter’s front page article detailing his run-in with the Dementors. He made a noise in the back of his throat; he had forgotten that had happened. Ugh. It only served to remind him that bloody Umbridge would be teaching this year. Salazar, how he loathed that abysmal excuse for a human being.

He glanced down at his book list as he entered Flourish and Blotts, so lost in his thoughts that he failed to notice the figure until he crashed into it. He murmured a soft apology, and made to walk around them, only for a voice to halt him in his tracks. 

“So, is it true?” Draco’s head snapped up. The speaker was a boy, around a year or two older than him. It wasn’t a face that he recognised, and yet the boy clearly knew who Draco was.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate,” Draco said politely, plastering a bland smile on his face. The boy rolled his eyes, and his mouth twisted into a frown as he opened it to reply, but was stopped by girl beside him who elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Sorry about him,” she said sheepishly, looking genuinely apologetic. Draco had bets on her being a Hufflepuff. “What he meant was, is it true that you put Harry’s name in the Goblet to revive… uh… You-Know-Who.”

Oh, for the love of- How far had this Salazar-forsaken rumour spread?

“You both believe he’s back, then?” Draco tilted his head to the side, forcing a healthy amount of skepticism into his tone, stamping down the rage-filled indignation at being falsely accused - yet again.

The girl flushed bright red, waving her hands about frantically. “Well, it’s just-”

“That’s why we’re asking you,” the boy interrupted, eyes narrowed into slits. “If you did enter Harry to bring back You-Know-Who, then you would know if your plan worked or not, right? You’d know if He’s actually back.”

Draco stared blankly at them and- Oh. They wanted him to deny it. They didn’t want Him to be back, and Draco could put all their fears to rest with a few simple words. He could feel curious eyes on them, watching their interaction, vultures eagerly looking for scraps of him to tear apart and gorge on. He refused to give them the satisfaction.

He sighed deeply, feeling as though he’d age ten years in the span of a single moment. It was disconcertingly easy to direct the conversation from there, to paint himself as a victim who’d been targeted as an outlet for Potter’s rage due to their antagonistic history, to claim that Potter had no hard, indisputable evidence to support his accusations. He had purposefully raised his voice, playing up the dramatics so that the gaggle of nosy onlookers could hear. 

He knew that they all desperately wanted to believe him. If Potter had truly lied about Draco entering him, then there was every chance that Potter’s claim that the Dark Lord had returned would be false, too. Honestly, if any of these onlookers had a shred of intelligence they’d realise that Draco’d never once denied the rumours of His return, only his presumed part in it.

He turned on his heel and headed towards the end isle, ignoring the whispers chasing after him. Draco could only pray that if his monologue was spread, that it would be done so accurately, and that his words weren’t twisted and used against him. He resisted the overwhelming urge to smash his head against the wall. He should have just stayed home; the Manor crawling with Death Eaters and the Dark Lord was better than this. 

 

Chapter 13

Notes:

I'm so incredibly sorry for the late update!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The stares, Draco mused dryly, glancing lazily around the platform, weren’t half as bad as he expected.

He had mentally steeled himself, fully prepared to withstand the full force of his schoolmates’ glowers and anger, only for his expectations to be shattered. With the exception of Potter’s sycophants, whose glares were borderline hostile, the best anyone had done was level him with a wary, suspicious look. 

It wasn’t all too different from how he was looked upon on a daily basis, but the sheer amount of eyes on his person made him feel as though he was crawling out of his own skin.

He felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and he slowly turned to face his mother, who was eyeing him carefully, all too aware of the attention he was receiving. He could see her fingers twitching as though she wished to pull him into a hug, but being a Malfoy and a Black required her to adhere her to a certain standard of decorum in public, one she could not cross, even if she wanted to. 

“Dragon,” she started softly, sounding hesitant in a way she never was. Then her expression cleared, her tone shifting into something that was eerily close to pity. “Will you be alright?”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes, mother. Of course.” The crease between her eyebrows indicated that she didn’t believe him, but she let the subject drop all the same. He flexed his fingers, willing away the nerves that rose when he thought of leaving her alone in the Manor. 

He turned to leave, but halted and glanced over his shoulder. Narcissa looked at him questioningly. “Darling?”

“Stay safe,” he murmured, heart in his throat. Draco started forward before she had a chance to reply. He dropped off his luggage, stepping onto the Hogwarts Express just as the warning whistle sounded. 

He stood in the corridor, swaying slightly on his feet as the train begun to move. Draco slid his hand into his pocket to withdraw his prefect badge, huffing out a hot breath of air. He truly had no desire to interact with the prefects from other houses, especially now that he had become something of a social pariah. 

He made his way towards the prefect carriage, almost dragging his feet from how slow he was moving. He pushed the door open, and barely refrained from flinching as their eyes swivelled his way. His gaze immediately latched onto Pansy’s, and he could see both relief and concern flickering through her eyes. He made a beeline towards her, not even bothering to glance at the others, too much of a coward to see the looks on their faces. He sat beside her, and she immediately pressed herself into his side, causing the tension that had coiled in his gut to slowly drain out of him.

He studiously ignored Granger and the Weasel, refusing to even so much as glance in their direction. It made the stifling tension in the prefect carriage almost bearable. Almost. But not quite. He barely paid any heed to the instructions given by the Head Boy and Girl, opting to stare steadfastly out the window instead. He could still feel the weight of gazes on him. It was suffocating.

Time seemed to blur as he sat there, watching the houses fade and morph into rolling fields. Draco’s skin tingled, and he begun to feel floaty, as though he was tethered to himself by an invisible chord. The colour’s distorted before his eyes, and he felt too large and too small all at once, like he was swimming through a fog.

He blinked, coming back to himself slowly, like readjusting his vision to the light after being held in the dark so long. He swallowed at the realisation that he was in a different carriage, now surrounded by his Slytherin housemates. He tried not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm that he had completely blanked out.

He shifted in his seat, watching in trepidation as three pairs of eyes instantly snapped towards him.

“Draco?” Pansy asked gently, regarding him with hawk-like intensity. She must have dragged him here from the prefect carriage, he realised. “You with us?”

“I-” His voice cracked and died in his throat. Draco swallowed thickly, his stomach filling with dread, nerves screaming in alarm. He nodded mutely, incapable of words right now.

“Are you certain?” He glanced across the carriage to see Daphne peering at him in concern. “You-” She gesticulated vaguely with her hands, glancing helplessly at the others.

“You weren’t here, Draco,” Blaise said softly, voice soothing like he was talking to a skittish animal.

“I’m fine,” he said sharply, instantly loathing how defensive he sounded. His hands were trembling, he realised distantly, and immediately clenched them into fists. He was just grateful that Theo, Crabbe and Goyle were not here to witness him like this. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed that he was losing control of himself so publicly. Maybe this - loss of awareness, loss of time - was a side-effect of time travel, of a magical core transplanted into a body unprepared to handle one so tainted, of a consciousness crammed into a mind too young. It could even be an early onset of the Black family madness, or maybe he was just losing his mind.


When Draco entered the Great Hall, his eyes were automatically drawn to the horrid blob of pink sitting at the staff table. He grimaced. Draco refused to grapple for her favour like he had last time, refused to partake in her petty games for a modicum of meaningless power. 

He tipped his head back, staring at the starless black ceiling, eyes darting to the candles floating mid-air as Pansy, Salazar bless her soul, acted as an anchor, guiding him over to the Slytherin table.

The Sorting Hat’s song was… enlightening to say the least. Draco had barely listened to the wretched old thing in the previous timeline, thinking himself above such things, but now- 

“Oh, know the perils, read the signs, The warning history shows, For our Hogwarts is in danger, From external, deadly foes, And we must unite inside her, Or we’ll crumble from within, I have told you, I have warned you…” 

He exchanged a wary glance with Pansy. That was a warning if he had ever heard one.

“That was… rather morbid, wasn’t it?” Blaise said with forced lightness. Draco clenched his jaw, lips thinning into a grim line. The Sorting Hat’s words rung true, Draco knew that better than anyone. The Slytherins’ isolation made them easy pickings for the Dark Lord’s recruiting scheme. 

Silence fell over the Great Hall as Dumbledore stood to his feet. Draco drummed his fingers along the table restlessly. He had so many conflicting feelings about the old coot. There was anger, and deep, deep mistrust, but there was also relief that he was alive; Dumbledore was the only one the Dark Lord was truly frightened of, after all. And also regret, seeing as his actions in sixth year led to his death.

“To our newcomers,” greeted Dumbledore, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile on his lips, “welcome! To our old hands, welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!” 

Draco glanced down at the spread laid upon the table in disappointment, noting the distinct lack of bouillabaisse. His nose scrunched up, and he reluctantly served himself a helping of roast beef. 

“So, Draco-”

Oh, fuck no.

“No,” he snapped, and took some satisfaction from the way Theo’s eyes widened, jaw slackening in surprise. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!” Theo spluttered indignantly.

He raised an eyebrow, lips quirked sarcastically. “No?” 

“No,” Theo agreed, scowling.

“So, you weren’t going to ask me about how my summer was? About how it was living in the Manor with all of our guests?” An awkward, strained silence settled over the fifth years. Theo grimaced, mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. It was pointless. Draco was not going to indulge Theo, nor was he going to boast like he had done last time.

“Come on, you can’t blame me for being curious,” Theo needled petulantly.  

“No, I suppose I can’t,” he agreed amicably. If he was in Theo’s position, he’d be curious, too.

“So?”

“So?” Draco mimicked childishly, thoroughly enjoying irritating the fuck out of Theo. Draco watched as Theo bristled, opening his mouth to retort, but was cut off as Dumbledore rose to his feet, silencing the Great Hall before he could utter a single word. 

Draco listened with one ear, only paying full attention when he mentioned the pink monstrosity. 

“-We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Dumbledore continued, “Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the-” 

“Hem, hem.” The sound made Draco’s skin crawl. Dumbledore glanced enquiringly at Umbridge who had risen to her feet, looking taken aback for a short moment before he sat back down.

“What in Salazar’s name is that woman doing?” Theo hissed, aghast. 

Pansy’s eyebrows were scrunched together, lips twisted into a frown. “Does she not know how things work around here?”

“Oh, she knows,” Draco muttered, a hint of bitter disgust tainting his voice. He startled as several eyes turned towards him. “She just doesn’t care.”

“You know her?” He glanced over, blinking in surprise at the sixth year that had apparently been eavesdropping.

“She works for Fudge,” he replied, voice grim and curt. A wave of mutters broke out across the Slytherin table; the Ministry’s, specifically Fudge’s, discontent with Dumbledore had been a thing of relief for Slytherin pure-bloods who had suffered discrimination because Dumbledore stood by and let an entire house be isolated because of his inability to view them as anything other than future Death Eaters.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Umbridge simpered, her voice high-pitched and breathy, “for those kind words of welcome. Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!” 

Draco couldn’t help the snort that broke free, earning himself several vaguely amused looks from those within hearing distance.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!” 

“Friends?” Daphne echoed dubiously. Draco understood the sentiment. 

Umbridge continued on in that girlish tone of voice that made Draco want to commit acts of extreme violence. Specifically homicide. Draco felt his attentiveness drifting, only to be dragged out of his head by the very, very sparse smattering of applause as Umbridge concluded her lengthy monologue and once again took her seat. 

“If I have to listen to her dribble for the rest of the year, I’m going to commit murder. Azkaban be damned,” Theo muttered, his mouth curled into an expression of distaste.

Draco, despite how much he regretted Theo’s entire existence, couldn’t help but agree. 

“She’s obviously not qualified to teach,” Pansy wrinkled her nose. 

“Why is she here, then?” That was yet another sixth year. Draco should really learn their names. "What does it mean?"

“It means,” he said, and even though his voice was quiet, it still attracted the attention of everyone within the immediate vicinity. He swallowed his surprise at their attentiveness. He had never formally stepped down from his position as ‘Slytherin Prince’ via an announcement, but the Slytherins had acknowledged it, regardless. So he hadn’t ever expected them to show him any respect nor consideration again, especially after all the malicious rumours about him. “That the ministry is interfering with Hogwarts.”


Their first DADA class went as expected, what with Umbridge being utterly useless as a teacher and Potter getting detention. It was amusing to see Potter try to convince Umbridge through bullheadedness, stubbornness and righteous anger. It was all so very Gryffindor that Draco wouldn’t be surprised if Potter started vomiting red and gold sparkles. 

The Hogwarts rumour-mill was functioning at full throttle, working hard to spread the tale of exactly how Potter had earned detention. Ironically, Draco was the one to believe Potter’s claim of witnessing Diggory’s murder and duelling with the Dark Lord. Yet, the rest of Hogwarts was hilariously skeptical. Potter was losing a lot of credibility, and fast. 

Draco was still on the receiving end of hard glares, skeptical stares and wary looks, but there was only a handful of older, brash Gryffindors that actually harassed him. All it took was a few sharp, admittedly brutal remarks, along with his prefect badge to make them leave him alone. He even verbally tore apart that one Irish Gryffindor kid who had demanded to know the truth whilst rambling on about his mother.

By the end of the first week, he felt far more settled in his skin, the familiarity of Hogwarts soothing his searing nerves. Unlike his disaster of a summer, his fifth year was entirely predictable. He drew comfort from the knowledge that, as long as he didn’t create too many ripples in the timeline, he could anticipate the upcoming year.

His prefect patrol route that fateful Friday night led him along the second floor corridors, right to Myrtle’s bathroom. Ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, he opened the door. 

He swallowed, throat dry, as he took in the painstakingly familiar bathroom - he had spent the entirety of sixth year rotating between slaving away in the Room of Requirement and crying in Myrtle’s bathroom. It was still, to this day, the gloomiest, most depressing room he had ever set foot in; the sinks were chipped, the mirrors cracked and the wooden toilet stalls were splintered. He stared dazedly, watching the dull light given off by the candles reflect on the damp floor. 

If he focused, he could still hear the running water, the cry of ‘Sectumsempra’ echoing off the bathroom walls, see the tiles smeared with Draco’s blood.

He flinched at the sudden movement in his peripheral vision; a silver blur phasing in and out of the toilet stalls. He exhaled deeply, turning to give Myrtle, who was now floating above the sink, his full attention.

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not a girl.” 

“I’m well aware,” he looked up at her, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Who are you?”  Myrtle sniffed, glaring him in distain.

“Draco Malfoy, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Myrtle,” he greeted courteously. 

 “Myrtle?” She echoed, frowning, her eyebrows scrunched up behind her thick, pearly spectacles. “You’ve heard of me?” 

“Yes, I-”

“Right, because people are always talking about me behind my back!” Oh, Salazar. He had genuinely forgotten that she could be like this; Myrtle had stopped with the dramatics and self-pity early on in their acquaintance. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead-”

“Yes, yes, alright. I apologise. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said placatingly, seriously regretting his decision to come in here.  

Myrtle harrumphed, turning her nose up at him. “How do I know that you’re being sincere? People are always making fun of me!” She said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes. “D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!”

Draco sighed irritably; being around this Myrtle was mentally and emotionally exhausting. Though he could not deny that there was certain familiarity in being here with Myrtle. After that day, he never returned to the bathroom, never spoke to Myrtle again. Draco wondered whether she had missed him, whether his company was even something to be missed. He was not a nice person, and he hadn’t treated Myrtle well. Her status as a Muggleborn had made him uncomfortable, even more so than the fact that she was dead. It said a lot about how horrible a person he had been. 

“Myrtle, I truly mean you no ill will-”  

“You don’t want to upset me! That’s a good one!” Myrtle howled. “My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death!” 

Draco snapped his mouth shut over whatever retort he had ready when the door opened behind him. He spun on his heel, eyes narrowed into an icy glare as he spotted a surprised looking Harry Potter standing in the doorway, cradling a bloodied hand to his chest.

 

Notes:

and yes, I know that Draco stole Hermione's line. Sorry not sorry~

Chapter 14

Notes:

I finished writing this at 5:30am, so if there's a shit ton of errors I am so sorry~! I promise to edit it later ❤︎

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It was though he had walked into one of his nightmares, only this time, his forearm was unmarked and his face dry of tears.

Potter took a single step forward, expression twisting into something ugly and hostile. 

Nope.

Draco stumbled backwards, a low tremor of fear rippling inside of him like a wobbling cup of panic that threatened to overflow with each passing moment. His fingers twitched as he itched to go for his wand, the Potter before him superimposing with the one of his sixth year. His ears were ringing with the faint echoes of ‘Sectumsempra,’ and he could taste terror in his mouth, like bitter metal. 

An expression flashed across Potter’s eyes that bordered on apprehension. Draco, ashamed that Potter had read the unease on his face so easily, pushed away the fear that tightened his throat, forcefully shuttering his expression, rendering it utterly blank. 

It was fine. He was fine. Potter hadn’t even drawn his wand. Draco forced himself to uncoil from his defensive posture, his every muscle protesting at the movement, screaming at him to maintain vigilance. He felt much more aware of his body than usual; of the way his heart was pumping fast, of his fingers tingling with nerves. 

“What are you looking at?” Potter snapped, positively radiating defensive energy. Draco flicked his gaze to Potter's bloodied hand, before quickly averting his eyes.

“Nothing,” he said, his feeble attempt to varnish over his panic turning the words far more strained than he intended. In all honesty, Draco couldn’t care less about how Potter injured himself; that was a Potter Problem, and it wasn’t about to become a Draco Problem. “Nothing at all.”

Suspicion flared like an explosion in Potter’s eyes. Draco made an irritable noise, annoyed that his every action - even something as mundane as standing in a bloody bathroom, warranted suspicion. 

“Hello Harry,” Myrtle butted in, fluttering her eyelashes at him. Draco’s nose wrinkled. Was she flirting? 

“Yes, hello Myrtle,” his gaze flicking back and forth between the two of them, green eyes narrowed. Draco huffed. Did Potter truly suspect that he was in here - with Myrtle of all people - planning something nefarious? “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a bathroom, Potter. What do you think I’m doing in here?” Draco drawled dryly, a single brow quirked up mockingly.

“You have access to the prefect bathroom,” Potter pointed out, a hint of bitterness seeping into his voice. “There’s no reason for you to come here instead.”

Draco laughed. It sounded a lot more unhinged than he would have liked. “You won’t believe me no matter what I say, will you?”

“No, I won’t,” his tone was firm, resolute. 

Draco sighed, leaning back against the cracked sink, folding his arms across his chest. He canted his head to the side. “I would have thought that someone in your position would be far more willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Potter took several steps closer, and Draco kept his body utterly still, forcing his limbs not to betray his lingering fear. 

“It means,” he said slowly, as though talking to a small child, “that you of all people should know how it feels to have your truth dismissed as a lie.”

Potter let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Are you going to tell me that you believe me again?” Something hard wedged itself in Draco’s throat at the mocking tone, suppressed rage making his eye twitch.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Potter?” He taunted, voice dropping an octave as he took several steps forward. “It would grant you another opportunity to twist my words into a false truth that would benefit you.” 

“I never-”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” He interrupted breezily, bulldozing over Potter. “That somehow, despite the rumours you so generously spread regrading my ‘role’ in resurrecting the Dark Lord, I still have more credibility than you.”

“A scheme of yours no doubt,” he snarked, a dark pinch between his brows and anger behind his eyes.

“Oh no, Potter,” Draco informed him with no small amount of vicious glee. “I cannot, much to my chagrin, take credit for this. You did this to yourself.” Potter swallowed, averting his eyes, recognising the truth for what it was. Draco watched, almost detached, as a drop of blood dripped onto the floor. 

“That’s the problem with you Gryffindors, you don’t think.” His voice sounded hollow and distant to his own ears, eyes glued to the splatter of crimson on the tiles. He blinked, flicking his gaze back up to Potter who was staring at him warily. “Umbridge’s goal is to further discredit both you and Dumbledore. Did you truly think that hollering your opinions at her in class would actually achieve anything?”

“What would you recommend then, Malfoy?” Potter demanded, irritation bleeding into his tone. “Go about it in a sneaky, conniving way like you snakes?”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “If more… underhanded methods get you what you want, then I fail to see the issue.”

“Right, of course,” he said slowly, visibly disappointed and displeased. He let out a pearl of disbelieving laughter that was far more unnerving than it had the right to be. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“What is it that you want, Potter?” He walked further forward, only stopping when they were nose-to-nose with each other, close enough that he could feel Potter’s breath fan across his cheek. “What were you hoping to achieve?”

“I just want people to acknowledge that Voldemort is back,” he growled, the sound reverberating through his chest. “I want everyone to take this seriously so that they can prepare and take precautions, so that they aren’t totally blindsided when he inevitably makes his move.”

“You truly are the epitome of a heroic, altruistic Gryffindor, aren’t you?” He murmured, the corners of his eyes tightening. It was a selflessness that Draco could just not comprehend. 

“I can’t tell if that was an insult or not.” Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the scowl that twisted at Potter’s lips. 

“It was an observation,” he retorted, eyes flicking over Potter’s face, cataloguing all the emotions he wore so fearlessly on his face. It was peculiar, being around an individual who wore their heart on their sleeve, and shouted their opinions to the heavens for all to hear. It should have given him the upper-hand, but this was Potter; he was unpredictable despite being completely readable. 

Potter shifted on his feet, wincing as he flexed his bloody hand. Right. Potter was injured. That was definitely his cue to leave, lest he get involved with Potter’s mess of a life.

Draco stepped back, clapping his hands together. “Right, well.” He tried to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” He turned to Myrtle, inclining his head politely. “It was lovely to meet you, Myrtle.”

He stalked past Potter and out the door, studiously ignoring the burning weight of green eyes on his back.


Draco paused from where he had been transferring scrambled eggs onto his plate, watching as Blaise’s owl came towards them in a screech, a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in its talons.

Pansy perked up beside him. “Anything of interest?” 

“Not really,” Blaise wrinkled his nose. “Unless you find the bass player of Weird Sisters choice of marriage partner interesting- Oh, wait. ‘The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer is currently hiding in London.’” 

Draco snorted, shovelling eggs into his mouth. He froze as they turned to him, eyebrows raised expectantly. He huffed and leaned forwards, Blaise and Pansy following, until their foreheads were almost touching.

“I have it on good authority that Black is innocent,” he whispered conspiratorially, relishing in the way Pansy’s jaw dropped, looking gobsmacked. 

“Innocent?” She hissed. “Didn’t he break into the school that one year to kill Potter?”

Draco shrugged. “All I know is that Black was framed by the one responsible for reviving the Dark Lord,” he muttered. 

Blaise sucked in an audible breath, and Pansy looked scandalised. “How come I’m only hearing about this now?” 

“It must have slipped my mind,” he spoke with careful nonchalance. He truly didn’t want them involved with the clusterfuck that was the Dark Lord, but knew that cutting them out completely would result in him losing them. Again.

“Slipped your mind?” Pansy drew back with a screech that made him wince.

“Pansy. I’d appreciate if you could, for once, keep this to yourself,” he said, deadly and utterly serious. She stared at him in stunned silence for a long moment, before nodding slowly.

“Oh, Salazar,” Blaise’s despondent drawl caught his attention. He turned the newspaper around and Draco stared at the notice, feeling as though someone had knocked all the breath out of his lungs. He had genuinely forgotten just how bloody rapidly that woman took control of Hogwarts, how quickly she became High Inquisitor.

“Isn’t this a good thing?” That was a fourth year, who flushed as she gained the attention of the majority of the table. “I mean, it gives Dumbledore less power, right?”

Draco snorted. 

“You disagree?” He flicked his eyes to the sixth year who had spoken. He didn’t look disapproving, just thoughtful and expectant, like he actually wanted Draco’s opinion - as though it was actually something worth considering.

“I don’t disagree with Dumbledore's decline in power, obviously. It’s just unfortunate that the opportunity for change came in the form of that horrid woman,” he said breezily. He swept his gaze across the table, both unnerved and incredulous by the amount of attention he was receiving, yet again. “Umbridge won’t let us use magic. This isn’t a Muggle school, and I don’t appreciate her turning it into one.”

It earned him a wave of disgusted expressions, just as he knew it would; comparing Hogwarts to a Muggle school to a group of prejudiced pure-bloods was an effective way to foster their ire of Umbridge. The large number of Slytherins that joined the Inquisitorial Squad last time had undeniably created a deeper rift between the houses. He would not let it happen again.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for class,” Pansy scowled, offering him her elbow, which he took. It was on their way down the moving staircases that Draco spotted Flint. He abruptly halted in his tracks, causing Pansy - whose arm was still linked with his, to jerk and stumble on the stairs. 

“Draco?” Pansy asked tentatively, frowning.

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” Blaise and Pansy exchanged glances, and Pansy opened her mouth to argue, but Blaise just sighed and hauled her along.

“Flint,” Draco called, gaining his attention. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Flint snapped his head in Draco’s direction, dismissing his group of friends and walking over. “What’s this about?”

Draco sucked in a breath, licking his bottom lip nervously. “I want to quit the team.”

“The team? You mean-” he frowned. “You want to quit Quidditch?” 

Draco merely lifted his brows and answered calmly, “That is correct.”

Flint let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “That’s a good joke, Malfoy.” Draco flexed his jaw in irritation. 

“I fail to see what you find so amusing,” he said, his words cold and smooth like marble, expression carefully blank.

Flint stared at him for one long moment. “You’re actually serious.” The incredulity and condemnation in his voice couldn’t have been more obvious.

Draco inclined his head. “Very much so.” 

“But why? You’re our seeker, Malfoy. The best we’ve had in ages,” Flint exploded, tone dripping with alarmed disbelief, body exuding panic as he gesticulated wildly.

“Just find another one,” Draco waved his hand dismissively. “Trials are coming up, no?”

“‘Just find another one?’” He parroted, incredulous and angry. “Like who?”

“That’s what the trials are for,” Draco snapped irritably, voice taking on a hard, cutting edge. 

“Look, Malfoy, if there’s a problem, I’m sure that we can fix whatever-”

“No,” he said sharply, watching Flint freeze at the ice in his tone. “I am withdrawing as seeker, and that is final. I will not appreciate any underhanded efforts to keep me on the team, do you understand?” Flint’s lips thinned into a grim line, anger flashing in his beady eyes, before he finally acquiesced, nodding his assent. 

Draco flashed him a bland smile. “Good.” He turned on his heel, rushing to catch up with Blaise and Pansy.

Draco knew that Umbridge had gained the authority to oversee lessons, but her appearance in Care of Magical Creatures still came as a shock. He rolled his eyes as she asked after Hagrid, who was still ‘missing.’ Draco did not think that Hagrid was remotely qualified to be a teacher, and even though he didn’t like the oaf, something in him itched at the palpable disgust on Umbridge’s face as she spoke of him. Perhaps, it was because he used to think the same as her, and being in agreement with Umbridge in regards to anything was a horrible, shameful feeling.

“Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?” 

Draco felt his blood run cold as every single head swivelled to face him. Umbridge followed their line of sight and smiled at him like a cat that caught the canary. Oh. She was under the impression that he was on her side. How amusing. He already tried playing at her lapdog, and Draco doesn’t make the same mistake twice.

“Mr Malfoy?” Her breathy voice rung out, tone expectant.

“Yes, Professor?” He asked blandly, hoisting a look of polite innocence onto his face. He wasn’t going to give her anything.

“I asked about past injured in this class,” she said slowly, sweetly.

“Yes, I heard,” he said flatly, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘and?’ Blaise subtly nudged him in the ribs and Draco flicked him a glance, taking in the comically alarmed expression on his face. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Draco had planned to lie low, but he didn’t appreciate her assumption that he was simply a tool for her to exploit when it best suited her.

Umbridge looked thrown off kilter by his response, but quickly recovered with a hem, hem. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Malfoy, but I heard that there was a rather large incident involving a certain Hippogriff.”

“I don’t think it was significant enough to warrant the word ‘large,’ Professor.” Pansy inhaled sharply beside him, and someone to his left choked on air.

Umbridge stared in muted disbelief, then cleared her throat, swiftly regaining her footing. “But it resulted in a major injury, did it not?”

“Just a scrape, Professor. Nothing one wouldn’t expect when handling magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest,” he said in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice.

Umbridge looked as though she had swallowed a lemon. “Right, then. I see. Thank you, Mr Malfoy.” He had no doubt that this little act of ‘rebellion’ was going to come back and bite him in the ass in the form of a letter from Lucius, but the expression on Umbridge’s face - along with the sweet ecstasy of knocking her down a peg, was worth it.

She left in a flustered flurry of pink skirts and clacking high heels, leaving the class to stare at Draco in silence. He flinched inwardly at the attention. The rest of the lesson was beyond awkward, what with his classmates whispering about him none too discreetly.

After class was over, he was - unsurprisingly - assaulted by a gaggle of Gryffindors on the way back to the castle.

“What was that all about, Malfoy?” The Weasel had suspicion rolling off of him in near-visible waves.

He let out a low growl of annoyance. “Just because we Slytherins don’t go screaming our opinions to the high heavens, doesn’t mean that we actually like that horrid woman.”

“I thought I’d be right up your alley, what with her smear campaign on Harry and Dumbledore.”

Draco felt a snarl curl at his lips. “She won’t let us use magic, Weasel,” he snapped irritably, eyes narrowing. “Do you think that we enjoy our education being so Muggle?” He let distain bleed into the word, knowing it would be his contempt for Muggles that would persuade the Gryffindors.

The Weasel opened his mouth to argue, but was - predictably - quick to snap it shut, unable to counteract. “Huh,” he said dumbly. 

“Why did you do that?” Oh, lovely. Potter just had to join the interrogation, didn’t he? Nosy sod.

“Do what?” Draco regarded him with a purposefully bored, disinterested expression.

“Defend Hagrid.” Potter’s face contorted with confusion, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.

“Now wherever did you get that impression? I don’t recall doing such a thing,” he said vaguely, airily, admitting to nothing, but denying nothing, either. Draco huffed out an amused breath at the dumfounded looks on their faces and led the Slytherins back to the castle.

 

Notes:

okay so - I think that fifth year is low-key boring for the most part, so it won't be all that long~

thank you for reading! ❤︎

Chapter 15

Notes:

it's unedited, so I apologise in advance for any grammatical errors you may come across~

Chapter Text

Draco rested his head against the window of Honeydukes, glaring out at the Hog’s Head. 

He had planned to drag Blaise and Pansy there for lunch, determined to continue his evasion of Madam Rosmerta, but the past ten minutes had seen a seemingly never-ending stream of Potter’s sycophants going in. He rolled his eyes in exasperation as one particular Hufflepuff crept cautiously to the door, glancing around uneasily.

They were so unsubtle about it all that it made him cringe. How did no one notice the surge of suspicious, anxious Potter-sycophants swarming like flies to the Hog’s Head?

Well. At least he now knew when and how Potter’s stupid little group started. But now he was left with nowhere to eat. Draco could only imagine Potter’s reaction if he walked into the Hog’s Head alongside Blaise and Pansy.

Pansy came up beside him, following his gaze to the Potter-sycophant infested Hog’s Head, and cleared her throat.

“I’m in the mood for one of Madam Puddifoot’s signature cakes,” she declared abruptly, resting her hand on the small of his back and steering him towards the exit. Draco’s head snapped in her direction, jaw slackening in surprise.

Blaise hummed his agreement. “It’ll be nice change of scenery.” Draco felt a burst of pure, sharp happiness. He had never explicitly stated his uneasiness with the Three Broomsticks, but they’d easily picked up on it and complied with his wishes without complaint.  

He mumbled a quiet "thank you” as he stalked out the door, missing the smile they exchanged behind his back.


Draco snorted at the sight of the ridiculously large sign affixed on the Slytherin notice board. The large black lettering and the highly official-looking seal positively screamed Umbridge.

Blaise came up behind him and made a low, disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “‘All student organisations, societies, teams, groups, and clubs are henceforth disbanded.’ Huh. Does that include Quidditch?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Draco spared a glance over his shoulder, catching Blaise’s questioning look. Draco bit his lip, exhaling through his nose. “I quit the team.”

Blaise’s jaw dropped. “But you love Quidditch.”

“I love flying,” he corrected, turning his gaze back to the notice. Umbridge had certainly acted quickly. He wondered if she had already caught wind of Potter’s ‘super secret’ club. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had; Gryffindors wouldn’t know subtlety even if it smacked them in the face.

They headed to Potions early, and Draco wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of Umbridge sitting in the dim corner of the dungeon, clipboard on her knee. Draco sat down, refusing to spare so much as another glance in her direction. He knew that ignoring her would be far more infuriating than simply talking back. He was, much to his disgust, the same in that regard; he loathed being ignored and dismissed as unimportant. It was the easiest, most effective way to get under her skin. 

Draco spent the lesson relishing in how she would pass by their worktable, pause for a moment, as if waiting acknowledgement, before continuing on, eyes boring into the side of Draco’s head.

That was how one effectively undermined Umbridge’s authority. Take that Potter.

He was unsurprised that his fellow Slytherins followed his lead. Umbridge’s policy on 'no magic’ in the classroom had earned her a lot of enemies - specifically the pure-blood Slytherins who were very anti-Muggle, which was the majority. 

His hatred for Potter had blinded him last time, and he’d urged his housemates to join this woman purely out of spite. He had not even considered just how unpopular of a decision it was, how much the Slytherins must have resented him for forcing them to abide by a woman they hated merely to appease the spoiled Malfoy heir.

The houses grew increasingly rebellious with each class Umbridge oversaw. The crude comments came more freely, and more and more Slytherins were joining Draco’s ‘Ignore Umbridge’s Entire Existence’ agenda. The entirety of Hogwarts had banded together against her, and it made Draco hopelessly relieved that for once, Slytherin wasn’t the enemy, but a sort-of ally.

Draco had also spent his nightly prefect patrols attempting to figure out exactly when Potter held his little club. He missed being able to freely practice magic in the Room of Requirement, but knew he couldn’t use it when it was otherwise occupied. And he’d rather not have to explain himself if he was discovered lurking outside, waiting for them to finish.

Thursday night found Draco patrolling along his least favourite route; the seventh floor. It led him pass the Fat Lady’s portrait, aka. the entrance to Gryffindor tower; its location had become common knowledge after Sirius Black’s failed break in during their third year. 

He heard the telltale scuffle of shoes on stone and had his wand drawn in seconds. He took several deep breaths, steeling his nerves. He cast a Lumos maxima, and watched the corridor light up, shadows stretching themselves across the floor.

There. He headed towards a moving shadow, and scowled at the sight of bloody Longbottom cowering in an alcove. Draco lowered his wand with a soft curse.

“Longbottom, what in Salazar’s name-” He cut himself off with a sigh. Right. Potter’s secret club must have ended recently. He grimaced as Longbottom squeaked out a string of stuttered apologies. Draco held up his hand, and Longbottom’s mouth instantly snapped shut with an audible click. “Just- Stop talking.”

“S-Sorry.” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I,” he drawled slowly, “am going to pretend that I never saw you, and you, Longbottom, are going to return to your dormitory. Immediately.”

Longbottom gaped at him, his face pale with shock.

“Go,” he all but snapped, wildly gesticulating in the direction of the Fat Lady. He wasn’t in the mood to go through the trouble of issuing a detention to a Gryffindor - it would only serve to make Umbridge happy.

“You’re not g-going to report me?” Longbottom chewed at his lower lip, doubt creeping into his eyes.

“If you don’t get out of my sight within the next thirty seconds I will,” he threatened. Longbottom swallowed thickly at the warning, but stayed where he was, looking apprehensive.

“You didn’t…” He trailed off uncertainly, brows furrowing. “You didn’t enter Harry in t-the tournament, d-did you?”

Draco blinked in surprise. That was the last thing he expected Longbottom to say. “If I say that I had nothing to do with it, would you believe me?” Longbottom frowned, face crinkled in confusion. “Because Potter certainly didn’t.”

He looked reluctant to answer - his lips were shaking slightly, and there was tension lining shoulders. Longbottom hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, then said, “I’m n-not Harry.”

“No,” he murmured slowly, eyeing him appraisingly. “You certainly aren’t.” 

A myriad of various emotions flashed across Longbottom’s face before settling on dejection. Ah. Potter was the ‘ideal’ Gryffindor, and insinuating that they weren’t alike would be considered degrading in anyone’s eyes, except Draco’s.

“That was not an insult to your character, Longbottom. I despise Potter. Take it for the compliment that it is.” Longbottom looked shocked at that, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Draco sighed deeply. “I suggest you return to your common room now.”

“You’re r-really letting me go?” He blinked, startled. “Just like that?”

Draco’s lip twitched in quiet amusement. “Would you prefer it if I handed out a detention?”

“N-No, but…” He trailed off, relief and uncertainty warring in his expression. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Longbottom.” Draco his cleared his throat. “Now, off you go.”

He nodded before quickly scurrying off down the corridor, disappearing into the shadows.


Draco stared incredulously at Hagrid - who had mysteriously returned at some point, eyes raking over the faded yellow-green bruises that littered his skin. He squinted, nose wrinkling in disgust; there was some manner of dead wild animal slung over the oaf’s shoulder. Fantastic. That boded well. Hagrid had also been carrying dead animals when he introduced them to that blasted Hippogriff, and everyone knew how well that lesson went. 

He couldn’t recall this class, though, which was unsurprising - he would have been alarmed if he remembered each and every lesson he took.

“We’re workin’ in here today!” Hagrid called happily, jerking his head back at the dark trees behind him. “Bit more sheltered! Anyway, they prefer the dark…” 

Draco could only sigh. Of course Hagrid would have them interact with dangerous creatures in the bloody Forbidden Forest for his first lesson back. 

“Ready?” Hagrid said cheerfully, looking around at the class. “Right, well, thought we’d go an’ see these creatures in their natural habitat. Now, what we’re studyin’ today is pretty rare, I reckon I’m probably the on’y person in Britain who’s managed ter train ’em.” 

And with that incredibly reassuring speech, he turned and strode straight into the forest.

Draco found himself following first, ignoring the dumbfounded looks sent his way at his willingness to enter the forest, which were warranted, especially considering his reputation as a coward. Blaise and Pansy were quick to follow, leading the rest of the class. They walked for about ten minutes until they reached a place where the trees stood unnaturally close together, cloaking them in shadows. Hagrid deposited the animal carcass on the ground and turned to face them.

“Gather roun’, gather roun’,” said Hagrid encouragingly. “Now, they’ll be attracted by the smell o’ the meat but I’m goin’ ter give ’em a call anyway, ’cause they’ll like ter know it’s me…” 

He turned and gave a shrieking cry that echoed through the forest. A minute of awkward silence passed in which the class peered nervously around the trees, anxiously waiting for whatever Hagrid had prepared. Draco saw it then, in the space between two gnarled yew trees; a familiar pair of blank, white shining eyes.

“Oh,” he breathed in realisation. Thestrals. Of course. Draco hadn’t been able to see Thestrals in his fifth year, and had spent the entire class staring at thin air. It was why he had all but forgotten this lesson; it had been utterly dull, and thus deemed insignificant.

“Oh, an’ here comes another one!” Hagrid said proudly as a second Thestral appeared out of the dark trees. “Now, put yer hands up, who can see ’em?” 

Potter and Longbottom tentatively raised their arms. “Yeah, yeah, I knew you’d be able ter, Harry,” he said seriously. “An’ you too, Neville, eh? An’-”

Draco, as if in a trance, slowly crept forwards, lured by their morbid beauty he had always admired, and begun to stroke its coat, unaware of the startled and confused looks directed at him. 

“Excuse me,” came a confused voice, “but what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?” Hagrid drew their attention to the cow carcass on the ground. Draco could imagine how odd it looked to them; pieces of flesh stripping themselves away from the bones and vanishing into thin air. “What’s eating it?” 

“Thestrals,” Draco answered, fingers absently scratching behind a leathered ear, earning him the attention of the entire class.

“Thestrals?” That was definitely Theo’s whiny drawl. “Is this some kind of joke? Or have you finally lost it? There’s nothing there, Draco.” He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the cruel retort that had threatened to claw its way out.

“Nonsense!” Hagrid cried. “Malfoy is righ’. Now, who can tell me why some o’ you can see them an’ some can’t?” 

“The only people who can see thestrals,” Granger replied, “are people who have seen death.”

Dead silence followed her statement.

“You’ve witnessed death then, Draco?” Theo’s voice rung out, skeptical and disbelieving, as if the very idea that the prissy Malfoy heir had witnessed death was unthinkable, laughable even.

Silver eyes flashed with steel. “Considering that I can see the Thestrals, I thought that would be obvious, no?” Theo bristled like a wet cat, and Draco rolled his eyes. He knew better than anyone that Slytherins ought to present a united front before the other houses and handle internal disagreements in private, but Theo had started it, and Draco outright refused to be belittled merely for the sake of Slytherin house solidarity. 

“Hem, hem.” Draco felt his throat clench and stomach twist at the sound. He flicked his gaze up to see Umbridge standing a few feet away, her clipboard at the ready. “Hem, hem.” 

Draco closed his eyes in dismay, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Did she have to ruin everything? 

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?” Umbridge spoke loud and slow, condescension saturating her tone. “Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid brightly. “Well, as you can see, or, I dunno, can you? We’re doin’ Thestrals today-” 

“I’m sorry?” Umbridge cupped her hand around her ear and frowned. “What did you say?” Draco’s eye twitched violently in barely suppressed rage.

“Er, Thestrals!” he said loudly. “Big, er, winged horses, yeh know!” He flapped his gigantic arms in a poor imitation of a bird. Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him, unimpressed. Draco winced, the display made him feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment.

“Well, anyway…” said Hagrid, turning back to the class, looking slightly flustered. “Erm, what was I sayin’?” 

“'Appears to have poor short term memory,'” Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear her. 

Draco bit back the whip-like retort forming on the tip of his tongue. He knew himself well enough to know that he would have been amused by this last time. It made regret and guilt snarl their way through his veins. He stood by his opinion that Hagrid was a poor teacher and should not be employed as one, but this was just plain cruel. 

Anger dug its sharp claws into Draco’s heart, clinging on tight. He felt a flash of hatred for his father for instilling this behaviour, and Umbridge for encouraging it. But the majority of his hatred was reserved for himself for being so needlessly cruel, for thinking himself superior simply because he was a Malfoy. How pathetic. 

“Oh yeah, I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd,” Hagrid threw an uneasy glance at Umbridge, but continued on determinedly. “Yeah, so-”

“Are you aware,” Umbridge said breathily, voice nauseatingly sweet, “that the Ministry of Magic has classified Thestrals as ‘dangerous’?” 

“Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ’, they might take a bite outta you if yeh really annoy them-” 

“'Shows signs of pleasure at the idea of violence,'” Umbridge muttered as that, too, was written down. Draco was also feeling intense pleasure at the idea of violence - specifically violence enacted on her. 

“No!” Hagrid cried, looking a little anxious now. “I mean, a dog’ll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it? But Thestrals-”

“Do you find,” Umbridge cut him off, directing her question at Pansy, “that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?” 

Pansy looked startled by the attention suddenly aimed at her. Draco was well aware that Pansy didn’t like Hagrid, and that if it were anyone except Umbridge asking, she’d tell them exactly what she thought about the half-giant. But the fact that it was Umbridge asking changed everything. Her questioning gaze immediately found Draco’s, and he idly wondered if she could see the rage warring behind his eyes. She must have, because she answered, “I understand well enough.”

The class was rendered silent by her answer, even Hagrid looked comically surprised. Umbridge’s expression darkened. She followed Pansy’s gaze to Draco, who merely quirked an eyebrow at her. Umbridge marched over to Draco, face set determinedly. The silence around them was utterly stifling, but Draco met her eyes defiantly. If Umbridge thought that she was even remotely intimidating, then she was dead wrong. He had been privately tutored by Bellatrix bloody Lestrange for crying out loud.

“You can see the Thestrals, Malfoy, can’t you?” Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, barely stopping himself from curling his lips into a snarl. He nodded slowly. “Whom did you see die?” 

Draco went eerily still, silver eyes hardening like slates of ice, lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line, expression cold and dangerously calm. He watched, with no small amount of vicious satisfaction, as alarm flashed through Umbridge’s eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice low and deceptively soft, “that you have greatly overstepped your bounds, Professor.”

“Me? Overstepped?” She laughed. It was an ugly sound. “I am the Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor, I can ask-” Draco’s expression darkened, something ugly and hostile burning at the back of his grey eyes. Umbridge cut herself off, swallowing thickly. He truly wondered how he looked in that moment.

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you leave,” his voice had gone arctic, the words cracking through the air like a whip.

Umbridge stared at him, her face drained of all its colour. “Right. Well- yes. I suppose I have gotten what I need,” she turned to Hagrid, her trademark fake smile back on her lips, except now it looked remarkably strained. "Well, Hagrid. I think I’ve got enough to be getting along with. You will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.” And with that grand statement, she turned and left.

Draco let out a shuddering exhale, chest heaving with the force of it. He was all too aware that it was the Malfoy name, and Umbridge’s fear of his father’s influence that kept her from incinerating him on the spot. He turned to face the class, only to see alarmed and slack-jawed faces staring back at him.

He swallowed down bitter-tasting bile and tried to rebalance himself by turning his attention back to the Thestrals.

 

Chapter 16

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The rumour mill was working at full throttle once more, and the news that he’d ‘kicked Umbridge’s ass,’ along with the fact that he could see Thestrals was making the rounds. It was beyond irritating, and Draco wanted to tell everyone who approached him to politely fuck off and mind their own business. 

Instead, he offered them a snarky, "I’ve been able to see them since I first saw someone die,” and let them make their own assumptions.

Draco couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised when Potter cornered him.

“You’ve seen someone die, Malfoy?” Ah. Brilliant. An interrogation. 

“Considering that I can see the Thestrals, I would have thought that’d be obvious, no?” He remarked with a studied air of disinterest.

“We both know that’s not what I’m asking here,” Potter snapped. 

“Then, enlighten me, Potter,” he drawled, quirking a single brow. “What exactly are you asking?”

Potter’s expression was one of hopeless desperation. “You do realise what this looks like, right?” Draco blinked. His confusion must have shown, because Potter’s bravado crumbled, and he let out a deeply irritated sigh. “The timing of it all is rather suspicious-”

“Suspicious?” Draco cut in, tone incredulous. 

Potter threw up his hands in frustration. “How can I not be suspicious when the summer after Voldemort returns, you can suddenly see Thestrals?”

Okay. So, that was fairly incriminating, but Hell would freeze over before he admitted that. Instead, Draco slowly tilted his head to the side, expression open and curious. “What makes you think I couldn’t see them before?”

Potter hesitated for a short moment, lips pursed. Then, “Don’t do that,” he grit out. “Stop purposefully derailing the conversation-”

“It was a perfectly reasonable question, Potter,” Draco said, his voice eerily calm.

“You always do this!” He truly was frustrated, wasn’t he? “You talk in circles to avoid giving any real answers.”

“Do I?” He blinked, hoisting an unconvincing look of innocent surprise onto his face. “Well, if we’re aiming for honesty, then how about a trade?” 

Potter frowned, looking utterly baffled. “What?” 

Draco wasn’t deterred; he had a point to make. “We’ve both witnessed death, Potter, so in exchange for revealing my secrets, I want to hear all about Diggory’s death. Sound fair?” That seemed to enrage him - anger crackling across his face like lightning. He raised an eyebrow at Potter’s reaction. “I was under the impression that since you had deemed it acceptable to interrogate me, that you wouldn’t mind if I returned the favour. You wouldn’t be a hypocrite now would you, Potter?”

“That’s different and you know it!”

Draco admired Potter’s hypocrisy. It was truly something to behold. “Is it?”

Potter blatantly ignored him. “Were you really just a spectator? Or…” Potter hesitated - only for a moment, but the moment stretched out as long as any moment ever had.

“Or what, Potter?” Draco’s voice was even, but with an unmistakable edge of impatience.

“Or were you the one who took a life?” Potter looked as though he doubted his own words. Good. At least he was aware of how utterly ridiculous he sounded. It didn’t, however, change the fact that he had considered it as a possibility, that he had placed enough stock in the idea to voice it as a true concern. 

Draco stared, eyes narrowed into an icy glare. The sheer audacity- “Leave,” he seethed, his voice thick with barely restrained anger.

“You don’t deny it, then?” 

Draco felt fury zap through his body, as violent and brief as an electric shock. “And here we go again with the baseless accusations, Potter. One would think that you’d have better things to do with your time than harass little old me.”

Potter eye’s flashed, his teeth gritted and veins corded in his neck. “Well, who’d you see die, then?”

He felt hysterical laugh bubble up in his chest. Whose death hadn’t he witnessed? He had seen far too much death at Malfoy Manor during the height of the war. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”

Potter scowled. “Malfoy, no one expected you of all people to have witnessed death, so-”

His indignation was incandescent, a fire under his skin. “Potter. Drop it.”

“You just don’t want to admit that it’s part of the initiat-”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake you’re exhausting,” he rolled his eyes, huffing irritably. “We’ve been here before, Potter. Remember last year? You know, when you spread those rumours regarding my interference with a certain goblet? Look how well that worked out for you. Are you really so eager to discredit yourself further?”

Potter’s jaw clenched, tightening in anger before he turned and stalked off, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

Good riddance. Honestly.


December arrived far too quickly for Draco’s liking. He had grown accustomed to the warmer weather, and so sudden onslaught of icy drafts, cold frosts and howling winds came as an unpleasant shock.

The morning of the highly anticipated Slytherin-Gryffindor match dawned bright and cold. He mimicked the rest of his house and wrapped himself in numerous layers of silver and green clothing to show his support, noting that Gryffindor had done the same, only in red and gold.

The Great Hall was abuzz with anticipation, and Draco didn’t miss the way Flint was steadfastly ignoring him, no doubt still angry about his decision to quit the team. Draco slid on his dragon skin gloves, watching as Theo handed out crown-shaped badges with the words ‘Weasley is Our King’ etched onto them. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. He’d helped make those last time.

Draco barely blinked as his owl swooped in, dropping off a large envelope stamped with the Malfoy seal. He had expected this, knowing that the tales of his actions against Umbridge would have reached his father. He  quickly drew his wand, and cast a small incendio. Several people flinched back in alarm as his unopened letter burst into flames. He felt a stupidly giddy sense of triumph at his blatant dismissal of Lucius.

Draco soon found himself sat up in the spectators stand, Blaise and Pansy on either side, shuddering against the harsh and biting icy air, nuzzling into his thick scarf. When the cheering started, he shifted his gaze from the snowcapped mountains in the distance to the field, analysing the players as they entered. He zeroed in on the one Slytherin player he didn’t recognise, noting that he must be Draco’s replacement. 

It was then that the singing started.

Draco felt a hysterical laugh lodge itself in his throat as the first lines of ‘Weasley is Our King’ drifted through the air. He fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. He was mortified on behalf of the Slytherins that remained silent. It wasn’t often that Draco was privy to the full extent of the other houses hatred of Slytherin, but the looks they were receiving right now made a cold dread settle in his bones.

His gaze strayed to Theo, who led the chanting. That had been him last time. Draco had, with his sway as the Malfoy heir and ‘Slytherin Prince’ managed to corral the entire house into singing. It was mildly amusing to see the small group that Theo had succeeded in gathering - whether it was due to his lack of influence, or because the Slytherins were actually enjoying the unspoken ceasefire and lack of antagonism from the other houses as of late. 

Draco could only pray that this little stunt hadn’t gone and ruined all their efforts.


Draco wrapped his hands around his hot mug of coffee, allowing the warmth to seep into his ice-cold fingers. He stared dully, eyes heavy-lidded with the last remnants of sleep, as Blaise’s owl dropped a rolled-up Daily Prophet before them. He reached out for the bacon only to freeze when he heard Blaise inhale sharply. Draco’s head snapped back to him, swallowing apprehensively at the shock and fear blooming on Blaise’s normally impassive face.

“Blaise?” Pansy said slowly, voice hesitant and low. Blaise bit down hard on his bottom lip, wordlessly turning the Daily Prophet around.

Draco straightened in his seat, sudden terror freezing his chest, weeding through his veins and making his body go cold. He tightened his grip on his mug as he stared into his deranged Aunt’s wild eyes. Her dark hair was unkempt and straggly, and there was an eerie sense of madness in that curve of her lips.

“‘Mass breakout from Azkaban,’” Pansy read the headline out-loud, voice hollow and expression grim. Silence settled over the Slytherin table like a heavy blanket. Whilst the other houses squabbled and debated over whether Potter’s words held any semblance of truth, the Slytherins knew that he was truly back, that this was His doing.

He forcefully swallowed down the hysteria rising in his throat, and took a long, slow sip of coffee. His nails drummed along the side of the mug, and he let the sound ground him so that he was not swept away in the tidal wave of memories that threatened to drown him. His gaze was drawn to a single nick in the table, and he stared at it until his vision blurred, the colours and shadows bleeding together like a water painting. That familiar feeling crept up on him - leaving him feeling oddly floaty and absent, skin tingling pleasantly.

He jerked, startled, when he felt hands on his shoulders, shaking gently. He snapped back to himself, eyes widening in muted surprise as Pansy’s face swum into view.

“-aco? Draco?” Her brow was pinched in concern. 

“Pansy?” Draco blinked. He took a deep breath, a tide of fatigue and confusion washing over him. 

Pansy exhaled in relief. “You’re okay. Thank Salazar.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Draco frowned in bafflement. 

“Draco.” He glanced at Blaise apprehensively, not liking the hesitant tone he took. It was then that he noticed the state of the Great Hall. He blanched. It was practically empty.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” Despair paled his face. Pansy and Blaise nodded slowly, adopting identical looks of worry. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, his stomach churning with nausea. “I need to go.”

“Draco-” He ignored her outstretched hand and pushed himself to his feet, all but sprinting out of the Great Hall. He staggered, barely managing to catch himself on the wall. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone, breathing heavily. Why did this keep happening? Why was he losing time? Was this the beginning of the Black family madness?

That would be it, wouldn’t it? Only Draco could be given a second chance and end up losing his mind.

He started to drag himself down the corridor, desperate to find an empty classroom so that he could compose himself or ride out the downward spiral - the latter looking more far likely with each passing moment. His disconcerting loss of time in combination with the recently escaped Death Eaters - which marked the start of everything, had rendered him a discombobulated mess of emotions. The loss of control over his emotions only served to worsen his panic.

He raked his trembling fingers through his hand and tugged ruthlessly at the roots, letting pain wash over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and sunk to the floor, breath coming out in sharp, shallow pants. He didn’t even understand why he was spiralling - he’s suffered through far worse without a panic attack, so why had this set him off? 

Tears of frustration pricked at his eyes, and he focused on taking long, deep breaths, on getting air into his lungs - in and out - inhale and exhale. He dug his fingers into his scalp with enough force that he had to bite back a groan at the flare of pain.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, choking on a ragged sob, silent tears spilling down his cheeks. Lucius’ voice rung in his ears, dripping with acidic disappointment; embarrassment, weak, pathetic, shameful. He tucked his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, curling in on himself and swallowing a whimper.

He ached for his mother’s arms, for her soft touches and gentle voice. He wanted to melt into her soothing hugs, have her stroke his hair, and listen to her sing that one French lullaby that used to calm him down when he was younger.

“M-Malfoy?” Draco’s head snapped up, his red-rimmed eyes going wide with surprise.

He swallowed down a string a profanities. “Longbottom,” he greeted, internally wincing at how off-kilter he sounded. He idly wondered if he looked as awful as he felt.

“Are you…” Longbottom looked uncertain, “okay?” Laughter broke free. Too loud, too unhinged. Longbottom shifted uncomfortably at the sound. Draco ran a shaky hand through his thoroughly mussed, shoulder-length hair. Okay? He was slowly losing his mind, and his deranged Aunt had been broken out of Azkaban- Oh. He stilled, inhaling sharply.

Here he was, crying pathetically like a child, when Longbottom, whose parent’s torturer had just escaped, looked composed, as though he hadn’t shed a tear. Draco’s insides curdled like spoiled milk as he internally writhed in disgust at his display of weakness.

He opened his mouth to reassure him, to say ‘I’m fine,’ but what slipped out instead was, “I’m sorry.”

“W-What?” Longbottom balked. “Why?” 

Draco scrambled to come up with a reply. “My Aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange,” he croaked - his throat felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. “She broke out.”

“You d-don’t need to apologise for that,” he said slowly, almost hesitantly - as though Draco were a landmine and one wrong move would set him off. “It’s not your f-fault, you know. It’s not like you ever even m-met her.” Draco barely suppressed a flinch. Oh, how wrong he was.

Longbottom eyed him cautiously for a long moment before slowly approaching him like one would a cornered animal. He lowered himself onto the ground beside him, and Draco took another deep breath, letting the cold air steady the anxiety crawling up his throat.

“I g-get them, too.” Draco startled at the confession. Was it a Gryffindor thing to bare your soul to strangers? Opening up to him of all people was stupidly brave. Though, he wasn’t all that surprised to hear that Longbottom had panic attacks - the guy still had a stutter for crying out loud.

He scratched at his palm absently as a horrible thought occurred to him. “Have I ever caused one?” Draco’s voice sounded thin and tired to even his own ears. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were true; Draco had always been especially cruel to him. Longbottom craned his head to stare at him with honest shock, as if he were astonished by the weariness in his tone. His silence was all the confirmation he needed, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut tight in dismay. “I did, didn’t I?” A hot, prickly feeling of shame churned in his gut.

“Malfoy-”

“I’m sorry.” Salazar, he was apologising a lot today - and to a Gryffindor of all people. Thank Circe that Blaise and Pansy weren’t here to witness this.

Longbottom looked gobsmacked at that - his jaw slackened, eyes as wide as saucers. Longbottom said nothing at all for a few moments, but stared with a kind of painful intensity. “I forgive you.”

Draco exhaled shakily, and the sheer relief he felt caught him off guard, making his breath hitch by the magnitude of it. He simply couldn’t understand this kindness shown to him by someone that he used to torment. 

“How?” He demanded, voice raw and thick with emotion. There was a vulnerability in his tone that seemed to take Longbottom aback. “How can you even look at me, let alone forgive me?”

Longbottom was silent for a long moment. Then, “This d-doesn’t mean I approve or excuse what you s-said or did to me. I just… I can see that you’re t-trying to change,” He paused and swallowed thickly, licking his lips. “Everyone d-deserves a second chance, so…”

He was just like the dragon-Weasley; a Hufflepuff-Gryffindor. Far too kind for his own good. Draco flashed him a small, but sincere smile that made Longbottom stare, momentarily rendered speechless. Longbottom blinked and then abruptly scrambled to his feet, quickly bidding Draco farewell before disappearing around the corner.


“Protego Diabolica,” he whispered, visualising the bright blue flames as he waved his wand. The first time he had casted the spell, he had nothing to show for it but a few meagre blue sparks spluttering from the tip of his wand. Draco had been mortified, and had worked himself into a state of near-magical exhaustion as a result.

Now, however, a large burst of white-hot, icy blue flames easily burst forth from his wand. Draco focused on guiding them in a circle, entranced by the billowing winds of crystalline blue. 

The air surrounding the flames shimmered, distorted by the blazing heat, and yet, Draco remained unaffected, untouched. It was such a peculiar sensation; to be encircled by flames that could not harm him. It was so incredibly different from Fiendfyre - from those awful orange, blistering, untameable flames that swallowed everything in sight, that contorted into the shapes of beasts from myths and legends to invoke fear. 

He grinned breathlessly, unrepentantly, at the sight of the Room of Requirement, which was now awash in an ethereal blue light that casted dancing shadows along the walls. He guided the flames higher and higher, until he was truly encompassed by a wall of eerie, flickering blue. It was as though ice had set itself on fire. 

Draco’s concentration was shattered by the sound of slow clapping.

 

Notes:

I know that the 'Azkaban mass breakout' technically occurred in January, but this is my fic so I can do what I want~

Chapter 17

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco whirled around, robes whipping at his ankles, only to go utterly still, breath catching his throat as he stared. 

Mirror-boy gazed steadily back at him, eyes like two bottomless pits, mouth twisted into a smug little smirk as his mock applause trailed off into grating silence. It was an unnecessary show of theatrics, one that Draco found himself completely unsurprised by - the boy might as well have had ‘dramatic’ tattooed across his forehead.

Draco levelled him with an unimpressed glare, truly and deeply irritated. He’d had so few opportunities to utilise the Room of Requirement this year, and he really didn’t appreciate the interruption. His irate expression only made the boy’s smirk turn a touch sharper. Draco gritted his teeth, mouth tight with bottled annoyance.

The boy’s dark eyes flitted to his hair, eyeing the messy white-blonde locks that now grazed his shoulders. Draco studied him in return, quickly noting the differences in his height, in his face, in the way he held himself. He blinked slowly as he realised that it had been sixth months since he’d last encountered the boy.

“That was Grindelwald’s spell.” It would seem that they were skipping the pleasantries today. Not that Draco minded, false niceties were so utterly tedious. 

“You certainly have a talent for stating the obvious,” he snarked, his tone heavily weighted with sarcasm.

Mirror-boy’s features went taunt, lips pressed together in a dangerously thin line. Draco blinked, and any sign of the boy’s displeasure was carefully tucked away behind a mask of civility. “You can cast it.” 

He wore his interest openly, like a cloak draped over his shoulders. The gaze pierced through Draco, causing him inhale sharply. Right. It must be a marvel for him to witness a Hogwarts student so casually casting one of Grindelwald’s signature spells. Had he not thought Draco capable of magic on this level? How insulting. His opinion of Draco must be awfully low.

“Obviously.” He let his anger and irritation bleed into his tone as he gestured to the dying, flickering blue embers at his feet. 

Wait. Draco froze, watching warily as the boy’s midnight eyes traced the ring of shallow scorch marks. Mirror-boy mentioned Grindelwald. The boy was far too intelligent, too careful to have let information like that slip accidentally, which meant that he’d either done it intentionally, or he’d simply grown bored of their game and no longer cared for filtering himself. He hated that both possibilities disquieted him, hated that a boy who was technically younger than him - and most-likely not even alive in Draco’s time, held so much power over him.

The boy clearly knew of Grindelwald, but had yet to gain access to the book. That placed mirror-boy somewhere between Grindelwald’s rise in the 1920s, to before the book was released, shortly after his defeat in 1945. Then, there was mirror-boy’s familiarity with Malfoys. Draco, like any proper pure-blood, had genealogy hammered into him since before he could even talk. The only Malfoy at Hogwarts within that time frame was Abraxas, his grandfather. If they had attended Hogwarts together, then it would explain a lot.

It didn’t, however, elucidate the boy’s motivation behind revealing that particular sliver of information.

“I’ll admit, you have exceeded my expectations.” Mirror-boy’s words were a mockery of politeness, and he didn’t even bother to pretend otherwise. He offered Draco a smile, though his eyes remained cold - like frigid, shattered shards of ice, sharp enough to cut. The unnerving expression lingered in Draco's mind, trepidation plummeting coldly in his stomach.

“I wasn’t aware that you had ‘expectations’ for me.” The boy simply looked at him like he was the biggest moron that he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. Irritation zipped through Draco, sharp and deadly. He bit back the urge to snap defensively at him, lips pressed into a thin line to prevent himself from saying something he’d regret. 

“Of course I do,” the boy said slowly, lacing each word with honeyed venom. “You would have to be rather remarkable to be what is shown to me in the mirror, after all.” Draco stared blankly, unwilling to voice his lack of understanding for fear of looking utterly stupid and incompetent. It mattered little, though, for the boy easily interpreted his silence. “Ah. You still aren’t aware of the mirror’s purpose, are you?” 

The boy’s eyes lit up with manic glee, his lips slowly stretching to form a vicious, hateful smile. He clearly derived a perverse kind of joy from knowing something that Draco did not. Well, considering that Draco was usually the one withholding knowledge, it made sense that having their positions switched would be a twisted source of delight for him. The boy’s fondness for power plays was rather disconcerting.

He took Draco’s silence for the admission that it was. “I must admit, I am rather surprised that you did not research it after our first meeting,” he remarked, a light, contemplative hum to his voice. As if conscious of Draco’s annoyance, the boy offered him a supremely condescending smile. Yes. That was proving to be a massive oversight on his part, but Draco had been rather preoccupied at the time. Namely, acclimatising to fucking time travel, working through multiple mental-breakdowns, and ensuring that his life didn’t go up in flames - so excuse him for not considering the mirror a priority. “No matter. I could simply tell you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow dubiously. There was no way that offer was unconditional. “In exchange for what?”

The boy’s mouth pulled into a self-satisfied smirk. “Knowledge-” 

“Of the future?” Draco interjected, voice positively oozing with disdain. “I already told you no.”

The boy’s face tightened, quiet fury flickering through those crystalline-quartz eyes of his. “You don’t wish to know of the mirror’s purpose, then?”

“It’s as you said, I can just research it myself,” he pointed out, a sudden sharp edge of anger to his voice, still beyond irritated that his precious practice time had been interrupted for this. “You have nothing to bargain with, nothing that is of any interest to me.” 

“It’s almost as though you don’t enjoy my company,” mirror-boy’s tone mocked him with its false hurt.

“Would you?” Draco snapped irritably, features twisted into a scowl.

“Most tend to,” he said, a dark kind of amusement curling around the words.

“They clearly have awful taste,” Draco remarked snidely. The boy’s lips twitched. Right. ‘They’ potentially included his grandfather, whom he had apparently just insulted, much to mirror-boy’s evident amusement. Oh, well. It wasn’t as though Draco still cared for the Malfoys’ reputation. “Yes, that includes Abraxas.”

There was a brief flicker of emotion on the boy’s face - lips parting in surprise as his nose flared, his dark eyes gleaming like molten, liquified lava. He frowned inwardly at the boy’s show of emotion. There was no way that mirror-boy’s surprise was genuine; he had orchestrated the conversation so that Draco would come to that exact conclusion. Unless he had truly thought Draco incompetent, and was actually taken aback by his quick deduction. 

Was he overthinking this? Possibly. But they were Slytherins. They wore masks to display whatever face best suited their purpose, and never meant what they said - words were layered with double-meaning, coated with suggestive undertones. Draco had been thoroughly manipulated in the first timeline, held hostage by his naivety and arrogance. Never again.

He squinted. Draco knew his own kind; Malfoys were prejudiced snobs. So, why would mirror-boy, who had made it very clear that he was not a pure-blood, be acquainted with his grandfather? The familiarity that the boy spoke of Abraxas with implied that their relationship was beyond that of just ‘housemates.’ If Draco didn’t know better, he would assume that the boy was a lackey - like Crabbe and Goyle, but he did know better. 

Mirror-boy was very clearly not a follower, but a leader. It was in the way he held himself with absolute confidence, how sharp and brilliant his mind was, how easily he changed his personality to suit his needs, and how quickly he became irritated when Draco talked back. This was a boy used to having his every word obeyed, to having people clamour for his attention. 

It was odd; the boy had the mannerisms and face of a pure-blood, despite not being one. A bastard, then? He frowned. It was a plausible idea, but the majority of pure-bloods cared far too much about their reputations to cheat. And even if they did, their bastard child certainly wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Hogwarts where their dirty secret would come to light, where he would be recognised. The boy was undeniably beautiful, but it was the generic kind; the boy possessed no features that alluded to a specific family. 

He idly wondered what it was like to be a non-pure-blood in Slytherin, especially back when prejudice was far more prevalent - before the Dark Lord had besmirched and sullied their reputation as pure-bloods, reducing them all to upcoming Dark Wizards that were suspicious and untrustworthy, where their status meant little in a society ruled by the likes of Dumbledore. It couldn’t have been easy to survive, and it would certainly explain the boy’s bitterness towards the Malfoys. 

“To infer that from so little information was rather impressive,” the boy murmured, voice low and soft like velvet.

Draco smiled like his face was drawn on, irritation simmering beneath his skin. “Yes. Information that you intentionally provided me with.” 

Did the boy truly expect Draco to fall for his little mind games? He paused. Well. Fifth-year Draco of the previous timeline would have simply preened at the rare praise - he received so very little of it from his father, after all. His arrogance would have blinded him to the truth, leading him to believe that no one would dare trick him, the oh-so-great Malfoy heir. 

How utterly delusional. People take extreme joy in tearing down pure-bloods like Draco; spoiled, obnoxious, arrogant, petulant, ignorant, needlessly cruel. The Dark Lord had certainly relished in watching the once-proud Malfoy family fall at his feet, reducing them to mere shells of their former selves.

Draco saw the seizure of agitation that momentarily twisted the boy’s features - then it was gone, replaced by an unconvincing look of innocence. “Oh? How do you figure that?” 

Draco felt a hysterical, slightly unhinged bubble of laughter rise up in his throat. This boy actually, sincerely took him for a fool. He’d been underestimated before, and understandably so, but this was the first time he’d been so severely misjudged. The madness that lived underneath his skin must have broken free, bleeding onto his face, because the boy’s expression contorted into something utterly unreadable, clearly not having anticipated this reaction from him. 

Was mirror-boy not aware of how easy it would be for Draco to find out his identity? All he needed was a yearbook from Abraxas’ years at Hogwarts, and- Oh. 

“You want me to know who you are.” Draco's brain short-circuited. But why? What could he possible hope to gain? Did he, perhaps, want to see if Draco recognised his name? It was though he expected his identity to alter Draco’s attitude towards him. He frowned inwardly. The boy’s confidence was unnerving. “You actually expect me to recognise some no-name Slytherin from the past?”

A deep, dark, icy blackness flittered through the boy's eyes, his serene mask shattering into thousands of tiny pieces. His expression turned cold, like winter at its cruelest, frigid like blistering, icy wind. Ah. He’s mad. Draco felt a thin tendril of panic unfurl his chest, but was quick to smother it, feeling foolish for being intimidated. It wasn’t as though the boy could step through the mirror and ruin his life; he was out of his reach of influence here.

“You’re not accustomed to having anyone talk back, are you?” Draco felt savage satisfaction, dark and wild, curl through him at the flash of anger that crackled across the boy’s face.

“No,” mirror-boy admitted easily. Draco was yearning to ask ‘why?’ The boy was clearly unaccustomed to being treated with such blatant disrespect - which was odd considering that non-pure-bloods in Slytherin were never treated well. It would appear that this boy was the single exception. But why? Who exactly was he? 

His curiosity must have been plain on his face because a look of supreme satisfaction crossed mirror-boy’s features. “I could tell you why,” he drawled slowly, voice low, “but only in exchange for the knowledge I desire.”

Draco hesitated. It was a brief, barely-there thing, but it was enough to prompt the boy into leaning closer.

“It’s something that only I can tell you,” he crooned, his voice like velvet and silk. Well. He did have a point. Draco doubted he’d find a book on ‘Why Mirror-boy Was An Exception’ in the library. Draco very nearly snorted at the expectant look on the boy’s face. He was, admittedly, deeply curious - but he had a Bad Feeling about all this. “So, do we have a deal?” 

Draco licked his lips nervously. It would be utterly idiotic to agree. Yet, it could not hurt to hear him out.

“What is it that you want to know?” The boy’s lips split into a wide, satisfied smile, one ripe with promise. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. That wasn’t the agreement that the over-confident idiot seemed to think it was. He was merely testing him - Draco could always choose not to answer. It would seem that there was an advantage to being constantly underestimated, after all.

The boy sent him a long, quiet searching look. There something calculating in his gaze, hidden just below the surface. Draco resisted the urge to fidget under his stare. Then, “There’s no need to feel ashamed if you’ve never heard of it. In fact, very few have.” 

He paused, tilting his head to the side like a curious child, his intense gaze shadowed by a darker, indefinable emotion. It was unsettling to be on the receiving end of such a look. 

"I seek knowledge regarding an old legend, one dating back to the time of the Founders. It speaks of a chamber hidden within the school, one that was created by Salazar Slytherin himself. He named it the Chamber of Secrets-” Mirror-boy cut himself off, grinning victoriously as Draco’s entire body visibly and violently seized against his will. He was unsure as to what kind of expression crossed his face, but it made the boy’s grin stretch wider. “Oh, so it does exist. And if I’m interpreting your reaction correctly, then I take it that it was opened?”

Draco’s expression shuttered. Why was he curious about that of all things? If it had yet to be opened in the boy’s time, then there was no possible way for him to know of it. Draco certainly hadn’t known of its existence until the clusterfuck that was his second year, and his family had been in Slytherin for centuries. 

Draco’s innards twisted into a sickening knot as he stared into the boy’s dark eyes, gleaming like wells of ink. The Chamber was first opened fifty years ago. Mirror-boy was at Hogwarts approximately fifty years ago. He could hear the pounding of his heartbeat thundering through his chest, pulsing in his ears. His brain worked quickly to thread together the scattered pieces of a puzzle that he never wanted to see completed.

Cold fear tore at him, reaching in and twisting with icy fingers as a sickening, spine-chilling thought took root, weeding in and burrowing deep in his mind until he was singularly consumed by it. 

It was an impossible thought - one that, much to Draco’s horror, made so much sense that it was laughable. It would explain the underlying sense of unease that churned in his gut throughout all their interactions, and it was the perfect answer to his question; what made the boy an exception?

The Chamber of Secrets could only be opened by, and the Basilisk would only answer to the Heir of Slytherin - a title that the Dark Lord had claimed for himself.

Primal, raw terror curdled deep in Draco’s stomach, writhing and coiling like a ravenous serpent. His fear was like a gush of icy water, flushing up to his nostrils - streaming down his throat and nose, stretching and straining his lungs until he was unable to breathe.

Draco swallowed jaggedly, throat scraped raw with dread, a wave of nausea akin to vertigo washing over him. He had an answer - one that he stubbornly refused to accept. He so desperately wanted to question it outright, but he held his tongue, utterly terrified that the boy will confirm his worst nightmare. 

He clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. No. No. It was all just mere speculation. He didn’t know anything for certain. The boy may not be Him. Mirror-boy could simply be a relative of His, right? Draco’s entire theory could also be very wrong. He clung to that idea with a desperation that was utterly humiliating. 

Draco held himself perfectly still, his expression resembling a slate of stone, even though everything inside of him thrashed restlessly, screaming to get out. His thoughts spun in circles, poisoned by terror - trapping him, pinning him in place like an insect on a board. The room swam before him, the colours bleeding into indistinguishable blurs as he fought to drown out the roaring voices in the back of his head.

Draco needed to get out of here, he needed know mirror-boy’s name, he needed-

He inhaled sharply, snapping back to himself. He blinked rapidly, recoiling when he immediately made eye-contact with the potential baby-Dark-Lord. He felt the ends of his mind beginning to fray out, the walls rattling. He tore his gaze away from those bottomless pools of inky-black, and spun on his heel, ignoring the confused calling of his name as he sprinted out of the room like Hell itself was chasing him.

 

Notes:

I truly hadn’t intended for the reveal to be this chapter, but it literally just wrote itself I swear~
also, I’m so sorry this chapter took so long but fuck, Tom Riddle is bloody difficult to write.
thank you all for reading ❤︎

Chapter 18

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He stalked down the corridors, stomach twisting so violently he felt ill.

Draco was wrong. He was most definitely wrong. There was no way that his theory could be correct. Mirror-boy was stupidly pretty, charismatic, and alluring - whilst the Dark Lord looked like a shrivelled snake and had all the charm of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. He nodded quickly to himself. Yes. Draco was wrong - very wrong. He just needed confirmation that he was, in fact, wrong, so that he could put his spiralling mind at ease.

He practically tore the library done off its hinges in his haste to get inside, studiously ignoring all the alarmed and irritated looks thrown his way. He rushed forward, gaze frantically swinging left and right with wild impatience.

Yearbooks. He needed yearbooks. But where the fuck were they?

He came to an abrupt halt in the centre of the library, gaze darting about the seemingly endless line of shelves, startled at the disappointment he felt when none of them magically lit up with a sign reading ‘Yearbooks Here!’ Salazar, he truly was losing it, wasn’t he?

Then, he spotted her, sitting at a table by herself, a ludicrously tall tower of books stacked in front of her. Draco made a beeline for her, slamming his hands down on the desk to garner her attention. Granger flinched, head snapping up, a wide-eyed, startled look on her face that he hardly registered - his mind was otherwise occupied. If his theory was proven right, then he had, for the past year, been back-talking, snarking at, challenging, disrespecting, insulting-

Nope. Best not think about that lest he actually loses his damn mind. All he needed nowadays was a teeny, tiny push and whoop, there goes the remainder of Draco’s practically non-existent sanity. 

He wasn’t certain as to what kind of expression he was making, but if the wary, alarmed way Granger was watching him - as though she’d never seen him before, was any indication, then he gathered that his mask of civility had well and truly shattered, allowing his wild desperation to peak through. He could almost hear the wail his brain made as he tried to forcefully reign in the madness, to school his expression into something that didn’t scream ‘unhinged.’

“Yearbooks.” Draco tried to wrestle down the hysteria bleeding into his voice. It mustn’t have worked as her wariness increased tenfold. “Do you know where I can find yearbooks?”

“Yearbooks?” Granger blinked owlishly at the request, confusion clouding her face.

“Granger. Please.” The plea burst unbidden from his throat, and he left it hanging in the air between them. His pride wasn’t of importance at the moment. He was truly desperate enough to beg - and that made her go completely and utterly still. 

Granger looked at him - really looked at him. Her gaze roamed over his face, searching for something. Draco made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, which snapped her out of whatever trance she’d lulled herself into. Granger hauled herself out of her seat and headed towards the back of the library. He ignored the numerous eyes boring holes into the back of his head and scrambled after her, a jerky, restless edge to his usually polished and graceful movements.

He followed Granger down an aisle, his whole body positively thrumming with overwhelming relief when the yearbooks came into view. He absently thanked Granger, unaware of the gobsmacked look she levelled at him before walking off, leaving him to his own devices. Draco trailed a shaky finger down the spine of the 1945 yearbook; the year that Abraxas had graduated. His breathing sounded far too loud in the quiet stillness of the library. 

He sunk down to the floor, leaning back against the shelf as he impatiently flicked through the book, fingers twitching restlessly. Draco inhaled sharply, thoughts screeching to a halt, as he stared into mirror-boy’s dark eyes. He looked older, but it was unmistakably him.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Marvolo. Marvolo. Marvolo. The name set off alarm bells. There had been a Gaunt with that name - though, he failed to recall just how recently - and it was a wizarding tradition to name the first born son after either their father, or grandfather.

He felt a rising static buzz inside of his skull that drowned out his surroundings. He stared blankly at the book in his lap for a long moment - the pictures fusing into a swirl of shadows and ink, before his eyes refocused. He blinked slowly, disorientated and off-kilter. It made perfect sense, he thought dully, an icy hollowness settling deep in his gut as the last puzzle piece slotted seamlessly into place.

Draco stared at the name. Riddle. Not Gaunt. Right. So, his mother had been the Gaunt, then - and his father…

Mirror-Tom had essentially admitted that he was not a pure-blood. Draco rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, brows furrowed. The Gaunts were notorious for inbreeding in order to keep their blood pure, and retain the trait of their ancestor; Parseltongue. For a Gaunt witch to have procreated with a man outside the Gaunt line…

She had either been a victim of rape, or had loved this… Riddle deeply enough to go against her family’s expectations. Riddle was most certainly not a wizarding surname, though - so a Muggleborn, then? Perhaps, even a Muggle? The thought made Draco feel slightly hysterical, and he fought down the bubble of mania that rose in his throat.

The Dark Lord had never outright confirmed his status as a Gaunt, but his casual use of Parseltongue along with the Lordship ring had all but solidified his unspoken claim. So, how had no one researched into the Gaunt family? If they had, then they’d have noticed a discrepancy in the family tree that would have alluded to the Dark Lord’s status as a bastard. The blind assumption that He was a pure-blood was ignorance at its finest.

And yet, despite the Dark Lord’s imposing reputation, his family line was still made into jokes at social gatherings. The last living, direct descendants had lived in squalor, and were so inbred that their magic was essentially null and void. There was no record that they’d even attended Hogwarts. It had been a source of amusement for Lucius and his associates, to see a once venerated, Noble lineage fall into disgrace and disrepair. 

He tapped his finger against mirror-Tom’s picture listlessly. Perhaps, outside of the fear and reverence that the pure-blood factions held for Him, there were still seeds of discontent. It was understandable; pure-bloods had been raised to think themselves superior, to never bow before anyone, to demean themselves so, and yet they had. 

Draco had his suspicions that the Dark Lord, despite his claims to the contrary, cared very little for pure-bloods. If he truly valued their existence, then he wouldn’t have tortured or murdered them in his numerous fits of childish rage. He was, at his core, a power-hungry megalomaniac, one that desired to rule the wizarding world as its supreme leader. And pure-bloods, with their vast wealth, prestige, and immense political influence, were the perfect means for doing so.

The Dark Lord had the raw, incontestable magical prowess to give his cause credibility, and was a Slytherin to the core; brilliant, driven, ambitious, and manipulative - all qualities that greatly appealed to Draco’s kind. He whispered honeyed promises dripping in venom, and cultivated himself into an individual who was exactly what they needed. So, in exchange for restoring pure-bloods to their former glory, and removing the ‘filth’ that poisoned their society, he had earned the undying loyalty of the most prominent and influential families in wizarding Britain. It was ingenious - truly, to use their twisted ideas of superiority against them.

Then, there was the issue of the mirror. If mirror-Tom was indeed the Dark Lord, then did that mean that the Dark Lord of now remembered his mirror-Malfoy? He may not understand how the mirror worked, but doubted that it bore enough significance for the Dark Lord to recall a string of conversations that took place fifty years ago-

Wait. Was that why the Dark Lord had sought him out earlier in this timeline? He didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or cry - and the noise that squeezed itself out of his throat was a disturbing combination of all three. Nope. No way. He refused to continue down that train of thought; that way laid insanity. 

It was, if he were honest, rather difficult to reconcile the boy in the mirror with the Dark Lord. Yes, mirror-Tom was admittedly terrifying and possessed several irrefutable similarities with the Dark Lord, but he was still a far cry from the man who delighted in tearing apart the wizarding world, restructuring it into a system where only he would emerge on top. It was unsettling to know that this brilliant, charming boy with endless potential would one day lose himself to the point where only his insane, cruel, homicidal alter-ego remained.

He sighed wearily, head lulling back against the shelf with a dull thud. Draco’s eyes fluttered shut as fatigue begun to wash over him in waves, like the lap of the ocean against the shore. His mind, that had been fervently whirring between a state of panic, terror, hysteria, and shock, was now eerily quiet, as though he had exhausted his capacity to feel and process emotion. 

Draco was so, so tired - not in the trivial sense, but rather an unshakable weariness that ran bone-deep. He exhaled shakily, forcing his heavy limbs to co-operate as he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled out the library.


Draco rested his forehead against the window of the Hogwarts Express, eyes fixed on the swollen grey clouds hanging low in the dreary sky. The silence in the compartment was utterly stifling, but forced, awkward chatter would be far worse, so he gladly kept quiet. 

His recent discovery, which he had aptly named the ‘Revelation of Doom,’ had left him half-hysterical and ill at ease in his own skin. He’d been fortunate that it had occurred on the weekend, and was thus able to hide in his bed, curtains drawn and drenched in warding spells. It had taken him a full day to compartmentalise it all, to successfully hold back the mental breakdown that desperately wanted out.

He had, only two days later, received two letters; one addressing the annual Malfoy Yule Ball, and the other instructing him to be in his finest robes when Lucius collected him from the station. It had very nearly sent him careening over the edge, rattling the already fraying walls of his mind. He couldn’t incendio the letter fast enough.

He had made a beeline for the bathroom upon boarding the Hogwarts Express, opting to immediately change into his impossibly overpriced robes. Draco had garnered a fair amount of odd looks for his choice of dress, but most had, thankfully, dismissed it as a ‘pure-blood thing.’ 

He slumped down in his seat, pointedly ignoring the worried looks Blaise and Pansy sent his way. Longbottom, bless his soul, had even commented on Draco’s gaunt, sickly appearance during their pairing in Potions. Draco had flashed him a brittle smile that fell flat, and offered false reassurances that did nothing to assuage the concern in Longbottom’s eyes. Severus, too, had levelled him with several sharp looks that would have been equivalent to full-blown distress on anyone else. It was as endearing as it was irritating.

“So, Draco…” He lifted his head off the window, turning to blink blearily at Theo. “Are we going to be meeting, you know, Him?” Draco’s blood ran cold, his expression shuttering, taken aback by the the sheer eagerness saturating Theo’s tone. He swallowed thickly, resting his forehead back against the window, gaze gently tracing the swirl of ominous grey in the sky.

“How should I know?” Draco murmured, feigning ignorance. If the ‘dinner party’ went as it had in the previous timeline, then the Dark Lord’s presence was all but guaranteed.

He stared at Theo’s reflection in the window, watching as his face twisted in anger, teeth bared. “It’s at your house.”

Draco straightened abruptly, rounding on Theo. His glacial grey eyes fastened Theo with a frigid glare. “I do believe we’ve already had this conversation,” his voice came out sharp and icy, like an arctic wind. Theo stilled, something flashed across his expression, lips slowly folding into a firm, thin line. “Father obviously refrained from mentioning anything incriminating in his letters, what with Fudge’s paranoia rearing its head.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, evidently displeased by Draco’s perfectly sound logic. “Lord Malfoy has no need for concern,” he pointed out, arms folded imperiously across his chest, an irate look on his face. “He’s untouchable. Fudge can’t do anything to him.” Draco recalled the look of smug satisfaction on Fudge’s face when he’d sentenced Lucius to life imprisonment in Azkaban, and fought down the bubble of hysteria that rose in his throat.

Draco leant forward in his seat, canting his head to the side. He felt his face crack into a smile, lips slowly curving into a vicious, predatory grin. His grey eyes flickered like the light sparking off the sharp, unforgiving edge of a razor. Theo recoiled at the sight of him. “No one’s untouchable, Theodore. You best remember that.”

The air itself seemed to still, the tension in the room tangible. A medley of indefinable emotions flickered across Theo’s features too quick for Draco to read. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again as he scrambled for a retort.

“You speak as though Fudge would know the contents of our letters,” Daphne’s soft voice cut through the silence like a knife, shattering the tension. Draco kept his eyes trained on Theo, who stared right back, neither wanting to be the first to relent.

“The Ministry is monitoring our mail,” Pansy divulged, the disgust plain in her voice. Theo’s blank expression slowly morphed into one of frustration, the lines around his eyes tight and drawn. Draco felt dark amusement curl in his chest. Had he expected Draco to be intimidated into yielding first? 

“They what?” Daphne’s voice was shrill, dripping with disbelief. Theo’s face twisted, and Draco saw the swell of his neck muscles as they tensed, the whitening of his fingers, and the clench of his jaw as he fought back his anger. Theo blew out an irritable breath, and abruptly redirected his attention to Daphne. Draco felt the fight drain out of him as he slumped against the window, forehead resting on the cool glass, letting the dull conversation wash over him. He stared aimlessly out at the lush, green countryside until he drifted off to sleep.


Draco woke to firm hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him rather roughly. He swatted irritably at the air, and the culprit immediately stepped back, chuckling softly. He blinked his eyes open, flicking his bleary gaze up to the face hovering above him. He squinted, zeroing on the amusement twinkling in Blaise’s dark eyes. He scowled, and slowly sat upright, massaging the crick in his neck. 

He glanced out the window, quietly observing the hustle and bustle of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters as children greet their families, before slowly rising to his feet. Draco swallowed thickly, a flash of nervous energy running cold through his veins. Nope. He pushed his anxiety deep, deep down and slammed up his Occlumency walls, knowing that if he allowed even the tiniest sliver of panic in, it would quickly spiral into a full-blown nervous breakdown. 

He smoothed out his ridiculously expensive robes, and followed his housemates out the compartment. 

Draco, in all his supreme wisdom, hadn’t expected things to go wrong until he arrived at Malfoy Manor. He prayed to his divine beings that he was, in fact, hallucinating. He needed this to not be real. For his sanity. Not that there was much of that left, he mused in bitter amusement as grey eyes met green.

“Move, Potter,” Theo snapped, his tone suffused with irritating superiority, as though he hadn’t conceded to Draco only hours prior. Potter slowly dragged his gaze from Draco to level his patented glare at Theo, who was positively twitching under the weight of it. Draco very nearly groaned; he was not in the mood to deal with all this - whatever this even was. 

It was Granger, the absolute saint, who intervened, giving Potter a very pointed shove towards the exit. Potter’s expression shifted from disdain to sheepish so quick that Draco got whiplash. Granger herded her boys off the train, only to pause and throw Draco an unreadable look before following them out. He swallowed jaggedly. Right. He’d conveniently forgotten that Granger had had a front row seat to his brief spiral into madness. 

Theo exhaled agitatedly, cursing Potter under his breath, and all but stalked off the train. Draco immediately zeroed in on familiar, narrowed icy-blue eyes, and he walked robotically over to where his father stood, imperious and impatient. 

“Father,” he greeted stiffly, suddenly very aware of the multiple letters he’d incendio’d without opening.

“Draco,” Lucius drawled slowly, his entire body language oozing disappointment, tone promising that there would be words later. Draco gulped, biting the inside of his cheek. He flicked his gaze to the men surrounding them, easily identifying Lords Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were too preoccupied with greeting their children to take note of the tense exchange.  

Lord Nott clamped a firm hand on Theo’s shoulder, and turned to Lucius. “Shall we?” 

Lucius inclined his head and offered his arm to Draco, who grabbed it, stomach twisting with nausea at the familiar pull of side-along Apparition as they vanished.

 

Notes:

I’m sorry that this chapter wasn’t all that exciting - it was more of a set up for the upcoming chapters~
thank you all for your continued support, it means the absolute world to me ❤︎

Chapter 19

Notes:

okay, so this is unedited, so I apologise in advance for all the potential grammatical errors!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor painted a dreary, desolate picture, silhouetted against the swirling, dark grey sky. 

Draco curled into himself, shuddering against the howling, icy-cold wind that blustered unforgivingly across the open English countryside. It whipped relentlessly at his skin, which was slowly turning a light scarlet from the biting chill. He exhaled, breathing out a cloud of frost as the telltale crackles of Apparition sliced through the air. His grey eyes, cold and impassive, met Theo’s for a short moment. Draco revelled in the sheer trepidation nestled there, swallowing up and strangling his earlier eagerness. 

He fought back a flinch when he stepped through the wards, the sensation like ice sliding down his spine. The wards were stronger, he noted immediately, more numerous then they’d been when he’d left for Hogwarts four months prior. 

The silence that settled over their procession was heavy, weighted with tension and unspoken anxiety. Draco stared at the pair of large, wrought-iron gates, terror rising in his throat. Lucius kept his brisk pace, not missing a step as he raised his left arm in a silent salute, enabling them to pass through the metal as though it were smoke. It struck Draco, then, that he no longer had the means to leave the Manor at will; the Dark Mark ensured safe passage, and he was no longer branded. The anti-Apparition wards were firmly in place, and the house-elves, whose magic was an exception, were bound to Lucius, not him. 

The front door swung open without assistance, revealing the massive, dimly lit and lavish foyer. Draco fought down the reflexive panic that clawed its way up his throat, heart stuttering with dread as they headed towards a familiar room - one that he hadn’t set foot in since he’d time-travelled, one that haunted his nightmares. Lucius halted at the heavy wooden door for a short moment, before twisting the bronze handle, pulling it open.

He exhaled a shaky breath. There was no Professor Burbage - hanging upside down over the table, revolving slowly like a pig on a spit, there was no snake swallowing her corpse whole, there was no Granger - screaming shrilly on the floor as Aunt Bella carved into her. There was only a room full of horribly familiar faces - ones that he had never wanted to see again, mingling leisurely.

He went utterly still, apprehension like a lead weight in his chest as every single head swivelled towards them. The talking ceased, and the room fell dead silent. He clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms, paralysed under the sudden, unwanted attention. Draco’s expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint. He quickly reached for his Occlumency shields, slamming up and tightening his mental walls. 

His gaze swung left and right, quickly assessing. The drawing room was void of furniture save for a single, black velvet divan longue, positioned like a throne. The Dark Lord truly was so unnecessarily dramatic. Lucius inclined his head politely in greeting to the room at large, and, as though that was the signal they’d all been waiting for, the chatter immediately resumed. Lucius made a beeline for Narcissa, and Draco went to follow, except-

“Draco!” Ah. Fuck. Her voice rung out across the room, shortly followed by a loud, unmistakable, shrieking laugh. There was a sharp, startled inhale from behind him as Aunt Bella, in all her mad glory, strode towards him, her long, dark, straggly hair swaying with each step. He held himself deathly still, chest tight with trepidation. Azkaban had truly stolen her beauty, he observed quietly, staring down at her gaunt, hollow face. She was a mere shell of the beautiful woman Draco had seen in Narcissa’s photo albums. “Do you know who I am?”

He inclined his head. “Aunt Bella,” he struggled to keep his voice smooth and even. His response last time had been so painstakingly different; he’d uttered a fumbled, stuttered, ‘B-Bellatrix Lestrange,’ terrified by the woman’s mere presence. Aunt Bella’s eager expression had contorted into one of pure contempt at his weak reply - and that interaction had set the tone for their entire relationship. Now, however, there was a feverish light in her heavy-lidded eyes as she gave his cheeks a hard, sharp pinch. 

“Oh, look how you’ve grown,” she cooed. Her sigh was wistful, steeped with elation. “It felt like only yesterday when you were an ickle baby!” Aunt Bella let out a cackle of mad laughter. He twitched under the weight of the multiple stares now directed at him; their eyes bore down on him like physical weights, flaying him open.

“Let’s go meet your Uncles!” Aunt Bella’s fingers were like cords of steel wrapped around his wrist, a breath away from shattering bone. In a startling display of strength - especially from someone who’d been imprisoned in Azkaban for fourteen years - she dragged him across the room. Draco stole a brief glance over his shoulder, only to find Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle staring back at him with wide, terrified, startled eyes.

The Lestrange brothers were exactly as Draco remembered; tall and emaciated, with matted, unkempt dark hair, and equally dark eyes. The roaring fire, flickering beneath the magnificent marble mantlepiece beside them, chased eerie shadows across their withered faces. 

Aunt Bella shoved him forwards, her hands gripping his shoulders like claws, as she presented him like one would a brand new, shiny toy. He could feel her breath, hot on the back of his neck, and he barely refrained from shuddering in disgust. It must have shown on his face because Rabastan snorted, his chapped lips twisting into a smirk that was dark, cold, and quietly amused.

“Rabastan, Rodolphus. This is my nephew, Draco,” her breathy voice was far too close to his ear, and he wrestled down the urge to shove her the fuck off him. Rodolphus merely levelled him with a bored, indifferent look before flicking his dark gaze away. Rabastan, the absolute git, shallowly inclined his head, echoes of his earlier amusement still nestled in his gaunt features.

Rodolphus, due to his marriage to Aunt Bella, was often labelled as the more dangerous, more insane brother - but anyone who’d had the displeasure of meeting them both would immediately tell you that no, Rabastan was irrefutably worse.

Aunt Bella spun him around, leaning in so close that their noses brushed. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek, and he violently squashed the tendril of fear that unfurled in his gut. There was an almost manic look on her hollow face as she gripped his jaw, nails digging painfully into his cheek, forcing their eyes to meet. Draco kept his spine rigid, expression eerily blank as he gazed down at her, ignoring how his skin crawled with unease at her touch. 

“You look so much like Cissy,” she murmured, an odd, unsettling gleam in dark her eyes. Terror sliced down Draco’s spine, cold and chilling. 

“So I’ve been told.” He was unable to keep his voice from wavering. Aunt Bella’s answering grin was a crooked, wicked thing, sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes suddenly flickered to the left and she snickered cruelly, releasing him with a single, harsh push.

“Uh-oh. Dear old Lucius doesn’t look too happy~” Aunt Bella chanted in a sing-song voice, her tone taking on an ear-gratingly high pitch. Draco, ignoring the whiplash caused by her abrupt change of demeanour, glanced over to where Lucius stood, scowling severely in their direction.

“Does he ever?” Draco remarked dully, lips twitching in muted amusement as Aunt Bella let out a raucous scream of laughter. She had never approved of Narcissa’s marriage to Lucius, had argued that he didn’t deserve her - a sentiment that Draco shared; even though he loved his father, no one was truly good enough for his mother. He paused. Oh. Aunt Bella had unknowingly provided him with the perfect escape. “I best go over, lest he causes a scene.”

He bid the Lestranges a hasty farewell and skilfully weaved his way through the crowd.

“Mother,” he breathed, eyes softening at the edges. He subtly scanned her up and down, checking that nothing was amiss, that she was safe. Narcissa looked weary and exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. Thank Salazar.

“Dragon,” her voice was so warm, so comforting. He could taste tears burning in the back of his throat, chest hollowing out. He was overwhelmed with the desire to hide from the world in her arms, like he had done as a child. But that wasn’t an option. His parents had an image to uphold, and the public coddling of the Malfoy heir wasn’t a part of it. 

“Father.” He met Lucius’ icy glare, and cold spread in his chest, a solid weight that settled uncomfortably in his gut. Lucius was clearly still furious, but wouldn’t approach the topic in public. He was safe. For now. 

“Draco, Lucius, Narcissa,” came a familiar dark drawl. He turned, tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he spotted his godfather. Severus came to a halt before him, angling his head towards his companion. “This is Augustus Rookwood.” Ah. The spy who worked as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries up until Karkaroff’s testimony resulted in his imprisonment. Draco studied him; he was tall, pock-marked, with greasy, greying hair. Azkaban had done him no favours. 

“Pleasure,” Draco inclined his head politely. Rookwood returned the gesture before turning to engage his parents. Draco subtly shifted closer to Severus, taking a small comfort in his presence. 

“How are you fairing?” It was a low murmur, almost inaudible. He shot Severus an unimpressed look, as if to say ‘how do you think?’ His godfather’s lips twitched, mirth flickering through those beady, obsidian eyes of his. “I suppose that was a foolish question.” Draco hummed noncommittally, gaze sweeping across the room. 

He absently wondered if any of His followers knew the truth; that the Dark Lord was the half-blood bastard of a near-squib Gaunt and a possible Muggleborn, or Muggle. His eyes found Aunt Bella, who was gesticulating wildly to an uninterested Rodolphus and an indulgent Rabastan. For all that she was a devout blood-supremacist, her loyalty to the Dark Lord was absolute; it trumped everything. He doubted that the revelation of His true ancestry would dissuade her, or any of his inner-circle for that matter. 

He didn’t dare broach the topic, though. Aunt Bella would relish in torturing him, in taking him apart piece-by-piece should he disrespect or slight the Dark Lord in any way, shape or form. He wouldn’t ruin his plans to cement his tentative spot on Aunt Bella’s Good Side. Well. She didn’t exactly have a Good Side; she had the Dark Lord, and then a Bad Side. But her Bad Side had levels, and Draco wanted to be as far from the bottom rung as possible.

He turned back to Severus, whose gaze was intermittently flicking towards the closed door. He wasn’t the only one - the majority of the individuals in attendance were constantly stealing glances at the door, positively vibrating with anticipation. It was so starkly at odds with the fear swelling inside him like a venomous bubble that he very nearly laughed.

Draco flinched violently as the doors swung open, rebounding against the stone wall with a resounding bang. 

He knew, immediately and instinctively, without even looking, that it wasn’t the Dark Lord. He may be an overly dramatic bastard, but this level of theatrics could only be attributed to one individual. Draco’s head snapped towards the door, completely and utterly unsurprised to see Barty Crouch Jr standing in the doorway, decked out in his atrocious, trademark dark-purple suit. 

Barty’s lips stretched in a wide, cruel grin as he drifted over to Aunt Bella and the Lestrange brothers. A shudder chased down Draco's back, unease unfurling in his chest; the four of them had tortured the Longbottoms into insanity together. He was quick to avert his eyes, opting to pretend to pay attention to the dull conversation between the adults beside him instead.

He fixed his gaze on his father’s left shoulder, trying to uncoil the unease that had twisted up into an anxious, writhing knot in his gut. He focused on breathing; in and out, inhale and exhale, in and-

Draco jerked, startled, when a large, heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, effectively snapping him back to reality. His heart was pounding so hard, he swore he could feel it pulsing in his throat. He tilted his head back to meet the wild blue eyes of Barty Crouch Jr. He swallowed thickly, slowly turning on his heel to face him. He was so distracted by Barty’s presence, that he failed to notice the silence that had fallen over the four adults behind him.

“Did ya miss me?” Barty’s grin resembled a manic, bloodthirsty shark. Draco had, in fact, not missed him - and Barty definitely knew that. He levelled Barty with a flat, deadpan look that spoke volumes. Barty’s grin only stretched wider. “Ya wound me, kid.” Barty made a face of profound mock hurt. “And here I was, about to go out of my way to offer to teach ya all about the Dark Arts. But, now-”

“You’ll teach me, anyways,” he pointed out, tone dry as a bone. 

“Draco,” his father hissed, scandalised. Barty let out a loud, harsh bark of laughter at the mortified expression twisting Lucius’ usually impassive features. Right. To Lucius, his words sounded arrogant, rude, and presumptuous, but Draco had merely spoken the truth. The Dark Lord had arranged it, and no one ignored a direct order, especially not a devoted follower like Barty. 

“Don’t get ya panties in a twist, Lucius,” Barty sneered in a voice positively sagging with derision. Lucius looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon. “Ya kid’s right.” Draco watched them interact with undisguised fascination. He had never seen someone be so shamelessly antagonistic with his father. It was rather refreshing. 

“Why, pray tell, would you be the one to teach my son?” Lucius arched a brow, his face a picture of disdain. “I am perfectly capable of-”

“It’s the Dark Lord’s orders,” Barty interrupted, a supremely satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. Though he tried to hide it, Lucius’ anger bubbled to the surface, glinting between the cracks in his well-worn mask. “Oh? Did our Lord neglect to tell ya?” Barty sounded positively schoolboy gleeful. 

Lucius’ eyes snapped to Draco, gaze roaming across his face with steady calculation - like he wanted to peel back Draco’s skin, layer-by-layer. Lucius looked at his own son and found him wanting. It showed in the twitch in the muscle of his jaw, the small, nearly imperceptible furrow of his brow. Draco pressed his lips together, a cold anger stirring in his chest. Even Barty - who was essentially a stranger - had acknowledged his potential; there was not a shred of doubt, ridicule, or derision present when he spoke of privately tutoring Draco.

“I’m sure He has his reasons,” Lucius’ voice was tight, mouth twisted into a thin, unhappy line. 

“Of course, of course,” Barty snickered, speaking as though he was placating an upset toddler. Rage crackled across Lucius’ face, icy-blue eyes darkening and swirling with hatred. 

Draco went utterly still as a familiar wave of Dark Magic snapped through the air - oppressive, choking, and malicious. It was eerie watching every single head turn towards the closed door in unison. Hysteria rose and broke over him like a tidal wave. Oh no. 

There was a moment of tense silence before absolute pandemonium broke out. Draco stared in bemusement as the Death Eaters scrambled about like headless chickens, hastily arranging themselves into two parallel lines, their bodies forming a glorified walkway. His gaze met Theo’s for a short moment, inordinately pleased at the stunned fear glistening in Theo’s eyes, at the despair paling his face. Draco relished in the trickle of satisfaction blooming in his chest, before a gentle hand on his shoulder brought him back to the reality of his situation. 

Narcissa guided him to their designated spot; they were both unmarked, and therefore positioned closer to the door, furthest away from the divan, from Him. The suffocating miasma of dark malevolence turned heavier, more potent - coating his tongue, curling up in his lungs - as He drew nearer. He took a measured, shuddering breath, trying to calm the tangle of emotions in his chest. He watched, dread cold in his chest, as Lucius stood at the immediate right of the divan, Aunt Bella on the left. 

A hush enveloped the room, as though everyone was collectively holding their breath. Ice-freezing terror rattled his insides cold, and prickled at his skin like glass, the choking taste of blood filling his mouth. Fear tightened its grip on Draco’s throat and squeezed. There was static in between his ears, the white noise muddling his already fractured mind.

The door slowly creaked open, flooding the room with an utterly crippling swell of Dark Magic. It was cloying, deadly, and vicious, snarling in the air like a poisonous cloud. He inhaled sharply, breath stuttering in his chest when the coils of probing magic that surrounded him abruptly turned playful - teasing, caressing and nuzzling against his skin. Draco could feel it snake up his legs, slither across his back, crawl down his arm, and coil around his fingers.

Draco felt the cracks in his sanity widening with every passing second. He didn't understand. The Dark Lord's magic had always felt unpleasant and painful, like nails being hammered brutally into his skin. But this? Draco didn't know what to make of it.

He shivered, struggling to appear unaffected by the gentle embrace of His magic, when he registered the sound of soft footsteps, signifying the Dark Lord’s entry. He bowed his head submissively, completely missing the way gleaming crimson eyes immediately sought him out, His scorching gaze burning holes into the white-blonde hair that fell around his face, hiding his features from view.

 

Notes:

If I thought that Tom Riddle was hard to write, then Bellatrix was a whole other level of impossible - holy shit the struggle was real. I hope I did her character justice~

ALSO!! What would everyone prefer: shorter chapters but with a shorter time between updates, or longer chapters but a longer time between updates?

Chapter 20

Notes:

hi, long time no see! sorry for the late update, but my personal life went to shit recently, so.

also, I've received some comments about the chapter numbers reducing, and it's because I went and edited/merged my very early chapters~

this chapter is unedited, and it's definitely not my best work, but I still hope it's okay ❤︎

Chapter Text

Draco kept his gaze directed at the floor, watching as the Dark Lord glided past, black robes swishing around his ankles like swirling shadows. He struggled to keep his breathing stable, to not outwardly react to the playful magic coiling around him. Draco tracked His footsteps with his eyes, watching as he reclined regally on the divan, like a King before his subjects. 

He slipped one of his long, white fingered hands into a deep pocket and withdrew his infamous bone-white wand. The Dark Lord gently caressed it, twirling it slowly between his fingers, purposefully drawing attention to it in an unspoken threat. Draco’s heart felt like it was suspended in his throat, chest numb and cold. 

It was so utterly silent that in that instant, it would be possible to hear a pin drop. 

The Dark Lord’s magic slowly receded, and the tension bled out of his shoulders as he could finally breathe. A sentiment his mother seemed to share, if the way she minutely relaxed beside him was any indicator. A single question ran through his turbulent mind, screaming at him amidst the eerie silence; how did His magic feel to the others? Was it a soft caress, or a thick, malicious blanket? 

He wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answer.

“Welcome, Death Eaters, my loyal followers,” His voice was velvet and thunder, rumbling against Draco’s nerves. The Dark Lord’s thin mouth curled into a mocking smile. The air shifted—going as taut and tense as the strings of a bow. The inside of Draco’s throat went painfully tight, a shudder chasing its way down his back. His gaze zeroed in on those who shuffled uneasily, guilt positively dripping out of their every pore. 

The Dark Lord was evidently still insulted that they’d renounced Him to save their own skin. Amusement curled up in Draco’s lungs—dark, manic, and a little hysteric. Had the Dark Lord forgotten that his Death Eaters were Slytherins? Their defining traits were cunning, ambition, and self-preservation. If he wanted blind, unconditional loyalty, he should have employed an army of Hufflepuffs. 

“The Lestranges,” he whispered softly, his cruel, crimson eyes eerily fixated on the three individuals to his direct left. “They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me.” Draco watched his father’s fingers twitch atop his cane. “They will be honoured beyond their wildest dreams. So, come greet your Master.” 

Aunt Bella lurched forward immediately, tripping over herself to reach Him—mania bright in her dark eyes, honest in her eagerness. “My Lord,” her voice was breathy, seeped with twisted devotion and hunger. She fell to her knees, crawling across the floor, peppering kisses along the hem of his dark robe. Nausea swelled inside him like a toxic, gaseous bubble, compressing his lungs, tightening his throat. “I knew you would return. I had faith, My Lord.” 

The Dark Lord extended a hand, skeletal white fingers carding through Aunt Bella’s dark, matted curls. She leant into the touch with a loud, euphoric sigh. How disturbing. 

“Your loyalty will be rewarded,” his voice was a hiss, filling up all corners of the room. His fingers left her hair, dismissing her with a simple wave of his hand. Aunt Bella practically vibrated with her reluctance to move—to put distance between her and the Dark Lord—but relented, knowing better than to disobey His direct orders. Rabastan and Rodolphus followed suit, slower, but no less eager to please. It was a sickening sight—seeing the Lords of ancient pure-blood lineages bowing to this abomination.

Draco envied His power. He commanded respect, and invoked fear in the same breath. He was a master manipulator, highly intelligent, and had tremendous magical capabilities; it rolled off him in waves—unable to be contained or restrained to his person. It was a level of magical prowess Draco could only dream of achieving. 

The Dark Lord twirled his wand, slowly reclining back in the divan—each movement calculated. Draco felt every fibre of his being still. He absently wondered whether He could smell fear—Nagini could, and the Dark Lord was more snake than human at this point.

“I see that we have new additions to today’s meeting,” his voice was cold, high-pitched, and harrowing. Fear jabbed at Draco’s insides like needles. “I think it is high-time I meet the new generation of followers.” 

His eyes found Theo’s across the room—a spasm of terror flitting across the other’s face. Theo’s eyes were wide and white with fear, and he flinched when Lord Nott rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. Draco tore his gaze away, redirecting it to Lucius, an unspoken question written on his face. His father shook his head, the gesture so minuscule he nearly missed it. 

The room was silent save for the sound of muffled footsteps and the shifting of fabric as his schoolmates were led to the centre of the room—on display, presented like livestock at an auction. He didn’t move, didn’t join them—there was no need; he’s already met the Dark Lord, after all. It sent a statement he didn’t want, nor agree with. He felt eyes on him—burning into him, scalding hot against the side of his head. His throat clicked, almost audibly, as he swallowed. 

His pitiless, gleaming red eyes surveyed them with cold, clinical detachment—as though they were sub-human. It was sickening. The Dark Lord had very little attachment to anything that didn’t further his agenda, or amplify his infamy, power, or existence. He had no care for his fellow human beings beyond the extent to which they were useful to him. His indifference to human life, his objectivity and megalomania were well-known—common knowledge, even. But, it was coming through like beacons now, glaring in its obviousness, its irrefutability. 

Draco’s innards curdled into a sickening knot, nausea crawling up his throat.

There were introductions made, words spoken—but his surroundings were drowned out by the static buzzing between his ears. It was like he’s submerged underwater. 

What honeyed poisoned had the Dark Lord whispered to successfully manipulate so many? He was aware that, before His demise at Potter’s hand, his appearance resembled that of an older Tom Riddle. He understood the allure; mirror-Tom was stupidly attractive. But still. If fifteen year-old Tom Riddle was a walking red-alarm, then the adult version should have set off ‘impending-natural-disaster’ level sirens. 

How did Slytherins—pure-bloods trained since birth in the art of manipulation—overlook that? Draco had bought into it all because Lucius—whom he had idolised—had spoken of Him as an absolute, as a God amongst wizards. How utterly delusional. 

Draco snapped back to himself, the buzzing receding, as his classmates returned to the line.

“I was informed that Bella and Rodolphus have caught us today’s entertainment,” the Dark Lord said softly, gleefully—his slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement. Ah. Fuck. He remembered this very, very clearly. Draco had absolutely no desire to experience it again. But when did he ever get a choice? “Bring it in.”

The door swung open, revealing bloody Wormtail, dragging a woman—bound at her wrists and ankles—by her hair. Her face was blotchy and swollen with tears, her chest heaving, eyes red-rimmed and wide with pure terror. She thrashed violently in Wormtail’s hold, bare heels skidding across the floor as she tried and failed to find purchase. The woman’s wails were muffled by a makeshift gag, the sound echoing eerily in the otherwise silent room. 

His stomach churned with disgust, bile creeping up his throat. 

Wormtail dropped the woman like a sack of potatoes before the Dark Lord, her body hitting the floor with a disquieting thud. Draco couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he knew the exact moment she saw the Dark Lord monstrous appearance; the woman let out a high-pitched, shrill sounding, muffled cry. Draco emphatically agreed. That had been his first reaction, too—though he had the good sense to internalise it. The woman scrambled backwards, wriggling like a worm, moving as far as her bonds would allow.

The Dark Lord uncoiled his long, sinewy limbs, slowly rising to his feet. Draco stilled, the hairs on the back on his neck standing on end, nerves screaming with alarm. He took long, predatory steps towards her, ignoring her cries of terror. He extended a hand, his long, bony fingers threading through, and tightly gripping her matted, blonde locks, holding her in place. 

He pulled, forcing the sobbing Muggle to bare her neck. “You picked a pretty one, Bella.” His other hand came up, stroking her cheek with mock affection. Disgust jumped in Draco’s throat, sluicing through his veins.

“Only the best for you, My Lord,” Aunt Bella simpered, elation and devotion oozing from her every pore.

The Dark Lord released the Muggle, flinging her backwards like a doll, her body dropping to the floor once more.

“Now,” he hissed, gleaming, hungry red eyes surveying his followers. “Who amongst you is worthy of the honour?”

The Muggle was trembling, her whole body shaking with fear. 

“Dolohov,” the Dark Lord canted his head to the side, a mirthless smile twisting his snake-like face. “You were so loyal as to rot in Azkaban for fourteen years. It is only fitting that you're rewarded for your fealty.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” Dolohov’s long, pale face was contorted with sadistic glee—as though torturing another human being for entertainment was something honourable. But Muggles weren’t human to the Death Eaters; just animals wearing human skin. Draco didn’t like Muggles, never had, and doubted he ever would—but he had limits. He stared at Dolohov. The man was merciless. His gut twisted into a painful knot, dread coursing through his veins. 

The Dark Lord returned to the divan, a silent invitation for Dolohov to proceed. He grinned, sharp and malicious,  and strode towards the terrified Muggle. The Death Eaters followed suit, crowding closer, eager and delighted. 

The nauseating tang of bile crept up his throat. In the Before, Draco had cried. The tears streaming down his cheeks had gone unnoticed by even himself until it was crudely pointed out, and he’d been subjected to a room full of disdainful jeers, mocking sneers, and cruel words. Draco had fled, vomiting his stomach up in the nearest bathroom, his reaction becoming an ongoing joke amongst the Deaths Eaters. It had been utterly humiliating, yet so mind-boggling—how were they all okay with this? 

It was the first time he’d been disappointed in his father, the first time he’d truly questioned what the fuck Lucius had gotten them into.

“Take the gag off. I wanna hear the bitch scream,” Dolohov snickered. 

Macnair yanked off the gag, the sound of her pleas for mercy, cries to not hurt her immediately filling the room. He grimaced. That was going to have the opposite effect. Dolohov was a sadist; the begging would only serve to increase his pleasure. Dolohov raised his wand, uttering a single word into the silence. Then, the screaming started. It was shrill and laced with sheer panic, utter hysteria bleeding through. The Muggle thrashed violently on the floor like an electrocuted Flobberworm, her face contorted in agony. 

Dolohov stepped forward, lifted his boot, and swung it at her head. Her head snapped to the side with a sickening, deafening crack that reverberated in Draco’s bones. He then cast a spell that shredded her clothes, leaving her bare before her torturers. He was going to be sick. 

The Muggle slammed her bound feet into Dolohov’s crotch. He let out a low groan of pain, his features twisting in sheer rage. “Filthy Muggle,” he spat, pupils vibrating with anger. “How dare you touch me!”

“It’s hardly its fault,” Rabastan drawled, something dark and cold in his voice. “It doesn’t know any better.”

“Then, we’ll just have to teach it, won’t we?” Dolohov leaned in close, grinning manically. “Teach it how to respect its superiors.” He raised his wand, cast the spell, and an inhuman scream split the air. Draco bit back the the sob rising in the back of his throat. Her foot was utterly disfigured—a twisted, gruesome mess. 

The Death Eaters cheers rung incessantly in his ears, and he averted his gaze from the spectacle, stomach churning—opting to stare at the Dark Lord instead. His face was the picture of serenity—like there wasn’t a woman being tortured mere metres from him. Then, as though sensing the weight of Draco’s eyes on him, He turned his head. 

Draco’s world was swallowed by scorching crimson. 

It was only for a short moment, barely long enough to blink, but it still caused his body to burn up in visceral panic. He jerked like he’d had a live wire pressed to his spine, and lowered his eyes, heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears. The Dark Lord’s lipless mouth twitched, curling into an amused smirk. 

Oh no. 

Severus had failed to read his surface-thoughts, but this was the Dark Lord. His blood turned to ice, brain filling with white static. Draco didn’t know what He had seen—if he’d even seen anything at all. The nebulous fear inside of Draco solidified at the amusement plain on His face. His head was a scramble of knowledge, of thoughts that would complicit him as a traitor. But, if He had, in fact, seen, then Draco was a dead-man walking; liars, turncoats, defectors didn’t live.

The ‘what-ifs' were going to drive him absolutely insane.

A mad, unhinged cackle sliced through his panic like a knife. “Ya ain’t looking too peachy there, boys.” Draco startled, stomach contracting in terror. He’d internalised his reactions, made certain none of his disgust, his horror bled onto his face—kept it all contained behind a blank mask, so what-

His head snapped towards the voice, towards Barty, who sneered at—Oh. Not him. He felt a wave of relief so acute, it was dizzying. Barty stared Crabbe, Goyle, and Theo down, a contemptuous smirk tugging at his lips, blue eyes alight with disdain. His housemates looked positively ill. The skin below Theo’s eyes shone with the marks of recent tears, and there was an odd, unsettled look on Crabbe’s usually angry face. Goyle was pale with fear, his pupils so wide they seemed to have swallowed the dull brown of his eyes. 

He can see it in Theo’s eyes—whatever delusions of grandeur or ambitions he held prior to this were crumbling. Good. This had been Draco’s wake-up call in the Before—one that he’d ignored; too cowardly, too weak to think for himself, and he’d paid the price for it.

Macnair rolled his eyes, his thin, black moustache twitching as he scowled. “What a bunch of babies.” 

“They’re children, Macnair,” Lord Nott snapped, defensive. 

Dolohov scoffed derisively. “They’re what—sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” Lord Goyle corrected, voice quiet. 

“Right, well. Malfoy Jr over there—” Draco’s heart stilled in his chest, “is also fifteen. You don’t see him crying like a prissy bitch.” His expression shuttered, blank and barren, like another language, impenetrable. The heavy weight of the Death Eaters’ gazes bore down on him, flaying him open, burning holes into his flesh.

“Enough.”  

The room stilled—even the Muggle, terrified and injured, quietened her whimpers. The tension in the room was tangible enough to physically choke on.

“Are you three not enjoying the show?” The Dark Lord’s asked, voice taking on a dangerously calm tone. Warning bells rung loud and clear in Draco’s ears. “Perhaps, you’d rather participate.” His heart plummeted through his stomach, sinking like a stone, mind blanking. This hadn’t happened last time. 

Dolohov huffed indignantly, looking supremely disgruntled at the prospect of his ‘honour’ being stolen by a child.

Draco swallowed the rise of vomit in his throat as realisation hit. The Dark Lord was testing them—getting a feel for the extent of their loyalty, what they would be willing to sacrifice, how far were they prepared to go in order to please Him. Theo looked sick, green in the face as he stood, petrified, under the Dark Lord’s cruel, blood-red gaze. 

“Well?” The Dark Lord prompted, displeasure and irritation clear in his voice. His oppressive magic flooded the room—draping over Draco’s shoulder like a heavy, well-fitted coat. A rising sense of fear made his blood slow and thick. 

Theo stood stock still—terror rendering him mute. There was a flash of red light, followed by a sharp yelp of pain. Draco’s eyes went wide, gaze zeroing in on the new, thin, bleeding cut on Theo’s thigh. He swallowed thickly. That was the severing charm.

“How about you, Vincent?” He canted his head, the gesture eerily animalistic, and stared at Crabbe, whose gaze was glued to the floor. The Dark Lord clicked his tongue, face tightening with disapproval. “No? How disappointing.” He turned to Goyle, regarding him with a bored, indifferent expression. “And what of you, Gregory?” Goyle jerkily shook his head. 

There was an indignant screech. “How dare you refuse such an honour! The Dark Lord himself has-”

“Bella.” The room stilled at the silkily dangerous edge curling around the word. The room stewed in a tense silence for a long moment, which was broken when the Dark Lord abruptly spun on his heel, black robes swishing around his ankles. Draco instinctively averted his eyes, staring down at his polished dress shoes, heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. 

The Dark Lord’s footsteps were near-silent as he crossed the room. Dark robes and bare feet entered his vision, and Draco fought down the bubble of hysterical, unhinged laughter that rose in his throat.

“Look at me.” His voice was soft, quiet—but it was undeniably a command, one he’d be foolish to disobey. He swallowed jaggedly, like he had glass stuck in his throat. He slowly, reluctantly, dragged his gaze upwards, keeping his grey eyes blank and as expressionless as the windows of an abandoned house. His gaze lingered on His not-nose, refusing to drift higher—not wanting to make the colossal mistake of meeting His gaze again. “What say you, Draco? Will you succeed where your housemates have failed?”

Housemates—not friends. Perceptive. The manipulation was so blatant, so obvious that Draco wanted to refuse just to be contrary. Fortunately, he had rather strong self-preservations instincts, and held his tongue.

This wasn’t anything new; Draco had tortured before at Aunt Bella’s behest. This would, however, be his first time doing so before an audience. Aunt Bella conducted their ‘sessions’ in private, or with one of the Lestrange brothers present—never before his parents, never before the Dark Lord. 

He glanced down at the Muggle on the floor, her naked skin littered with marks from stinging hexes, and various other curses. He bit back his disgust, swallowing down his self-hatred for what he was about to do. He couldn’t fail here; they had to think he was loyal. He refused to live as he had before—with the snickers, mocking jeers, disgusted sneers, and constant torment. 

He could do this. 

Draco inclined his head in silent agreement—not trusting himself to speak, knowing it would betray his nerves, his nausea. A truly evil smile lit His gaunt face, sending shivers of pure terror down Draco’s spine. The Dark Lord beckoned him forward with a single, elegant wave of his hand. Draco took several stiff steps until he stood over the Muggle, his head filled with white noise, ears buzzing with static.

He withdrew his wand, mind racing. Draco had never cast Crucio—and he was not about to try it for the first time here. But he knew a plethora of dark spells—and any one of them would do. He could taste tears burning in the back of his throat. Fuck. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He licked at it, copper filling his mouth, coating his tongue. He swallowed his disgust, forcing his hands to remain steady. He could not show weakness. 

He choked down bitter-tasting bile, raised his wand, and cast.

 

Chapter 21

Notes:

guess who has covid lmao fuck my life
this chapter might be a complete and utter mess because I’m kind of fucking out of it lol, and it's also 6:30am and I have yet to sleep but here you go~
also, I have like seven (not an exaggeration, I literally have that many) fics I wanna write, but I don’t have the goddamn time. ugh. real life sucks.

Chapter Text

He could have cast Sectumsempra.

Perhaps, he would have been praised for his brutality, but the Dark Lord wanted a show, wanted to be entertained. Sectumsempra was violent, bloody and painful—he would know, courtesy of fucking Potter—but it would be over too quick. If Draco wanted to please the Death Eaters, please Him, then he needed to draw this out—hence why he’d chosen this particular spell.

The curse caused an illusion of one being burnt alive, of skin bubbling and blistering, of flesh sloughing off in strips, of unfathomable, all-consuming pain.

The resulting scream she let out was blood-curling. Her agony was so achingly tangible that Draco felt an icy shiver curl through him, tearing through his insides like a sharp shard of glass. The Muggle screamed with her whole body—her eyes were wide with horror, mouth gaping open, her chalky, gaunt face etched in sheer terror. 

Draco’s fists clenched, knuckles blanching. His nails dug into the palm of his hand, drawing prickles of blood. 

He ached to cut the connection, to stop the spell—but he doubted it would be well-received. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, expression forcefully blank. 

He could do this. 

He jerked in surprise when a hand settled on his shoulder, bony fingers digging in. He stilled, immediately ending the spell. The Muggle’s shrill screams tampered off, her shrieks of pain reduced to soft cries and whimpers as she spasmed on the floor. He felt ill. 

“Well done, Draco,” the Dark Lord whispered in his ear, voice like silken velvet. Draco glanced over his shoulder, gaze resting on the deeply pleased, satisfied smile curling at His lips. He swallowed around the lump in the hollow of his throat, unable to shift his gaze, to look elsewhere—not wanting to see the others’ reactions, especially his parent’s.

The astonished silence lasted for a mere second, though it felt like an age, before Aunt Bella’s shriek of laughter sliced through it. The Dark Lord released his shoulder, taking a step back when she bounded up to him, expression positively gleeful, proud. His stomach twisted into nauseous, writhing knots. Aunt Bella encased him in a hug, jostling him about in her arms as she cooed low praises in his ear. 

He stared resolutely over her shoulder, rigid and stiff, gaze finding the Dark Lord again. He was still looking at Draco, expression undeniably smug, like a cat who caught the canary. 

The Dark Lord’s approval was the sweetest poison he’d ever tasted.


Draco blinked blearily, eyes tracing the obscure patterns the light from the window made on the dark ceiling, his expression blank and hollow, the recent letters from Fleur and Gabrielle scattered beside him on the bed covers. They’d contained glimpses into a normal life—one separate from the war, one so unaffected by the Dark Lord’s influence that it made him ache with want. 

Even Christmas morning, a time which was usually a joyous occasion, had been tainted by Him. The sickening miasma of Dark Magic had only seemed to worsen, and more guests arrived at the Manor each day. He had taken no enjoyment in opening his presents—not when Narcissa’s smile was strained and Lucius looked haggard. 

He was especially dreading Christmas lunch—a family occasion, which now unfortunately included the Lestranges. 

Draco exhaled, sighing deeply, as he pushed himself off the bed. He stashed Fleur and Gabrielle’s latest letters in his desk draw alongside their previous ones. He paused, gaze lingering on the shrunken warded box that contained the mysterious, ominous locket, before quickly dismissing it. He had bigger issues.

He stood before the mirror, smoothing down the wrinkles in his gorgeous dark-green robes, and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, attempting and failing to neaten it. The Black genes ensured that he had incredibly thick hair that was difficult to tame, and it was only his Malfoy inheritance that prevented it from curling as Aunt Bella, Narcissa, and Sirius’ had. Draco had cast a glamour charm over his dark, under-eye circles, but it did nothing to hide the perpetual tiredness reflected in his grey eyes.

He entered the dining hall and—what the fuck. He froze, blood running cold, ice sliding down his spine. The Dark Lord was there, reclining leisurely at the head of the table—in Lucius’ seat. This was new. And entirely unwelcome. Every inch of him went into panic, and if he’d been any less shocked or numb, he would have whimpered in despair. 

“Draco.” Lucius’ stern voice sliced through his panic like a knife. He swallowing audibly, throat clicking as all their gazes turned to him. Being under that flaying attention was unbearable. He studiously ignored them in favour of meeting his father’s icy-blue gaze. Lucius let his alarm slip, the turbulent emotion seeping into his eyes only for a fraction of a second—before he clamped it down. Draco took in the tense line of Lucius’ shoulders, and the stiffness with which Narcissa held herself. 

Ah. The Dark Lord had invited himself. 

Aunt Bella, at least, looked utterly thrilled. She was seated to His direct left, leaning towards him—like a moth drawn to a flame. Aunt Bella stared at him, her longing and devotion palpable. Bile burnt the back of Draco’s throat. 

Draco inclined his head in greeting, not trusting himself to speak, nor confident in who to address first—his father, or the Dark Lord. He moved to sit, posture stiff and tense, all too aware of the eyes burning into him. He sat, slowly and carefully, eyeing the feast laid before him. It was extravagant, exquisite, excessive—but Draco’s appetite had vanished. Not even his treasured marinated lobster could rekindle it. 

He forced himself to swallow morsels of each dish, the food tasting like ash in his mouth. The small-talk was stiff and insincere, riddled with Aunt Bella’s raucous, breathy, imploring comments that never failed to make his skin crawl. Draco kept his gaze on his plate, twitching whenever he felt His gaze fall on him. There was no sensation comparable to the Dark Lord’s full, unrestrained attention. It made Draco want to throw himself off of the Astronomy Tower. 

Draco stabbed a fork into his tiramisu, ears perking when the conversation switched to business. 

“The arrangements for tonight have been finalised?” The Dark Lord’s voice was soft, cold, inhuman. 

“Yes, My Lord.” Draco clenched his jaw at Lucius’ submissive, reverent tone. “The Portkey to Rowle Manor is ready.”

“Excellent,” his voice was a sibilant hiss. “Bella.”

“My Lord?” Aunt Bella whispered, her voice filled with a manic, obsessive affection that had Draco swallowing hard.

“See that everyone is prepared to move.” The ‘or else’ went unspoken, but was loud and clear. Draco flicked his eyes up, watching Aunt Bella nod vigorously. He worried for her neck. 

He relaxed inwardly, secure in the knowledge that the Dark Lord would not be at the annual Malfoy Yule Ball tonight. He was far too recognisable a figure, and had yet to officially announce His return. In the Before, Draco had been deeply amused, watching as the pretentious Ministry assholes pretended that He wasn’t back, deluding themselves into believing that the wizarding world wasn’t on the precipice of another bloody war. 

Draco understood the importance of this year’s Yule Ball. The Malfoys, despite Lucius’ claims of ‘innocence,’ were viewed in a suspicious light by many, especially amongst those who were in the Order in the First War. Draco had seen the guest list—and there was a significant increase in Light-side Ministry officials attending this year. It was so obvious that they were here to ‘check’ on them, to find signs of suspicious, Dark activity. 

Therefore, the Death Eaters were moving to the less opulent, smaller, less protected Rowle Manor for the night.

But how they were planning to mask the miasma of Dark Magic permeating every inch of Malfoy Manor, he didn’t know. It wasn’t his problem. The Dark Lord, for all that he was insane, was still a genius. He would have a solution. 


The Manor felt lighter, freer without the oppressive presence of the Dark Lord and His followers. He wasn’t alone in thinking so, either. Lucius and Narcissa looked brighter, more relaxed, the seemingly permanent tension seeping from their shoulders, the strain in their smiles diminishing. 

Draco shook off all and any lingering thoughts of the Dark Lord. He had a part to play tonight; the perfect Malfoy Heir. He scrutinised his reflection, chewing on his bottom lip, fiddling with his soft strands of hair. He selected a deep, Slytherin green ribbon, and loosely tied his hair into a low ponytail, leaving out several strands to frame his face.

His cashmere blazer was a beautiful dark green, perfectly tailored to accentuate his lean figure. His silken dress shirt was black, as were his vest and trousers. It was simple, yet elegant. He completed the look by adorning the cufflinks his mother had gifted him last Yule.

Draco cast a Tempus. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, nerves fluttering anxiously. It was time.

He stalked through the empty hallways, unsurprised to discover that whatever voodoo the Dark Lord had cooked up to mask the potent stench of Dark Magic was successful. Oh, how Draco envied His power.

The closer he got to the ballroom, the worse he felt. There was a nauseous swirling in his gut, something hot and writhing that he refused to acknowledge as panic. He swallowed down the bitter tang of bile, fingers flexing restlessly at his sides. 

He could do this. 

It was such a pretty lie—one that Draco told himself far too often. Maybe if he repeated it enough, he’d eventually believe it. 

The ballroom was able to accommodate several hundred people, and by the time Draco makes his entrance, it was filled to three-quarters capacity. The walls were painted a soft beige, and were decorated with sumptuous tapestries that had delicately stencilled designs embroidered on them, along with wrought-iron pieces, pillar candles and intricately carved sconces. The matching trefoil accented windows were adorned with heavy, velvet curtains of the purest gold. The chandeliers hung from the ceiling rafters like an ornamented corpse of a spider. It dripped with finely cut diamonds that glimmered gold, reflecting spears of sunlight onto the marbled floor.

It was breathtaking. Not that he’d expected anything less. 

Soft, lilting classical music and meaningless chatter filled his ears as he wandered further, searching for a glimpse of his parents. He slid on his arrogant, entitled mask, and turned his nose up, deterring his guests from engaging him in conversation. He found his parents at the centre of a large, clamouring crowd, easily holding court. Narcissa and Lucius looked regal, proud, comfortable. His heart swelled at the sight.

“Draco!” 

He blinked, turned around slowly, and found himself with an armful of Pansy. He exhaled, muscles relaxing as he sunk into her embrace, burrowing his nose in her hair. 

“Are you okay?” She murmured into the hollow of his throat. He swallowed thickly. Was he? Draco must have hesitated for a moment too long, because she pulled back, her dark eyes sharp and scrutinising. “You look tired.”

His pure-blood mask wobbled and cracked, sad exhaustion peeking through. “Just a little.” Pansy frowned, her eyes shining with concern. Draco twitched. He hated burdening her like this, hated that he put that expression on her face.

“What’s up with them?” He startled, turning to glare at Blaise, whose gaze was focused on something behind Draco. He followed Blaise’s line of sight, glancing over his shoulder at—oh. 

“Their last visit here was rather unpleasant,” Draco said amicably, lips pursed at the nervous, restless states of Crabbe, Goyle, and Theo. ‘Unpleasant’ was a generous understatement. ‘Mildly horrific and definitely traumatising’ was better suited. 

“I’m sure,” Blaise side-eyed him.

“Theo’s glaring at you,” Pansy hissed under her breath. He blinked, glancing back over to—yes, he was staring. Very blatantly, in fact. 

“I best go see what he wants, lest he cause a scene.” Draco wouldn’t put it past Theo, nor blame him—being in the Manor after that would make a lesser man lash out. He met those dark, slightly wild eyes, subtly angling his head towards the open double doors. Theo’s eyes narrowed, and Draco turned and left without waiting for a response, knowing that he would follow. 

He waited at the end of an empty corridor, slim fingers fiddling listlessly with his cufflinks. The sound of heavy, agitated footsteps reached his ears, and he sighed, resigning himself to an unpleasant discussion. Theo rounded the corner, his expression thunderous. Here we go. 

“Theo,” he greeted, his smile bland and empty. He was, unsurprisingly, ignored. He watched, mildly amused, as Theo stalked closer, crowding him against the wall, face set in a nasty scowl. His back hit the wall, and a hand slammed into the space beside his head, the sound reverberating throughout the empty corridor. 

“You have some nerve, Draco,” Theo sneered. 

“Pray tell, what have I done to offend you so?” It was an honest question. Yet, it made Theo’s expression twist. 

“You didn’t think to warn us?” Oh. Oh.

“I tried,” Draco hissed, straightening his spine, grey eyes flashing. “I told you, multiple times, that this wasn’t going to go how you imagined. It was you who arrogantly discarded my warning, more concerned with the supposed glory-” 

“‘Supposed?’” His dark eyes flashed with an emotion akin to hatred. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? Considering that you were the one who got everything. All the recognition. All the glory-” 

Draco got all the what now? But wait—“You still want to follow Him. Even after that?"

“You’re still trying to dissuade me? Salazar. If you wanted all the attention for yourself, you could have just said so.” 

So. Theo had gone insane. And completely misinterpreted everything. Like, really badly. It would be amusing, if it wasn’t so horrifying.

“I’m trying to protect you, you complete and utter idiot,” he snapped, knowing how futile this argument was. Theo had undoubtedly been subjected to his father’s zealous rhetoric since birth, just as Draco had. Except Lord Nott, despite his lower ranking amongst the Death Eaters, was far more fanatical, far more devoted than Lucius had ever been. It made the task of discouraging Theo all the more impossible. But it couldn’t hurt to try. Personal dislike aside, he wouldn’t wish Before-Draco’s fate on anyone. 

“I don’t need your protection,” Theo hissed, acidic and scathing. Draco went dead still, ice trickling down his spine.

(“I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco-”

“Looks like you’ll have to break it, then, because I don’t need your protection! It’s my job, he gave it to me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to work, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!”)

Draco was unsure as to what kind of expression crossed his face, but it made Theo freeze. His face twisted, then shuttered, going utterly blank. His dark eyes stared into Draco’s silver, searching for something. He must have found it, because in one fluid movement, Theo stepped back, expression turning shadowed and uncertain. 

“It’ll make my father proud,” he whispered, as though it were a terrible, shameful secret.  

Oh no. Oh nononono—

“Theo,” he loathed the way his voice cracked. Theo’s face twitched. “It’s not worth it.”

“‘Not worth it?’” He echoed, incredulous laughter bubbling up his throat. “My father isn’t worth it?”

Okay. So. Draco could have possibly worded it better. But pleasing pure-blood patriarchs was an impossible feat. No matter what Theo did, it would never be enough. Draco would know. His efforts to please Lucius had got him sent to fucking Azkaban. “He’s certainly not worth destroying yourself over.” 

“What do you know?” More than you. “You already have the Dark Lord’s favour-”

Draco’s brain screeched to a halt. “I have what now?” 

“Don’t play daft,” Theo snapped, irritation—sweet and deadly—flashing through his dark eyes. “I saw how they all looked at you. The Dark Lord, Bellatrix, Barty Crouch Jr-”

“Theo,” he interrupted shakily. Draco didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that he’d actually gained His attention, His approval. Those who earned His favour were given the Dark Mark. Draco’s sanity wouldn’t survive being fucking marked a second time—

“Draco,” Theo mimicked, his mocking drawl slicing through Draco’s spiralling thoughts. He blinked, slowly, staring despairingly into Theo’s hard and unforgiving gaze. There would be no convincing him, he realised, numb with dread. Not yet, at least. “Where did you learn that spell?”

Spell? Oh. That spell. “I found it in a book.” Actually, Aunt Bella taught me in an alternate timeline.

Theo’s expression warped. Ugh. Jealousy was such an ugly emotion. He would know. Draco had let it consume him for the majority of the Before. Theo growled, lips curled into a snarl, mouth parting to retort, only to freeze at the sound of footsteps. Draco stared over Theo’s shoulder, watching, darkly amused, as the intruder flinched. 

What a shock, he mused sarcastically. A Light-side Ministry official. Snooping. 

“What’s this?” Draco drawled, stepping forward, relishing in the sheer panic that flashed over the man’s face. Good, he thought viciously, be alarmed, be scared.

Theo stood beside him, easily rearranging his features into his own pure-blood mask, arrogance settling over him like a well-worn coat. You’d never guess he’d been growling and snarling at Draco moments prior. Salazar, how Draco loved Slytherins. Draco didn’t recognise the man, but Theo evidently did, for his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Amos Diggory.” 

Draco twitched. Oh, shitshit—

At the sound of his name, Amos Diggory jerked as if he’d had a live wire pressed to his spine, guilt written into every inch of his body. 

“What are you doing here?” Theo’s voice was calculatedly cool.

 “I’m just, ah, admiring the Manor. It truly is spectacular.” Yeah, how about no. Draco truly understood Diggory’s motivations, but the direct violation of his parents’ rules irked him. 

Draco’s patented plastic smile slid over his features, freezing the muscles into an illusion of charm.

“Oh? I don’t recall this section of the Manor being open for viewing,” Draco took several, slow steps forward. Diggory’s face flinched. Got you. “I may be wrong, though. I should confer with father, just to be certain. I wouldn’t want to risk offending our other guests by mistaking their intentions and casting false accusations, surely you understand.”

“Yes,” Diggory straightened, nodding his agreement, “I can see how that would be bad-”

“Of course you can,” Draco continued to smile like his face was drawn on. “You wouldn’t mind accompanying me, then? To relay your compliments.” 

“Ah,” he faltered, eyes darting about erratically, betraying his nerves. “I wouldn’t dare interrupt Lord Malfoy-”

“Nonsense,” he steamrolled over Diggory’s pitiful attempts to crawl out of the hole he’d dug himself in, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Father will be delighted to hear of your admiration. Wouldn’t you agree, Theodore?”

Theo smirked. “Oh, absolutely.”

Diggory twitched, fingers spasming at his sides. “Uh, I-” 

“Amos!” Diggory went limp with relief, and Draco’s head snapped to the side, lips curling in a wordless snarl at the sight of John fucking Dawlish; the terribly rude Auror who’d transported him to Azkaban. “Sorry about him, boys. He must have gotten lost.” ‘Boys.’ How demeaning. He saw Theo bristle at the address. 

“Yes, yes. Terribly lost,” Diggory agreed, spluttering, as Dawlish hauled him hurriedly back towards the ballroom. 

Draco let out a shuddering exhale, shoulders sagging as the pair disappeared from sight. He glanced at Theo, whose face had fallen back into something quietly and dangerously seething, dark eyes narrowed in anger. 

His stomach twisted uneasily. “Theo-”

“Drop it,” he snapped harshly, storming off.

He collapsed against the wall, tears of frustration pricking at his eyes. Fuck. 

 

Chapter 22

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Barty stared at him, blue eyes narrowed into slits. “The Cruciatus Curse is all about emotion. Ya need to mean it, have to possess a deep desire to cause pain, to take pleasure in your victim’s suffering.” 

“Malicious intent,” he murmured, heart plummeting through his stomach.

“Exactly,” Barty’s grin was all teeth. “So, I’m not surprised ya can’t cast it, kid.” Draco jerked his head towards him, startled. “You just don’t have enough hate.” Barty shrugged carelessly. “It ain’t a bad thing, but since the Dark Lord expects you to master it…” 

Draco grimaced. Yes. That could be a big problem.

Barty stared at him for a long moment. Then, “Is there anything, or anyone, that ya truly, truly hate?”

(Narcissa, her body broken and limp, discarded on the marbled floor, the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood, Draco, restrained by his father, thrashing and screaming for that beast to stop—)

Something must have shown on his face because Barty grinned, wide and savage, blue eyes gleaming.

“Right, then. Think of that every time ya cast,” he instructed. “It’s hard to muster up that level of hatred from nowhere. I mean, well, I have no issue, nor do most of the Death Eaters, but you,” he shrugged, making a vague gesture in Draco’s direction, frowning contemplatively. 

He swallowed, thick and heavy. Barty’s words didn’t hint at a double meaning, and there were no alluding undertones, no sign of doubt or wariness regarding his true allegiances. Barty had no reason to be suspicious of Draco, and if he was, Barty would Crucio first, ask questions later. And seeing as he wasn’t a broken, crippled mess of insurmountable pain and twitching limbs writhing on the floor, Barty’s remark was truly harmless—just an offhanded observation. It was still surprising to him, who had only ever heard mocking remarks and cruel jeers from the Death Eaters, to have words directed at him that weren’t dripping in condescension. 

He forced himself to relax, to let the tension bleed from his shoulders, muscles uncoiling and loosening. His fingers flexed, tightening his grip on his wand. In the Before, he’d never succeeded in casting a Crucio. He’d been petty, jealous, cowardly, resentful and spiteful, but Draco Malfoy had never been hateful.

But, that was before he’d lost Narcissa. Draco stared at the spider—which Barty had insisted upon due to some kind of fucked up nostalgia from their first lesson. He did loathe Greyback. Deeply. But Draco’s resolve was a weak, fragile thing. He doubted his ‘hatred’ would power a Cruciatus. Well. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. This attempt couldn’t possibly be more embarrassing or pitiful than all his previous ones. 

This was his last resort; if Greyback failed to fuel his Cruciatus, then nothing would. He exhaled deeply, and focused.

(The looming, intimidating figure of Greyback, straddling his mother’s corpse, bloody crimson dripping from his canines, a hungry sneer twisting his brutish features, bite-marks littered across her shoulders, down her arms, her once beautiful grey eyes now dulled and glassy, her mouth forever open in a silent scream—)

Draco’s ears buzzed, as though a swarm of angry bees had taken up residence inside his head. The sudden, fresh surge of anger and sorrow—deep and throbbing—swept through him like a wave, making his stomach swoop and his head spin. Grief—as pure and concentrated as acid—burned in his throat like unshed tears. 

Had Draco ever allowed himself to mourn? To let himself drown in the burning rage that simmered beneath his skin?

Anger, bubbling and stewing inside him, blazed white-hot, voice curdled into a weary hatred as he hissed, “Crucio.”

His breath hitched. The fury in his stomach twisting, mingling with the power of the curse. His fingertips burned, but his hands were cold as magic shot through him, pure and undiluted and dark. It was similar to the Imperius, yet so different; headier, inebriating, intoxicating. 

Dark Magic felt like a drug—addictive and blissful—to those with an innate dark core like Draco, who was the combination of two dark pure-blood lineages; Black and Malfoy

The spider released a pained squeal, limbs twitching and spasming under the power of Draco’s Cruciatus. 

In a small, shadowed corner of his mind, there was a tiny voice screaming stopstopstop, but it was drowned out, washed away by the ripples of Dark Magic coursing through his veins, sweeping him up in a torrent of euphoria.

Barty tipped his head back and laughed—gleefully, unrestrained, and full of delight. Draco tore his gaze away from the spider, meeting a pair of electric, manic blue eyes with a matching wild grin, high and drunk off the power of an Unforgivable. 


Draco browsed the Manor’s library, eyes flickering across the titles inked into the spines. The light from the Lumos licked across his face and crawled up the shadowed shelves, washing the books in an orange glow.

It was well past midnight, and he had taken advantage of the late hour to peruse the library whilst it was empty, when their guests were finally asleep. The Malfoy library, whilst not as dark in content as the Black family library, was far more vast and varied. Draco—despite wishing to shove the entire situation into a metal box, lock it up, drop it in the ocean and forget about it—finally decided to research the bloody mirror.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t even know what he was looking for exactly. He ran his fingers along the spines until he reached one that looked faintly relevant. He withdrew the book with a sigh, muttered a quiet “Nox,” and slunk back to the plush velvet sofas in the centre of the room. He slid onto the upholstered sofa, revelling as the flames, which curled and crackled cheerfully in the carved-oak fireplace, casted warmth and light across the room, enlivening the otherwise dark ambience. 

He moved to open the book, only to freeze, icy dread slinking down his spine, at the sight of fucking Nagini coiled up on the fur rug in front of the fireplace.

“Fuck,” he blurted out, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood when Nagini’s head lifted, twisting to stare unerringly at him. Nagini flicked her tongue, tasting the air, before letting out a long, low hiss. The fine hairs on the back of Draco’s neck rose, uneasiness filling his lungs like water.

For a short moment, silence draped itself around Draco like a blanket, smothering the room—only to be shattered by a responding hiss. Dread scraped against his dry throat, raw fear unfurling in his chest. He slowly raised his head, an icy spiral of ingrained terror twisting in his gust, as his wild eyes found Him. 

In the flickering firelight, with his hollowed face plunged in shadow, the Dark Lord looked like a skeleton wrapped in sentient shadow—like He was part of them, and they a part of Him. He looked like a living nightmare, a terrible mistake whose mere existence defied human nature—like someone who shouldn’t exist, yet here he sat, in a velvet armchair with his robes pooled like a puddle of shadows at his feet.

He swallowed audibly, throat clicking, hysteria welling up in his lungs. Of course the Dark Lord was here. 

Draco hesitantly, tentatively pushed himself off the sofa, making to get the fuck out, when the Dark Lord’s cold, sibilant voice sliced through the silence, “Sit.” 

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, and slowly lowered himself back onto the velvet upholstery, fingers clenching on the book so hard the edges dug into his palm. Draco tightened his Occlumency shields, exhaling sharply through gritted teeth.

“What brings you here, Draco?” Salazar. He loathed how the Dark Lord spoke his name; slow, drawn-out, with a mocking edge to it—like he knew something Draco did not, and took great amusement in the fact. If it had been a month prior, that would have been the case, but now Draco was in on the joke, too—only, he didn’t find it half as amusing as the Dark Lord evidently did. He was still struggling to reconcile mirror-Tom with this serpentine creature.

“I was researching, My Lord,” the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. He was no ‘Lord’ of Draco’s.

The Dark Lord’s mouth curled into a mirthless smirk, as though he knew that his ‘My Lord’ was insincere. “This late?” 

He swallowed hard, nausea swirling at the bottom of his stomach. “It's quiet at this hour.” Or, at least it was supposed to be. Then, remembering his manners, “I apologise for intruding.” The word sat heavy on his tongue; intruding. Like this wasn’t Draco’s house. Like it wasn’t his family library. 

The Dark Lord hummed noncommittally. It was an unnatural sound, and Draco’s nerves shorted out, unease prickling at his skin. “And this research of yours,” He said, something slow in his voice, like He was thinking, “is it for school?”

The question made his pulse speed, heart racking against his ribs. “No,” he licked his lips, apprehension pulled uncomfortably in his gut, threatening to climb up his chest and spill over. “It’s for private study.”

“I see.” Draco was aware of the Dark Lord’s eyes on him, of the way he was watching his every move. “And the topic would be?” 

Anxiety wrapped around his heart like a vice, tightening further when the Dark Lord drummed skeletal, impatient fingers on the armrest. Draco swallowed, watching His face carefully, quietly, burning with an intensity he wasn’t aware he possessed. “A mirror.”

It was because Draco was looking so closely that he caught the upward twitch of His lips before they flattened, the slight shift in His expression before it went utterly blank. He knew. Oh, the Dark Lord definitely knew. Well, fuck. “A mirror you say?” There was a dark caress of amusement curling around the word. “Care to clarify?” Draco twitched irritably. He was fucking with him. The Dark Lord knew that Draco knew that He knew. “You’ll find that I am rather knowledgeable in most matters, including magical artefacts.”

He ground his teeth in agitation. The Dark Lord was drawing this out for his own sick, twisted amusement. They were both aware as to which mirror Draco was referring to, and yet, He was going to have him describe it. How humiliating. “There was an inscription carved around the top.”

“Was there now?” The Dark Lord said slowly, voice low and still atone, the corner of His mouth twisted in sharp, vile amusement. 

Draco was torn between terror and irritation, between wanting to scream and cry. “Yes, My Lord.”

“And this inscription,” His voice was crooning, darkly saccharine, “what did it say?”

He breathed out shakily, trembling fingers reaching into his trouser pocket, wrapping around a folded piece of parchment with the words ‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi’ scrawled on it. He paused, unsure as to whether he should get up and hand deliver it to Him—only to freeze as the Dark Lord wandlessly and wordlessly levitated the parchment off his hand and towards Himself.

The Dark Lord made an exaggerated show of unfolding and reading the parchment, like he didn’t already know what it said. The git. Draco may be a Slytherin to his core, and whilst he enjoyed subtle politics and manipulations, these exhausting mind games made him want to pull a Gryffindor and set fire to the entire bloody library just to escape Him.

“The artefact in question is the Mirror of Erised.” Draco had never heard of it, and the cruel, taunting baring of His teeth had Draco’s chest pounding, each breath winding him so taut he could snap and break and shatter at any second. He paused for a long moment. Then, “It shows one their heart’s greatest desire.”

Draco felt as though all the air had been punched out of his lungs. His heart hit a double beat, blood pulsing rapidly through his veins, stomach churning. It shows what now? His shock, his horror, his complete and utter bafflement must have shown on his face, for the Dark Lord chuckled, derisive and unkind, the sound echoing throughout the empty room. 

He felt his expression shutter, going blank and unreadable, a rippling flame of nausea coiling in his gut. The baby Dark Lord was his greatest desire? Wait. Then, did that make Draco the baby Dark Lord’s greatest desire? He pressed his lips together, chewed his cheek, then pursed his mouth. No. That couldn’t possibly be it. He was missing something.

He blinked, slowly, like a cat. He slid his teeth across his bottom lip, feeling the sharp drag against chapped skin. Unless it wasn’t Draco himself, but what Draco symbolised. Mirror-Tom had made multiple resentful, envious, antagonistic remarks regarding his… well, everything. He could understand why; if the baby Dark Lord was a half-blood in Slytherin, then he’d have faced severe discrimination, especially back then.

Draco was born a wealthy pure-blood scion of wizarding Britains’ two most important families. He had no need to constantly prove himself to the other Slytherins in order to be accepted and treated as a prince amongst them. Draco had credentials, respect, connections, prestige, wealth, political power and influence, and a guaranteed place in the upper echelons of wizarding society. He had access to a wealth of knowledge, and had been tutored in genealogy, traditions and rituals, languages and calligraphy, Quidditch, wizarding history and law, pure-blood etiquette since birth. He knew it was the absence of these lessons that marked the difference between pure-bloods and the Muggle-raised witches and wizards that attended Hogwarts.

He imagined a baby, new-to-the-wizarding-world mirror-Tom, with his Muggle-name and—judging by his derisive remarks regarding Draco’s wealth—second-hand robes, sorted into Slytherin, back when prejudice occurred without reprimand. He inwardly winced, picturing all the potentials social blunders made due to the sheer ignorance associated with a Muggle upbringing—which Draco assumed he had due to his near-squib mother and Muggle, or Muggleborn father. 

Draco Malfoy had everything a young, politically ambitious, power-hungry, future and upcoming Dark Lord could possibly desire just by existing. 

And, then there was the matter of Draco’s desire. He knew, almost instantly, what it was—and it was terribly shameful just how quickly he answer came to him. It wasn’t a secret that a small, dark, twisted part of him admired the Dark Lord. His status as a half-blood bastard and insanity aside, the Dark Lord was everything Draco wanted to be; genius-level intellect, a master manipulator, highly charismatic, precociously gifted magical prodigy, frighteningly exceptional prowess in Legilimency, a consummate actor, possessing an incredibly deep amount of knowledge and understanding of magic, unbelievably talented and phenomenal practitioner in the Dark Arts at all levels, a duellist of immense, nearly unparalleled skill, capable of inventing his own magical spells, and accomplished at both wandless and nonverbal magic.

Draco was unaware to what extent mirror-Tom possessed the future Dark Lord’s qualities, but it was evidently enough for him to appear in the Mirror of Erised. His pulse started thumping oddly in his ears, a dull ringing echoing in the back of his skull. The newly acquired knowledge of his heart’s deepest desire made him ill. 

It wasn’t surprising; Draco had always loved attention and worship, positioning himself above others, flaunting his own shallow importance, grasping at everything he could possibly hold above others, and then mocking, belittling them for their inability to reach his level.

He was overcome with sudden exhaustion, wrung dry of all emotion. Salazar, how he ached to be in bed, to fall asleep so he no longer had to dwell on the clusterfuck that was his life—

“Bartemius spoke of your success at the Cruciatus.” Draco jolted, face twitching as His cold and smooth voice pierced through his inner musings. 

His gaze lingered on the Dark Lord’s not-nose. “Yes, My Lord.” He grimaced inwardly, shamefully recalling just how easily he got swept away by the intoxicating trance of Dark Magic. 

“You will learn the Killing Curse next,” He said, a strange, cryptic smirk tugging at his lips. “It will be of great use to our cause.”

Our cause. He spoke as though Draco were already a Death Eater. His stomach roiled with protest at the idea of killing an individual in the name of ‘blood purity.’ He may despise Muggles, fear them even, but he couldn’t take a life, even one as insignificant as something like a Muggle. 


Draco absently tapped his fingernail against the armrest of his chair, idly observing the bustling drawing room. 

He’d been pressured by Lucius into spending time with their guests before he returned to Hogwarts tomorrow. So, here he sat, disgruntled and irritated, in a room full of mingling Death Eaters—the Dark Lord’s absence being his only reprieve. Aunt Bella’s unmistakable cackle rung out across the room, and Draco’s grip on the armrest tightened, his fingernails digging into the dark, blood-red plush upholstery.

The door abruptly flung open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous bang. Draco flinched, jumping out of his skin, wand drawn and pointed at the door. His breath was uneven, heart pounding in his ears. He swallowed thickly. 

It was just Barty—a bloodied, gaunt, wild, unhinged Barty.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Dolohov demanded, amusement lacing his tone. Barty sagged against the door frame, blood dripping onto the hardwood floor, a teasing, lopsided grin on his injured face.  

“Aren’t you supposed to be on ‘Moody’ duty?” Rabastan snorted, lips quirked. Draco blinked, squinting, and yes—through the smears of crimson he could faintly see Moody’s typical attire.

“Not anymore,” Barty cackled, then grimaced, hand going to the long laceration on his bloodied torso. The lack of concern shown for Barty’s injuried state was truly a thing to behold. There was no lost love between the Death Eaters, and it was oddly comforting. Draco would feel incredibly uncomfortable if they all fretted and worried over each other.

“You got caught?”

Barty grunted. “Fucking forgot to refill my damned flask of Polyjuice,” he spat out a glob of blood. “Bloody transformed right in the middle of a fucking Order meeting. Barely got out in one piece.”

The room broke out into jeers and snickers. Barty merely flipped them off, baring blood-stained teeth in a mad grin before turning and disappearing down the hallway. 

 

Notes:

let it be known that I struggle so fucking hard with writing dialogue, so if its trash, then I'm so sorry

Chapter 23

Notes:

hi everyone~ if you see the chapter numbers decreasing over the next week or so, its because I'm editing/merging my earlier chapters so dw!

thank you all so much for continuing to read this ❤︎❤︎

Chapter Text

Barty, unsurprisingly, did not make an appearance after his exit from the drawing room. Draco assumed that the Dark Lord wasn’t at all pleased with his failure, and that Barty was currently isolated, recovering from his punishment. He had no time to dwell on it, however, as the following morning was a whirlwind of goodbyes as Narcissa rushed to get Draco to platform Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on time. Though, this time, Narcissa was the one to prolong their good-bye, visibly reluctant to return to the Manor and its tenants. 

It was jarring, how easily everything settled back into normalcy, as though nothing had changed, as though Draco’s world hadn’t been shattered by revelations told in the firelight a mere two days prior. The January weather was still fucking cold, Daphne, Blaise and Pansy all still sat with him on the Hogwarts Express—gossiping and recounting their Yule, and Pansy purchased too much Cauldron Cake from the trolly witch as per usual.

Potter had, other than glaring at him across the Great Hall during their first dinner back, left him alone. He assumed that Barty’s reveal had resolved a great deal of unexplained anomalies and unfortunate situations that the Order found themselves in—including the ‘goblet of fire’ incident. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the pressure that Potter was under. But Draco had not signed up to be Potter’s verbal punching bag, which is what he seemed to have been reduced to in this timeline.

Severus, on the other hand, had no qualms about confronting him. He never had. So, Draco was unsurprised when Severus summoned him to his office on the first night back. He’d been expecting this, anticipating it ever since Barty’s reveal. Draco was not idiotic enough to meet his godfather’s stare head-on—dealing with the Dark Lord had made him wary about eye-contact, especially since Severus was a talented Legilimens. He kept his gaze on the desk, specifically on the shallow stone basin engraved with runes and symbols laying in a pool of candlelight. He blinked. A Pensieve.

Severus sighed, tapping his fingers absently on the edge of his desk. “You knew.”

There was no point in denying the obvious. “I did.”

Severus’ jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening. It was evident that his godfather had questions, wanted to know why Draco kept it to himself, why he did not give Barty up to clear his own name. It wasn’t for a lack of opportunities; he'd assisted Severus with the brewing of Barty’s Polyjuice for Salazar’s sake—that would’ve been the perfect time to impart his knowledge.

But Severus could ask none of that, not lest he reveal himself to be anything but loyal to the Dark Lord. He clearly believed that Draco had aligned himself with Him, and was thus not willing to share. It hurt—but, it was for the best. His loyalties were known to none but himself, for he trusted no one but himself with his secrets, his family’s safety. 

Severus pursed his lips, expression twisting, disappointment ghosting across his face. Draco’s stomach churned with guilt, but he stood by his decision, knowing that any and all information he shared would be relayed directly to Dumbledore, and therefore the Order, which consisted of Gryffindors who wouldn’t know subtly if it smacked them in the face. If it were disclosed that the Order knew of their ‘spy’ situation, then Draco had no doubt that the leak would be attributed to him. Back then, the number of individuals aware of Barty’s task could be counted on one hand.

“I see,” Severus said coolly, expression guarded.

Draco winced. “Sev—”

He was cut off by a sharp knock. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, an unspoken apology trapped between his teeth. They sat in tense silence for a short moment. Then, Severus cleared his throat. “Come in.” 

The door opened, revealing one disgruntled looking Potter. Green automatically met grey, and they stared at each other in surprised silence for a long moment. Severus made a noise in the back of throat, and Potter was quick to break eye-contact, swallowing heavily. 

“I’m, uh,” he stole a wary glance at Draco, who kept his expression perfectly neutral, “here for… Remedial Potions.”

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes; Potter was an abysmal liar. If this was the Before, he would have poked and prodded, curious as to why two individuals who loathed each other would meet alone, but now he was just grateful for an excuse to leave. He sprung to his feet, muttered a farewell, and slipped out the door.


Umbridge's terrorisation of Hogwarts continued. 

She attended every single Divination lesson, lurking in the corner and interrupting Trelawney’s teaching with increasingly difficult questions, and demanding that she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea leaves, and the rune stones in turn. Hagrid’s lessons, if at all possible, became worse. Umbridge and her clipboard had reduced the man to a distracted, jittery mess. He refused to show them anything more frightening than a Salazar-damned crup, and constantly lost thread of what he was saying.

Theo had been unnervingly and suspiciously quiet since the Yule break, which was mildly alarming considering their last conversation. Though, Draco was just grateful that Theo’s harassment had temporarily ceased. The Professors had, what with their O.W.L.s approaching, assigned startling amounts of homework that kept Draco hauled up in the library most days. 

The rare bursts of free-time Draco that had were spent studying the Dark Magic books he’d pilfered from the Black family library. His desire to use Dark Magic, to test these new spells grew and grew, festering like an open wound. But his want was tempered by his fear of encountering the baby Dark Lord again, which kept him from seeking out the Room of Requirement, despite his wishes. 

Before he knew it, February had arrived, bringing with it wetter and warmer weather. The melting snow resulted in puddles of murky-grey slush splattered across the grounds, making the trek to and from the castle all the more hazardous. Crabbe and Goyle had, much to Draco’s amusement, comically slipped enroute to a Care of Magical Creatures class, and had spent the entire lesson shivering, wet, and scowling.

The longer Draco spent at Hogwarts, the easier it was to distance himself from the war brewing outside the castle walls. His self-imposed ignorance lasted up until February 23rd, when it was shattered into tiny, broken shards that cut him, leaving gaping wounds in their wake.  

Daphne, the only Slytherin he knew to purchase the Quibbler, shoved March’s edition under his nose. He blinked, grey eyes flitting across the headline, ‘HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN.’ 

He swallowed hard. This development would undoubtedly enrage the Dark Lord. He’d gone to great lengths to ensure that His return remained a thing of fallacy, of nightmares. The influential pure-bloods at His disposal had been tasked with persuading Fudge that Potter’s words were lies. The Dark Lord’s plans centered on moving his pieces around in the dark with the wizarding world none the wiser. This, potentially disrupted all of that. 

“Draco?” He flicked his gaze up, only to find his year-mates eyes on him. He’d been silent for too long. Draco licked his lips, opening his mouth to reply—but with what, he didn’t know—only for his voice to die out as he spotted Umbridge approaching the Gryffindor table. The others followed his gaze—Blaise openly winced, Pansy’s nose wrinkled, and Daphne heaved an exasperated sigh.

“I certainly don’t envy Potter,” Blaise murmured. Draco absently nodded in agreement, watching as Umbridge stormed off, her pale, doughy face an ugly, patchy violent, a copy of the Quibbler crumpling in her fist. 

He was completely and utterly unsurprised when, by mid-morning, Umbridge had issued a new degree, stating that any student found in possession of the Quibbler would be expelled. 


Umbridge’s attempted public dismissal of Trelawney had Draco crammed onto the marble staircase alongside Blaise, Daphne and Pansy.

“No!” Trelawney shrieked, looking utterly mad, her wand in one hand and an empty sherry bottle in the other. “No! This cannot be happening. I refuse to accept it.”

“You didn’t realise this was coming?” Draco gnashed his teeth together in irritation. Umbridge had the gall to sound callously amused. “Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrow’s weather—”

“She doesn’t have the authority, does she?” Pansy whispered shakily, anxiety blooming behind her dark eyes. 

Blaise shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You c-can’t!” Trelawney howled, tears streaming down her cheeks, her wild hair sticking up on end. “You c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home.” He averted his gaze, unable to watch. For all Draco’s prattish maliciousness, even he took no joy from this, not now, nor in the Before.

“It was your home,” Umbridge looked positively gleeful, “until an hour ago—”

“All of those in favour of killing Umbridge, say ‘I,’” Blaise muttered, tone viciously cold, under his breath. 

“I,” Daphne, Pansy and Draco murmured in unison.

“—Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are embarrassing us.” Trelawney sobbed uncontrollably, rocking backward and forward on her trunk. Umbridge stood over her, face contorted into sneer, radiating smugness.

“Mama specialises in untraceable, lethal potions,” Blaise folded his arms across his chest.

“My Aunt owns a flesh-eating Lethifold,” Daphne offered, sorrowful gaze trained on Trelawney’s distraught form.

“Mother has cursed jewellery,” Pansy suggested, expression pinched. Katie Bell’s floating form, face twisted into a silent scream, flashed behind his eyes. The bitter tang of bile crept up his throat.

Draco’s morbid, twisted mind forced the words past his unwilling lips, “We could push her off the Astronomy Tower.” 

As if summoned by his suggestion, the grand oak doors swung open, revealing Dumbledore, who strode through the circle of onlookers toward the place where Trelawney sat. 

“—I’m afraid you do not understand the position I have here.” Umbridge flourished a parchment scroll at the old coot. “This is an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic—” Draco snorted derisively. Because Fudge’s signature was worth so much.  “—I have decided that Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch. So, therefore, I have dismissed her.” 

Dumbledore smiled that infuriating, blood-boiling smile of his. “As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I am afraid,” he went on, with a courteous little bow, “that the power to do that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts.” McGonagall and Sprout guided Trelawney past an eerily still Umbridge, and up the marble stairs on the opposite end of the entrance hall. Flitwick levitated Trelawney’s trunks, scurrying after them.

“And what,” Umbridge’s whisper carried all around the hall, “are you going to do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?” 

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Dumbledore said, deceptively pleasant, still smiling benignly. “You see, I have already found us a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.” 

“You’ve found?” Umbridge cried shrilly. “Might I remind you, that under Educational Decree Twenty-two—” 

“—the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if, and only if, the headmaster is unable to find one, and on this occasion, I have succeeded.” Draco bit back a grin at Firenze’s unnecessarily dramatic entrance. In the Before, he’d been too busy drowning in his own shock to appreciate the look on Umbridge’s face, but now… “This is Firenze,” the old coot said happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him suitable.”

In the deafening silence that followed Dumbledore’s announcement, Draco’s amused cackle rang out, loud and clear.


The next Hogsmeade weekend, after Draco had exhausted his collection of Dark Magic texts from the Black library, he revisited Grimmauld Place, only, number twelve didn’t appear. 

He huffed out a frustrated breath, tipping his head back with a sigh, gaze trained on the gloomy, pale-grey March sky. Draco shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, nuzzling into his Slytherin scarf as the icy wind ruffled his hair and whipped at his face. Had Sirius—somehow—locked him out? He blew a stray, long lock of white-blonde hair out of his face. Draco was disappointed, but not surprised. He turned on his heel, about to apparate back to Hogsmeade, when a voice sounded behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Draco blinked. He turned to see Sirius, haggard and frazzled, standing in front of the grimy buildings, glancing left and right warily. Right. He was still a highly-wanted criminal—one that, according to Fudge, was apparently responsible for the recent Death Eater outbreak at Azkaban. What an idiot. Why hadn’t Dumbledore resolved that misunderstanding? He was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot for Salazar’s sake. Oh, well. It wasn’t Draco’s problem. He doubted mentioning his misgivings regarding the old coot’s many questionable decisions would be well-received, especially not by a Dumbledore-fanatic like Sirius. 

“Books,” he murmured, glancing behind Sirius. Huh. There was still no number twelve. It was though Sirius had appeared out of thin air. 

“Books—” Sirius cut himself off with an exasperated sigh, running thin hands through matted, curly black hair. It was remarkably, eerily similar to Aunt Bella’s. “You can’t be here.”

“I can’t?” Draco lowered his eyes, chest twisting, gaze dropping to his dragon-hide boots.

“The house is under Fidelius.” His head snapped up at the sound of Lupin’s voice. He stood beside Sirius, a kind, yet wary look in his amber eyes. 

Fidelius? Oh. Draco, already knowing number twelve’s exact location, could stand before it, but unless the Secret Keeper specifically informed him of its location, he could never see nor enter it. It would explain why Sirius and Lupin seemed to spawn into existence out of nowhere. 

Draco hummed noncommittally. “I gather that neither of you are the Secret Keeper.” The dual shaking of heads made him sigh, long and drawn-out. He just wanted his books.  

Lupin cleared his throat, drawing Draco’s attention back to him. “Sirius is, as you know, a wanted felon. His family house would be the first place that the Ministry would look, so we, er, took precautions.” 

It was an explanation that Draco didn’t ask for. It was that, combined with the look in their eyes, that clued him in. They were lying. Admittedly, it was a perfectly believable lie. He wouldn’t begrudge those who fell for it, who accepted it at face value. But, they were still Gryffindors, and Draco had been trained to read bloody Slytherins since birth. 

He, however, despite his curiosity, didn’t push, nor poke or prod. Sirius and Lupin were entitled to their secrets. 

“So, I take it that’s a ‘no’ to the books, then?”

Draco delighted in the way his remark thoroughly shattered the tense atmosphere. Lupin visibly relaxed—the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, and Sirius even barked a laugh. “You and your bloody books.”

Draco released an amused huff, mouth pulling into a self-satisfied smirk.


He awoke to the news that Fudge, the blithering fool, had attempted to arrest Dumbledore, who had, much to no one’s surprise, escaped capture—easily overcoming two Aurors, the the High Inquisitor, the Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant. Notices had gone up all over the school overnight, reading, ‘Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’ 

“Did you hear?” Pansy slid into her seat at the Slytherin table, immediately reaching for the coffee. “Umbridge tried to get back into Dumbledore’s office last night after they’d searched the castle and grounds for him. But she couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The Head’s office has sealed itself against her, and apparently she had a right little tantrum.” Daphne snorted into her tea, and Draco bit down on his bottom lip, suppressing a grin.

Then, Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle joined them, and Draco blanched, face going ashen and taut, at the tiny silver pin affixed to their robes. 

Daphne blinked owlishly, observing the boys over the rim of her cup of tea. “What are those?”

“Oh? These?” That irritating superiority was back in Theo’s voice. Draco clenched his jaw. Irritation gnawed at his veins, making his fingers twitch. “As a member of the Inquisitorial Squad—”

“The what?” Pansy interjected sharply, loudly—garnering attention from those seated nearby.

“The Inquisitorial Squad, Pans,” Theo begun with a mixture of deliberate calm and faint exasperation. “A select group of students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, handpicked by Professor Umbridge herself.” Draco shut his eyes in silent dismay as curious murmurs broke out across the Slytherin table. 

“Are you planning on joining, Malfoy?” 

Draco’s eyes blinked open, his bleary gaze coming to rest on the girl—a fourth year—who had spoken. He failed to notice the attention paid to his reply, the silence surrounding them, as he unhesitatingly and immediately replied, “No.” He arched a brow, his face a picture of disdain. “No, I won’t be.” 

There were looks and whispers exchanged amongst his housemates, but he ignored them in favour of staring at Theo, whose dark eyes were sparking with anger. There it was. That anger. Theo had been far too passive, too agreeable since Yule. Theo’s ambitions, his desire to prove himself hadn’t faded, just simmered quietly underneath his skin, growing and festering. He’d been waiting, biding his time for an opportunity to amass power of his own, and he had, only for Draco to publicly undermine him, to dismiss his efforts, to make his new position of power look pathetic.

But, Theo’s emotional state—his belligerent, almost ashamed countenance—wasn’t important, but subtly manipulating the Slytherins so as to decrease Umbridge’s support base at Hogwarts was. He was hoping that his complete and utter disinterest, along with his general disdain, would dissuade the majority of the Slytherins who were considering joining.

Draco was utterly unsurprised when, at the conclusion of his first lesson, he was summoned to Umbridge’s office. 

The horrid woman was sat behind her desk, busily scribbling upon her pink parchment. Draco stared, bile burning the back of his throat, at the large wooden block lying across the front of her desk on which golden letters spelled the word ‘HEADMISTRESS.’ 

“Welcome, Mr Malfoy,” Umbridge tittered, a small, horribly smug smile on her toad face as she made an exaggerated sweeping gesture to the chair opposite her. Draco sat stiffly, eyeing the kitten portraits over her head in mild revulsion. “It has come to my attention, that you have not been informed regarding the new specialised squad I have authorised.”

Her smile was so painfully false it hurt. Umbridge disliked him, it was obvious. But, thorn in her side or not, Draco was still a Malfoy—she couldn’t risk offending him; she wanted his support, his family name backing hers.

Draco, in turn, gave her a blank smile, blandly fake in its sincerity. “I’m aware."

The corners of Umbridge’s eyes tightened, face drawn, expression pinched as she forced out a breathy chuckle. “There is little that escapes your notice. Isn’t that right, Mr Malfoy?” 

Draco stared back, his gaze like a cold knife, refusing to rise to, or acknowledge the trap hidden in her words. Umbridge, swallowing hard, opened the top drawer of her desk, shuffled papers around as she searched. She made a triumphant noise in the back of her throat, and pulled back, opening her palm. Draco blinked at the small silver pin.

“No.” 

Umbridge visibly faltered. “I-I’m sorry?” There was a sudden sharp edge of anger to her voice. Draco bit back a smirk. It was comically easy to crack her mask, to ruin her composure. “May I ask why? I thought that an influential pure-blood such as yourself, would have delighted in the opportunity to exert power over those inferior.”

Ah. Flattery. It had worked on past-Draco, who ate up her praise like a starved man, smug and gleeful at the chance to ruin Potter. Now, he just stared back, grey eyes flat and cold, disgusted at both himself and her. 

“I’m rather preoccupied with studying for O.W.L.s. Father takes both my grades, and my future very seriously. I would hate to disappoint him.” 

Umbridge’s eye twitched. “Your participation in the Inquisitorial Squad would serve to greatly impress Lord Malfoy—”

“How presumptuous, Headmistress,” he crooned, expression sharp with cruel delight, lips stretched in a vicious smile. “I was unaware that Father had divulged his expectations for his Heir to you.”

Umbridge paled, face draining of all colour. “N-No, that isn’t—”

“No?” Draco’s voice was without a trace of tone, empty and dangerous. Umbridge nodded silently. Draco stood in one fluid movement, noting the way she flinched. “We’re done here.” 

He strode out of Umbridge’s ghastly office, cold satisfaction curling up in his chest. 

 

Chapter 24

Notes:

the writer’s block for this chapter was very real and very terrible. I wrote at least eight different scenes and discarded them all because, ugh, they were trash. tbh, I'm still not entirely happy with it, but, eh.

also, 100k hits? that’s literally insane—far far beyond any expectations I had when I first posted this. like seriously, I genuinely cannot believe it. if anyone is still reading this story, I thank each and every one of you. truly.

the next chapter is 3/4 of the way done. so, it should be up within the next week~!

I haven't had the time recently to reply to any comments, but I've read them all. you're all so lovely, thank you ❤︎❤︎

Chapter Text

Draco stared into guarded, beady, black eyes, ankles crossed elegantly and hands folded daintily in his lap as he reclined in his designated armchair. “You’re angry with me.”

“Draco,” Severus sighed heavily, the sound threaded with irritated exasperation. “The purpose of this meeting is to discuss your future career options, not personal matters.”

He screwed up his nose, scoffing derisively. Right. Career counselling. It just seemed so… pointless in the grand scheme of things. He’d given very little consideration to his future career, both in the Before and now. If he survived, Draco was going to be Lord Malfoy—regardless of whether or not the Malfoy name was worth less than dirt—a position in which he wouldn’t have a career, but a seat on the Wizengamot, and ample time to indulge in activities at his leisure. 

“If you hadn’t been busy avoiding me,” he stressed his displeasure, lip curling, “then I wouldn’t have had to resort to cornering you—”

Severus scowled nastily, indignant. “I wasn’t ‘avoiding’ you—”

“You most certainly were,” he snapped, throat tightening against the sudden swell of emotion rising up in his chest. Draco would deny it til the end of his days, but he deeply missed Severus—the banter and conversations, the companionship, the ease with which they understood each other. 

“I’ve—” Severus grunted in frustration and raked a hand through his hair, the inky strands slipping through his fingers. “These past few months have been rather… difficult.” Draco blinked, long and slow, pale lashes fluttering. His silvery grey eyes swept carefully over his godfather’s face, lingering on the harsh line of his brow and the purple shadows beneath his eyes. He looked utterly haggard, weary. 

“Severus?” It came out gentle, tentative, so unlike himself that Draco flinched at the sound of his own voice. His godfather grimaced, scrubbing a calloused hand down his face. Draco frowned. Severus hadn’t looked like this prior to Yule. Whatever had caused this, had to have occurred after, and there was only one incident of significance that came to mind—oh. Draco froze, eyes going wide with realisation, mouth parting in a surprised ‘o.’ 

Severus was Dumbledore’s pawn, and Barty had been present for the Order meetings, in which Severus may have spoken words that implicated him. This was Draco’s fault. His actions had allowed Barty to live. He felt his breath stall in his lungs for all of a moment. He swallowed hard, mouth opening to speak, only to be interrupted by the door opening. 

“Hem, hem.” Draco shut his eyes in dismay. Oh no. “I hope you haven’t started without me, Severus.” His godfather scowled reflexively, mouth pinched, nose wrinkling as the telltale click-clack of heels on stone echoed throughout his office as Umbridge tottered into the room.

The faint scratch of a quill on parchment filtered through his ears, causing his eyebrow to twitch in irritation. He studiously ignored it, refusing to acknowledge, nor give the horrid woman any of the attention she desired. Umbridge’s presence here was both unexpected and utterly unnecessary. The toad of a woman hadn’t overseen his session in the Before. But, back then, he’d been her perfect pet soldier—there had been no need for supervisory measures. 

Severus cleared his throat, eyes briefly flitting to the obnoxious pink blob seated primly in the corner of the room before snapping back to him. “In essence, the aim of this meeting is to determine which subjects you should continue into your sixth and seventh years, based on what career you’d like to pursue.” 

A future beyond the war. He could not envision it, despite being a Draco was a space-time anomaly; a walking, breathing shatterpoint. If Draco could, he’d end the war early—get that thing out of his family’s Manor, but he lacked the sufficient knowledge to do so. Besides, the Golden Trio succeeded in killing Him, there was no need for Draco to interfere and potentially ruin it all. 

He didn’t know how the Dark Lord was defeated, but he knew it wasn’t as simple as strolling up to Him and casting an Avada Kedavra, otherwise the Trio wouldn’t have spent their seventh year galavanting about England, sneaking into the Ministry under Polyjuice, breaking into the fucking Lestrange vault in Gringotts and riding out on a dragon, and taking a little side trip to the Room of Requirement in the middle of a battle. 

Ugh. Then, there was the issue of the Elder Wand, which, apparently, Draco had unknowingly been the master of for an entire fucking year. The Deathly Hallows being real was pure insanity. The entire future was just—insane.

Then, there was Lucius’ Ministry mission. It was only two and a half months away now. That should be his top priority, not some mythical death stick or the Trio’s seventh year escapades. There was a small, disgustingly sentimental part of him that wanted Lucius’ Ministry mission to fail, for him to be sent to Azkaban. It had humbled his father, had given birth to the man who Draco desperately, achingly missed. He shook his head in a violent jerk, as if that would clear it of useless sentiment. He was thankful that he was a Slytherin, and that practicality and logic almost always overruled emotion.

He had no plans to stop Lucius’ mission or assist the Order. Draco Malfoy was many things, but a hero was not one of them, and he had never once claimed otherwise. He was not brave, nor a fighter. He would never act on behalf of the ‘greater good,’ only rearrange timeline ever so slightly to benefit him personally—specifically; the protection and safety of his family.

He stole a fleeting glance at the pink menace in the corner, who stared back at him expectantly. He did not doubt that she would dutifully relay his every word to Lucius. Draco, in a show of rare restraint, choked down numerous retorts on the pure stupidity that was this farce of a meeting. “I plan to follow in my father’s footsteps.” 

His godfather raised an elegant eyebrow, face utterly unreadable. He bit back a curse—vividly aware of how his words could be interpreted. He ached to scream that no, Draco had no desire to be a Death Eater like his father again. He'd been there, done that, and he did not recommend. It must have shown on his face, for the creases between Severus’ brows vanished, the tension bleeding out of his features.

Umbridge, thank Salazar, looked satisfied with his answer, if the pleased curved to her lips as she jotted it down were any indication.

“You have no aspirations of your own?” Draco hid a flinch. That stung. He knew it wasn’t Severus’ intention to be cruel—the man was just naturally callous, but he’d made Draco sound of though he was just a mouthpiece of his father, that he was Lucius’ puppet down to his core. He hated that one single question brought fourth all insecurity issues that he would never be more than what his father made him into. In order to hide the unease writhing in the pit of his stomach, he swallowed hard, mind whirling as he searched for an answer that didn’t paint him as pathetic.

He was saved, unexpectedly, by Umbridge, who gave a very tiny cough. “Is following in Lord Malfoy’s footsteps not an aspiration in and of itself?” 

Severus shut his eyes for a brief moment—as if praying for patience, then opened them again, and continued on as though Umbridge didn’t exist. “I expect that you, at the very least, have an idea as to which subjects you wish to take?

Draco cleared his throat, biting back the urge to squirm in his seat. “Yes. I do.” He quickly, easily rattled off the subjects he’d taken in the Before (D.A.D.A, Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Ancient Runes, Herbology, Arithmancy). “That is, if I achieve the required grades in my O.W.L.s.”

“That will result in seven N.E.W.T.s.” Draco nodded slowly. The only other individual who’d taken on seven last time was Granger—he’d heard the teachers whispers, lamenting her absence during their clusterfuck of a seventh year. He wondered if she had returned for an ‘eighth year’ to complete them. He’d never find out. “If you’re certain?”

“I am,” he confirmed. Severus stared, unblinkingly. Draco gazed back, grey eyes hard like steel. Then, his godfather shifted, moving to scrawl Draco’s answer down on piece of parchment. “Is that all?” 

Severus flicked his black gaze up. “It is.” He knew a dismissal when he heard one. Draco shot him a look, silently informing him that this conversation was not over. His godfather’s answering expression was one of fond yet irritable exasperation as he nodded curtly. Draco sprung to his feet in one smooth movement, blatantly ignoring Umbridge’s calls of his name as he slipped out the door.


When Umbridge strode into the joint Gryffindor-Slytherin Defense lesson that afternoon, she was positively seething. Her toad-like face was flushed an unattractive shade of purple, and her pudgy fingers were balled into trembling fists. The pink nuisance shot Potter a glower of indescribable loathing—more intense then usual, before redirecting the class to chapter thirty-four, ‘Non-Retaliation and Negotiation.’ He was curious as to what Potter had done to cause that, and half-expected Potter to leap to his feet—as he had done on multiple occasions—and start preaching, but Potter, for once in his righteous, Dark-Lord-slaying life, remained sullen and silent. 

Draco exhaled, slow and sharp, deeply relieved. Finally. There was to be a peaceful Defense Against the Dark Arts class. 

The conclusion of the lesson had Potter’s chair screeching on the stone floor as he quickly shot to his feet and dashed out the room. Granger and the Weasel were quick to follow, looking harried. The class collectively stared after them in a joint moment of silent stupefaction before hushed, conspiratorial whispers broke out across the room. 

“Potter’s finally lost it,” Pansy mused, linking her arm through Draco’s as they exited the classroom. His silvery grey gaze trailed after Potter’s rapidly receding figure as he fled down the corridor. 

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “He—” Draco shut his mouth with an audible click as screams and yells abruptly reverberated from somewhere above them. He went utterly still, cold dread coursing down his spine. There was a churning in the pit of his stomach, a sharp and sickening swell of nausea—

“Draco?” 

People exiting the classrooms all around him halted in their tracks as they looked up at the ceiling fearfully—

“What’s wrong?”

He felt his breath stall in his lungs, pulse thundering in his ears, fear knotting in his throat—

“You need to breathe, darling.”

Then, Umbridge came pelting out of her classroom as fast as her short legs would carry her. Pulling out her wand, she hurried off in the opposite direction. The blur of horrid and unmistakable pink sliced through his panic like a knife. Draco sucked in a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. This was not the Battle of Hogwarts.

“I’m fine, Pans,” he mumbled, swallowing hard, shaking off his unease. Pansy shot him a dubious, incredulous look that he pointedly ignored as he followed the throngs of students heading upstairs. Pansy let out an exaggerated, exasperated sigh as she tightened her grip on Draco’s arm, trailing alongside him.

The corridor he stepped into had him recoiling with a muffled shriek of disgust, face twisted into a glower. He lifted his black Oxford shoe out of the liquid that covered the flagged stone floor—thick, stinking, dark-green fluid that smelt of rancid manure. How utterly vile. There were similar exclamations of revulsion echoing all around him. 

Pansy clung to him, looking horrified and nauseous. “What in Salazar’s name is this?” 

Draco scowl deepened further until it looked carved into his skin. “Stinksap.” Pansy gagged violently, turning to hide her face in his shoulder. The students surrounding him begun to wade valiantly through the sludge, moving further down the corridor. He sighed, nose wrinkling at the stench as he lowered his head to murmur into her dark hair, “I’m  going to move.”

Pansy whined in the back of her throat, shaking her head against his shoulder. He huffed a laugh, steeled himself, then took a step forward, dragging a miserable, clingy Pansy with him. 

Eventually, they stumbled into the Entrance Hall, where they found what looked like the majority of the school assembled there. The students and teachers were gathered around the walls in a ring, clothes splattered with slimy green liquid, wearing expressions varying from disgust to amusement to anger. He easily spotted the smug-looking members of the Inquisitorial Squad, standing beside—oh. Draco remembered this. 

The blasted Weasley twins stood in the middle of the floor whilst Umbridge smirked triumphantly. “So, you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” twin one spoke without the slightest sign of fear. Draco stifled a snort. 

Then, Filch stumbled into the Entrance Hall, elbowing his way closer to Umbridge, almost crying with happiness. 

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he said hoarsely, eagerly waving a piece of parchment in the air. “I’ve got the form and I’ve got the whips waiting—oh, let me do it now!” 

“Very good, Argus,” she praised, terribly smug. “You two,” she went on, pointing a with a finger not unlike a raw, miniature sausage, “are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.”

“You know what? I don’t think we are.” Draco would deny his admiration for the two ginger menaces til the end of his days. “George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” twin two—George—remarked lightly.

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?” 

“Definitely.”

Eager anticipation tugged at Draco’s gut, a bubbling mixture of searing excitement and tingling nerves. And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands and said together, “Accio Brooms!” There was a loud crash in the distance to his left, and then the twins’ broomsticks were hurtling down the stairs, stopping sharply in front of their owners.

“We won’t be seeing you,” twin one—Fred—told Umbridge as he swung his leg over his broomstick. 

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” George said, mounting his own. 

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley, Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes,” Fred said in a loud voice. “Our new premises!” 

“Stop them!” Umbridge shrieked, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, the menaces kicked off, shooting into the air. Draco found himself applauding, loudly and enthusiastically, alongside the other students as the twins sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset. 


The tale of the Weasley twins’ ‘Flight to Freedom’ was, within a week, rendered a Hogwarts’ legend. Nobody was liable to forget them anytime soon, what with the Stinksap swamp still covering the corridor on the fifth floor of the east wing, as Umbridge and Filch had, amusingly, failed to remove it.

Their legacy manifested in the form of students slipping Nifflers into Umbridge’s office—which tore the place apart in search of shiny objects, dropping Dungbombs and Stinkpellets in corridors, and tormenting the Inquisitorial Squad members. In the Before, Pansy had sprouted antlers, and Draco’s skin had erupted in painful, blistering boils. He was grateful that, this time, no such fate befell them.

The 5th of June—the day he turned both sixteen and twenty—went by unacknowledged, save for the gifts his parents sent him. He was glad that no celebration was had. For he cared little for it. He was far more concerned with the rapidly approaching O.W.L.s.

Draco, despite his lack of preparation, had, with little to no effort, excelled in his fourth year final exams. O.W.L.s, however, were a different kind of monster. The sheer amount of study required to achieve even a passing grade was absolutely criminal. And if he spent one more bloody hour holed up in a dark corner of the library, pouring over textbooks and scrawling on parchment until his hand cramped, he was going to lose his shit. He may foresee no real future for himself, but there were still appearances to keep up, expectations to meet.

His mood was worsened by the knowledge that, at the conclusion of the last exam, Potter and his sycophants would go gallivanting off to the Ministry and absolutely ruin Draco’s life.

The thought of the upcoming summer, and what it would entail should he fail, passed through Draco’s mind in a humiliating, gibbering wave of panic. He chewed anxiously on his bottom lip, bitten red and raw. His mind spun, poisoned by terror. He had a plan. He did. But, he knew so very little about the Ministry mission, and there was so much room for error, so much that could go horribly wrong.

His brooding was interrupted by Pansy, who rested her hand on his forearm. Her was touch achingly gentle, starkly contrasting with her sharp tone. “What in Salazar’s name has got you so worked up?”

He exhaled though his nose, tipping his head back so it rested against the stone wall, grasping for a plausible lie. “What do you think?” He jerked his chin at the door to the Great Hall, where their final exam, History of Magic, was to take place in less than five minutes time.

Pansy whirled on him, expression stern, lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t lie.” He blinked, startled. She sighed, long and drawn-out. “You’re brilliant, Draco. You weren’t even nervous for bloody Arithmancy, and History of Magic is by far your easiest exam. So, this—” she gestured to his panicked demeanour “—is unrelated, isn’t it?”

He swallowed hard, studying her earnest, determined features. “You’ll find out tomorrow.” Her dark eyes narrowed. He met her hard stare easily, rendering his face utterly blank. 

Pansy huffed. “I’ll hold you to that.” 


Potter, unsurprisingly, had a fit mid-exam—tumbling off his chair, clutching at his scar, screaming bloody murder.

Draco had honestly forgotten about that, but he was certain it was somehow related to the impending Ministry catastrophe. He’d shrugged it off—knowing there was nothing he could do just yet, opting to refocus on his exam, unlike his peers, who had immediately erupted into whispers once Potter had been escorted out by a Professor.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon stalking the near-empty castle corridors surrounding Umbridge’s office, awaiting the signs, anticipation thrumming under his skin. He froze at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, paranoia tore at his mind, reaching with icy, sharp fingers as he ducked into a nearby classroom. He peered out, inhaling sharply as a familiar, billowing black cloak swirled past, Theo at his heels.

Draco cast a Silencing and Disillusionment Charm on himself, flinching as he felt the spell take hold—like cold mud trickling down his body, and trailed after them, pulse thundering in his ears. He watched as the pair disappeared inside Umbridge’s office, and waited silently from his spot down the hall, listening to the distant sound of raised, clamouring voices. Then, after what felt like forever, Severus swept out, an inscrutable expression on his dour face as he stalked past an invisible Draco.

He glanced out the arched window, staring out at the setting sun, the swirl of pinks and oranges lighting up the sky. He’d missed supper, then—not that he’d be able to stomach anything. 

He exhaled shakily, absently twirling his wand between his slender fingers, only to nearly drop it in surprise as the door swung open, revealing Umbridge, who held Potter and a tearful Granger at wand point. Ah. The ‘weapon’ ruse. Laughter rose up in his throat, hysterical and thin. He’d actually fallen for that drivel in the Before. His naivety was humiliating. Despite how alone he often felt—what with him being the sole witness of the future Second Wizarding War, he was insurmountably glad that no one would ever come to know that version of Draco Malfoy. In all honesty, it felt like cheating.

He was torn from his inner musings by the soft whispers of Lovegood, Longbottom, the Weaselette, and the Weasel as they snuck out of Umbridge’s office, hurrying down the corridor. He walked towards the open door, his hands clenching rhythmically. 

Draco glanced about the garish pink-themed room in trepidation, gaze falling on the turned down frame atop Umbridge’s desk. His stomach roiled as he recalled why it was placed that way. The idea of seeing Potter tortured had truly excited him. But, that was before—before he’d experienced the Cruciatus himself, before he witnessed firsthand the extent of the damage the curse wrought. He swallowed hard, and turned his gaze to the fallen members of the Inquisitorial Squad, pity blooming in his chest at the sight. Draco, with much difficultly, tore his eyes away.

He flicked his wrist, recasting the Silencing and Disillusionment Charms on his person—just in case. His eyes flitted to the window, the sky outside a deep, dark indigo. 

It was time. 

He reached into the bag of Floo powder, then stepped into the fireplace, skin prickling all over with a nervous anticipation that made it hard to concentrate. He choked back a manic giggle, hysteria swelling in his chest. It was almost destined to go wrong, especially since his knowledge of this night consisted of what sparse facts he’d been able to pry from a reluctant Lucius post-Azkaban.

His stomach roiled, twisted, and curled in on itself as he raised a trembling hand. He spoke his destination—voice wavering ever so slightly, “the Ministry of Magic,” and was swallowed by vibrant green flames.

 

Chapter 25

Notes:

here it issss! I truly hope I don't disappoint anyone with this chapter. I tried to do the whole ministry clusterfuck justice, but I'm not entirely sure if it'll live up to anyone's expectations. but this is how I wanted it to play out, so :)

I hope you all enjoy ❤︎

ps: this is unedited, so please excuse any errors you find~

Chapter Text

Draco was reminded precisely why he loathed Floo travel as he staggered, off-balanced and dazed, into an achingly familiar, long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor, and a peacock-blue ceiling inlaid with golden symbols that twisted sinuously. The soft woosh of roaring green flames behind him dimmed to a mere crackling ember as he straightened himself, brushing ash and soot off of his white dress shirt.

The Ministry Atrium was eerie at this hour—empty; too empty, and silent, save for the steady rush of water from the fountain, where a group of giant golden statues stood in the centre of a circular pool. Even the decorative, wrought-iron mantlepieces, from which flickering orange flames typically burned bright and beautiful, were empty.

The Death Eaters were already here, he realised, numb with silent horror.

He turned, gazing down the hall, quakes of anxiety vibrating under his skin, nerves tightening a knot in his throat. The golden gates shone like a beacon, glistening at the end of the Atrium. He slowly made his way down the hall, past the fountain and towards the empty—how ominous—security desk on the left where wands were usually weighed. He slipped through the golden gates and into a small hall where at least twenty empty lift slots awaited him. 

Draco jabbed at the nearest golden button, fingers drumming against his collarbone impatiently as he waited, nerves churning in his gut. The lift arrived with a great jangling and clattering noise, the wrought golden grilles sliding apart with a loud clanking sound that set his teeth on edge.

If the Death Eaters hadn’t already been aware of his presence, then they definitely were now, he mused half-hysterically, dread cold on his spine as he stepped inside.

Draco pressed the button for the ninth floor, and the grilles slid shut with a resounding bang that had him visibly cringing. The lift begun to descend, the rattling of the chains echoing like thunder in the unnatural silence that blanketed the Ministry. He shut his eyes briefly in dismay. It was so incredibly, unnecessarily loud. The lift abruptly jerked to a halt, and a smooth female voice announced, “Department of Mysteries.” 

The golden grilles clattered as they slid open, and Draco stepped into an empty, dark corridor, with the flickering torches lining the walls as the only source of light. Paranoid, he double-checked that his charms still held before he moved towards the plain black door situated at the end of the corridor. It swung open automatically as he neared it, and he stalked forward, entering a large, empty, circular room. He exhaled, deeply relieved to see neither Potter and his sycophants nor the Death Eaters were here.

He glanced about, noting that the entirety of the room was black—from the shining marble floor to the ceiling. There were numerous identical, unmarked, handleless black doors set at intervals all around the walls, poorly illuminated by the torch-lit corridor behind him. He swallowed hard. Where to now? 

Draco spun on his heel, eyes flickering between the dozen indistinguishable doors in despair. He bit his lip, brows furrowed. Well. If Potter could figure it out, then Draco most certainly could, too. He took a step forward, only to freeze as a great rumbling noise filled the room, followed by a resounding bang as the door behind him slammed shut, plunging the room into darkness. He raised his wand, whispering a quiet, “Lumos maxima,” and the room lit up in a brilliant white glow.

Then, the bloody walls begun to rotate. What in Salazar’s name—

He recoiled, eyes darting back and forth as low tremor of fear struck him, vibrating up his spine. Then, as abruptly as it began, the rumbling stopped and the room became stationary once more. Oh. He could no longer tell which door from whence he came. He was trapped. Fuck. His grip on his wand tightened, knuckles turning white as he willed himself to calm down. It was simply a matter of trial and error. 

He could do this. 

Draco opened door after door, each room more bizarre than the last—the oddest being an enormous tank of deep-green water filled with brains. He even found the door to the Hall of Prophecy on his fourth try, and he lingered, mesmerised by the sight of the towering shelves lined with glimmering glass orbs, despite it not being his goal. 

He, after what felt like hours but couldn’t be more than twenty minutes, finally stumbled into his desired destination—the Death Chamber. The room was large, dimly lit and rectangular, with a sunken centre that formed a stone pit at least twenty feet below where he stood, atop the topmost pier of what appeared to be stone benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheater. In the centre of the lowered floor, upon a raised dais, stood a stone archway—ancient, cracked and crumbling, hung with a tattered black curtain. He shuddered. The Veil. 

Aunt Bella had gloated, long and in-depth, about her murder of Sirius Black, and his tragic fall through the Veil. So, Draco, with the little information he had, assumed—and prayed—that an important confrontation had taken place here.   It was, admittedly, utterly foolish of him to depend on the ravings of a madwoman, but he had no other options. 

He crept along the stone benches to the opposite side, giving him full view of the multiple identical doors lining the walls. He pressed himself against the wall, heartbeat pounding in his ears as he mumbled a quiet, “Nox.”

It had been far too easy, this he knew with absolute certainty, to break into the Department of Mysteries. Its operations were carried out in total secrecy, and yet, Draco, of all people, had been able to sneak inside unimpeded. This was Lucius’ doing, he assumed—part of his ‘plan,’ only, the easy access had been meant for Potter, not him.

He knew not how long he waited, but his legs had begun to grow numb, and his feet had begun to ache. Draco made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. He hated being in such close proximity to the Veil. There was a tug, deep in his gut, luring him towards it, and the only thing that kept him from giving in was his Occlumency shields.

He jerked, startled, as a loud bang rung out.

It’s begun, he noted, grip tightening on his wand, ignoring the way his heart slammed against his chest like a battering ram. There was a gigantic, resounding crash, soon followed by a series of similar bangs, shouts, screams, and doors slamming—audible even through the walls. It went on for a long while, so long that Draco wondered if he’d misheard Aunt Bella, and that this wasn’t the correct location, when Potter literally fell into the room.

Potter tumbled down the stone benches, bouncing on each and every tier until at last, with a crash that had Draco wincing, landed flat on his back in the sunken pit. Then, laughter, teetering on maniacal, rang throughout the room. He glanced up, grey eyes widening as five Death Eaters descended towards Potter, leaping from bench to bench with surprising agility. Draco pursed his lips.

Potter scrambled to his feet, tightly clutching at that blasted, cursed spun-glass sphere. The source of all Draco’s suffering. The Prophecy. Lucius, is his disjointed rantings, had mainly spoken of Potter smashing the Prophecy, which was something he intended to prevent. Potter backed up and climbed onto the dais on which the Veil stood. The Death Eaters all halted, gazing at him. He instantly recognised Aunt Bella, Dolohov, and—

“Potter, your race is run,” his father drawled, pulling off his mask. “Now hand me the Prophecy like a good boy…” 

“Let—Let the others go, and I’ll give it to you!” Draco knew that Potter was sincere in his desperation, but the Death Eaters just laughed, mocking and painfully amused. 

“You are not in a position to bargain, Potter,” Lucius’ pale face was flushed with pleasure. “You see, there are ten of us and only one of you, or hasn’t Dumbledore ever taught you how to count?” 

Then, Neville bloody Longbottom barrelled inside, and, in act of stupidity only Gryffindors were capable of, started casting a round of Stupifys with no success. He was, unsurprisingly, quickly seized by a still-masked Death Eater, who pinned Longbottom’s arms to his sides, restraining him. Draco frowned. The Death Eaters were winning, easily—Potter was greatly outnumbered. It was evident that if the Death Eaters stopped their posturing, monologuing and gloating, and actually focused on their bloody mission, then it would’ve been all over, far before the circumstances turned so drastically in Potter’s favour. 

How infuriatingly incompetent. It was no wonder that the Dark Lord had been utterly furious.

He blinked, drawn out of his inner musings by the sound of a terrible, wailing scream of utter agony. His heart twinged in sympathy for Longbottom, watching as he tumbled to the floor, twitching and convulsing. Aunt Bella’s Crucio was excruciating, he would know. 

“That was just a taster!” Aunt Bella shrieked on a cackle of mad, delighted laughter. She raised her wand so that Longbottom’s screams stopped and he lay sobbing at her feet. “Now, Potter, either give us the Prophecy, or watch your little friend die the hard way!” 

Potter begun to extend the hand holding the Prophecy, when two doors burst open and five individuals sprinted into the room—Sirius, Lupin, Moody; the real one, his estranged metamorphmagus cousin, and Kingsley. His gaze lingered on Sirius—an extremely wanted man who voluntarily came to the heart of the Ministry, all for Potter. He must love Potter a great deal, to risk himself like this. 

It was evident that the Death Eaters were completely thrown by the sudden appearance of the Order, who were raining spell after spell down upon them. Draco stared, frozen, at Moody’s magical eye, his terror palpable. It could see through his Disillusionment charm. He had miscalculated. Fuck. He dropped into a crouch, curling into a ball—trying to make himself smaller, praying that Moody would remain too preoccupied with the Death Eaters to take notice of him.

Ignoring the unease unfurling in his chest, Draco shifted his gaze to Potter, who was crawling across the ground to reach Longbottom, Prophecy still in hand. He flexed his fingers around his wand, anticipation thrumming in his gut. The stone floor between the two Gryffindors suddenly exploded with a resounding bang, and Potter threw himself backwards, only to be abruptly seized by a masked Death Eater, who dragged him to his feet by the neck. Longbottom was quick to jab his wand into the Death Eater’s eye, prompting his mask to fall off—oh, it was Macnair.

Dolohov, from where he stood over a bleeding Moody, suddenly hit Longbottom with a Tarantallegra, and Longbottom collapsed to the floor again, legs shaking and trembling in a frenzied tap dance. He saw it, then—that blasted, dreaded magical eye of Moody’s was detached and rolling across the floor, disappearing under the dais upon which the Veil stood. Draco blinked, disbelieving. He was never so lucky.

His attention was soon stolen by Sirius, who rammed into Dolohov’s shoulder, sending him hurtling away, before engaging him in a duel so fierce that their wands were reduced to mere blurs. His gaze flitted to his father, who was duelling Lupin, his aristocratic features twisted into a deep scowl of frustration. Draco limbs unfurled, straightening and stretching as he slowly stood, free from detection via magical eye, but still wary. 

Lupin—with his werewolf-enhanced senses—was a threat. If he smelt Draco, it was all over. He flicked his wrist, casting a Petrificus Totalus that had Lupin’s arms and legs snapping together as he keeled over backward, landing with a crash on his back. He followed up with a Stupefy for good measure, rendering Lupin unconscious. Lucius’ eyes darted about, a wild, manic gleam to them—searching for his helper, before dismissing it in favour of darting in Potter’s direction. Draco tracked Lucius’ movements across the room, focused with a singular intensity. 

His distraction cost him.

He jerked, hissing sharply through gritted teeth, grasping at his throbbing shoulder, a grimace of pain twisting his face. He stared at his spasming fingers, slick with rivets of crimson, his mouth tight with agony. Draco recognised the deep, deep wound immediately, Aunt Bella’s training had ensured that. He set his jaw. He’d been hit by a stray Diffindo—the Severing Charm. 

He swallowed hard, tore his gaze away from his wound and squinted downwards. Focus, Draco.

Lucius had his wand pointed between Potter’s ribs as he bent down to snarl in his ear. In response, Potter flung the Prophecy across the floor, and Longbottom spun himself on his back, from where he still lay supine on the floor, arms lifting as he prepared to catch it, but Draco cast another Petrificus Totalus, freezing him mid-reach, so that the spun-glass sphere flew past him and rolled across the floor. Lucius instinctively dived towards it, but Potter—goddamn it—cast an Impedimenta that blasted Lucius back, sending him crashing into the dais. 

Draco’s lips rippled, curling into a wordless snarl. Potter dashed towards the Prophecy, but Draco darted down the benches—pushing past the white-hot pain splintering across his shoulder, wand outstretched and exploded the stone at Potter’s feet, sending him reeling backwards, tripping over Longbottom’s prone form and crashing to the floor. 

He went still, eyes watering from the pain, as his father Accio’d the Prophecy towards himself. Potter was already on his feet again, wand aimed unerringly at Lucius, who had the Prophecy tightly clutched to his chest, curling his body over it. Panic clogged up Draco’s throat. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t—

Potter, glaring with those intimidating Avada-green eyes of his, cast first. But Potter, for all his raw, unbridled power and faster reflexes, still only had the duelling experience of, and an arsenal of spells limited to that of a fifth year. Lucius, however, was far more experienced, willing to use Dark Magic, willing to hurt, and was spurred forth by a terrifying animalistic desperation that stemmed from fear of failing the Dark Lord.

Lucius herded Potter backwards until the backs of Potter’s legs hit the first rung of stone benches. Potter clambered onto it, simultaneously casting a Reducto at Lucius, who deflected it, quickly parrying back.

Draco, eager to get Lucius and the Prophecy out, moved even closer to aim a spell at the bench beneath Potter’s heel, and it crumbled away, causing Potter to slip and fall, crashing to the floor with an awful thud. Lucius, taking advantage of Potter’s tumble, made a mad dash up, up the stone benches, bolting for the door. 

The top, left hand corner of the doorway exploded with a bang, and a shower of a sharp, wooden shards rained down on Lucius, who ducked and kept moving until he was out of sight. Draco let out a shaky breath of sweet relief. Lucius knew the Ministry like the back of his hand. He’d be fine.

Then, a loud cry of ‘Dumbledore!’ sliced through the air like a knife.

Draco jerked violently, like he’d had a live wire pressed to his spine, the action sending a starburst of pain shooting behind his eyes. He reflexively tightened his grip on his shoulder, in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. 

Dumbledore stood above them, his wand aloft, face white and furious. A tendril of ice rose from the soles of his feet, coiled around his limbs and spine and seeped deep into his veins, chilling him to the very bone. Oh no. The instant the Death Eaters realised exactly who had arrived, they dissolved into panicked yelps, and begun to scramble up the stone benches, trying to leave, only for Dumbledore to wave his wand, easily pulling them all back down.

Time to go.

Draco, fear jumping in his throat, mind blanking in sheer panic, darted up the benches, bloodied hand still clamped over his throbbing shoulder, until he stood in the doorway from whence Potter originally came, where he flicked one final, terrified glance over his shoulder—there was a nagging tug in his gut, as though he’d forgotten something important—oh. 

Sirius. 

He had debated, long and hard, on whether he cared enough to save the man, and decided that, if the opportunity arose, and it did not distract Draco from his mission or put his life at risk, he would interfere. He raised his wand and cast a Bombarda Maxima, aiming it between where Aunt Bella and Sirius stood, still duelling on the Veil dais. The two Blacks were flung apart by the sheer force of the explosion, and landed, with reverberant thuds, on opposite ends of the sunken pit.

Draco went utterly, deadly still as Dumbledore's bright, all-consuming blue gaze swung around, landing directly on him. His breath stalled in lungs, terror clenching at his jugular like a wild, rapid dog. His heart froze. Then, restarted violently. Each beat a jagged blade of ice between his ribs. Draco whirled on his heel and dashed into the Brain Room, running past an unconscious Granger, an injured Lovegood and Weaselette, and the Weasel, who was bloody giggling.

Dumbledore had seen—no. Draco was still under a Disillusionment charm. He couldn’t possibly have—

But its Dumbledore, his mind hissed as he wrenched open the door that led to the circular black hall. He bit back a flare of pain as his shoulder twinged, and ignored the alarmed cry from the Weaselette, as to her, the door seemingly opened by itself. 

He exhaled through his teeth, agitated and terrified and panicked as the door from which he entered slammed shut, the room going dark. He cast a “Lumos maxima,” just as the walls begun to rotate once more. He snarled and whirled around, scowling at the identical doors, “Fuck!” 

He was trapped. Again. He didn’t have time for this. He wanted out. He needed out, because Dumbledore had seen—

“The exit!” Draco demanded in his most imperious voice, tears of frustration pricking at his eyes, his thoughts a panicked clamour. He could not be caught here. “Show me the exit!” He stared, utterly shocked, as the door to his immediate left flew open, the corridor leading to the lifts stretching before him. He shook off his disbelief and sprinted up the passageway, skidded round the corner, and slammed his palm over the lift button, brain filled with white noise and searing alarm.

The lift clanked and rattled, dangling lower and lower—

Draco slid inside, fist jamming the button marked Atrium. It begun to rise, slowly, and he forced his way out before the grilles were fully opened. He hightailed it down the hall, past the security desk and fountain, heading straight for the fireplaces—wait, no.

He stumbled, pitching forward, feet skidding on the polished wooden floors, cursing as the movement caused pain to snap and snarl across his shoulder, stars exploding behind his eyes. He shook it off. Focus. If he entered Hogwarts via the Floo, then he’d end up in Umbridge’s office, as her fireplace was the only one currently connected to the network. That wasn’t ideal, seeing as he’d no idea as to what or who awaited him there. That left him with—

He turned and headed for the telephone lift, a newfound urgency driving his steps. He barrelled inside, shoulder jarring as he slammed against glass windows of the battered telephone box. The pain was blinding and instantaneous—so violent that black light splintered his vision. His ears rung, and he shook his head back and forth, trying to rid himself of it. He steadied himself, staring dazedly at the droplets of crimson splattered on the glass, breathing heavily. He pressed the dial, and the box shuttered with a dull grinding rose as it slowly began to rise. 

Draco stepped out onto the pavement, the warm June breeze gently ruffling his hair, which was tied back with a green ribbon, stray white-blonde strands gently whipping about his face. He tipped his head back towards the night sky, the soft golden glow of the street lamps chasing shadows across his face as he let out a choked and wet bark of laughter, thick and heavy with relief.

He was out. He’d done it.

Draco turned on his heel, apparating, and landed with a sharp crack on the edge of Hogsmeade. He exhaled on a soft, breathless sigh of elation, and started towards the shadowed, towering figure of Hogwarts, praying that Lucius  and the Prophecy were safe.


Draco’s feet led him down the Hogwarts’ corridors without conscious thought.

He absently rolled his injured shoulder, wincing as the jagged laceration pulled taught, straining as his muscles flexed. Draco wriggled his fingers, rivulets of dried blood staining his pale skin black in the dim, flickering torchlight. 

He would need a plausible excuse for his absence—it definitely wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Severus wouldn’t believe him, regardless of what lies he strung together. It was damning enough that Draco had vanished on the same night as the Ministry Mission. Though, Severus’ beliefs mattered little, not when Dumbledore had seen— 

He inhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. Draco would, inevitably, have to face the repercussions of his actions. But, for now, he contented himself with drowning in the deep-seated satisfaction blossoming in his chest.

There was a time, not long ago, where he would’ve yearned for acknowledgement, demanded it be known that it was Draco whose interference enabled Lucius to successfully retrieve the Prophecy, and gave Sirius a chance to live. But, now, the mere idea that he had been seen filled his stomach with icy dread.

It was as he turned a corner that his own footsteps sounded in his ears. He blinked. Huh. The charms had worn off.

His shoulder gave a sharp twinge, and Draco winced. The pain was worth it, though. If Lucius had successfully delivered the Prophecy, then Draco would avoid his dreaded sixth year fate. In all honesty, he’d had his doubts about allowing the Dark Lord to hear the full Prophecy, but Potter, before he’d ended the Dark Lord in the Great Hall, had laid bare just how badly He had blundered. The Dark Lord mistakes were far too numerous for His simply knowing of the full Prophecy to alter the outcome.

Well. At least, he hoped not—prayed that his selfish desires wouldn’t result in the Dark Lord’s victory.

Draco, as lost in his inner musings as he was, failed to notice as his feet instinctively led him down the seventh-floor corridor, towards a room that was once his safe haven. He startled, drawn out of his contemplations at the distinctive sound of a door slamming shut. Draco blinked, pale eyelashes fluttering, and whirled around. 

Oh no.

He stared, utterly dumbfounded, at his room, empty save for the familiar plush bed adorned with green silk blankets and sheets of the finest quality. He swallowed. The only consolation, the sole balm to his jittering nerves, was that the mirror was absent. Well—at least absent for now. 

Draco truly had the worst luck, so it could still make an appearance. It was best to leave before that could occur.

He spun on his heel, making to exit, only to bodily slam into something cold and hard. He stumbled backwards, a string of colourful curses spewing forth from his lips, shoulder spasming in pain. 

He righted himself, clutching at his wound, and blinked furiously, praying that he was hallucinating the sight of a terribly, darkly amused baby Dark Lord staring straight at him.

 

Chapter 26

Notes:

this chapter is just pure tom and draco lol. it's also completely unedited, and is probably filled with errors, so please excuse those~!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco bit back the urge to scream. 

Why. Just—Why? 

This was, quite possibly, the literal worst conceivable ending to his terrible, no good day—so, of course it happened. Draco laughed, the sound of it surprising even himself, brittle like shards of shattered glass. He could cry—genuinely bloody cry, if only to relieve some of the stress weighing upon his nerves. “Fuck.”

“It would seem that not even immaculate heritage can remedy such a vulgar mouth.”

He instinctively bared white teeth in a warning snarl, fingers spasming around his wand, before abruptly coming to his senses. This was the Dark Lord—one does not bare their teeth at the Dark Lord. It was like being doused in shock of cold, icy water, and he immediately dropped the shutters down on his expression, rendering it blank. 

He had expected outrage, or indignation, or displeasure at his show of disrespect, but Riddle merely appeared amused, eyeing Draco like he was a pet who had just performed a surprising, yet intriguing trick. The sharp flash of anger that rose in his throat—sudden, dark, uncontrolled—took him by surprise. Riddle’s expression spoke volumes, effectively making him feel like trash without even uttering a single word. Draco hated him all the more for it. 

His exhaustion ran bone deep, his shoulder ached, his nerves were coiled like a rubber band stretched to its limit, and his emotions whirled and roiled, splitting his head with a brain melting headache. He had not the patience, nor the mental fortitude to engage in a battle of wits with Him right now.

“You haven’t visited in a long time,” Riddle’s voice was a soft caress. “I was beginning to think that I had scared you away.” Draco bristled. That condescending piece of sh—

He inhaled, short and sharp, and dangerously close to infuriated. Draco loathed that he was right. Riddle clearly knew it, too—if that smug, patronising smirk tugging at his lips were any indication. He had frightened Draco—just not for the reasons Riddle most-likely assumed.

“Why are you out at this hour?” Hah—deflect a question with another question. He bet Riddle absolutely hated having his technique used against him. Draco was right—there was a tightness around the corners of Riddle’s gleaming, dark eyes, a muscle in his cheek jumping that belied his agitation, his annoyance. 

“Prefect rounds,” was his immediate, unwavering, smooth reply.

Draco arched a single, skeptical brow. “At—” he waved his wand, casting a Tempus “—three o’clock in the morning?” 

“I could ask you the same,” Riddle’s responding with a smile—a twisted thing that pretended at being a smile, and poorly at that. It was a silent warning to drop it. 

He swallowed hard, heart trembling with fear. If he were honest, he didn’t really care why Riddle was prowling about Hogwarts in the early morning, but backing down from petty confrontations wasn’t exactly in his nature. He decided—because it was Draco’s decision, it was—to be magnanimous, and make an exception for the baby Dark Lord, and leave it alone.

“So,” Riddle drawled, his eyes had turned hard like quartz, “for how long are we planning on ignoring the elephant in the room?” 

Draco blinked dumbly. The—what? Was that some kind of Muggle metaphorical idiom, or—?

Riddle’s heavy, weighted dark gaze slid downwards. Draco followed his line of sight and visibly winced. Ah. Yes. That was rather incriminating. Draco stared at the jagged cut in his dress shirt, at the pools of crimson staining white—splattered down his front, at the impact spray of blood splashed across his pale throat, at the large smear of red across his shoulder—one that made the laceration look worse; more deadly, painful, and severe than it was. 

“I fail to see how it concerns you.”

“It doesn’t,” Riddle’s tone was blithe and far too agreeable. It set Draco’s nerves on edge. His lips stretched in a crooked and wicked grin, but his eyes remained razor-sharp. “I'm just curious, is all.” Draco stared. Riddle’s horrible, twisted grin widened. “You should really get that looked at.”

“I should,” he agreed easily.

The twist of Riddle’s lip radiated dark amusement. “But you won’t.” No, Draco wouldn’t. It wasn’t exactly an explainable injury. Though, that being said, it truly did require healing—even if his insides recoiled at the idea of doing magic in front of Him. But, if it got Riddle to shut up about it, then…

He raised his wand and traced it over the laceration, muttering the song-like incantation of “Vulnera Sanentur” under his breath thrice, casting the spell Severus had used to bring Draco back from Death’s door after Potter’s murder attempt. Riddle’s stare was scalding in its intensity, dark eyes burning holes into the flesh knitting itself back together.

Was this his first time witnessing such a spell? It wouldn’t surprise Draco if it were. He doubted that a sixteen year-old budding Dark Lord’s interests extended to healing, or at least, it certainly wasn’t a priority of his, and Vulnera Sanentur was a truly advanced spell. Draco only knew it because he’d wrangled it out of Severus after he’d incessantly pestered the man, driving him to near homicidal rage, until he willing to do anything to get rid of him.

Draco mumbled a “Scourgify,” and with a wave of his wand, his dress shirt reverted back to its original pristine white and the dried bloodstains disappeared from his skin, revealing the freshly healed gash, now reduced to a thickened, red raised scar. He rolled his shoulder experimentally. The pain still lingered, yet it had faded to a dull ache, instead of the sharp, biting pain from before. 

He peered up at Riddle through his lashes, liquid silver locking with smokey obsidian. Draco slowly dropped his arms, letting them hang loosely by his sides, wand dangling from his slack grip. They stared at each in tense, stretching silence. There was a torrent of unasked questions flitting behind Riddle’s too intelligent, too perceptive eyes, but he held his tongue, accurately sensing that Draco wouldn’t reveal anything, even if he weaponised his—admittedly—impressive charm. 

He exhaled, slow and sharp, deeply relieved that Riddle actually let it drop. Draco loathed constantly denying the Dark Lord, even if it was only the baby version—the stress was taking years off of his lifespan. 

The real dilemma was that Draco had questions of his own—like how did someone so evidently brilliant and extraordinarily gifted, mentally and physically deteriorate so completely? And how did the Dark Lord get wrapped up into believing all that Prophecy mumbo-jumbo? Draco, for all his naivety, had always—even in the Before—considered Prophecies to be a bunch of nonsensical rubbish.

Draco was curious, dammit—there just had to be a reason for it all, something that would explain everything. 

But, in exchange, Draco knew he’d have to offer the one thing that Riddle desired—information on the future. His selfish curiosity wasn’t worth the astronomical consequences that would arise should he indulge in it.

“Your wand…” He was drawn out of his inner musings by the curious thoughtfulness in Riddle’s tone. “It’s yew.” Draco hummed, low in his throat, fingers flexing around his wand. He twitched at the edge of interested surprise in Riddle’s expression, as if Draco wielding a wand similar to his—the Dark Lord’s bone-white wand was definitely yew—elevated him from ‘bug-he’d-like-to-squash’ to ‘bug-he’d-like-to-dissect.’

He did not like that look at all. 

“I once wielded a wand of hawthorn.”

There was a pause. Riddle’s eyebrows ticked upwards. “Oh?”

Draco’s face pinched together. “It was lost to me,” he hesitated, dug his teeth into the flesh of his bottom lip hard, then said, “during an ill-fated venture into the Forbidden Forest that involved dragons, and a ginger Dragonologist.”

Riddle was taken aback, though it hardly showed in his tightly controlled features—the slightest widening of his dark eyes, the brief tension along his jaw, the faint twitch of his arched brow. Draco understood his scepticism, his disbelief. He bet that Abraxas was utterly terrified of the blasted place, and that Riddle thought Draco to be similar—cowardice, after all, was an innate Malfoy trait. 

The mere thought of Lucius ambling through the Forbidden Forest had a cackle bursting forth, spilling unbidden from bitten, red lips—unaware that it sounded like Aunt Bella, like Sirius, like Orion, with whom Riddle was well-acquainted. 

His dark eyes, glittering like black ice, flickered and tightened, gaze raking over Draco’s face voraciously, studying him as though Riddle was seeing him for the first time. His endlessly dark, reflecting gaze threatened to consume everything else as their eyes locked—he stared as if trying to peer into Draco’s very soul. Riddle’s features shifted imperceptibly, seemingly caught between realisation, vicious glee, and smug satisfaction. It was unnerving. “You remind me of someone.”

The look on Riddle’s face had the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “Abraxas?” 

“No,” Riddle’s smile was lazy, predatory, basking in Draco’s blatant wariness like a feline in sunlight. “Orion.” 

Draco’s face shuttered like a door being slammed shut. Oh no. 

“I suppose it makes perfect sense,” the curve of his smile was a blade sharpened on all edges, “considering that you’re a Black.” Draco has to physically restrain a flinch. How did Riddle—oh. His eyes. Draco’s silvery-grey, distinctly Black eyes, as recognisable as his Malfoy hair.  

It begged the question of how long Riddle had suspected, but had been unable to confirm—until now, at least. He wondered, idly, what he’d done exactly—within the past few minutes, that had all but validated Riddle’s suspicions. This was how the Dark Lord knew, he realised, numb and horrified. The Dark Lord had most likely anticipated his parentage the instant Lucius’ and Narcissa’s courtship was announced, and then confirmed it upon his birth, as Draco was the sole offspring of a Malfoy-Black union since Riddle’s time.

His temper flickered and flared, shame and panic and rage feeding like oxygen did a flame, growing and spiralling at the knowledge that Draco had been the one to give his own heritage away, enabling the future Dark Lord’s ambiguous, unwanted interest—and he didn’t even know how. 

Draco’s temper had, and would always be his downfall, his greatest weakness. “And you’re a Gaunt. What of it?” His eyes fluttered shut briefly in dismay, regret twisting in his gut like freshly swallowed poison the instant the angry, defensive words left his lips.

“It looks like someone’s done their research.” Riddle smiled. It was a thin, empty smile below cold, bottomless eyes. “Was that why my inquiries after the Chamber had you all but fleeing my presence?” Draco clenched his jaw, fighting back the bite of acid sharp in his mouth. “I am bewildered, however, why it bothers you so.” It being his murder of a fourteen year-old girl in cold-blood. Draco was, shockingly, unsurprised by Riddle’s nonchalance, just profoundly disgusted. It must have shown on his face, for Riddle’s lip curled, and he scoffed, tone lilting patronisingly. “Come now. It was only a Mudblood.”

Draco stared, his eyes flashing in a near glare, the ghost of a snarl starting to curve his lips. His reaction seemed to amuse Riddle, whose dark eyes glittered with vile, poisonous mirth. 

If this were anyone else, Draco would argue that his deep revulsion at Riddle’s blatant disregard of a child’s murder was entirely reasonable, because they’d understand. Riddle, however, would—could not. It would require a level of empathy that Riddle simply didn’t possess. In fact, Draco highly suspected that any display of sentiment on his part would only strengthen Riddle’s already blatant contempt for him. Besides, he didn’t want to appear as sympathetic to a Muggleborn, lest the Dark Lord of Draco’s time remembered this conversation.

But, he couldn’t deny the growing itch under his skin, the desire to know—“Why did you open it?”

He’d expected for Riddle to twist this opening to his advantage, to demand knowledge of the future in exchange, to mock him for even expecting an answer—nevermind an honest one. Instead, Riddle grinned. It was a slow, sharp thing, edged with malicious glee. 

“I am—was Slytherin’s resident Mudblood.” Oh. Draco recognised that tone. It was the Dark Lord’s ‘This is a Monologue Detailing My Greatness, and You’re Blessed with the Privilege of Hearing It’ tone. “It could have been a coincidence, that I was a Parselmouth, and that the Sorting Hat had placed me in Slytherin. But, I knew. I knew that I was special, that I was unique, unlike any other wizard alive.” 

He stared, disquieted. Riddle wasn’t wrong, technically. Draco’s delusions of self-importance stemmed from the naivety of youth, of the arrogance of a child raised in a station higher than his peers, but he was still exceedingly self-aware underneath all his bravado. He knew that he had numerous faults and weaknesses, even if he would never admit to them. But, Riddle? He clearly thought himself a God amongst mortals, instead of what he really was—an extraordinarily brilliant wizard surrounded by those of only average caliber. 

“But, I was not in the position to confirm whether I was truly descended from Salazar Slytherin, the whereabouts of the legendary Chamber of Secrets, or the existence of a monster that only responded to the Heirs of Slytherin. The pure-bloods,” Riddle stared pointedly at Draco, eyes burning with black fire, looking as though he wished to kill, stuff, then mount Draco on a wall, like a prized beast, just for the sheer entertainment value, “wanted irrefutable proof. They were too proud, too afraid to blindly accept that the resident Mudblood they’d spurned so, was, in actuality, above them all.” 

He bit back the urge to roll his eyes. Draco begged to disagree. Riddle, Heir of Slytherin he may be, had nothing to his name. The Gaunts had squandered their wealth long ago, and Marvolo, Riddle’s grandfather, was expelled from the Wizengamot in 1921—so, the Gaunts held no official political sway. It was why the Dark Lord solely relied upon his followers’ wealth, political influence, and impinged on their Manors, using them as his base. 

But, Draco refused be the poor soul that informed him of that.

“So, I begun my search. I had uncovered my mother’s heritage via my middle name, ‘Marvolo,’ the name of my maternal grandfather, and the Gaunts’ bloodline connection with the Salazar Slytherin,” Riddle gave a bladed grin, his eyes gleaming a brilliant blackness. “It wasn’t long before I discovered the Chamber, and tamed the beast that dwelt within—as is my birth right.” 

Riddle’s eyes were ablaze and feral, a smouldering intensity in their depths. Draco swallowed tightly, skin tingling.

“Then, for my claim to be realised, I unleashed the beast upon the school.”

Draco’s lips moved on their own accord. “What manner of beast was it?” It had to be species of snake—for only the Heir could control it. 

“A Basilisk,” he intoned wistfully, reverently, in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. Draco’s jaw slackened. A Basilisk. Of course. The petrifications. It all made sense now. 

Draco wondered just how far he could push Riddle before he came to his senses and stopped answering. He frowned. Wait. If there had been a gigantic fucking snake slithering about Hogwarts, then someone would’ve noticed. “How did your Basilisk move about unseen?” 

Your, he’d said. Riddle stared him down, then, his lips curved into a wicked smile, like a serpent undulating its coils under the sun. “The pipes.” 

Draco blinked. Slowly. Like a cat. Pipes. Pipes. For the Basilisk to have accessed them as easily as she? he? had—then, the Chamber’s location—oh. Myrtle, during one of her more depressing rants, had spoken of her death, of seeing ‘a pair of large yellow eyes’ emerge from nowhere, but Draco had been far too preoccupied with that blasted cabinet at the time to put two-and-two together. “The entrance. It’s in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“Moaning Myrtle?” 

Ah. 

“She’s a ghost, now. Haunts the girl’s bathroom on the second-floor. Where she died.” It came out stilted, lacking his usual elegance, but discussing a victim’s fate with her murderer— 

Draco’s gut twisted in growing discomfort. 

“To have worked it out so quickly…” Riddle murmured, voice betraying nothing, still that low, oddly melodious sound, so very different from the Dark Lord’s cold, high voice. Draco shot him a dry, incredulous look. He didn’t solve shit. Myrtle and Riddle had basically handed him the answer on a silver platter. Was this an attempt at flattery? Gross.

He wondered, absently, when Riddle’s deepest desire would change—because it would. Riddle, with his Chamber of Secrets stint, had garnered the recognition, the power over his housemates he’d desperately yearned for. Riddle’s vision would now move beyond—evolve to greater, more terrible things. 

So, this may indeed be the last time they would meet like this. Draco, unsurprisingly, wasn’t at all upset by that development. “I believe that this may be our final meeting.” 

The baby Dark Lord gazed down at him, expression unreadable, eyes swirling with almost mesmerising darkness. “Do you, now?” Riddle murmured, voice a low silken purr. He nodded slowly. For a long moment the silence held, thick enough to grip Draco in a chokehold. “Well. If you’re sure.” His lips curled into a taunting, mocking smirk—like he was dead certain they’d meet again, and that Draco was an utter fool for believing otherwise. 

Perhaps he was one. But—“I am.” It rung true, the sheer sincerity, the certainty in his voice. Draco knew, somehow, that this was it.

Riddle blinked, as if startled. He stilled, watching Draco with an aloof sort of curiosity, as if he were an exhibit in a zoo. The smile that curved Riddle’s mouth was not kind, but it wasn’t cruel, either. He slowly angled his body forwards, staring at Draco with an odd sideways humour, deep and dark. Then, the humour in his eyes shattered like shards of splintered black ice, revealing a yawning, gaping pit of writhing shadow.  

The tang of terror coated Draco’s tongue, fear swelling inside him like a venomous bubble, compressing in his lungs, poisoning his insides. 

“Until we meet again, Malfoy,” he murmured in a voice so low and soft it was like velvet. “If not here, then… elsewhere.”

Draco’s face drained of all colour. There was no way—

Riddle’s lips stretched wider in pleased, cruel amusement, mouth twisted to reveal bared teeth. It was a grin that belonged on a shark. A tremor jolted through Draco, like a fault line too close to rupture. Riddle knew—or at least assumed, somehow, that they were acquainted in the future. 

He stared, dumbfounded and terror-stricken, as Riddle winked, then spun on his heel, and walked away.

Draco had, fucking stupidly, underestimated the baby Dark Lord—had arrogantly assumed that, because of his knowledge of the future, he had the upper-hand, the advantage. How idiotic. Had the Before not proven that his hubris was his fatal flaw? Had he truly learned nothing? 

He stared, blank and numb, at the empty classroom depicted in the mirror, before it blinked out of existence, leaving him standing there, all alone.

 

Notes:

I haven't had a chance to reply to all the lovely comments on the previous chapter, but idk how y'all thought tom was out of the mirror. but I'm truly sorry if my writing gave that impression!

thank you all for continuing to read this ❤︎

Chapter 27

Notes:

it has been so terribly long since I've last updated and I'm so sorry~! it's also very unedited lol so.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Blaise shook him awake, rudely ending his three hours of poor, restless sleep. The temptation to roll over and drift back off into oblivion was overwhelming, but skipping breakfast would only prove to make him even more suspicious. So, he dragged his leaden limbs out of bed, and went through the familiar motions of dressing himself in a foggy daze.

Blaise gave him the side-eye the entire walk to the Great Hall. There were a dozen unasked questions flitting through those dark, chocolate eyes of his, but Blaise voiced none—the dull, dead, exhausted look on Draco’s face an effective deterrent. 

The Great Hall was abuzz—owls hooted as they swooped in, heads were bent low in conversation, noses buried in copies of the Sunday Prophet, fearful looks carving into young faces as war became a real, tangible thing. 

Pansy immediately zeroed in on Draco, the Sunday Prophet clenched in a white-knuckled, trembling grip. Her restraint was admirable—if she wasn’t a pure-blood, Pansy would’ve launched to her to feet, stormed over, and slapped him across the face. “You knew,” she hissed quietly, accusing and scared and angry as he slid onto the bench beside her. “You owe me an explanation. You promised, Draco.” 

“I know, Pans. I know. Just—” He exhaled on a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Not here.” Pansy huffed, still angry and tense, but relented. His gaze was drawn to the Gryffindor table. Potter and his sycophants were absent. Hospital Wing, then. He absently rolled his shoulder, feeling a phantom twinge of pain. 

In the Before, Draco had been shocked and utterly furious, completely blindsided by the Prophet’s recount of his father’s capture and pending imprisonment in Azkaban. He’d been looked upon with hatred and scorn, whispers and murmurs haunting his every step. The absence of such looks confirmed that Lucius had indeed escaped capture, had successfully made it out of the Ministry—hopefully with Prophecy still intact. There were, of course, still looks thrown his way, but they were of disbelief, of contemplation, of confusion as to why Lucius Malfoys’ name was not also listed.

It was irrefutable proof that he’d truly changed the timeline.

He exhaled shakily, chewing on his bottom lip. The school term ended in a few days and Draco would return to Malfoy Manor. He was terribly uncertain as to what fate awaited him, as despite Lucius’ success in retrieving the Prophecy, the Death Eaters were still captured. The Dark Lord, he knew, would be displeased, but the extent of his displeasure was unknowable. It was simply a matter of whether or not He considered the Prophecy to be a worthy trade for the loss of His most loyal.

Draco, however, was secretly delighted—with the Death Eaters gone, there’d be less murder-happy morons roaming the Manor’s corridors. 

He glanced down at Theo, Crabbe and Goyle, who were seated far away from everyone, looking a complicated mixture of morose and humiliated and furious. His black heart ached with sympathy. It was not easy, he knew, having your father’s name smeared across the Sunday Prophet, especially not in such a negative context—allegiances bared for everyone to see, to ridicule, to condemn. 

Sirius' fate was also unknown to him. If Potter were present, it would only take one look at his ever expressive face to confirm whether Sirius was dead, or if he still lived and breathed to spite Draco by keeping the Black family’s books from him. 

He sculled a goblet of scalding hot coffee, relishing in the burn down his throat. He glanced up, only to jerk as if a live wire was pressed to his spine, coffee sloshing over the goblet’s rim, as he met blue twinkling eyes over half-moon spectacles. Draco’s head snapped down, staring at the spilled coffee droplets trickling down his hand, dripping onto the table.

Dumbledore knows. It’s a hysterical thought, one that vibrated relentlessly in his skull. He knows, heknowsheknows, he knows—

He stared, unseeing, at the Sunday Prophet article. He wondered, idly, how the Professors felt, seeing their ex-students names listed in the Prophet, alongside their crimes of mass murder, torture, arson, espionage, terrorism—

What had his Professors thought about him? Draco hadn’t, not once, considered how his taking the Dark Mark, letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and attempting to assassinate Dumbledore was perceived by his Professors. It had hardly mattered at the time, but now…

Draco winced. If he continued to dwell, to ponder over it, he’d succumb to the overwhelming guilt that still lingered, long since forced into the furthermost recesses of his mind.


It took Severus all of ten seconds to corner Draco after he exited the Great Hall.

A hand clamped down on his forearm, grip like an iron shackle, bodily hurling Draco into the nearest classroom. Severus cast a Colloportus and Muffliato on the room before rounding on him, his black cloak swirling like a sea of writhing shadows. 

Severus looked awful. His greasier than usual hair hung limp around his pallid, gaunt face, and dark purple smudges bruised the skin beneath his exhausted, beady eyes. His mouth was tightened into a grim line, pale face pinched and angry. “You have some explaining to do.”

“Is there any explanation that you’ll actually accept?” He leant back against a desk, folding his arms across his chest, expression carefully blank. 

“The truth.”

Draco stared, grey eyes flickering back and forth between each of Severus’. “You already know.” Because he did. He could see it in Severus’ eyes. “So, why are you asking me?”

“Because, perhaps, if you hear your stupidity spoken out loud, then you will be enlightened as to how much you resemble a Gryffindor with your despicably bold acts of stupidity—” Draco bristled, indignant. He hadn’t gone charging in, wand waving, spewing threats and making heroic proclamations, trying to save everyone. He’d snuck in under a Disillusionment Charm and manipulated the situation to his benefit, working in the shadows with none the wiser. Well, almost none. But Dumbledore and Severus didn’t count. Dumbledore was… Dumbledore, and Severus was The Spy. “—And that’s not even accounting for how you even knew of the plan’s existence in the first place.”

His lips parted, ready to spill some lie, but Severus held up his hand, shaking his head. “No. I don’t want to hear it. Just—” Severus exhaled on an exhausted sigh. “Be careful, Draco. You’re not half as clever as you think you are.”

Okay. Ouch. 

“Thank you, Severus,” he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm, “your faith in me knows no bounds.” 

The exhaustion on Severus’ face faded, swiftly replaced with brightly burning anger. “You foolish, foolish boy!” Severus snarled, expression twisting. “Would it kill you to, for once in your miserable little life, take something seriously? This isn’t a joke, Draco.”

Draco abruptly pushed off the desk, stalking forward, voice sharpening with a flash of teeth. “You think I don’t know that?” There was something roiling and twisting in his chest—dark, heavy, and cloying. “I’m very aware of—”

“Then, act like it!” Severus’ voice cut through the air like a hot knife, leaving a silence in its wake that was tangible, his words ringing in the air like an echo. Draco was acting like it. He knew, better than anyone, what was at stake. 

Draco’s chest heaved as he struggled to bite back the scalding retort resting on the tip of his tongue. It was a reprimand born out of concern, he knew, showed in the only way Severus knew how—worry hidden behind scathing, biting remarks. He would die before admitting it, but it still hurt, despite knowing Severus’ true intent, to have such cutting words directed at him. 

He blew out a breath of frustration. “It’s fine, alright?” Severus shot him a dubious look. “I’m fine.” He gestured exaggeratedly at himself. “See?” Was he, though? “Lucius is—” Draco paused “—ah, well he’s probably not fine.” The Dark Lord had, most likely, unleashed his displeasure at the captured Death Eaters on Lucius. “But, he’s not imprisoned, nor dead—” At least, Draco hoped he wasn’t “—so, he’s fine. Well, ‘fine’ by Death Eater standards—” 

Severus exhaled something that could be mistaken for a laugh, swiftly ending Draco's inane, nervous babbling. His shoulders slumped, posture deflating like a balloon. “I would prefer it if, in the future, you would consult me before partaking in any harebrained schemes you conceive.”

Draco's lips stretched in a crooked smirk. “No promises.”


He stared out at the glittering surface of the Black Lake, distantly registering the rustle of clothing as Pansy sat beside him on the soft, sun-warmed grass. 

“So?”

He twitched. “‘So,’ what?” 

Pansy made a noise of exasperated frustration. “I’ve been extremely patient, Draco.” His thin and pale fingers tugged at the grass, twisting the thin strands, tearing them from the earth. “I want you to be honest with me.” She paused, hesitant. Then, “Just this once.” That had him turning to her. Pansy’s dark eyes stared back, fathomless and unreadable. He swallowed, throat dry. “Blaise and I have given you a lot of leeway.” He winced. “We understand that you aren’t in a position to share much of what is occurring in your… ‘personal life,’ but Draco—” 

Her voice cracked, expression spasming, flicking through a multitude of emotions in a split-second, before going utterly blank. Draco sighed, long and drawn-out, the bright sound of laughter erupting from a group of Hufflepuffs seated nearby filling the silence. He would have to lie to her. Again. Guilt swelled in his throat. He was such a liar, liarliar, liar—

“Draco,” there was something firm yet kind in her voice, “look at me. Please.”

He exhaled shakily, slowly turning his head. Pansy stared, her eyes flitting over his face, voracious and intense. Something must have shown in his expression for Pansy’s face crumpled.

“You were there,” Pansy breathed, voice full of quiet horror, face pale, “weren’t you?” He flinched when Pansy flung her arms over his shoulders, winding around his neck, drawing him into a hug. His jaw slackened, silvery grey eyes blown wide. 

What—? 

Pansy drew back, small hands moving to cradle his face, expression pinched in concern. “You aren’t hurt, are you?” 

“I’m—what? No. No, I’m not,” he stammered, dumbfounded that her first, instinctive reaction was concern, instead of the suspicion he expected. But then, one of her hands shifted from his face, sliding down his arm, settling on his left forearm, where she squeezed—No. No, nonono—

“You weren’t—” Pansy hesitated, face pinching, dark eyes searching. “You weren’t there as one of them, were you?”

Draco made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “No. No. Absolutely not.” 

She let out a sigh of relief, then, her fingers tightened their grip on his face, eyes narrowing. “Wait. If you weren’t there for them, then… why?” Pansy paused, then gasped, something akin to horror creeping into her expression. “Please, please tell me that it wasn’t for Potter—” He snorted, loud and so very un-pure-blood-like that Pansy instantly fell silent. Then, “So, why?”

He blew out a deep breath, heavy and exhausted. “Pans—”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted, “you can’t say?” Her words were antagonistic, but her tone was not. Pansy looked calm. Understanding. Why wasn’t she mad? Draco would be, if Pansy kept a thing of such significance from him. It must’ve shown in his expression, for she dropped her hand, removing it from his face with a sigh. “I’m not mad.”

“Why not?” He demanded, temper rising. How was she so nonchalant?

“I would be mad, except—oh, seriously, Draco!” Pansy threw her hands up in the air in a gesture of utter exasperation. “I don’t want to have anything to do with the type of secrets you’re keeping.” He went deathly still. Whatever expression he made had her nodding to herself, as if confirming something. “Just—” Pansy sighed, heavy and weary. “Be careful, okay?” 

He swallowed, a tight knot in his chest. “I’ll try.”


“Young Mr Malfoy.”

Draco’s chest tightened, his stomach lurching into his throat. “Professor.” His face twisted into an artificial smile that landed more in the pained grimace territory. Draco refused to meet those twinkling, too-blue eyes he could feel boring holes into him, staring steadfastly at the rim of the old coot’s ugly half-moon spectacles instead.

“It’s rather late for a stroll, don’t you agree?” Draco ached to launch a Quaffle, point-blank, at his old, withered face. “You should be resting in preparation for the long journey home tomorrow.” Home. He bit back the urge to sneer. The Manor hadn’t been ‘home’ to Draco in a long, long time. 

Dumbledore had to know who occupied the Manor—Severus had undoubtedly informed him—and yet, the old coot obviously had no qualms about sending a child under his care there. Did he think Draco safe amongst ‘family?’ That his status as Lucius Malfoy’s son and Bellatrix Lestrange’s nephew would protect him?

What a delusional old fool.

He was aware that he should respond, but his tongue felt as though it had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. His continued silence didn’t deter Dumbledore, however, who kept on smiling that serene fucking smile of his. Draco had never wanted to hurt someone more. 

His fingers twitched, slowly curling into fists. He granted Dumbledore a stilted, stiff nod, and turned to leave, mouth tight with bottled annoyance, restless, nervous energy still writhing under his skin. It was why he’d been aimlessly wandering the corridors, trying—and failing—to expel it. If it weren’t for the existence of a certain mirror, he’d have sequestered himself away inside the Room of Requirement, casting spell after spell until exhaustion overtook him, until the jitters subsided.  

But, no. He’d been interrupted. Because, of course he had.

The universe was conspiring against him, of that Draco was absolutely certain.

“Before you go, a word of advice?” There was an indecipherable layer of something in Dumbledore’s tone. Draco braced himself for some cryptic bullshit. “We are all free to make choices, Young Mr Malfoy, but ultimately, we are not free to choose the consequences of those choices.” Draco stared, lips curling downwards. This was about the fucking Ministry, wasn’t it?

He’d evidently assumed that Draco had meant to save Aunt Bella, and that Sirius’ continued existence was collateral—if he was still alive, that is—nevermind that Aunt Bella could be burning alive and he wouldn’t cast so much as an Aguamenti to help her. But, Draco was the sole individual aware of the prior outcome; Sirius dead, Aunt Bella victorious. 

So, to Dumbledore, it looked as though he were saving his frothing Aunt’s life, not Sirius’.

It was a logical conclusion, one he would’ve made himself without all the necessary facts. So, he wasn’t angry at the assumption. Not at all. But, what did irritate him was Dumbledore’s underhanded, twisted attempt at guilt-tripping Draco. 

He’d carefully, specifically spoken those particular ‘Profound Words of Wisdom.’ It was a reminder that, because he’d ‘saved’ Aunt Bella—which he hadn’t, she would’ve lived regardless of his interference—all the blood of her subsequent victims was on his hands. 

Dumbledore, the quintessential Gryffindor; figurehead and symbol of all things Light, was more of a Slytherin than Draco, who’d been sorted before the hat could even touch his head. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor,” he smiled, face shattering and breaking around it, an insincere attempt at sincerity. 


The tension in their Hogwarts’ Express compartment was stifling, oppressive, near-unbearable, and Draco was honestly, genuinely tempted to fling himself out of the window. 

He shifted restlessly, careful not to jostle Pansy, who was asleep, head pillowed on his shoulder, one hand resting on Draco’s thigh, the other loosely intertwined with Blaise’s fingers. He exhaled on a sigh, breath ruffling the dark strands of Pansy’s hair, envying her ability to fall asleep—especially here and now, in a place where the tension was thick enough to choke on.

He had, unsurprisingly, slept poorly last night—too full of restless energy, no thanks to Dumbledore’s little interruption, and it would be pointless to try and sleep now; his nerves were all tensed and coiled, like a spring, tightly wound and stretched to its limit, ready to snap.

The sole positive of returning to the Manor, his own personal House of Horrors, was his mother. His heart twisted up inside of him, trying to burrow out through his ribs. He missed her so, so much. He prayed for her safety, that any punishment the Dark Lord bestowed upon Lucius did not extend to her. He was also desperate to know Lucius’ fate. If Draco’s, admittedly, ill-thought-out plan was successful and the Malfoys were spared His wrath. If it was all in vain and Draco was, once again, slated to take the mark, to relive the nightmare that was his sixth year. The not-knowing was driving him mad. 

He stared out at the sky, a beautiful blue with soft rolling clouds.

It was at breakfast earlier that morning, when Potter—who had, at some point within the past eighteen-hours, been released from the infirmary—had finally shown his ugly mug. In the Before, Potter had looked like a shell of himself. His too-green eyes exhausted, empty, dead. Yet, earlier today, Potter had been his irritatingly Saviour-like self, which was as good as a verbal confirmation; Sirius lived.

He paused, realising that, somewhat numbly, he could’ve changed Aunt Bella’s fate. No. If she’d died, then Dumbledore’s words were non-sensible, pointless. The old coot would never waste his precious time on the likes of Draco Malfoy if it was truly unnecessary. It must make him feel superior, Draco mused, bestowing bullshit ‘wisdom’ upon a troubled youths.

He stared at Theo’s reflection in the window, taking in his distant, desolate expression, pondering, absently, what would happen to Theo—whose father was in Azkaban, whose mother is long dead. Nothing good, he supposed, grimacing inwardly. 

The Hogwarts Express eventually came to a standstill, and Draco had never wanted to leave it less. 

He gently shook Pansy awake, who blinked up at him with sleep-soft, confused eyes. Fondness bloomed in his chest, warm and tender. “We’ve arrived,” he murmured, voice low. Pansy grunted in acknowledgement, staggering to her feet, still half-sleep, slumping against Blaise’s side when he attempted to steady her. He huffed out a faint laugh, shaking his head. 

Then, glacial grey locked on dark, navy blue.

Theo’s expression spasmed, crumbling, as he turned away, heading for the door. Draco watched him leave, dread settling into his bones. He had a Bad Feeling about this. 

He reluctantly trailed after Theo, Crabbe and Goyle, stepping out onto the platform, Pansy and Blaise at his back. He scanned the crowd, searching for—

He inhaled sharply, the air making his chest tight and burning. 

Narcissa, ever the picture of poise and grace, with her ornately-styled updo, luxurious robes and opulent jewellery, stood to the side, beside the Apparition point. His feet moved without conscious input, cutting through the boisterous crowd, only to falter as he drew closer. 

It was, admittedly, barely noticeable; her chosen attire sufficiently distracted—anyone but Draco, it would seem—from the truth, which was that she looked dreadful. To him, her ensemble did little to hide the stress, tight and coiled, in the line of her shoulders, how her robes, once perfectly tailored to fit her figure, hung loose on her frail frame, how her delicate features were taut and strained with exhaustion, and how the skin beneath her dull, silver eyes was stretched far too thin.

Draco pushed down the mess of emotions choking through his gut and up his throat, curled his trembling fingers into white-knuckled fists and closed the distance between them. He reached for her hand, aching to hold it, the gesture causing the ice in her gaze to melt, the hard slant to her mouth to soften. 

He gritted his teeth against the hundreds of unasked questions rattling inside his mouth, because none, he knew, could be spoken in public. Narcissa shot him a questioning, searching look, to which he nodded, and together they glided toward the Apparition point, the crowd parting like the sea before them.


Malfoy Manor was quiet. Unnervingly so.

It had been five, almost six years—the summer prior to Draco’s fourth year in the Before, in fact—since the Manor had been this silent.

The sound of their footsteps on the sleek, wooden floors echoed around him as they walked through the Manor’s long, winding hallways. His mother tightened her grip on his hand, all but dragging him towards the master bedroom. Narcissa placed an open palm on the door, pushing it open.

Draco inhaled, slow and sharp, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

Lucius’ appearance was immaculate—long, sleek white-blonde tied back with a black ribbon, dark and extravagant robes impeccable—but, just like Narcissa, there was a haggardness, an exhaustion lining his features that had Draco’s heart twisting in his chest, a sharp little pain that made his breath catch.

He staggered forward, arms extending. Lucius reached back, movements stiff and strained, fingernails digging into Draco’s forearm, his grip unrelenting, using his hold to tug Draco closer. It hurt Lucius to move, he realised—but, at least he could move. Those icy-blue eyes, dead tired yet extraordinarily sharp, raked over Draco voraciously, as if drinking the sight of him in.

“My son,” he croaked, voice strained. Draco swallowed, throat tight—complicated their relationship may be, there was no denying his love for Lucius was immense. 

“Father,” he murmured, face pinched, “are you—”

“I’m fine, Draco.” 

He pursed his lips, checking his irritation at having his concern dismissed, staring at the defiant and defensive look on Lucius’ face. Still. Draco arched a brow, expression schooled into one of scepticism, disbelief. Lucius grimaced, eyes flickering, jaw tensing. 

Then, Narcissa stepped forward, resting gentle hands on both their shoulders. His father deflated, melting under her touch. Draco, too, slumped, exhaling on a sigh as tension bled from his stiff limbs. Narcissa, slowly, gently, tugged Draco to her, holding him close and carding tender fingers through his soft locks. He sunk into her embrace, fingers still clasped tightly around Lucius’ forearm, basking in the comfort and warmth of his family.


It was Severus that found Draco, a week later, curled up in a plush, velvet armchair in the corner of the Manor’s library, reading the thick tome open on his lap. 

He jerked at the sound of approaching footsteps, glacial grey meeting inky-black. 

Severus still looked ill, he noted, observing the wan pallor of his face, how his features were pinched and drawn, how the bruises beneath his eyes had darkened to a truly pitiful shade of deep purple.

“Come.”

His black robes swirled around his ankles like liquid shadow as he turned, fully expecting Draco’s compliance, for him to follow. Draco stared after him, gaze like ice, agitation thrumming under his skin. He wasn’t a dog. Severus, upon reaching the library threshold, noticed the absence of a second pair of footsteps, and whirled around, expression murderous. 

“Now, Draco.”  

Draco’s upper lip curved upwards ever so slightly, face twitching as he fought the deep-seated impulse to sneer. He exhaled on an irritable sigh, slammed the tome shut with far more force than truly necessary, and clambered to his feet, stalking petulantly after Severus, knowing better than to ask whowhatwhenwherewhy, for he would receive no answer. 

Severus led Draco through the winding corridors and down two sets of stone stairs without encountering a single soul. It was baffling, truly. During his Yule break, the instant he left his warded bedroom, he was accosted by Death Eaters and Dark creatures alike. But, since His most loyal were imprisoned and His return was now public knowledge, the need for secrecy, to work in the shadows was gone. 

Hence why all His goons were elsewhere, completing various missions, leaving ‘headquarters’—and oh, how it disgusted Draco to have his family Manor reduced to that—essentially empty. He hadn’t, much to his relief, encountered the Dark Lord—who had been conspicuously absent from the Manor since Draco’s return—and had only seen Aunt Bella once, very briefly to confirm her continued existence and exchange useless pleasantries, before she was gone again, off completing whatever task she’d been assigned.

He hadn’t noticed His followers’ absence in the Before, as at this stage Draco had been rather preoccupied; he’d already been ‘gifted’ the Dark Mark, been assigned his suicide-mission, and given to Aunt Bella’s ‘capable’ hands for training. It was all so different, and he no longer knew what to expect.

So, when he trailed after Severus, his heart sunk like a stone, pulse fluttering in panic upon realising their destination. It was made significantly worse by the terrible and familiar swirl of dark that brushed against the Manor wards—which Draco had been recently granted partial control over due to Lucius’ raging paranoia. His gaze, alarmed and furious, bored angry holes into the back of Severus’ head. Severus halted at the heavy wooden door, flicked a warning glare over his shoulder, before twisting the bronze handle, pulling it open.

His stomach churned, intestines twisting. It was a scene straight out of Draco’s nightmares.

It couldn’t be, he reasoned semi-hysterical, gaze swinging from Aunt Bella to Lucius to Narcissa to Barty to Severus. It was the same room, same audience—save for Barty—for his Initiation as in the Before. Draco ignored the way his heart slammed against his chest and stepped inside, boots clacking on the polished floorboards. The noise had every head swivelling towards him.

Cold fear crawled into Draco’s throat. 

It couldn’t be.

His gaze locked onto Narcissa’s, feet moving, as if on auto-pilot, to stand beside her. He could feel eyes boring into him, felt it like a physical touch. Draco turned. Aunt Bella’s dark eyes were a gaping, writhing pit of madness, lips stretched into a wide, crazed grin—razor-sharp and anticipatory. Draco’s throat tightened, his next breath strangled in his lungs. 

It couldn’t be. 

Then, the door creaked open, slow and hesitant. 

Draco knew, instantly and without looking, that it wasn’t the Dark Lord. His magic—which shrouded Him like a shadow, poisoning the air like a toxic cloud; malevolent, vicious, dark—was unmistakably absent. The tangled knot in his throat loosened, the tension bleeding out his shoulders. He turned, and—oh. 

His presence hit Draco like ice water and he stiffened, a tingling numbness spread from his chest, constricting his lungs. Draco stared. Dumbstruck. Horrified. Confused. Relieved. 

Theo radiated anxiety and fear—spine cranked tight, dark eyes haunted, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Baby Nott,” Aunt Bella crooned. “The youngest to take His mark.” Right. Theo was still fifteen. “Your father would be so proud.” Ah. Theo straightened, a gleam of pride flitting behind his eyes. Draco forgot that, despite her insanity, Aunt Bella was a manipulative little witch.

He pitied Theo—truly, but it was minuscule in comparison to his bone-deep relief. It wasn’t him; Draco wasn’t going to take the Dark Mark. Theo was.

Then, he felt it. That encroaching, oppressive dark miasma of unending despair and malice.

The Dark Lord had arrived.

 

Notes:

this chapter was more of a filler, which I’m so sorry for, but there were conversations that needed to be had before the plot moved forward.
also. dumbledore was disgustingly difficult to write and I am never doing it again.