Chapter Text
"Father?" Draco stared at his father, eyes wide.
Lucius Malfoy lay, motionless, on the carpeted floor of the Manor. One hand was dismembered, flung into the corner of the room, and a livid gash ran across the length of the man's face.
"Mother! Mother, come quickly!" The Malfoy heir waited with bated breath for his mother's hurried footsteps, but they never came.
Draco sank to the ground, overcome with grief.
deadmumdaddeadmumdaddeadmumdaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead
The ground dropped from under him, and he awoke with a jerk, whimpers escaping from his lips.
"Shh, Draco, it's alright." Mrs Weasley caressed his forehead. "I'm here. Do you want to tell me about it?"
"My p-parents," he choked out. Ron was beginning to stir in the bed across the room.
"Again? Oh, sweetie." Mrs Weasley pulled him upright, rubbing his back. "I'm here now. I know it's not the same, but I'll look after you, Draco. You have my word."
Poor boy, she thought to herself sadly. It had been, what, three weeks since his parents were killed by a notorious murderer in the Muggle world, and Draco had been having the same dream every night. And every night, Mrs Weasley told him the same thing. But did he believe her?
"Mum?" Ron moaned.
"Back to sleep, Ronald. Goodnight, Draco."
"G'night, Mrs Weasley," he murmured sleepily.
"It's high time you called me Molly, love."
"G'night, Molly."
Mrs Weasley closed the door, a sad smile playing across her lips. She loved the boy; had since the moment Dumbledore turned up on her doorstep, the distraught nine-year-old in his arms. Her boys had been slow to warm up to the blond, but Ginny and Draco had formed a close friendship, and Ron had soon followed suit. It had been less than a month, yet the matriarch couldn't imagine life without him.
* * * *
Sunday dawned bright and clear. Charlie and Percy were up at first light, shoving forgotten items into their trunks and wolfing down a massive breakfast. The twins, of course, overslept, and were roused by Mrs Weasley's exasperated yells.
"Fred! George! Up, NOW!"
They lifted their heads sleepily, grinning at each other from opposite sides of the room, until a sudden realisation hit them.
"Hogwarts," George spluttered.
"Late!" Fred choked out.
They leapt out of bed, a sinking feeling at the pits of their stomachs.
"George?"
"Yeah?"
"Have you-"
"Packed? Oh, Merlin!"
The twins began haphazardly shoving things into trunks; spellbooks and odd socks flying through the air.
"Honestly," came Percy's voice from the doorway. "I know you're first years" (with an air of superiority) "but one would think... Oh, never mind."
Fred glared at his older brother. "Are you just going to stand there and watch, or are you going to help?"
Percy smirked. "I think I'll stand and watch for just a little longer, Freddie, dear."
The twins' cheeks blazed the distinctive Weasley red, anger threatening to spill out, as Percy looked on condescendingly.
"C'mon, Perce. Surely there must be a packing spell?"
With a resigned sigh, Percy waved his wand and muttered a command under his breath. Belongings immediately began to fold themselves neatly and come to rest in the boys' battered trunks.
"Boys!" Mrs Weasley roared. "Downstairs, now!"
Three pairs of feet clattered down the narrow staircase, trunks and robes in tow. Ginny, Draco, Ron and Bill sat, bleary-eyed, at the cherrywood dining table, plates heaped with bacon, toast and sausages before them. When they caught sight of the twins, Ron choked on his cereal.
"What?" said George defensively.
"Get dressed in the dark?" Ron forced out, Draco thumping him on the back.
The pair looked down at themselves in dismay. Fred was wearing a bright purple sock and an ankle length, spotty one, paired with shorts and an oversize, inside out, red jumper, knitted, no doubt, by his mother, while George was adorned in a pair of Ginny's frilly socks and ill-fitting overalls.
"We were in a hurry, ok?" Fred said, and they made to go upstairs.
"No time to change now," Mrs Weasley said, stifling a smile at the sight of her sons.
"But-"
"We'll be the-"
"Laughing stock-"
"Of the school!"
"I'm sorry, but if we don't leave now, we'll miss the train! You'll be in your robes soon enough anyway."
"Fine." The twins exchanged woeful glances.
* * * *
"Write to us!" Mrs Weasley called over the bustle of Platform 9 3/4. Draco, Ginny and Ron were clutched to her sides.
"We will, Mum," Fred and George said, ignoring the laughs directed at their apparel.
"I love you, boys," she said, fixing a stray hair across Fred's face.
"Mum!" he squirmed, "I'm too old for this!"
"Oh, of course," she said sadly, "bye now, loves. Have fun, and be good."
The Hogwarts Express whistled, and the children swarmed inside its scarlet belly. The remainders of the family waved furiously, and a single tear slipped from Mrs Weasley's eye. Her children were growing up too fast.
* * * *
Back at the Burrow, Draco and Ginny were happily playing wizard chess - although they didn't have much of a grasp on the rules, and the chess pieces would pipe up every few seconds to insult them - and Ron was lying on his stomach, reading a comic. Mrs Weasley was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping lukewarm tea and watching her children play. Nostalgia surfaced every once in a while, and she desperately missed the days before Hogwarts, when all the kids were home and the Burrow was full of noise. Her heart ached; watching her babies grow up and leave home was a much more emotionally taxing task than she'd ever imagined.
A loud crash pulled the woman out of her musings, and she hurried over to Draco and Ginny. They had managed to pull one of the cluttered shelves down, and it had narrowly missed them. Draco stood, stiff as a board, against the wall, hands clenched tightly into fists.
"Carelessness! You could have been killed!" Mrs Weasley squawked. "How could you!"
Draco flinched, eyes wide and terrified. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Weasley." He dropped to his knees and hurriedly gathered up shards of glass, exhaling sharply when one nicked his finger but continuing none the less, blood spattering the carpet.
Mrs Weasley muttered something under her breath and Draco's wound closed over. "That's enough of that, Draco. I'll do that," she reprimanded. "Now, explain to me what happened."
Ginny pouted. "It's Draco's fault, Mum. I didn't do anything."
"Is that true, Draco?"
"Yes, Mrs Weasley." The boy's voice was quavering.
"For Merlin's sake, call me Molly!"
"Sorry, Mrs W- Molly."
She took Draco by the shoulders, and he flinched sharply, shying away from her grip. "Just because you're new to this house, it doesn't mean you can get away with this. I've told you before to leave the shelves alone."
He stared at her, eyes wide and frightened.
"Draco?" Mrs Weasley said, dangerously quiet. "Answer me!"
A great tremor ran through his body. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean it!"
Mrs Weasley's heart instantly softened. "Oh, love. I'm sorry for being so harsh."
"Please don't hit me, Father!" His eyes were glazed over, and any attempts to rouse him went unnoticed. The boy was somewhere else.
"Is Draco alright, Mummy?" Ginny piped up, curious.
"I don't think so, Gin," Mrs Weasley said distractedly, fixated on the whimpering child before her.
He suddenly snapped out of his reverie, slumping into Mrs Weasley's embrace. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, drawing a great, shuddering breath. "I won't do it again."
"Love, can you tell me what you were thinking about, just now?"
"I was afraid."
"Afraid of what, little one?"
He buried his head in Mrs Weasley's shirt.
"Draco?" she prompted.
"Please don't hit me!" he wailed.
"Did your parents hit you? Is that what you were thinking about?"
"I'm not allowed to talk about it." The monotone was back; the little boy's face wiped clean of expression.
"You can tell me."
"No, I can't. Father will be angry."
"Draco, love, your father is dead. Talk to me. Did your parents hit you?"
"Yes," he cried, then clamped a hand tightly over his mouth.
"Oh, Draco," she murmured into his hair, rocking him back and forth. She remembered the faint marks on his back she'd noticed days after he came to the Burrow, the bruises up and down his legs that she'd dismissed as rough play - he was a nine year old boy, after all. But now she was wondering if it was more malicious forces at work.
"Mum?" Ginny prodded her mother's dimpled elbow. "Draco's asleep."
And indeed he was, his small features relaxed, angelic. Mrs Weasley kissed him softly and carried him upstairs to bed.