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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE 

"But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it the most, our one fellow and brother who most needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners and supremest?" - Mark Twain's Autobiography. 

"I have been told for a long time that I was not smart, nor sensitive, enough to be of any use to the Wizarding World. The same Wizarding World that afterwards condemned me for the one thing that I - rather regrettably, I might say - did well. Perhaps, if assumptions weren't made, I would have taken a different road. Perhaps it would all have gone the same way that children nowadays study with Professor Binns at Hogwarts in this very moment. 

What I cannot say about the what if's, I definitely can say about the why's. The Wizarding Society we live in delights in the work of so-called journalists such as Mrs. Rita Skeeter, famous for rather dramatic - not to say entirely incorrect - version of a few facts, especially in regards to two pivots of what I will call here the Third Wizarding War: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. 

Muggles have an interesting divination system called Tarot, which consists on a deck - much like exploding snap - of seventy-eight cards with archetypes, meanings and ideas that are positioned with a defined purpose in their positions in order to determine the outcome, the future. Those archetypes are nearly universal and studied by many Literature Masters such as the muggles Vladmir Propp and Joseph Campbell, and will also help me outline my thoughts. 

First, we have the Three of Pentacles, which means teamwork, representing a network of help at hands reach. We also have the Hierophant card, linked with the former one, representing mentorship figures, teachers. We have the Sun card meaning clarity and assurance of one's path, the sun literally shining its light upon the right road to follow. We have the Magician card (which is sort of funny), which represents the willpower that comes of that certainty of walking on the right side of the line, and also stands for a resourceful individual, someone with all the tools at their disposal. And then we have the Devil card, which means addiction and negativity, a dependency of some sort, being that material or otherwise. 

Those cards represent the hero's journey, or, at least, the current Wizarding Hero's journey, a tale of horrors and grief, yes, but also of great friendships, of a prophecy-made hero who had no other real option but to fight or see everyone he loved die, the network of aid he had from beginning to end, either from people, magical beings or fate, and about having an evil to defeat, an obvious obstacle for peace and happiness to be put down on the way to the happily ever after. 

That is not to say that Mr. Potter's path was an easy one - it is just to say that it was written for him, as he himself said a number of times, and the least resistance path was just to follow it. Much was spoken about the courage of the Boy-Who-Lived, and while he did earn it, I wonder where he would be without the many friends he easily cultivated throughout the years, taking into account the pre-emptive assumption from people around him that, because he defeated Voldemort unwillingly at the age of one, he was on the right side - the side of the light, of bravery, nobility and justice, from the very beginning. 

The expectations placed on Mr. Potter from a very early age molded him just as the expectations placed upon me made me think I could never be a writer. Breaking out of those expectations is an incredibly difficult process that can take many years of one's life, and never even be recognized by those around them. 

Well, Mr. Potter will have to forgive me, but I am not here to talk about The Magician's tale, or the hero journey. I am not here to write another unauthorized - and rather sensationalist - piece on his remarkable life. I would even dare to say that my work, aided by the wonderful Miss Lovegood, who kindly encouraged me to write and publish this unwritten side of the story, would interest him, since it sheds some light on many events he witnessed, but probably could never make sense of, and with good reason. For one so used at looking at the light, it does become difficult to see in the dark. 

With no further delay, I am here to tell the tale of the Four of Cups, of the Knight of Swords, of the Seven of Wands, the Hanged Man. I am here to tell the tale of wrongly interpreted appearances and lies, of a son and his wish to be loved by his father, of a decision, just at the right time, that such a love wasn't worth the future of the Wizarding World. 

It is easy to walk a path laid out for you. The hard thing is to look around, having nowhere else to go, and still making your own way through a forest of thorns, with no defense but the skin that grows over your bones. 

He will have to forgive me, but I am not here to have another take at the Harry Potter tale. 

Instead, I am here to tell the story about Draco Malfoy."

"People are looking at me." Draco told Pansy as she watched her ass on a mirror, just to check if those robes made her wonderful derrière justice. From the window shop, some people discreetly pointed and whispered, looking at him. 

"You're being paranoid again, darling." She turned to him, the fabric around her hugging her hips just so, the color shifting from a pretty pink to a purple at the light change angles with her movement. "And you're way too pretty to spend a lifetime on the Janus Thickey ward." 

"Pansy." He insisted through gritted teeth, forcing himself to stay relaxed on the chair he was sitting. She rolled her eyes and looked outside, pretending she was twirling so he could see all angles of the garment. 

Once the twirling was over, he saw the shift on her expression. "It doesn't mean anything, Draco. You know people look." 

Still, he checked to see if the Dark Mark was properly covered, and it was. Despite being warm outside, he wore long sleeves, as always. Some people thought, since his father, that the Malfoys thought it was more elegant than short sleeves. 

Little they knew what those sleeves hid in most cases. 

As they walked out of the shop, a few more people gathered around the streets, watching them. Pansy, who was looking more and more afraid of the attention - perhaps they were framing them for something? Merlin knew which lengths people would go to try to right something they thought wrong, like their freedom after the war - almost jumped out of her skin when a twelve-year-old girl approached them, looking meek. 

"Mr. Malfoy." She called Draco, who stopped, forcing a calm, polite façade. "Hello."

"Hi." He answered. "May I have your name as well?" 

"I'm Abigail." She answered. 

"What do I owe your courtesy today, Miss Abigail?" He asked, common courtesy coming easily despite the fear. Being a Malfoy, as we well knew, was being able to keep sharp and in control during stressful and potentially dangerous situations. 

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for throwing that water balloon at you two weeks ago." The girl told him, watching her feet. 

His eyebrows rose. It was her, then. Well, no matter. Children were bound to do such things, especially when their parents badmouthed him in front of the little ones at home. He knew they did it. 

"I will forgive you," He said and she smiled excitedly. "Under one condition." 

Her exhilaration deflated. "What?" 

He leaned forward as if to tell her a secret, catching her attention. "Can you tell me why are all those people looking at me?" He asked. 

"Oh," She smiled, probably glad the condition would be so easily met. "That's because of the Quibbler." 

Pansy beat him to it. "The newspaper?"

Abigail nodded solemnly. "That one, by Miss Lovegood, yes." She said. "There is a guy there writing about-" 

"Abigail! What did I tell you about talking with strangers- Oh, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Parkinson." The woman, visibly Abigail's mother, watched them with an expression of wonder. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you."

He exchanged a look with Pansy. Even after five years since the official end of the war, people were still distasteful of him, to say the least. The sudden change of heart was at least worthy of suspicion. 

"Madam." He bowed his head politely. "It's not a problem. Your daughter, as I take it, was telling me about some article on the Quibbler about me?" 

"You haven't read it?" She opened a smile. "It's a continuous piece, as I understand. It'll be printed weekly. I can't wait for the next edition of it." After a pause, finally, she realized that neither Draco nor Pansy were aware of the contents of the article. "I'm sorry, I assumed you knew about it, since your friend is the one writing it." 

"My friend?"

"Yes, that young boy that was released from Azkaban just after his trial, who was it-" She struggled to remember, snapping her fingers repeatedly. 

"Gregory Goyle?" Pansy suggested and the woman beamed. 

"Yes! Goyle, that's the name." She turned to her purse, starting to rake her fingers inside of it. "Where is it- I always leave this in such a mess, I'm sorry- oh! Here it is." She gave them the newspaper, opening on the right page. "You can keep that one. I want to buy a new one anyway. For keepsake, you understand." She smiled as he nodded, baffled, eyes scanning the page quickly, frown growing and growing as he took in the words written about him. 

Mother and daughter said their goodbyes, but they barely heard them. 

"Bad news?" Pansy asked him, looking over his shoulder to the page. 

His hand clenched. "The worst." He turned to the woman, all straight lines and tense back. "Brace yourself, Pansy, because by the end of the week you'll have a friend in Azkaban for life." He announced, fuming. 

"Darling," She started, sighing. 

"No, don't darling me." He growled. "I'm going to kill him."

Chapter Text

ONE - SON OF SWORDS

"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world's existence. All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are." - Fernando Pessoa

"The Son of Swords is a card of determination, of action instead of grace. He is empowered by an overwhelming ideal and follows it with unbridled ambition. All of that determination, though, is directed towards the eternal, and useless, search for the Father of Swords' approval, an authoritarian man who casts a shadow onto his son, a man who removes himself emotionally from any situation so he can see the most profitable course of action. That means that, while he does love and take of his family, he also has trouble taking their feelings into account. 

That, for most purebloods, is the norm. A son aspiring to be their father, to follow his steps to the line; a father whose respectability and fortune cannot be threatened by something such as feelings, a man who refuses to accept less than perfect behavior, as a reflection of his power, from his family. 

Thus the story of Draco Malfoy begins. 

When I first saw him, he was five. I remember it because I had just broken my arm for the first time, and that blond boy kept trying to cheer me up with every single toy he had around his room. He talked a lot, and in retrospect, I can say he was a lonely kid, always expected to act beyond his age. He had a lot to talk and no one to listen to him, with his father and mother always busy with other matters. 

He learned from a tender age that the only moments he was worthy of his parent’s attention were the moments he did something extraordinary, and even then, it was a small gesture, a nod of a head, a brush of fingers on his shoulder. Very appropriate, distant and cold. I remember clearly, because I was there, when Draco made his first accidental magic. We were playing hide and seek in the garden while our parents talking not far. A house-elf came with chocolate cake, and we both saw it. I was closer, we both ran for it, and then clack! it happened. Little Draco Malfoy, on the age of five, had his first boost of wild magic, and he apparated with it, right in front of the plate of cake. 

Most children, as we know, are able to summon something, shed light, levitate, little more than that, so it would be understandable if the Malfoys were incredibly happy by such a display. And they were, even though it did not seem like it. Narcissa brushed her hand through Draco's hair and instructed him to say please if he wanted the cake; Lucius simply offered his son an acknowledging nod of his head. That was the most he got out of them on that afternoon, and, from what I got to know on the following years, the most he got out of them until the war. 

The one thing Little Draco inherited from his family from his very first word - which was "pee-pee" after the albino peacocks that roamed around their property - was the hatred against muggle-borns and half-bloods. 

You have to understand, dear reader, that just as it happened with a considerable part of the German society during the World War II, there was a lot of history going on, more than it is taught on a History of Magic on Hogwarts. History, however is written by the victors. Never forget that. 

For a time, then, it was very dangerous to be a witch or a wizard in Britain. The hatred that some blood-supremacist families brew amongst themselves, then, is one brought from fear - fear that the muggle-borns and their muggle-born parents will spread the truth about the Wizarding World around, fear that authorities, just as happened before, decide that we are far too dangerous to live and find a way to get rid of us all. To be fair, is it really that paranoid, considering how is the "war on terror" being waged on the Americas nowadays? 

Also, some traditions, such as the magical tea, are usually frowned upon by muggle-borns, which influenced the Ministry into outlawing them for being "dangerous". Magical traditions that even hero families like the Longbottoms - and I had a really lovely chat with Mrs. Augusta Longbottom about it - uphold. 

Yes, letting history be history is not easy, especially when you are told from a very young age that you are better than others, and that is unacceptable for you to be any other way, for it. 

None of us were ever given any option. We were to be friends with our parent's allies, to be quiet and only speak when told so, to never ruin our dress robes and even to stay pure until marriage (yes, even the boys). 

We were taught how to dance, how to stand and how to speak, which words to use, who to ignore or sneer at, that boys only kiss girls and vice versa, we were taught that muggle-borns and half-bloods were a threat to our happiness, because of the danger and the misunderstanding they had of our way of life, but shh! You ought not to talk about it, or dad will get in trouble! 

By the age of nine we were a larger group, the addition of girls, as was proper, done a bit after the boys introduced themselves. We were Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott and Millicent Bullstrode. Amongst ourselves we learned where to hide during boring parties, how to entertain ourselves with stupid dares, like who was able to use a slingshot to throw a shrimp on the Minister's cocktail from the hidden place on the stairs. 

Draco always got it right, and, we only learned later, always got the harshest of punishments for it: the only way his father would ever touch him was to slap him across the face. When he aimed for subtle, he used the cane against his back. 

Of all of us, also, Draco was the one with the most restless spirit, winning from Pansy by a slim thread - perhaps because of their home situations. Despite being a Death Eater, my father was kind to me, and so was my mother. Blaise had his mother's full attention from the start, Nott had a brother, a cousin and an uncle to lean on, and Millicent, once they realized she wasn't adequate for marriage by those ridiculous standards, was raised almost normally. He was also the hungriest for love, and the most afraid of it, because love translates to vulnerability and pain on Malfoy-ish. Love meant a trap from the beginning. 

From a memory that Madam Malkin kindly gave me, we see him talking to an eleven-year-old, rather scrawny, Harry Potter, bragging about being able to bring his own broom to the school. Mr. Potter's face is clear on what he thinks of Draco: arrogant, spoiled rich boy that gets everything he wants. 

Underneath that, I see the fear that he would not make it to the team before his third year, which would earn him another beating, another disappointment speech, a punishment that would only end once another extraordinary goal was met. Draco was, luckily enough, talented in Quidditch - which does not mean he wasn't told off by his father, because a Malfoy should be able to do better than a Potter on all accounts.

Little did we know how much we would live to regret those actions that were, and still are, unchangeable. Little did we know we would all end up fighting a war that was never ours to begin with. 

Thus is born the Son of Swords.

A kind thank-you for Mrs. Malfoy, Madam Malkin and Theodore Nott for the memories kindly given to me to make this tale the best I could make of it, and for the continuous faith of my editor, Miss Luna Lovegood. 

Next week, the follow-up or out four-piece autobiography, the Four of Cups - how reality did not match appearances." 

"Goyle!" He slammed his closed fist on the door repeatedly. "Goyle, open up right now! I am going to strangle your round face, you little traitor! Earning money from telling my secrets to the whole Britain to read! I told you I'd give you more money, you never had to pay me up in the first place, now open up this door! -oh." It wasn't Goyle's face showing on the now open door, but Potter's. 

"Malfoy?" His glasses were askew, his hair the usual mess, he wore a T-shirt and sweater pants, and he was gorgeous. Merlin and Morgana both, how he hated the man. 

"Potter, this place was listed on the Quibbler as Gregory Goyle's house, so tell the wretched traitor to come out from wherever he is!" He spoke the last part loudly enough for Goyle to hear from wherever he was inside that strange house. If he knew what was good for him, he would come to Draco before he drew his wand and hunt him down.

"Quibbler? Oh." Potter rubbed his eyes, watching Draco sleepily. "This address is supposed to be unplottable, which is why Luna puts it as every one of her 'exciting' writers this one." He explained. "Usually works, but you're a Black, so I suppose the house likes you more than me." 

"The house?" Draco frowned. "Goyle isn't here?"  

"No." Potter shook his deplorable hair around. "But if you ever, ever wanted just a little bit to be on my place and be a hero, please come on in and talk your great-aunt out of yelling at me." 

He followed Potter inside, mostly out of curiosity. The house was as messy as one could expect a Gryffindor nest to be, but the smell of the tea coming from the kitchen was strong and good, and Draco almost forgot was he was supposed to be doing there until Potter uncovered a large framed painting of his Great-Aunt Walburga right on the first corridor.

"BLOOD TRAITORS! FILTHY SCUM OF THE EARTH, MUDBLOODS INSIDE THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BL- Draco, darling, is that you? Come closer so I can see you." 

Draco frowned, startled by the picture, but did as it said. Potter, wisely enough, stayed out of its sight, farther on the hallway. "Hello, Great-Aunt Walburga." He greeted her formally, as one should, bowing his head since he couldn't kiss her hand. "How have you been faring?" 

"Not well, dear boy, not well. My horrible firstborn gave this house, the most ancient and noble house of Black, to a half-blood! Blood traitors and mudbloods roam around freely on the halls that once brought up the brilliance and the power of the true wizards! Oh, my dear boy, I'm afraid I'm not doing so well at all." She sounded like a soap-opera actress. He had to reign himself not to roll his eyes. 

"Well, I am here to evaluate the house and buy it back, Great-Aunt. Mr. Potter accepted to sell it back to me and mother." He lied smoothly. "The bureaucracy, as you know, however, makes the process a lengthy one, especially with expensive and old houses like this one. So, I have a proposition for you." He said, glancing at Potter, who gave him the thumbs up. He must have been rather desperate to give him free-reign of the situation. "I propose that I take you to my mother's wing of the Malfoy Manor, right next to the rest of the Black portraits we have there, until I finish business with Mr. Potter. Then we will hang you right back here where you belong." 

She seemed uncertain. "Me, on a Malfoy residence? Oh, I don't know, dear..." 

"Your sister-in-law is there." He insisted, knowing those two had a bone to pick with each other still from the ramblings of the portraits around the Manor. 

Her eyes glinted evilly. "Deal." She said and the portrait proverbially threw itself from the wall to the floor and shrunk itself to a more manageable size. 

Potter sounded like he would talk, but Draco shushed him with a gesture. He flooed the portrait to the Manor, knowing the house-elves would know what to do with it, before talking to Potter again. 

"There, Potter. Your house is now Walburga-free." 

"Malfoy, I swear I could kiss you right now." Potter said with a small smile. "She started screaming and shrieking at the worst possible hours. She called the Minister of Magic a stupid brown-skinned mudblood that should never have left Africa." 

Draco shrugged. "She's got balls, you got to give her that." 

"Yeah." Potter chuckled. "Fancy a tea?" 

Draco sniffed the air." That is not simple tea, you heathen. That is a perfect blend of black tea, wormwood and shrivelfig."

At Potter's blank stare, Draco sighed. "It's magical tea, Potter. One of the most pleasant magical traditions of all time."

The blank face persisted. 

"Longbottom gave it to you, didn't he?" 

The other man shrugged meekly. "He wanted me to try it out." 

Draco rolled his eyes and snapped his finger, which brought the house-elf - now that he thought about it, he remembered him, and the house, too, underneath all the mess - from wherever he was hiding. "And what is your name?"

"Kreacher, Master Draco, my name is Kreacher." 

"Kreacher." He said imperiously. "Would you please serve us of some proper magical tea? You can pop on a store to buy a few traditional pastries and cream as well, I'm aware we didn't give you any time to prepare." He said quickly to avoid the self-punishment. Vile thing, really. 

Kreacher nodded solemnly and with a crack! he was out to get them what he ordered. 

Potter frowned. "Why are you ordering my house-elf, who is supposed to be at Hogwarts, around?" 

Draco tsked. "Kreacher is a Black house-elf, and you have terrible manners, Potter. You offered me tea, but where am I supposed to sit?' 

"In the kitchen?" Potter answered/asked, with that stupid voice that only he could make. 

Draco tsked again. “Dining room?" Potter shook his head. "Drawing room? Sun room?"

"They're all a bit dusty lately, with Kreacher at Hogwarts and just me and Ginny around, so-" 

The idea flickered on his head before his mind could conjure images of Potter and Weasley together on the very room he was standing. "The garden. You do have a small garden still, don't you, Potter?" 

The younger (by almost two months) man opened a big smile. "Yes, I do own a garden, Mr. Malfoy. Well, technically, Neville does the gardening, but it's in my property, right?" He said, too cheerful and playful to be - well, him. 

"You are a disgrace, Potter." He said with no heat, transfiguring two flowers and a small bush into chairs and a small table, sitting down to wait for Kreacher. The garden was small, but it had a decent variety of herbs and flowers, not to mention a big pine tree casting a nice shadow upon them. He turned pink very quickly under the sun. 

When Potter opened his mouth to respond, he was interrupted by the crack! of the table being set by house-elf magic. "Thank you, Kreacher." Draco said loudly, watching the elf bow and wipe a few tears on his way back inside. "You really kicked an old elf out of his lifelong-home, Potter?" He asked, serving them both teacups of the fragrant liquid inside the teapot. "Such cruelty just to shag Weasley on every room. I thought you were more tactful." 

Potter flushed in embarrassment. "I- never thought of it like that. Hermione is always ranting about house-elves rights and I just-" 

"Well, you should have thought about it. Despite what you learned from my father, Potter, house elves are a wizard's responsibility. They are not slaves, they are helpers, just as Golden Retrievers enjoy helping you carry your bags around." 

"Dogs don't punish themselves by hitting their heads with frying pans, though." 

"I agree, but do you really think your so-loved Dumbledore or even Professor McGonagal would allow them to keep working in Hogwarts if it was really slavery?" He offered his counterpoint, putting a dash of cream on his mug and stirring. 

Potter frowned his little head. "Yes, well, I-" 

"I'm not saying it's pretty, Potter. I am saying it's our job to take care of them. We can't give them clothes, but we can order them to keep hygienic, we can warm their rooms if they refuse to, we can always make sure we appreciate their work and to come up with ridiculous punishments, such as re-making a bed, so they don't burn their fingers with iron." He laid out for him. "We take care of them as one would with an unruly child or adolescent. You pretend to be bossing them around while you're actually trying to avoid every danger in sight." 

The look of bafflement on Potter's face was priceless. "Seriously?" 

"But of course. And if one wants to be free, you give them a good warm coat and let them leave. At least that's how my mother taught me. You know, when father wasn't looking." He shrugged and finally tasted his tea, opening a big smile. "Oh, this is fantastic." 

"That is... very kind of you, Malfoy. And your mother." Potter said sheepishly, still stirring his tea in thought. 

"No matter, Potter. Now you know a bit more, you can take your own conclusions about what's best for house-elves, and maybe even start another stupid campaign with your face on every poster to ensure winning." Potter frowned at him, but the expression, just as Draco's voice didn't hold any heat. "Now, let me teach you how to properly drink magical tea." 

"There is a way?" The Gryffindor seemed amused. 

"Yes." Draco chuckled. "There is only one rule." The effects of the wormwood were taking him already, loosening his limbs, making him chuckle at nothing. 

"And what's that rule, Malfoy?" 

He stuffed his chest solemnly before reciting: "You only drink wormwood tea, which causes the faint euphoria of a Cheering Charm, without the downsides, in a place where your neighbors, or guests, can't see you take your shoes off." 

Potter barked a laugh. "You're a guest, Malfoy." He pointed out. 

"Shut it, Potter." Draco let his head loll back, a big smile plastered on his face. "Or Walburga might hear you." 

They both laughed, and weren't able to stop until the teapot was gone. 

Chapter Text

TWO - FOUR OF CUPS

"To have endured horrors, to have seen the worst of humanity and have your life made unrecognizable by it, to come out of all that honorable and brave - that was magical." - Ransom Riggs. 

"The Four of Cups is a card that speaks of greed and discontentment. It speaks of a façade where people look upon one's life and see supportive relationships, pleasures, luxury; where really there is apathy and discontentment, of an unnamed and unmet need that eats one from the inside. 

Our first year at Hogwarts begun. 

It was no secret to any how complicated Draco's life was, always obligated to prove himself to his father as if it was nothing but his obligation, a debt of gratitude for being brought to life. He had to have the best grades - which was why he resented Hermione Granger so much, despite calling her mudblood and a few other colorful names -, had to be on the Quidditch team - which earned the hatred of many, since the only way for his talents to be discovered, just like Harry Potter had been, and the rules broken for him, was if he bought his way in through seven Nimbus 2001 - a step further from what Harry Potter was gifted by Professor McGonagal at his first year. 

He also had to look and sound composed at all times, even though, like the rest of us, he was nothing but a child - which explains how much silent brooding he made from his thirteenth to his fifteenth birthday, due to the absolutely normal voice change. His father wouldn't accept it, and, as such, Draco withdrew from his friends to avoid using a voice that his father, a whole country away, did not approve of. 

He had to be the leader at all times, which meant pretending to know a lot more than he really did. 

He had no option but to be heterosexual. 

While Pansy and Blaise enjoyed the curiosity that came with age and hormones - to be fair, me and Crabbe had always enjoyed naked ladies pictures too much to think of anything else - and Nott discovered his own demi sexuality (a person who only feels attraction towards those they feel affection), Draco was to keep his eyes strictly towards blond, thin women, in order to please his father and not be told off by the sons of his business partners, always looking out for flaws to hurt the Malfoy reputation, either out of greed or envy. 

That was the reason why Harry Potter was such a problem. 

Since day one, Draco's eyes would always follow him around the room, unwillingly. He would promise himself, make us promise, not to let him speak to Potter again, and then he would be there, insulting him dearly, his version of "pulling pigtails" at that age. He would flush and loathe himself, curse and yell, take more than the advisable amount of calming draught - even try a few forbidden spells on himself, all to no use. 

There is a muggle biologist called Kinsey that made up this scale that would pertain all of the mammal's sexual behavior during their lives. At one extremity, on the 0, would be all of those who are straight up heterosexuals, not for pressure but for never even having the curiosity to try anything else. On the other extremity, at the number 6, would be those who are completely homosexuals, lacking any interest on the opposite sex. 

That muggle biologist knew that even in nature, homosexuality came in just as heterosexuality did. Even for animals, sex is not only a matter of procreation, but also of social bonds and pleasure. 

The muggle also knew that most mammals, including us, do not fall either on the 0 or on the 6 of the scale - we are all mostly in between. One could be usually heterosexual with occasional homosexual behavior, for example, or vice versa, or not even care about the gender of the desired person. 

On that account, I can say, for simplification purposes, that while Pansy and Blaise were rating from 2 to 4, me and Crabbe on the 0, and Nott on the 3, Draco... Draco, despite experimenting a bit with a few trusted individuals, was very much Pottersexual - and not on that ridiculous sense of swooning over his fame or an idealized version of the boy. Draco was actually attracted to Potter, the boy, for what he was and did, and, to his absolute horror, he found out he could not hide it as well as he wanted to - which meant to bury everything, plant some grass over it and forget it was even there in the first place. 

Yes, dear readers, this is where the Four of Cups comes as strong as it could ever be the deception, the secrecy, something being hidden in the shadows, overlooked because no one ever even knew it was there but us. 

Draco Malfoy's schooldays hatred for Potter was nothing but a mix from trying to please his father by demeaning The Boy Who Lived and a way to try - and failing by overcompensation - to hide the crush that grew inside of him over the other boy, completely without his consent. 

Oh, how he suffered, once again trapped by the merciless claws of love and its derivatives. On one side, the unreasonable - sometimes downright impossible - demands that his father called love; on the other, the unattainable approval of his object of desire, then. "One cannot live while the other survives" also applies here, if less dramatically than its original purpose on Potter's prophecy. 

This is how we lived in Slytherin around Draco, watching this and not being able to talk about it - the walls had ears and eyes, and somehow, Lucius Malfoy always ended up knowing everything. The politer he was with us, the worse we knew he would be with Draco, who came back subdued and trying, once more, to conform, do adjust, do be invisible and to null himself and put in his place a zombie, someone in automatic-pilot, a puppet to be manipulated by his father and later by Voldemort, until the very moment he had to cut the threads before tearing his spirit, his very being. But that, as you may have gathered, is a story for the next time. 

Hope you are all enjoying it, and I thank all the wonderful mail I have been receiving. Once again, thanks for everyone who helped, either with memories, tales, information or the ways for this to be published."

"Stop making a scene." Pansy ordered him, swatting the back of his head with the newest rendition of The Quibbler. 

"I'm dead. I am actually dead meat." The young man groaned, hands covering the injured place. Pansy was maiming him, he hag. "You're supposed to be helping me, not hitting me." 

"I'm helping you reach your so desired death, darling." She cocked her head. "Now, what are you going to do?" 

He sighed a defeated sigh. "Killing Goyle is out of question. It would only make a martyr out of him. They'd find someone to replace the bugger." 

Pansy, always non-nonsense, rolled her eyes. "I mean about Potter, Draco. You had tea with him, now he knows you fancied him back at school." Draco offered her a big embarrassed groan. "What are you going to do? Do you think he reads The Quibbler?" 

"I don't think that illiterate horror reads anything, to be honest." The boy shrugged. "It's why I'm not marching to the wrong end of an AK right now." 

A knock on the door. "Malfoy?" 

Draco blanched. "Kill me. Please, kill me now." He knelt in front of Pansy, who arched one eyebrow. 

"I assume it's him?" 

"Malfoy!" More insistent knocks. "I can hear you, you know?" 

"Please." He grabbed her hands in desperation. 

"Why does he have your address?" 

"Wormwood, lots of it." He explained quickly. "Big mistakes in my life, one of the biggest. Now please." 

The woman stood up on her torture-instrument stilettos and headed to the door. Banging it open to reveal a slightly confused Harry Potter on the other side. 

"Potter." 

He didn't say anything. 

She rolled her eyes. "Good luck, Draco." 

"Die, hag." He answered weakly. It was so silent he could hear her laughter until she cracked in apparition. 

"Hello Malfoy." Potter waved weakly at him. "Can I come in?" 

Draco shook his head. "Only if it's to kill me." 

Harry chuckled. "Would a cup of Darjeeling help?"  

The Malfoy heir blinked owlishly. "When doesn't it?" 

Potter just smiled. Headed for the kitchen, coming back with a pot and two full mugs of tea. 

"So." Harry broke the silence after a few minutes of Draco nursing his cup of tea, sipping on it as if it was his life and he didn't want to waste it. He was horrified of possibly having nothing to do to stave off the awkwardness going on between them. He looked at Draco from over the rounded glasses and he wondered if he was actually seeing anything, blind as he was. "I think you know why I came here." 

"To ridicule me?" Draco tried, seeing the leaves on the bottom of his mug. Maybe Trelawney could make something of them. He wished he paid more attention to that class. Maybe he could see his imminent death and be free of the all-consuming shame.

"What? No!" Potter almost jumped from his seat in front of Draco. "No! What gave you that idea?"

Draco shrugged, tucking his feed underneath himself on the couch without spilling the tea. "Well. I am me. And you are...." He searched for words, at loss. 

"If you say the Chosen One I'll hex you." 

"I was going to go with Golden Boy, but that one works too." He shrugged again. "Potter, seriously-"

"I came here to ask you out." Potter ran his hand through that horrible mess he called hair. Honestly, how dared him. "For dinner. As a date." 

Everything went blank. 

What?

"What?" 

"Yes. A date." Potter, ridiculous man, insisted. 

"Is this some sort of plot to humiliate me further? Because honestly, Potter, I thought we had moved on from such petty pranks, I should say-" 

"Malfoy. You're rambling." Potter pointed out with an amused smile. "No evil plot. I'm the Golden Boy, remember?" 

Draco rolled his eyes. "But why, then?" 

The brunet shrugged. "You're funny, hot and doesn't give crap about my fame." 

"Of course not, it's obfuscated by how much of a horror your hair is. Seriously, have you ever seen a proper hairdresser or do you just spell the scissors to cut it randomly and go out of the door like that?" 

"See?" The lunatic had the gall to chuckle. "I like that you're smart enough to come up with creative solutions to things, your flair for dramatics is really amusing and your tendency to ramble when you're nervous or embarrassed, even if it's about how horrible is my hair or how you abhor all my clothes, is downright adorable." 

Draco twisted his nose. "I do not. Your appearance is appalling, Potter. Honestly. I've seen the older Weasleys, I know Mrs. Weasley taught you better than this." 

The smile on the Chosen One's face turned malicious. "Yes, well. Maybe I was waiting." 

"For what? Merlin's sake, Potter, what is going on through that twisted mind of yours?" Draco demanded, standing up. 

He stood up too. "I propose a compromise." Draco waited for him to elaborate. "We go on a date. If my appearance is still appalling to you there, then I'll leave you alone." 

Draco snorted. "As if." 

"Scared, Malfoy?"

The thrill went up his spine, if because of the words or the intensity of those eyes raking over him, he didn't know. 

"Not in your life, Potter." 

Harry smiled mischievously and left his mug on the center table. "I'll owl you the details. See you Friday, Draco." And left. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

What had he done. 

Chapter Text

THREE - THE HANGED MAN

“I have been

hanging here

headless

for so long

that the body has forgotten

why

or where or when it

happened

and the toes

walk along in shoes

that do not

care

and although

the fingers

slice things and

hold things and

move things and

touch

things

such as

oranges

apples

onions

books

bodies

I am no longer

reasonably sure

what these things

are

they are mostly

like

lamplight and

fog" - Charles Bukowski

"What most people seem to ignore about the war is that it is not unlike a snowball falling from a snowy mountain: you can't stop it, it can't stop growing, there is no controlling anything, not even how it'll end. Most people didn't make conscious decision to join; some made their decisions in the spur of a moment and could never go back, a lot of them were steered to a side or another, never making choices at all. 

The Hanged man is a card about succumbing to a painful situation, releasing the reins because struggling is futile. It's about finding stillness and using the new perspective to learn something, since it's stuck there either way. 

There we were. 

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived - steered to the "light" side by his parent's deaths, by people's opinions (who always assumed he was good because his mother's magic protected him from death by the Dark Lord's wand, which rebounded on him. He was one year old, for Merlin's sake, no one can make conscious decisions by them, what if he wasn't good like they expected them to be? Would it be his fault?), by Dumbledore and the way he taught the boy from day one that following the rules wasn't as important as being heroic, even if heroic meant stupid and stubborn sometimes, by the gamekeeper, Hagrid, the first magical being Potter got to know, amongst millions of people that not only told him what to do and who to aim to be, but also that every Slytherin was bad.

The houses system of Hogwarts was never meant to drive people into antipathy, told me McGonagall when I went to see her about it. It was meant to be a way to join together children that would get along easier, that had things in common to share. It was meant to create safe places for such young people, before they were strong and confident enough to search for friends in other houses. 

Clearly, it was corrupted along the way. We were nothing but children, and yet we were already accused of being bad, evil, cheaters and liars. For some of us, childhood was robbed in a lot of senses because of that. 

Draco, as an added burden, was a Malfoy, his father a known blood-supremacist and supporter of Voldemort on the first war.

This is not to say that we are completely blameless, but most decisions were made for us, as adults do for children that do not know what is best for them. Going against those adults, those decisions, would have costed us our families, our support, our lives. Is that a fair choice to throw upon a fifteen-year-old?

The grown-ups are supposed to know better. Adults are supposed to guide and protect us. They are supposed to teach us the why’s and the how’s to loving ourselves, and we can only learn that by example. Denying or disowning parts of us is not love: if you love something, you have to love it wholly, accept it with all that it comes. Few of us had that. Fewer of us were not scolded by clinging to it. Feelings, emotions, anything that wasn't connected to ambition, power and keeping appearances was absolutely unacceptable. Empathy towards the losing side of the war was unacceptable. Empathy towards our side of the war was unacceptable. 

Empathy as a whole was unacceptable. We could only care about ourselves and our parents, even siblings were just competition. 

A hostile environment like that one was envisioned by people such as Grindelwald and Tom Riddle to turn us less human, people who make a life out of ignoring their own feelings and hurting themselves to avoid being hurt by others. To avoid vulnerability as a whole. 

We couldn't do either. We couldn't be the perfect egoistic and heartless soldiers. I lost count of how many times we cried, had nightmares, slept next to one another, covered for each other for puking after someone was tortured or killed on front of us. We did care, no matter what people may think. We thought about giving up, more than once the word suicide left our lips, and not in joking matter. Some Death Eaters lost their humanity entirely, but no matter how much we tried, to make our parents proud, to be like them, to be accepted and protected, to be wanted around and loved - or, if anything else, for the pain to stop - we couldn't. We pissed our pants, crapped them, cried, threw up, sweated and despaired our way through it, seeing no option, no way out. 

At the same time, we didn't know how to be courageous. We didn't know how to turn our backs to everything we knew and loved - because we loved our parents, no matter how complicated it may sound to love people that didn't know love or how to love a child - and just walk away into the unsure, the unknown. What if it was worse out there? Being hunted and judged by both sides of the war, having nowhere to go, no one to trust, hiding and looking over our shoulders all the time with no idea if our parents were being tortured for raising a weakling, if we were going to die by torture ourselves or just starve to death, or die by a Dementor's kiss. We didn't know who we were, what we thought, we just knew that Voldemort's reign wasn't glorious as our parents made it sound. 'The glory will come later', the lied. 'Be a good soldier and you'll be rewarded'. We were good soldiers to avoid being abused; there was no other choice. It's not as easy - not that it's easy in any way, but still - to brave our way into things like a Weasley or a Longbottom because there was no direction in the first place. We didn't fit with them, we couldn't ask for asylum, and yet we didn't fit with our families either, not how they turned out to be while Voldemort was there. 

The Hanged Man is a card that speaks about being stuck somewhere where we must find stillness, open our eyes and learn something. It's what we did. It's the only thing we could do. 

Rest assured, none of us will make the same mistakes from last war ever again. We will be forever walking the fine line in search of balance between our roots, the ones we chose not to cut off, and what we learned from misstepping it in the past. There is no need for clamoring for more punishment for us. It's already burnt into our souls for eternity. 

Next week, our last chapter from this tale. Stay tuned." 

"This is weird." Was the first thing Draco said as he made his way - alone, since neither the waitress or the maître even looked in his direction when he arrived at the appointed place - and sat by Harry's table. 

The other man just chuckled. Everyone stopped talking and eating, not even bothering to hide that they were looking at them. "I don't think so." Harry served Draco of wine from the bottle on the table. It was good wine, too. "You look very nice today, Draco." 

The blond blinked. "This is disturbing." 

"What?" Harry frowned, cocking his head. 

"That you have a 'fuck me' voice." He pointed out before he could stop his mouth. "I'm sure Rita Skeeter doesn't know that you have a 'fuck me' voice. If she knew that she wouldn't shut up about it." Draco rambled, flushed and drank a few sips from his wine. More sips than was acceptable, really, but his mother wasn't there to scowl him, so. All good.

"My 'fuck me' voice, as you call it, isn't for Rita Skeeter's ears." Potter said plainly. 

"And it's for mine?" The reality still bedazzled him. 

"Yes." 

"Alright." Draco proceeded to empty out his glass, all nerves. "This is surreal." 

"I agree." Harry nodded, impossibly green eyes twinkling behind the round glasses. "But then again, I'm tired of hitting my head against the wall, trying to do things the same way I always did and expecting a different result. So, I'm trying something new." He filled Draco's glass again and raised his own for a toast. "To trying something new." He smiled. 

"To being utterly insane." Draco pitched out, letting his glass click against Potter's before drinking an adequate sip. Narcisa would be proud. 

People kept on staring. Potter didn't seem to care at all. 

"Excuse me, sir." A young woman approached. "But I'm sure Mr. Potter doesn't want to be bothered by the likes of you." 

Potter smiled a sickly-sweet smile. "I will kindly thank you for shutting up and going away right now. I was orphaned and died for the Wizarding World. The least you can do to pay me back is to fuck off when I'm on a date and stop trying to tell me how to live my life." Draco's eyes went wide, as did the girl's. 

"B-but- but he's-" 

"Yeah, I know, he was a Death Eater, he is evil, he has the mark, blah blah blah. Let me tell you this: you are no one, at least not compared to the Ministry, and the Ministry itself pardoned Mr. Malfoy here. Who are you to judge the Minister's decision? What makes you think you know better than me, who studied with him for six years of my life, was the tip of the arrow of this war and the Wizengamot, that judged him based on evidence, memories and testimonies from everyone involved. So, since you weren't even there, tell me why do you think you know better than who actually was?" 

She spluttered in anger, but Potter didn't allow her the luxury of finishing her sentence. "We'll want the salmon with potatoes and the steak. For dessert, I think tiramisu is fine." He gave her back the menus. 

She went ahead stomping her feet to the ground. Potter still looked unbothered. 

"Why?" Draco asked simply, shaking his head. 

Harry shrugged. "Because I am not giving up anything else for them. I gave in enough already." He answered firmly. "And you shouldn't either." 

The blonde pondered. Then he reached out his hand, touching Harry's over the table. The slightly younger man threaded their fingers together. 

"You know what?" He stared into green eyes, unable and unwilling to look anywhere else. His second step towards a Gryffindor-ish course of action. "I think you're absolutely right."

Chapter Text

FOUR - SEVEN OF WANDS 

"Has anyone ever noticed how people only love the ocean when the sun is out? Once darkness settles, breeze kicks in, and sharks come out to play - no one wants to swim among its waves. And I hope I never made someone feel like that... As if they're only admirable in light. As if their darkness wasn't worth exploring. Because it's when the sun sets that I sit on the shore, and stare at the ocean in awe." - a.p., I See All Your Light, I Love All Your Dark.

"A single wand standing tall, ablaze with light while others fall into the shadow. Finding strength and support only in oneself, since support from others isn't available. Being courageous and standing up for one's beliefs, even if overwhelmed with caution and fear. Letting an internal fire guide the way forward, with no guarantee whatsoever that it's safe or wise.

You may think this is a hero story, but it's not. The wand is alone, surrounded by dark, with no support from others - the exact opposite of a hero like Potter, for example. He had friends, family, guides all the way, even if giving himself up was a lonely act by the end. Dumbledore himself said by our first year in Hogwarts, referring to one Neville Longbottom: 'There are all kinds of courage. It takes a great eal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.' 

I wasn't there, but memories were kindly given to me. Despite the fear, despite the excitement of his father, the glory and rewards that it could have given him - despite knowing that the war could be won with one word from him, and perhaps because of it, Draco Malfoy stayed silent. Most would say that it was because he was more afraid of Voldemort than the Ministry, but whoever knows him knows that he's fiercely protective of his own, as protective as any Weasley could be, and the Golden Trio has always been his. Teasing, insulting, throwing punches against each other, yes, we've done it all, but just as Harry Potter came back in the middle of Fiendfyre to save Draco and me because we are theirs, they are also ours, somehow. At the same time that we Slytherins enjoyed mocking and fighting them, we never appreciated someone trying to do the same and stepping into our territory. 

With Draco, however, there was more. There was hope and longing and love and hate, fear and complete denial of everything. There was the punishment he received after letting Harry Potter escape from his house with his wand. There was walking around wandless in a house full of Death Eaters who had fun in the most sadistic ways one could imagine, not sparing each other just because of some silly notion of side loyalty. 

Draco had the power to give the victory to his alleged side by saying that yes, the three people who snatchers caught by sheer dumb luck, who were kneeling on the floor of his house, were actually Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. He never did. Said he wasn't sure when he, and all of us, could recognize their faces, hairstyles, a mile away - just as they could recognize us. We weren't friends, but we knew each other more than simply walking past one another on a hallway from time to time. Instead of taking the glory and rewards, instead of saying yes and washing his hands off of it, instead of making the choice that could keep him and his family safe and win the war to his side, Draco Malfoy said no. 

Is that not courage as well? What difference does it have from Longbottom's stunt over his first year, trying to stop the Trio from losing more house points? Worse consequences, possibility of facing torture and death for failing the Dark Lord so deeply. And yet, he did it. 

Few people know that he also devised how we would trick both Potter and Voldemort in the Room of Requirement. Maybe Potter himself doesn't know it, but Draco told us, me and Crabbe, what we should do. We should pretend, but set the room on fire so the diadem would be lost forever in the mayhem, especially if Potter didn't know how to destroy it. We would destroy it while making it look like we were trying to stop it from being destroyed. It was risky, but we did it. Well, me and Draco did it. Crabbe fell, and Draco never stopped blaming himself for it. 

Even after everything was over, he was our guiding line. He got out of his family home, cut ties with those who thought he was nothing but a traitor and struggled to make an honest life for himself. He helped us to the same, steered us along where he could. He doesn't touch his family's money or connections anymore, supporting himself with his own work. He learned about muggles and muggle studies and muggle culture, despite not forgetting the good things he learned from our world as well. One can't erase their pasts completely, but they can decide on their future. 

And our future is, because of him, all ours again. 

He taught us redemption, and we didn't look back ever since. 

I hope you enjoyed this journey with me. Stay tuned for my next piece on the Quibbler. 

With my thanks to everyone who aided me in writing this, this was Gregory Goyle shedding a light in a Dark Biography, and wishing you'll all consider seeing the light in the darkness as well."

"Delivery for Mr. Goyle!" The muggle called him out from outside. Greg shuffled, still in his pajamas; smiled, signed the package and went back inside his house. 

The paper torn quickly, Goyle found chocolate, cookies, a full basket of goods addressed to him. On top of it, a muggle sticky note glued to the handle, written in a calligraphy that he could never, ever forget. 

"Thank you." 

Greg smiled, munching on a cookie. Crabbe owed him money, wherever he was in the afterlife. 

"See, Vincent? Told you I could bring them together." He chuckled with himself. 

Took the package of sweets and went back to watch TV, humming happily to the opening tunes of Friends.