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Chapter Text

“Class dismissed,” Professor Snape said, eyes impassive as he left the classroom, his black robes billowing around him as he walked. 

To his left, Crabbe started putting his things in his bag, grumbling something about points and other shit he couldn’t care less about right now. 

Behind him, Goyle seemed to be whispering into Theodore’s ear as the other boy took notes and compared numbers. A displeased frown on his face. 

Draco didn’t really care all that much. 

A small, pale hand gently landed over his own. 

Silver eyes met dark blue ones. 

“Are you okay?” Pansy asked, her own frown ruining her cute, young face. “You were silent the whole class.”

“You didn’t even answer Professor Snape’s questions,” Theodor sneered. “How are we supposed to get points if you are not doing your best?”

“Yeah, Malfoy,” Blaise rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest, sarcasm thick in his voice. “How is our grade supposed to stand out if you are not Theo’s little dancing monkey, using your relationship with Professor Snape for our collective benefit?”

Theo’s cheeks flushed. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he defended himself. “Draco is the best in Potions in our year, better than Granger, better than Boot, his participation in class always guarantees us House Points.”

“Sure,” Blaise mocked, his smile widening. 

“Both of you stop it,” Pansy hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Not here, not in front of everyone else.”

Draco stared at them, silent, trying to force himself to care about such a petty squabble and finding himself unable. 

What was the point when they were all going to die?

2 hours ago, Draco hadn’t been 13, hadn’t been this rosy cheeked, bonny kneed teen on the cusp of puberty. 

He was 30, he was broken, he was stabbed. 

He had gone to prison for his crimes, and the fact that he had been coerced into those crimes was something Potter had taken into account while sentencing him to five years - Why was Potter the one taking part in his sentencing at the time? Draco hadn’t been sure himself - and he and his parents had served their sentences, had done their time, had paid their reparations. 

The time came for Draco to be released, for him to start his probation and he had thought he could at least finish his studies, sit his NEWTS and maybe inherit his family’s title at least until his father finished his own sentence or his mother was released as well. 

Because he had a responsibility for the people under the Malfoy family. 

But no one came for him. 

Months passed.

Aurors came and went. 

Blaise asked one of them whether they were to be released and Draco at the time had listened attentively. He hadn’t honestly realized Blaise was there to begin with. He had been neutral, after all. He didn’t have the mark and there was no reason for him to be arrested. 

The auror had laughed at Blaise then, grabbing his face to threaten him into silence or something worse would happen to such a pretty face and Draco felt something cold settle on the pit of his stomach. 

He should have known, he had thought at the time, but he didn't. 

He hadn't. 

Blaise had looked at him, fright and despair clear on his eyes and Draco hadn't known what to tell him. 

Tell his actually innocent man in front of him that this was the way of their world. 

That he shouldn't have believed in them. 

Because Draco wouldn't. 

Never again. 

It was only six months later that Pansy approached him, the limp on her left leg telling Draco she hadn't gotten the medical attention she had been promised - or maybe she had and then she had gotten hurt again for no apparent reason - and she had grabbed his hand, almost pulling him with urgency so he could lean towards her with the bars between them. 

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes were watery, her teeth chattering from the cold but she managed to whisper into his ear. 

The Malfoy patriarch had died. 

The aurors whispered his weakened body had not been able to hold on, she told him, and he succumbed in the night. 

"But," she whispered, eyes wildly darting around. "Theo said he heard him choking in the night, after drinking his water. He said he called out for you, for your mother… and then his lips turned blue, blood leaked from his eyes and ears…"

Draco didn't have to listen anymore. 

Pansy and Theo might have their suspicions, but to Draco, Severus Snape's star pupil and best potion student in his generation, there was no need to know more. 

His father had been poisoned. 

His mother followed a month later, Pansy told him as the moon hid behind the dark December clouds. 

Same symptoms. 

Same illness.

Same poison. 

Draco remembered he had wrapped his arms around his bony knees and cried for the last time. His chest heaving, tears streaming down his cheeks, biting his lips to drown out his sobs until they bled. 

And then…

Everything lost its meaning. 

Time. 

Cold.

Pain. 

Sometimes Pansy reached with her crooked nails towards him, combing his long hair as best she could. 

Draco let her, not because he knew it was something she needed. 

Maybe helping him control his appearance brought her a semblance of peace, maybe worrying over someone else made her feel useful. 

Draco didn’t know. 

Couldn’t force himself to care anymore. 

What was the point?

His life was over. 

He only had to wait until he was eventually poisoned like his beloved father and mother. 

Until death came for him like it did everyone else. 

And it did…

One chilly evening, snow piling on his windowsill. 

A riot broke up. 

A riot where Draco couldn’t recognize a single “prisoner” but then again, he hadn’t looked at anyone in the eye for what seemed like years. These clean looking, strong muscled and chubby cheeked prisoners could be newcomers he hadn’t seen coming in until today. 

Draco didn’t leave his cell when all the doors flew open, he didn’t join the other prisoners when they desperately ran for their freedom, he didn’t even make a sound among the cacophony of their screams. 

Until one of the “new prisoners” made it into his cell, blue eyes wild, freckled cheeks red with excitement. He sneered, spitting words of hatred Draco couldn’t even make up and he seemed to pull a knife out of nowhere, his lips curling into a wicked smile. 

Draco didn’t move even when the knife sunk into his chest. 

He didn’t scream when the red-haired “new prisoner” spit onto his corpse, dropping him onto the dirty ground. 

He didn’t even twitch as the “new prisoners” moved away and he fell into darkness. 

‘At least I’ll get to see mother and father,’ He had thought because what else was he supposed to think? 

He had been betrayed. 

He had been murdered.  

He expected to go into nothing, to feel Queen Morrigan’s hands in his as she led him to what followed. 

But that didn’t happen. 

He found himself instead in a huge white void, warm, for the first time in decades, surrounded by lights that zoomed around and trembled when he tried to touch them. 

“Help,” one hissed in his ear. 

“Help us,” another pleaded. 

“Save him,” the first one demanded.

“Save them…” the second one whimpered. 

“Save yourself,” they echoed each other. 

“From what?” Draco had asked, confused, his voice hoarse with disuse. 

Something fell into his hands then, something heavy. 

A book.

Many books.

Without understanding much, Draco began to read, wondering what was so important about these muggle people living in their normal house to warrant 7 long books…

… until he got it. 

Because this book wasn’t about their lives. 

Or his own.

It was about Potter. 

Events Draco had wondered about for years suddenly made sense, but they didn’t. 

Questions finally found  their answers. 

But more questions arose. 

How Potter was a mediocre student at best and was still able to miraculously win the House Cup despite Draco and other students breaking their backs with extra curriculars and amazing grades each year. 

How every single law seemed incredibly harsh for minors, but for Potter they bent and turned until they all worked in his favor. 

How people appeared out of nowhere to fix Potter's issues without being prompted. 

Some things in this book didn’t make sense. 

Potter had been forced into the Triwizard Tournament in their fourth year, Draco had known it even back then - but that never stopped him from mocking Potter about it - but all Potter actually had to do was not compete, he had to be part of the competition because he had been entered into the magical contract, but all he had to do was sit there and let the other, the actually chosen, champions win. 

Some were explained in ways he knew for a fact were not right. 

And what happened to the Black wealth. 

Because as far as Draco had known, neither Aunt Andromeda and Uncle Sirius shouldn't have been able to inherit the family fortune because the two of them had been vanished from the family tree and Aunt Bella couldn't until she served her time in Azkaban, but then, by logic of blood magic, the wealth should have gone to his mother as the only living, still recognized, free relative and therefore to him as well. 

But for some reason the courts gave excuses over and over since Grand Aunt Walpurga died and the matter was never settled. 

Because someone was pulling at strings behind the scenes to make sure black sheep, disowned Sirius Black got it all. 

And then, by virtue of bulshit, to Potter. 

How convenient. 

Draco could bet this was another one of Dumbledore's manipulations. 

He was the type to do that kind of thing. 

Especially if Draco knew or a fact that the Ancient House of Black's library was still hidden in their home, opening only to the home owner and their heirs. Something neither Potter nor Uncle Sirius would know or care about in the grand scheme of things, but if Potter authorized it there was no reason for the old man not to indulge it he old grimoires. 

Or just stop a Dark Family like the Malfoys from getting to them. 

Bastard. 

Some people he had thought were good people broke the law over and over. 

Even his godfather. 

Snape had told him before his first year that he wouldn't have time to help him, should he need it while they were in school. That whatever childish fancy accosted him should be directed to other, more competent adults. 

Draco at the time had thought Snap wanted him to grow up, to be self-sufficient. 

In the end, apparently, he had just wanted to dedicate his whole time to Potter and his mission, and if Draco or the other Slytherins made requests of him as their Head of House, he would have to listen to them as to not to break his cover as a spy, but that would definitely interrupt his …. Potter dedicated time. 

Draco felt sick to his stomach. 

He had heeded his godfather's words. 

He was his godfather after all. 

He had told his housemates not to bother their Head of House, organized an inter house bartering system, older students helping younger ones in exchange for chores. 

A small mirror of the wizarding society outside, because he had believed him, had believed his godfather wanted his students to be independent, self sufficient. 

He had been such an idiot. 

And then the war came and went. 

Students and teachers died by the hundreds, but only a few were mentioned, only the ones Potter cared about, but then again most he could tell he didn't actually care about, because they were just mentions, so and so died, so and so laid lifeless on the ground, so and so disappeared. 

In the end it never mattered.

The fight was Potter and the rest were just meatshields for his glory. 

Just as he had been. 

And suddenly he was there, with a wife and a child   Draco knew for a fact he didn’t have. 

Draco stared, shocked. 

“This is a lie,” he whispered. "This whole thing is not true…"

“Help us,” the lights whimpered again. “Stop this.”

“Protect him.”

Draco looked around, at the void, at the lights, at the books in his hands. 

“How?” he asked. “How can I stop this? It already happened.”

“Go back,” the lights cried. "Go back! We'll protect you from it! Save him! Save them! One chance! One chance is enough!"

"Save who?" Draco demanded as the lights swirled around him, blinding him. "Who am I supposed to save?"

One of the lights sank into his chest. 

The other melted into his outstretched hand. 

As the world around him grew dark, he heard a name.

His eyes widened. 

And then he was sitting in the dungeon, Snape's voice dronning and Draco's knife sank into his index finger, much to Goyle's surprise and Draco could only stare at his small, too small hands, free of scars and calluses he had gained over the years of his imprisonment.

His hair didn't fall against his back, it barely graced his neck. 

Draco looked around, silent, confused. 

He hadn't seen this classroom since he had been arrested that night in 1997.

He hadn't seen Snape since he left Malfoy Manor a year earlier. 

Draco's eyes fell onto his parchment, where all his notes laid. 

11th February, 1993. 

Was this… what the lights meant with "go back"?

Not in place, but in time. 

Before his life and the lives of many were turned for the worst?

Before the children in front of him were slaughtered or incarcerated, or both?

'Save him…' the voices had asked. 'Save yourself' .

Draco's eyes narrowed. 

His mother and father were still safely back at home, they had wrapped their arms around him, his mother's lips kissing his forehead as he went back to school from the Yule holidays - that his mother refused on principle to celebrate, calling it the colonizer's holidays - his father had told him to be safe, fear clear in his deep blue eyes. 

They were alive, right at this moment. 

They were safe.

He could protect them from the fate their world had prepared for them. 

From his left, Pansy and Blaise continued to bicker. 

Nott and Goyle looked at him in barely disguised annoyance. 

Crabbe sneezed.

Apparently he was given a chance for once in his life. 

And he was going to take it. 

A small smile curled up his lips, his eyes glinting.

Chapter Text

Draco didn't eat dinner that night. 

He felt like he couldn't.

Not when his mind was doing its best to remember exactly what it was supposed to happen right now. From the whispers around him, some students were suspecting Professor Lupin was a werewolf because an adult covered in scars with threadbare clothes that disappears every single month during the full moon was not suspicious at all, no sir. 

Draco guessed that by now he had come into contact with Potter and his Uncle Sirius as well. 

Nothing much actually happened this year from his own point of view. 

He had mostly been coming to terms with the strange reality that his world and everyone around them were characters in a book, just props in someone else's story. But to him they were all real people, people he grew up with, with hopes and dreams and souls. Finding a middle point was getting harder the more time he spent in his new life. 

And maybe the knowledge that his own participation in Potter's story was meager at best could bring him some peace, he thought as he walked around the hallways of the castle. As long as his presence wasn't required for Potter's brilliance, he could live his own life, ensure his own survival and that of his parents. 

Of the people he should save. 

And then that was his other conundrum. 

Who to save?

For once he knew he wanted to save Crabbe. His death had been senseless and stupid. And all he had to do to save him from such fate was to remove the reason behind his demise.

He had to take the horcrux out.

He could burn it himself if he was clever enough and he was but Potter needed the room of requirements for his little Dumbledore sponsored not really sponsored militia.

He could take the horcrux out earlier and burn it somewhere else but he wasn't stupid and he wasn't sure he could survive such putrid magic around him again.

Draco looked at his arm.

Now that he didn't have the mark on him he could feel the difference and it was like night and day, feeling his magic once more, pure, unrestrained and just his.

It had been decades since he felt so free.

He wasn't about to taint his magic again.

His other option was to send Crabbe away before the fight but Crabbe was many things, dumb as rocks as he was, but he was loyal to a fault, if not to him to his family. He would never leave.

Draco didn’t want to come to terms with the idea that he might have to let some people die. 

He just couldn’t.

But then again, could he trust Crabbe and Goyle to keep their mouths shut if he were to trust them? For his plans to work he needed someone he could trust implicitly, because this time he was going not just against Voldemort and Dumbledore, he was going against the world itself. 

A single slip of the tongue could get him and his parents murdered…

…again. 

He couldn’t stomp the cold and heavy feeling inside of him that he was walking into the same path that led to his doom in the beginning. 

He had doomed children to die to protect his parents once. 

And he realized he was going to do it again. 

No time to think about it now, he told himself.

Draco had come to the conclusion that he first needed to start seeding for his world to shift. 

He needed to remind others outside of Potter’s circle but politically powerful enough that he was more than Potter and friends’ unapologetic bully. 

That he could be human too. 

If things came to pass he would need to have people on his side to save him and his parents from the overzealous government that Potter believed in and ignored when they committed their own crimes. 

And it wasn’t because he was being just calculative.

He was going to help as well.

He slowly entered the main greenhouse, silently making sure no other students were in there. 

No one.

Other than him that was. 

Draco took a deep breath once, twice, squaring himself before he took a step forwards.

“Longbottom” he said softly, his voice confident but non-threatening. 

The other boy, still chubby with youth and hunchbacked out of shyness froze, his back still to him, hands elbow deep on the ground where he had been tending to his new herbology project, most likely. 

Draco had almost forgotten how soft and short Longbottom had been once.

He idly wondered if he looked as round and as young himself. 

Longbottom turned around slowly, cautiously, as if ready for an attack. 

Draco stopped himself just seconds before rolling his eyes because, seriously? He was a 13 year old, what was Longbottom expecting him to do? And from what Draco remembered himself, they hadn’t really spoken to each other since Draco called him forgetful when they were eleven.

Seriously.

“M-Malfoy…” the other boy greeted back, hands tense at his sides. Well, at least he hadn’t pulled out his wand yet. 

Draco chose well by going to him first. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, his own shoulders slumping as he leaned against a planter box full of glowing sprouts. 

“Hey,” he said, silver eyes straying to the side. “Sorry to bother you but I honestly don’t know who else to ask and since you and I are in similar conditions I guessed you’d be the one to know.”

Longbottom blinked.

“Huh?” he asked, taking a step back so slight anyone without Draco’s years of training in finding weaknesses might have missed it. 

Longbottom was trying to appear brave, 

Cute.

At  least he wasn’t being aggressive like his other housemates. 

He could work with this.

Draco nodded, his face relaxed. 

“I’ve been doing a lot of extracurriculars for Professor Snape,” he explained. “This semester the fifth years are working with a lot of dipper herbs and I’ve been sorting and chopping them for extra points.”

Draco could see the way Longbottom was thinking, part of the confusion seemed to leave his eyes and he was sure the other boy was trying to guess what corrosive dipper herbs have to do with him. 

At least he didn’t want to explain to Longbottom about the herbs properties, great. 

Draco frowned, eyes downcast. 

“The fumes have been tarnishing my Heir Ring and I’ve been looking for ways to prevent it,” he continued, forcing his cheeks to flush. “I am specializing in Potions for the NEWTS so I can’t stop handling the ingredients, and I thought since you are clearly specializing in Herbology, you might have a tip on how you are protecting your own ring?”

Longbottom’s eyes widened. 

Draco could bet he wasn’t expecting such a question. 

“... Your Heir Ring?” he asked almost in a whisper.

“Yeah,” Draco said, shrugging his shoulders. “You work with almost half the same ingredients as I do so I guessed you might know how to protect my ring? Like you are protecting yours?”

Longbottom stared at him for a moment, clearly hesitant, something in his eye seemed to question draco’s very existence before he lowered his head.

“I don't have one,” he said finally, as it pained. “An Heir Ring I mean.”

Draco's eyes widened comically as he took a step back himself, visibly shocked.

“You are kidding,” he said in awe. “You are telling me your family produced another powerful archmagus in your generation and kept it all quiet? I am honestly jealous.”

Longbottom looked at him, eyes wide.

“What?” 

“Well, I mean you are already an archmagus, I'm assuming an ecomantic one based on the weight of your magic so it was obvious to me you were the clan heir,'' Draco explained with the same soft tones one would describe the weather. “If you don't that means your family has another archmagus stronger than you? That's… I mean… I'm shocked.”

“You are shocked…” Longbottom repeated, brows furrowing.

“Yeah?” Draco tilted jod head. “You are the strongest archmage of our generation, hands down, the fact that your family has someone stronger than you is staggering to me.” 

Longbottom paused, his round cheeks flushing.

Draco continued, not giving Longbottom enough time to speak.

“I’m not going to lie, I am a little disappointed, I kind of hoped I would see it,” he said, his shoulders struggling elegantly.  “My mother spoke very highly of your Heir Ring. She said she met the late Lady Longbottom at the forgers when she found herself pregnant with me and she shared with her the designs for my ring, and Lady Longbottom shared her design with her. She often spoke of its beauty… vibrant, she called it, the ring of an ecomance.”

Longbottom’s eyes were wide. 

“Late Lady Longbottom?” he asked. “You mean my mother?” 

Draco tilted his head to the side.

“I would guess so?” he said, visibly confused. “Your father was Lord Longbottom when he passed, was  he not?”

Longbottom’s teeth sank onto  his bottom lip.

“He was…” he admitted. “I never knew they had prepared a ring for me.”

Draco found himself rolling his eyes. 

“Despite what many light families like to pretend, most old families haven’t abandoned their old ways,” he scoffed. “Preparing an Heir Ring for their firstborn is only logical, all things considered.”

Longbottom’s cheeks flushed. 

“I… I know… I just…” and he whispered, almost inaudible to Draco himself. “Gran just… never mentioned it.”

Draco could tell there was a struggle within Longbottom, something he wasn’t mentioning, and he couldn’t blame him, they weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination. Old Lady Longbottom had kept her grandson far away from any meetings with the old families, many thought it was as means of protection, but Draco could see it as ways to control him.

An Heir Ring marked the wearer with a form of status. 

Not yet an adult, but not just a child, a ward.

With the ring, Longbottom would be able to make legal decisions about himself his beloved old grandma might not be all that happy about. 

He sighed. 

“You could ask your archmage cousin to show you the ring, nonetheless,” he soothed, now more sure than ever that this incredibly powerful cousin of Longbottom’s didn’t exist. “Or you could ask the goblins of Gringotts where it is kept, if your parents made any arrangements it must be in their care and…”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING MALFOY!?” a voice roared from behind them. 

Draco and Longbottom turned in unison to find Finnegan and Thomas at the door of the greenhouse, eyes wide and enraged, wands drawn at the ready. 

They looked as if Longbottom was an innocent little flower about to be tortured to death by Draco himself, which made him raise an eyebrow. 

Seriously, they were thirteen and in the last year of actual innocence they would experience. 

What did these two idiots think he could do to someone as powerful as Longbottom? And  inside a highly monitored school as theirs at that?

Draco was even more intrigued. 

From the book he never got the impression Thomas and Finnegan were all that close to Longbottom. Either because Potter never seemed to notice it - most likely he didn’t care - or because they rarely shared scened together. 

As far as Draco had read, the only true friends in the story that stood by each other at all times were Potter and his best friends. 

Was it their concern for Longbottom’s delicate sensitivities driving them…

Or was it their inherent hatred of Draco himself?

He wasn’t sure. 

Thomas took a brave step forward, almost frothing at the mouth. 

“You have ten seconds to step away from him, Malfoy,” he threatened. 

Draco did his best not to scoff.

He had spent two years under his aunt’s and the Dark Lord’s  tender mercies and then all of his  - albeit short - adult life in prison. What did these  naive little boys thought they could do to him? 

Nothing really could hurt him like his past experiences could.

But then again, he was here to prove to others he wasn’t a monster, to increase his political capital.

Beating two idiots into a pulp, even in self-defense, wouldn’t work for his case. 

So he turned to Longbottom, eyes full of questions.

Longbottom was a Gryffindor, THE Gryffindor by some accounts, surely he could tell these two friends of his they were wrong and he had literally done nothing to him, right?

Wasn’t he supposed to be brave and just and all cliche things combined?

Longbottom looked at him in a panic, pupils shrinking for a second.

And then he looked away.

Silent.

Draco’s face reflected his disappointment. 

He had expected too much, apparently. 

Maybe all that Gryffindor courage and drive to do the right thing didn’t extend to him in particular. 

Draco’s shoulders slumped, a short sigh leaving his lips as he finally looked back to Thomas and Finnegan. 

“I guess I should have seen this coming,” he sighed, more to himself than to anyone else, refusing to even look when Longbottom turned back to him in shock, eyes wide and heartbroken. “I’m leaving I guess.”

He raised his hands non threateningly, his jaw tight  to control his watering eyes. 

He would not show any more weakness.

Without another word, he walked away, past Longbottom’s slowly paling face, past Thomas and FInnegan’s still threatening wands, past the greenhouse’s doors and into the school once more.

He had miscalculated, he scolded himself mentally.

He had tried to reach too high for his own social standing. 

He would need to go back to his dorm and rethink his plan, aim lower, retool his rebranding in the eyes of the public.

His parents' lives depended on his success.

“... foy!” a voice called from behind him, high and frantic with guilt. “Malfoy wait!” 

Draco continued to walk, silent, shoulders slumped, his whole body exuding his sadness and disappointment, hiss hair falling over his face as he made his way into the darkness.

Hiding his slowly curling lips.

…maybe he hadn’t miscalculated afterall.

Chapter Text

Draco read the letter his mother sent him for a third time, eyes devouring each and every word like a hungry beast. 

She said her usual platitudes, told him about the grounds and how excited she was to have him back home in a month and how eager she was to have his help in preparing the forest behind their home for the upcoming summer ceremonies. 

She also briefly mentioned his father’s work and how he seemed to be distracted by something, but most likely was because he missed Draco so much himself, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. 

Draco knew, however, that his father was most likely following the news about Sirius Black’s escape keenly, whether because he knew the man was innocent or not, what only for Lucious to know. 

He felt himself sigh.

Had he managed to nab Longbottom’s confidence the other night, he might have been able to use the upcoming ceremonies to strike up conversations with him about proper care for the flowers and vines that would climb up their altar that summer, not that Draco didn’t know himself since he had been caring for them for the last decade, but it would be some common topic to share with the other teen.

Another reminder of how similar they actually were. 

No matter, he could do something else, hit another corner of the social hierarchy.

It would take longer, of course, a lot more work that he wasn’t sure he could take alone.

But he could do it.

With a resolute nod of his head, Draco folded the letter and placed it on his shirt’s pocket, close to his heart, before grabbing some of the snacks his mother had sent to him and slowly walking onto the common room.

He had learned his classmates’ routines by now -he had since first year actually - because knowledge is power and he needed power over those that he had thought, at the time, would lead the next generation with him in the future. 

What a silly thought, he told himself as he watched all the Slytherins loitering around their dorms. 

None of them made it out of the war unscathed. 

At some point he had thought the ones who died early were the lucky ones, while watching as his classmates, his fellow Slytherins, rotted in Azkaban with him. 

THeir legacy and all they had worked for… gone. 

Crabbe and Goyle were reading some lewd novel or another, he could tell by the way they giggled and elbowed one another in a corner. Theodore was doing Flints’ homework for him again, most likely he wanted a favor to do with the quidditch team. 

Blaise was embroidering something with Davis under Bullstrode’s judging eyes.

Were they preparing for the holidays?

Draco wasn’t sure.

Whatever the case, Bullstrode would whip them into shape soon enough, from what he remembered of his past/future.

And there, alone next to the fireplace, stood Pansy, head stuck on a book she clearly wasn’t reading, a letter clenched on her hand. 

Ah…

Draco plopped himself next to her, noticing instantly as her shoulders tensed for a second before slowly, as if forcefully, relaxing, her long eyelashes fanning the air as she turned to look at him.

Before she could utter a single word, Draco raised a finger to his lips, slowly and purposefully dragging it down his throat.

It was a normal gesture they had created when they were children, something only a few could recognize - Blaise raised an eyebrow at them, but he shook his head and continued with his needlework when Bullstrode scolded him - and Pansy did, as her eyes widened, her lips tightened. 

She immediately pulled out her wand, casting a quick and localized silencing spell. 

Ah, she got it then.

He needed a quick private conversation with him. 

He smiled. 

“Your father is beating your mother again, I take it?” he asked, gently handing the girl a box of chocolates from belgium his mom had sent him that Pansy instantly snatched from his fingers, violently ripping the box open. 

“What? Come here to brag about your perfect father and mother who dote on you?” she said as she stuffed a chocolate in her small mouth. 

Draco had to admire her ability to pretend nothing was wrong on the outside and still spit out poison,

Draco’s smile widened. 

“Nothing so grandiose, no,” he said, grabbing a chocolate piece himself nonchalantly. “You could say I had an awakening, left the childishness of our past behind.”

“Sure…” the girl scoffed, her lips perfectly curled into an amicable smile. “Are you finally going to take on Daphne on a date?” 

Draco frowned, confused. 

Oh, he had completely forgotten that little fact. Apparently Daphne Greengrass either had a real crush on him or was aiming to become the next Lady Malfoy now that everyone realized he held no real interest in Pansy herself… and he couldn’t help but think of the books he had read in the void, where they described a woman with golden blonde hair by his side, wide blue eyes and a doting smile. 

She did look like Daphne. 

Was that what the author thought he would do in the future? 

Marry Daphne Greengass?

He shook his head. 

“I won’t give you any details yet,” he replied, waving a hand. “But what if I told you I can get you and your mother away from that degenerate drunkard, making sure he won’t be able to touch you both by the time we graduate?” 

Pansy’s eyes widened, pupil’s narrowing. 

“That would take a lot of work,” she whispered, her mouth clearly growing dry.

“Indeed,” he agreed, grabbing another chocolate. “But I’m 100% sure I can do it.”

“You or your powerful father?” Pansy snapped.

“Just little old me,” he said with certainty. 

The girl lowered her eyes, the fingers around the crumbled letter her mother no doubt wrote her tightening for a moment. 

Draco waited, patiently.

“And you are sure,” she said.

“I am,” he assured.

“Sure enough to sign and unbreakable bond with me,” she continued.

Draco looked at her, at the way she bit her lips to stop them from trembling, how she let her hair fall on her face to hide her frantic eyes. 

“If that’s what you want, we can do it on the last day of school, I read the moon will be especially powerful,” he answered. “If you are willing to pay the price, of course.”

Pansy paused, deep in thought. Draco let her take her time, hands gently crossed over his belly as he laid back on the sofa. He had time today and if Pansy really said no, he guessed he could try the same tactic with Blaise in advance. Blaise did want to get his mother to safety, away from the rumors of the Black widow that haunted her day and night. 

In the new world after the war, with her only son - and an innocent at that - in prison, she wouldn’t survive long. 

He had planned to recruit Blaise to his small cause later anyways, but he first wanted Pansy on his camp, she was a girl and had a reputation for being arrogant but not violent. Her influence would be better in the beginning than Blaise’s own bloodline of ‘murderers’.

But he could still work the plan with him on his side. 

He would just have to tweak it a little bit. 

“What do you want?” Pansy finally asked after a few minutes of silence, her manicured nails digging into her book.

Draco let out a sigh.

“What else? I want your complete loyalty,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t question my methods, do as I say and by the time we turn 17 you and your mother will be free.”

“What?” she asked, shocked. 

“I’m working on building political capital, “ he explained. “And I need a side-kick for that. You are a girl, you have eyes and ears in places I cannot access and you know how to cry prettily on command, you are perfect for my plan.”

Pansy’s clear eyes narrowed instantly.

“You want me to help you make friends with Potter and his ilk?” she asked, almost unable to stop herself from recoiling. 

Draco felt himself snort.

“Potter? Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Him and his little group of friends are not involved in my plans… not for that, at least.”

Seeing how Pansy’s suspicions didn’t disappear, he continued. 

“Potter is powerful, yes, and my animosity towards him has left me with very few people who remember I am not the devil,” he waved a hand again, dismissively. “I am going to remind this school I am just a boy, like everyone else, if only a little prettier and smarter than most. And I need you to help me.”

“Me…” 

“Crabbe and Goyle are too loyal to their families, you are not,” Draco said. “And it would be weird that a 13 year old has no friends who openly like him.”

Pansy snorted herself, a graceful curl of her nose. “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t need to like me,” Draco reminded. “You just need to obey me.”

Pansy’s shoulders slumped.

“And you guarantee…”

“That your father will rot in Azkaban by the time you turn 18? Yes,” he said, already guessing her thoughts. “The only difference is whether your mother will survive to see it happen and whether you will be in there with him or not.”

From what Draco remembered, Lord Parkinson was the kind of man who clung to the old ways not out of respect, but out of convenience. He had married the youngest daughter of the Rosier clan because he needed his dowry to revive their businesses, but had been displeased by the way she had a hard time conceiving, forcing fertility potions down her throat every single week and then forcing himself on her with the protection their ‘marriage’ afforded him. 

Many in the circle had told him he should just divorce her and try with another wife in better health, but that would have meant giving up on her wealth, so he refused. 

When Pansy had been born, premature and purple, he had been furious, and had asked the healers at Saint Mungos when his wife would be able to conceive again and his fury only rose when he was told that the delivery had been too much on the new Lady Parkinson and another child would be impossible for her to bring to term. 

So that drunkard had decided it was all her fault and he unleashed his wrath on her from then on.

A barren womb and a girl as an heir. 

What a joke it was to his fragile ego. 

The sad part was, Draco’s mother whispered to his father one night, when they thought Draco had been too sleepy to hear, that there had been nothing wrong with Lady Parkinson physically. It was Lord Parkinson who was not fertile to begin with - years experimenting with black magic can do that to you - and of course, the disgusting old man refused to believe it. 

Parkinson’s only saving grace, according to his mad aunt Bella, was his blind devotion to The Dark Lord. 

Which meant that as soon as Potter beat that snake bastard into the ground, Parkinson and his collaborators would be dragged into prison, as he had the first time. 

That, Draco knew for a fact. 

Pansy slowly offered her hand to him, fingers trembling. 

Draco shook it without hesitation.

“Good choice,” he told her, softly. “Now come with me, we’ll see if you can do your job on a small matter.”

He instantly rose from his seat, waving Pansy’s silencing spell away from him with his own wand, his smile still relaxed but showing a hint of eagerness. 

Pansy rose as well, confused.

“Now?” she asked, confused. 

“Most students are on the hallways at this hour, we have no time to waste,” he explained, an eyebrow raised when he saw she had more questions for him.

Pansy’s lips pursed, her hands clenching and unclenching. 

She nodded. 

Good.

They walked out arm in arm, smiling happily at each other as Draco ignored Theo’s calculating eyes behind him, and the way Blaise’s interest remained on them throughout their conversation. 

He knew they wouldn’t ask him a thing and Pansy could deal with them afterwards.

That’s why he chose her after all.

Together they made their way into the mass of students, some carrying books, some comparing answers with friends from other houses, some planning mischief in whispered conversations, Draco examined them idly before he spoke again.

“So I asked Longbottom about his ring,” Draco said, as if they had been having a conversation all along. “You won’t believe what he told me!”

Pansy slotted herself into the conversation instantly like the clever girl she was but Draco couldn’t miss the way her nails sank into the soft flesh of his arm. 

“What?” she asked, tilting her head in a way that made her eyes stand out even more, innocently. Most likely she had noticed how some older year Ravenclaws were staring at them.

“He told me he doesn’t have one,” Draco said, his own eyes wide in scandal. “Can you believe it? There I was trying to get ring care tips from him and he didn’t even get his ring!” 

Pansy gasped, loud and yet elegantly.

“There is no way!” she said, her free hand on her cheek. “Does he have a powerful cousin or something?” 

“That’s what I thought!” Draco nodded eagerly. “But no! Apparently his matriarch hasn’t even given him his ring!” 

“That should be illegal!” Pansy continued, frowning. “He’s an archmage!”

Some Ravenclaws gasped as they heard them, furiously whispering amongst each other. 

Some older year Gryffindors frowned and a single Hufflepuff nervously clutched her own Heir Ring in her right hand, as if afraid she might lose it. 

It was working.

“I told him that!” Draco agreed, shaking his head. “And my mother said it’s such a beautiful ring too, the one the late Lady prepared for him.”

“Such a shame,” Pansy nodded as she let Draco lead her from corridor to corridor, looking for all the world to see as a pair of gossiping teenagers. “Then what are you going to do? Your own ring will turn black if you keep doing your Potions credits but you can’t not wear it!” 

“I guess we can go to the library to see if something can be done?” he wondered out loud. “If not maybe Professor Flitwick knows? I’d hate to have to ask him, he looks busy enough as it is, but by next year I’m required to wear my ring on my hand and…”

“MALFOY!” a voice called from behind them.

Draco stopped, doing his best to stop the smile spreading on his mouth. 

He took a few steps back, eyes cautious as Hermione Granger and her band of precious little lap dogs approached them. 

He knew those Thomas and Finnegan would be unable to keep their little traps shut.

Draco placed a placating hand on Pansy’s one, still clutching onto his arm, silently shaking his head at her. 

“Granger,” He said simply. “Potter, Weasley.”

“Parkinson!” Pansy added immediately. “Great, we all know our last names!” 

Draco smiled.

She was the best.

Granger’s eyes narrowed, her lips downturned in displeasure. Most likely she thought Pansy was a rude little bitch, and dumb to add, because Draco had learned from the books that Granger had a horrible opinion of pretty girls who didn’t mold themselves to her example of academic achievements. 

What she had thought of Brown from her own house was proof enough. 

“Malfoy,” she continued as if Pansy hadn’t spoken. “You need to stop spreading lies about Neville!” 

Draco’s and Pansy’s eyes widened, confusion clear in them.

“Lies?” Draco asked, tilting his head to the side. “What lies? That he doesn’t have his own Heir Ring? That’s not a lie, he told me himself the other night?”

Granger seemed to bristle.

“He doesn’t need an Heir Ring if he doesn’t want it,” Weasley said instead, arms crossing over his chest. “Stop calling him an archmage, you are just pressuring him with false expectations!”

Now it was Pansy’s turn to tilt her head, her eyes wide and curious.

“But he is?” she said. “You can feel it in the air when he’s in the greenhouse?” 

Granger scoffed. 

“You are obviously trying to get on his head for some reason,” she added. “Archmages are just legends and fairy tales, I looked it up when Dean and Seamus told us what you did! It’s just a silly title people gave to an incredibly powerful witch or wizard in the past!” 

“Because you know about our terms and traditions better than we do, Granger,” Pansy snorted. “How could we forget?”

“Longbottom is an archmage,” Draco continued, shaking his head. “His ecomancy is through the roof, I thought his own friends and family would have noticed since it’s really obvious to us?”

“There’s no such thing as ecomancy,” Granger shook her head again. “Magic is magic, you are just trying to get under Neville’s skin, aren’t you?” 

Pansy didn’t take her eyes off Granger and her friends, ready to reach if she pulled out her wand. But Draco looked around at the older Ravenclaws at a distance who were scowling at Granger in disapproval.

Yeah, Granger, spit on people’s religions on the open, thank you very much. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, you caught me, my dastardly plan of harming Longbottom by complimenting him on his incredible power and then asking him about things that legally should be his has been unveiled, what am I to do now?” he said sarcastically. 

“You make it sound like it’s such a big deal and he’s been neglected by his family!” Granger’s                   deepened. “Harry doesn’t have an Heir Ring either, neither does Ron.”

“That would be because Potter hasn’t claimed his and of course Weasley doesn’t have an Heir Ring, he’s not the heir, his older brother is?” Draco countered, acting as if the whole explanation was beneath himself. “You must have seen it, right Weasley?”

Weasley, the jealous bitch he was, of course kept his lips shut even when Granger turned to him in askance, but Draco didn’t miss the way Potter’s eyes shone at the mention of a ring that most likely was still in his vault. Oh, was he going to ask about it? How was Dumbledore going to convince him he didn’t need the ring or the legal protection in entailed, he wondered. 

“This is a waste of time,” Draco said finally. “You guys are chasing shadows and insulting your so-called friend in the process. What great guys you are, heroes, really.”

And without another word, Draco and Pansy walked away, steps light and annoyance clear in their faces as they made their exit. 

Pansy opened her lips to complaint, but Draco’s fingers tightening against her own were enough to keep her quiet. 

3…

2…

1…

“MALFOY WAIT!” Granger bellowed. “COME BACK HERE!” 

Count on that little nosy witch to react when something she didn’t know about was placed in front of her and since Weasley was too stupid to educate her, of course she would follow whoever knew best. 

Draco bypassed the corridor this time, draggin Pansy into an abandoned classroom on the third floor, closing the door and locking it as he heard Granger’s hurried steps, Weasleys pleads for her to forget about Malfoy and his shit and Potter’s whispers that he most likely was playing a prank on all of them.

With a sigh, Draco rested his back on the door, eyes closing in relief. 

Pansy waited until silence enveloped them once more before whispering. 

“Was this what you wanted?” she asked. “For us to spread the rumor that Longbottom is being abused in his home?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Is he your target?” 

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, he is too involved with the Gryffindors for me to approach safely,” he explained, refusing to acknowledge that yes, Longbottom had been his first target, but not in the way Pansy was probably imagining. “I just wanted the school to see us speaking well of him.”

Pansy’s frown didn’t abate. 

Draco opened his eyes. 

“Were there any paintings in the hallways where we were?” he asked suddenly. “Any ghosts?”

Pansy blinked, confused for a second before she tried to remember. 

“No, none so far,” she answered, watching as Draco stood from his relaxed posture, looking at the stone walls of the classroom, analyzing them. 

“Peeves either?” he asked, a hand reaching for the stone in front of him. 

“He’s usually in the astronomy tower at this time of the day,” Pansy told him, eyes widening when Draco smiled. 

“Perfect,” he said. “I will give you your new mission then, Pansy my dearest.”

His silver eyes met her sky blue ones.

“I’m going to need you to take me to the infirmary, but not through our usual channels, you’ll have to help  me walk down and through the hallways by the kitchen;” he ordered, placing both hands on the wall. “Oh, and I need you to cry, as prettily as you can, but still full of distress.”

Pansy’s confusion grew.

“I can cry on command, sure,” she said. “But why would you need the infirm…”

Before she could finish, Draco reared his head back, eyes closed as he slammed his face against the wall with all his strength.

“DRACO!” Pansy shrieked as blood splattered her on the face.

Chapter Text

The pain almost made him faint. 

He had felt much worse in life, he knew, but this younger, softer body of his had not grown accustomed to torture.

Draco’s ears were buzzing and his vision swam for a second, he could feel his hot blood sliding down his cheek and dripping from his chin while Pansy tried to hold him up. 

A slight miscalculation, he told himself.

“Let’s go,” he hissed, tasting the metallic taste on his tongue, did he bite it? No time to think about it now. “And remember, be pretty.”

Draco could barely see Pansy’s eyes widen, feel her hands froze against his arm for a second before she shook her head, her jaw tightening and her frantic face turned into a work of art, her tears glinting in the scarce light as she reached to open the classroom door and slowly guide him through the hallways. 

He could feel her hesitation with every step, the way she wanted to take him through their usual pathways - a quicker, secluded way to the infirmary they had created out of necessity to keep their dignified images back in first year - but Draco just shook his head and she immediately started walking down the stairs. 

It was stupid of them to go this way, to cross the halls to the first floor near the kitchens and then go to Madame Pomfrey’s office, but Draco had prepared for it. Should they ever be questioned, he could argue Pansy was panicking, seeing all that blood on him, and had just gone back the way they had gone originally. He knew it was a very slim chance anyone would suspect them, not because he thought the school staff would be stupid not to notice the inconsistencies, no, but because from what he had learned from the books, they weren’t a thought in their esteemed Headmaster’s head at the moment. 

For all he knew, Dumbledore and Snape were too busy making sure Potter and Uncle Sirius were the best of friends by March and founding Professor Lupin’s escape to care about a couple of Slytherins getting hurt in the castle.

He had to remind himself to write to his mother and stop his father’s more than predictable rampage through the school when he heard, however, this was the second time in the year he was sent to the nurse with blood coming out of his body. 

Lucius Malfoy would be frantic. 

Maybe he should have told Pansy to do it first?

Well, hindsight.

Draco could tell they were reaching their first objective when voices started reaching his ears, some in whispers, some less conspicuous. 

“Is that Malfoy?” one asked.

“What happened to him!?” another, younger voice screamed. 

“He was fine twenty minutes ago!” 

“You saw him?”

“Did he go fight a hippogryph again?” 

“Don’t be stupid!”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Pansy said to him, her head lowered, her voice trembling.

Draco nodded at her. 

“Parkinson!” an older voice asked as a shadow fell over them, a prefect? Draco could only see polished black shoes and the bright yellow trimmings on his school robes. “What happened?”

Pansy stopped for a second and from the corner of his eye Draco could see how she slowly raised her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes moist, her bitten lips plump and pink, she was a perfect picture of concern and fear wrapped in a beautiful and elegant shell.

If Draco wasn’t in so much pain, he would have clapped for her. 

“I…” Pansy hesitated. “We…” 

Draco knew she wouldn't be able to come up with a response on the spot. 

Had counted on it, actually.

He laid a trembling hand on hers, his fingers tightening against hers.

“Don’t…” he slurred, his voice weak. “No one will believe you anyways.” 

Pansy turned towards him and Draco could see the realization sink into her pupils while her face maintained her perfect mask.

“B-but Draco…” she almost sobbed, her shoulders raising. 

Draco shook his head. 

“Let’s go…” he hesitated for a second. “Please.”

Draco lowered his head just as Pany’s shoulders slumped and a drop of Draco’s blood landed on the Hufflepuff’s perfectly polished shoes, heh.

He took a step back and Pansy took the chance to continue on her way, her tears glinting on her cheeks as she became an icon of heartbroken resignation. 

Draco decided he’d have to get her special, he could even say it was an earlier Beltane present, it would at least have her father lay off her for the summer. 

“W-wait! Parkinson! Malfoy!” the older Hufflepuff boy called, finally reacting, but by then it was too late. Pansy already understood what this mission was all about and she wouldn’t let anyone stop her on her way anymore.

She was so smart for her age, Draco had to admit, far smarter than he had been at the time. 

They continued to walk, well, he limped to the best of his abilities as Draco’s vision fogged further - and he could only picture in his mind what an image he made, his blond hair glinting in the light as it did very little to hide his face, bruised and bloodied - while beautiful Pansy Parkinson did her best to take him to safety. He could barely make out blue and red figures passing them by, his voices expressing either concern, curiosity or disdain. 

Draco wasn’t surprised. 

He wasn’t surprised either when Madame Pomfrey opened her door and a twinge of something cold colored her expression. 

“Miss Parkinson?” she said. 

Pansy didn’t say a thing, her delicate hands slowly pulling Draco’s hair back so the nurse could see Draco’s face in all its glory. 

Pomfrey’s eyes widened and she instinctively reached for her wand, her free hand reaching to support Draco’s swaying body as she led them both inside. The cool feeling of her magic diagnosing his injuries and numbing his skin as both women laid him in one of the beds, Pansy instantly sitting by his side and grabbing his hand, ready to remain in vigil all the time it was necessary, apparently. 

Draco let himself rest back against the pillows, allowing his lips to release a sigh of pain as he did so. 

Madame Pomfrey’s magic kept traveling around his body, soothing the smallest injuries and helping his ears stop buzzing.

And just in time as she sent a small message through the air and then started interrogating Pansy about what had happened. 

Draco could imagine that his injuries were worse than he had imagined and she suspected an assault on school grounds, she might not like Draco and his ilk very much - why? he wasn’t sure but he could guess, apparently no one in this castle liked Draco very much - but if Draco had been attacked in the castle and considering who his father was, the least she should do was contact his head of house if not the Headmaster himself.

Draco couldn't have that.

He had learned occlumency under his aunt’s tender mercies, he could deal with them both if he was careful enough, but Pansy hadn’t, she was an open book to those cunning fuckers. 

So he pulled on Pansy’s hand.

“I tripped and hit my head against the wall,” he hissed, slowly opening his eyes and turning to Pansy. “Thanks Pans, can you please go back and write to my mother? Tell her what happened and that it’s nothing serious so she won’t be scared?” 

Pansy hesitated for a moment, confusion slowly twisting her face before she controlled her expression, most likely she was remembering she had sworn her complete loyalty to Draco  himself just an hour ago. 

She nodded. 

“Are you sure?” she asked, her hand cupping Draco’s cheek tenderly, her thumb carefully caressing his lower lip.

Draco smiled at her.

“Positive,” he said before slowly, silently mouthing ‘Snape’s coming’ against her thumb and ‘Run.’

Pansy nodded with a sigh of her own, leaning to kiss his hairline.

“I’ll come get you with a clean uniform tomorrow morning?” she promised, finally whipping her tears from her face with her sleeve. 

“Thanks,” Draco nodded, eyes following her as she said her goodbyes to Madame Pomfrey and ran away from the room, she would have to use all her hidden routes to avoid school authorities and inquiring gazes.

He trusted her.

He had to trust her. 

Only ten minutes later - and Draco could admit, if only to himself, he was surprised it took so little all things considered - Severus Snape came into the room, his face full of disapproval, followed in by Professor Sprout and McGonagall, both showing more concern in their faces than his so-called godfather.

Draco had thought he would not be disappointed, but he was wrong. 

He swallowed once, twice, before doing his best to sit in bed. 

“Madame Pomfrey says you hit a wall?” Snape sneered, his voice full of disbelief, eyes trying to lock with Draco’s, most likely trying to read the truth from his thoughts. Draco simply nodded, wincing a little when his neck protested his movements.

The nurse immediately tried to push him back down, her tone chidding.

“You are still healing, young man, don’t make sudden movements,” she said, waving her wand before his eyes once more. 

“What’s the diagnosis, Poppy?” Professor McGonagall asked, her voice chilling despite the concern clear in her eyes. Daco idly wondered if Madame Pomfrey hadn’t cleaned his face at all?

“The usual,” the nurse replied. “He has a broken nose and he cut his eyebrow, head injuries tend to bleed more than normal.”

Draco found himself nodding along. 

“I’m fine, a little assamica and rose solution and I’ll be fine,” he muttered, letting his cheeks flush in teenage embarrassment, his eyes drifting to the window. 

“For the bleeding, maybe, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Sprout argued, her hands cupped in front of her chest. “But that eye of yours.”

“That would be because he fractured his eye socket,” Pomfrey explained, then she added, as if as a second thought. “I’m already healing the fracture and draining the blood out of his skin.”

Draco nodded.

“Thanks Madame,” he hissed. 

“And you fractured your skull by tripping into a wall,” Snape continued, as if no one had spoken, an eyebrow raised. 

Draco blinked at him, his eyes meeting Snape’s for a single second before drifting away once more. 

“I was in a hurry and didn’t see where I was going,” he added after a pause, leaving the door wide open for more questions. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Professor McGonagall who took the bait. 

“Some students said you were fighting with Harry and his friends,” she began, her shoulders tensing. “Did he do this?” 

Draco allowed his split lips to curl upwards self-deprecatingly. Of course everyone remembered Potter’s presence in the whole altercation over everything else, he was the protagonist after all.

“No,” Draco scoffed, slowly shrinking into himself defensively. “I really hit my head on the wall, he didn’t even talk to me that I remember.”

Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout looked at each other.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest.

“Tell us exactly what happened, boy,” he commanded, his tone showing his skepticism. “And don’t lie, I’ve known you since you were a babe, I’ll know if you lie.”

Draco wanted to laugh in his face. Snape hadn’t had contact with him in years, had barely talked to him in the last three years. He couldn’t even tell that Draco had changed in the last few weeks, couldn’t detect that the naive little boy with an ego bigger than his own sense of self preservation he had known for so long was gone.

What a joke.

Draco finally allowed his shoulders to slump in defeat, eyes settling on his lap.

As if ashamed.

“Pansy and I were talking when Granger decided she needed to educate me in the ways of our people,” he sneered. “She believes my calling Longbottom an archmage is one elaborate scheme to hurt him, I guess.”

“An Archmage?” McGonagall asked, confused, making Professor Spout by her side scowl at her in disapproval.

Draco nodded.

“I told her he was an archmage, an ecomancer at that,” Draco paused. “And she insisted I was lying.”

Snape clicked his tongue.

“You fought Miss Granger because you were defending Mr. Longbottom’s honor?” he asked as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

“Of course not!” Draco argued, his own sneer growing. “I argued with her because she insulted my religion! She told me archmages are not real, and called ecomancy a fairy tale so I decided to call her a bad friend to insult her back.”

Snape stared at him, his eyes proving every inch of his posture, trying to read in his body language what he couldn’t in his mind, surely. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall frowned in disapproval, conflict clear and Professor Sprout’s face twisted in understanding and sympathy. 

She spent the most time with Longbottom of the three, she could tell that whatever Draco had said - calling Longbottom an archmage, calling him an ecomancer - was not actually wrong, just old speech, and the fact that Hermione Granger made a public statement mocking his words, distrusting his confidence in Longbottom’s innate power when he needed all the confidence he could get, probably sat badly with her.

He could get an ally in the old professor, Draco thought.

“I still don’t see how that ended up with you hitting yourself,” Snape insisted, his patience clearly wearing thin. Draco wrapped an arm around his middle, his lips pursing. 

He kept silent for a moment, letting the nurse fuss around him.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape warned. “I’m warning you…”

Draco’s shoulders slumped, his lowered eyes grew faintly wet.

“Granger punched me earlier in the year,” he finally admitted as if reluctant. “So when she started to turn red I didn’t want a repeat of that and ran away with Pansy and when we saw she was chasing us we snuck into an abandoned classroom. The floor was dusty and the room wasn’t well lit so when I turned around to close the door… I went face first against the wall.”

All three professors fell silent, enveloped in their own thoughts.

Madame Pomfrey sighed loudly. 

Draco’s lips pulled downwards, the perfect picture of a teen ashamed to admit he ran face first against a wall.

“What…” Snape began.

But Draco wasn’t going to let him have it, Snape was a bastard and he wasn’t about to listen to any more of his lies.

“You can check it if you don’t believe me, Professor ,” Draco tried his best not to make the word sound like an insult and by the way Snape’s eyes widened, he clearly failed. “It’s on the third floor near the Charms classroom. I can guess my blood is still there.”

McGonagall  and Sprout stared at Snape for a moment. Snape took a step back, his own shoulders finally relaxing.

Most likely he didn’t like the way the other staff members were judging him and the cold way he treated his injured student - who also happened to be the godson he had known since he was a babe - and maybe he could dig it in a little deeper and have them realize he hadn’t even asked about Draco’s wellbeing since he came into the room.

But he decided not to push it, he could just silently express his disappointment in his head of house for a little while and hope he felt as shitty as he made Draco himself feel.

There was nothing much else to say. 

He hadn’t said any sort of lies so far, per se.

Yes, he argued with Granger.

Yes, he hit head against the wall.

No, Potter hadn’t been involved in any of it.

He let himself lay down on the bed once more, closing his eyes as if hurt by the interrogation and the treatment he had received so far.

Madame Pomfrey’s fingers pushed his hair away from his face gently.

“You should rest, Mr. Malfoy,” she advised, her voice soft. “Sleep now and by tomorrow morning you’ll be right as rain.”

Draco idly wondered what was wrong with her. Based on his earlier interactions with the nurse, she hadn’t liked him much if at all. But maybe it was the contrast in the way he acted today compared to earlier in the year? Because his screaming when having an open fracture had been so disturbing to her , of course, he thought resentfully.

Or maybe it was the subtle implication that he knew how to treat his own injuries, maybe had been doing it for a while that moved the witch?

Whatever the case, he should just lower his head and milk it for all it was worth.

“Okay, Madame,” he said with a sigh, turning his head away from the group in front of him, as if even more ashamed that they were seeing him so vulnerable.

“Well, there you go, there was no assault on Mr. Malfoy and he will recover by tomorrow morning,” Madame Pomfrey sighed. “Now please let the lad sleep and I’m sure you can continue this conversation elsewhere if needed?” 

Professor McGonagall  and Professor Sprout nodded, their lips pursed.

Snape nodded, his frown deepening.

“Of course,” he said as he turned and walked out of the room.

“Sorry to bother you, young man,” Professor McGonagall said before leaving as well, most likely to scold Snape on his cold behavior towards his own family, only Professor Sprout turned to look at him one last time, just in time to see a tear roll down his still slightly bruised and pale cheek.

Draco kept his eyes closed until he heard them all, Madame Pomfrey included, leave.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at the setting sun on the horizon.

By tomorrow morning the whole school would know what had happened.

Whether they believed he tripped and fell against a wall  or not was another matter altogether.

Chapter Text

Draco spent the following morning wrapping up his preparations for the years to come. He read his mother’s letter,  almost tearing up at her obvious concern and the way she tried to ask him many questions hidden in her caring and veiled words. 

He quickly wrote back, expressing that yes, he was okay and yes, his godfather’s report was accurate, he did hit his head against a wall, sprinkling complaints about  his argument  with Granger and her careless disregard for his and other students’ beliefs and Longbottom’s situation with his Heir Ring  -  if only to follow the narrative of an angry and petty teen just in case Snape decided to check on his correspondence - before praising Pansy and asking his mother to get her a  special present this Beltane, something to express the bond the two of them share, his mother would get he was trying to protect  her from her drunkard father. 

He wrapped it up with his longing to see his parents and ardent wishes for their own good health.

Then he went with Pansy to visit Flint and expressed his desire to quit the Quidditch team citing he wanted to focus on his studies and after a brief exchange of galleons he asked the captain to keep his resigning a secret until the next season because he still hadn’t found a way to tell his own father. 

Flint had agreed with a greedy smile in his thin lips.

Draco let him gloat to the rest of the house about his new-found wealth.

Next year with the Tri-Wizard tournament, quidditch would not be played  - not that any of them knew it - and by the time the sport resumed, all Slytherins would be more focused  on the return of the Dark Lord to care about little Draco Malfoy who decided to leave the sky in favor of books.

Crabbe and Goyle accosted him for a little while, confused as to their sudden distance, Draco quickly explained that rumors had started sprouting around the castle of his preferences so he had opted to drag one of the prettiest girls in their house around to combat them.

He pitied them when both nodded in absolute understanding and idly wondered how they’d react when Blaise was added to his new inner circle and they weren’t.

Or if they would notice.

He did his best to ignore their steps behind him as they walked from class to class, a constant reminder of what he was sacrificing in the end.

He chose instead to focus on the whispers now following him around the castle, silent questions about his state, because part of the school didn’t believe Draco Malfoy had tripped over a wall as authorities had confirmed, especially not after seeing Granger and her friends screaming behind him.

Others believed it had to be a wall, otherwise, how could delicate Draco Malfoy who caused such a ruckus over a hippogriff earlier in the year keep quiet this time?

But those voices were quickly  silenced when older students explained the actual strength of the beast  and the internal damage the teen must have experienced at the moment, excusing his harrowing screams and his father’s abject fury.

Draco himself didn’t remember the incident all that much, considering all the horror he experienced later on.

He just remembered experiencing the biggest pain he had ever felt in his short life while he was dragged to the infirmary, and screaming when his blood soaked robes were removed and he could look at his own humerus bone sticking out from the torn flesh of his arm, how the nurse told him he was lucky it wasn’t his wand-arm and that he would be right as rain in just a couple of days, as if all the pain he had experienced meant nothing.

Sometimes, before the war, he would touch the small scar in the underside of his arm, wondering if there was nothing else to be done for him.

By the time he was dragged away to Azkaban, that same inch scar was meaningless compared to all the others that littered his skin.

Draco stared at his hand, his calloused but unscarred fingers, the way his fingers curled without any pain.

He still needed to get used to this smaller, softer body of his. 

"Umm, excuse me," a soft voice called, making Draco look up from his notes. Hanna Abbot was there, in all her soft little girl glory, honey curls gently framing her round face. Behind her, almost as if using her as a shield, stood Finch-Fletchley and Macmillan, both frowning at him in disapproval, especially when Abbot finally had a full view of his face and she took a step back, startled.

Draco let his expression dim, his head lower slightly as he reached to cover some of his face with his soft blond hair - that Pansy had been styling for the last week to make absolutely perfect - and he knew it was working when Abbot's and McMillan's faces twisted guiltily. 

"D-don't cover up," Abbot said, her lips trembling. "It's just…"

"Ghastly," Draco finished for her. "It's fine, Pansy's told me already."

Finch-Fletchley immediately raised his chin, lips pursed.

"We thought Madame Pomfrey healed you already," he defended his house mates.

"She did," Draco nodded, his expression open, his flawless pale skin almost sparkling. "But the eyes are too delicate so she decided not to drain the blood out of my eye and let it clear out naturally."

Draco explained with complete nonchalance. He had expected it when the nurse told him he fractured his eye socket, had counted on it really, because rumors and whispers in Hogwarts lasted as long as it took for most students to breathe and he needed to be a constant reminder of what had happened. 

Something that stood out with his pale complexion.

And what better than a bursted vessel inside the palest part of his body? His Black family signature silver eyes. 

Madame Pomfrey had told him he could go to St. Mungos to get blood drained out of his completely saturated sclera, but Draco just shook his head and told her he could live with the soreness for a week or two. It was almost the end of the year anyways, if the blood hadn't drained by the time he went home, he promised her he'd see a healer. 

So he had been walking around with a blood red eye for a week, pretending he didn’t notice the way Granger continued to glare at him whenever the two of them were in the Great Hall or the way Longbottom's heartbroken eyes followed him wherever he went. Basking in the whispers and the questions no one dared to ask him,

And now, curiosity had become too strong for the Hufflepuff, apparently. 

It made sense to him.

The Hufflepuff were the first to see him after his little accident had heard his words and Pansy’s pleas.

They had more concrete information than anyone else.

He still hadn’t expected this particular group to confront him first, however. The nameless prefect that had stopped them on the way, maybe, another group of braver older students.

Abbott lowered  her head, feeling somehow guilty.

“Does… does it hurt?” she asked hesitantly, sitting by his side in the library, concern clear on her face. “Can you see okay?” 

Draco stared at  her in visible surprise, blinked for a moment, slowly, before he nodded.

“It doesn’t hurt and I can see perfectly,” he reassured, his own hesitation clear. “It’s just a little sore.”

The girl breathed out in relief.

“Thank God,” she said.

Draco stared at them in silence, hands gently placed over his notes, head tilted to the said, an eyebrow raised.

He waited.

Abbott fidgeted uncomfortably, unsure what to do.

.Macmillan's lips curled, his chin jutting out stubbornly.

Finch-Fletchley’s eyes dawned with recognition. 

Draco continued to wait because he knew they wanted to say something else and he was not avoid to waste his breath with more empty pleasantries. 

He wasn't here to make others believe he was a good guy, he just wanted them to remember he's just human.

The silence between them seemed to stretch over an eternity and Draco almost thought Abbot would burst into tears. 

Eventually, Finch-Fletchley seemed to give up. 

Smart boy.

“Did Potter hit you?”

Draco blinked at the blunt question, making sure to bring attention back to his blood red eye. 

"No, he didn't," he said seriously. "I literally smashed my head against a wall." 

"B-but you were arguing with him," Finch-Fletchley said, unconvinced. 

"I wasn't," Draco said honestly, slowly shaking his head. "I was arguing with Granger, it's different."

"Because of Neville Longbottom, right?" Macmillan cut in, feeling more confident. Draco felt like rolling his eyes but he stopped himself, his eyesocket was too sore for that.

"Wrong again," Draco sighed. "I argued with her because she was being extremely rude."

"You think Granger is rude?" Finch-Fletchley asked, confused. 

"You don't?" Draco asked back. "She walks around feeling confident in her knowledge and stomp on our customs and traditions, calls us barbarians and spits in our faces."

"She just…" Finch-Fletchley began as if looking for a way to argue in Granger's favor, maybe not even aware of his own bias. Most likely none of them actually felt they preferred Potter's amazing friend Granger over him, even if they had spent an equal amount of time around both of them. 

"I don't mean to put you down, Finch-Fletchley," Draco interrupted, waving a hand. "But I feel you don't understand exactly what happened."

"You called Longbottom an archmage and she said it wasn't a thing," Finch-Fletchley replied instantly, his frown deepening, already defensive. Draco wondered how this boy could survive in the muggle world if he had such a short fuse. "And you called her a bad friend."

Macmillan's unsure frown told Draco all he needed to know.

He sighed. 

"I guess it's because our cultures are so different," he said, as if to himself. "But if you will, allow me to give an example, a simile of what Granger told me, and maybe you can understand why I decided to argue with her."

Abbott nodded, her hair dancing.

Finch-Fletchley raised an eyebrow, curious.

Macmillan could already see it coming. 

"I think I see where this is going," he said, arms crossed over his chest. "You can try."

Draco smiled, as if grateful for Macmillan's permission, not that he actually needed it. 

"Then, let me set the stage for you, let's see if you can follow along with me, and if I make a mistake, please don't take it to heart, I've been in Muggle Studies for three years at most," he warned as he waved a hand. "This is the situation, all three of you are going to class when, let's say, Macmillan sneezes, let's say it's because there's pollen in his robes."

Abbot and Finch-Fletchley nodded, visibly focused in following the idea, as if desperate not to look stupid in Draco's and Macillan's eyes.

"Then, I'd guess, since Finch-Fletchley is Macmillan's friend, he'd say something to him," Draco nodded back.

"I'd say 'Bless you', yes," Finch-Fletchley added, sure of himself. Abbott nodded once more, so far it seemed like something very normal to her. 

"You'd say bless you to him, yes," Draco continued, his smile dimming. "Now let's say you don't think much of it, until dinnertime, when… ah, Ravenclaw's Terry Boot confronted you."

"Why would he?" Abbott asked, her hands cupping her cheeks. 

"Well, he says something along the lines of you disrespecting Macmillan, you tried to impose your false values onto him and trampled on his freedom of creed," Draco explained, still perfectly patient. "Because you tried to bless him."

"I just said Bless you!" Finch-Fletchley argued instantly. "He sneezed!"

Draco nodded.

"Well, Boot was confused, he had never heard such an expression and didn't want to think ill of you, he'd tell you, he found it in a book in the library and discovered it's a form of blessing from the 13th century that muggles used to pass around in times of plague," he explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Since Macmillan does not have the plague, surely you are trying to lure him to your own muggle religion."

"That's absurd, it's just an expression!" Poor Finch-Fletchley took a step back, too immersed, most likely. "I am wishing him good health."

"From what?" Draco's raised eyebrow dipped down. "From that weird fairy tale god of yours that asks for nothing in return for his blessing and has no feminine counterpart?"

"What?" Abbott asked, confused. 

Draco continued, his voice dropping to his normal haughty tone of old.

" All gods need both a feminine and a masculine aspect to be effective, just as magic itself, everyone knows it," he said, shaking his head. "So please stop trying to indoctrinate Macmillan into such an absurd cult, it won't work."

Abbott positively gasped in shock.

Finch-Fletchley stared at him, wide eyed. 

Macmillan sighed, loudly.

"You've made your point, Malfoy," he said, placing a hand on Finch-Fletchley's shoulder. "I think they get it now."

As if a spell had been broken, both Finch-Fletchley and Abbott blinked into reality, reminded that Draco had just been giving them an example, something he actually didn’t mean.

Abbott seemed pensive while Finch-Fletchley stared at Draco with a newfound sense of understanding in his eyes. 

“So when Granger told you archmages are not a thing,” he began.

“And that ecomancy is just a fairy tale and I was just trying to get under Longbottom’s skin,” Draco added, his lips curling downwards. “She made a mount out of a molehill, trampling on my culture.” 

“Because Malfoy,” Macmillan decided to cut in, most likely for his housemates’ benefit. “Just said: Hey Longbottom, you are strong and your magic is very suited to plant care and things associated with it.”

Draco nodded once more. 

“So I decided to call her a bad friend,” he explained. “Because that’s what she was being.”

Draco could see the struggle in Finch-Fletchley, maybe he was trying to separate what Malfoy was saying with the image of kind and hard-working Granger he had in his mind. The smartest witch of their generation, people called her - And Draco did his best not to scoff at such a thought - and now here was the devil incarnate Draco Malfoy telling them that he was as ignorant as any of them, but when they, other muggleborns asked around and did their best she just relied on her book knowledge to stand out and did not care who she was hurting in her blind belief in her own superior intelligence.

Well, Draco hadn’t been directly implying all that, of course.

Not yet , but it wouldn’t take long for those ideas to grow and fester in these Hufflepuff that valued community over everything else.

He certainly doubted they would confront Granger directly about the matter, they were not actual friends of hers and most only admired her from afar, but even if one was brave or stupid enough to do it, Granger’s confirmation bias would make her want to educate them in her discoveries and stubbornly refuse the fact she had hurt anyone’s feelings, much less Draco’s . 

She was trying to do better! She would tell herself. How could she let them live in ignorance?

Draco couldn’t wait for that to happen. 

Finch-Fletchley could speak up for him to the muggleborn community and with Macmillan’s pureblooded sensibilities at play, they could be a first line of defense in a future confrontation between the two of them. 

As long as Potter himself didn’t get involved. 

Now he just needed to earn their favor. 

Pity alone wouldn’t make them talk in his defense. It could become a burden that weighted down all interactions between them in the future. Whether they believed his ‘face to the wall’ explanation or not was irrelevant now. He just needed to make them feel like they owed him. 

He looked down.

“Is that the Arithmancy assignment Professor Vector will gather tomorrow?” he asked, staring at the papers in Macmillan’s arms.

Macmillan stared at him in confusion for a second, but Abbott immediately brightened. 

“Oh yes!” she chirped, pulling out her own assignment. “Ernie has been helping me and Justin with ours!”

“I’m sure you finished yours already, Malfoy,” Macmillan said, frowning. “You are one of the top students, after all.”

“I did,” Draco agreed. “I’m going through the last chapters of Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum now.”

Finch-Fletchley blinked.

“But Professor Lupin is gone,” he said, confused.

“It doesn’t matter if the Professor is gone,” Draco countered. “I can’t be sure that the new teacher will try to cover the two chapters we were not taught next year and I refuse to be at a disadvantage at our OWLs just because Professor Lupin had a serious case of the furries.”

Macmillan eyed the notes under Draco’s hands, while Abbott nodded as if agreeing with him and his insight. 

Draco saw Macmillan’s covetous glances and let himself smile.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down, I’ll go over your assignments and you can copy my notes.”

“You’d do that?” Abbott squealed, instantly grabbing a chair and sitting by his side. 

“Sure, it helps me revise my own materials,” he said, his smile growing softer, kinder on his rosy lips. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley looked at each other in askance, Macmillan cautious, Finch-Fletchley still in turmoil over their earlier conversation. 

“Deal,” Macmillan finally said, sitting in front of him. “But I also want your Potions’ notes.”

“If you can provide me with your History of Magic ones,” Draco laughed.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in the Library, relaxed and comfortable around each other in ways Draco had never experienced or been seen before. 

Chapter Text

The train home became a blur for Draco. He said goodbye to Abbott and Finch-Fletchley who had spent the last week being his new little shadows, fascinated with his openness towards what they called ‘traditional magical culture ‘ no matter how much Macmillan told them he was part of a small, isolated sect that kept their traditions separate from the rest of the community -and draco had to commend him in how much he avoided the word racist as he spoke, knowing he wouldn't have been as kind- and how happy he was to share his notes for classes with them and their younger housemates.

Draco was so nice, they'd say to others.

He is so patient and good while teaching.

Draco, of course, was not about to tell them he needed to refresh his knowledge since he technically hadn't been in school in over 15 years and he actually never paid attention to class in his last two years of schooling, too worried about his parents’ lives and the upcoming war to care about star movements and fertility runes.

By teaching younger students and his own year mates he was just getting back the knowledge he had forgotten about while imprisoned.

And if it earned him the reputation of being kind and patient, who was he to complain?

Pansy wrapped her arms around his neck effusively as they said their goodbyes back in Kings Cross, moved and sweet and close and all things onlookers were to expect from the supposed best friends they were. 

Draco wondered if their closeness would stop her father's hand these next few months or if he should invite her to spend the summer with him once he  made it home.

Draco grabbed the portkey a house elf handed him - Galatea, aka Tea, he recalled, his mother's personal assistant - and with a tug in his stomach he was finally back home.

The air smelled fresh and clean and so incredibly magical, herbs and flowers and ancient magic all permeating the air. 

How long had it been since he had smelled the scent of home?

Draco wasn't sure.

“Young master,” Tea said with a bright smile and kind eyes. “Welcome home.”

Draco smiled back at her, a slight inclination of his head.

“Thank you, my lady Galatea,” he said, satisfied when the old elf's eyes crinkled with fond mirth. “Would it be okay if my lady helped me with my luggage?”

Tea gasped in mock outrage.

“Young master!” she said, her long ears flapping. “Surely you know Geraint would skin this Tea alive should she try to mess with his duties.”

Draco stared at her, silent.

He had forgotten about Geraint, his own personal aide. 

Geraint had been with him since birth, had held his hands as he learned how to walk, had celebrated all his accomplishments.

Had died trying to protect him before Draco ever turned 16, smothered by the Dark Lord's putrid magic.

He hadn't thought he would have to come face to face with another ghost of his past, another one of his regrets and failures so soon.

He nodded.

“My mistake my lady Tea, you are absolutely right,” he said. 

“If you are quite done flirting with your mother's aide, Draconis,” a voice called from behind him, sending a turmoil of emotion rushing down Draco's back.

He tried his best to control his face and his emotions as he turned, a wide smile on his lips that didn't last long as his chin was roughly grabbed by calloused fingers and his face was turned over and over, from side to side as stern sky blue eyes seemed to inspect his every feature, looking for any single flaw.

Draco’s silver eyes grew moist, his lips trembled minutely, before his own hand covered the man’s hand.

“Father…” he whispered, something heavy and painful almost taking over his throat, choking his voice.

Lucius Malfoy’s face twisted in concern, his stern demeanor dissolving.

“Draconis?” he asked, his own voice growing soft as his hand grew softer, gentler. “Who has hurt my son’” 

Draco tried to swallow, tried to breathe, as a tear rolled down his pale cheek.

What was he supposed to say?

The world did it, we unknowingly danced to our doom, father, I heard you die, I heard mother die, I missed you so much, I love you.

No words left his lips as his eyes tried to record the image of this younger, healthier man to his memory, to try to erase the gaunt, exhausted and frightened man of his memories and replace it with this one, so full of love and life.

And as if to remind Draco that this was his father, his beloved father who had always been so utterly special, the man leaned down, all pretense gone as he wrapped his arms around his son, pulling him tight against his chest, his long fingers carefully cradling his head, his voice that sent many lesser wizards running in fright whispered comfort to his child, as if afraid he’d hurt him otherwise.

“Draconis, what happened?” he asked. “Who dared to make my light bringer cry?” 

Draco’s feelings burst out of him like an overflowing dam at such words, Lucius’ little light bringer, the nickname he had reserved for him from the moment he had been born. 

His mother had told him, in their darkest moments, when his curse scars ached with the cold and her dry lips could barely move. 

She spoke about his father’s concern and the way he danced to the gods every night until his feet bled, until his throat grew hoarse, begging for his child to be blessed, to be safe, how he could lay his hands on his mother’s pregnant belly every morning and would whisper words in the old language, more prayers, more blessings, anything he could think of to ensure son came to the world healthy and safe. 

She told him about the way Lucius’ face twisted the moment he was placed in his arms, a little purple from the premature and difficult birth, but still full of life, how his little hands had grasped onto his father’s long hair and his newborn pale eyes had opened, looking into his father’s face with abject curiosity. 

She told him how Lucius’ tears started falling, how his lips mumbled one last player and he cradled his child against his chest, his smile small and tremulous and so infinitely loving. 

“Draconis Lucien,” he had whispered at the time. “Draconis is the name your mother chose for you, the brightest star in the Draco constellation… and I will name you Lucien, he who is the source of all light.”

Draco remembered how his mother clung to that memory, to his father’s face and his love, when their fate was uncertain. The day he became his mother’s Little Dragon and his father’s Light bringer.

Draco had always heard his father call him his little ‘light bringer’, but it wasn’t until that day that he had understood how much that nickname, that name, had meant for his father. How many hopes for his future were placed upon that name.

“Lucius?” a soft voice called from a corridor and suddenly Narcissa’s pale, slender hands joined Lucius’ as they cradled Draco as if he was the most precious thing in the world. “Draconis, what happened?” 

Draco clung to his father’s robes, his face against his chest as he sobbed, breathing against their combined scent of soft tea and ink and apple blossom, years of repressed sorrow finally finding an outlet as he let out all his pain and his fear, as his heart was finally able to cement his resolve.

As Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy held their sobbing son, Draco swore to all that was holy that he would save his parents this time, no matter who he had to cheat, lie and trample upon to do it. 

He cried and cried until he felt all strength leave his body and he almost passed out in his parents’ arms, prompting Lucius to call for the house elves to take him to his room and for Narcissa to call Severus over, because something definitely happened to their child and the many letters Severus Snape had written to them since Draco had been attacked by a beast in school suddenly made no sense.

There was no way their son had just spent a relatively normal school year surrounded by his friends and engaging in his normal ‘teen behavior’ if he came home with such immense sorrow inside his small chest. 

Draco, on his part, woke up at midnight, back in his childhood bed, covered by sheets he barely remembered and wearing pajamas he couldn’t remember owning, had his mother gone shopping for him while he was away at school again?

It was most likely. 

He could see the door to his room at a distance slightly open, most likely his father and mother had wanted to monitor his condition. 

He sighed and silently got out of bed, his feet barely making a sound as he walked on the soft wool carpet that covered his room. 

The moon outside was full and he realized he might not have a better time during his stay at the manor than tonight to achieve his first objective. 

“Geraint,” he whispered into the night, feeling a pang of sorrow and regret when his own personal elf appeared in a second, eyes wide, concern clear on his aging face.

“Young master Draco,” he greeted, his posture, as always, one of protective care.

“Hello, old friend,” he greeted, his hand reaching to cradle the elf’s cheek. “You’ve lost weight again?”

“Geri is perfectly fine, young master,” the elf scowled, hands wrapping around Draco’s own. “But what has happened to the young master? The Master and Mistress shared the most distressing news with Geri about the Young Master’s well being! You were hurt at your school twice and now the Young Master collapsed as soon as he set foot back home! The Master and the Mistress spent hours interrogating that horrible godfather of yours in the foyer!”

Draco swallowed, he hadn’t expected them to move that fast, but he scolded himself because he should have known. To his parents, Severus was his guardian while in school and he had gotten hurt while under his care, twice at that, and while Snape hadn’t noticed a single change on him due to his own neglect, it would take Lucius and Narcissa seconds to see something was off with their child, even without his previous outburst. 

He idly wondered if Snape had managed to appease his parents and hardly doubted it, in his last life he had come back in an unremarkable fashion and spent most of the summer preparing for the holidays, he never mentioned Snape’s neglect and Snape didn’t even pay attention to him as he attended the rituals as part of the family.

This time, Draco would be surprised if Snape was invited for their yearly rituals and feast, and whether Dumbledore would be distressed if his spy in the ‘Dark Families’ lost his position.

Well, Draco had other things to worry about and it wasn’t his fault Snape was such a lousy liar.

“I’m sorry, Geraint, but I don’t have much time,” he said, lowering his head. “Can you take me as silently as possible down to the old crypt?”

The elf’s eyes widened further, his hands tightening against Draco’s.

“The crypt?” he asked. “Young Master, you know how dangerous it is inside, only the Master can go there.”

“Please, Geri,” Draco begged, eyes still downcast. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

The elf stopped for a second, eyes locked with Draco’s as if reading some hidden truth in them only he could read due to all the years they’d been together.

His ears lowered in distress.

“Something terrible has happened to Geri’s Young Master,” he whispered in shock and slight horror. 

Draco nodded.

“You have no idea,” he said, feeling his fondness for his elf grow as the creature snapped his fingers and the plus carpet under Draco’s feet was changed for the cold stone floors of the Malfoy Family Crypt, the place he had only visited once in his previous life, the night he had turned 17, just months before he was imprisoned.

The air smelled the same, musty and stale, dust covered all surfaces and only the light of the moon illuminated the stone carved altar in the middle, the blood of hundreds of Malfoy family members staining the stone a deep reddish black. 

This was the place all Malfoys for centuries had pledged their blood to their ancestral land, the place they became part of the magical covenant their ancestors signed when they arrived on the island over a millenia ago. 

Draco swallowed.

“Geraint, I need you to keep whatever happens here a secret,” he whispered, afraid his voice might alert the inhabitants of the manor of his plan. “Not even my parents should know.”

“Young Master…” Geraint hesitated. 

“Geraint please,” he interrupted. “If even a whisper of this leaks out, all of us might die.”

The elf stared at him in shock, his skin pale, his lips parted. 

“Die?! Is the Young Master sure?” he asked, swallowing loudly. Draco wanted to hug this wonderful, sweet elf, who immediately believed his words, he didn’t even ask for further details, he just looked at him, looked at his pale face, scared silver eyes and tense shoulders and knew that whatever Draco meant, he was not lying. “Geri will keep Young Master’s secrets to protect Young Master.”

Draco smiled at him lightly.

“Thank you Geri,” he said as he walked towards the altar, looking at the old carvings, the glass orbs gently floating in the air around it, faintly glinting in the moonlight, the way old candles seemed to wait for a single command to light up.

Geraint went to the doors and window of the crypt, activating the silencing privacy runes one by one, making sure no one would be able to sense that his young master was in here. 

He took his role as Draco’s protector mortally serious. 

Draco could only be grateful.

He took a deep breath.

“Kreacher!” he called, hands clenched in anticipation.

Silence fell.

The air remained unmoved.

Please, Draco thought, Please, if you can listen to fucking Mad Aunt Bella, you can certainly hear me… please…

The silence continued, the moon slowly moving away from the window.

Draco closed his eyes. 

“Young master…” Geraint said sadly, watching the despair spread over his young master’s face. He wasn’t sure what this whole thing was about, and who this Kreacher was, but the fact that the young master wanted to meet with them so eagerly, the fact that he had sworn him to secrecy, even to the young master’s parents that he loved deeply.

He felt that his young master was slowly walking on the edge of sanity and he was unable to help him.

After a few minutes, as shadows started growing around the two, a soft pop forced Draco’s eyes to open, his whole body to tense, his hands to consciously release.

He slowly lifted his head, his eyes wide, his lips tight, hair gently falling around his face.

This would be the performance of a lifetime for him. 

This Kreacher was described in the books as a bitter creature, scornful to the point of obsession, powerless to control his life and the changes forced upon it. That is until Potter appeared in his life, and with his kindness and resolve he broke the barriers the old elf had erected around his heart and had given him a new purpose, a new family. 

The respect he had never felt before. 

But Draco was not an idiot, he could read between the lines of the text. 

He knew Potter unconsciously was playing a role, just like all of them.

He was mimicking the behaviors of Kreacher’s old master, the one person the old elf had ever loved.

To Draco, Kreacher was no different than Geraint.

A nanny elf turned assistant for a young master that had passed on too early, vent on fulfilling his young master’s last wishes and scornful of those who refused to mourn his young master in the way the elf felt he deserved. 

And what Draco saw now, wasn’t the cunning if a little gaunt elf that Potter described, most likely wasting away because of old age.

Oh no.

Draco saw an emancipated figure held together by spite and devotion, clinging to a bond that could no longer sustain him. 

But he also had to remind himself this was a bonded elf of the house of Black. An elf used to seeing Slytherin cunning and deception at the drop of a hat. If he wanted to convince him of his sincerity - and Draco was sincere in this endeavor, as in his oat to Pansy - he would need to use all the tools he had learned at his mother’s hand over the years.

One mistake could mean his failure. 

And failure was not acceptable.

“You came… you really came,” Draco said in a whisper full of awe, as if honestly surprised he was heard by the elf. Then his face morphed into one of surprise and horror. “What has happened to you, is the land not supporting you?”

Kreacher watched the young boy in front of him, with his round cheeks and pale face, typical of the Malfoy family, as was his white-blond hair that fell gently around his face. 

But those eyes, those silvery gray eyes framed by long eyelashes, those were pure eyes of the Black, eyes that screamed to the world this boy held the same blood inside of his veins that his beloved young master. 

His lips pursed, his hands growing taunt. 

Draco didn’t miss the slight change. 

His face showed his shock.

“You are not bonded to the land like a normal house elf, aren’t you?” he asked, as if he couldn’t deduce the answer already. “You poor thing.”

And it was obvious to his eyes. 

House elves were benign entities, born from the source of magic itself. For millennia they had been eating residual energy from the land, returning it to the source in a sort of symbiotic relationship. They were owners of the land they were born in, and cared for its balance and harmony. 

And wizards and witches, who took the magic from the earth at birth and synthesized it in their core to perform their miracles, grinding out impurities, were beneficial to them as a houseplant was to a muggle. 

The wizards and witches filtered the magic in the land and returned it clean and ready for consumption after they died, keeping a cycle that kept all species happy.

And in exchange, the house elves protected the wizards, providing care and nurturing them to keep their bonds healthy. 

To Draco, who had lived in such a society, caring for the land that had raised his ancestors for centuries, house elves were not slaves subservient to their lords and ladies, they were landlords cleaning up after their tenants because they needed to keep the tenants alive to make their own lives easier. 

Ideas of ownership and servitude had come later on, his mother had explained to him as Geraint taught him how to braid his hair, with the colonizers . Who saw the elves covering their small bodies in coarse fabrics as demeaning, instead of the elves using all materials they had at hand because they refused wastage, who started to believe the elves loved servitude because it was in their nature, instead of seeing that to the elves, the true, ancient elves, wizards and witches were nothing more than a favored pet, a useful annoyance they allowed to exist.

It stood to reason, then, that a bonded elf to the lands of the Black family, should be thriving instead of declining, because the House of Black was even older than the Malfoy family, their lands should be bursting with generations of magic nurturing their magical source.

Unless, that is, the Black family had not settled their lands like the Malfoys had, and preferred mobility throughout the continent. 

Which would mean that this Kreacher, the last of his line, was not bonded to the land like Geraint and Galatea and the other Malfoy elves.

He had directly bonded to the Black bloodline. 

He fed off the remnants of magic performed by the family itself, lived and died by its members. 

And considering all Black descendants had either married off to other covenants or had been magically cut off from their own, it stood to reason this Kreacher had not been able to nurture more magic from his bonded bloodline and should only be living off the residual spells the older members of the Black family had left in their mansion.

No wonder the books described Kreacher’s devotion to the portrait of his old Great Aunt Walpurga.

It was most likely his only source of sustenance.

What a cruel fate, this elf had been forced to live.

It was no wonder he latched onto Potter and his powerful magic the moment he had the chance. It wasn’t Potter’s kindness and determination that drew him in, it was his powerful and untethered magic, wild and unanchored, that had attracted him like a bee to a bursting flower.

Most likely it was the same thing that had once attracted the Malfoys’ own old elf, Doveraux.

Kreacher took a step back, hesitant, and visibly confused by Draco’s horrified concern. 

“Young Master Malfoy has called Kreacher,” he said, cautious.

Draco bit his lips, before taking a deep breath.

“No one is nurturing your bond,” he said then, shaking his head. “I am so sorry.”

Kreacher frowned, his body curling in itself, whether in shame or caution, Draco wasn’t sure. 

Draco decided to take a leap of faith with this elf, he was not as powerful as Potter or Longbottom, by magical standards he was as mediocre as they came, but he had something the other two would never give.

He could offer the old elf purpose and a future.

“I am not sure how it happened or why I was chosen out of all the wizards around me,” he began, eyes set on his folded hands, his knees meeting the cold ground beneath him if only to stand at the same height as Kreacher and Geraint. “But I was given a vision, while I was in school, a vision of the world around us all, a vision of doom and destruction rushing towards us as we speak.”

Geraint’s hands instantly grasped his own with care. 

“Young Master,” he whispered, shocked. “Oh no, my Young Master.”

Draco nodded. 

“I’ve spent the last few months doing my best to find all different paths, searching for answers and knowing whatever step I take will lead to incredible heartbreak for many,” he continued. “But then again, I am not the only wizard in our bloodline to feel such a burden at such a young age, am I not, Kreacher?”

Kreacher, who had been staring at him in confused caution, took another step back, his eyes wide, his head shaking in disbelief.

“Young Master Malfoy…?” he asked.

“I saw him, in my vision,” Draco admitted, reluctantly. “I saw his actions, his mission, his sacrifice. And I understood that whatever is happening, whatever is coming to us, has been decades in the making, and not something we can stop, no matter how hard I try.”

He slowly looked up, locking his silver gaze with Kreacher’s own shocked eyes. 

“And I thought of you,” Draco added. “Of the part you have been trying to play for so long.”

“It is impossible for Young Master Malfoy to know of such a thing!” Kreacher countered, his devotion clear. “Kreacher has kept the secret for decades, not even the Master and Mistress had known!”

Draco shook his head. 

“And yet here I am, Kreacher, with an offer for you,” he said. “An offer that might bring peace to your Young Master in ways none might be able to in the future.”

An hesitantly eager light filled the old elf’s eyes. 

“Kreacher will listen to Young Master Malfoy,” he said, as if carefully considering his words, trying to hide the hunger he probably felt inside of him. “And will decide if it is something Kreacher’s young master might have wanted.”

Draco nodded, a picture of perfectly pious understanding. 

“I want you to bond to my bloodline, Kreacher, not my mother’s or my father’s but my own,” he offered, deciding not to mince words. “In exchange, I will, when the time comes, help you achieve your young master’s goal.” 

Predictably, Kreacher’s lips curled downwards in scorn. 

“Young Master Malfoy wants this Kreacher to bond to a doomed bloodline to honor his Young Master’s memory?” he asked, skinny arms crossing over his chest. “What does Kreacher have to do in exchange?” 

Draco sighed. 

“Not much, really, you just need to continue living on as if nothing happened, let no one know your bond has changed,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But, yes, I do want something from you, two things really.”

“Kreacher knew it,” the elf spat. 

“One is that you take that cursed monstrosity my Uncle Regulus hid in the Ancient House of Black and bury it in the foundation, so no one wandering by invited by my wretched Uncle Sirius can access it without your knowledge,” Draco enumerated, his tone even, his own lips curling gently in a sneer. 

“Young Master Sirius does not have the right to invite outsiders into his mother’s home!” Kreacher snapped, outraged. “Much less outsiders who can covet the property of the Black line!” 

“He shouldn’t be able to cross the door of the house, from what I understand,” Draco nodded. “Yet, he is there right at this moment, is he not?”

Kreacher stared at him, eyes wide. 

“... there is powerful magic at play in the house,” he admitted after a pause. “Foreign magic Kreacher cannot fight against in his current state.”

“I would guess not, the land by rights is not your bonded one to begin with,” Draco said in understanding. “You cannot impose your power over it.”

“What else does the Young Master Malfoy want?” the elf asked once more, his discomfort born out of his helplessness clear. 

“The Library of the Black family, I need you to bring it to me,” Draco raised a placating hand when he saw Kreacher about to protest. “I am an heir of the Black blood, by rights I should be able to have access to it no matter what and, let’s be honest, I am pretty sure Sirius will  not care for it, or might not even know its contents by now.”

Draco tried to remain firm, his tone soft yet determined, eyes bright. 

Geraint, however, noticed the way his fingers trembled, either from the cold of the crypt or his own fear was unclear, but he immediately summoned a blanket and wrapped it around his young master’s shoulders, ignoring the way this Kreacher watched him with unrestrained envy. 

“Hide the cursed artifact and give Young Master Malfoy the library? That’s it?” Kreacher asked. “If Kreacher remains bonded to the Black blood, he can live off the residual magic for another decade if not more, if Kreacher breaks such bond and bonds to the doomed Young Master Malfoy, what guarantees that Kreacher will not starve when the calamity Young Master Malfoy speaks of comes?” 

Draco nodded, his eyes soft, a little moist, his pose one of defeat. 

He stood, dusting his knees with a careless hand, his bare feet walking towards the altar, still illuminated by the full moon.

“I would, of course, ensure Kreacher’s survival,” he said as he moved his wand, effectively cutting the tender skin of his wrist, letting his blood flow into the stone temple, soaking it and making it sparkle. “I am, after all, a practitioner of the old traditions, forming unfair bonds is asking for the goddess herself to punish me.”

Kreacher watched in shock as Young Master Malfoy started waving his hands, words in ancient languages most wizards and witches had long forgotten spilling from his lips as all candles lit around him, making his body glow as if he was the same star that had given him its name. 

“Young Master!” Geraint cried in distress as he recognized the ritual. “Young Master is too young! You musn’t!” 

Draco continued to chant until the blood in the stone congealed, forming a small orb that sparkled with pulsing, living magic. 

He looked at both elves in front of him, his pose one of defeat. 

“I take it both of you know what this is?” he asked, taking the small orb, almost the size of an apple, tenderly caressing it with his fingers. 

“... Young Master Malfoy has yet to reach adulthood,” Geraint said in distress. “He cannot continue the bloodline, the strain on his magic is too great!” 

Draco could feel the strain already, but he knew he needed to do this, because he knew his duty could not be ignored as the last scion of house Malfoy, and because there was no way Kreacher could resist such a tempting offer. 

By starting the process of creating a child of the blood, a child of the altar, he was both ensuring the survival of his name, and also offering him the chance to raise a whole new generation of Malfoy children, powerful, beautiful, completely bonded to a fertile land full of ancient magic. 

A starving elf from a dead bloodline would be hard pressed to refuse. 

“If something were to happen to me, in this upcoming calamity,” he began, resignation filling him with a visible weight on his shoulders. “Geraint, I want you and Kreacher to continue the ritual and take my son and  heir far away, to raise him with the same love you have helped raise me.”

Tears streamed down Geraint’s aged face as he shook his head, his ears flapping around with his desperation. 

“Young Master, you cannot!” he cried. “Young Master will survive, young master will continue with this ritual himself when he is of age! Will welcome this little one on his own with a huge smile on his face!” 

Draco placed a gentle hand on his head. 

“I wish for nothing more, my friend,” he said, whipping his tears away with cold fingers. “I am trying, by all that is holy will I try, but I cannot guarantee I will survive this ordeal and it will bring me peace knowing you will care for the next Malfoy heir if I am not there to do it myself.” 

Geraint wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, his sobs growing in intensity. 

Draco let him cry, let him absorb the severity of their situation.

He looked at Kreacher, whose eyes were still fixated on the small orb in Draco’s hand, on his still bleeding wrist. 

“Do we have a deal?” he asked. 

The elf looked at him, then at the orb once more, then at the full moon still illuminating the room. 

“And when the time comes, you will destroy that cursed thing,” he asked. 

“You have my word,” Draco assured. 

A tear rolled down the elf’s cheek as he reached for his own wrist, cutting the skin open with a claw. 

He instantly grasped Draco’s now bloodied hand, sealing their new pact, the new covenant between him and this younger, promising bloodline. Magic pulsing and wild, unrestrained by wands or spells wrapped around them. Draco could feel it coiling inside of his core warmly and he wondered if this is what the Black Family had felt when they started their bond with the elves, millenia ago.

Draco could only smile at Kreacher as he could already see signs of color in his cheeks, how his wrinkled face seemed to age backwards, his skinny frame grwoing stronger.

“Welcome home, Kreacher.”

Chapter Text

Draco spent the rest of the summer holidays preparing for the ceremonies, elbow deep on the ground to make sure all the flowers and herbs were perfect, embroidering his robes with the help of Geraint and studying the old Black Family grimoires Kreacher had brought to make sure he had everything he needed for the upcoming year. 

“Master Draco was right,” Kreacher had told him as he clutched a small chest in his arms, eyes wide and frantic. “Little boy Sirius brought the old wizard in! They are laying runes and spells all over the home!” 

Draco had nodded, because he had read that the Ancient House of Black had turned into a secret compound for their little militia and that Dumbledore was the secret keeper. He had thought the older man had been more careful, more methodical in his planning, but he could guess he had been wrong. 

The moment Sirius entered the home, Dumbledore came in as well, ready to assert his authority. All for Sirius’ “protection”, he was sure.

He had narrowed his eyes. 

Maybe it was because of the changes Draco himself had made?

After his outburst, Lucius had sat Draco down in his study and practically grilled him about what had happened to him. He told him his godfather had said all year that he was fine and that his reputation had fallen due to the incident with the beast that broke his arm, but apart from that, he had been seen having a normal school year. 

“So tell me, Draconis,” Lucius had said, his eyes narrowed, his pose one of authority, his utter concern for his child only visible to Draco himself. “What exactly happened to you?” 

Draco had lowered his head for a moment, his lips pursed. 

He had swallowed and told Lucius all about his year, how after he was sent to the infirmary he had reflected in himself as he laid on the bed, watching the night sky. He had decided to do an experiment and to keep silent for the remainder of the week, see what happened when he had no words to guide his followers.

He told him about how enlightening that week had been, how he had heard disdain in some of his so-called-friends’ voices, how the whispers followed him around like a dark cloak he couldn’t get rid of.

He spoke about how his eyes felt open for the very first time and he didn’t like what he was seeing. 

So he had decided to change. He hadn’t been trained since birth to be the Malfoy Lord and the last scion of Black just to let a bunch of children ruin all his hard work, he had told his father. 

And then, as he let his eyes grow moist and his lips tight, he told him about his experiment.

How he had purposefully injured himself, just to see what would happen. 

How the only students to react were the Hufflepuff, openly expressing concern over his condition.

How Pansy was the only friend who tried to make sure he was safe.

How his so-called Godfather never asked about his well being, but instead interrogated him like a common criminal, implied he was a liar and a child, someone beneath his notice. 

“He told me in my first year not to bother him,” he had told his father. “But I thought he wanted me to be independent, to learn he can’t always be there for me, not that he wanted to cut ties with me for some reason.” 

Draco had never raised his face but he had felt in the permeating magic of the manor how the air turned cold, how the wind picked up outside the window, how his father’s hands, gentle and warm on his shoulders, had grown taunt.

Lucius Malfoy had been furious. 

And Severus Snape had not been invited to that year’s rituals.

Draco could guess that this apparent slight and cooling of trust between his family and their old friend could have made Dumbledore anxious. Could have spurred him to act faster to secure the last few powerful assets his followers had before they fell into the hands of someone he could consider “too dangerous”. 

Once the wards inside the Ancient House of Black were set, no wizard or witch could come and go without Dumbledore’s knowing. 

Draco had smiled then at Kreacher, taking the chest gratefully. 

“It is a shame, but not unexpected,” he had told the old elf. “It is better to give up on that land in order to preserve the tradition, I’m afraid.”

Kreacher had nodded enthusiastically and told Draco how he had decided to let a small, almost imperceptible fire salamander into the library after he had emptied its contents and replaced all the books in the shelves for old manuscripts and scrolls the old Master and Mistress had purchased out of boredom, mostly gibberish. 

By the time Little boy Sirius and his old dark wizard had realized, everything had been turned into ashes and only sooty window panes and scorched floorboards remained. 

Kreacher said he had seen Little boy Sirius shrug, as if the loss was nothing to him. 

While old wizard Dumbledore had shaken his head and muttered how it was good that nothing more had been damaged, but Kreacher had seen the disappointment in his aged eyes as he stared at the ashes piled on the floor. 

Draco didn’t need to know anymore. 

He thanked Kreacher for a job well done and told him to come back for the rituals, he was, of course, now part of his bloodline and should celebrate with them accordingly. 

Geraint had been the one to pull the sobbing Kreacher towards the kitchens for a glass of water while Draco slowly pulled the Black’s library from the small chest. 

When the ceremonies finally arrived, Draco smiled as his father lit the fire in the middle of the forest with a small wave of his hand, his long hair styled to perfection, the silver bells on his pale locks glinting in the light. 

Draco knelt on the ground, letting his mother and father lead the prayers, his forehead barely touching the earth as he let their voices mix into a harmony of the old languages, each representing the feminine and masculine aspects of the deities as they welcomed the new beginnings and thanked the ancestors of their blood for all the blessings they had been given. 

The delicate chains around their ankles chimed as they started dancing.

They had acknowledged the past and now it was time for them to express their present. 

Galatea led most of the elves around them to start playing soft music, their bonny fingers plucking at instruments with practiced ease.

Draco remained still, knowing it was not his turn yet.

Idly, he wondered how many other households were celebrating like they were. How many other families let themselves feel the gentle caress of the magic their ancestors had laid upon their world, like an embrace from early childhood. 

How many didn’t even know they could do it. 

A soft hand on each of his shoulders pulled him from his thoughts and Draco knew it was his turn as he rose to his feet, bells in his har chiming, his bare feet barely touching the grass as he started dancing.

He was dancing for the future. 

He was the hopes and dreams for tomorrow their family had. 

Draco's parents had thanked their ancestors for all their blessings, now it was Draco's time to ask for more in the upcoming years. 

Usually, Draco thought, as he spun in place, back arched, eyes closed and hands in the air, that he would usually ask for normal blessings, for their ancestors to watch over them and be proud of their achievements. 

This time, however, Draco knew what their complacency would bring them, how much life and blood and pain would be spilled in these grounds, how none of them would honor their tradition in the end.

Would not go back home to rest amongst the ancestors as they should.

'Please,' Draco thought as his lips tightened. 'Please guide me, please protect me, please don't let me fall into darkness once more.'

The moon shone over him, the small white flowers he had prepared for a month started blooming, letting the family know they were being heard.

'Please give me the strength to break us all free from such a fate,' he pleaded, his lips barely moving against the cool night air. 

His father and mother gently took him by the hand, their smiles clearly showing how unaware they were of Draco's inner turmoil as they led him to the altar, dancing and smiling and just as Draco always wanted them to be. 

Free.

He smiled back at them as hundreds of small fireflies burst from the grass, dancing around them, their wings fluttering against his skin, and then they dissipated in the air, taking their words with them to a place no living wizard or witch should ever reach.

The music came to a crescendo and slowly died down as the Malfoy family came to their knees, their foreheads touching the earth as they bowed to their altar. 

And then they smiled at each other, full of satisfaction.

Draco looked at his parents, trying to commit them to memory as they were now. 

With their perfectly styled hair blowing in the wind, their smiles wide and full of love, their eyes bright and magical, their cheeks flushed in satisfaction. 

All doubts and hesitation stopped mattering to him, yes, he would let people die that could have, should have, been spared otherwise. 

Children like him who never had a chance. 

But if it meant saving his parents, his wonderful parents who loved him beyond reason, he would let it happen. 

He would burn the world around him if it meant his parents could still smile like this for all time. 

The family spent the rest of the night in the forest, speaking about their plans for the next year and feasting with the rest of the staff. Occasionally his father would run his fingers over Draco’s hair, his pride and worry over his son apparent. His mother would grasp his hand,  running her thumb over his knuckles over and over, her silver eyes as warm as the moon above them. 

And the summer went on.

Draco continued to read the grimoires and journals, actually surprised by the lack of necromancy he found in there. 

From what he had heard, the Black family was full of darkness and death, so it was normal for him to expect blood rituals and more than one summoning gone wrong. 

But, now that he had been reading, Draco realized that the Black family was more diverse than he had imagined. Alchemists, Rune tracers and shamans, all different disciplines of magic were represented, experts over the millenia that passed down their knowledge to their future generations. 

Strategists.

Generals.

Scholars.

Nobles.

Commoners. 

Marrying off.

Marrying in.

Together. 

Draco found himself sighing. 

No wonder the old saying went that the only wizards and witches without Black blood in them were the muggleborn. 

So many lives, these tomes depicted, so many stories. 

“I hope I am worthy of this knowledge you  are passing down to me, ancestors,” he whispered as he carefully opened another grimoire. Finding the information too complex for him to decipher at the moment and wondering who would be able to help him understand these runes. The forewords left by the author - Healer Amalthea Black - were concise and useful, but the theory in itself was far  beyond Draco’s actual area of expertise. 

He closed his eyes, wondering how he was going to find an expert he could actually trust with only a few days before he had to go back to school. 

Should he entrust Geraint in his stead?

Could he maybe sneak Kreacher out?

Unfortunately the books never mentioned his dreaded Uncle Sirius' situation during his fourth year so for all he knew, the so-called Order of the Phoenix could already be meeting in Grimmauld Place and it wouldn't be easy for the old elf to sneak out without being noticed. 

Also having this grimoire so close to Dumbledore and his ilk might endanger the elf's lie and arouse quite understandable suspicions Draco honestly didn't want aimed towards him and his plans. 

His bedroom door opened gently, slow steps entering his room and Draco felt no disturbance in the magic around him, so he didn't even look up from his reading until a long fingered, elegant hand was snatching the grimoire from him and Narcissa Malfoy's steely eyes looked into his own. 

"Mother," Draco said, startled. 

"Draconis," Narcissa greeted back, sitting in front of him. "I believe we need to talk."

Something cold settled onto Draco's stomach. 

He forced his shoulders to relax, his face to remain open and warm as always. 

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were an incredible team seldom seen in the old traditional families, a political match forged into love over years of companionship and a common goal. Both understanding their strengths and molding each other into a performance of perfection. 

Lucius was the power, the feared lord with the political clout that could end whole careers with the wave of a hand. 

Narcissa was the devoted wife and mother, a beautiful socialite that every single pureblooded girl aimed to emulate. A queen reigning over a court of her own making. 

But behind closed doors, Draco could see how they actually operated. 

Warm Lucius providing the passion and the power. 

Tacticall Narcissa wielding her husband's power like a sharpened blade to achieve the best results for their family unit.

"You told your father you had a revelation this last year of your schooling," Narcissa began, her eyes set on the grimoire she now held in her hands. 

"I did, yes," Draco answered, eyes lowered, as if in shame.

"I see," Narcissa sighed. "Now you can tell me the truth before I call your father over and expose how you've been colluding with the elf of the House of Black behind our backs."

He swallowed.

To Draco, who had grown up looking at his parents and learning from them what to look for in a future partner, his mother's inquisitive eyes seemed like a sentence to walk the delicate balance of lies and truth. 

Talking to Lucius was an appeal to emotion, something Draco knew he could do.

Talking to Narcissa, with her Black-forged pragmatism, would be an almost impossible balancing act. 

He should have known Narcissa would recognize Kreacher at the rituals, he should have known him hiding himself up in his bedroom most of the summer would confuse her, his disinterest in his broom and dedication to his studies could only hold for a while under his 'revelation of his inadequacies' excuse.

Lucius would believe it, because Draco seemed so affected.

Narcissa would instantly become suspicious, because it was such a drastic turn.

Draco looked into her eyes, remembering her strong hands bent in pain, her lips twisted but refusing to let out the screams of agony Crazy Aunt Bellatrix wanted her to release. 

His mother forged in steel and Oricalcum, unbendable, unbreakable.

Until she wasn't.

"You might need to set up privacy wards, Mother," he whispered, eyes determined, lips tight. 

His mother blinked, shocked by his change of expression, his open defiance. 

"Your father would notice," she warned, an eyebrow raised. 

"And yet he must never hear what I am about to tell you," he said, shoulders still slumped. "It would destroy him."

Maybe something in his eyes shone differently, maybe there was something in the tone of his voice, in the defeat reflected in the curl of his lips. 

She waved her wand silently, locking all doors and windows, placing a layer of silence between them and the rest of the world.

Her eyes narrowed. 

"Start talking," she demanded. 

Draco took a deep breath, thinking about each and everyone of the words he was about to say, how each would be interpreted, the meanings his clever mother would be able to extract from them. 

"It wasn't a revelation," he admitted, careful, slow. "It was a vision."

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly, her hands on the grimoire tightening. 

Draco couldn't stop, even for a second, not giving her a chance to let her think.

"I saw our future, mother, all the tragedies that are going to haunt us in the following years," he said. "I saw how we all will die… first Father, then you, and finally me."

"Draconis…" His mother's hand grasped his own, grimoire forgotten. "What are you saying…"

"I saw the decisions that brought us to despair," Draco continued to speak, eyes set on their entwined hands. "How we are going to be tortured to the brink of insanity, by those you two once considered our allies."

"Draconis!" Narcissa snapped, hands grasping his shoulders, desperation clear. 

Draco looked at her, tears pooling in his eyes. 

"We are going to die, mother," he almost sobbed. "We are all going to die unless I stop this all."

Narcissa shook her head in disbelief.

"Tell me everything, all about this prophecy of yours," she said, her hands cradling Draco's face. "We can solve this together."

Draco swallowed, shaking his head as well. 

"That's the worst part, Mother," he said bitterly. "I can't."

Narcissa's hands on his cheeks grew tense, her lips growing slack.

"What are you saying," she whispered. 

"There are things we cannot stop, roles that are not for us to intervene with…" Draco tried to explain, taking a deep breath. "And even sharing that information with others is endangering those roles."

How was Draco supposed to tell his mother that The Dark Lord was coming back in less than a year? That there was nothing they could do to stop it? That the more Draco had analyzed their situation, the more he realized they had been dragged into hell by association, by Lucius being Lucius and Narcissa being Narcissa. 

How was he supposed to tell her that they all died because they were doomed by who they were?

It would break her heart. 

"Then what are we supposed to do, Draconis?" his mother asked in obvious frustration, most likely masquerading her pain. "What can you do alone that we, your parents, can't?"

Draco bit his lips.

"I'm slowly amassing political capital among our peers outside of the inner pureblooded groups," he explained. "When the storm passes, I want them to speak up for me, for us all."

Narcissa stared. 

"And we can't do that?" she asked. 

Draco looked at his mother, her skinny shoulders and the way her long hair framed her face to make her look soft and harmless on purpose, how her magic was always tightly controlled, close to her skin in order to keep her ambiguous to her peers, not too weak, not too powerful.

Narcissa had worked hard her own life to be surreptitiously strong, an icon of perfection.

Her own protective shield.

And Draco realized he was going to have to hurt her.

 Because he knew his parents and the only way to protect them was hurting them. 

"You can't," he said, hating how something in her eyes seemed to break. “Your presence alone will put us all in danger.”

He heard his mother’s soft, almost noiseless gasp.

“By the time I finish my fourth year at school,” he sighed. “Your presence in the isles will put you and me in danger…”

“Draco…”

“If you remain, you will die,” Draco continued, eyes closed.  “I will die.”

"Draco! You do not understand the power and connections your father and I have!" his mother hissed. "We can find a way to protect us all, to protect you."

"You can't," Draco shook his head. "'I've seen it, I've seen all the decisions you will make based on our situation."

He locked his gaze with hers.

"And Father's emotional responses and your calculated ones only push us all further into the abyss,"  Draco said. "Anything and everything you do is slowly killing us."

"We can deal with it," his mother argued. "Your Godfather's connections…"

"Will not save us," Draco cut her off. "We'll die."

"We can trade information with the Minister…"

Draco grasped his mother's hand, squeezing it. 

"And you'll die, and so will I," he sighed. 

Narcissa's nails sank onto Draco's palm.

"Then what do you want us to do?" she finally snapped, tears rolling down her cheeks. "What do you expect us to do if you tell us mortal danger is upon us? Upon you?"

Draco swallowed, his eyes steady. 

"You need to go," he said finally. 

Nacissa's eyes widened. 

"What?"

"Pick one of the properties in the continent, but don't tell anyone which one," Draco said, hating how his teenage throat seemed to struggle to form the words. "Come Yule grab Father, even if you have to stun him first and… disappear."

"Draconis… you can't possibly mean this."

"Lock up everything here in Britain, the Manor, the Vaults, all that can be used with your blood," Another swallow. "And when the time comes, I will follow you."

"You are not coming with us?" his mother asked. 

"Not yet, there are things I need to do first," Draco sighed. "But as soon as I'm done, I will go find you."

Draco's mother seemed to try to read him, to find any weakness to exploit, to find something she could do, she could say to convince him to abandon such endeavor, to make him tell her more about this vision of his, to seek her help.

Draco could see her struggling.

“How are you going to follow us if our blood is going to be locked up?” she asked, her lips barely moving. 

Draco sighed. 

“Your blood, Mother, just yours, not Father’s,” he corrected. “Father has only one relative, me, and you have two sisters who would rather see you dead and a cousin who wouldn’t spit on you if he saw you on fire.”

“You are not saying…”

“That you are a higher risk than Father?” Draco interrupted with a sigh. “I am, I’m sorry.”

That actually hurt her, Draco could tell in the way her pupils narrowed into pinpricks, the way her shoulders seemed to shrink, as if her whole body tried to protect her from his words. 

Her eyes seemed to examine him once more, reading something Draco himself couldn’t see. 

Her shoulders eventually slumped, her hands gentle on his face.

“You are just a child,” she said, and Draco was unsure whether it was for his own benefit or her own. “You are too young.”

Draco’s hands covered her own. 

“I know…” he replied, his lips curling up in a smile that didn’t feel sincere even to him. 

Narcissa instantly wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck, pulling him against her chest.Draco let her, holding her with all his strength as she cried, her face buried in his hair. 

Draco let her, knowing his mother was convinced, she would do it if only to save his life. 

This would be the last time he held her in a long time.

Chapter Text

The first of September was the most heartbreaking day in Draco’s life. He hugged his father goodbye with all his strength, breathing in his scent and worrying the man for sure as he did his best to hold back his tears. 

His mother, on the other hand, hugged him back with the same intensity, as if she still tried to convince herself they were doing the right thing. 

Her eyes locked with his, misty, broken. 

“You be a good boy, my little dragon,” she said, her voice so close to breaking it was painful. “Please.”

Draco nodded, his lips tight. 

“I will, mother, I promise,” he whispered. 

Lucius looked at them, his blue eyes showing his confusion.

“Narcissa, please,” he said, his hand warm on Draco’s shoulder. “Our little light bringer will be in his best behavior.”

Narcissa looked at her husband with heartbreak.

“You are right, of course,” she said, nodding her head. “Draconis has always been a good boy.”

Draco didn’t linger despite how much he wanted to remain in their embrace, he grabbed Galatea’s hand, his eyes set on his parents as the two were transported back to King’s Cross. 

The elf’s fingers tight against his own as her eyes seemed to search for something in him.

“Young Master,” Galatea said in a whisper, her fingers snapping to send his trunk into the train.

“My lady Galatea,” Draco said, eyes set on her small frame. 

“Young Master broke my Miss Cissy’s heart,” the elf said suddenly, her eyes on her bare feet. “I hope the Young Master knows what he’s doing.”

Draco swallowed. 

“You and me both, Tea…” he said, his voice soft.

He boarded the train without a backwards glance, looking for an empty compartment to think about his next steps and to mourn what he had just lost today. 

He might never see his Father and Mother again, 

He slowly wrapped his arms around his knees, hiding his face against them and trying to breathe for a while, trusting that Pansy would see him and know he needed to be alone for a moment. 

The train started moving a few minutes later and Draco felt himself relax against the seat, eyes closed. 

Maybe he dozed off, maybe he just meditated a little too hard. 

But the truth was that a few hours passed before Draco felt a pair of hands slowly combing his hair. 

He opened his eyes, a curse at the tip of his tongue, when he met Blaise’s brown eyes locked with his silver ones. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It looked like you were having a nightmare,” Blaise replied, expression relaxed. “Are you okay?”

Draco sighed, straightening up. 

“I am,” he replied, unsure. He wasn’t really sure whether he had actually fallen asleep or not, but Blaise still had managed to approach without being noticed, something no one had been able to do since Draco had turned 16. 

Had he been that exhausted?

They both fell into silence for a moment.

Blaise moved on the seat, uncomfortable. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Blaise was still young, he thought. He still hadn’t learned to be patient. 

“You’re letting your hair grow this year?” he asked after a while. “I thought you wanted to use the styles popular in school… not stand out.”

Draco took a deep breath. 

“I’m tired,” he said. “Following their rules is so exhausting and I don’t want to be ashamed of my culture anymore.”

Blaise seemed to think about it for a moment, then he nodded.

“Let me comb it for you,” he offered. 

Draco stared at him for a second. 

Then nodded, turning his back to Blaise.

In his previous life he might have not done it. 

He and Blaise had been friends when they were kids. Playing around happily in the gardens as they chased his father’s crups, but as years passed and they became more aware of the world around them, Draco and Blaise grew apart.

Each seeing flaws in the other they couldn’t tolerate.

For Blaise, Draco was too immature, too passionate.

For Draco, Blaise was too aloof, too unreliable.

Now Blaise pulled a small wooden comb from his pocket, slowly running it thought Draco’s pale hair, skillfully styling it, pulling it back from his face. 

“You are being very kind,” Draco observed.

“And you are being very docile,” Blaise countered, an eyebrow rising.

Draco’s lips curled up.

“Touche,” he sighed, letting the sunlight coming from the window warm his skin. “Now speak, what do you want?”

Blaise’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, had Draco no had the experience of decades, he might have not noticed. 

He then continued with his handiwork.

Draco waited patiently. 

“You are plotting with Parkinson,” Blaise said after a while. “I want in.”

Draco chuckled.

“Oh really?” he asked. “You don’t even know what our plot is about.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the other boy answered instantly. “The only reason she would help you is that you are offering her something I want as well.”

“And that is..?” Draco could tell Blaise knew, the boy had always been intelligent, maybe not genius level, but intelligent enough to know not to stand out. Draco had been surprised to see him being dragged off to Azkaban with the lot of them.

Blaise had been neutral, back then.

He hadn’t taken the mark and had spent most of his seventh year protecting the younger children.

Apparently it hadn’t mattered to the authorities.

He was a snake, so he deserved to rot with all of them.

“The only thing Parkinson would want is to protect her mother,” Blaise said after a while. “I want that.”

Draco found himself nodding.

He honestly didn’t know what became of Madame Zabini. She had always traveled around the continent while her son was in school, as far as he knew at least, but when Blaise was imprisoned, or even when Death Eaters took over the school, Draco wondered where that clever woman had gone.

Whatever her ending was, it mustn’t have been good if she wasn’t there to fight for her son’s freedom.

“And you think I can protect her,” he mused out loud.

“I know you can,” Blaise replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Otherwise Parkinson wouldn’t follow you so loyally.”

“Maybe I conned her,” Draco offered, staring at his reflection in the window. Blaise was very talented, his hair was looking particularly beautiful, with small silver rings that must have been buttons or something a few minutes ago now woven into his locks. 

“You wouldn’t,” the other teen said firmly. “Not with that.”

Their eyes met on the window pane.

“Fine,” Draco said. 

Blaises shoulders slumped with relief.

“So I’m your best friend now?” he asked, a small smile on his lips. “Want me to be sassy? Quiet? Compliment or oppose Parkinson?”

“We won’t be friends yet,” Draco responded, his own smile growing. “You are going to be a cunt to me at first and then you’ll regret your betrayal.”

“Betrayal?” Blaise asked, confused. “What could I possibly do to you?”

“You are going to force me to come out,” the boy said simply, grinning when Blaise’s eyes widened. 

“What?” he asked. “You have a preference?” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Blaise stared. 

“Oh…” 

“I hope you prepare,” Draco said with a sigh. “Pansy is going to punch you on the face.”

“Because I’m going to spread the rumors…” Blaise hesitated. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” 

“It’s what I need, yes,” Draco nodded. “Afterwards you can feel like a cunt and publicly apologize, I’m sure you know what to do.”

“And you’ll forgive me…?”

The blond nodded. 

“Of course,” he said. “We’ve been friends for so many years, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t mean to harm me.”

Understanding filled Blaise’s eyes. 

“Nott and the others might protest,” he cautioned.

“By the end of the year he won’t have time to care about me,” Draco  responded. “If you are in, I’ll need your vow.”

Draco thought he would have to convince Blaise a little more, that they would have to iron out the details, but the other teen immediately knelt on the ground, forehead touching the carpet. 

“On my name and my blood I lay this rote onto you,” he whispered, eyes closed.

Draco blinked, surprised.

He took a deep breath, laying his hand on Blaise’s hand. 

“May the rote you lay at my feet be carried on to the abyss by the mother crone herself,” he said back, ignoring the way his fingers trembled.

The rest of the trip back to school was spent in low whispers and plans, Draco laying out the role Blaise would have to play in the following months, how they would have to play at estranged friends and childish distrust. 

By the time the train pulled up at the station, Blaise was gone, a displeased, angry curl to his lips that could hardly hide the tears pooling in his eyes. 

Pansy had immediately taken his place at the compartment, her face showing concern as he shared this new development with her, letting her prepare for the upcoming year performance. 

Draco walked inside the castle in silence, his own head lowered, his cheeks flushed, his now perfectly styled hair glinting under the setting sun as he ignored the whispers following behind him, stares almost nailing themselves onto his back. 

Pansy held his hand, her eyes glaring at the world as she protectively stood in front of him, daring anyone to approach. 

Macmillan passed them by on his way to the Great Hall, his head lowering softly when he stared at Draco’s hair, at the rings on his hair, at the way he had worn his robes. 

“Blessed be this upcoming cycle, Parkinson, Malfoy,” he greeted softly.

Pansy raised an eyebrow and Draco instantly vowed lightly.

“Blessed be this upcoming cycle, Macmillan,” he answered, hand gently brushing his forehead. “Sun and moon shine upon your core.”

Macmillan’s eyes widened, especially when Pansy vowed lightly as well.

“Blessed be, Macmillan,” she repeated, an eyebrow raised at him. “Your ancestors dance in the arms of the goddess.”

The hufflepuff’s boy’s cheeks flushed, most likely because he didn’t know what he was supposed to respond - he had just wanted to be polite, now that he knew that this past summer had been an important ceremony for the Malfoy and Parkinson family - but now that he was getting blessings back he felt there was definitely something he should say back.

Pansy waited, silent. 

Draco chuckled.

“It’s fine, Macmillan,” he said softly. “We appreciated it.”

Macmillan breathed a sigh of relief, nodding silently and walking quickly towards his table, cheeks bright red.

“He’s cute,” Pansy said, surprised. 

“He’s trying,” Draco answered. “Shall we?”

Pansy was about to nod when a voice suddenly called from behind them.

“M-malfoy!” 

Both slytherin turned, confused. 

Longbottom was standing there, hands trembling, cheeks flushed. 

Pansy turned to Draco in askance. 

Draco stared, surprised.

Pansy opened her mouth, ready to throw around a snipping remark, but Draco tightened his fingers against hers in warning. 

Longbottom stared at them, hesitant, clearly nervous.

Before he placed his right hand on his collarbone, elegantly vowing in front of them.

“Blessed be this upcoming cycle, Malfoy, Parkinson,” he said, his voice breaking at then, but his lips stubbornly still. 

Pansy gasped, eyes wide.

She frowned.

“Blessed be this upcoming cycle, Longbottom,” she almost sneered, cautious. “Sun and moon shine upon your core.”

“Blessed be this upcoming cycle, Longbottom,” Draco said as well, tilting his head as his hand touched his forehead. “Your ancestors dance in the arms of the goddess.”

Longbottom took a deep breath, his own hand reaching to brush against his forehead and Draco was finally able to see a ring snuggly wrapped in his hand. 

It was a thing of beauty orichalcum and jade creating small branches and buds that embraced his middle finger, most likely would grow leaves and blooms whenever Longbottom used his magic. 

It was no wonder his mother had loved that ring.

But it was a surprise Longbottom had gotten it.

He couldn’t even imagine how hard he’d have to fight his tyrant of a grandmother to get it. 

Draco could feel the weight of his own ring in his hand, silver and gold planets slowly orbiting a diamond star in the middle.

Longbottom instantly vowed lower, his hand back to his collarbone. 

“May the breeze carry your words to the ears of the divine,” he said finally, straightening. 

Draco’s eyes widened. 

Then his lips curled upwards, shy, hesitant.

“I didn’t know you celebrated our rites, Longbottom,” he said, straightening. 

“I… I studied them over the summer…” Longbottom replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought… it would be rude not to greet you correctly after your ceremonies.”

“Not many do anyways,” Pansy scoffed.

“Pans, please,” Draco scolded gently. “He’s trying.”

“Right…” the girl rolled her eyes.

Longbottom bit his lips and Draco did his best not to scoff. 

Had this been the first time he had been looked at with justified disdain? Unlikely, but then again, in this world he was Potter’s friend and therefore all scorn towards him would have been born out of prejudice and injustice.

Except for Potter’s and his friends’ of course.

“I wanted to thank you, Malfoy,” he said after a pause. “If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have known my mother… prepared a ring for me.”

“Seriously?” Pansy asked in a whisper, her disbelief clear. 

“And…” Longbottom hesitated. “I’m sorry, about that night…”

“That night ?” Pansy mouthed, eyes glaring at Draco this time. 

“I should have told the guys you did nothing,” Longbottom continued, too nervous to stop. “I should have stood up for you.”

“You should have,” Draco replied, the hurt caused by the memory clear for everyone to see. “But then again, we are not friends, so I guess your choice was clear.”

“It still wasn’t right!” Longbottom panicked, waving his hands. “You were nothing but kind to me and ….”

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco thought for a moment, it had taken Longbottom a lot less to apologize than Draco himself had imagined. And to do it in such a public way immediately conveyed how guilty he had felt. 

Interesting. 

Draco sighed, lowering his head. 

“Then we do not hold grudges from now on,” his voice was soft, his eyes downcast, a soft blush on his cheeks.

Longbottom apparently had a lot more to say, judging by the way his eyes widened, his fingers trembled and his lips parted, but whatever he had to say was not born to be, because of course , of course this world wouldn’t allow a gryffindor to befriend him. 

Granger and her gang approached from behind, her eyes glaring, her shoulders squared for a fight. 

“What are you doing this time, Malfoy!” she demanded, hands outstretched to push him away. 

Draco released Pansy’s hand when she took a step forward to defend him, venom dripping from her tongue but Granger’s hand managed to grace Draco’s shoulder and he let himself fall backwards, eyes wide, a soft gasp of pain falling from his lips. 

He didn’t need to do more, all eyes were on them. 

He wondered if he should fall on his knees or on his hands, what kind of expression he should make. 

Should he let his skin be torn by the stone floors?

Too dramatic.

He almost touched the ground when a hand reached for his arm, stopping his fall. 

Draco looked up into Potter’s concerned green eyes.

His vision swam.

Bile rose up his throat. 

He violently pushed his arm away, feeling shadows spread over his eyes as he turned around and dashed, not really caring where he was going.

Everything grew dark.

Chapter Text

When he was finally able to open his eyes, Draco found himself face to face with a girl, honey blond curls, wide eyes, long eyelashes.

She looked like a doll. 

Draco frowned. 

“Brown?” he asked, frowning when his voice was too soft, his throat dry.

Lavender Brown looked at him, her expression soft, worried. 

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” she asked, her own voice a whisper. 

He blinked at her. 

“What happened?” he whispered back, feeling how sore his throat was. 

The girl looked around, her teeth sinking onto her bottom lip. 

“I’m not sure, i found you here on the ground five minutes ago,” she said finally, her face showing honest concern.

“Did you tell the teachers?” Draco pressed, slowly sitting up, finally noticing how his head seemed to be resting on her lap. 

Brown shook her head, her concern turning into guilt.

“I didn’t know if I should move you, I asked Hannah to tell the teachers,” she said, shaking her head, her curls bouncing. 

Draco frowned. 

“Abbot?” he asked. “Hufflepuff’s Abbot?” 

Brown nodded, her own eyes confused.

Then her lips curled upwards, mocking. 

"Surprised a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff are on first name terms?" she asked, an eyebrow rising. 

Draco immediately shook his head, actually regretting it when his forehead throbbed in response. 

He hissed. 

"Not really," he said, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. "It's just that Abbot has never mentioned anyone other than her housemates."

Brown blinked, her face growing slack.

"Oh…" her cheeks colored. "I see…"

The girl looked around for a moment, as if she would rather be anywhere but right there. Draco watched her in silence, trying to gain his bearings, wondering if Abbot would actually come back with a teacher and whether it would be rude for him to leave. 

He guessed he should stay put, just in case. 

"Malfoy," Brown said suddenly. "I think I noticed…"

"Brown…?" Draco said back, blinking. 

The girl seemed to hesitate for a second, her eyes lowering towards her folded knees. 

"No, don't mind me," she said after a pause. "It's too unbelievable."

Draco frowned. 

Took a deep breath. 

Exhaled. 

"Brown, if you and I are paired during an important potion exam," he began, doing his best not to cross his arms over his chest, reminding himself he shouldn't look antagonistic. "Would you be happy?" 

The girl raised her gaze, locking onto his. 

"Of course," she said immediately. "You are Professor Snape's best student, if you were my partner I would be guaranteed a great grade!"

Draco stared at her for a second, trying to imprint in her the importance of his words. 

Maybe because he was still bitter over what he had read about her in the books. How belittled and mocked she was. 

How little the so-called heroes of the story thought of her. 

How her heart would be broken just because no one dared to take a second to try and understand her. 

He sighed. 

"Brown, just as I am Professor Snape's best student, you are Professor Trelawney's best student," he began, shaking his head. "If you noticed something about me, something you think might be important, I would be an idiot not to believe you."

Brown's eyes widened. 

Draco felt the bitterness inside of him grow. 

How long had this little girl been ignored for her to be so shocked someone implicitly trusted her?

Was it the relationships she held in her own house?

Was it Draco's own reputation?

He couldn't tell. 

Brown lowered her head, her lips pursed.

She nodded. 

"There is something bad in your head," she muttered, her cheeks pink. "I… am not sure, it's astral, otherworldly."

Her gentle hands, soft and small, started waving in the air, as if trying to help her words gain more clarity. 

"I am not versed enough yet," Brown continued. "It's abstract, I can only interpret it as a spiderweb, something trying to ensnare your mind, conceal it."

Draco felt his inside's grow cold. 

His mind?

Something had tried to ensnare and conceal his mind?

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice soft, almost forcefully pulled out of his throat. 

Brown nodded.

"I can only tell you my impression," she explained, her hands coming to rest on her lap. "My third eye is not very well developed yet, I'm sorry."

Draco could barely hear her, his mind a mess of fright and ideas and memories. 

His first reaction would be that someone had tried to mess with his mind.

Maybe Snape, fed up with his actions during the summer, tried to read his thoughts forcefully while Draco was distracted. 

But Draco would have felt the intrusion. 

He would have even felt it was Dumbledore trying to force his way in. 

And his stay under his aunt's tutelage had even prepared him to detect unforgivable curses like the best of them. 

But he hadn't felt a thing. 

And Brown wouldn't have noticed it herself, with her particular set of talents. 

Brown and Madame Trelawney herself were experts of divination, of different dimensions and astral planes beyond the comprehension of any other wizard or witch. 

Which meant that whatever was trying to manipulate his mind…

Was not made by wizards or witches.

It was from another plane. 

Draco could only come up with one simple conclusion. 

The only thing from another plane that might want to change or conceal his mind he could imagine…

…was the book itself. 

A consciousness trying to force him back into the role it had allotted for him. 

He swallowed, feeling a lump of his throat. 

He had been subtly and not - so- subtly trying to break free from the role the story had set for him. making alliances, changing perspectives, avoiding Potter and his ilk at all costs. 

If the book was not satisfied with him, and tried to force him back…

He shook his head. 

"Thank you, Brown," he said finally, trying to smile at her. The way Brown looked at him was definitely telling him he was failing. 

He sighed. 

“Um,” he hesitated. “Can you… keep this to yourself for a while?” 

The girl titled her head, confused. 

“You don’t want to tell the teachers?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Your mind was literally attacked.” 

Draco lowered his face, letting his hair fall into his eyes, the rings Blaize had weaved on it clinking gently. 

“Last year I ended up in the infirmary twice and my parents worried,” he said, as if embarrassed. “I would rather see exactly what this is before they are contacted?” 

Brown opened her mouth, ready to protest. 

“I mean, I might not have been attacked?” he tried. “Maybe I just touched something by accident?” 

Brown stared, silent. 

She seemed to be thinking about it, remembering Lucius Malfoy’s fury from the last year and his legal rampage that disrupted their studies.

Lavender Brown was a well connected girl, she surely had heard all about it from the gossips that littered the castle. 

She pursed her lips. 

“Okay…” she agreed. “It does feel like an attack, but you are right, it might not be that.” 

Draco nodded, relief obvious in his body language. 

“Thanks,” he whispered, and he had a whole speech prepared. Something about Brown being kind to someone like him, something to soften her up and have her on the lookout in case something like this happened again.

But then Pansy came into the hallway, her face streaked with tears, her arms wrapping around his neck. 

“Draco!” she sobbed. “Are you okay?” 

Draco let his face relax, his smile grow softer, sweeter.

He wrapped his arms around Pansy’s back, his hands slowly caressing her hair. 

“I am,” he whispered, soothing. “Brown helped me.” 

Behind Pansy, Abbott looked at them, her own smile a little tremolous. 

So she had most likely ran into Pansy on her dash for the teachers, and Pansy, being the genius she was, had stopped her. 

Wonderful. 

Draco sighed, resting his forehead on Pansy’s shoulder, letting her vent her emotions and perform to her heart’s content. 

He had a lot to think about. 

Pansy and Abbot talked to Brown over his head, discussing what had happened and what Brown had done. 

Pansy, ever the elegant lady, thanked Brown and promised to pay back her grace in the future, explaining that she now had a debt to her and the implications. 

Abbot gasped, her eyes wide because, to her, it was something new and incredibly important. 

Draco could almost feel her desire to take notes. 

Then all three helped him up and slowly walked him towards the Great Hall, Abbott reassuring him she had asked Ernie and Justin to save dinner for him because of course the feast was already half-way through. 

Pansy rolled her eyes and sneered that she had tried to do the same with the Slytherins but then again, Draco wasn’t as popular with them and she had gotten no promises, so it was better for them to sit at the Hufflepuff table for the fest. 

“Won’t you get in trouble for that?” Brown asked, her eyes wide.

“Why would we?” Pansy scoffed, shaking her head. “There’s nothing in the rules that specifically says we can’t.”

“Technically each table is for each house,” Abbott argued meekly. 

Pansy sighed, patting her head. 

“Nothing literally says other students can’t sit there,” she said, her smile mischievous. 

“But if Professor Sprout says something,” Abbott continued. 

“We’ll just ask her to cite the rule that says we can’t,” Pansy interrupted. 

Brown let out a soft giggle. 

“She’s technically right,” she said, her hand gentle on Draco’s elbow in case he fell again. 

Draco smiled at her. 

“And technicalities are what make the difference,” he said, making her and Pansy laugh and Abbot smile shyly. 

As they made their way into the Hall, Brow said their goodbyes and skipped towards her own table, most likely to tell her friends what had happened. Draco didn’t doubt she would keep his secrets, however, if not because she had promised, because she feared his father’s wrath. 

Murmurs followed Draco towards Hufflepuff’s table, where Finch-Fletchley stared at them with wide eyes and Macmillan instantly pushed him to the side so they could sit. 

Draco stared into Macmillan’s blond curls and Finch-Fletchley’s light brown locks. 

He idly wondered what he looked like, surrounded by light haired people who smiled at him. 

He wondered if Blaize would pick up on it and start rumors about him having a harem?

It’s something he would have done. 

A cup was placed in front of him, Abbott slowly pouring juice for him with an encouraging smile.

To his right, Pansy slowly cut his steak. 

Draco let them, his own smile small, weak. 

The younger years greeted him with smiles of their own, waving happily. 

They knew him from his lectures the year before and considered him a friend. 

The older years eyed him nervously, not used to a Slytherin too comfortable around what they considered their own. 

No matter, they would learn soon. 

Draco ate slowly, eyes focused on his meal while Dumbledore started talking about the TriWizard Tournament and the visiting schools. He stared at the dancing students introducing themselves and sighed.

He would have liked to befriend Krum, he was famous and had good connections.

He would be a wonderful asset to him. 

But then again, he was in Potter’s circle, so Draco definitely discarded him from his mental list.

Not worth the risk. 

He only let himself smile when their esteemed Head Master also announced the cancellation of the quidditch season and completely ignored the way Flint seemed to glare at him from the Slytherin table, hands clenched around his cup. 

A shame, really. 

A small cake suddenly appeared in front of him.

Draco looked up. 

“You look too pale, even for you,” Cedric Diggory smiled, his eyes glinting mischievously, his pose one of confidence. “Eat up.”

Draco smiled at him, nervous and shy and all things teenager. 

He started eating. 

Target acquired.

Chapter Text

Draco walked around the castle with a small smile, enjoying the sun on his face, he knew winter would come soon and the sun would become scarce. 

He wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. 

He hadn't actually noticed the difference during his last day of third year, but as soon as the fourth year began, Pansy had remarked on his changed preferences. 

How he had changed his severe boy robes and slicked back hair for soft, neutral robes and loose braids to keep his hair away from his face. 

He didn't sit around the hard wooden desks in the dungeons if he could help it, preferring the wide windows in the library, surrounded by soft cushions. 

At the time he had told Pansy he was just tired of the pretenses he used to support in the past, and that he would not bend to the beliefs of outsiders when he could just live in comfort. 

He was not about to tell her that over a decade in Azkaban had made him extremely sensitive to the cold and the damp, and that he now instinctively sought soft, warm things to surround himself with if only just to escape the ghost of a future he was desperately trying to avoid.

He wasn't even sure Pansy would believe him, so he wasn't about to try.

So far his change hadn't changed Pansy's watchful eye and he could also guess Blaize had noticed as well, but then again, they were irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. 

What worried him was the way Nott's eyes coldly looked him up and down, his lips curled.

Draco didn't know whether he wanted Nott's loose lips spreading his business to people who could use it. 

So he decided he should act fast this time. 

Maybe he could return all the cushions and blankets he had borrowed from the Slytherin common room and camp out in the winter at the room of requirements?

For now he was sure that while Nott and the others might suspect him, they wouldn't snitch to Snape and the other professors if only because they feared his Father's influence. 

It wasn't a long term solution, but it was something doable. 

If his plans came to fruition, by the end of fourth year he would have enough support to be safe, if not in the rest of Slytherin’s good graces. 

It should be enough. 

He continued to ponder about his options when he heard the soft whispers of a little voice, trembling and stuttering as older voices tried to communicate. 

"Aw come on!" one of the voices said. "We just wanted to ask some questions."

"N-non…" the little voice whispered back, almost wetly. "Non!"

Draco couldn't help himself. 

He frowned. 

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, stepping forward, and actually surprised to find three seventh years from Gryffindor cornering what seemed to be a tiny first year.

The seventh years frowned at him. 

"Sod off, Malfoy," one scoffed. "We're not doing anything."

Draco stared at them, memorizing their faces, trying to put names to those scowling mugs and then turned to the little girl, to her teary pale eyes and the way her silver/blonde curls seemed to frame her frightened face and her milk white hands clung to the wall. 

He raised an eyebrow. 

"Sure," he drawled, arm crossed over his chest. "Go away now before I go tell the teachers you are harassing a little girl. I'm pretty sure Professor McGonagall is going to be thrilled."

The biggest seventh year instantly reacted, grabbing him by the collar, almost lifting him off the ground.

"Who are you to order us around, Malfoy?" he almost roared, his breath hitting his face. "You think we're afraid of you?"

Draco only smiled. 

"I know you are," he said, and he actually meant it. Not because he really did think he was a threat to these older students - he was, he had learned how to kill under his Aunt's tender mercies - but because he knew they had seen his Father's rampage through the school last year and had heard the rumors that soon followed. 

And also, because he knew for a fact that the seventh year Hufflepuff class was just about done and they were minutes away from appearing on their way to the library. 

It would only benefit him if the school found him being beaten up by older, Gryffindors, out of nowhere. 

He smirked. 

"Go on, Ashborn," he said, tilting his head, letting his soft hair fall over one of his eyes. "I dare you."

The noise of students grew from behind him. 

The three idiots looked at each other, their eyes wide. 

Maybe it was the way he was smiling, not his normal, sweet smile that the lower years had grown to associate with him in the last few months or the mocking grin he usually wore around Potter and his ilk. 

It was a careless, cold thing that reflected how little he cared about his own safety. 

A deranged little smile that seemed to show he knew he could destroy them with a single word. 

Maybe it was the way they had seen how the teachers hovered over him last February, especially Professor McGonagall and Sprout. 

It didn't really matter to Draco… 

Ashborn suddenly dropped him, slamming his back against a wall, almost spitting at him in fury. 

"You'll pay for this, Malfoy," he snapped, stepping away. 

"Sure," he hissed, eyes fixed on them until they disappeared from sight. 

He took a deep breath. 

"Are you okay?" he asked the little girl, blinking in shock when he actually saw her round face and wide, teary eyes. 

He softened his tone, slowly leaning down towards her until he was on his knees, letting the light of the sun accentuate his soft hair and round cheeks, if only to look as unthreatening as possible.

" Are you okay, little one?"  he asked, this time in french, cringing a little when his accent didn't come out as flawlessly as he had intended. 

Decades of disuse had stiffened his tongue, apparently. 

The little girl's eyes widened, examining his own blond hair and silver eyes, and her short arms instantly wrapped around his neck, her tears soaking his shirt as she sobbed against him. 

" Oh thank the goddess you are here!" she said, her voice trembling. " I was so scared! And they wouldn't leave me alone! I couldn't understand a word they were saying and they wouldn't leave no matter how hard I asked!" 

Draco sighed, slowly patting her back, rocking the little girl back and forth. 

" It's okay," he soothed. " You are safe now."

He now knew who this little girl was, she wasn't even a first year, she was one of the visitors from the foreign schools.

Fleur Delacour's younger sister Gabrielle. 

Draco had read in the books that for some reason this little girl had come to school with the others only to become part of one of the Tournament tasks.

Back then he had been surprised to see her, because all the visitors were seventh years and this girl wasn't even old enough to be a first year. His classmates had whispered about favoritism, while some girls had said that there was no one in France to take care of the little girl so Delacour had to bring her along. 

Draco hadn’t been sure back then. 

It was almost as if Headmistress Maxine had known all along that Delacour was going to be the champion. 

How convenient.

Little Gabrielle laid trustingly in his arms, her fingers twisted around his tie as she explained how alienated she had felt, and how terrible everyone was towards her. 

How more than once she had been cornered by tall men asking  about his sister - or so she imagined, because none of them bothered to switch languages around her - and that more than once the other French students had to tail her for her own protection. 

“ I’m so glad to have found a member of a flock here!” she smiled, her cheeks rosy. “ Otherwise I wouldn’t have known what to do!” 

Draco blinked at her, confused. 

A flock…?

He honestly didn’t know what The Flock was, but he could guess from all the rumors he had heard about Delacour growing talons when she was angry that her veela abilities veered more toward birds than any other creature, and if that was the case it made sense that little Gabrielle spoke about a flock. 

But then again, why did she think he was a part of it?

He looked down at her, at her platinum blond hair and long eyelashes that framed her almost translucently pale blue eyes. 

Oh.

He felt himself chuckling. 

“I’m afraid I’m not a veela, little one,” he explained, his voice soft. “ I’m just a very pretty wizard.”

The little girl’s eyes widened, her whole body tensing for a second before her lips curved downwards, as if thinking very hard about her new predicament. 

Draco waited patiently, his own body relaxed and non-threatening. 

“ But you are not… charmed by me…” she said, confused. 

“ You are indeed very beautiful,” Draco nodded, doing his best to hide his amusement. “ But I’m afraid you are not my preference.”

The little girl gasped, pulling herself backwards so she could stare into his eyes. 

“ You… Oh!” she explained, one of her hands covering her red cheek. 

Draco was ready for any sign of rejection, and he would have understood it as well, but the little girl just relaxed and cuddled against him, as if the knowledge that Draco did not like women suddenly made her feel safer. 

It probably did. 

Draco let little Gabrielle prattle on in excitement, nodding at her reassurances that she did not discriminate and would never judge her incredible savior for having a preference, because she was a good girl and she obviously would protect her savior as soon as she grew her talons. 

She even eagerly told him about her cousin Julien who was tall and broad shouldered and a wonderful catch, happily describing the 14 year old to Draco as if she had the most incredible idea in the universe. 

“ His talons can break stone and his chest is as wide as an ocean!” she gushed, eyelashes fluttering. “ And he can speak four languages, very smart, he is!”

"Malfoy?" a voice called suddenly and Gabrielle tensed in his arms. 

Draco turned, eyes wide.

Diggory and other seventh year Hufflepuffs stood in front of them, eyes wide, confusion clear on their faces. 

Ah, the cavalry Draco had been counting on had finally arrived. 

A little late, but still. 

He smiled a little. 

"Hello," he greeted, then turned towards Gabrielle. " Do not be afraid, little one, that guy is my friend."

Gabrielle blinked at him, examining his expression and then she looked at Diggory…

And she smiled. 

Draco could only guess what the little girl thought about them, but then again, who was he to correct her misconceptions? He honestly would have to enquire later on about her soft mutterings that Julien would not do and maybe her sweet Didier who was older was a better choice. 

"I found this little girl being harassed by a group of Gryffindors," he explained, shaking his head. "I speak her language so I decided to step in."

Diggory stared at them for a moment, and he frowned when his eyes caught the bruise forming at the base of Draco's milky white neck. 

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his frown deepening. 

Draco shook his head once more. 

"Ashborn just grabbed me," he said, voice soft, a little ashamed. "But he's too afraid of the teachers and my father to do anything else."

Then he let his knuckles brush against the tip of Gabrielle's nose. 

"And this little lady was protecting herself quite efficiently before I arrived," he praised, his grin widening when the little girl giggled. 

Diggory seemed to relax as well, asking some of his classmates to go get the Beauxbatton students to tell them about the situation and then he knelt if only to be at the same level as Draco and Gabrielle. 

"So, Ashborn, huh?" he asked, waving at the little girl as if to mask his apparent anger. "You sure you don't need to go to the nurse's? That looks nasty."

Draco sighed, shoulders slumping. 

"Nothing some of the ointments I keep back in my dorm can't fix," he said, before telling little Gabrielle his friends were going to get his sister and that she should be on her way soon. 

"So it's normal for you?" Diggory asked further, his smile growing tense. "Getting hurt?" 

Draco looked at him, eyes wide, smile small, a hand on Gabrielle's hair. 

"You saw me last year," he replied simply. "What do you think?"

Diggory's smile disappeared. 

Draco blinked back, silent for a moment, before he lowered his head. 

“Don’t overthink it,” he said. “I used to play seeker up until last year, it was normal for me to fall and get hurt.”

Diggory’s frown didn’t abate but his mouth softened a little. 

“I’m pretty sure the Hufflepuff team goes to the nurse when they get hurt,” he offered, his voice still veiled in that tight knot of something Draco himself couldn't describe. 

“If every single scrape and bruise we got being children had to be tended by the nurse,” Draco argued with a snort. “Madame Pomfrey’s office would always be full.”

“But…” Diggory had a perfect retort for what he considered Draco’s self-sacrificing ways - Draco was sure - but a soft, almost chime-like sob and a blonde woman was throwing herself towards the little girl still in Draco’s arms and suddenly he was smothered in the scent of summer flowers and herbs and sharp nails were pressed against the nape of his neck as Fleur Delacour herself finally arrived. 

Draco rolled his eyes and waved a hand at Diggory who had pulled his wand out in surprise because he understood the way little Gabrielle slowly soothed her sister’s frantic tears and told her all about he burly and smelly men who had been cornering her and the young hero who had come to save her from - the smell at least - them. 

She then leaned conspiratorially towards her sister’s ear and revealed that while Draco looked like them, he wasn’t like them but she considered he would be a great match to cousin Didier because those genes should be preserved and Gabrielle wanted Draco in her family and of course the tall boy who had been looming over them protectively shouldn’t be allowed to win him over, her hero would be wasted in such a barbaric island as Britain. 

Fleur listened to her sister’s ramblings with moist eyes and trembling lips, honestly ready to tear the world apart if anything happened to her. 

Then her eyes drifted towards Draco, who hadn’t moved an inch and was patiently waiting for them to be done. 

She removed her threatening hand from his neck with a startle, her cheeks coloring. 

“M-my apologies…” Fleur stuttered in english, her arm still wrapped around Gabrielle’s shoulders, gently cradling her against her own chest. 

Draco shrugged his shoulders. 

“ It’s fine,” he replied in french, his smile small. “ You were worried about your little sister.”

Fleur nodded, her own smile growing at his consideration, her nose wrinkling gently at his clumsy accent, as clumsy as hers when she spoke english. 

“I am grateful to you for protecting Gabrielle, young hero,” she said and then turned to Diggory, as if assessing the competition Gabrielle had insisted he was. 

Diggory blinked at her, then slowly took Draco’s arm and helped him stand. 

“It’s not problem,” Draco said as he dusted his robes, nodding gratefully at Diggory. “Maybe the little one can look for me if she needs anything and you are otherwise occupied, I’d be happy to help.”

Gabrielle’s eyes instantly widened and she nodded, beaming at her sister so she would agree. 

Fleur seemed a little hesitant at first and Draco almost expected it, so he slowly swayed in place, gently leaning his shoulder against Diggory’s side. 

“You are not okay!” Diggory scowled, holding him steady. “I’m taking you to the nurses right now, who knows if those idiots hexed you or something!” 

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Draco scolded softly, his smile gentle. “You are going to scare the little girl.”

Diggory looked at him, then at Fleur and finally at the little girl still smiling happily at them. 

He sighed. 

“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Delacour, Miss Delacour,” he said, trying to keep his amiable smile. “I’ll take Malfoy here to make sure he wasn’t injured during this latest escapade of his.”

Fleur tensed a little, guilt clear in her eyes as she translated for her sister, using less insinuations and skipping the fact Draco could be hurt because of her completely. 

Gabrielle nodded, grasping Draco’s hand in her own for a moment before letting go and promising they would meet again under better circumstances. 

Draco nodded back, his own smile widening before Diggory rolled his eyes and slowly started dragging Draco away, muttering under his breath that he was a snake and shouldn’t be playing hero all the time. 

Draco shook his head, feeling pride surge within himself at a job well done. 

Another ally on his side. 

He needed to talk to Blaise. 

Chapter Text

The rumor started following him from every corner just days later. Students from all houses stared at him as if he was some shiny new toy they had to unravel. 

Draco felt he had to commend Blaise for his quick work. 

Maybe he would ask Pansy not to hurt him so bad. 

Maybe. 

Draco continued to pretend he didn’t see a thing, eyes lowered and face expressionless, especially when Little Gabrielle held his hand and glared at everyone and anyone who came too close to them. 

He had to admit that approaching the little girl had been a stroke of genius from his part. 

She was young and still had naive ideas of right and wrong, protected and happy in a country very different from theirs. 

In the books she disappeared from the plot as soon as fourth year ended, and was never mentioned again, even when Delacour came back to date one of the Weasley sons - Draco couldn’t be bothered to remember which one, it wasn’t all that important to him - and fought a war she had nothing to do with. 

As if little Gabrielle Delacour had never existed. 

Almost as if the author had forgotten about her. 

Draco honestly didn’t mind. 

If she was not part of the plot beyond her part in the Triwizard tournament task, then she wouldn’t be influenced by the sinister hand of the books like her talented older sister was and a potential ally in the continent was definitely something Draco would appreciate in the future should his plans fail. 

She could take care of his parents if he died, at the very least.

They had always wanted a little daughter after all.

The little girl tugged at his hand when his eyes became a little moist, most likely thinking he was affected by the whispers around him, suffocated. 

Draco blinked, as if pulled out from his gloomy thoughts, and he shook his head at the little girl, gently smiling - if a little forced - to comfort her. 

“I’m fine,” he reassured, his french growing smoother the more he used it, much to his satisfaction.

Gabrielle huffed, her wide eyes narrowing in anger.

“You are not fine,” she snapped, pulling him towards the library. “This place is definitely not right for you.”

Draco let her guide him, idly listening to her complain about his barbaric country and terrible environment. About how she needed to have him mated to her cousin as soon as she could, if only to bring him back home where he would be valued as he deserved.

Gabrielle led him towards his usual table - that now had a little pillow just for her to sit on, so she could reach the top and read as comfortably as he did - the usual Hufflepuff group of Abbot, Finch-Fletchley and Macmillan waved at them both, already preparing for the next lessons, Pansy sitting comfortably next to Abbot, her shoulders tense, her eyes alert, the perfect picture of feigned nonchalance.

Apparently he had been missed. 

Draco greeted them with a small nod of his head, gently placing Gabrielle in her cushion and placing his books on the table. 

Macmillan looked at him for a moment, uncomfortable, clearly full of hesitant questions. 

Abbot lowered her eyes, wincing when Pansy dug an elbow against her side. 

Finch-Fletchley looked at them, thought for a moment and finally decided to speak. 

“Uh, Malfoy,” he began.

Draco blinked at him, tilting his head if only to catch a small ray of sunlight filtering through the window with his hair, making it glint in the afternoon glow.

“Uh, Finch-Fletchley,” Draco mimicked. 

Finch-Fletchley lowered his eyes for a moment, his cheeks coloring a little. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Gabrielle and Pansy turned to him in unison, mirror expressions of annoyance on their faces. 

They were getting too acquainted, Draco mussed. Delacour would definitely raise an issue with it in the future. 

“Well, it’s about the study session we set with the Ravenclaws,” Finch-Fletchley began, looking away. “It might be…. missing some students now.”

“Oh?” Draco asked, a hand resting under his chin. “I’m guessing most if not all the Ravenclaws decided to skip?” 

Finch-Fletchley’s shoulders tensed, Abbot lowered her head in shame, Macmillan sighed, his own face frustrated. 

“Some of our housemates also decided to drop out,” Macmillan said, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sorry about that.”

Draco looked at him, felt his shoulders slump, his smile drop a little. 

“Oh…” he said, his voice soft, his pale eyes straying towards his notes. “It’s fine, I understand.”

Pansy grasped his hand, tight and supportive. 

“Sod them,” she muttered, her face reflecting her fury, eyes glaring at Finch-Fletchley. 

Draco patted her hand with his free one, shaking his head. 

“Sure, sod them,” Draco repeated, more to her benefit than his own. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s a bad word,” Gabrielle said, covering her ears, her accent thick. 

Draco couldn’t help it, he laughed. 

“Which is why we won’t tell your older sister about it, right?” he asked, winking at her and nodding in satisfaction when the little girl giggled, her hands traveling to cover her mouth. 

Things seemed to settle after that and the group started sharing notes and studying together, Gabrielle distractedly doodling on a piece of parchment and coloring with the supplies Draco had brought for her, humming a soft melody under her breath. 

An hour passed like that, a slow moment of peace that could almost make Draco forget about the eyes still following him and watching their table. 

Almost. 

He could see the questions piling behind Finch-Fletchley’s lips, the doubts in his eyes and the way he wished to say so many things but did not know how to begin, did not know if he would do something wrong so he kept quiet. 

Blaise was indeed a talented story teller, much more talented than Pansy could ever be. 

He had been right to accept him at his side. 

Draco had gotten so distracted - not really, he was always alert, even when he shouldn’t, another side effect of his last years of childhood - that he was visibly started when Diggory and his friends joined their table, smiles wide and open on their faces. 

That was an improvement, at least, Draco couldn’t help but think. 

Diggory threw little Gabrielle a challenging smile when the girl’s arms instinctively wrapped around Draco’s arm and Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes, because seriously? Diggory? What did he think he was doing, mocking a little girl with talons that could turn stone to dust? Did he think he was being cute?

The Hufflepuff students decided it was a good time to rest, closing their books and joining their upperclassmen in conversations about quidditch, about preparations, about the mysterious cup had selected Diggory because he was obviously the best among them - not as good as Fleur, little Gabrielle muttered under her breath, making Draco snort - and how Potter had been selected as well. 

No one understood how that happened. 

“It’s quite easy to do,” Draco muttered, slowly cleaning up his spot, eyes set on the slowly drying ink of his notes. “If someone is determined enough.”

All eyes - except for Pansy’s of course - turned to him, confused, surprised, curious. 

“What?” he asked, looking up, letting his pale, long eye lashes fan the air as he blinked. 

“You know how Potter did it?” Macmillan asked, eyes wide. 

Draco couldn’t help himself, he scoffed. 

“Potter? Please!” he shook his head. “He’s not smart enough to do this, I can even guess it’s just one of his psychopathic fans and he’s as oblivious as always.”

Abbot’s cheeks blushed, already thinking about Potter’s fans and making guesses of who could have done this, most likely. 

Finch-Fletchley’s nose wrinkled. 

Little Gabrielle snorted, eyes set on her doodles, chest puffed out  in pride over her dearest Draco’s intelligence. 

“And how would you do it, then?” he asked. 

Draco’s shoulders shrugged delicately. 

“I don’t know what exact method was used, but if I wanted to get into the tournament and not be found,” he hesitated for a moment. “I can think of at least three different ways to do it.”

“Like?” Diggory asked, his smile amused, fond. 

“I can send a transfer letter to Ilvermorny, for example, easy thing to do, and then slip my name as the Ilvermorny candidate into some unremarkable seventh year’s pocket who is lining up to try their luck,” Draco explained, waving his fingers. “No other candidate for the fourth school could get me instantly selected.”

“Wouldn’t the Ilvermorny authorities raise any alarms?” Macmillan frowned. 

“If timed correctly? By the time they contacted the Headmaster to ask what it was all that about, the cup would have made its choice,” Draco said, shrugging. “And the cup is a binding contract after all.”

Draco could guess that was what Crouch had done, after all, as a teacher he could intercept any correspondence between any school and Hogwarts and hide them until the cup had made it’s choice as well as erase all his traces, letting it look like someone from the outside might have done it. 

It’s what Draco would have done. 

The only difference is that Draco would not have chosen a school as big as Ilvermorny. He would have gone for one of the small schools around the pole where communication is hard and locals are wary of Hogwarts’ ego and dismissal of their own personal traditions. 

But then again, Crouch had never been trained in the way Draco had, he most likely didn’t even know there were small schools all over the world that did not technically collaborate with the European Educational Alliance. 

Typical. 

“That would require a lot of planning,” Finch-Fletchley mussed, a hand under his chin. 

“Which is why we know Potter didn’t do it,” Pansy added, rolling her eyes. “He’s not smart enough to do that.”

“But Slytherin House has been spreading rumors all week!” Abbot said, as if suddenly remembering the campaign Slytherin had been leading that would soon spread all over the school. 

Draco and Pansy looked at each other.

Smiled.

“It’s funny,” they said at the same time, shrugging. 

“And while Potter didn’t do it he’s still benefiting from it,” Pansy added, waving a hand. “He’s not Hogwarts’ champion but he is still a champion .”

“He is going to be a header at the Yule Ball,” Macmillan said, nodding.

“Ugh, the ball,” Finch-Fletchley shuddered. “I never imagined getting a date for a party would be so hard.”

“It’s not just a party,” Abbot scolded, wagging her fingers. “It’s important!”

“ Right…” Finch-Fletchley sighed. “So do you have a magical formula that starts with me not getting a date and ends with me with a date?” 

“You just ask someone,” Abbott offered, patting his shoulder. 

“Not that easy,” Pansy said, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s an important event, Abbot, and many students will consider your standing and public perception when choosing their date to the ball.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Finch-Fletchley whined like a child - and yeah, he was - his fingers twisting against his tie nervously. 

“It means that either you prepare an elaborate proposal in a very beautiful and magical way,” Pansy suggested. “Or you ask a muggleborn by telling them you are rich.”

“Buy them something special while you do,” Gabrielle cut in. “Something shiny.”

“Preferably that matches something YOU will wear to the ball,” Pansy nodded wisely. “Because you are a pair.”

“But not a ring or a bracelet,” Gabrielle added  quickly. “Circles mean eternity and eternity is for serious commitments.”

“This is so confusing,” Finch-Fletchley sighed and tried to ignore the way Abbot slowly and almost surreptitiously took notes by his side. “You got a date for the ball already Ernie?”

“Yeah,” Macmillan nodded, a small smile on  his face. 

“I’m… going to ask Adonov from Durmtrang,” Abbot whispered, her voice slow. “Tomorrow.”

“Good choice!” Diggory praised her enthusiastically.

“Tch!” little Gabrielle rolled her eyes so hard they almost went white for a moment. “Could be worse.”

“Then I have to hurry!” Finch-Fletchley gaped. “Or all the girls will be taken!”

“There are plenty of fish in the sea, Justin,” Abbott soothed, gently patting his head. 

“I guess you are right,” Finch-Fletchley lowered his face, cheeks flushed a soft pink. Then, as if remembering his manners, he turned towards the Slytherins at their table. “What about you-...”

Draco stood from his chair, his eyes downcast, his face pale. 

“Excuse me,” He said, avoiding everybody’s gazes as he left the library. 

The whole table fell into silence. 

“So… it’s true?” Macmillan asked, eyes wide. “He’s…”

“Careful with that tongue of yours, Macmillan,” Pansy hissed, shoulders immediately tensing. “Unless you want me to get rid of it.”

Abbott gasped, recoiling. 

Diggory’s face grew serious, a little somber. 

Finch-Fletchley blinked. 

“What is true?” he asked. “Those rumors about Malfoy?”

Pansy’s blue eyes narrowed. 

Gabrielle’s hair puffed up as her little face scrunched up, ready for a fight if necessary. 

Pansy quite liked the little hellion.

“What rumors?” Diggory asked then, turning towards the boys. 

“Well…” Macmillan hesitated. 

“Some Ravenclaw girls said they heard from the Gryffindors that,” Abbott hesitated. “Well, that Malfoy…”

“That he has a preference,” Finch-Fletchley finished for her, eyes bright, wide, confused. “But  we don’t know what that means.”

Pansy watched as Macmillan’s face flushed and Diggory’s brows furrowed. 

“A preference? Malfoy?” Diggory asked. 

“I heard it from the sixth years,” Macmillan admitted. “But I didn’t want to ask because it’s just so personal.”

“Personal?” Finch-Fletchley echoed. “Why? What does it mean?”

Macmillan looked at Pansy’s souring face, at the way Diggory seemed to fall silent, pensive. 

He sighed. 

“It means Malfoy has a preference for just girls or just boys,” he explained. “But not both.”

Abbott stared, shocked, her hands covering her reddening cheeks. 

“Okay…?” Finch-Fletchley said, visibly not getting the point. 

Macmillan patted his hand, shaking his head. 

“It’s… weird for purebloods to have a preference,” he told him. “Here in the magical world we don’t discriminate over sex.”

Finch-Fletchley stared at him for a moment, silent. 

“So you like both girls and boys?” he said, as if the concept itself seemed ridiculous to him. 

Macmillan nodded. 

“I do,” he said. “Most purebloods do.”

Finch-Fletchley didn’t seem convinced. 

“But what if you want to have a baby in the future?” he asked. “You’d need to find a girl for that?”

Macmillan, Gabrielle and Pansy all stared at him. 

“We’re magical, Justin,” Macmillan said after a pause, visibly and honestly surprised by his friend. “We are not restricted by that.”

Finch-Fletchley’s cheeks colored.

“Oh…”

Abbott thought about it for a moment. 

“My mom did mention that if I ever had a preference I should tell her,” she muttered. “I didn’t know she meant that.”

“Most muggle-raised witches and wizards come with the idea of a preference,” Pansy sighed, still glaring at the Hufflepuff as if expecting their rejection. “She most likely wanted to make preparations should it happen to you.”

“So Malfoy likes girls,” Finch-Fletchley said, tilting his head, his curly hair falling to the side. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, Finch-Fletchley,” Pansy growled. “Is that he doesn’t like girls, he likes boys.”

Abbot gasped. 

“Oh no…”

Macmillan’s eyes lowered to the table, his face  contrite. 

“Which means,” she continued, more for Finch-Fletchley’s benefit than anything. “That he is in the worst position possible.”

“Because he’s queer?”Finch-Fletchley blinked. 

“Because to purebloods he has a preference,” Pansy corrected. “And to muggleborns and half-bloods, he is gay.”

“He’s basically a minority no matter what,” Macmillan added for her, visibly gratified when she  nodded at him in approval. 

“Draco was going to ask a cute boy to the ball,” Pansy sighed. “And if they said no I was going to go with him, but now that the rumors started no boy is going to want to go to the Yule Ball with a queer, and even if I go with him, people will say I’m helping him cover it up and he would never stain my honor like that.”

“So my poor Draco is doomed if he does and doomed if he doesn’t?” little Gabrielle asked, eyes wide, wet and teary. “So barbaric.”

Pansy placed a hand on her hair, smoothing her curls into a semblance of order, her eyes somber. 

“I don’t understand,” Abbot said, confused. “I’m pretty sure Malfoy can’t be the only queer boy in Hogwarts?” 

And she said queer as if the word felt alien in her tongue, hesitant, afraid and ashamed at the same time. 

Pansy’s razor sharp eyes turned to her, making her flinch. 

“He’s not just a queer student, Abbott,” she scoffed. “He’s Lucius Malfoy’s queer son. His father’s enemies will use his condition to hurt him because they can’t hurt his father and those in school who don’t know any better will echo it because they will think he’s not a man.”

“I have to tell my sister!” Gabrielle snapped, her little hands clenched at her sides as she jumped from her chair, her face flushed with fury. “We shall hunt tonight!”

Macmillan, Finch-Fletchley and Abbott watched the little girl run in confusion.

Pansy’s own fists tightened on the table. 

“When I find whoever started the rumor…” she whispered, a tear rolling down her smooth, round cheek, glinting against the light. “I’ll make them wish they never tried to hurt Draco like this.”

Abbott wrapped an arm around the other girl’s shoulder, her voice soft as he tried to comfort her. 

Macmillan kept his eyes on the table, probably the only one of them who actually understood the position Malfoy - who had been nothing but nice to them for more than half a year - was put into.

He wished he could do  more for that boy and hated his own hesitation to do so. 

Finch-Fletchley clearly had a lot to swallow from such a brief conversation, the ways of the Wizarding World still foreign to him. 

None of them paid attention to the way Diggory’s eyes were set on the hallways where Draco had disappeared, a pensive frown on his face. 

Chapter Text

 Things slowly started to shift around Draco in ways he honestly hadn't expected. 

As he did his best to avoid crowds and kept his head low, his focus remained on the way people moved around him, who avoided him, who sneered at him, who whispered behind his back. 

He was in a dangerous position right now and while he knew that getting attacked by some bigot, especially a muggleborn, would only increase the sympathy he had been amassing, he didn't want to ruin any chances of his overall plan coming to fruition. 

It was a delicate game of balance between his vulnerability and his own inner strength. 

So he had to admit his surprise when Professor Sprout approached him, a small, kind smile on her face, and told him she needed help harvesting the nectar of her batch of haemanthes fulva, a small flower that took almost 20 years to bloom with incredibly strong healing properties. 

Draco had blinked at her, innocent and awed and asked her whether she was sure she wanted his help because he was sure those flowers were incredibly rare and expensive and here she was, asking a fourth year to handle them. 

Professor Sprout had smiled at him, her calloused hand patting his shoulder and she told him in no uncertain terms that she believed in his talents, as Professor Snape's most gifted student and of a much more quiet and gentle temperament than his taciturn godfather, she trusted he could do an excellent job. 

When Draco hesitated for a second time, gently biting his lower lip in nervousness, the old Professor shook her head, promising extra grades for him and maybe, if he exceeded her already high expectations, she might have some seeds that he would be interested in. 

Draco had found himself nodding, his eyes wide, his cheeks dusted in a pale pink that only accentuated how gaunt he had become in the last few weeks. 

Professor Sprout's eyes flickered for a moment, her smile dimming, and then she handed him a map of the border of the forbidden forest where he would find the flowers, blooming at sundown. 

So there Draco was, kneeling on the ground, sleeves pulled up to his elbows as he worked collecting the nectar, a soft hum of a traditional melody leaving his throat as he worked. 

He was happy to have confirmation that he had weaved his web firmly in Hufflepuff house, with the favor of Abbot, Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley and now Professor Sprout’s care, he was sure he could start moving in with Ravenclaw next year. 

He just needed to play his cards right. 

Do something so incredibly smart the Ravenclaw students couldn’t possibly ignore him anymore. 

But nothing so brilliant he could be considered a threat. 

Not yet anyways. 

He was still Lucius Malfoy’s only son, after all, and his Father’s name still carried a weight Draco needed to set himself apart from. 

He would need to play a delicate balance of filial piety to his parents as it was expected of him as a pureblood from one of the old families and a revolutionary mindset that set him apart from the rest of Slytherin house. 

Hufflepuff might believe he was deeply kind at heart. 

But Ravenclaw would definitely suspect his motives. 

Most likely they already did. 

Draco couldn’t blame them, he would suspect himself as well if a split suddenly seemed to appear in Slytherin house. 

Ravenclaw had more purebloods than Hufflepuff and Gryffindor combined and they could immediately tell that if a split in Slytherin happened, the snakes would never make is apparent as it was already because Slytherin protected their own and someone as powerful as Draco getting the cold shoulder from his housemates over something as simple as a preference was not something the rest of the school should have seen. 

Especially when nobody from Slytherin seemed to be working to fill out the power vacuum his isolation left in its wake. 

Draco shook his head. 

It didn’t really matter, by the end of the year Draco’s status would completely change and so would the way many of the students saw him. 

He just had to be patient and focus on the now. 

To his left, an owl flew down and hunted a field mouse, a triumphant hoot breaking the stillness of the grounds. 

Draco forced his shoulders to relax, eyes set on the nectar he was slowly collecting in a clear glass vial, an aged gold color that seemed to glint in the scarce light of dusk. 

A branch cracked behind him, leaves rustled.

Draco took a deep breath. 

 "Blessings on your path," he said, not turning around. 

Silence was his response and Draco could hear how the air shifted around him, the wind brought different scents.

A hoof clopped. 

"Blessings on your path, young Eltannin Draconis," a voice suddenly called, soft, gruff, hoarse and inhuman. 

Draco stood then, turning around and vowing to the newcomer, one hand to his chest and another limp by his side, one knee bent and the other extended behind him. 

"Madam has me at a disadvantage," he said, eyes set on the ground. "May I know madam's name?"

Another beat of silence, as if the creature in front of him was considering his request. 

A huff of breath. 

"Eltannin Draconis may call this one Alsinne," she said then and Draco finally lifted his head, looking at the female centaur's muscled frame, the way her hair was styled in intricate knots and her eyes shone with a preternatural light. 

She held a resemblance with Professor Firenze, the centaur that would replace Professor Trelawny in his fifth year so he didn't feel odd thinking she might be from the same herd as he was, she might even be part of the group that attacked and exiled him in the future. 

They shared the same sharp cheekbones, the same coat color, their strong jaws clenched in the same powerful way. 

"You seem confused," the centaur said, tilting her head. 

"I must confess I am," Draco admitted, looking away with a hint of shy hesitance on his face, color blooming on his cheeks. "I…"

"You do not need your tricks now, Eltannin Draconis," the centaur interrupted. "Not with me."

Draco's shoulders slumped, his eyes narrowed for a moment.

He had known centaurs had a different sense of perception than other magical creatures - wizards and witches included - and the ways he held himself, shrouded in deception and subterfuge would be something the centaurs could see through at a glance. 

Back in fifth year he hadn't been called out by Professor Firenze and he could guess it was that at the time he had been too worried for his father's safety to use his usual methods around him. 

This time, in front of another centaur that clearly had sought him out, he found himself out of his depth. 

He definitely needed to be more open. 

"I see," he said, arms crossing over his chest. "Then what can this wizard do for you, Madam Alsinne?" 

The centaur's lips twitched, her amusement clear. 

"You shine bright like your namesake," Madam Alsinne said, nodding her head.  "You clearly want to know why I left the forest without any escort and yet you remain polite with me, well versed in the ways of the goddess."

"I aim to please," Draco answered honestly, his own lips curling upwards. 

Madam Alsinne nodded in satisfaction, most likely pleased by his openness.

"I bring a message from the stars to you, Eltannin Draconis," she began. "I was asked to answer your questions."

Draco thought about it, thought about all the questions in his heart, of the book trying to force him into his original role and to his fate, of the way some people seemed out of their way to hate him while others seemed more open. 

Of the lights begging for help. 

He bit his bottom lip for a moment. 

Out of all the questions, he knew there was one that couldn’t stop plaguing him, forcing him to second guess his every step. 

“Why me?” he whispered, feeling his cheeks heat up and his own mouth tremble with hesitation. 

Madame Alsinne looked at him in confusion for a moment, her shimmering eyes examining him from head to toe. 

“Why you?” she repeated, tilting her head to the side. 

“Why choose me to do this, whatever this is?” Draco explained. “I’m not powerful like Potter and Longbottom or smart like Granger or brave like Weasley or dedicated like Brown, I’m just a mediocre and selfish wizard who would betray the world without a second thought for my own interests.”

Madam Alsinne stared at him, at the way his hand curled and his eyes became dull, downcasted. 

She sighed, almost like a tired snort. 

“I see why I was sent to you now, Eltannin Draconis,” she said with a huff. “Your own inadequacies are blinding you to the virtues you hold.”

Draco looked up, eyes wide. 

“What?” 

Madame Alsinne turned then, her eyes straying to the stars slowly appearing in the sky. 

“Do you know what a despondeo spell is?” she asked. 

Draco found himself nodding, shocked. 

“I’ve read about it,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s one of the most powerful spells there is, an accumulation of magic that can take years… decades even!”

Draco had only seen such a spell in some of the old grimoires in the Malfoy Family crypt. 

A spell of absolute desperation. 

A sacrifice of life itself. 

A wizard who had to refrain from all magic and spells for years, decades, no magic, no emotions, nothing but thinking about the spell the caster wanted to perform. 

A life without living only for one result. 

A nightmare of existence. 

Something only someone in utmost despair would dare to cast, the single, smallest mistake could destroy the delicate weaving of spells. 

“The soul who chose you was desperate, yes,” Madam Alsinne said, nodding. 

“So someone desperate enough cast  a despondeo spell and decided to choose me?" Draco asked in disbelief.

"Why wouldn't they choose you, Eltannin Draconis?" Madame asked back. "You were bred to be a general, smart and cunning, to lead those willing to follow you into battle if necessary."

Her eyes shone with a glint of ancient knowledge. 

"And you are the kind of wizard that can set the world ablaze for love," she continued. "Your determination and skills make you an ideal candidate to make miracles happen."

"Miracles…" Draco repeated, feeling himself a little stupid. "Is that what the caster wants of me? A miracle?"

"You've seen the force you are going against," Madame Alsinne nodded. "How many of your peers would just let it happen as it brings them ultimate joy." 

And she was right, Draco realized. 

The obvious choice should have been a Gryffindor, someone set for justice, or a Hufflepuff, those most loyal and strong. 

But neither Gryffindor nor Hufflepuff were overtly affected by the story Potter was supposed to follow. Most of them survived the war and found families and prosperity. 

So what if Brow and Diggory had to die in the process?

So what if your own free will was being held hostage by an invisible force set to make Potter happy. 

In the end you would be happy and fulfilled. 

Even if it wasn't something you would choose on your own?

Slytherin, on the other hand, and Draco in particular, only had suffering ahead, death, loss, despair. 

It was easier to imagine he would rage against this set fate of them, as one of the sacrifices for Potter's glory. 

"Should I keep working as I have?" Draco suddenly asked. "Amassing allies from people not as involved in the story?" 

Madame Alsinne lifted her head, gaze set on the horizon, as if listening to the voices of the universe Draco couldn't comprehend himself. 

Her face was set in stone. 

The curl of her mouth grim. 

"So far, you are correct," she said eventually. "But be aware some of those you have chosen will be ensnared by the miasma of that will and the efforts you put now will weigh against that influence."

"You are saying I should redouble my efforts," Draco guessed. 

"You should make sure that your plans for this year succeed," Madame Alsinne interrupted. "While I cannot see what your plan is with clarity, I can see that it will become a turning point in your favor."

Draco nodded, pensive once more. 

"I see…" 

"I shall endeavor to contact you and guide you until the herd is forced to cut Firenze off," Madame Alsinne sighed. "By then the miasma will have ensnared him and we will not risk infecting ourselves."

"So that's why you all almost killed him," Draco mussed. He had always wondered why the centaur herd had beaten Firenze black and blue, and the way the school whispered with their hatred of wizards and witches never sat all that well with him. 

With creatures so connected with the source of magic itself, why would an act of gratitude ever be considered a sin?

A whole herd escaping a foreign miasma that infected those it touched and ensnared their will?

That made a lot more sense. 

"You won't succeed, I'm afraid," Draco warned, his voice calm. "I do remember the herd joining Firenze in the last battle four years from now."

Madam Alsinne's eyes widened and she took a step back, as if protecting herself from a physical blow.

"What?" she whispered, her voice faint. 

"I saw you, Madame, you and yours fighting alongside Potter and his army, led by Professor Firenze," Draco said, shaking his head. "Whatever protection your herd set back then must have failed."

"I must inform the elders immediately," Madame said, her voice growing with urgency. "We shall meet again, Eltannin Draconis."

Draco vowed to her, silent, until the clip clop of her hooves disappeared in the night. 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. 

A despondeo spell.

Someone chose him with a despondeo spell.

He had so much to think about. 

He carefully grabbed the little vials of nectar he had collected, eyes set on the sky. 

The sun had set and dinner would soon be served. 

He had to get back before Pansy got worried.

With slow steps he approached the castle, a shiver running down his spine as the cold evening wind ruffled his hair. The yard was dark and the silhouettes of people crowding the windows cast long shadows that seemed to cover everything they touched. 

Draco stopped, staring at the shadows. 

He frowned. 

The sun had set. 

Dinner was almost upon them. 

Why were so many people around the hallways at this time?

Something was definitely happening. 

"Ah! Draco!" a first year said, waving at him from under one of the birch trees in the yard. "You're back!" 

Draco approached, his frown deepening. 

"Everly?" he asked. Everly was a Hufflepuff first year who often came to him with questions. He was one of the ones that often sang his virtues as a patient and knowledgeable tutor, dragging his classmates to his customary table at the library, begging for his time, a wide smile on his young face. 

Draco always made time for him and his friends.

Not because he was any more patient or knowledgeable than any other fourth year. 

But because reviewing the first year curriculum helped him remember his own schooling, helped him make up for the knowledge he had forgotten during his imprisonment. 

And the reputation of a patient tutor did not hurt him in the least. 

Everly grabbed his hands with a beam, eyes sparkling as he vowed to him, resting a solitary daisy between them. 

Draco blinked. 

"What?" he wanted to ask what Everly was even doing, but the boy had already turned his back on him, pulling a small silver bell from his pocket and ringing it into the suddenly silent yard. 

From the bushes, another first year Hufflepuff appeared. 

Turner, Draco recalled, her hair done in intricate braids, bells clinking as she danced towards him, twirling on her toes and vowing at Draco's feet. 

Her small hands depositing another daisy in his arms. 

Before Draco could open his mouth, more and more first years approached him, all carefully dressed, dancing, happy, little bells creating a cacophony that enveloped them all. 

Every single one of them handed Draco a daisy until he held a small bouquet in his arms and the children continued to dance, forming a circle with Draco himself at the center. 

In tandem, each raised their wands, a small light sparkling, making them look like happy fireflies attracted by Draco himself. 

A beautiful and magical choreography they must have rehearsed for a while. 

Suddenly a soft hand grasped Draco's and he found himself staring into Abbott's smiling eyes, her own hair curled perfectly, small bells adorning her head. 

"Dance with me?" she prompted, twirling in place. 

Draco smiled. 

"Sure," he said, nodding, and he started to dance with Abbott, fully aware of the eyes of half the school watching them, still not very sure what in all that was holy was happening. 

Suddenly Abbott twirled him and he found himself holding Macmillan's hand, his steps clumsy as he held him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting to the side as he tried to smile at him. 

"Hello…" he muttered, trying to keep his rhythm as he continued to dance, swaying from side to side. 

"Hello, Macmillan," he greeted, deciding to guide the other boy if only to spare him the embarrassment, letting his own long hair fall against the breeze. 

They danced together for a moment, Draco guiding Macmillan not to make a fool of himself that the other boy clearly appreciated, their robes fluttering, before he was deposited in Finch-Fletchley's stronger, more determined arms. 

Finch-Fletchley, unlike Macmillan, seemed to be having the time of his life, waggling his eyebrows when Draco blinked at him, answering with a flirtatious wink before he started dancing with him as well, his steps sure, his confidence clear. 

"You are having fun," Draco whispered, shaking his head when Fich-Fletchley grinned. 

"It is fun!" the boy said happily. "I've never done anything like this before!" 

Draco wanted to tell him he would have a blast at the seasonal ceremonies then, maybe invite him to partake at the end of the year - if he still had ceremonies to celebrate by then - when Finch-Fletchley vowed to him, kissed his hand and let go of his hand, twirling away. 

Another soft hand, stronger, confident and familiar grabbed Draco's. 

"Hey Pans," Draco greeted, already more comfortable with his new dancing partner. "Did you have a hand in this?" 

Pansy smirked at him, letting the music slowly enveloping them guide them, steps of old making them move in perfect unison. 

"Someone had to whip Finch-Fletchley and Macmillan into shape," she said, smug. "This had to be perfect."

Draco swayed, smiling when Pansy's hand on his waist supported him and he arched his back. 

"Perfect, you say."

"Oui!" Another voice called and Draco's daisies were finally pulled from his hand and a small hand took their place. "Perfect!"

This time, Draco found himself chuckling when little Gabrielle Delacour and her sister Fleur each grabbed one of his hands, dancing along around him, twirling him in place, their voices joining the music in harmony. 

"Our sweet Draco deserves the best," Gabrielle said, her accent thick, her nose wrinkling for a moment. "Bu in the absence of the best, this will do."

"This?" Draco asked, amused when Fleur shook her head in dismay at her younger sister's antics. 

"Me," a new voice called and Draco was suddenly pulled to a stop in the center of the circle of all first years and his new and old friends who had been all brought to a stop, their wands alight, their smiles eager. 

Fleur and Gabrielle let go of his hands, the little girl rushing to place the flowers in Cedric Diggory's hands, her eyes determined. 

"Don't fuck up," she warned, dancing away to her place in the circle. 

"Gabbie!" Fleur scolded, embarrassedly pulling her by the hand. 

Draco stared at Diggory, his face reflecting his surprise. 

"Hello," Diggory said, his cheeks a little pink, accentuating his handsome face and perfectly styled hair. 

Pansy had outdone herself, it seemed. 

"Hi…?" Draco greeted back, tilting his head to the side, letting his wind tousled hair cover his left eye. 

Diggory stared at him for a moment, as if strengthening his resolve, before he waved his hand and all the daisies the first years had given Draco floated in the air for a moment, swaying and weaving with each other, until a wreath fell into his expecting hands. 

He cleared his throat. 

"Draconis Lucien Malfoy," Diggory said, slowly bending his knee in front of him. "Would you do me the honor of being my partner at this upcoming Yule Ball?" 

Draco blinked, surprised. 

He looked around, eyes settling on Cho Chang, watching them whole proceedings from a window on the first floor. 

He looked at Diggory once more.

Bit his bottom lip. 

"Are you sure?" he whispered as if suddenly aware of all the eyes upon them. "I thought…"

"I am," Diggory said, offering the wreath to him, his smile wide. "And whoever has an opinion of it, will have to deal with me." 

A tear rolled down Draco's cheek, his lips curled into a small smile. 

"It would be my honor," he whispered. 

He vowed, feeling Diggory's hands gently placing the wreath on his hair, muttering how the lights around them made his hair glint and his flushed cheeks a thing of loveliness. 

All around them started cheering and clapping, Finch-Flechtley and Abbott the loudest of the bunch. 

Some students on the windows cheered as well, excited and moved by Diggory's dedication. 

Diggory took Draco's hands in his own, his smile as bright and as pure as the sun. 

Draco did his best to hide his smirk with his hair.