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Chapter Text

If Draco were to describe his house a year ago, three years ago, even as a child, he would’ve called it cold, it always had been. Malfoy Manor had never been a home exactly, not with its dark marble floors, and the tall ceilings that seemed to loom over you no matter where in the manor one walked. It had been cold because of more than decor or architecture, he knows that of course, but it hadn’t been this. Sure as a child he’d been terrified of the long dark hallways, and found some of the horribly heavy doors impossible to open, but as he grew it became what he knew, it became the fears of a child. His mother and father lived here, so despite the Manor not seeming much like a home, it was his. It was his. Or maybe it never was, maybe that’s the hopeful musings of a child.

Sure, Draco had been disillusioned of any ideals he had about his father for some time now, but he’d tried to hold true to what was expected of him, even as his father seemed to realise something shifted between them. It wasn’t so extreme as the stories his mother had told him of Sirius and Walburga, Draco is rather certain he’d never manage something like that, not that he had any interest in being like his cousin, he’s seen where that got him. If Draco had wanted in any part to stand up to his father, he would not shine in the way his cousin did, it would be over a million years for his name sake to come close to his cousin’s. He was not meant for such things, he doesn’t have his staunch morals either. Draco was not, is not his cousin. He’s not even his Aunt Andromeda with her quiet rebellion until she left entirely, he never had any plans to break the mold of what his family wanted him to be. He was perfectly content going along, even as his beliefs shifted, because really, it wasn’t as though it affected him. He knew what buttons not to push, and for the most part he could keep out of things as it became more apparent that this would become another war. Coasting by is one thing that he was fine with. He’s rather sure his father knew this, could see it. Their relationship had always been… difficult. Draco knew his father cared, he used that to his advantage plenty, but it wasn’t necessarily Draco that his father cared about, it was the idea of him. As his father realised even his disinterest in the beliefs he tried so hard to instill in his heir, rather quickly the sharp words and occasional smacks of his early childhood turned into shouting and frequent welts from his cane around third year. Draco wouldn’t say it aloud, not in these halls, not to his mother, but he rather hopes his father isn’t freed from Azkaban.

His mother in mind, well their relationship was better, and he certainly cares for her more than he ever has his father. He won’t pretend their relationship is perfect, but they are much more aligned in their thinking. Draco’s no fool, he knows his mother can be a terrifying woman when she chooses so, but much of their disagreements come down to her refusing to be anything but dutiful when it comes to his father. Sometimes Draco wonders if part of his shift was the realisation that his mother is more than soft words and rather potent healing potions. When he realised that she always could have done more, could have made different choices. He of course knows what she’d say to this line of thought, because not long after his father’s arrest he’d pleaded with her to flee, that they’d go to France and escape whatever may come. She was well able to go, he knew that, but she’d denied the option, saying their place was here.

He hasn’t asked her since he’s been home though, since his aunt seemed to lurk around every corner, a crucio always on the tip of her tongue. He secludes himself in one of the third floor rooms, a bedroom that had long since turned into a place for all sorts of random things to go, magic artifacts and arrant furniture alike. As a rule no one seemed to care to bother him here, leaving him to complete his summer work much too early and sort through what cluttered the room.

He can see the sun slowly dipping below the horizon when a knock at the door startles him from his viewing of the sunset. He can feel his body tense, and for a moment he debates saying nothing at all and hoping whoever it is moves on.

“Draco,” Aunt Bella’s voice comes through the door, “you’ve been asked to come downstairs, I wouldn’t keep our Lord waiting,” she says in a tone dripping with sweetness despite it very clearly being a threat. His shaking hands tells him not to take the chance of being at the end of his aunt’s wand more than he already has been.

He doesn’t say anything as he walks out, and his aunt loops her arm around his shoulder the moment he steps into the hall, pulling him along with her. He nearly falls down the steps when she doesn’t let go of him during their descent. He’s only let free when they enter the dining room, where he’s pushed hard enough he nearly stumbles to the floor only just barely keeping himself up.

His eyes darting around the dining room he finds it surprisingly empty, so often when he’s expected here the table is full, diner attended by all those close with the Dark Lord. Tonight this is only him, Aunt Bella, Nagini, and of course Draco himself. His mother is nowhere to be found, he’s not entirely surprised by her absence, he’s sure she wouldn’t be around if the Dark Lord commanded so, she wouldn’t risk going against him, he knows that.

“Very good Bellatrix,” a hiss-like voice praises, the man’s tone sending a chill down his spine, pulling his attention enough that he almost doesn’t notice someone poking around in his mind. He doesn’t force him out, that wouldn’t end well, but he does send various memories to the front, ones he’ll know will be more fitting of what’s expected of him. His aunt’s shrill laugh has him wincing, throwing The Dark Lord from his mind on instinct. His snake-like eyes narrow at him, but that isn’t what worries him, it’s the way the man’s lips curl up into a calculating sort of smirk. “You are not much like your father, are you?”

Draco can tell by the way he says it that that fact may be a bit of an inconvenience, even if it’s not a bad thing per se. He doesn’t disagree, both because he truly doesn’t –he has no interest in being like his father– and because it’s best for his health not to disagree with the madman who’s taken over his home. He just hums in agreement, knowing he’ll continue with whatever reason he’s been called upon.

“Of course, someone must pay for your father’s failure, and seeing as he’s not here…” Draco had assumed this would come about eventually, because his aunt practicing her crucio on him whenever she chooses is clearly not enough. “If you were more like him maybe I could trust you’d fall in line, this could be simple, but with someone like you, well I need something with more insurance.” The Dark Lord attempts to root around his mind again, but this time Draco makes it no secret that he’s throwing him out. There’s something terrifying about the chuckle it elicits from the man, if he can truly still be considered a man. He feels himself tense at the sound, wanting to recoil, though he forces himself still, schooling his expression.

Draco’s not sure what he means by someone like him, what he sees or what he’s heard that makes him seemingly have something else in mind for him than the honor of his mark. He’s heard rumors that the mark wouldn’t take if he didn’t believe in his mission, if he was unwilling to bend the knee. It was likely best he wasn’t going to force it, he’s not sure he’d make it to sixth year if that happened. Draco’s no fool, despite what some of his classmates may believe with his eccentricities. When howling sounds from the forest surrounding the manor and The Dark Lord breaks into a grin, well he’d be an idiot not to know the man’s plan. The full moon shines down through the windows, and Draco swears he can feel his stomach plummet, nothing but a pit. His realization must show, because it isn’t only him who laughs. His aunt’s cackle echoes off marble floors and high ceilings, drowning him in the sound of it.

____

He finds himself quite literally thrown to the wolves. He’s forced from his own home, wards now keeping him from entering. The howls a warning of the terror to come, something he doubts he’ll avoid for long. He has no plans to go into the forest, he’ll stay as close to the house as the altered wards will allow. His wand confiscated, he has very little hope to defend himself, he’s not exactly what one would call a fighter, not without magic at hand. He can feel the wards trying to force him further out, but this is still his home, despite those who have seen to overtake it, they might keep him from the safety of the interior but he’ll stay put on the manicured grounds of the manor, eyes attempting to make out any shapes within the trees, as though knowing a wolf is coming will help him in the slightest.

He knows this must have been a plan for much longer than he’d been privy to, not a sudden whim like much of what happened seems to be. Greyback has always put him on edge, the beast of a man always seeming to lurk around every corner, eyes always predatory, making his skin crawl when his gaze would find him. He kept his distance, as much as was possible, of course he keeps his distance from just about everyone so Greyback isn’t exactly special, but he’s someone he’d make sure to avoid even if he hadn’t been one the those who’d found it acceptable to invade his home. He’d heard plenty about Greyback, about those he’d turned, dozens of people, children more often than not, including one ex-professor years before he’d even stepped foot into Hogwarts, if Severus was to be believed. Draco is certain no other wolf will leave the confines of the forest, he’s certain the wards won’t allow it, when if he’s bitten tonight it’ll be Greyback who does it. He knows the beast will revel in it, likely send an owl to his father to gloat about what his son has become, what he’s made him into. Lucius Malfoy would manage to still get messages in Azkaban, Draco’s certain of it.

The mark would’ve been less cruel, even if it didn’t work, if he ended up at the end of his aunt’s wand for the remainder of the summer, it wouldn’t be this curse. Even if it ended in the Dark Lord killing him for his lack of loyalty, it would be better. Maybe it won’t work, maybe he’ll just die instead. It’s not uncommon for the change to be fatal, plenty don’t survive their first full moon. He can’t help the bitter sort of chuckle that escapes him, the belief that death might be better than surviving this; whether by wand or by fangs. He knows he doesn’t mean it, that his mind is offering up the only option that doesn’t mean living with the outcome of what’ll happen to him. He’s never thought he’d die young, he still doesn’t really.

A growl rips him from his thoughts, and it’s almost funny that the man has been so overtaken by the monster within that Draco recognises him immediately. He finds himself looking into the same eyes he sees prowling the manor most days, and ironically he almost seems less unnerving like this, no less terrifying, but at least now he looks like the monster he truly is.

The large wolf pounces at him, tackling him to the well kept lawn, the grass that in moments will have his blood spilt on it. He can see Greyback going for his neck, sharp fangs almost seem to glow in the moonlight. He knows he doesn’t actually want to die, even as a monster he’d rather live, and he knows a bite like that would make it much more likely to be fatal. He reacts in the only way he can, he knows he can’t stop what’s about to happen, but he can certainly up his chances of survival. He brings his arms up the guard himself, trying to guard from having his throat ripped open. Canines rip through the flesh of his forearm instead, tearing away at it.

Draco doesn’t hear himself scream, he doesn’t hear anything in the moment, not howls, or even the tearing of his flesh, but he feels it. He can feel the scream rip through his throat, the tears flooding his eyes and drenching his cheeks, the stickiness of his own blood pouring down his arm. The wolf keeps him pinned, giving him what almost looks like a smirk, with Draco’s blood dripping from his fangs. He tears eyes from Greyback, looking at his left forearm instead. It’s drenched in blood, the flesh torn horribly by the wolf’s teeth. He can’t hear it, but he’s almost certain he lets out a laugh, a horrible one, full of bitterness and tears, quite possibly a little mad sounding if his family is anything to go by, he’d been so sure that skin would be left unmarked.

If Draco had thought the bite was painful it was nothing compared to what came after. His bones snap and shift, cracking and forcing their way into their new positions as his form changes. The last thing he remembers before the world goes dark is the near white color of fur covered paws.

____

Draco stares at his arm, claw marks racked over it over and over he nearly can’t see the bite, he’s rather certain that was the point. The morning he awoke still on the lawn, his mother wrapping him tight in a blanket, her face stoic, she’d always been good at hiding her thoughts. He just let her guide him up to his room, neither saying a word as they pass through the halls. He hadn’t said anything since the night before, didn’t trust his voice not to come out like a growl or a bark, didn’t trust it not to show the monster he’s become. His mother hadn’t spoken either, but she also hadn’t left his side, sitting on the settee in his room with her book and tea. He can’t take his eyes off his arm, fingers trembling above the marred skin, skin that’s already healed to harsh red gashes, closed but still raw. He’d refused for it to be bandages earlier, something told him to not take his eyes from it. Maybe it’s morbid, but he needs to see it.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, how long he sat here staring at the bite and the damage he’d done to himself in the night. How much of himself was in the wolf, for the beast to have done that, to have clearly not followed to pack. Would he become like Greyback? He was more beast than man, prowling and aggressive even outside the night of the full moon. Could he be like Lupin? He kept his secret well enough, until that whole bit with his cousin happened. He loathed thinking he must model himself off the professor to keep his secret, but it’s better than the alternative, much better.

“Maman–” he manages to get out, pulling his eyes from his arm to look at his mother. Despite his quiet tone, scared of his own voice, she looks up from her book, she doesn’t say anything but closes her book as she waits for him to continue. His voice is hoarse but there’s none of the growl he expects, not like Greyback, he still keeps his voice low though. “You need to leave the manor,” he says just above a whisper, just barely loud enough that she could hear him.

“Draco,” she says with a sigh, “I can’t just leave, your father–”

“He’s in Azkaban, he let him take over our home,” Draco argues, forcing his voice to say a whisper despite his want to yell. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, he so rarely can with his mother, her expression entirely calm, no anger rising to the way his whisper bites out.

“We’ve discussed this, this is our place, our home,” she urges, and he hates that he can’t see anything beyond her words, can’t tell what she truly believes. His mother has always been so good at keeping things close to the chest, only showing her true emotions when absolutely necessary.

He knows she loves him, of course she does, but part of him believes he comes second to his father. Her love for his father is something he’s never doubted, he only hoped that her love for him would be enough for her to act, even if it meant going against what his father would wish.

“Maman, please,” he pleads. “We can’t say here, you can’t stay here when I return to school. Aunt Bella won’t protect you, not against him.” His eyes sting with tears, and suddenly his mother’s up, her hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling his fingers from his now bleeding arm. When had he done that?

“We’ll talk about this later. Let’s get your arm bandaged,” she urges, and he knows the conversation is over.

Chapter Text

As much as Draco wishes he could hide himself away through the whole summer, that is simply not an option for him. When it isn’t his aunt seeking him out, convinced he’s up to something –he much prefers when Potter suspects him–, it’s Greyback sniffing him out, trying to convince him into properly joining with the wolves. A few weeks in and it’s already become quite tiring, his hands shaking incessantly, his breath strangled anytime he hears recognisable footsteps. He’s quite convinced he’d prefer facing The Dark Lord, over his aunt Bella or the likes of Greyback. It’s not as though the rest of the lot are any less mad, but at the very least they leave him back most of the time, beside a few snide comments on his new furry affliction.

What he would give to be back at Hogwarts, to be arguing with Theo, brushing off Blaise and Pansy’s teasing, or enjoying a certain green eyed Gryffindor looking at him, even in anger. He’d even take double the Ancient Ruins assignments if it meant being out of this house. He’s not a fool of course, he knows he’s watched at school by other Death Eaters’ children, but that’s better than dealing with them in his home.

____

A lesson in Occlumency his aunt had said, ordered by him apparently. Draco really hadn’t been listening, something about it being important for him. He’s rather certain there was no lesson here, if there’s any type of magic that he legitimately excels at, even if he hadn’t trained in such with Severus for years, it was Occlumency. It’s a punishment, one because of his own doing rather than his father’s failure, he’d thrown him out of his head that night. Draco knew that moment wouldn’t be forgotten, but he’d tricked himself into believing so, that he’d impressed The Dark Lord, that he hadn’t offended him.

It had been incredibly foolish to believe so. His aunt’s laugh rings in his ears, more so than even his own scream which seems to drown out the moment it leaves his lips.

She’s been trying to force him out of focus, giving her access to his head, to find whatever it is they think he’s been up to. It doesn’t work in her favor, Draco’s instinct always being to throw her out the moment he hears her start to utter crucio.

“Severus is better at this than you,” he bites out with his next proper breath.

“You dare compare me to that half-blood,” she shouts, her anger doesn’t aid her in the slightest. Legilimency, to some extent, requires calm, forcing into someone's mind is far harder than slowly navigating it, and Draco has found that angering his aunt is not particularly difficult. Of course doing so comes with consequences.

He sits in one of the large leather chairs in the main manor library, aunt Bella’s eyes narrowed at him from where she stands before her own seat. He doesn’t allow himself to slouch back in his chair, no matter the pain in his bones, or the shaking of his limbs, he can’t afford to look weak, not in front of her. He’s failed enough today, his screams still feeling as though they echo against the tall, domed ceiling. “What is it you think you’ll find? That I’m secretly a blood traitor? You don’t need to go rooting around my mind for my opinions, I’ve no fear telling you.”

“If you have nothing to fear then you shouldn’t have any issue with allowing me to see for myself.”

Draco rolls his eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh, “if you’d like so much to see my turmoil about being turned into some cursed beast, fine. Be my guest.” He of course has no actual plans to let his clearly insane aunt actual freedom around his mind, but nothing will prove himself more than the outcome of his first time alone after that night.

He hears something crash before he really sees it, his eyes blurred with tears as he slides to the tile floor of his bathroom. He doesn’t know what fell, or maybe what he threw, he’s not entirely sure. Through tears he can see red staining the bandage on his arm, staining his nails as they dig in. He can’t feel it, he’s sure he can’t, it’s not him. This isn’t him. He’s not this beast. This monster. His hands… claws… shake as they dig into his arm, blood pooling under his nails as they rip the gauze. Dark droplets meeting silk green pants, joining the plenty of clear ones drenching them already. He’s drowning in them, he’s almost certain. It’s the only explanation for the way his lungs feel too full to take in air, why he can’t seem to hear his own sobs despite them being deafening. He manages to pull his hand from his marred, bleeding arm, only to try to get himself up, bloody hand leveling him against the white porcelain tub as he carefully rises to his feet. He can feel the blood slowly dripping down his arm, to the pale green tiles. He grips the counter, eyes meeting a reflection in the mirror. It’s not his. It can’t be him. A scream is the only thing that pushes through the drowning depths, followed by the mirror that holds the beast shattering.

He comes out of the memory suddenly, it hadn’t been him who’d forced his aunt out, she’d ripped herself from him, breathing heavily, her eyes staring into space. He watches the moment something seems to switch, shock morphing into something concerning. The cackle that fills the library makes him flinch, expecting the word that normally follows. “If only your wretched father could see what his failure has caused. His bloodline forever sullied.”

“You believe that and the entire Black family line may as well be dead,” Draco comments, his tone tired, but never weak, not after showing her something like that.

“You’re no Black.”

“I’m as close as the family has left to an heir, unless you think Regulus is going to suddenly appear.”

“You are no Regulus! You are not an heir! You’re such a vile beast that even blood traitors would shun you!” she shouts, and he knows it’s coming, the word just barely hitting his ears before he’s seizing in pain. His only victory is his ability to keep himself from screaming.

“Remember this beast is your kin, your sister’s son,” his voice shakes, his body raw with pain, but he doesn’t shy from looking Aunt Bella in the eyes. “I’m no traitor.” He means it, he’s certain he does, but for some reason it feels like a lie.

____

Playing nice has never been something Draco is exactly adept at, at least not in a literal sense. He’s never been particularly nice, not even toward people he’s friends with. In the case of acting cordial, well he can usually at least manage it, of course there are always exceptions. A certain werewolf has fallen into this category for a long while, but has cemented himself much more recently.

Greyback lurks the halls of what is meant to be his home much too often for him to always hold his tongue. Draco had gone searching for a specific book in his father’s personal library, and for whatever reason, Greyback had thought it pertinent to follow. It was several minutes into searching through the mess of a room –his Aunt having gone through it searching for something a week or so ago- when Draco decided to say something about the werewolf practically breathing down his neck.

“Don’t you have something better to do? A chew toy to fetch maybe,” Draco mutters as he continues sorting through the piles of books that had been thrown from their shelves.

To his dismay, Greyback chuckles at his comment. “You’re no different from me now,” he states, always sounding much too proud about his hand in that.

Draco forces himself not to turn from his task, even as he can feel the beast of a man standing too close behind him, certainly making an attempt at being intimidating, one he refuses to go along with. “You may have made me a werewolf, but that does not make me like you.”

“You’ll realise you’re better off joining us eventually, when your mother decides she does not want a werewolf for a son,” Greyback taunts in an obvious attempt to get him to give him any reason to attack. It’s not as though the man really needs a reason, but considering he hasn’t yet Draco can assume there’s some kind of order in place. Of course it could always be because he’s a werewolf now, though he doubts Greyback as any issue attacking his own. “I truly can’t wait to see Lucius’s face when he learns what you’ve become,” he says after Draco doesn’t respond.

Draco rolls his eyes at the comment, honestly he couldn’t care less what his father will think about this, about him. His father had long seen that Draco wouldn’t follow his path, even if neither of them really knew what his path would be, but whatever his father saw, he hadn’t liked what Draco was becoming long before what that was, was a werewolf. Of course his struggles with his father weren’t well known, only his mother really knew the full extent of it, she’d step in occasionally of course –if things went too far– but really it wasn’t like this was out of the ordinary from her own upbringing. He’d tried speaking to Theo once but he’d had very little interest in listening, Draco took the hint and didn’t bother trying to broach the subject with him again. There was one other person, Pansy had been witness to quite the fight between them the summer of third year. Luckily the usual gossip hadn’t even told Blaise about it, they never talked about it either, what the argument had been about –his marks for the year, coming second once again, his attempt at defence sounding a bit too much like believing the muggle-born witch deserved her spot– or her seeing his father bring the head of his cane down on Draco back. Pansy never asked about it, and when Draco came back with a bit too much anger the next year she didn’t mention it.

In the end, what happened between him and his father was just that, between them, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Greyback know about it, but it made it much easier to not have to lie about his lack of concern with his father’s opinion. It’s not as though he’s particularly comfortable having the vile beast breath down his neck, he’d rather not have more to pretend about at the moment.

“I would suggest you don’t ignore me,” Greyback growls, yanking him from his thoughts as he force’s Draco around to face him, sharp nails digging through fabric and into the skin of his unmarred arm. Sharp, wolf-like teeth bared down at him, face scrunched like a snarling wolf. The man’s grip bruising, and Draco’s rather certain he’s broken skin now.

He narrows his own gaze, grey eyes watching the beast looming over him very carefully, he knows despite his size the man isn’t slow and he’s surely stronger than him, especially with the way the wolf and man seem the meld within him, not a separate as they should be.

“What are you gonna do? Try to rip out my throat again? Honestly you’ve already turned me into a monster, what more do you want,” he bites out, ripping his arm from the werewolf’s grip, the sleeve of his shirt shredding with his claw-like nails. Draco pushes his way past the man, the book he’d been searching for in hand, when he reaches the doorway he turns to look back at the werewolf, “I know you’re used to those you turn bending the knee, but you’ll do well to remember I’m not some scared child, you’ll never be anything to me but some vile beast.” He makes his way out of the room before Greyback can respond with some pointless attempt at inciting fear in him.

Lying has always been something Draco is plenty good at, he may not be able to feign getting along with that monster but he can certainly feign some bravery, at least for long enough to return to one of his usual hiding places. With a book on the Fidelius charm in hand he returns to the room of many seemingly forgotten items with the hopes that it may allow him to be forgotten too. Among the covered furniture and various trinkets from past generations he lets himself slide to the ground against the wall farthest from the door. He knows his shirt is ruined and he can feel a sluggish flow of blood down his arm, but it’s all he can do to even breathe at the moment.

Chapter Text

Walking to the manor’s dining room had started to feel a bit like walking to the gallows, most certainly when it comes with a summons. With his return to Hogwarts on the marrow he’s almost tricked himself into believing he’d return from the summer holiday with a curse and tremors in his hands, but that he’d be relatively safe for the coming months, at the very least til Samhaín or even Yule, if he’s lucky, then for the school year.

He’d packed his trunk earlier that day, after unpacking it and repacking many times in the week — a nervous habit he’d had since first year that he’d never managed to rid himself of. He’d sent a letter to Severus the week prior, the man had been scarcely at the manor as of late so waiting any longer to catch him prior to his return seemed ill advised. He didn’t enjoy having to request his help, to have to admit to what he’d become, though it was unlikely he hadn’t already been told. He wasn’t surprised by the short response he received yesterday, I will make preparations.

He’d made his own preparations and plans of how to keep his housemates and by extension the rest of Hogwarts from discovering his furry little problem. For a fleeting moment he thought he might trust Pansy and Blaise with the truth, telling them of what he’d been turned into. It was a foolish thought, bringing anyone unnecessary in on his secret meant more risk of others finding out. Moreover, he’s not certain they’d be willing to stay his friends if they learnt of the beast he’d become, he’d be hard pressed to find a wizard who would deem him worthy of their presence – let alone their friendship – if his nature came to light.

His thoughts are cut short as the door to the dining room comes into view, and with it his aunt’s cackle.

“Draco, come in,” he says with a hiss always at the back of his voice.

He steps into the room, pulling at his left sleeve, tugging it as though it is not already covering his marred forearm, as if everyone here doesn’t already know what he’s become. It’s become a habit of sorts, one he knows he’ll have to shake if he has any hope of keeping his secret.

Whatever the reason he’s glad this conversation hadn’t been had any other day this week, seeing as spending the full moon in his family’s cellar turned dungeon certainly hasn’t been treating him well, but he’d sooner risk destroying himself than spending the full moon with Greyback’s pack. Speaking of the man, he’s sitting at the table, making no effort to hide his staring. Draco really shouldn’t be surprised, the man’s always lurking. He schools his expression, and makes every effort to avoid the gazes of those in the room, though not allowing himself to look down, he can’t look weak, not here. It’s the same reason he doesn’t allow himself to look at his mother who’s sat just next to his Aunt Bella.

Draco’s not entirely sure when the Dark Lord had started speaking again, but his voice reaches him seemingly mid-sentence, “--plenty of opportunity, and you are an intelligent… creature, I’m certain you’ll manage what I request of you, if not for me…” he makes a not so subtle glance toward his mother, though Draco is still bristling a bit at the man referring to him as a creature. He knows his words and implications are meant to throw him off, because he can feel the Dark Lord attempting to see into his mind. He lets what he’d shown his Aunt before come to the forefront, she’d of told him about it, and he’s getting no more than that, enough to let him believe Draco is rather shaken as he continues. Let the man believe he can be so easily manipulated. “We need a way into Hogwarts. There’s a cabinet at Borgin and Burkes, its twin is within Hogwarts, you’ll find it and repair it.” It was a simple enough order, not that Draco should know anything about fixing magical objects but his research since the night he was cursed has taught him quite a lot, not to say he has any real intention to do so, but he’ll have to feign some progress eventually.

He hates that he understands why he’d want control of Hogwarts, why infiltrating the castle during the school year would be important. It’s the same reason Umbridge was sent to Hogwarts, but to be done much more violently if Draco has to guess. He wants control, and if he has Hogwarts, essentially has the entirety of Wizarding Britain’s children hostage, well his rise to power is much simpler. There is of course one major dilemma though, while Draco’s sure the Death Eaters could face off with most of the professors at Hogwarts, there’s still Dumbledore, who he’s rather sure even the Dark Lord would struggle against.

“I’m entirely confident in your ability to repair it, so much so that I have another… request,” his thin lips morphing into what is likely meant to be a grin though it only serves to make him more unsettling. That, coupled with his aunt’s poor attempt to stifle her laugh, tells him he won’t enjoy what will come next. “You are clever Draco, more than I think people give you credit for. So I think you’ll be able to do this for me, for the cause.” It’s all he can do to not mock the horrid attempt at manipulation, keeping his expression neutral, maybe airing on the side of naive, hopeful even. That’s what he wanted, for Draco to want to prove himself, for him to want to strive to belong. Maybe if something else were the reason for his carefully pulled down left sleeve, he’d feel more pressure to prove himself, maybe it would be the mark that caused that want — he’s not sure how it all works. As it stands, that singular word continues to repeat in his head, creature. That’s what they see him as now, what he is, how Greyback believes he’s better off siding with this lot — well Draco’s sure it’s more about getting to attack and curse others as he’d like than any real loyalty. “You’ll need to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

Suddenly the high ceiling of the dining room is oppressively low, pressing down upon him, weighing on his shoulders so much so that he has to struggle against his knees’ want to collapse under the weight. Kill Albus Dumbledore, repeating in his mind over and over again. It had come after this whole spiel from the snake-like man who’d taken over his home, like a lengthy monologue from a villain in a book, one he’d only caught the tail end of, he can only really tell by the way the room has darkened since he entered.

“You’ll do it, won’t you? I’m sure you can manage. You're a student, his guard won’t be up around you.” And he must not hide his apprehension well because he can feel him pressing against his walls as he steps closer. Draco nearly jerks away when the Dark Lord’s hand rests on his shoulder. “If you do this you’ll be remembered for eons, every witch and wizard will know your name, what you’ve done for them.”

He can’t bring himself to speak, but he finally lowers his head as though silently accepting his orders.

____

The echo of footsteps in his ears, back and forth, back and forth as he paces his room feels all encompassing. The flickering light of a slowly dying candle coats the room in a glow that feels eerie rather than comforting. And the room, despite its size, feels claustrophobic, shrinking around him.

“Draco,” his mother says for the up-teenth time, and he still can’t find it in himself to look at her.

They should have left, gone when they had the chance, so be it if they would be on the run — this is certain death, that was at least a chance. He’s going to die, there’s no question about it, either The Dark Lord kills him because he fails, or Dumbledore kills him because he’s bloody Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive and he’s supposed to kill him. And even if somehow he survives them both, he’ll not survive himself, not after whatever it would likely take to succeed. He’s a dead man creature.

There are hands on his shoulders, someone holding him from continuing his pacing, but he can’t focus, can't see them beyond the panic. He tries to pull himself back but they keep him close, steadying though, it’s not aggressive.

“Draco, regarde-moi,” his mother’s voice reaches his ears, a biting whisper, sharp in a way that gets him to do as she asks. He finds her gaze, one that looks much too full of fear, so unlike the woman he’s come to know his mother to be. “You have a plan, don’t you?” she prompts, like he holds no secrets — of course he doesn’t, not from her.

Finally he breathes, pulling himself together as his mother gets him to sit at the edge of his bed. “The apartment–” he starts, he’d get up to get the book and notes hidden away under the floorboard he’d pried up earlier in the summer holiday, but he’s not sure his legs can hold him right now– “I have notes on the Fidelus Charm, how to cast it, it’ll be quick with it being a smaller place – you’ll be able to get it up before they realise you’re gone. You can name me the secret keeper, I’ve kept both Aunt Bella and him out of my mind all summer, we’ll be the only people who know the location. I’ll be allowed to apparate after this year, I’ll meet you there in summer and we can wait this out.”

“You’ll splinch yourself trying to go that far,” she warns.

“I won’t go the whole way at once, as long as I do it before I’m expected back at Kings Cross they’ll be none the wiser.” He knows it’s a long shot, but it doesn’t matter if he gets to safety, he’ll probably be dead before the year is out anyway, this is just the plan for if he manages to keep The Dark Lord from realising he’s stalling rather than just unable to accomplish his orders. With the way his mother looks at him, she knows that. “Maman, please. I want you to be safe, this is the only way. You can’t stay here.”

“You will at the very least make a good appearance of effort in what was requested of you. Do not put yourself in more danger than you already are,” she says, holding his face to look at her, where she’s sat beside him. “I will figure you a way to Paris that won’t have you showing up at the doorstep half in your grave,” his mother says with certainty, “you focus on keeping yourself safe.”

He nods, letting out a shaky sigh. He hates the bitterness that settles in his chest with her final words, hates that it took until now for her to take the danger they are in seriously. He’s pleaded with her so many times, begging her to run, for the both of them to get away from this. He is relieved, of course he is, but he also wants to scream, they could have done this before, done it the moment that man – The Dark Lord, took over their home, could have run when his father was arrested, left the first time Aunt Bella turned her crucio on him. And while he’s certain this bitterness would have still lurked in his mind, they could have left after that night when he became a beast, even that would have been enough.

They didn’t leave then though, and there’s no point in mourning decisions of the past, not when she’s the last of his family left, he can’t lose her too. So this, it will have to be enough.