Chapter Text
Night had fallen over London, and Draco wandered aimlessly into the wrong part of town, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cloak, shoulders weighed down by an invisible burden. His head remained bowed, gaze fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet, never once looking up—neither for direction nor for danger.
He walked like a damned Dementor, draining the joy from everything around him, consumed by the darkness suffocating him from within. Everything felt too loud, too heavy, too… suffocating. So he walked. Walked until exhaustion took over. Or, when exhaustion wasn’t enough, he found a bar and tried to drown himself in alcohol instead.
The war had ended nearly five years ago. In its aftermath, Draco had spent two years in Azkaban, followed by two more under house arrest at Malfoy Manor. Two years trapped with his mother and the endless murmuring of his ancestors from their enchanted portraits, whispering of duty, bloodlines, and redemption.
Then, three months ago, an Auror had shown up at his door, informing him that his sentence was over. Just like that. He was free.
Well, as free as someone like him could ever be. The Ministry had placed a trace on his wand—a constant reminder that Draco Lucius Malfoy was still a potential threat to society.
A bitter laugh had almost escaped him at that. A threat? He hadn’t even been able to kill a man who had begged him to do it.
No, he hadn’t been happy to leave the Manor. But he had been relieved. Relieved to escape **Narcissa Malfoy—now Black once more—**and her constant lectures on pureblood politics in this so-called “new era.” She had wasted no time in reminding him of his duty. His name. His responsibility to uphold the Malfoy and Black legacy as the sole legitimate heir.
Draco had no interest in legacies. He wasn’t even sure he had an interest in living.
But he supposed he was too much of a coward to do anything about it anyway. So, for the last few months, he hadn’t quite lived—he had merely existed. Lingering in limbo, haunting the only part of wizarding London where no one questioned him—the underbelly, where only the desperate came to disappear.
And maybe desperate he was.
For weeks, an unnamed unease had settled over him, a feeling he couldn’t quite define but knew, with bone-deep certainty, was wrong. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just stress. It was something else.
His magic.
It felt unstable, restless, foreign. Sometimes, it reacted too quickly, crackling in the air like a caged beast too eager to break free. He had already destroyed half of his bedroom with magic during a nightmare.
Other times, it stalled, refusing to obey him—slipping through his fingers like sand.
And when that happened, when his magic failed him, he couldn’t even cast a simple "Reparo". A first-year spell was beyond him now.
Yet the dark magic leaking from him in his sleep was strong enough to shake the entire Malfoy estate. Sometimes, the pulse of it was so powerful that the house-elves grew sick for days.
At first, he had blamed it on his state of mind. Really, he hadn’t taken care of himself properly since sixth year. And he had never tried to get better. Just more Sleeping Draughts that had long since stopped working.
Maybe, if Snape were alive, he could have helped. But Draco avoided that thought, the weight of his role in the man’s death pressing too heavily on his chest.
So Draco wasn’t sleeping well. He wasn’t eating enough. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
But it wasn’t just that.
The whispers had started soon after his release—purebloods from the old families, their voices hushed, their gazes lingering just a little too long when they saw him.
Not that he saw them often. His mother had visitation rights twice a month, and sometimes, he had to be there—to keep the family’s old friends… well, friendly.
That was how he had heard it. A conversation between Miss Parkinson and Greengrass one afternoon, while his mother had gone to fetch tea.
The whispers about: The Oath of the Black Heir.
He had tried to ignore them. To pretend the symptoms weren’t real. But his body knew. His magic knew. And he knew exactly where this path led.
He had seen Bellatrix.
No. He wouldn’t let it take hold of him. He wouldn’t become that. But how do you run from a curse woven into your very blood?
Dragging a hand over his face, he exhaled sharply. He needed a solution. Someone. Something.
And that was when he found the bar.
Or maybe—the bar found him.