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November 27, 1993
Draco was a little embarrassed to be meeting his mum at Hogsmeade, instead of going with friends or a date like the other third years. He supposed he’d seen students meeting with their parents at Hogsmeade before, but this was the first time his mum had asked to meet. He was secretly glad; he’d missed his mother terribly in the previous few months. It seemed unusual that his father wasn’t joining them though, he was very protective, and didn’t usually like to let his wife make trips alone. His father hadn’t even responded to Draco’s last letter. He must have been terribly busy with work for the king, Draco reasoned, perhaps because of the Azkaban blood traitor breakouts.
Draco and his mother had decided to meet for tea at Madam Puddifoot’s, and Draco was rather regretting the decision, based on the sheer number of doilies that adorned every surface.
Once there, they’d made small talk for only a few minutes before his mother had turned more serious. “I’m afraid I must have a rather frank discussion with you, Draco,” his mother said firmly. “You’re far too young to bear such burdens, but there’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid. Your father’s gone.”
Draco was flabbergasted. “What do you mean, he’s gone? Where’s he gone to?” he demanded.
“He’s left, darling. I don’t know, he didn’t tell me.” She met his gaze boldly.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Mum, what’s going on, why would he just go off somewhere?”
“Draco, you can’t come home for Christmas this year.”
Draco was even more confused. “What are you talking about? Won’t father be back by then? Has he gone on a business trip? Are you going too?”
Draco’s mother’s eyes were bright. “He must have. I don’t expect an invitation to join. Either way, I’m afraid I simply can’t have you at home for Christmas this year. You should stay at Hogwarts. It’s the safest place for you.”
“That makes no sense at all! And besides, Harry’s already invited me to his, and now I don’t have any excuse to say no.”
His mother frowned. “You’re too close to that boy. Come up with something.”
“I did, I told him I was going home, but now you’re saying I can’t!”
They stared at each other for a few moments, Draco’s mother’s gaze fierce and unrelenting. Draco found himself looking away, blinking away tears of confusion and fear. “Mummy,” he whispered finally, hating how his voice broke on the words, “where’s father?” A horrifying thought occurred to Draco. “What if he didn’t leave on his own? What if he was taken, by one of the escapees, the blood traitors?”
Draco’s mother shook her head. “That’s unlikely, darling. He’s taken a trunk of his things. It must be a business trip for the king.”
“Perhaps the convicts made him!”
“There’s no point in discussing it further, Draco. It must be a business trip. Now tell me about your schoolwork, is that horrible Professor Carrow still being a pain?” Despite Draco’s best efforts, his mother refused to say another word about his father and his mysterious trip, choosing to determinedly interrogate him about his schoolwork and friends instead for the rest of their teatime. Draco answered vaguely, but he couldn’t think of anything except his father, and where he might be, and why he would ever take off without a word.
***
September 1, 1991
Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were already on Platform 9 ¾ when the Malfoys arrived. Draco hadn’t had time to sit with his mother as planned before one of their house-elves, Dobby, had appeared to make sure the Malfoys made it to the station on time, so he was glad to see Vince and Greg. They weren’t the brightest of companions, but they were loyal and accustomed to his moods, having been his friends basically since birth. “Hello, boys,” Draco drawled, strolling over to them, as his house-elves magicked his luggage on to the train.
“They’re saying the prince is on the train!” Vince said excitedly in response. Greg just nodded at Draco glumly. Greg’s eyes looked a little red, and Draco wondered if he’d been crying in his mother’s lap before he’d arrived. Draco decided, magnanimously, not to mention it, and nodded back.
“Well, of course he is,” Draco said to Vince, sounding more confident than he felt.
“Vince thought he might have gone some special way,” Greg said gruffly, looking at the ground.
“That’s silly,” Draco declared, deciding Greg was his favorite for now and could use a bit of coddling. Vince needed to learn who he should pay attention to – specifically, Draco. “It’s not like there’s a special flying prince car!”
“There could be!” Vince protested. “Anyway, can’t we go find him?”
“Yes, Draco darling, you should go say hello,” Draco’s mother said from behind them. “Hello, boys.”
Draco turned, anxiously. It wasn’t too late, he thought. Perhaps he could wait another year to start at Hogwarts, he was a bit small for his age. “Do you think so, already?” He asked instead.
“You know he’s expecting you, love, it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.”
Vince’s eyes widened. “He’s really expecting Draco?”
“All three of you,” Draco’s mother said, smiling and reaching out to ruffle Vince’s hair. “Your parents must have mentioned?”
“They said to stick with Draco,” Vince responded. “And to be on best behavior with the prince.”
“Wise counsel,” Draco’s mother said.
There was a blur of hugs and kisses and “be good”s after that, promises to write, and triple checking their luggage. Draco said a quick hello and goodbye to Vince and Greg’s parents as well. Draco’s father was his usual reserved self, opting for a shoulder squeeze instead of a hug, and giving Draco a wordless nod. Draco nodded back, uncertain what he was agreeing to, and before he knew it, he and his friends were on the Hogwarts Express, waving frantically out the window at their parents, as the train pulled out of the station.
Draco stayed at the window until the station was completely out of sight, despite Vince’s whining about how they should go find the prince, or at very least the lady selling sweets. Eventually, he let Vince drag him toward the front of the train, where the prince was supposed to be. Greg took up a position on Draco’s other side. They found the sweets cart before the prince’s compartment, so Draco let their group stop to buy a few things, which Vince and Greg happily tore their way into as they walked. Draco felt a bit queasy, and decided to wait.
Further up the train, they emerged into a car where the noise from rowdy students in other compartments abruptly dropped off, and Draco knew they had to be getting close. Two guards were visible in austere black robes with their hoods up and white porcelain masks over their faces, standing perfectly still on either side of the doors to a compartment. Draco stopped short, despite himself, and looked around himself only to find Vince and Greg stopped several paces behind him. “Come along, then,” he said imperiously. Greg took a few steps forward. “Vince,” Draco said, annoyed, and Vince did the same, grumbling under his breath.
Draco turned and strode forward, purposefully not checking to see if his friends were following. Be it on their own heads, then! “I’m here to see his royal highness,” he announced to the guards. “He’s expecting us. I’m Draco Malfoy, and these are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.” He glanced behind him, and Vince and Greg were hurrying to catch up.
Draco glowered at the guards, who hadn’t moved an inch, although Draco got the impression he was being carefully scrutinized from behind their masks. It was silly to be afraid, he thought angrily. As a small child, Draco had once seen his father putting on a getup like this one in their entrance hall, having snuck out of bed for a snack. Watching his father put on a porcelain mask to be transformed from his beloved father into a strange masked creature had been the stuff of his nightmares for months, and he’d half convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing. He knew, of course, what it meant, everyone did. The uniforms signified status as Death Eaters, the king’s most trusted inner circle. The masks had been necessary for the dark days before the king had been the king, when mudbloods and blood traitors had ruled the land, and the not-yet-king’s faithful had had to protect their anonymity. Now, the chosen few wore them at ceremonial occasions as indicators of their status, and the king’s guards wore them to protect their anonymity still. And because they were creepy, Draco thought sullenly.
Neither guard spoke, but the boys must have passed their inspection, because the doors to the compartment slid open. Taking a breath, Draco stepped in. He heard Vince and Greg step forward on either side of him, and the doors slid shut behind them with a quiet swish.
Draco waited to be acknowledged, as the rules of etiquette demanded, and hoped Vince and Greg knew enough to do the same. Why hadn’t he insisted on going over what exactly they’d say and do before coming in here?! Luckily, his friends seemed too terrified to do much of anything, and stood silently.
Draco gazed upon Prince Harry for the first time. The king had forbidden the taking of any pictures of him, and if the prince had ever appeared in public, no one had dared speak of it after. He was little for eleven, looking melancholy as he gazed out the window. His thick black hair was a little less well-kempt than Draco would have expected. The prince turned to face the boys, and big round eyes in a startling shade of green gave an air of innocence. His features were delicate, a little pixie-like, and Draco suspected, a little jealously, that any mother who gazed upon the boy would declare him “precious”. Draco ought to know, he’d enjoyed similar status as a young child, before a face that had once been called “angelic” and “cherubic” had transformed into the awkward angles it now bore.
“Hello,” the prince said.
He sounded curious, Draco thought, perhaps a little hopeful. “Your royal highness,” he responded, and bowed his head, stepping on Greg’s foot when he didn’t follow suit immediately.
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” the prince said. “We’re all going to be schoolmates together. Great friends, perhaps.”
“As you wish,” Draco said uncertainly. “How should we address you?”
“How do you address me when I’m not around?” the prince demanded slyly.
“As his royal highness, the prince, of course,” Draco said promptly.
“Liar.”
“I can call you little prince, if you like,” Draco retorted, referring to the prince’s nickname among the populace, and immediately regretted it.
There was a tense moment of silence. “I could have your head for that, you know,” the prince said casually. “Besides, it’d hardly do to have you calling me little, you’ve got what, half an inch on me?”
Draco glowered, and refrained from pointing out the half stone he clearly had on the prince as well. His mother always told him his growth spurt would come when it came.
“Draco’s father is tall,” Vince piped up loyally, and Draco wished he hadn’t, this once.
“Yes, we’ve met,” the prince said drily. “How nice for Draco’s father.”
Draco started a little at this. It shouldn’t be surprising his father would have met the prince, he supposed. He was over at the ministry all the time for his work, and sometimes the king’s castle as well. But he’d never once mentioned actually meeting the mysterious prince, had he?
“Well,” said the prince. “Go on then, introduce yourselves.”
“I’m Draco Malfoy, and these are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle,” Draco said before either of the others could speak.
“Are they interchangeable?” the prince asked, eyes sparkling. Draco flushed; he hadn’t gestured at the boys when saying their names. He didn’t think he liked the prince very much.
“I’m Greg,” Greg said uncertainly.
“I’m Vince.”
“I’m Harry!” said the prince, looking all too pleased with himself. “You can all sit, if you’d like.”
Vince and Greg glanced at Draco, who stood frozen for a moment.
“You’ll need to stop looking at him for your lead, you know, and start looking at me,” the prince said coldly when no one moved. “I told you to sit.”
All three boys rushed to sit, Vince and Greg on opposite sides of the compartment, as far as they could get from the prince who still sat in front of the window. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco took a seat besides Greg, whose eyes were looking a bit red again.
“Would you like some sweets?” Draco asked after a few moments of silence. “We got some from the woman with the cart.”
“Really, there’s a sweet cart? How marvelous!” the prince said, clapping his hands together in delight, his irritation from earlier completely vanished, which Draco was finding almost more disconcerting than the irritation itself. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to eat anything that Yaxley hasn’t screened for me,” he said glumly. “Is it terribly wonderful, eating whatever you’d like?”
“I don’t eat whatever I’d like,” Greg offered shyly. “My mum says I’m on a diet. It’s for my own good, though.”
“Wow, for your own good,” the prince said, sounding genuinely fascinated. “Does your mum make you do things?” he asked Draco.
“Mostly not do things,” Draco said warily. “Like my father got me a broomstick for my birthday a few months ago, but my mum wouldn’t let me ride it very high, or let me bring it with me here.” He smirked. “For my own good.”
“Huh,” the prince said. There was a moment’s silence. “So you’ll be taking care of me now?”
“I suppose so,” Draco said uncertainly. “If that’s what you’d like.”
The prince frowned at him. “My father said you would. You and your friends would be mine.”
Draco swallowed. “Well, if your father said so.”
“Marvelous!” the prince declared.
***
November 27, 1994
“That girl’s looking at you,” Harry sulked, stabbing at his sausage with rather more vehemence than necessary.
“What girl?”
“Pansy Parkinson!” Harry said, rather too loud. Draco’s eyes widened, and when he turned to eye the girl in question she looked very involved in a conversation with Millicent Bulstrode.
“Hush! Also, I think your sausage is already dead.”
“I don’t care! It’s stupid!” Apparently not satisfied with insulting the sausage’s intelligence, Harry continued. “And she’s stupid, and you’re stupid!”
“Mm,” Draco said, non-commitally. “Was she really looking?”
“Of course she was,” Harry said disgustedly. “She’s probably writing Mrs. Pansy Malfoy all over her napkin right now.”
Draco looked back at Pansy in amazement, to see if she was indeed doing anything with napkins, but she and Millicent seemed to be too busy giggling about something.
“I should have her head,” Harry said. “That’d teach her.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “And for what crime would that be, my prince?”
“Staring at you! You’re mine.”
Draco sighed. “I haven’t seen the slightest proof of that. And must we discuss again how I’m not actually your property, my prince?”
Harry glowered at him.
“I see we’re in a mood this morning.”
“Are you going to ask her to the Yule Ball?” Harry demanded.
“Huh,” Draco said, glancing back over at Pansy. She met his eye for a moment and smiled shyly, before turning back to Millicent. She was rather cute in her way, he thought. He liked her short dark hair and stylish outfits. Her nose was a little more upturned than strictly attractive, but no one was perfect, save perhaps Draco himself. “Do you think she’d go for it? I do need to find a date.”
“Dates are stupid. And Yule Balls are stupid. And the stupid Triwizard Tournament is stupid.”
“Duly noted. It’s not my fault your father doesn’t allow you to date. Only the best for the little princeling,” Draco teased.
“Ugh! He says that, but I think he just wants me to be celibate forever.”
“The king knows all and the king knows best,” Draco recited. “Besides, maybe not,” he added slyly. “Maybe he’ll marry you off the moment you turn eighteen.”
Harry threw some sausage at his friend. “Of course she’d say yes. Even if she didn’t have eyes, you’re Draco bloody Malfoy.”
Draco smirked. “I am handsome, charming, rich, and well-connected…”
“You wouldn’t be so well-connected if I got tired of you, you know.”
“You keep me humble, my prince.”
***
September 1, 1993
Draco was not excited at all to be going back to school for his third year. Everyone was abuzz with the news that a group of blood traitors, apparently important members of the terrorist group that had tried to keep the king from taking power so long ago, had escaped from Azkaban. Draco had barely seen his father all summer, so busy had he been handling matters for the king in the middle of this crisis. Draco’s mother had come to see him off to Hogwarts alone this year, and she’d informed him that a group of Dementors, the infamous Azkaban guards, were being sent to Hogwarts to track the convicts and protect the students. Draco’s mother was quite insistent that Draco not go anywhere near any Dementors. “They’re really not stable,” she said, as she smoothed his hair and scolded the house elves to be gentler with Draco’s luggage. “And having them around children! Imagine. The king knows best, of course,” she added quickly. “Hopefully it’s only temporary.”
Once his mother had said her goodbyes, Draco had found Vince and Greg, and the trio had boarded the train to look for Harry. Draco couldn’t say he was happy about his friendship with the prince, but he’d come to accept it as the state of things. The prince had yet to follow through on any of his threats to take someone’s head off, which had helped calm Draco down a bit since their first year, in terms of his fear of the prince.
Harry was in his usual compartment, with the faceless Death Eater guards manning the compartment door. Draco was glad to see at least it wasn’t Dementors. He hadn’t ever seen one up close, but had seen pictures in books and things, and they certainly didn’t seem like they’d be pleasant to meet. Harry seemed genuinely excited to see Draco and the others again, demanding tales of their summers and trotting out some new games he’d received for them to play.
Half the ride passed amicably, although Draco couldn’t help noticing it growing colder and colder.
When Harry irritably demanded that someone close the window, Draco turned to do so only to find it already shut. He frowned, and stood to look for Harry’s fur cloak, before a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him. He felt overly anxious suddenly, thoughts of his father’s repeated absences over the summer swimming through his head. And the blood traitors! Surely they would come for the prince, and poor Draco would be right there next to him. Draco found himself suddenly unable to think of anything but a confusing flood of stressful memories and imagined worst case scenarios. Draco sat heavily, and turned to see that Vince and Greg did not look much better than he felt. His eyes widened when he turned to the prince, to find him ghost-pale and swaying in his seat, eyes vacant.
Draco swore. “Get Yaxley, now!” he commanded Vince, referring to one of Harry’s guards. “Harry?”
The prince tipped sideways, unconscious, and Draco only just managed to grab him before he fell to the floor. He pulled Harry down so his head laid in Draco’s lap. Yaxley was in the compartment now, still masked, hovering unhelpfully. “What on earth’s going on?” Draco demanded. “Has this ever happened to Harry before?”
“He must be reacting strongly to the Dementors,” Yaxley said, voice a little muffled from behind his mask. “I can feel how close they are.” He shuddered.
“Well then get them away!” Draco demanded. “Can’t you see the prince is ill?”
“They’re not in the train,” the other guard said from the doorway. “They must be outside. Maybe on the roof.”
“Figure it out!” Draco near-bellowed. He stroked the prince’s forehead, which felt cold and clammy. The prince was murmuring something. Draco leaned closer to hear.
“Not Harry,” the prince murmured, his voice sounding high and odd. “Please, no, not Harry.”
***
November 27, 1991
“Did your mum send sweets again?” the prince demanded incredulously, as Draco unwrapped his third package of the month. His father’s letters had been rather sparse, coming weeks and weeks after Draco himself sent any correspondence, and Draco suspected his mother was trying to overcompensate.
“Yes,” Draco said warily. “Would you like some?” He always offered, although the prince always refused, per the king’s command he not eat any strange foods. He seemed to appreciate the gesture.
The prince waved him off. “I wish I had your mum,” he said jealously.
Draco frowned. “You can have as many sweets as you’d like,” he offered again. “I won’t tell.”
The prince stomped his foot. “I told you no! Besides, I don’t want sweets, I want your mum. She’s pretty. She should marry my father.”
“How do you even know what she looks like?” Draco demanded incredulously.
The prince returned his expression. “You’ve got pictures everywhere, mummy’s boy.”
“She is very pretty,” Draco allowed. “But prettiness hardly matters for mums.”
“She sends you sweets! Three times a month!”
“Well have servants from your castle send you sweets! I’m sure there’s enough of them.”
“You think I don’t know that I can have sweets?” the prince asked sharply. “Your mum writes you letters and sends you gifts all the time just because she loves you, and it’s not fair. She should be my mum. My father’s the king, it’d be a step up for her!”
“I can have her send you things too, if you like,” Draco said, desperate.
“Besides,” the prince drawled, ignoring Draco. “If your mum was married to my dad, we’d be brothers. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“The nicest,” Draco said weakly. Draco still wasn’t sure why Harry seemed to have taken such a shine to him, but he certainly wasn’t going to look that gift horse in the mouth. After a moment, he summoned up his courage, as a plan occurred to him. “And since we’re such good friends, almost brothers, I just have to tell you, quite honestly, my mum loves my dad very much. And if anything ever happened to him, she’d be just devastated, you see. Even though your father is the king and I’m sure very handsome and wonderful. My mum’s already set on my dad. Their marriage is forever.”
Harry made a derisive sound. “People split up all the time.”
“Not my parents. They’re together forever,” Draco said resolutely.
“My father’s the king, he’s the best most important person in the whole world. He’d make her love him most.”
Draco suspected being the psychotic prince’s supposed best friend was going to give him an anxiety disorder. He took a deep breath. “Harry,” he said. He almost never used the prince’s given name, although the prince had forbidden him from addressing him with his title. Draco had just taken to not addressing him directly at all. “I’m asking you. Don’t do anything to my father. Don’t do anything to split up my parents. They would be sad. I would be sad.”
The prince’s gaze softened. “Oh, Draco. I’d do anything for you, you know that. You only have to ask.”
***
September 1, 1991
The remainder of the train ride had passed uneventfully, although the conversation had been a little stilted. Draco and his friends had managed to avoid angering the prince again. They’d donned their dark green Hogwarts robes as the night had grown dark outside the train’s windows, and the four boys had taken a boat together across Hogwarts’ lake with the rest of the first years, the castle-like school building looking grand with light streaming out every window.
After arriving at the castle, the first years were escorted into a Great Hall, and directed to sit at one of seven massive tables. From a separate table for what Draco supposed must be teachers, a sallow man introduced himself as Professor Snape, the headmaster, and spoke a few clipped words welcoming the first years and returning students, before telling them, rather perfunctorily, Draco thought, to enjoy their dinners.
Delicious smells emanated from the feast that suddenly appeared on their table, and Vince began openly rubbing his belly and talking about how hungry he was. “Your mum hasn’t put you on a diet?” the prince asked sweetly. Vince’s brow furrowed in hurt, and Draco felt a strong urge to slap the brat prince.
Draco noticed for the first time two smaller tables off to the side – one had a group of children in crimson robes, and another in brown. Draco noticed they didn’t have the same feasts laid out before them as all the other children, but instead much simpler fare. He swallowed, uncomfortable. He’d heard about this, of course. The blood traitors and the mudbloods. The king had generously decided all magical children deserved a chance to be educated, so they might still grow up to be productive members of society. There were plenty of roles, he said, even for the lowest of beings to play in their world. It had been a controversial decision at the time, but of course the king knew best. The blood traitor and mudblood children didn’t have classes with the rest of the students, of course, and had to earn their keep working various jobs at the school.
Draco was surprised there wasn’t more pointing at and talking about the prince, before he realized most people probably didn’t even realize who he was. The prince’s guards seemed to disappear into the background when you weren’t looking right at them, although Draco couldn’t get over the prickling sensation of being watched. He didn’t know how the prince stood it, but he seemed unfazed. Oddly enough, Draco noticed a red-headed boy at the blood traitor table, around their age, staring at the prince openly.
“Do you know that boy?” Draco asked the prince, feeling unnerved. “The redhead, blood traitor. Why is he staring at you like that?”
“Hmm?” the prince asked, glancing around. When the redhead saw them looking back, he flushed at being caught and turned away, pretending he hadn’t been staring. “Oh, it’s one of Mrs. Weasley’s boys. Their family works at my father’s castle. He must be eleven too. Do you think I should have his head for staring at me?”
Draco swallowed, uncertain how seriously to take the prince’s casual threats to take people’s heads off all the time. “It doesn’t seem necessary, he was just looking.”
“He oughtn’t be looking at me though,” the prince said. “The likes of him. I think I should make an example.”
Draco was feeling rather nauseous again. Why had he thought it was a good idea to point out this staring blood traitor to the prince? It wasn’t like they were friends, they’d only just met. If someone had been staring at him, he supposed, he might have sent Vince and Greg over to rough them up. But this clearly required a little more finesse.
“I can talk to him, if you like,” Draco offered, feeling quite bizarre. “Tell him not to do it again.” Since when was Draco Malfoy someone else’s thug? Was he already failing to live up to his father’s expectation that he be his own man, he wondered? Or was this part of doing what he needed to do? Why did he feel the need to protect some blood traitor’s head, anyway?
“Really?” the prince asked, sounding excited. “You’d do that for me?”
“Sure,” Draco said, forcing a smile. “What are friends for.”
The prince clapped his hands together in delight. “Can I come?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t do,” Draco said quickly. “You’re the prince.”
The prince cackled. “I’m above all that!” His eyes were sparkling as if it were all a grand joke, and probably to him it was.
***
November 27, 1995
“I hate my father,” Draco said, throwing a pebble at Hogwarts’ lake, and watching it skip across the surface. “Six!”
“We both know mine’s worse. Bet I get seven,” Harry responded, throwing his own pebble. They both watched, as the pebble made six determined skips. As it rose again, a giant tentacle rose out of the water and snatched it up, hurling it back at the boys. They yelled and ran back from the water’s edge, laughing.
“Six,” Draco said smugly, once they’d regained their breath.
“Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” Harry said. “That was clearly going to be seven. I’m better at this than you are, just admit I won.”
“We never said anything about any going to be’s. You said you’d have seven, and you didn’t, so I win. Besides, who knows what would have happened if the squid hadn’t intervened.”
“Right, it was probably heading for eight!”
Draco made a derisive sound.
“I’m your prince, and I say I won.”
“Bastard prince.”
“You know that’s not how adoption works. Besides which, my birth parents were married! It’s not my fault Father couldn’t get anyone to marry him.”
“I like how you’re prince when it’s convenient for you, and you just happen to be adopted by the king when that suits you better.”
“Speaking of, hey, is your mum dating again yet?”
Draco roared in mock rage and tackled the other boy to the ground, enjoying the feel of Harry’s smaller frame pinned to the ground beneath his own. Draco held both of Harry’s slim wrists above his head and smirked at his friend.
Harry smirked back. “So what will you claim as your prize?” he asked, voice low. They stared at each other for a moment before Harry lurched up. Draco quickly turned his head to the side so Harry got a mouthful of hair instead of the kiss he’d been aiming for.
“You always do that,” Harry said dangerously a moment later, yanking one of his hands free to wipe off his mouth.
“I’ve no desire to end up on your father’s guillotine for molesting his precious baby,” Draco said roughly.
Harry shoved at Draco angrily with his free hand. “Right. Of course. Get the fuck off of me, Draco.”
***
November 27, 1996
The worst day of Draco’s life was obnoxiously beautiful. He was being a bit hyperbolic, he supposed. The actual worst day of his life was probably up for debate, but the day he buried his father had to rank. It was a curiously sunny day for late November, reflecting blindingly off a fresh snowfall, still unblemished white.
The king was paying for the whole affair, which Draco thought was only fair, considering he’d been the one to have Draco’s father killed. The king’s secretary had written a formal apology that the king couldn’t attend himself, but he’d sent Augustus Rockwood as an emissary on his behalf, and most of the ministry seemed to be in attendance as well at the gaudy funeral and reception the king’s staff had put together. It was nouveau riche, Draco thought disgustedly. But then again, the king had hardly grown up with money himself, had he.
Harry didn’t attend.
His mother refused to speak, as did Draco himself, but a few friends and relatives were kind enough to volunteer their words for their dear Lucius Malfoy, tragically taken before his time. So devoted to his family. So devoted to his king.
As they spoke, Draco turned shamelessly to stare around the crowd, ignoring his mother’s reprimanding tug on his sleeve. His eyes met Ron Weasley’s, standing in the back. He jerked his head to a corner, and after the last of the sycophants had thankfully ceased speaking, managed to slip away from his mother long enough to find the tall redhead waiting for him there. Weasley held a tray of hors d’oeuvres which he offered to Draco silently. Draco took one and stuffed it whole in his mouth, not paying attention to what it even was. Some kind of pastry, apparently, with meat in it. Weasley eyed him somberly as he chewed.
“I’m in,” Draco said finally, after swallowing the last of it.
Weasley’s expression didn’t change. “And what about the prince?”
Draco glowered at him, crossing his arms across his chest. “What about him?”
***
September 1, 1991
Draco picked at his food until the redheaded boy seemed to be done eating. Some of the other blood traitor and mudblood children were starting to dissipate as well, a few remaining behind to clear the plates and food from the tables. “I’m done,” Draco declared. After a sharp glance from Draco, Vince and Greg reluctantly pushed their plates away too. “We’ll come back and get you, if that’s all right,” he told the prince, who winked at him. He got up and hurried after the redhead, who was heading out of the Great Hall. Vince and Greg followed after him, confused.
“Hey, you!” he called after the boy, once they were out of the Great Hall. Most of the students were still at dinner, so it was relatively empty. The boy ignored him and hurried along, forcing Draco to chase after him. “You! Blood traitor!”
The boy stopped and turned, warily. “Yes, sire?”
“Why didn’t you stop?” Draco demanded, a little out of breath.
“Well, the likes of you don’t usually talk to the likes of me, sire,” he said.
“Do you have a name?”
“Ron Weasley. Sire.”
“Why were you staring at the prince earlier, Ron Weasley?”
Weasley looked at the floor. “I recognized him from working at the king’s castle, is all. I didn’t mean to stare, sire.”
“He doesn’t like it. That kind of impudence. He knows who you are, you know.”
Weasley glanced up and met Draco’s eyes. “I’m honored that his royal highness knows my name, sire.” He didn’t sound honored.
“He doesn’t know it. But I do, now.” Draco stopped, uncertain how exactly this was supposed to go. “Don’t be so reckless again,” he said sternly.
“I’m sure I won’t be, thank you, sire.”
The boys stood around the hallway for a few moments, awkwardly.
“Should we punch him?” Vince asked.
Weasley glanced between Vince and Greg, and then back at Draco, meeting his eyes again. The boy was fearless, Draco had to give him that. “That won’t be necessary,” Draco said. He took a couple of steps closer to Weasley. “Did you grow up with him, basically?” he asked in a hushed tone. A few more students were starting to trickle by out of the Great Hall, but most still remained inside.
“I grew up in the king’s castle,” Weasley said. “I only saw him a few times and we weren’t allowed to speak of it, sire.”
“Has he ever… taken someone’s head off?”
Weasley stared at him, as did Vince and Greg.
“Are you Lucius Malfoy’s son, sire?”
Draco started. “Yes, so?”
Weasley’s demeanor seemed to change a little, although Draco wasn’t quite sure to what effect. “I’ve met your father, is all. I don’t know if the prince ever personally ordered someone’s head off, but of course the king has, sire.”
Draco stepped back, frustrated. Of course he knew the king had people executed, everyone did. Was Weasley saying some of those might have been orders from the prince instead? And what was this about everyone having met his father?!
Weasley seemed to consider, before continuing. “It might just be rumor, but I’ve heard every one of the prince’s tutors ended up dead within a year or two of coming to teach him. A few of them had accidents. And a couple lost their heads to the king.”
Draco’s eyes widened. “And… the prince’s playmates?”
“I don’t know that he ever had any,” Weasley said. “May I go, sire? I have chores before bedtime.”
Draco inhaled sharply. Clearly, the servant boy had some stories to tell, but there was no telling to what extent they were truth or just rumors. But the prince must already be wondering what was taking Draco so long. “Yes, go,” Draco said. “If anyone asks, I scared the magic out of you.”
Weasley nodded, flashing a quick grin. “Good luck, sire,” he blurted out, before taking off at great speed, and disappearing down a set of stairs that Draco could have sworn hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Good luck for what?” Vince wondered aloud.
“We didn’t punch him,” Greg said, sounding a touch disappointed.
“He didn’t do anything to me,” Draco responded.
“But he was staring at the prince?” Greg asked.
“He was.”
“So…” Greg said. “We only punch people when they insult you? Not the prince?”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Draco warned.
“He’s the one who should be on a diet,” Vince said resentfully.
Draco chuckled. “And definitely don’t let him hear that.”
***
December 25, 1993
Draco wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting of Christmas at the King’s castle, but there was something undoubtedly odd about the whole affair. His father was still missing, and as Draco had expected, once Draco had confessed his plans to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas break, Harry had excitedly insisted that Draco accompany him home. His mother had been uneasy about it, but eventually conceded that Draco couldn’t refuse the prince’s invitation.
Draco had been plagued with nausea for weeks, worrying over everything going on – no one seemed to know where his father was, yet everyone he dared question on the topic insisted Draco’s father was just fine, and likely off on a business trip for the king. The blood traitors that had broken out of Azkaban were still on the loose, and despite Dementors still being resident at Hogwarts, the hunt to find the convicts seemed feeble at best. Draco had a recurring nightmare now of his father, faceless behind a Death Eater’s mask, being held down and subjected to the Cruciatus by a filthy group of escaped convicts. He wasn’t sure which aspect of it was most disturbing. And on top of these stresses, he was forced to spend Christmas at the king’s castle. After witnessing Harry faint on the train, as he was overcome by memories of the birth parents the king had rescued him from, Draco had softened a little toward the prince, but he still couldn’t say he completely trusted Harry, and he certainly didn’t trust that the king might not take off his head on a whim.
It had fleetingly occurred to Draco to demand from the king himself where he’d sent Draco’s father, but the thought of being so bold had swiftly dismissed itself. After being briefly introduced to the king the first day he’d arrived, they hadn’t interacted at all, so it wasn’t like there had been a lot of opportunity anyway. Harry didn’t seem to spend much time with his father either, or with anyone else. Draco spent his entire days following Harry as he paraded around the castle showing off his possessions or demanding that Draco join him in a game of this or that, and the two had remained undisturbed, other than the occasional house-elf announcing that a meal was served.
Tonight, however, was Christmas dinner, and the house-elf had announced that they would be eating with the king himself. Draco had expected a grand party, but instead, when they were shown to the dining room, there was only an overly large table laden with a ridiculous amount of food, and set for only three.
Draco’s eyes widened when he realized the king was already in the room, seated at the head of the table. “Your royal highness!” he said.
“Draco. How very glad I am you are here to join us for Christmas this year. Please, have a seat, enjoy dinner.”
“Hello, father,” Harry said, apparently unconcerned at his father’s sudden appearance. He trotted over to the tail end of the table, leaving Draco to take the only seat left, halfway between the two.
“Harry seems quite taken with you, Draco. You must be very close.”
“I’m not that taken, Father, don’t be silly,” Harry piped up.
“Um. We’re good friends,” Draco said. “It’s wonderful to be here, thank you again for inviting me.”
“You must be missing being at home, though. With your mother and father?”
“Oh, a bit, but that’s all right. Father’s work is important, and mother’s visiting some relatives in France. My French is terrible, so when Harry invited me, I thought it’d be fun to come here instead,” Draco lied easily.
“Hmm, yes. Where is your father, again? Doing this… important work?”
Draco stared at the king blankly for a moment. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that the king who knew all, and who always knew best, might actually not know where his father was either. And with a sinking feeling, Draco realized that there was a third option beyond his father traveling on the king’s business or having been taken by the blood traitor terrorists – he might have left of his own accord.
“Oh, I don’t know, exactly, he’s been moving about so much,” Draco said. “We don’t hear from him too much when he’s traveling, some of these countries don’t even use owls! Hopefully he’s back soon, though.”
The king looked Draco in the eyes, and Draco was reminded of the rumors about the king being a most skilled mind reader, able to cast Leglimens wandless and wordless. Draco tried to push his genuine lack of knowledge as to his father’s whereabouts to the forefront of his mind, knowing now why his mother had been so determinedly vague in her responses to him. He wondered if she truly didn’t know either where his father was, or whether she just hadn’t wanted Draco to have the knowledge rattling around his mind for the king to find.
“Yes, we all miss our dear Lucius. Will you be as loyal to my son, I wonder, as your father has been to me?”
Draco smiled weakly in response. “Harry is such a dear friend.”
There was a loud scraping, as Harry suddenly pushed his chair back. “Father, may we be excused?”
The king raised his eyebrows, and Draco suspected Harry might be scolded later. “Your friend’s barely eaten.”
“That’s all right, your highness,” Draco said to the king. “The food looks lovely but I’m afraid I’m not that hungry right now.”
“He never eats,” Harry said derisively. “Look how skinny he is. He says he’s too anxious all the time.”
Draco was stung. He’d told Harry that in confidence. And what on Earth was the king going to think he was anxious about?
Luckily, the king didn’t seem to feel the need to pursue it, dismissing them with a bored wave of his hand.
As they walked back to their rooms, Harry seemed furious with Draco, when by all rights Draco was the one who should be upset. They walked in silence until they reached the guestroom Draco’d been given, a few doors down from Harry’s own suite. “Don’t ever do that again,” Harry spat.
“Do what?” Draco demanded.
“Talk to my father about what a dear friend I am. We both know it's bullshit anyway.”
“Why did you even invite me here?” Draco asked, voice rising despite himself. “If you don’t even think we’re friends.”
Harry glared at him but didn’t respond.
“You told me about your mum, after the Dementors,” Draco said, now just feeling confused. Harry had indeed confessed his fear and confusion at the strange memories that had surfaced after their encounter with the Dementors. Everyone knew, of course, that the prince’s birth parents had been a blood traitor and a mudblood active in the rebellion against the king before he’d taken power. After removing those scourges, the king had benevolently decided not only to spare baby Harry’s life, but as a symbol of his forgiveness and hope for the future, to raise Harry as his own, as a prince. I told you about my dad, Draco almost added, before realizing that while he’d mentioned a general worry about his traveling father, he’d deliberately left the details vague.
“I’m not the one who doesn’t think we’re friends,” Harry said. He looked off to the side and blinked rapidly several times.
Draco felt a stab of guilt. It was true that while the prince was bratty and occasionally seemed unstable, he seemed genuine in his affection for Draco. In return, Draco had made no real attempt to befriend the other boy. And after witnessing the solitary and strictly regimented life Harry had led, certainly before Hogwarts and to some extent even at the school, it was quite evident Harry was in desperate need of a friend. A real friend, not just the companion Draco had been.
“Harry…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said sharply. “What matters is, my father mustn’t think we’re close. He doesn’t like if I get close to other people than him. He thinks it distracts from my princely duties and all that.”
Weasley’s words from their first day at Hogwarts rang in Draco’s head with horrific new meaning. Rumors of every one of Harry’s tutors winding up dead. No playmates. No closeness even with servants.
“Harry?”
“What!”
“Do you want to try and be friends? For real? Our fathers don’t need to know about it.”
“You’re insane, you know that?”
***
November 27, 1997
The seventh year boys’ dorms were a disaster at the best of times. Draco had long since given up trying to get a bunch of teenage boys to emulate his own obsessive neatness. He’d gotten used to his little area being a bizarre bastion of cleanliness, with Harry’s being a distant second, thanks to Draco’s constant scolding.
The sight of his dorm today made Draco long for the messes he’d harangued his roommates about. Draco swallowed to see that Harry’s bed had clearly been set on fire, the drapes that surrounded it were almost gone, the mattress stinking of smoke. Burned ropes hung from the bedposts, but there was no body fastened to them, which gave Draco heart.
“Harry?” he called. “Harry, are you all right? Are you here?”
There was no response.
Draco felt chilled. He walked around the room for several minutes, inspecting various items that had been broken in the upheaval. He ran a finger across a jagged piece of Longbottom’s shattered Remembrall, and a spark jumped out at his finger. He cursed and jerked his hand back at the mild shock.
He turned to the cupboards built into one wall, where the boys stored their clothes, and on an impulse, pulled his own cupboard door open. He almost didn’t spot Harry at first, so small a ball was the boy curled up in, half hidden behind some long robes in one corner. Harry’s body shook with sobs, although he didn’t make a sound.
“What on earth are you doing in there?” Draco asked gently.
Harry mumbled something Draco couldn’t make out.
“You’re going to have to speak up,” Draco said.
“Have you come to kill me?” Harry asked.
After a moment’s consideration, Draco pushed the hanging clothes as far to the other side as he could, and got on the floor with Harry, half pulling the other boy into his lap and wrapping his arms around him. “If you think that, you’re not doing a very good job trying to get away from me.”
“What’s the point,” Harry said exhaustedly. “My magic must have moved me to the cupboard and kept them from finding me after they lit the bed on fire, but it’s only a matter of time. Have they got the guillotine prepped?”
“No one’s taking you to the guillotine, Harry.”
“Killing curse?”
Draco shook his head.
“Something new, then. There’s lots of ways to get rid of someone. They can do to me whatever my father did to that Mudblood girl your Weasley likes.”
“She’s just fine. We got her back today, she was in Azkaban.”
Harry squirmed, but didn’t otherwise try to get away from Draco. “You’re putting me in prison? I suppose that’s a fair revenge for her to ask.”
Draco kissed Harry on the forehead. “She’s the last person who’d ever ask that. You haven’t the slightest, have you? No one’s doing anything to you, or taking you anywhere, Harry.”
Harry looked at Draco balefully. “Your new friends came here to kill me. They were quite clear about it.”
Draco kissed Harry on the mouth. “I swore I’d take care of you, all those years ago.”
“Only because my father wanted you to. And your father wanted you to.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what my father wanted, but he certainly wasn’t on the king’s side, not in the end. And that man was not your father. He stole you, like he stole everything, and you know it.”
“He is, he is,” Harry said, somewhere between a gasp and a wail. “I’ll be his forever.”
“You’re mine, Harry. And no one’s taking you away from me.”
***
September 1, 1991
Draco smoothed out his tie, before frowning at his reflection, unknotting the tie and knotting it over again.
“Son.”
Draco started, not having seen his father walk into his bedroom. His eyes met his father’s in the mirror, watching him, a little warily. They looked a matched set, Draco noted, his frown deepening. Matching blond hair, gray eyes, bone structure, black robes. His father’s green cravat was a few shades deeper than his own unknottable tie. Matching expressions, a little worried.
“Father?” he responded dutifully.
“You’ll do the family proud today,” his father responded. Draco wasn’t sure if this was meant to be an order or reassurance, and eventually decided the words sounded more like a prayer than anything else. He nodded, a little stiffly.
“The prince…” his father trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
”I’ll be on my best behavior,” Draco promised. “I’ll be perfectly polite.”
Draco’s father nodded solemnly. “He’s not what he seems,” he said suddenly, seeming to have regained his resolve. “You must be careful.”
Draco looked at his father quizzically.
“Draco.”
“Father?”
Draco’s father placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, squeezing a little too hard. “My son. My boy.” His voice sounded unlike Draco had ever heard it, perhaps a little… choked? Draco’s eyes widened in alarm. They had never been ones for displays of affection. Draco was used to little more than his father’s gruff acknowledgment if he did something noteworthy. His mother went to the other extreme, praising him at every opportunity, showering him with hugs and kisses. Draco thought it all quite a reasonable state of affairs. So what was this, now?
His father continued, the words rushing out faster and faster: “Your mother and I will not be able to protect you at Hogwarts as we did when you were younger. But I have every confidence in my son’s ability to handle himself. You must be your own man now.”
“Yes, father,” Draco said, feeling very little like a man, and very much like an eleven year old boy. Tears prickled at his eyes. He didn’t see why he had to go off to boarding school at all, he thought angrily. Perhaps he had enough time before the blasted train to go sit with his mother for a while. She wouldn’t mind if he cried a little, and if he hid his face in her lap when he did it, it wouldn’t even count, really.
His father smiled, and it looked odd on him, not quite the practiced smiles Draco had seen him use on visits to the Ministry, but not quite coming naturally either. “My boy,” his father repeated.
“We’ll be late for the train, father,” Draco said, although he had no desire to rush to any train.
“Children are always so eager to leave home,” his father said, shaking his head. “I was much the same when I was your age, I suppose.”
“I’m a man now,” Draco protested automatically. “You only just said.”
“Listen carefully, Draco, I can only say this once,” Draco’s father said urgently. “The prince… he will think he owns you. But you are a Malfoy. You are your own man. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Draco frowned, unsure how to respond. His father was a faithful servant of the king, as were they all. To speak otherwise would be treason. Yet Draco had always understood that they were Malfoys, that they stood above the rabble, that they had dignity. Of course they were their own men. Perhaps the same was not true of every one of the king’s subjects, but the Malfoys were their own men.
Draco nodded.
“Do what you need to do,” his father said. “But don’t forget who you really are.”
“Yes, Father,” Draco said. He thought about mentioning the train again.
“My Draco,” his father said, and there was that strange smile again. “You are everything I ever dreamed of in a child.”
Draco had fantasized about hearing a variation on these words from his father for his whole life, worked hard to be worthy of them, so why get upset now that they were finally being spoken? Yet, the tears he’d been holding at bay renewed their threat of onslaught.
“We’ll be late for the train, father.”
***