Chapter Text
Veritaserum, when consumed at will and in silence, was wondrous.
Draco Malfoy knocked back a full glass, and lay back to welcome it. Pure, incomparable nothing. Total blankness. Happy futility. He sank into that pleasant tinnitus, and welcomed the wave of pleasing empathy which would compel him to answer any and all questions without care.
Across from him, garbed in her softest robes for the ultimate comfort, his mother tilted her head forward and delicately drank her cup.
The two of them slowly slid down on their respective sofas in the east wing drawing room that Voldemort never used, eyes entranced on their chandelier, utterly silent.
With this, Draco thought, We can avoid Azkaban.
The Malfoys were under house arrest, where they were bound by a 10-page list of restricted acts:
Prohibited:
Apparition, communication via owls, Floo network usage, unapproved purchases over 300 galleons, unreported sales, sales or barters of artefacts, departure from estate grounds, usage of prohibited spells (Appendix E), purchase of restricted potions and brewing ingredients (Appendix L), unapproved visitors, usage of flying objects above 10 metres (including brooms, carpets, cloaks, and other charmed items), air passage upon flying magical creatures (full list on Appendix K)…
But what Draco and Narcissa were doing was not illegal. After all, no law prohibited it.
That Dumbledore trial had been a real gift. As it ended, Draco’s first thought was how ridiculously stupid he was to enter it blind. He should have at least checked the Manor for liquid luck, or attempted to brew some. Instead, the trial reminded him of a fact he’d forgotten:
"Veritaserum works best upon the unsuspecting, the vulnerable and those insufficiently skilled (in one way or another) to protect themselves against it.” - Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage
It was far too late for Lucius, whose 250 year sentence in Azkaban shackled him to certain death. But not for Narcissa, and certainly not for Draco.
The remaining Malfoys would be ready for their next appearance before the Wizengamot.
Presently, they were on the first stage: getting used to how it felt. During this stage of Draco’s plan, they didn’t trial themselves with questions. It echoed the foundational tenets of a formal Occlumency practicum, and given how well he’d taken to the study of it, he had no worries about his mother mastering control over her thoughts. In the foundational tenets of a formal Occlumency curriculum, understanding one’s weaknesses came first.
Since the compulsion to speak his truths remained untriggered, he found himself left with just a pleasurable complacence.
It was a pleasant game to allow little truths inside him to flow through the mind, without fear or judgement, joy or sadness, pain or regret. As long as he kept the darkest, cruellest memories locked away, he could almost function better.
Our elves really are worth their keep, Draco thought, the words flickering through his mind. The elf—her face a wrinkled page of fear—stood nearby in a thin embroidered bedsheet, her posture stiff with anxiety. Draco stared at her, feeling a strange knot twist in his stomach. The Ministry hadn’t taken them, hadn’t thought to seize them. The help was small yet… vital. For a fleeting second, he almost felt... relieved. But then the cold reality of their lives in this house of fading grandeur struck him. Still, one of the effects of Veritaserum was total loss of limb control, which left him feeling like his arms and legs were leaden, like his entire body had become a part of the soft, weightless space around him. His thoughts petered out and he wound up once more in that drifting sensation of being a single cold leaf in a long dark lake.
Veritaserum was designed to work through commands. With only the demure silence of a house-elf at his side, Draco's thoughts bloomed to a great volume.
Why didn’t we leave when we had the chance? The thought hung in his mind, and for a moment, he wondered what the house-elves thought of the Malfoys now. How much longer will they stay loyal?
That fucking, fucking cabinet, thought Draco.
Father, we meant to join you.
I hate that we've lost. No, no, I don't mean that I wanted the Dark Lord to win, but I didn't want to lose, Draco thought silently to the house-elf, who merely regarded him ever more balefully.
Perhaps Veritaserum muddled the brain into a fog. It certainly took away agency. But the Malfoys discovered their creativity in their desperation for freedom.
Together they sat, mother and son, at afternoon tea, a little bit high. Drinking truth to practise lies.
Pureblood aristocracy at its finest.