Chapter Text
I hereby declare that all my property belong to Draco Lucius Malfoy after my death. — Severus Snape
On the early morning of June 5, 1998, Draco Malfoy received a Portkey and this brief but legally binding document at the Muggle cemetery in Cokeworth. He read this sentence three times, his thumb repeatedly tracing the signature in the lower right corner, managing to keep his tears from falling onto the paper, landing on the stone tombstone instead.
After the war ended, unlike the joy of survival shown by his parents, Draco always felt a sense of dissociation—this feeling peaked after Potter and Dumbledore’s portrait testified that "Snape was a double agent," causing a massive uproar. Shrouded in a black hood, he attended Severus’s funeral, which was rather meager for a war hero. In the misty, damp Muggle graveyard, he stood at the edge of a crowd—so small that it could hardly be called a crowd—listening numbly as Potter and his friends expressed belated remorse and gratitude. If I were the one speaking, I wouldn’t necessarily do any better than Potter, Draco thought with self-deprecation.
This thought was confirmed many times in the days that followed. The funeral ended, and people left without looking back; the name Severus Snape fell into silence, just like the man himself. Yet Draco felt as if he were trapped in this dirty, dilapidated Muggle neighborhood. He returned to that tombstone again and again, wanting to question but not knowing where to start, wanting to talk but not knowing how to begin. In the overwhelming silence, the boy’s unspoken repentance and longing slowly became clearer.
For the first time in his life, Draco did not look forward to his birthday. Along with his turbulent eighteenth year came no grand banquets, only endless confusion about the future. Potter and Weasley were about to become the youngest Aurors ever, and Granger would return to Hogwarts to complete her final year. What about me? A Death Eater who had narrowly escaped conviction, with the glory brought by the name Malfoy stripped away—where is my future?
He stood still before Severus’s tombstone. Of course, he wouldn’t receive a gift from Severus this year either. Draco could no longer distinguish whether it was out of fawning over his father or genuine care for himself, but Severus had prepared a gift for him every year. When he was a child, it was children's cauldrons and Potions picture books; as he grew older, it was often books—come to think of it, his interest in Potions was cultivated single-handedly by Severus. He was one of the few students who received an 'O' in his O.W.L.s; if he were to take the N.E.W.T.s, he would surely get an 'O' as well, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do so.
The sound of an owl’s wings flapping broke the silence, interrupting Draco’s thoughts. He looked up and saw that the pale grey messenger bird was heading straight for him, clutching a package. Strangely, he knew this owl. It wasn't that he knew her that was strange: she had once circled outside Lucius’s study, rested on the windowsill of the Potions classroom, and landed on the Slytherin table, right before his eyes.
She was Severus’s owl. Realizing this, Draco’s heart began to pound violently: Severus had something for him. Him, Draco Malfoy—not his father or mother, not anyone else, not Potter. With slightly trembling hands, he took the light package and allowed the owl to perch on his shoulder.
A Portkey and an envelope were everything Severus’s owl had brought him--also everything Severus owned. Because on that largely blank piece of parchment, in the handwriting Draco knew so well, was written only one line:
“I hereby declare that all my property belong to Draco Lucius Malfoy after my death. — Severus Snape”
After repeatedly reading those few words, activating the Portkey seemed inevitable.
The old house at Spinner’s End was just as it was in Draco’s childhood memories—dilapidated, cold, and always carrying a musty, damp air; yet the interior furnishings were orderly to the point of being rigid. The house was dimly lit, and the air seemed to still hold the familiar scent of potions. Draco took a deep breath, trying to suppress the swirling emotions within him. Severus’s bird took flight from his shoulder and landed on the doorknob of a room on the second floor. Draco followed her guidance and went up.
The door was not locked, or at least not locked to him. This was the room with the best lighting in the old house; Severus’s desk stood quietly by the window as it had for the past few decades. On the desk, covered in a thin layer of dust, sat only a few heavy Potions books and notebooks, a nearly empty bottle of quill ink, and... a black envelope with gold stamping. It lay quietly in the center of the desk, as if waiting for someone to open it or send it out.
A Malfoy does not have the habit of casually opening other people's mail... but could this have been left for him? He picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hand; it was as light as the one the owl had just delivered, the weight of only a single piece of parchment. But at this moment, it felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Turning it over, there was no writing, yet it was not sealed shut. So, with a nervous heart, Draco opened the flap—
"To Whom It May Concern: "
His throat tightened, and then slowly, almost reverently, he pulled out the parchment, letting that familiar handwriting flow under the dim light coming through the window:
"To Whom It May Concern:
I hereby recommend Draco Malfoy, an outstanding student with unique insights into Potions, to participate in your research. Should you have any questions, please contact Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Potions Master, Professor S. Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry "
At this moment, Draco’s brain didn't know how to react. His body made the decision for him: he fell into the chair that once belonged to Severus and laughed aloud, while uncontrollable tears poured out.
Who gives you the right? Who gives you the right to decide my future? Is this also what the Unbreakable Vow required? Or did you predict long ago that I would be as lost as I am now, so you prepared a way out for me in advance?
Who gives you the right? Who gives you the right to leave without looking back after arranging everything for me? Who gives you the right to not send this letter yourself... who gives you the right to not have survived?
Severus, I can no longer distinguish whether this is my own goal or your expectation. But I will do as you wished, and to the best of my ability.
Draco found a blank piece of parchment and began to write a letter.
Dear Headmistress McGonagall:
I hope to return to Hogwarts to complete my final year of study and take the N.E.W.T. exams next year...