Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10767000.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Ginny_Weasley, Lucius_Malfoy/Narcissa_Black_Malfoy, James
      Potter/Lily_Evans_Potter
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Ginny_Weasley, Hermione_Granger, Harry_Potter, Ron_Weasley,
      Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Dark_Magic, Politics, Time_Travel, Alternate_Universe
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-30 Updated: 2017-05-02 Chapters: 5/? Words: 29690
****** Enkindle ******
by The_Jingo_(The_King_in_White)
Summary
     Harry Potter fails to disarm Draco Malfoy when escaping Malfoy Manor.
     Thus Death chooses a different master. And light shines through
     him...
Notes
     "It answered to somebody else. When he killed Snape, he thought the
     wand would become his. But the thing is, the wand never belonged to
     Snape. It was Draco who disarmed Dumbledore that night in the
     Astronomy Tower. From that moment on, the wand answered to him."-
     Harry Potter
***** Through the Veil *****
The first time Draco Malfoy touched one of the Deathly Hollows was a warm
spring evening, marked by the gentle brush of the wind against his face and the
creak of oaks.
Potter had crept from the castle, stealthily avoiding his friends and concerned
teachers as he went to answer the gauntlet thrown down by the Dark Lord. Just
so that he could give in to the Dark Lord's demand that the Boy-Who-Lived turn
himself over to the monster who had murdered his parents.
But Harry did not escape Draco's eye.
The blond teenager was panting and shaking as he leaned against a pine at the
edge of the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherin had fled with his tail between his
legs and a rising grief in his throat at the way Crabbe had died – screaming
and immolated by wild Fiendfyre.
Draco ran towards the camp where he knew his parents - the only people in the
world who loved him - would be. Stopping in the No Man's Land between the last
holdout against the Dark Lord's rule and the morbid court the dark wizard was
holding in the forest, Draco finally breathed a truth that had been building in
his lungs for two years.
"I don't want to serve the Dark Lord."
And the admission was breaking, because no matter how hard he tried he couldn't
conceive of a way to win. There was no way to keep himself and his family alive
and well. They would have to suffer the abuse of a monster for the rest of
their miserable tortured lives.
Running a hand through his blond locks, Draco turned the situation over and
over in his mind. A tormented frown grew on his face as every plan half-hearted
plan he thought up in his mind went wrong.
Victory was impossible.
It was Potter that drew him from his thoughts, the other boy walking right past
the Malfoy heir in a daze. The dark-haired teen was so drawn into his own world
that he never noticed his longtime rival; even as Draco gaped at him like a
fish.
Serenely, Harry trekked into the darkness of the wood, vanishing into the
shadows.
Draco didn't know what exactly it was that compelled him to close his mouth and
trail after the other boy. It was some inexplicable feeling that nagged into
his brain with a taste like destiny, demanding Draco pick up his feet and
follow.
So did Malfoy see the dead rise again as Potter turned a ring over in his palm
three times, whispering names under his breath to summon the specters of his
parents, his godfather, and his mentor. The instinct that hounded him to follow
Harry froze him in his tracks – discovery was not why he was there.
The low murmur of the conversation between the living and the dead was
impossible to understand from his distance, and Draco was not inclined to move
any closer. He simply watched, shivering in fear and awe at the conjured
departed.
Minutes passed, and with a final nod the ghosts vanished, and Potter turned on
his heel to continue on his way. The ring tumbled from Harry's hands to land on
the carpet of dead plant matter, and the Boy-Who-Lived wandered down a slope
and out of sight.
After a long moment, Draco mustered the courage to step forward to where the
other boy had stood and kneel, searching frantically amid the detritus for what
had been left. Pale fingers hooked on a cold twist of metal, and the Slytherin
pulled forth a plain gold band. Set in the ring was a single black stone,
carved with what he had grown up being told was the sign of the Dark Lord
Grindelwald.
His pale features went white. What on earth was someone like Potter doing with
something like that?
Then he turned the ring over in his hand thrice, that same urge that drove him
to follow Potter driving him to use what he had in his possession. It was
desperation that he breathed at the end, not even knowing until that instant
what he'd been needing.
"Albus Dumbledore."
There was a pause in the world, for it seemed that everything had gone deathly
still.
Then the Headmaster came.
"Draco." Dumbledore sighed softly, looking down his crooked nose at his wayward
pupil with a piercing blue gaze.
Silver eyes stared back silently pleading before the boy could swallow past the
lump in his throat and give a throaty croak. "Help me."
An inscrutable look crossed Dumbledore's face, before the old man smiled. "You
do not need my help Draco."
The spectre reached out, setting an insubstantial thumb against Malfoy's
forehead where it burned like an icy brand. "You already have all the answers.
Look back to the last time we met, and you will remember at the end of my life
that it was my mercy that mattered, not yours."
Draco's lips trembled, fighting against the urge to bawl.
"It is our choices who show who we are. What sort of man are you going to
become?" The twinkle that had gleamed in the old sorcerer's eyes in life
returned even as the ghost faded. "Do not ask for my forgiveness, it has always
been given to you. Good luck and farewell, Draco Malfoy."
"I- sir-please!" Draco choked, unable to string together a coherent thought on
the matter before the old man was gone, vanished back into the ether. Staring
at where his former Headmaster had been in thought, Draco lost himself until
something crashed in the trees.
Cursing, the Malfoy heir dove off to the side. He managed to hide in a crop of
shrubbery, peering out as the Hogwarts Gameskeeper strode back up the ridge,
blubbering and cradling Potter's limp form in his arms.
Draco went white, watching in horror as a triumphant Voldemort followed on the
half-giant's heels, throwing out caustic comments to the rehearsed laughter of
his servants.
The blond watched as the procession moved on by, staying concealed even at the
sight of his distraught mother. It was only after the sounds of the group faded
away, that the youngest Malfoy stood, peering after them in indecision.
"What sort of man?" he wondered softly, a trickle of conviction warring with
fear in his eyes.
Draco slid the ring onto his finger.
===============================================================================
The second time Draco touched one of the Deathly Hollows was a morning of
spellfire and horror and majesty. When Potter rose from the dead, Draco forgot
to breath. And he knew that so did everyone else.
The Boy-Who-Lived seemed undefeatable when facing down the Dark Lord's wand,
and by the way the Dark Lord's eyes widened comically with fear, Draco would
have said the monster felt it too.
So much of what Harry said that day burned. It burnt and curled around inside
him warm and heady with a feeling that he couldn't give sound to with his
tongue.
Hope.
"Neither can live while the other survives..."
"Dumbledore is dead!"
"He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before you did, arranged the
whole thing with the man that you thought was your servant."
"The Elder Wand recognized a new Master before Dumbledore died, someone who had
never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore
against his will, never realizing exactly what he'd done, or that the world's
most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."
There was something building in Draco's chest, a foreboding coldness that urged
him to run and to step back into the shadows and hide among dark robes.
The True Master of the Elder Wand is Draco Malfoy.
Icy fear rose in his chest as Potter tracked a green stare unerringly at his
former schoolmate rival with a look full of meaning, and Draco knew. He knew
even before the mingled shouts of 'Expelliarmus!' and 'Avada Kadavra!'. He knew
it before red and green mingled. And he knew it even before the red began to
fold back under the pressure.
Harry Potter was going to die. The boy himself knew it. And Draco knew it just
as surely as Potter did.
That gaze was something that he didn't want to own up to, a charge that made
him shake and choke and want to cry. Because when Potter had looked at him, it
was all there in that instant.
Passing the torch.
Then red collapsed with a bang, and emerald light flashed.
Silence hung as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Died-To-Live-Again, died
for the very last time. It was a frozen tableau, as if fragile marble had
crystallized everything.
Tom Riddle laughed. He laughed and howled jubilantly with all the mad humour of
a monster that had won at last; swallowing the light of the sun.
People screamed, some dashing forward with spells in a last-ditch effort to
avenge their fallen hero. Others finally broke and fled screeching. It made no
difference to the Dark Lord, who giggled as he effortlessly parried dozens of
spells and broke the last resistance to his rule one kill at a time.
Redhaired Weasleys died by the droves it seemed to Draco as he dodged through
the melee, listening to the whisper in his ears of hurry hurry hurry.
Old Man Weasley and his dumpy wife tumbled to the flagstones like broken
marionettes. The second twin Weasley joined his brother in death. Werewolf
Weasley with all his scars went down in a red ruin. Dragon Weasley with his
burly arms light up in malevolent flames. Even Poncy Weasley with his prim and
proper bearing was blown to bits. Weaselette died screaming under the Cruciatus
as foam bubbled from her mouth and she bit though her tongue, choking on her
blood.
Then finally it was only Ron, tears pouring down his freckled face as he
desperately tried to kill a wizard decades his senior.
Draco bent and lifted a shimmering cloak from the ground with a morbid sense of
rightness, as if things were finally clicking when he wrapped the cloth around
his shoulders.
Then he stood, coming face to face with Granger.
Rage and disgust burned in the mudblood's eyes and twitched in the fierce frown
that settled on her brow. Granger's hands curled into fists with an aching
intent to drive into his face; to reward him for the desecration that he was
visiting upon her best friend's body. And he flinched back, remembering all too
well the last time her face had worn that particular expression.
Then he was shoved forward by a gloved hand, toppling over onto Granger and
going down with her in a tangled pile of limbs. Hissing as her elbow dug into
his ribs and curling away automatically, Draco cast his gaze back up to see who
had thrown him down.
A flash of green, and Lucius Malfoy crumpled. Draco's father was deathly still
as he collapsed, tangled blond mane settling over features that had grown gaunt
in Azkaban. But Draco didn't need to see his father's glazed eyes to know there
was no rise in the Malfoy Patriarch's chest.
Dead.
Fear began to pass into fury as Draco turned a burning look at the Dark Lord,
hate finally winning out over terror to send a venomous glare.
Voldemort's slit nostrils flared as a pale eyebrow twitched at yet another
unfaithful follower. Lucius Malfoy, the once proud and strong sorcerer was
dead. All because his love for his offspring would not permit him to allow the
Dark Lord to kill Draco outright.
"I can attend to Draco Malfoy."The Dark Lord had declared to the world.
Burning like ice around his ring finger, the Resurrection Stone seemed to chill
him. Every beat of Draco's heart was spreading the freeze through him, and
Draco stood. A feeling of weight settled on his shoulders, not heavy but rather
comfortable with a whisper of confidence.
Draco's hawthorn wand dropped into his hand from a rumpled sleeve.
Tom Riddle snorted. "The coward son of a coward wants to die on his feet like a
man?" The mocking tone turned cruel as the Dark Lord idly twirled the
Deathstick between his fingers. "Only a fool thinks he can live standing
against Lord Voldemort! Drop your wand Draco,, and I will make your death less
painless than you deserve for abandoning your rightful Lord."
Words were wind, whistling without meaning past the young Malfoy's ears. There
was no sound but the roar of blood in his ears and a slow building whispering.
Cold, alien determination was in him. Fear drowning beneath certainty
thateveryone dies.
Hermione's incredulous look dug between his shoulders as Draco's wand arm rose
and he murmured with the chill of the grave. "Avada Kedavra."
Green light rocketed forth, shattering a hastily summoned piece of rubble.
Through the dust he could barely glimpse the frightful smirk of triumph and
amusement as Voldemort wordlessly waved the Elder Wand. Snakes began to rise
from the cracks in the flagstones of Hogwarts with an unholy hissing.
The hissing cut off as fire lashed out, burning the serpents into a crisp.
Draco threw a surprised look over his shoulder as Granger stepped up beside
him, stance radiating aggression.
"It's not for you." she said coldly as they both sent Reductor curses at the
Dark Lord.
Voldemort side-stepped with an indolent sneer – as if their pitiful attempts
weren't even able to move him to waste the time to block.
A Cruciatus swept over as the pair ducked and responded with lances of fire.
Voldemort blocked a volley of spells with a conjured silver shield that gave
off a chilling gong with every strike.
The pair found themselves dodging more earnestly as Tom's amusement ran out and
the Dark Lord began to respond solely with killing curses.
It was lucky chance that sent an Avada Kedavrathe Draco didn't see until the
last moment. Malfoy responded with a desperate shield charm, knowing the
Unforgiveable was unblockable but unwilling to simply do nothing.
Emerald splashed across the magical surface, dissipating with a crackle. And
all three stared. Hermione with pure shock. Draco with unadulterated relief.
For the first time since the duel began, Voldemort showed fear.
A slow, vicious smile broke over Draco's face. Slashing his wand with a brutal
twist, the Malfoy Heir shot a pulsing red Cruciatus at his former master.
Hermione drew back, caught between disapproval and glee as the blonde shifted
from defensive and distracting hexes to Unforgivables. Dark magic was foul in
the muggleborn's opinion, nut that didn't stop her from watching with a hunger
for vengeance.
Tom Riddle retreated and dodged shafts of green lightning, unable to muster a
proper defence with a wand that had betrayed him.
Crimson orbs flared with impotent fury as the Dark Lord ducked another killing
curse. Skeletal fingers tightened with a creak around the length of Elder wood
in his hand, and Lord Voldemort shrieked "You're a fool, Draco Malfoy! No one
can defeat Lord Voldemort!" Swinging the Elder Wand about, the Dark Lord roared
"Avada Kadavra!"
Green met green in a fury of sparks, emerald flames pouring out as two killing
curses slammed together. The world hung in a breath, and exhaled as one curse
broke beneath the other, with the victory rushing forward in a howl of wind to
strike the defeated down.
Everything was silent as Tom Riddle's bloody gaze rolled up and the Dark Lord's
body fell to the flagstones spread-eagled.
The crunch of gravel beneath Draco's heels was the only sound in the tense
stilness as the blonde crossed the courtyard to stare down at the body.
Pale fingers curled around a piece of Elder wood, and amidst the sudden shout
of relief that echoed from the few survivors, Draco Malfoy united the Deathly
Hollows.
===============================================================================
Three years later Draco kicked the silk sheets off his body in a fit of pique
as another echoing bang rocked Malfoy Manor. Sighing at the noise, the last
Malfoy quickly discerned from the pounding in his temples and the burning in
his eyes that he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night either.
Rising with a curse, Draco clicked his fingers and summoned the last of the old
Malfoy house elves.
Tribbly bowed low before her master, peering at Draco with bulbous green eyes
as she croaked "Will master be having coffee tonight, sir?"
Pressing a hand to his aching forehead, the Malfoy pinned the elf with a glare.
"Yes Tribbly. Now get to it."
Tribbly swept low again, muttering under her breath "Of course, Master Malfoy.
Tribbly is a good elf, unlike bad Dobby. Oh, the shame!"
Ignoring the decrepit servant as she began to wail, Draco pulled on a house
coat. Eventually the elf that had birthed Dobby popped away. More the pity,
Draco rolled his eyes as he strolled from his room. For a house elf, Dobby
hadn't been quite right in the head – but at least Dobby hadn't been senile and
frail.
As he descended the stairs in a rush to the basement, the Malfoy paused only
long enough to gulp down the steaming cup of bitter black coffee Tribbly
brought back. Dismissing the house elf after pushing the porcelain mug back
into Tribbly's gnarled hands, Draco blinked bloodshot eyes and threw open the
door to the dungeon.
Back before the Wizard's Council had given way to the Ministry of Magic, the
Malfoy family had been bonafide landowning feudal nobility. The Norman wizards
had ridden in as part of William the Conqueror's army, establishing themselves
as the undisputed authority in Wiltshire. As such, they had created and passed
down a traditional dungeon with all the trappings and torture devices necessary
to make a sadist orgasm.
"Granger!" Draco shouted, voice echoing in the vast dark space. "What the hell
are you doing?" A wordless tempus charm gave more fuel to the fire as his
tirade continued on. "It's three in the bloody morning! Can't you take just one
God damn day off-" Cutting off abruptly as a hand slapped over his mouth, the
Lord of the Manor settled for a burning glare.
Hermione's sallow drawn face peered back unimpressed. Pulling her hand away
with a raised eyebrow, the bushy haired woman wiped her palm over her robes and
turned away. "I'm doing what I'm always doing, Malfoy. Just as you should be."
Making a final scowl at Granger's back, Draco dropped it as a lost cause and
followed her. Set in the middle of the room on a broad oak table was an
apparatus of wire and steel twisted into the shape of a hellish gauntlet.
Stomping into place before it, the blond tore his wand from his pocket.
As always, when Draco first settled his fingers about the length of elder wood
there was a hum of power that settled through his senses.
Ignoring the now familiar feeling, Draco pushed his hand – wand and all, into
the gauntlet and settled. Immediately the ring set with the Resurrection stone
began to burn cold. Weight settled over him as Hermione sniffed and tied
Potter's old invisibility cloak over his shoulders.
Frowning, Draco waited until the mudblood had stalked around the table and
taken up a position across from him.
Hermione waved her own wand in front of her eyes, which took on a glittering
sheen, and then nodded to her partner. Responding with a silent Lumos,the
Malfoy waited impatiently as Granger muttered to herself and began to jot down
notes with a muggle pen.
Their strange partnership had begun two years prior when Hermione had appeared
on Draco's doorstep in a storm, soaked wet and watching him with wild eyes.
The blond that had by sheer dumb luck managed to defeat the Dark Lord had
allowed his childhood enemy to take residence in his home with the promise of a
shared goal. They would work to harness the power of the Deathly Hollows and
force Death to give back those whom they'd loved and lost – one way or another.
Nodding distractedly at Draco, Hermione waved the rich pureblood off once she'd
gathered enough data on the magical output that the Master of Death had given
off.
More than pleased to remove his hand from the metal glove, Draco passed the
Elder Wand from one hand to the other and shook his fingers out. Potter's cloak
was quickly set aside on the table – Draco hated wearing it. Doing so always
made him feel like a filthy grave robber.
Dropping the Deathstick back into his robes, the blonde turned to leave and
hopefully crawl into a dark corner to sleep for a week. Out of the corner of a
silver-grey eye, Draco spied Granger.
The mudblood stared at the parchment in front of her with a white face of shock
and began frantically digging through her expandable file folder that she
carried everywhere. "Stupid, stupid!" the brunette muttered under her breath,
mania overtaking her gaze and hands shaking as she drew out a single page.
The paper was old and yellow and probably not legally in Granger's possession,
Draco decided as he strode around the table and peered over the woman's
shoulder. The series of numbers on the page stamped with the Department of
Mysteries insignia was baffling to Draco, and he was quite willing to abandon
her to overanalyze whatever hidden discovery the Ministry had been covering up
this time.
Stepping back with a scowl, Draco turned to leave only to be pulled back as
Granger threw out a hand and seized a fistful of his robes. The bushy haired
witch pulled the irritated blond back, laughing in his face like a madwoman.
"How did I not see it before? It's so fucking simple!"
Quickly releasing her partner, Hermione drew out a third piece of parchment and
began to scribble on it, taking the two sets of numbers she had – one obtained
from the Ministry, and one from her experiments on him, and imputing them into
a formula.
Taking the results, Hermione dried the ink with a quick wave of wandless,
silent magic and flipped the parchment over to begin drawing on the back. Draco
watched with a bored look, one eyebrow climbing higher and higher as she drew
out two rudimentary graphs with the harsh strokes that she'd developed as her
mind began to break down over the years after the deaths of Potter and Weasley.
"So fucking simple!" she cried as she finished and shoved the parchment in his
face.
Glaring at the two identical scribbles, he shoved the paper back and her and
frowned.
Hermione scowled before shaking her head. "Don't you see, they're the same!"
"Oh well spotted, Granger." He snarked.
Huffing as she threw up her hands, Hermione glowered up at her partner with
blazing brown orbs. "Honestly, Malfoy! Did you never study spell creation at
all? Just what did you think we were doing here? Playing around? We're using
the data generated from your use of the Hollows to develop a spell to use the
real power hidden in the Hollows! Only we won't have tobecause an analogue to
do that already exists!"
The annoyance bled out of Draco as he stared into the brunette's manic eyes.
It began slowly as a tingle in his toes and rising – triumph. Laughter burst
out of Draco, maniacal with glee as he seized the woman in an impromptu hug and
swung her around. He couldn't wait to see his mother and father again!
A smile lit up Hermione's prematurely aged face and she giggled along with him.
"Well, where is it?" he demanded, voice rolling with anticipation.
"In the Department of Mysteries. It's the Veil."
===============================================================================
Whispers filled the air, a sound at odds with anything that should possibly
exist on the living side of the divide. Little moans for release, for
forgiveness, for renewal. A breath of spirit, chilling Draco's spine and
instinctively raising the blond's hackles. Revulsion and longing mixed as he
took in the insubstantial gray streamers the fluttered about.
"Do you hear that?" he bit out, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. She only
responded with a fearful look, cringing away from the worn archway with an
expression of distaste.
Unspeakables lay crumpled in their seats and across the floor behind the pair,
no match for the two who had infiltrated the Ministry under Death's own cloak.
Blaring wails echoed in the distance, summoning the Aurors to attend to the
breach in defense.
Draco had commanded Tribbly to cause as much of a distraction in the upper
levels as the old elf could, ignoring Hermione's hissing protests of slavery as
he sent the servant to what could possibly be death. A chilling look had forced
the former Elves' Rights activist to subside. Hermione was too afraid of the
silent threat of him going alone – because Draco hardly needed her after she'd
fulfilled her purpose of providing a way back for them.
She'd quieted with a glare. Hermione was ultimately unwilling to sacrifice the
chance to save the lives of her closest friends and all the rest who had died
when Voldemort had nearly won – even for the sake of a life.
Malfoy would have been perfectly happy at forcing death to yield up his
parents, Hermione wanted to save everyone. Hence her refusal to devote her
energy to any venue but one that would send them back to when it all began.
Draco subsided when she'd pointed out that they'd both win – Hermione could go
running about on her hero's crusade while he had more than enough time to get
his family out of the war.
The distant howling alarm cut off, leaving the silent buzz that would only be
heard in the Minister's office. Informing Shacklebolt that someone had broken
in the Department of Mysteries.
Too much time had been wasted already.
"Come on." Granger hissed, seizing his arm and dragging him towards the gate.
Shaking off the distraction of the voices that were all the clearer now that
there was no screeching alarm to crowd them, Draco stumbled forward.
Quickly overtaking the somewhat mad muggleborn that was slowly forcing herself
forward against fear, Draco grasped the woman's hand in a crushing grip,
pulling her into a running leap.
They fell into darkness.
Draco blinked about in the pitch darkness, pulling Hermione's form to his chest
as they floated along in an abyss. It began so slowly that he was sure he'd
imagined the faint lighting in the distance. Thunder crashed frighteningly
close, sending his heart into a panicked spasm before an invisible force hooked
below his navel and tore him across the empty void.
Stars exploded into painful existence, flaring sparks of light birthing a
stabbing pain in his retinas. Silver glass shimmered, reflecting light back and
forth until the glow became too strong and Draco shut his eyes against the
agony.
Time passed.
Eventually the warmth on his eyelids abated, and the blonde opened his eyes and
cast down to look at the woman crushed to his chest.
A skull grinned back at him, and he screamed, kicking the corpse away.
Draco shouted in pure panic as the skeleton grabbed his thrashing foot, digging
bony fingers into his black trousers and pulling itself along up his body and
against his sobbing protests.
Curling its claws into his white dress shirt, Death shoved its bony visage up
against Draco's face and breathed out with all the rot of a hundred worlds.
Tearing Potter's cloak from around his shoulders and fixing it about its own
undead form, Death gave a heaving cackle and tore the Resurrection stone from
the ring curled about his finger.
Draco went limp with horror, allowing the macabre spectre to easily root about
in his pockets and pull the Deathstick out with fleshless hands.
Suddenly Death's face was back in his own, dark sockets peering into him and
tearing through his mind. Pain blossomed fierce across his brain, which was
only an inkling of what was to come.
"So bargained, Draco Malfoy." Death cackled in a voice old and young, man and
woman, before shoving him away to tumble between the stars.
Agony took him, fire burning in every bone, every vein. Merciful heavens, it
was worse than the Cruciatus, worse than torture, worse than death.
Draco drew in a blazing breath, cooking his lungs as if he really could breathe
flames like his namesake and screamed.
He screamed until the light faded, He screamed until the whispers stopped. And
then he screamed until he woke up in his childhood four poster bed screaming
bloody murder.
The door flew open, a steely ferocious gaze darting about as Narcissa swept
into her only son's room. The blonde woman held out her wand, a dark curse
throbbing on the tip. Every fixture burst into light and banished every shadow.
No intruders.
Draco's screaming cut off into a sob, the boy burying his face in his hands.
Softening her severe expression, Narcissa crossed the luxurious dark marble
floor and sat on the bed alongside her only child. The blonde woman wrapped her
arms around the weeping boy, setting a cheek on the pale locks that were so
like her husband's.
"There, there Draco. It's alright."
===============================================================================
Rubbing his eyes at the dawn, Draco covered a gaping yawn before shuffling
across his expansive bedroom and into the lavatory.
Twisting the faucets to fill the tub with steaming water, Draco pulled off his
pajamas and threw them in a tangled pile for the house elves to clean up on the
black marble tile and crawled into the enormous bath.
Nearly every surface in the manor was constructed of marble. It gave the Manor
a feel of being akin to being a magnificent palace worthy of royalty.
Or a mausoleum.
Draco shuddered involuntarily. Death was still too recent a memory.
Granger's plan had gone off well considering the nature of what she'd been
attempting to accomplish. Shame the girl had to die on the way back – there was
nothing she owned to be used to bargain a safe passage with Death. It seemed
Potter was on his own, Draco mused as he scrubbed under his arms.
Potter.
"Oh fuck."
Without Granger around to guide him, there was no guarantee that Potter would
win against the Dark Lord when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rose again. Potter had
died the last time around – leaving it to Draco to play along with the luckiest
godsend in Wizarding History. Even with Dumbledore's meddling, there was a
limit to what sheer dumb luck would do.
When Potter lost, the Dark Lord would take pure pleasure in hunting down those
who'd abandoned him. The Malfoys would be on the Dark Lord's shit list if Draco
could convince his parents to flee. And if he couldn't, what were the options?
Kneel and live in fear, or kneel and get killed for one insane reason or
another.
Draco couldn't afford to have Potter lose. With Granger dead, that really only
left…
Him.
"Damn Gryffindors." He muttered, dunking his head under the flow to rinse out
the shampoo.
So what choice did that leave? There was nothing Draco could do besides get
Potter's arse moving as soon as possible. The Dark Lord would return at the end
of their Fourth Year – hopefully it would be long enough to whip the boy hero
into shape.
"Really." He declared as he dried off and began to pull on the robes that had
most likely been silently set out by Dobby. "There's not much to do but play
nice with Potter on the train." The decision came so calmly and rationally that
it would have surprised the blond, if he hadn't known he was holding onto his
Occlumency training so tightly his brain ought to leak out of his ears.
"What an excellent choice Draco." Came Lucius' low purr from behind him.
Spinning about with his heart pounding, Draco sent his father a shaky smile.
"We'll make a Slytherin of you yet."
"Thank you, Father." He replied automatically as he cast about mentally for
something to say. Draco wouldn't see his father for nine months, and he needed
to get Lucius out from the Dark Lord's shadow as soon as possible.
"Father." Draco began, licking his lips as Lucius paused and stared down at him
with a blank expression and bored eyes that Draco had always termed 'the face'
as a child. It was an expression that said 'do not waste my time'.
"About the Dark Lord…"
Lucius' gaze sharpened instantly, and he wordlessly gestured for his son to get
on with whatever he needed to say.
"I know that you've told me that if the Dark Lord ever returned that we'd serve
him again, but…" Draco couldn't prevent the memory of Lord Voldemort's burning
red gaze from sending a spasm of terror across his face. "I've heard awful
things about him. About how he'd use the Cruciatus curse on a whim. About how
he'd kill those who failed him."
"Draco." The tall blond began in a low dangerous tone. "Do you mean to tell me
that you're going to go against the Dark Lord, against me? Such foolishness-"
"Yes!" Draco cried, words tumbling out as surprised anger grew in Lucius' face
at being interrupted by his own son. "Why should we, the Malfoys, bow and
scrape to some self-styled Lord with no House or true name!"
Playing to his father's prejudice and arrogance, Draco threw his arms out in
declaration. "Why, with the way he'd gone hiding it, how would anyone even know
that he was pureblood at all? I understand he went on and on about being
Slytherin's heir – but that doesn't mean that he's not the halfblood son of a
muggle and a blood-traitor!"
Inscrutably, Lucius cocked his head at Draco, suppressing his shock underneath
a perfected mask.
"And even if his blood was pure. Being tortured and killed for the slightest
mistake, is that the future you would've wanted for me?" Draco finished with a
whisper, looking up at his father through fair lashes. Making such a speech to
his father was a gamble, and one he would've liked to calculate more. But he
was bound for Hogwarts in a pair of very short hours.
"Go and see your mother." Lucius finally ordered after a long moment of
silence, no hint of emotion disturbing the Malfoy Lord's icy mask.
Knowing his luck was running very short on his father's temper, Draco rushed to
obey and left Lucius standing alone in the bathroom.
Lucius spent a very long time tracing eyes over the white spidering lines in
the black tile, thinking of what his son had said to him.
===============================================================================
"And remember to write Draco." Narcissa commanded, setting her hands on her
son's shoulders and peering into his face.
If she was a woman inclined to public displays of affection like the dreadfully
uncouth Weasleys, she'd gladly press sloppy kisses on Draco's pale cheeks.
Refined lady that she was, Narcissa settled for a desperate communication of
her affection with tearful eyes.
The youngest Malfoy smiled past the grief and awe that constantly seized him
every time he beheld either of his parents – alive and whole, and nodded
sharply. "Yes, mother." He echoed his own words nearly a decade past. "I'll
write you as often as I can."
Only barely satisfied at the promise – letters would never suffice for the nine
months that Draco would be away at Hogwarts – Narcissa released her son's
shoulders and turned away to face the crowd imperiously, dabbing discreetly at
the warm shimmer distorting her vision.
Lucius was even less given to public displays of affection than his wife, and
settled for a silent momentary grip on Draco's shoulder. From the cool,
considering look in his father's gray orbs, Draco knew that their brief
discussion that morning had not gone forgotten.
Releasing his son with a tiny nod, Lucius settled a hand on his son's lower
back and gave a slight push to spur Draco into motion. The Lord Malfoy regally
offered his wife his arm, and Narcissa wordlessly took it. Both faces wore
blank expressions, but neither could entirely conceal their burning pride as
they watched their son navigate the press of wizards and witches on the
Platform.
It was only when Draco boarded the train that they stopped watching him, and
with a quick glance over the crowd, the pair turned on the spot and vanished.
Shoving past a gaggle of second years, Draco lugged his trunk behind him as he
began peering into the compartments about him.
Potter had grown into a habit of taking the last compartment at the end of the
train in his other life, but Draco was unwilling to assume that the brat did so
on his first ride and take off running up and down the train if Potter wasn't
in the last compartment.
Better to be slow and methodical. Better to take his time. Better to settle his
nerves before facing the music.
Draco managed to get halfway down the train before Crabbe and Goyle
materialized at his elbows, cracking their knuckles and glaring with all the
intelligence of a pair of trolls at the crowd that packed all along the train.
Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Draco began to cast about for an empty
compartment.
At his first eleven, the youngest Malfoy had been absolutely thrilled at having
a pair of walking bookends to enforce any desire that came into his heart with
mindless muscle. At his second eleven, Draco had a very clear understanding of
what Crabbe and Goyle were and were not useful for. And one thing the oafish
pair absolutely was not useful for was making a good impression on Potter.
Glancing a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, Draco squeezed past a
pair of chattering Hufflepuffs and looked in at Theodore Nott conversing
earnestly with Blaise Zabini. The two were dressed tastefully as proper wizards
– nothing like those muggle rags Potter would be wearing. The blond mentally
scoffed at Potter's fashion choices before tossing a glance over his shoulder
at Crabbe.
"In here." He ordered, sliding open the compartment and stepping inside.
Smirking at Nott when the dark-haired boy rose a brow, Draco favoured the dark-
skinned Zabini with a wink before allowing Goyle to grab his trunk and heft it
into the alcove above with the others' luggage.
"Finally showed your face Malfoy?" Nott jeered, beginning the instant jockeying
for position that coloured Slytherin interactions.
"Well you know me old chaps." The Malfoy drawled back, pretending to buff his
nails on his robes. "It would be exceedingly cruel of me to deprive you of the
chance to take in my beautiful visage."
Blaise snorted with repressed laughter while Nott was unable to prevent the
twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed on
cue, even if the advanced vocabulary had flown right over their heads.
Draco sent one last sneer about the compartment before shrugging and turning to
leave. "Stay here. I'm just off to the loo." He ordered, leaving Crabbe and
Goyle to munch candy while the Malfoy slid from the group of Slytherins and
resumed his search for Potter.
Without the pair of bodyguards hounding his every move the Malfoy quickly moved
down the train.
Draco made it to the last car before he was accosted by a pair of grinning
Weasleys.
"Why look here Gred." One chirped, elbowing his twin. "What's a cute, ickle
firstie doing wandering about on his lonesome."
"Just was wondering that meself." Gred replied, winking at Draco in an
exaggerated motion. "Maybe he's lost, eh Forge?"
Draco's immediate instinct was to bite out an insult at Twin Number One and
Twin Number Two about their home, or their upbringing, or their family –
preferably all three. But Potter was inordinately fond of his pet Weasels, so
the Malfoy swallowed his barb and attempted to think of a passably polite
reply.
The blonde was still making a valiant effort at not insulting Weasleys when a
third red-haired wizard stepped up from behind him and seized his brothers by
the ears with a sharp twist. Fred and George swore at Percy as the older boy
maneuvered them back into the compartment where Lee Jordan lounged one on of
the seats.
"I've got these two Malfoy." Percy sighed as he shoved the twins into the
compartment. Blinking at the unexpected generosity of a Weasley – though Percy
was going to be the brown-nose prefect – Draco just smirked as the compartment
door slid shut, cutting off the twin surprised cries of "Malfoy?"
Draco's pace slowed to a crawl as he slowly approached the rear of the train.
Cold sweat broke out on the blond's palms as Draco tried and failed to distract
himself by carefully observing the remainder of compartments. What if he
screwed up? It wouldn't be the end of the world, but it would be a lot easier
and safer to get Potter to get motivated if Draco was acting as his friend – or
Merlin, not just acting as a friend, but actually being one.
Then if he did succeed, he had no idea how he would reconcile Potter's
interests and his family's interests. Draco loved his father, but that didn't
make him unaware of the elder Malfoy's uncompromising personality and
instinctive prejudice. Potter's views were about as proletarian as one could
get – and there was little Lucius Malfoy hated so much as an uppity plebian
with delusions of grandeur.
Plus Potter was Dumbledore's man through and through, and to say Lucius was
less than fond of Dumbledore was an understatement.
Still, the easy part would be to get Dumbledore and Potter to shelter his
family – the pair were a couple of bleeding hearts unlike anyone that Draco had
ever known. The hard part would be getting his father, and to a lesser extent
his mother, to agree to take the headmaster's protection.
Far too quickly Draco found himself standing in front of the last pair of
compartments. The one to the left of him was full of a gaggle of doltish
Hufflepuffs, which left the one to the right for Potter and his favorite
Weasley. Draco swallowed dryly, wiping the sweat from his palms off on his
robes.
The latch was cool under his fingertips, burnished brass worn ever so slightly
at the touch of generations of wizards and witches bound for Hogwarts. It
seemed the click was absurdly louder than any of the other sounds of locomotion
and the faint hum of the chatter of children. The roll of wheels as the
compartment slid open was a heaving screech – in Draco's mind at least.
Weasley's freckles were the first thing to penetrate his mind, hypercharged
synapses memorizing detail down to the spots as they shifted and twisted when
Ron turned a quizzical blue stare at the intruder.
Red.
Had Weasley's hair always been so fucking red?
Maybe. But it didn't matter.
What mattered was -
Potter.
Shimmering emerald green stared back in a fine featured face. Faint planes
revealing the future attractiveness that would come to entrance the opposite
sex for Potter. Potter's clothes were far, far too baggy, clinging to bony
shoulders and bony knees and Draco wondered how he'd ever ignored the
implications of Potter dressing in a ragged size fit for a whale. The Potter's
had a good deal of gold – and no proper family would send their child out in
public with such hand me downs. Even Weasley's second hand clothes were
decently sized for the impoverished boy.
Pink lips were wet by a little pink tongue before forming into a faint "oh".
A pitched "oh" that sent him stuttering as he shoved out a pale hand in
greeting – the order was wrong.
"I heard that H- that Potter was on the train." Draco grinned weakly at Potter,
mastering his shock. "I guess that's you, is it?"
Draco was still staring as Potter dragged one hand nervously through a messy
mop of auburn strands and set the other fine boned hand in Draco's grip,
grinning timidly back.
"Yeah, that's me." He said.
Potter had red hair.
What the fuck?
***** The Redhead Who Lived *****
The blond boy shaking his hand was one of the oddest fellows that Harry Potter
ever had the chance to meet.
Though to be fair he couldn't help but admit that he hadn't exactly met oodles
and oodles of people to compare him to. And really, he couldn't fault the boy
for seeming a touch starstruck over the pink scar etched in his forehead; Ron
had been the same way when he'd figured out who Harry was, after all.
"Draco Malfoy." He offered, releasing Harry's hand and plopping down in the
seat beside him with a grunt.
"Harry Potter." the red-haired wisp of a boy offered back, peering out the
window to hide the initial awkwardness of the stranger inviting himself into
their compartment before turning back to Ron.
Both had missed the sudden sharpening of the youngest Weasley boy's gaze at the
name of Malfoy, but Ron kept silent until Draco slid the compartment door shut.
"Malfoy." the redhead greeted neutrally, careful to keep a polite veneer on his
face.
"Weasley." Draco returned, settling his hands over his knees to prevent a
socially crude nervous tick that he longed to indulge in. For all the Malfoy's
calm, his chest was hammering a panicked beat in his chest at the utterly
confusing and terrifying circumstance that he found himself in. If Potter was a
knockoff Weasley, then what else was changed?
Neither of the two he sat with knew Draco well enough to recognize that he'd
passed from his typical paleness to an unhealthy pallor.
Green eyes blinked quizzically. "You too know each other?"
The snort was instinctual as Draco cocked a brow at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Know
him? Red hair, blue eyes, and an excess of freckles? Must be a Weasley. Looks
just like his father he does."
Being poor, feckless, and generally loutish were not ideal words to describe
Weasley with, no matter how accurate. At the start his acquaintance with
Potter, he couldn't afford to make the same mistakes as his first life. Draco
sighed inwardly in frustration. The Malfoy had no need of Trelawney to predict
the future – his 'all seeing eye' detected more than a little mingling with the
plebs.
Ron flushed; ducking his head at the statement and not sure if he should be
flattered at being compared to his father or offended at the comment on
freckles. "Everyone knows the Malfoys." he muttered to Harry, swallowing back a
number of unflattering statements he'd heard growing up about the rich
purebloods. Even if the family was dark as dark could come, his mother at least
taught him to be polite.
"Must be one of those wizarding things." Harry decided before folding his hands
in his lap and staring at the bony whiteness of his knuckles.
"I was raised by my muggle aunt." Harry offered to his companions, watching
them through his lashes and hoping he hadn't committed some sort of faux pas.
Both boys were obviously raised in magic families, and Harry didn't want to
appear stupid or do anything to give them a bad opinion of him. The Potter
orphan got enough badmouthing from the Dursleys as it was.
Ron just nodded with understanding while Draco's face pinched as if he'd smelt
something foul.
"Anything off the trolley dears?" interrupted from the door, a rather genial
old witch pushing a cart of sweets along down the train.
Ron peered at the candy with undisguised longing before shoving a hand in his
pocket and withdrawing a wrapped sandwich. "No, I'm all set." the redhead
reported glumly, peeling back the paper wrap and taking a small bite.
Mortified at the boy's obvious poverty and no stranger to nights locked in a
cupboard without food, Harry dug about in his pockets for the handful of
galleons that he'd kept on him after his first visit to Diagon Alley.
Draco was well used to frivolously spending wizards' gold, and in the time it
took Harry to locate his handful of coins he'd already reached into his cloak
for a green felt bag. "We'll take the lot of it." he dismissed, casually
tossing the small sack of coins to the elderly witch.
Gaping at the blond, Ron snapped his jaw shut in a hurry when Draco turned a
cool gaze on him and repressed the surge of jealousy. The Weasley was just
about to snap something about not needing charity when several floating boxes
of candy shoved into his arms.
Draco's bag was noticeably lighter when the witch pressed it back into his
hands, and the Malfoy heir didn't bother to count what remained before dropping
it back into his pocket and sliding the compartment door shut on the trolley
witch with a lazy kick.
Tearing into a chocolate frog box, Draco settled a hand around the animated
sweet and nibbled on the confection before turning back to the others.
Weasley was already tearing into the candy like a barbarian, stuffing Bertie
Bott's Every Flavoured Beans in his gob like he'd never tasted them in his
life. Knowing the Weasley family, that was very possible. Draco sneered.
"You didn't have to do that." Harry murmured softly, drawing his attention. "I
had it covered." Jiggling the galleons in his hand to prove it, Harry pocketed
them before turning to take his own taste of the beans.
"Eugh, boogie flavoured!" Ron retched, wiping the back of his hand across his
mouth. "They really do mean every flavour." Draco snorted with rusty laughter,
swallowing the last bite of chocolate frog.
Surreptitiously spitting the peppermint bean in his mouth back out, Harry
pushed the box of flavoured beans to the bottom of the confectionery pile and
settled on one of the chocolate frogs. He doubted Draco would eat something too
gross – he seemed a bit spoiled, he admitted to himself.
A sharp rap on the glass broke the reverie, and Draco rolled his eyes before
giving Ron a significant look. The Weasley blinked before raising his leg up to
kick the latch open. "What's all this then?"
"Any of you lot seen a toad?" A boy that was vaguely familiar to Draco asked,
turning to peek back up the train. The Malfoy didn't recall the trim boy from
his first year, but there was something in the line of his jaw...
Blonde brows rose to the Malfoy's slicked back hairline. "Just go find a
prefect and get them to cast a summoning spell, Longbottom." He ordered,
turning back to the candy in his lap with a thoughtful frown.
Neville blinked. "I hadn't thought of that." the Longbottom heir admitted,
pulling on the collar of his jumper in thought. "Thanks Malfoy!" he muttered as
he turned to dash back up the train.
Cooing at the ragged rat in his lap, Ron missed the revulsion in Draco's
expression as he turned to give a sardonic brow to the other two.
The Malfoy's tailored boot lazily began to push the compartment door back shut
– really, did Longbottom not have any manners? - as he mused on the meaning of
a not-fat-bottomed Longbottom. Draco's surprise had passed from hysteria into a
numb sort of shock.
A hand with nails that were uneven – as if the owner had bitten them down in
stress over tests or excitement at a new book - seized the edge of the door and
yanked it back open. "Have any of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost
one."
"Malfoy sent him to find a prefect." Harry offered the brunette witch, taking
off his glasses to hurriedly polish them and assure himself that yes; someone
could truly get hair so bushy.
"Oh." the brown-haired blur stated blankly, not entirely sure of what to do
with herself since her task was complete. She didn't exactly have friends to go
back to. "Do you mind if I sit here?" Hermione asked, failing to contain the
hope in her voice.
Ron shrugged before chomping down on the last chocolate frog Draco had given
him. Setting his wide rimmed spectacles back on his nose, Harry nodded without
reserve – he didn't feel up to rejecting possible friends at the moment.
"Oh, get in here and shut the door." the Malfoy heir ordered, sounding somewhat
cross. Sniffing at the tone, the muggleborn witch shut the door behind her and
primly sunk down beside Ron.
The freckled boy eyed the bushy-haired girl before casting about for a topic of
conversation. "So my brothers told me that we have to fight a troll to get
sorted!"
Harry choked while Hermione gaped at him with an appalled expression. Draco
simply burst out laughing.
"What?" Ron protested, flushing. "It could be true."
"Whatever you say, Weasley." the Malfoy snorted, looking back out the window at
the clouds floating by.
"That's ridiculous!" Hermione rolled her eyes before staring at Draco. "I'm
Hermione Granger by the way. I was ever so surprised at getting my Hogwarts
letter. Weren't you?"
"Draco Malfoy." the blond sneered slightly, looking down his nose at the girl.
"And no, I was not surprised. Because I was born and raised in a magical
family."
Thinning her lips at the disrespect, Hermione craned right back around to look
at Ron, who quickly introduced himself without the barely veiled implications
about muggles.
When Harry gave up his name – easily, because he would hardly expect someone
not from the magical world to get all starstuck – Hermione's dark eyes grew
round and Harry cringed inwardly. "Are you really? I've read about you in so
many books!"
"Books aren't going to tell you everything Granger." Draco snarked. It was
obvious after meeting the muggleborn that he was the only one that had returned
from a future. There had been no recognition in Hermione's eyes.
"Well, of course not." she frowned. "I've studied so many spells over the
summer – but we're not allowed to practice them. Why wouldn't we be if we could
just learn how to do magic from books?"
"Probably because your lot would run around and give up the secret of magic to
muggles otherwise." the Malfoy grunted, ignoring the outraged look on Ron's
face as the blond dug in his sleeve and yanked out his wand. Understanding and
offense were just dawning on Hermione's features as he twirled his wand.
Lumos distracted the other three children and averted the possible
confrontation.
Harry's emerald eyes were wide behind his glasses as he stared at the first
spell he'd seen cast since Hagrid had taken him away from his relatives earlier
in the summer. "Wow." He breathed, not noticing the startled blink Draco gave
at her obvious awe. Hermione watched the display with similar reverence.
The Malfoy smirked.
"Well what are you waiting for? Get your wand out if you want to learn,
Potter." The pair blinked before frantically searching for their wands.
Ignoring Hermione as she carefully began mimicking his earlier twirl from
memory, the pureblood leaned across and grasped Harry's swishing hand.
Ordering the scarred boy to relax, Draco lead him through the motions several
times before permitting him to attempt to cast the spell. Hermione had
succeeded on her own, but permitting Harry to get in the habit of relying on
Granger for everything would come back to bite them in the collective arses
later on.
Light brimmed at the end of a length of holly and phoenix feather, and only
then did Draco release the halfblood boy's hand and stow his wand back in his
sleeve.
"Thanks." Harry muttered.
Shrugging back casually, Draco took a last look out the window at the dying
sunlight before leaping to his feet with a stretch. "Well ladies." the blond
drawled, ignoring the way Harry and Ron scowled. "It's about time for me to be
getting back to my own luggage and for you to be getting dressed in your
robes."
"Bloody git." Ron grunted once the blond boy had left.
===============================================================================
Hogwarts was breathtaking. Ancient spires thrust towards the sky, lit about
with rosy orange pinpricks and looming over a lake of black glass the reflected
a starry infinity. Harry remembered to dazedly follow Hagrid's instructions and
gingerly plop down in one of the bobbing boats that dotted the shoreline.
Hermione quickly mimicked the auburn-haired boy, restraining any such
expression of awe in exchange for naked excitement. Bouncing his leg with
nervous energy as he dropped in across from the other two first years, Ron
grinned up at the castle that had featured time and again in the stories that
his older brothers would tell.
Barreling out of the mill of students with a harried expression, Draco shoved
past a nervous looking Tracy Davis to throw himself into the last seat beside
the youngest Weasley boy. The redhead cursed loudly at the sudden rocking that
kicked up a splash to soak the back of his robes.
Draco waved off two rather thuggish looking boys, who blinked stupidly before
wandering off to find their own boat. Frowning despite himself, Harry was not
sorry to see the pair go. There was something in their manner that reminded him
too strongly of his cousin Dudley, and he doubted he could ever be real friends
with someone like that.
"Bit in a rush there, Malfoy?" the redhead groused, making a face at the slimy
feel of wet robes pressing up against his back. Shrugging disinterestedly,
Draco ignored Ron in favour of watching the other first years pile in boats
around them with an air of boredom.
"All aboard?" Hagrid called out, the half giant's large size garnering him a
boat all to himself. "Right!" Thumping a massive fist into the planks of his
boat thrice, Hagrid sent the small fleet lurching forward.
A low hum of voices rose as the children eagerly began discussing what would be
waiting for them at the school with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
"So where do you think you'll be sorted?" Hermione questioned the silent group.
"I'm hoping for Gryffindor – I heard it's where Professor Dumbledore himself
got sorted."
Hunching his shoulders forward in nervousness, Ron sighed. "I'm going for
Gryffindor. Or at least I better. Mum'd skin me alive if I ever went anywhere
else. I think."
Draco ignored the muggleborn, staring out over the lake with a vaguely worried
expression. There was no telling what the Sorting Hat would do with him if it
found out the truth about his time travelling escapades.
Occlumency was a possibility, but he didn't particularly enjoy the thought of
flying by the seat of his trousers. He was a Malfoy and a Slytherin. It was
best to leave the doltish improvisation to foolhardy Gryffindors.
A sharp prod in the blond's side drew him back to the conversation, and Draco
scowled. "The Malfoys have been Slytherin for generations."
"I don't know." Harry admitted softly, looking down uncertainly at his clenched
hands.
Repressing a sigh, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Had Potter always been
so oversensitive and uncertain, or was that just a new feature of Firecrotch
Potter?
Regardless; he decided with a hint of shame, Harry was still an eleven year old
boy. An orphan raised by loutish muggles in complete ignorance of his heritage
and birthright. And despite having the same last name, this Harry was obviously
different from the Harry-Bloody-Golden-Boy-Potter of Draco's memories.
Reassuring the brat took the last dregs of patience. Draco dipped an idle hand
in the dark lake. "Your parents were both Gryffindors, and the Potters have
placed there for centuries. You'll be one."
"Really?"
"Really."
===============================================================================
"HUFFLEPUFF!" the shout of the Sorting Hat was ringing – benediction separating
them from friends without regard for relations. Hannah Abbot smiled nervously
as she stepped around the clapping table and sought a seat at the end.
Draco's hands were sweaty, and the Malfoy wiped them on his robes over and over
again ineffectually. There were advantages to being sorted for Slytherin or
Gryffindor. Any of the other houses that he could plan around. Whether the
approval of his parents or the goodwill of intended friendship with Potter
would be the judgment of the Hat – Draco could account for the difficulty
either way.
No, the real reason for sweaty palms as Granger was called up to argue with the
Sorting Hat to eventually place for the House of Lions was the curling
uncertainty in his veins. The boy had a seizing worry that the Hat would
perceive his secrets and reveal them. Draco had no desire to serve any but
himself – and being interrogated by Dumbledore's twinkling blues or the
Ministry's veritaserum would yield neither result.
"Malfoy, Draco." broke into his thoughts, and with his heart in his throat the
blond stepped up to face the hat. Shaking fingers reached out to grasp the
brim, and Draco scowled at his own nervousness. The trembling in his hand
stilled with effort, and with a feeling of stepping off a cliff he sunk into
the chair and swung the hat up onto his head.
Tendrils of consciousness slipped straight through his occlumency barriers as
if his mental fortress simply did not exist. "Now what do we have here?" rung
from between his ears, and Draco sat ramrod straight in anticipation.
"Well, well, well, Mr. Malfoy."the hat drawled in a rich mental baritone. "It
seems to me that you've gone and misplaced yourself."More curious tendrils
began rifling through his memories, and the Malfoy frowned with the outrage.
"Oh don't be shy young Malfoy." the Sorting Hat reassured. "I've seen a little
bit of everything in my time, and I am unable to spill the secrets of those who
choose to wear me."Then the mental tone turned mischievous"Or do you prefer to
be called by your formal title, youngMaster of Death?"
"Simply Mr. Malfoy. I am no such thing any longer."he snarked out before he
could contain the thought. The hat merely laughed long and low in reply,
streams of thought retreating away from his memories with careless grace in the
mental arts.
"Now where to put you?"
Draco's mind stuttered to a halt. The Malfoy heir had come back to change
things – to create a world where he actually wanted life more than death. A
place where his parents hadn't passed on to the land of the dead. Where Draco
himself did not linger on under the shadow of a madman.
(His mind shied away from acknowledging that there were some things that could
not be changed. Even if he crossed time and inherited a body unstained by Dark
Marks, nothing could take away the memory of hushed corridors filled with the
scent of snakes and black magic.)
Begging the hat to toss him to the self righteous House of Lions would
certainly make waves.A tradition of generations would be shattered. His father
would be devastated. His mother would draw endless comparisons with her ill-
fated cousin. Dumbledore would have a neverending twinkle in his eyes and an
endless stream of 'My boy'. Most importantly, it would get him access to
Potter.
The original arrangement Draco had with Granger had divided the work between
them. The Malfoy heir would do what it took to keep his parents alive and on
the sidelines of the Dark Lord's cause, passing information that the muggleborn
that she was too squeaky clean to have access to. It was Granger that was
supposed to take Potter under her wing. It was Granger's job to be Potter's
friend. To train Potter and keep Potter alive and help Potter win the war.
But Granger was dead.
The Malfoy sunk into a moment of irrational anger, gritting his teeth at the
know-it-all mudblood that was right all the timeexcept when it really counted.
The one time Draco actually wanted the brunette woman to have been right was
the one time Granger managed to fuck things up spectacularly. And now it would
be up to the blond to pick up all the slack and make sure everything didn't go
to hell in a handbasket again.
Warning fingers brushed across his mind, poking at the harsh edges of anger and
crevices of despair. The gesture the Sorting Hat gave the Malfoy wasn't given
in clear words, but rather a faint impression of calmness and urgency. Draco
swallowed thickly, pushing aside the frustration and banishing tension with a
slow roll of his shoulders.
Yes, pushing the Hat to sort him into Gryffindor, or even Ravenclaw would help
to put Draco in an ideal position to influence Harry Potter without Weasleys or
Dumbledore worriedly puttering about. The mere fact that Potter was willing to
be Draco's friend opened an entire jar of newts that the Malfoy heir would need
to deal with as soon as possible – at the cost of tradition.
Was such a thing worth it?
A wry smirk curled the corners of Draco's lips.
Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.
===============================================================================
Brilliant green eyes stared at the pale boy sitting painfully straight with a
ragged pointed hat humming over blonde locks. With the longest time to get
sorted out of any child so far, Draco was quickly becoming fodder for whispered
gossip among the older students. Harry felt a touch of annoyance at the thought
that apparently no one had anything better to do than gawk and mutter about
other people.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat finally bellowed, instantly spurring Malfoy to
leap to his feet and yank the worn cap off. Blinking in surprise when the blond
set the hat back on the stool with surprising gentleness, the Potter watched
Draco stalk off to the far left table.
Taking a seat across from his Dudley-clone goons with all the hauteur swagger
of a prince, the blond nodded at Harry before giving a pointed glance back to
the front of the Great Hall.
Swinging his gaze back around to the elderly witch reading off the list of
First Years' names just in time to see 'Perks, Sally-Anne' get bundled off to
Hufflepuff, Harry thinned his lips in thought. Compared to Ron's now obviously
wild predictions of troll fighting, simply slipping on a hat for a few moments
seemed terribly… normal.
"Potter, Harry".
The low buzz of laughter and conversation cut off into dead silence. Every
students' eye drilled into his back as Harry stepped up to the stool and
grabbed the Sorting Hat. It was entirely unnerving, and the Potter heir already
experienced far too much of Bless my soul. Harry Potter – What an honour. To
like it.
All the attention was ridiculous. He wasn't anything special. He was just Harry
for Pete's sake!
Not some wizard with mysterious superpowers and a need for genuflection.
Sweeping the ragged old thing up onto his tangled fiery strands, Harry dropped
down onto the stool. Blinking with surprise as the world vanished beneath a
dusty flap of cloth, the boy reached up to push the hat back so he could see.
'Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Potter?'Cut across his mind in deep
tones, and he dropped his hand back into his lap in surprise. No, Harry
supposed – better to stare at the inside of a hat than the eyes of hundreds of
students watching his every move.
'Who are you?'Harry offered cautiously, drawn into a queer sense of touching
minds and faint impressions. 'Are you the Sorting Hat?' The boy already knew
the hat itself could speak – which had been a shock at the time he'd learnt of
it, but it was magic Harry supposed. Surely talking in his head wasn't that
unusual.
'Indeed.' The Sorting Hat huffed in a disappointed tone. 'Brave little one,
aren't you? Your father was much the same, though at leasthehad an entertaining
sense of humour. ' Cloth shifted atop his head as the hat twitched in thought.
'Though none of his pranks came even close to that one time little Avery wet
himself a few decades back the first time he put me on...'
Frowning, Harry fisted his hands in the long robes draped over his stick-thin
frame. The Potter wasn't sure the hat should be amusing itself at the
misfortune of children. It wasn't this Avery's fault if he was just too nervous
when a dirty old hat decided to start talking to him in his head.
Harry had been in awe of the obvious magic that Sorting Hat had to have been
made of, and its clever song – but it seemed the thing was just a miserable old
rotter!
'How rude!'The hat cut in with an offended tone, easily following the boy's
train of thought even if Harry hadn't been actually thinking directly at it.
'I'll have you know that a touch of schadenfreude is one of the few pleasures I
get to enjoy in life!' A heavy impression of dusty centuries at the top of a
bookshelf with nothing beyond rare voyeurism crossed over to Harry, making the
boy bite his lip and offer up a grumbling apology.
Humming in acceptance, the Sorting Hat subsided and reached faint tendrils
across the edges of Harry's mind. 'Plenty of courage and talent, not a bad mind
either.' Memories floated from the recesses of the boy's subconscious,
whispering Boy! and Freak and There is no such thing as magic.The strength of
conviction – I will prove them wrong, prove them all wrong – sent the Sorting
Hat's exploration rocking back with a tone of satisfaction. 'And such thirst to
prove yourself, but where to put you?'
'Gryffindor'. Harry decided firmly, thinking of long lost parents never met.
Knowing that both his parents had come from the House was more than enough to
predispose the boy towards it. A few absent words from a boy his age that knew
more about his parents than he did – and wasn't that sad? – were enough to make
up Harry's mind.
'Are you sure?' The Hat queried, poking delicately at the raw edges of Harry's
emotions. Longing and loneliness entwined in a fierce embrace. 'You could be
great, you know? And Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness! There's
no doubt about that…'
The determination to join the Lions only burned hotter and brighter at the
prodding, and Harry even resorted to chanting over and over 'Gryffindor!' in a
litany that left no space for further exhortation.
The rip in the brim of the Sorting Hat that served as a mouthpiece seemed to
curl in amusement. 'Well if you're sure…'It trailed, before opening wide in a
bellow of "Gryffindor!"
Ron pushed the last few flecks of mashed potato from his dinner around his
plate. The last pangs of hunger in the Weasley boy's stomach had long since
faded away to a feeling of heavy fullness. But being raised in a family of
more… limited means pushed Ron to accept food where he could find it, even when
he wasn't really hungry.
Scraping up another mouthful, the redhead winced past the feeling of his
bloated belly and stared up the table at his brothers. Fred and George were
both in a similar state if the way the twins stared morosely at their still
half-full plates was any indication. Percy was off somewhere else, probably
doing prefect-ly things.
The thought made the redhead wince. As glad as Ron was to be sorted into
Gryffindor, being under the direct view of his prim and proper brother was
hardly a blessing. "You done?" he muttered out of the side of his mouth to
Harry.
"Mmhmm." The Boy-Who-Lived nodded sleepily, having eaten nearly as much as Ron
himself and being similarly lethargic. "Do we just go to the dorms, or what?"
Shrugging, Ron craned his head around in search of his prefect brother. "Oi,
Percy! Do we just go on up or what?"
"Only if you're looking to get lost, Ronald." Percy called back in a tired
tone, stalking up and down the rows between the tables and observing the state
of Gryffindor's first years. Nodding in satisfaction, the fifth-year cupped his
hands around his mouth for a dull bellow. "All Gryffindor first-years line up
by the doors! Travel in one group and stay behind me!"
Similar calls from the prefects for the other Hogwarts houses echoed after,
spurring a great flurry of movement as the utterly drained first years shuffled
into four lines. Months of nervous energy waiting to go to Hogwarts had finally
taken its toll on the children, and most of them longed for little more than
the comforts of a warm bed.
Trundling after Percy through the halls, Ron took the time to properly gape at
all the moving staircases and hundreds of moving portraits. "This is bloody
amazing, it is!" the redhead laughed, seamlessly hauling Seamus Finnigan back
to his feet when the Irish boy sunk through a trick stair.
"Thanks mate!"
Waving off the sandy-haired boy, Ron nudged an elbow into Harry's side as they
stepped off onto the seventh floor. The two first years shared and incredulous
look at the portrait of a morbidly obese woman that Percy was leading them
towards.
"I think I found Dudley's real mother." The auburn-haired boy breathed faintly,
committing the password of pig snout to memory in a daze. Having heard from
Harry about his portly cousin over dinner, Ron spared a sharp smirk before
diving through the circular portrait hole.
Blue eyes widened at the cozy warmth of the room they stepped into. With red
plush couches, squashy armchairs, great sweeping crimson curtains,
strategically placed desks, and a roaring fire, Gryffindor's common room gave
off an instant atmosphere of hominess.
"Boys' dormitories are up the staircase to the left – yourright." Percy
declared, faint anxiety bubbling under the new prefect's stern expression.
"Girls' dormitories are up the staircase to the left. All luggage has already
been placed in your room. Rules are posted on the bulletin board behind me."
Motioning vaguely over his head, Percy gave a ferocious frown. "Boys are not
permitted in the girls' dormitories, and girls are not permitted in the boys'
dormitories. There are protective enchantments in place, so I sincerely warn
you not to try your luck".
"Don't mind Perce, he's just an old duffer." A redheaded boy whispered in a
conspiratory tone. "And still a bit sore over the toads in his undies last
night." Finished a second that appeared identical.
Fred and George smiled shamelessly when Percy gave them a pointed glare.
Lounging in a pair of chairs, the twins gave the first years energetic waves.
"I'm Fred." One said, "And I'm George" claimed the other. "If you're looking
for a proper bit of mischief, we're your lads!" the twins chorused.
Turning brick red, Percy only breathed heavily through his nostrils before
shaking his head. "That's all for tonight. I advise you to go to bed and be
properly rested for your first day of classes tomorrow. Lights go out at ten
tonight, and every other weeknight. Eleven for weekends."
Blinking owlishly as Percy exited in a swirl of robes, Ron turned to the girl
at his side and shrugged. "Good night, I guess?"
"Night." Agreed Harry before the Potter vanished up the boys' staircase behind
a young Irish lad. Ron watched after him for a few moments, thinking that Harry
Potter was very different than what he would have expected from the Boy-Who-
Lived.
Even if the quiet hardness in his emerald eyes belied the oddly timid demeanor.
===============================================================================
At six minutes past midnight, the stone wall hiding the passageway to
Slytherin's common room swung inward with a quiet grind of stone-on-stone.
Emptiness stood in the entryway for a few tense heartbeats.
Shifting like a mirror, rippling patterns like heat shimmers passed along the
corridors as Draco crept through the castle under the concealment of a
disillusionment charm. The Malfoy grinned at the nostalgic thrill creeping in
his veins. It had been a very long time since the blond had the opportunity to
simply take part in a spot of childish mischief.
The years of the Second Death Eater Uprising had pressured Draco – forcing the
boy to develop skills merely to survive the murderous Dark Lord he'd served and
the creature's psychopathic servants. Romps through the halls of Hogwarts for a
sweet late night snack had developed into heart pounding covert journeys
through the halls of his own home.
By the end of his fifth year, Draco's skill with disillusionment charms and
infiltration had become so advanced the only one that ever knew where the
Malfoy boy was had been the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord always knew, and the
knowledge of the younger Malfoy's developing skill combined with the older
Malfoy's disgrace had inspired the monster to select Draco for the task of
murdering Albus Dumbledore.
Not even the blond's failure at doing so had dissuaded the Dark Lord from
shaping the Malfoy heir into a tool for his use.
'My son, my son –'
'See, Draco? Am I not kind? Am I not merciful?'
'My Lord-'
'Do not fail me again.'
Assassin was not the career Narcissa would ever have chosen for her son, but it
was precisely the one the Dark Lord insisted on. There were only so much of his
mother's screams and father's hoarse whispers Draco could take. Even if the
cost of silencing them was to replace them with the blood of tortured muggles.
Draco still heard their screams in his dreams.
'Please no, please don't-'
Drawing up his aunt's teachings like a cloak – empty your mind, Draco – the
blond poured his feeling into the void. Compartmentalizing his heart and his
memories, Draco spun himself out to the thinnest point, threads of personality
muting tasteless and unmoved.
Rather than the blunt and obvious magical shield of the mind against the
intrusion of other spellcasters that Draco had attempted to use against the
Sorting Hat, the Malfoy fell into the deepest level of occlumency. Bury your
heart, and none can use it against you.
Not even yourself.
Coldly focused on the task at hand, Draco quickened his pace. The only thing
the boy needed to do was make it to and from the library without being seen or
heard. With it being the first day after summer vacation, many of the teachers
remained lethargic and off-guard. Slipping past a bleary eye'd Filch Draco cast
a silent Silencio on .
The cat padded after the blond from a short while, frustrated attempts at
alerting her owner with her silenced infernal yowling failing. Even if Filch
couldn't perceive the wayward student, Mrs. Norris could still smell Draco.
Golden eyes pierced the dark better, able to follow the faint bending of light
around the Malfoy's cloaked form despite Draco taking care not to step within
the range of the torches lighting the hallways.
Rounding a corner with the feline on his heels, Draco spun about and wordlessly
transfigured the animal into a pincushion. The dust coloured cushion flopped to
the stone flagstones, twin lamp-like buttons winking eerily on its surface in
the dark. Scooping the transfigured pet up, Draco tossed it in a random
abandoned classroom and hurried on his way to the library. Hopefully that would
hold her for a few hours.
Draco had to get a grounding in this topsy-turvy world, and quickly. Before he
said or did something irrevocably damning.
Slipping through the unwarded doors to the Hogwarts Library, the camouflaged
first year gave a cursory scan for Madam Pince. The first time around as a
student, Draco had rarely been one to sneak in and out of the library after
hours like some Ravenclaw. But it wouldn't surprise the Slytherin in the least
if the possessive vulture slept in the library.
Satisfied he was alone, Draco hurried between the stacks. Commentaries on
recent history seemed like the wisest choice. Since Hogwarts itself, Diagon
Alley, and Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters appeared exactly as he remembered,
the Malfoy could at least assume some similarities. Most importantly, the
Malfoy family was still rich.
Grasping a copy of The Rise and Fall of The Dark Artsand Modern Magical
History,Draco tucked them under his arm and crept over to the great paned
windows that cast pale light over the desks over the library.
Reading by moonlight was time consuming, pace slowed by the need to squint to
read in the dim illumination. But casting a spell for more light was absolutely
out of the question. Books left on the tables, turning slowly could be
dismissed as tomes forgotten after use with pages flipping by faint wind. Light
floating at the end of an invisible wand was just a touch more suspicious.
Invisible fingers flipped open The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts, paging
through to the final seconds regarding the Dark Lord's insurrection and fall
before the crib of the Potter infant. Leaning close to the letters, Draco
frowned in concentration and began to read.
'…The momentum behind the decades long surge in Dark Magical activity vanished
overnight as the second Dark Lord in a century was toppled by a feat of unknown
magic cast by Harry Potter on October 31, 1980.
Recall that following the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald at the hands of Albus
Dumbledore in 1945 heralded a significant collapse in the activity of Dark
Magic. Just as in the case of Dark Lord Grindelwald, the years following the
defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named experienced a surge of prosperity for
general wizarding society. Spread of Lycanthropy diminished to a mere trickle,
and Dark Arts spell development returned to the prosecuted underground from
whence it came.
It must be remembered that though Dark Magic always exists, it experiences
notable flows and ebbs. When the Wizarding World had Dark Lords to contend
with, Dark Magic itself abounds with creativity and vitality. When Dark Lords
are defeated, development and influence of Dark Magic turns moribund…'
Scowling at the pages, Draco rubbed dry eyes. It was going to be a long night.
===============================================================================
Brandy burned a trail of sticky heat down his gullet as Lucius swirled the last
drops of cognac around the bottom of his snifter. The expensive French import
brewed by a storied and suitably pure family from the South-West of France was
fit for a Malfoy's palate.
But the Malfoy patriarch struggled to find any of the usual enjoyment he took
as his due from the finer things in life. The only relief from his thoughts
came from the dulling the sharp edges of his emotions under the influence of
alcohol.
Narcissa had long since retired to their chambers, lips drawn tight with
simultaneous anxiety about their son and about the tension she could see in the
faint tightening of her husband's eyes. They had been married many years, and
kept very little from one another.
Lucius took Narcissa's silence for what it was – a tacit expectation that once
he'd worked through his thoughts, that he would share any conclusions made with
her. This gave the Malfoy Lord free range to hole up in his study and imbibe
like a pleb as his thoughts turned in circles.
Draco was merely a boy, and there was much his son had yet to learn about the
world and how it worked, so rationally Lucius should pay little mind to his
son's ideas. But Draco's uncharacteristic boldness before leaving that morning
had brought to the surface old fears and old grudges.
When the Dark Lord came knocking, one did not choose to enter service. They
simply did, unless they would choose to die. From that moment, a wizard and his
family belonged to the Dark Lord's service.
For Lucius, there was even less choice than most. It was a given from the day
of his birth that he would aid the firebrand Abraxas Malfoy had been funding
from the shadows. Draco would have had even less choice than Lucius himself, as
the Dark Lord's skill meant even the threat of losing Malfoy gold was next to
nothing to that creature.
It had been an utter abasement, but what other choice had there been? The Dark
Lord had simply grown far too powerful for any pureblood to survive opposing
him alone.
The downfall of the Dark Lord had been good for him, and good for many of the
old crowd. Their freedom had been a quiet liberation – whispered and hushed
about in pureblood halls, for none wanted to admit that they'd gambled and lost
on Voldemort's cruelty..
In his heart of hearts, Lucius feared. The Malfoy Patriarch had his doubts that
Slytherin's heir was truly as dead and gone as many believed. Voldemort had
seemed too powerful to die. Not human enough for mortality to bind him. Which
spurred the question – when the Dark Lord returned, what was to be done?
Serve again, and be tortured and possibly mutilated? Turn his cloak, and aid
the masses of mudbloods and blood-traitors? Lucius wouldn't be allowed to sit
back and do nothing, and he doubted the excuse of the Imperius Curse would work
a second time.
Grey eyes fixed on the winking emeralds set in the spitting silver snake that
was the handle of his wand. Draco had stumbled, rather unwittingly it seemed,
on a conundrum that the older pureblood families had all wondered about during
the Dark Lord's reign, but none had dared to actually investigate.
Where had Slytherin's heir truly come from? What was the truth of the Dark
Lord's lineage? That the sorcerer had been descended from Salazar was
indisputable with the mastery of snakes, but if the Dark Lord was truly the
epitome of purity, why did he hide his name and house?
As crass as Draco had put it, perhaps the Dark Lord was even a shameful half-
breed son of a muggle and blood traitor. Which was just another thing Lucius
would have to work out of Draco's mind when he could. It was all well and good
to think for oneself – that Malfoy family would not be so rich and powerful if
their Lords had been weak-minded. But without the safety of occlumency
training, Draco would only die when the Dark Lord returned and caught such an
irreverent thought in the boy's mind.
The creature may also just kill Lucius and Narcissa as well out of spite.
Training in the mind arts was a lesson Lucius would have left until Draco was
nearly finished of Hogwarts, but it seemed the blonde did not have that luxury
any longer. He would train Draco in the mind arts himself at the first
opportunity. Lucius could do no less for his only son.
Fixing a burning silver gaze on his inkpot, Lucius dipped the well-pruned point
of his peacock feather quill into the ink and began to write.
'Yaxley,
My old friend, it has been far too long since we had a proper chat…'
***** The Horrors of Turning Hufflepuff *****
The chatter of students in the Great Hall on the first day of class vibrated
through the air at a dull roar. Dishes clattered intermittently as child and
adult alike tore into a hearty Monday morning breakfast. Bacon was fried to
perfection, and joined with lovingly boiled eggs. Pancakes were slathered in
sweet syrup and then piled high.
Pulling her shoulders in around herself in an instinctive effort to minimize
the target she presented to bullies with a sharp tongue, Hermione decided that
for the second time she could remember, she hated a Monday.
Mondays typically meant a return to class, where the quick-minded girl could
soak in the knowledge provided by her instructors and expand the horizons of
her mind to its content. Mondays meant another week of pushing herself to her
limits and showcasing the brain that set her apart and gave her existence
indisputable value. It was a necessary exercise for Hermione's confidence, and
sustained her self-belief.
But like the very first Monday that ever meant something to her, Hermione's
first Monday at Hogwarts was a strong and poignant statement as to the utter
loneliness of the life she lived. People spoke around her, forming friendships
that the bushy haired girl was never invited to be part of. And soon enough,
when she proved to simply know more, People would speak venom at her.
The only people that really spoke to Hermione Granger were her professors and
her parents.
She still remembered the first day of her first year in school. Already
Hermione had devoured all the books that her parents owned – or at least the
ones that were comprehensible to her. Those that weren't were set aside so she
could return in the future and devour them as well. She'd long since tired her
parents out to a fond amusement with her asking for more to read. The buck-
toothed brunette never discriminated based on content. History was swallowed
down with just as much fervor as the tale of Snow White.
'Why?' was a question every child asked of their parents sooner or later. Most
moved on as they grew, and bowed down to simple pleasures. Hermione never
stopped. 'Why does the worm wiggle, Daddy? Why does the rain come, Mommy?'
Inquiry after inquiry, piling up and never being able to fill a relentless
hunger for knowledge. Hermione just had more curiosity than the average child,
and while her parents called her smart her classmates had different terms for
her.
Know-it-all. Weirdo. Loner. Freak.
And Hermione had sniffled and accepted the insults, because she knew that she
was different. She'd never been able to get along with her muggle peers, and
Hermione wondered if she ever would have learnt to. Luckily she didn't have to,
because she was a witch, and that made her more than the kids who'd taunted her
rather than less.
She just hoped that the magical world would be kinder to her than the
nonmagical one had been.
"Your schedule, Miss Granger." A dry voice broke through Hermione's thoughts,
startling the bushy haired girl and making her give a quiet shriek of surprise.
A tiny grin pulled at one corner of McGonagall's wrinkled mouth as Hermione
jumped in her seat, but the hint of amusement was gone so quickly the first
year witch wondered if she'd actually seen it at all. "Thank you, Professor."
Hermione mumbled, accepting her weekly schedule with prickles of mortification.
The Scottish witch just nodded sharply, turning on her booted heel and moving
to hand off class schedules to the rest of her students. Hermione stared after
the formidable woman, brown eyes watching the pointed tip of the
Transfiguration Professor's hat waggle with every step.
Hermione still hadn't managed to get used to how different the fashions the
Wizarding World were.
Determined not to be caught staring like a loon, Hermione moved her focus back
to her plate and began to nibble at the scrambled eggs she'd piled up on it.
The tide of conversation around her continued to rise and fall as students
wandered into the Great Hall and left after they'd finished breakfast. No voice
managed to touch her, and being surrounded by other children having
conversations with other people just made Hermione feel even more alone.
Was the rest of her life going to continue on like this?
"Merlin's beard." Ron moaned, dropping into the seat directly across from
Hermione and rubbing at his gritty eyes.
"Are you alright?"
"Just tired is all." The freckled boy grumbled, waving off Hermione's cautious
question with a flapping hand. "At least we've got History of Magic right after
potions. Fred and George said that's the best class to catch up on your sleep
in."
Hermione's first instinct was to give Ron Weasley a good scolding. What sort of
numbskull decided they were just going to sleep in class on the very first day?
But with a clench of the jaw she bit back the stinging reprimand she had been
about to deliver. Regardless of his questionable commitment to their classes,
Ron had at least been polite to her.
If there was a chance to finally make some friends at Hogwarts, Hermione was
going to try her hardest not to mess it up. And if that meant that she had to
let things go a few times, then that was exactly what Hermione would do. So
rather than tear a strip of Ron for his sloth, she settled for a more neutral
"Are you sure you want to take a nap on the first day?"
Ron grimaced, swallowing down a mouthful of toast and then taking a sip of
orange juice. "Suppose not." The redhead admitted, blue eyes shifting to the
Great Hall's entrance every few seconds. "I reckon it wouldn't be the smartest
thing to do, yeah? Don't suppose you've seen Harry this morning yet, have you?"
Blinking at the sudden change of topic, Hermione tried to ignore the fluttering
in her belly as she shrugged. "I had expected that he'd be with you." The
trembling in her gut on intensified when Ron shook his head and then started
telling her some of the stories his brothers had told him about the school.
Hermione had always known it was best not to dream, because the real world
always fell short in the end. But no matter how much she tried to focus on her
bad experiences in the past, the brunette wasn't able to quite kill the quiet
hum of hope building inside of her.
Maybe she'd have friends after all.
===============================================================================
Harry pressed his sleeve over his mouth and coughed quietly. The damp dungeon
air was tickling his throat, and he wasn't looking forward to finding out how
much worse it would be once their class actually started brewing portions.
"Don't hack up a lung there Potter."
Glaring out of the corner of an emerald eye at Malfoy, Harry wondered if he
should fire back at Draco's taunt. He knew the blond boy wasn't making snide
comments to be mean, but in Harry's opinion there should be more to a
friendship than snarking at each other.
"Looking forward to potions, Malfoy?" Harry prodded, sniffling into his sleeve
one last time before staring back up at the blackboard. He'd come a little
early to his first class and picked out a table to sit at with Ron, only to
have the Slytherin plop down beside him and declare they'd be potions partners.
Draco just shrugged. "What will be will be." He replied airily, silver orbs
narrowing in thought. "Just remember what I told you and you'll make it."
Harry hummed below his breath, trying not to roll his eyes at the nagging. The
blond had decided to give Harry a crash course in how to behave in the potions
lab, laying out half a dozen little rules that Draco told Harry he would need
to make his life easier.
Especially since Draco claimed that he'd heard Snape would make it a personal
mission to keep the 'famous Harry Potter' from getting a big head.
Any further conversation was cut off by a shrill bell that rung through the
air, signalling the start of the lesson. Half a heartbeat later the door to the
laboratory crashed open, admitting the tall dark form of Hogwarts' Potions
Professor.
Snape swooped to the front of the room like a giant greasy bat, black eyes
glowering at the first year Gryffindors. "There will be no foolish wand waving
or silly incantations in this class." The professor declared coldly, voice deep
and brisk. "As such I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science
or the exact art that is potion making."
Biting the inside of his cheek, Draco let the rest of Snape's little
introduction pass in one ear and out the other. Some things never changed it
seemed. After falling through time and possibly crossing into another universe
entirely, the fact that the speech Snape always gave first years in Draco's
'home' timeline was the same 'here' was a little comforting.
Snape rattled through the roll call, pausing at Harry's name before weighing
the Boy-Who-Lived with his unfathomable ebony gaze. A few seconds passed where
Draco waited to see if Snape would tear a strip off Potter, but they passed
without further comments as the professor finished checking attendance.
Maybe Granger had been on to something when she claimed that Snape had wanted
to shag Potter's mum. ThisPotter looked much more like Lily Evans, which might
be enough for the professor to bite back his hatred of Potter Senior.
Years ago Draco would have been on the edge of his seat salivating at the
thought that his sarcastic and bitter Head of House would be launching into
another insulting tirade about Gryffindor's golden boy. But after the years of
terror and violence and death a schoolboy's grudge seemed almost
inconsequential. Draco didn't like Potter, but he didn't hate Harry either.
Which was just as well, since Draco had to try and be Potter's 'friend' in
order to win the war.
Playing rival to the Boy-Who-Lived had been exhausting and frustrating the
first time, and beneath all the occlumency Draco was tired. Not physically, but
in a bone deep way that could only be chased away by greater glories like the
adrenaline thrill of real battle or unnatural headiness that came with casting
dark magic.
A sharp elbow dug into Draco's side, rousing him from his daze and drawing his
attention to a vaguely worried looking Harry. The redhead shook his head at the
blond, jerking a meaningful chin up at the board and turning back to his own
sheets of parchment.
Draco repressed the urge to sigh, glancing up at the board. Their class
wouldn't be brewing anything for weeks since Snape intended for them to have a
good grounding in the theory of potions and know how to use their tools before
he'd even consider letting them near a cauldron. Which was a good idea
considering how talentless so many of his yearmates had turned out to be in the
subject.
But Draco was no bumbling first year, and the only thing he'd get out of taking
notes about the different kinds of cauldrons would be a sore hand. He was
tempted to apply to sit his OWLs and avoid the drudgery that was going to come
with living his school life over again. Going to Hogwarts consumed a lot of
time, and Draco would be getting very little results from the investment.
But rather unfairly – in Draco's opinion – he had to stick to Potter's arse
like a leech for the next few years and try to keep the boy wonder alive.
What a joy.
Clenching his jaw, Draco dipped his peacock feather quill into the nearest
inkpot and began to write. It wouldn't do to look like some kind of freak
genius after all. Otherwise they'd probably try and make him skip a year.
Still, maybe he could sell his notes at the end of the year to some ickle
firstie for a few galleons. Or maybe Draco would just gift them to Weaselette
or Loony Lovegood. That seemed like the sort of thing the children of truth and
righteousness would do, and since Granger had cocked it all up Draco would have
to be one of them.
The thought was vomit-inducing.
Bugger it all.
===============================================================================
Sweat collected on Draco's palms, and it took his deepest and more desperate
occlumency to shove back the urge to get up and flee the room screaming. He'd
taken his seat in the back of the room, huddled between the hulking forms of
Crabbe and Goyle, and done his best to look small and unnoticeable.
None of that was enough to prepare him to share a classroom with the Dark Lord.
Just knowing that barely twenty paces away Voldemort's face was concealed
beneath Quirrell's smelly turban was almost enough to send Draco into a panic
attack.
It's okay. Stay calm.
Quirrell was nattering on in his affected stutter, not looking in the least bit
distressed or concerned about the fact that Harry Potter was front and center
in his classroom. It was world class acting, and if he wasn't afraid the man
would snap and start throwing Unforgivables Draco might even be impressed.
Thank God Vince and Greg weren't canny enough to notice that Draco was behaving
more like a little Ravenclaw than the pompous Slytherin he'd been the first
time around. Though based on the quizzical glance Blaise kept throwing over his
shoulders Draco's new habits weren't going entirely unseen.
Well it didn't really matter. Blaise was clever, but the half-Italian wizard
was more likely to chalk the change up to nerves rather than assume Draco was a
time traveller. Not that Draco would blame him. The truth really was stranger
than fiction.
Draco ignored the sidealong glances that Blaise kept shooting at him in favour
of dully taking notes. The simply mindless motion of copying what Quirrell
conjured up on the board settled the blond's shaky nerves, and a healthy
application of compartmentalizing his emotions did the rest.
If not for Occlumency, Draco rather suspected he'd be a nutter. Or perhaps he
already was one, since only a nutter would bargain with Death and jump through
time just to save 'mummy and daddy'.
As the clock ticked on, Draco managed to sink into a wary stupor keeping one
eye on Quirrell and one eye on the back of Potter's messy auburn hair. Classes
and assignments aside, Draco was expecting a very busy school year. He still
needed to keep peering through the history books to see if he could encounter
more divergences between the timeline he'd come from and the one he was living
in. His foreknowledge was already of dubious value.
Regardless, Draco supposed he'd have to plan as if his experiences of the
future could be applied to the second life he was living. Quirrell might not
actually be possessed by the Dark Lord, but Draco would tread carefully and
assume the man was. Which meant that while he could join Potter's merry little
band of blood traitors and do his best to train them up, Draco couldn't
actually take an outright stance against the Dark Lord when the chips were
down.
Draco rather liked having his head attached to his shoulders, and if the Dark
Lord rose again he'd rather not be tortured and killed as a spy. Cozying up to
Potter was just 'politically smart'. Outright opposing the Dark Lord was making
an enemy of the dark wizard.
Throwing a cursory glance about the room to make sure no one was watching him,
Draco carefully laid a little scrap of parchment on the desk and began to sort
the storm of his thoughts. Planning further down the line could be done later,
but he needed to get his first year sorted out before his went strutting down
into the Slytherin Common Room.
First thing was first, he needed to keep up some sort of friendship with Potter
and his sidekicks. Granger was clever, but she was still a little girl, and
Draco couldn't rely on her to whip the other two into shape. So he'd keep a
civil tongue in his head and pop in and out to teach the trio some of the
things they'd need to stay alive. There wasn't much point in coming back to the
past if the Dark Lord won again.
Scratching out '1 – Make nice with the goons and toughen them up', Draco chewed
his lip in thought.
The second thing Draco would need to do was craft a good image. Throwing money
around and threatening to tell his father was just embarrassing, even if he
hadn't seen it that way when he was actually a child. Like a true Slytherin
Draco needed to be a friend to all and an enemy to none. Which mean rubbing
elbows with purebloods and mudbloods alike.
The thought made him want to shiver. Maybe Draco could admit that muggleborns
weren't actually filthy, but with their new customs and different outlooks they
were little more than muggles with magic and he still didn't feel that they
really belonged in the Wizarding World.
'2 – Make some allies' joined Draco's first point.
Should he get involved in unmasking Quirrell? Potter had done well enough the
first time around on his own, but that didn't mean he'd succeed this time. The
Boy-Who-Lived had to run out of luck sometime, and if he kicked the bucket
before getting rid of the Dark Lord Draco would be between a rock and a hard
place.
But again, Draco couldn't afford to oppose the Dark Lord directly. Maybe he
could just give them a few nudges in the right direction? He'd discussed every
angle of the timeline with Granger in excruciating detail before they'd
attempted to travel to the past, so Draco knew all about Potter's first year –
from the nonsense with Hagrid's Cerberus to the fact that Nicholas Flamel's
Philosopher's Stone was apparently in the castle.
Just the thought made Draco want to drool. He'd dabbled in alchemy for years,
and the possibility of being able to see and touch and even possibly steal
Flamel's stone was beyond tempting. But rationally Draco doubted Flamel had
given Dumbledore the real stone, since Flamel had lived for hundreds of years
without losing the thing to any one of the dozens of Dark Lords that had tried
to take it. The whole setup was probably just a trap for a desperate Voldemort.
Reluctantly, Draco put the possibility of stealing the Philosopher's Stone out
of his mind and jotted down '3 – Help the goons get a headscarf (hands off)'.
Had anything else of note happened during his first year? Draco had done very
little besides attend class. There was the business of stealing Longbottom's
Remembrall and getting Potter on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, along with
reporting the fact that Potter was smuggling out the dragon the oafish
gameskeeper hatched in his hut.
Well Draco had no intention of playing snitch on Potter this year. He had
better things to do, and it would be counterproductive.
Silver eyes examined the short and bizarrely coded list he'd just written down.
It was a good start Draco supposed, but it seemed… weak. Especially since he
was trying to prevent a war, or at least win one if it couldn't be prevented.
Dipping his peacock feather quill back into his inkpot, Draco began to refine
his plans.
'4 – Make sure bucktooth doesn't get squished by a troll'…
===============================================================================
"No Potter, you do it like this."
Harry rolled his eyes and watched as Draco slowly waved his wand in a simple
twist. Part of him wanted to snap that he didn't need Malfoy's help, but the
rest of him shoved down the irritation in favour of not offending his Slytherin
acquaintance.
(Harry would have called Draco a friend, but he wasn't sure that someone who
did little but offer help during class was a real friend.)
But acquaintance or not, it didn't make the blond any less of an arse. Draco
was impatient and more than a little haughty. Still, at least Draco was trying.
He'd never once made fun of Harry or Ron like some of the other Slytherins did.
Draco even avoided insulting Hermione, despite the muggleborn witch growing
bossier and more homework obsessed as the days went on.
Sighing at the expectant look on Malfoy's face, Harry brushed the auburn fringe
of his bangs out of his eyes and took twirled his holly wand through the
motions his classmate had tried to beat into him. A muttered incantation passed
through Harry's lips, and green orbs watched carefully as the matchstick he'd
been trying to transfigure smoothly transformed into a glittering silver
needle.
"Thanks... Draco." Harry grinned. Maybe the blond was a bit of a ponce, but
Malfoy was a decent one. He didn't have to spend his time helping Harry with
classwork, but he did. And it wasn't like he was just trying to cosy up to the
Boy-Who-Lived either. Draco looked like he'd been sucking a sour lemon every
time someone brought up Harry's unwanted fame, and he offered just as much help
to Ron and Hermione. The least Harry could do after that was call the other boy
by his actual name.
A queer expression pulled at Draco's face. It was as if he couldn't decide if
he wanted to be horrified or amused. "You're welcome, Harry." Draco muttered,
gripping his green and silver striped necktie like it was a lifeline. Then the
blond spun on his heel, striding away and cursing under his breath. "Buggering
fuck... rolling over in his grave... might as well be a damn Hufflepuff..."
"What's eating him?" Ron snorted, quirking one ginger eyebrow up as the
Slytherin wandered back and hovered near Crabbe and Goyle. The two gormless
bodyguards leapt up at their leader's approach, and in short order began to
desperately try to master the spell in an effort to please Malfoy. "Do you
think the good deeds are getting to him? He is a Malfoy. Maybe trying so hard
to be good if gonna make him explode."
"What does that even mean?"
"What's what mean?"
"He's a Malfoy." Harry quoted, poking at the tip of his needle and wincing when
a tiny bead of blood sprouted from his fingertip. "What's that got to do with
anything?"
Ron blinked, biting his lip with a little frustration. "Didn't mean to say
that. Just slipped out, ya know?" And it had. No matter what sort of stories
he'd grown up hearing about the Malfoys, Ron wanted to give the other boy a
fair shake. His mum had always told him to judge people by their character
rather than what they were. "But everyone says the Malfoys are richer than God
and up to their eyeballs in dark magic."
"How perfectly prejudiced, Ronald." Hermione spoke up snidely, turning around
and folding her arms over her chest. She narrowed her brown eyes, having grown
more assertive as the days passed and it became clear that her tentative
friends wouldn't run off whenever she gave them a mild scolding. "If you ask
me, I think Draco is a nice boy. He's ever so helpful and doesn't pick on
anyone. I've never once heard him say a mean thing about your family, which is
more than what I can say about you."
The freckled boy coloured, pinning Harry with a blue eyed glare as his friend
began to look more and more amused. "I said I didn't mean it, didn't I?
Merlin's beard, by the way you're carrying on anyone would think you fancied
him."
"I do not fancy anyone, Ron Weasley."
Ron stared, watched the color slowly build on Hermione's cheeks before shaking
his head in horror. "You do fancy him!" he accused, grabbing hold of Harry's
robes and vigorously shaking the other redhead. "How can she fancy him? She's
eleven, and he's probably got Slytherin germs or something!"
"Slytherin germs? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life."
"You know, from the way you two keep going at each other maybe you fancy each
other rather than Malfoy." Harry sighed, fixing his spectacles back on his nose
and slapping Ron's hands away. "Opposites attract and all that rot."
"Harry!"
"Nobody fancies anyone, Harry Potter!"
===============================================================================
Draco pressed a hand to his forehead, slowly counting to ten before waving his
wand at the two piles of parchment piled on the desk that was shoved into the
back corner of the Slytherin Common Room. The students milling about under the
green light weren't paying much attention to the blond boy that had briefly
stepped into the dark corner in order to make copies of his daily notes.
It wasn't that Draco needed to hide per se, but he'd rather avoid questions
about how he could silently use a fourth year charm that would copy all the
notes written on one stack of pages to the other. For one, he didn't want to
have all the Slytherin firsties begging him to make them copies as if Draco was
some sort of goody goody Hufflepuff. And second, he didn't want people ranting
on about how much of a genius he was at the tender age of eleven. Catching on
quickly in class was one thing, but knowing spells years early might attract
too much notice.
Merlin's balls, he had no desire to be the next Granger. He just needed to keep
working to cement Greg's and Vince's loyalty. Which meant giving the two boys
the sweets his mother sent from home, helping them during lessons, making
copies of his notes since they had no idea what to copy down, and even devoting
some time to help with their essays. It probably wouldn't be that hard, since
Draco had been an utter git to both of them the first time and they'd been
loyal for years despite that.
Vince had turned on Draco in the end, but Greg had stayed loyal. Of course,
that might have less to do with loyalty and more to do with the fact that Vince
was just barely smart enough to have his own ambition while Greg was so dumb he
just believed that Draco always knew best. Either way, a little kindness to the
pair of oafs couldn't hurt. They weren't smart, but they'd grown on Draco, and
if he could keep them alive and on his side, he'd do it.
Six years of loyalty hadn't been washed out by one betrayal, and Draco had no
desire to see Vince burn to death again.
Gathering up his notes, Draco pocketed the originals and rolled up the copies
into a thin bundle. "Vince!" he barked as he stepped out of the shadows and
into the green light. It took no more than a handful of seconds for his
'minion' to waddle on over, and as soon as the stocky boy was in reach Draco
was shoving the copied notes for the day into Crabbe's beefy hands.
A grin pulled at Vince's flabby face, and after mumbling a thanks the dark
haired boy practically strutted back across the common room towards Goyle.
Draco observed Crabbe's waddling with a sense of disgusted amusement. Thank
Merlin he'd never let his body get so overweight. The hours of broom flying and
Quidditch kept him lean and muscled in both lives, and if things stayed the
same Draco's two 'bodyguards' would be positively obese by fifth year. Two
years playing Beater had managed to slim both Greg and Vince down, but they'd
never quite managed to attain perfect physical fitness.
Maybe that was something Draco ought to look into. Once flying lessons for
first years were done, their restrictions on bringing brooms to school would be
lifted. It would be the second term by then, and winter, but by spring it would
be warm enough for a few hours of flying a week. Getting the two lumps a pair
of Cleansweeps would be little more than a drop in the ocean of the Malfoy
fortune, and might help keep them fit.
Draco's father had once told him that a man was judged by the quality of his
servants. Hence why all the Malfoy house elves wore clean and embroidered
pillow cases - except Dobby; who was a rebellious little nutter and refused to
do it. Crabbe and Goyle basically were Draco's servants at Hogwarts, and if all
went well they might even be his hired muscle for the rest of his life. So
human or not, maybe Draco ought to put a little effort in getting the two
trained up and cleaned up.
Speaking of brooms though - what ought he do about Potter and the Quidditch
team? Draco doubted the thin confident Longbottom he'd encountered on the train
was going to make a fool of himself and set up the possibility of the
Remembrall Incident. And even if Longbottom did, Draco doubted Harry would
appreciate him acting like an arse. But without that whole fiasco, Potter
wouldn't make the team until at least second year; assuming the Boy-Who-Lived
tried out at all.
Unless Draco found another way for Harry to make a scene.
And while Draco was hardly going to cry if Potter didn't get another dose of
fame, he had to think more like a politician and less like a schoolboy. Being
the Youngest Seeker in a Century was a big deal to all the naive brats
wandering Hogwarts' halls. Quidditch in general mattered. Making the team
granted almost as much prestige as making prefect, and any Slytherin with a
lick of sense knew the value in setting oneself above the crowd. There was a
reason Draco's father had basically bought Draco's way onto the team in second
year.
Thank Merlin Draco had been good enough not to make an utter fool of himself.
No one complained too much if a decently skilled Seeker got a leg up with a
donation of gold, but a bumbling fool would have become an utter laughing stock
no matter how much gold he tossed around.
Decisions, decisions...
"Malfoy, you got a minute?"
"I suppose so, Zabini. What do you need?"
"I had a few questions about the transfiguration notes today..."
***** Broomsticks and Baubles *****
A week into the term found Draco gritty eyed and wandering the Room of Hidden
Things two hours passed curfew. He'd followed Granger's instructions step by
painful step, and hadn't managed to encounter hide nor hair of the Dark Lord's
horcrux.
"Where the fuck are you?" the blond bellowed in frustration, young voice
echoing between the piled stacks of illicit stashed goods and around the vast
marble columns dotted about the place. The room seemed like it might be even
more of a maze compared to usual, although being an ickle firstie might be
throwing Draco's sense of direction off.
Draco was tempted to just give up and leave after throwing some friendfyre
about for good measure, but common sense kept a tight leash on his temper. So
many things were different compared to what he'd been prepared for, which meant
there was no guarantee that Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem was in the room.
If the Dark Lord had even made it one of his soul containers in this wonky
alternate reality. Draco couldn't just assume that Voldemort had done so, and
that it was destroyed if he blew the whole room up. Without confirming both of
those as fact, he'd be running the risk of thinking a horcrux had been taken
care of when it was actually still safe and sound.
An immortal Voldemort was the last person Draco wanted to encounter.
The only thing Draco could do was search and search for the damn thing, and
hope that he managed to find it before he died of old age or something equally
as stupid. Because unless he managed to stumble upon it out of sheer dumb luck,
Draco doubted he'd ever find the horcrux. What if the Dark Lord had shoved it
underneath a pile of furniture?
Plopping down on a scuffed old desk, Draco put his head in his hands and
sighed. He'd only been in the past for a week and already Draco could feel the
pressure mounting. How was he supposed to survive under the pressure of saving
everything all by himself? Draco was reminded of his horrible sixth year,
except instead of just carrying his parents' lives on his shoulders he carried
the lives of everyone in the Wizarding World.
Fucking Granger leaving him in the hot seat; the bitch. Not for the first time
Draco wished the bushy haired menace had managed to pull through. It would be
just lovely to be able to dump all the world's problems in someone else's lap
and spend the next few years lounging on a beach in Majorica.
With a final huff, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and fixed his
glittering silver stare on an empty warped copper owl cage. All he could do was
take things as they came. There was no use crying over spilt milk – he'd done
it enough the first time around and gained nothing for it.
So.
Horcruxes.
If Granger's story was accurate, the Dark Lord was looking to create enough
horcruxes to reach seven soul pieces including his own body. Nagini hadn't been
turned into one until after Voldemort's resurrection, so there should be five
of them extant. Along with possibly Potter himself, but that was a whole
different can of worms that Draco didn't intend to open quite yet.
Slytherin's Locket, Ravenclaw's Diadem, Hufflepuff's Cup, Riddle's diary, and
the Gaunt family ring all needed to be found, identified as horcruxes, and
destroyed. The diary was simple enough, since Draco would just have to root
around in his father's study until he found the damn thing. Finding the locket
would have to wait until Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, and he had no idea how
to even begin breaking into the Lestrange Vault.
A trip to Little Hangleton for the ring could wait until next summer as well.
Which meant all Draco had to do for the next nine months was find the goddamn
diadem.
Swallowing back the urge to scream, the blond lurched to his feet and went to
inspect one of the smaller towers of junk that filled the Room of Requirement.
Draco's questing fingers swiftly discovered a handful of Fizzing Whizbees, a
copy of The Firste Goblyn Rebellion, and an empty inkpot.
"Better be careful." He muttered sarcastically, vanishing the old candies and
the inkpot with a flick of his wand. "Wouldn't want to strike it rich." Some of
the items that students had decided to hide in the room over the years were
bafflingly pointless. What was the reasoning behind hiding an old pair of
robes? Either use the damn things or get rid of them. Don't stash them among
the valuables!
Turning over the dusty old tome he'd picked up, Draco flickered through its
yellowed pages before shrugging. He supposed he could go and donate it to the
Hogwarts Library. While Draco had more than enough money to buy whatever he
wanted ten lifetimes over, his experiences living with the Dark Lord had beaten
his willingness to just take things for granted out of him. Waste not, want
not, as the plebs said. Someone might want the raggedy old book one day.
In fact, Draco decided as he cast a proprietary eye over the sprawling
collection of treasure and junk that filled the Room of Hidden Things, he could
do the same with pretty much everything in the room. Take all the valuables for
himself, donate the things he didn't want to the school, and get rid of the
trash.
An exhausting and irritating task to be sure, but Draco didn't have much of a
choice did he? The only way to determine if Ravenclaw's diadem was in the room
would be to go through everything, and if he was doing that he might as well
get something out of it.
As the exhausted time traveler began casting curse detection spells on an old
set of earrings he'd scrounged up, a rather sad thought struck him, and Draco
began to roughly chuckle.
To think one day Draco Malfoy would be doing what ought to be a house elf's
work. His dozens of blueblooded ancestors would be rolling in their graves if
they knew.
It was all Granger's fault anyway.
===============================================================================
"Brooms are like horses. They can smell your fear."
Hermione scowled at Draco's mocking grin, shaking her bushy head at the blond's
teasing and stalking the rest of the way out to the Quidditch Pitch with a
huff. Draco probably meant well with his teasing, but he was such a boy about
things. She needed some reassurance about how simple flying was going to be
rather than morbid jokes and sarcastic commentary.
"Honestly Draco, could you be any less comforting?"
"Of course." Draco shot back breezily, practically strutting past Harry and Ron
and giving both nervous boys claps to the shoulder. "I could describe to you in
vivid detail how cousin Marv flew too recklessly and got himself chopped up by
one of those muggle whirlygigs."
"You've got a cousin Marv?" Harry smirked.
Shrugging one shoulder, Neville Longbottom picked out one of the dozens of
raggedy broomsticks to stand beside. "Everyone's got a cousin Marv."
"It's coz we're all related you see." Ron deadpanned, letting some of the
tension seep out of the lines of his mouth and eying his broom with a hint of
disgust. "Comes with the inbreeding."
Draco turned up his nose snootily. "I wouldn't have thought you even knew words
that large, Weasley. And in any case, the only inbred one around here is you –
what with the freckles and red hair all over the place."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black."
A sharp whistle cut off any further conversation between the first years,
leaving Hermione to quickly file what she'd just heard in the back of her mind.
Living in the Wizarding World meant she needed to learn all about it, and
cultural osmosis seemed to be the best way to do that. Had Neville been joking
about being so closely related that they shared a cousin named Marv? Or was
'cousin Marv' supposed to be some allegoral cultural icon that warned against
the dangers of reckless flying?
Madame Hooch whistled once more, drawing all eyes to her silver-haired form.
Despite being nearly a century old, the flying instructor was still hale and
hearty, and there was no sign of frailty in her sharp amber gaze. "Good
afternoon class."
"Good afternoon Madame Hooch." The gaggle of first years murmured back, more
than one rolling their eyes at the expectation of formality.
Draco let the flying lesson drift away from him. He'd spent years on the
Quidditch Pitch and he was more than aware of how to fly. Paying attention
would be a waste of time and effort, so the blond just numbly mimicked what the
rest of the students were doing and kept a careful watch on everyone around
him.
In the end, he'd decided that it would be better to get Potter a spot on the
Gryffindor Quidditch Team. House pride demanded that Draco do whatever was
necessary for Slytherin to win, but he wasn't a little boy anymore, no matter
what he looked like. So he was willing to swallow back the irritation that came
with getting Potter the Seeker position.
Giving the rest of the class a last nonchalant look over, Draco waited until
Hooch's back was turned before stealthy letting his wand drop out of his sleeve
and into his hand. He'd taken the last spot in line, so his wand was hidden
from view by his body and would only by visible to anyone that was watching
from the Forbidden Forest – which was pretty damn unlikely.
A flick of his wand had enormous buck teeth sprouting from Granger's mouth,
shocking Longbottom and making Weasley bellow with concern. No one noticed
Draco slip his wand back up his sleeve, and after screwing on an appropriate
expression of worry he hurried over to stand by the mudblood.
"Hush now!" Hooch instructed the bawling girl, grabbing hold of Hermione's chin
and titling the first year's face up so that she could examine the curse.
Clicking her tongue in displeasure, the silver haired woman shook her head.
"I'll be taking this one to the Hospital Wing."
Then she turned her blazing yellow glare on the rest of the students, making
more than one quail in fear. "When I find out who did this I'll have you out of
this school before you can say Quidditch. Touch nothing, and if I hear that any
of you get it into your heads to take a bit of a fly you'll be spending the
next month in detention with Filch."
Hooch thinned her lips at the group of aghast first years before turning on the
spot and leading a weepy Hermione back up to the castle.
A heavy silence hung in the air, during which Ron's face grew steadily redder
until the freckled boy snapped. "Alright then! Which one of you lot did it?"
Harry looked no less irritated.
"Come on and fess up! We won't hurt you… much." Ron growled, blue eyes burning
as he suspiciously looked Seamus Finnegan over before settling an accusing
stare on Theo. "It was you wasn't it, Nott?"
In later years Theo Nott had turned into a very clever and very dangerous Death
Eater; carrying on the insurgency against the Ministry even after his Master
had been killed by Draco. But there was none of that lethality in him now, and
to Draco's eyes Nott just looked like a rather weedy little first year.
Perhaps it was a bit of compassionate pity that moved him, though Draco would
always insist that he was just making allies when he stepped in front of Nott
and got in Weasley's way. "It wasn't him. I was watching Theo and he had
nothing to do with Granger's little episode."
"Was it you then, Malfoy?"
"Ron." Harry snapped out in a warning tone, stepping up to grab the back of the
ginger's robes and yank him back. Ron was definitely a friend, and Draco was
sort-of one. The Boy-Who-Lived didn't want to see them fight each other,
especially since he didn't think Draco would be that mean.
"It was probably those idiot brothers of yours, Weasley." Draco shot back,
folding his arms over his chest and meeting Ron's eyes unflinchingly. There was
a certain iciness in those silver eyes that made Ron clench his jaw and step
back. "Wasn't Granger complaining that her pumpkin juice tasted strange today?"
Given a new target for his anger, Ron subsided with a few grumbles and a silent
promise to owl his mother.
As the threat of confrontation drained away, Draco briefly met Blaise's wary
stare and deliberately let his expression shift from defensive anger to
lackadaisical boredom. "Well now that that's over." He declared pompously,
turning back to scoop his assigned broom up from the grass. "I think I'll head
up for a ride."
Straddling the weathered broomstick, Draco gave Potter a cheeky wink before
rocketing up into the air. Freedom burst in the blond's veins, and for a few
precious minutes he made lazy loops over the pitch while ignoring the urgent
warnings of his peers. He'd missed the feeling of being able to temporary leave
his worries behind.
In the air there was nothing but the crisp wind on his face and the warm sun
beating down on Draco's skin.
Draco swooped back along to the crowd of first years, unable to resist the urge
to show off a Sloth Grip Roll. "Come on up Harry." He cajoled, hanging upside
down and letting the silver-gold strands of his hair dangle in the breeze.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Harry admitted, biting his lip and staring
anxiously up at the castle. "Maybe you should get down before one of the
professors sees you, Draco."
Maybe a less observant Slytherin would have missed it, but it was clear as
crystal to Draco that despite his protests Harry actually wanted to try flying.
Quidditch was in the auburn haired boy's blood, and the trembling of Harry's
hands wasn't anxiety but rather anticipation.
"Scared, Potter?"
"No." A stubborn glint lit in Harry's emerald orbs, and the Boy-Who-Lived jut
his chin forward defiantly. He was smart enough to know he was being baited,
and refused to rise to the taunt.
Draco shrugged and flew down in a slow curve, coming low enough that his
hanging feet could brush the grass of the pitch. There was one last card to
play, and the blond knew it wasn't going to fail.
With an arrogant smirk, Draco floated up right next to Harry and plucked the
glasses from the other boy's face. "You'll never catch me, Potter!" he called
out as he fled back into the air, wanting to melt into goo at having said
something so childish.
Merlin's saggy left nut, Potter owed him for this.
"Give them here, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, squinting his eyes as he launched
after the blurry impression of black robes and blond hair that he could just
barely make out. Professor Snape would have declared that flying essentially
blind was a stupidly Gryffindor thing to do, but no one ever honestly accused
Harry of being a coward.
"Don't get your knickers in a bunch Potter." Draco drawled, easily handing the
pair of spectacles back once he'd managed to bait Potter to fly high enough.
"That wasn't so bad now, was it?
Still a touch irate at having been so easily goaded into breaking the rules,
Harry mumbled out a heated agreement before finally giving in to the urges that
had plagued him since Madam Hooch had let them briefly float under careful
supervision.
Tightening his knees around the knobby surface of the broomstick shaft, Harry
leaned forward and took off like a shoot. Faster and faster the redhead moved,
banking tight turns and spectacular flips with all the grace of a true natural.
Draco was just a little jealous. Oh, he was a good Seeker. He'd never made a
fool of himself after the first Quidditch match against Gryffindor, and no one
in Slytherin ever suggested he was unworthy of his spot on the team despite
essentially bribing his way onto it. Draco's skill and experience was such that
when he'd quit the team in sixth year he'd utterly destroyed any chance
Slytherin had to win the Quidditch Cup. There had been no one in Slytherin
better than him by sixth year.
But Draco had never had Harry's natural talent. Flying wasn't burnt into his
bones the same way it was burnt into Harry's.
Gritting his jaw as Potter pulled out another flashy stunt, Draco dug about in
his breast pocket until he pulled out a peach sized purple crystal. He'd found
the bauble while searching the Room of Hidden Things, and hung onto it while
waiting for their first flying lesson.
Demonstrating a Seeker's skill required something small and shiny after all.
Draco held the violet ball of glass up to the sunlight, watching as purple
glittered along its surface. "Catch Potter!" he called, throwing the heavy
thing right at Harry's face.
Startled out of his free flying, Harry lurched to the side and snatched the gem
right out of the air as it nearly arced right past him. "What's this then,
Malfoy?" he questioned, examined the smooth surface of the glass orb with a
critical glance.
"Fancy a bit of a game?"
"What? Oh." Harry quickly caught on, grinning as he nudged his broom into a
swift curve and tossed the bauble back to the blond. Back and forth the crystal
went, being launched further and further afield, forcing the two boys to make
ever more daring catches.
By the time Draco had herded Harry towards the South Tower, they were both
panting a little and soaked in sweat. Draco's young body hadn't had such a
workout in a long time, and Harry's had never been conditioned for sustained
flying.
Pushing his sweaty bangs out of his eyes with one hand, Draco clutched at the
violet orb with the other. A wide grin was pulling at Harry's mouth, and with a
sense of stupefied horror Draco realized that a matching smirk was twisting his
lips.
He was having fun with Potter.
Merlin have mercy.
Draco shook off the instinctive disgust he felt at rubbing elbows with the
biggest blood-traitor to ever be a blood-traitor, instead focusing on searching
out the grimy window he knew marked McGonagall's transfiguration classroom.
"Try and catch this one, Potter."
Whipping his hand forward, Draco aimed it right at the window. Either Potter
would swoop in and catch the damn thing - putting on a show for the wrinkled
old bint that was probably grading papers in her classroom - or they'd break
the window and both be in a puddle of shite.
Harry showed no hesitation, relentlessly pushing his aged broom to the limit as
he tried to catch the Draco's little ornament. Despite the rapidly approaching
stone walls of the tower, the Boy-Who-Lived showed no signs of stopping.
Draco was just beginning to worry that he'd have to spend detentions scraping
Potter's splattered body off the stones when Harry unlocked his legs from the
broom and slammed his heels against the tower. He'd beaten the purple crystal
to the mark, and with a sense of lordly laziness he grabbed it before it could
smash through the window.
Then Harry landed back on his broom, satisfied with himself and never once
noticing the utterly shocked Transfiguration Professor standing in the window
watching him.
===============================================================================
A week later, Draco was scrubbing away at Snape's cauldrons with a building
sense of frustration. He hadn't expected any different, because of course the
evil little Malfoy spawn would get weeks of detention while Saint Potter got to
join the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, but the unfairness of it galled.
Briefly, the blond fantasized about what it would be like if Snape was just as
soft as McGonagall and decided to put him on the Slytherin team. Five years of
quidditch experience over Potter would have been enough to give Draco the edge.
Finally snatching the snitch away from the bespectacled git would have
satisfied one of his longest running childhood dreams.
Dragging the scum slathered brush over the bottom of the cast iron cauldron one
last time, Draco rinsed the dingy little thing and turned his attention to more
important matters. His forays into the Room of Hidden Things hadn't turned up
the Dark Lord's horcrux yet, his year mates were starting to look at him oddly,
and he was still feeling a little dirty over mailing the Mudblood a birthday
present earlier in the day.
It was the last of those three things that nettled Draco the most. He had a lot
of time to deal with the horcrux issue, and he could always wave away being
nicer as making alliances in Slytherin. But buying a gift was something Draco
had only ever bothered to do for his actual friends, and the thought of
treating Granger that way was discomforting.
All the more so because he'd actually shagged Granger more than a few times in
the future he'd left behind. Firewhiskey and the need to feel alive could have
excused it if it had only happened once in a blue moon, but Draco had ended up
in some sort of hate filled enemies-with-benefits arrangement with Granger.
Stealing a glance at Snape, Draco considered the greasy potions professor as
the man silently scribbled red ink over some student's assignment. The spy had
never been good with feelings, but he had been a mentor to Draco in their dark
days of shared torment under Voldemort, and part of the blond wanted to ask the
man's advice.
Alas, Draco couldn't really think up an ideal lie. The truth would just make
him look like a nutter, and confessing to sexual relations with someone he
didn't even like at eleven would work Snape up into a lather over questions of
propriety and licentiousness.
Determined to stew in his own thoughts behind his instinctive occlumency, Draco
took up the next slime splattered cauldron and began to scrub away.
Maybe he was just reading too much into the whole gift issue. Draco had never
harboured any feelings towards Granger, and he doubted he ever would. But there
was something there.
Sex was something that the Wizarding World almost exclusively reserved for
marriage, with binding oaths of fidelity and chastity charms locking up the
populace's randy urges better than any muggle religion could. The differences
in sexual morality was just one of the many points of contention between the
muggleborns and purebloods.
So maybe Granger hadn't read anything into the sex when they'd fucked. She'd
certainly been no virgin by the time Draco had got into her knickers. But for
Draco to unbend and yield up his own virginity to a mudblood – there had to be
something between them beside hate and bile. Something outside of prejudice.
If there hadn't been, he wouldn't have fucked Granger in the first place, and
he certainly wouldn't have actually put thought into her birthday gift. In
fact, he wouldn't have even remembered her birthday. He wouldn't have felt
pleased to see her younger self's face light up at the expensive silver peacock
feather quills he'd given her.
If Draco hadn't at least on some level liked the bint, he wouldn't catch
himself sometimes waiting for an acidic comment made by a half-mad bitter
witch. He wouldn't tear his hair out in frustration and wish he had someone
that he could trust and who had a brain that he could bounce ideas off. And he
certainly wouldn't feel just a little stung by the fact that she wasn't lurking
about with her almost affectionate resentment.
Morgana's saggy tits.
Had Draco Malfoy actually become friends with a mudblood?
They might have had only each other to rely on in a cold world to complete very
illegal research, but that was no excuse. His ancestors were likely rolling
over in their graves. What was next? Kissing muggles and cuddling up to the
Weaselette?
===============================================================================
"I still don't know why we're doing this, you great sodding git."
"Lighten up Weasel King. Where's that Gryffindor courage of yours?"
"That's enough out of the two of you." Harry grumbled, resisting the urge to
turn around and slap the other two boys silly. Sometimes Draco and Ron were
perfectly civil towards each other, but sometimes they just descended into
insults. It was driving him batty. "Especially you, Draco, since this whole
thing was your idea in the first place."
Once October hit, Draco had turned into a nutter. It was the only way Harry
could really describe the blond. His Slytherin friend had started asking
strange questions about if Harry, Ron and Hermione were 'up to something'.
Every denial had just made Draco look oddly dissatisfied, until some lightbulb
had gone off in his head and given Draco the idea that it would be a grand old
time to wander into the forbidden corridor on the third floor.
Ron and Harry lasted through three days of offhand questions about what
Dumbledore could possibly be hiding and snide remarks about the lack of
Gryffindor nerve before they'd caved in. Part of it was that Harry just wanted
him to shut up about it, and the rest of Harry was genuinely curious.
"Well let's get a move on." Ron suggested after a few silent seconds, patting
the front of his robes and locating his second-hand wand to reassure himself.
The ginger spared a nasty look over his shoulder for Draco, to which the blond
only sneered back, and then set off down the dusty corridor with swift sure
steps. "It's almost curfew."
Draco was the one who suggested that they quickly take a run through the
corridor just before they had to be back in their common rooms for the night.
Going earlier in the day ran the risk of being spotted by other students, and
going after curfew meant that the teachers would be actively on patrol. Getting
caught after curfew could get them more than a gentle scolding, and none of the
boys were happy at the idea of losing house points.
"What do you reckon is hidden around here anyway?" Harry mumbled, hurrying
after Ron and eyeing the suits of armor periodically spaced along the corridor
with suspicious green orbs. "Stay away unless you want to die a painful death?
Was he serious or was he just having us on?"
"Could be either, honestly." Draco smirked, silver eyes glittering in the dark.
"Dumbledore's always been a nutter."
"Oh shut up." Ron shot back, striding through the clouds of dust with a
slightly peeved look. "You're a nutter. Don't think I hadn't cottoned on that
you've been trying to get us down here for some reason."
The drawl in Draco's voice was thick and mocking, his words making the two
Gryffindors flush with embarrassment. "Alright, you've caught me Weasley.
You're absolutely right. I've been trying to get you two lads down here for a
good snog. Seemed like the perfect place for a romantic rendezvous really."
"Ruddy poofter."
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"Don't talk about mother, Potter." Draco huffed, poking his head around the
corner and scanning for patrolling professors or prefects.
Luring Weasley and Potter down to find Hagrid's Cerberus hadn't been his first
choice, since Draco hardly had any desire to go romping around in dangerous
places. But Potter and his sidekicks needed a good kick in the pants to get
their investigation of Quirrell started. Which meant they needed to run into
the oaf's so-called 'pet', and then connect it to the package stolen from
Gringotts.
Being the puppet master trying to get ahead of the Dark Lord before the war
began was exhausting, and Draco had only been doing it for a month and a half.
It made him wand to whinge on again about how Granger had fucked him over by
dying. At least he had time to get his feet under him, since according to
Granger Potter's first year had been an unmitigated success with very little
actual danger.
The real difficulty would only begin after the school year was over, when Draco
would try and get ahead of his father on the issue of the Dark Lord's diary.
"Stop here." Draco sighed as he finally located the beaten wooden door that
Granger had told him about when they'd been discussing her little adventures
with Potter. None of the other doors had been latched, and with a cursory tug
the blond quickly confirmed that it was locked with a curse.
Trying his best to pitch his voice so that he came across as unconcerned and
noncoherently curious, Draco shrugged a shoulder and turned to glance at Harry.
"What do you think is behind here?"
Emerald green eyes glittered with suspicion, making Draco wince internally. He
needed to work on his acting if Saint Potter was sussing him out so early in
the game. "Nevermind. I already know what it is. I just thought that you two
wouldn't come look if you knew."
"Knew what?" Weasley growled irately, shoving past Draco to prod at the locked
hatch. The stuttering display of false anxiety seemed to settle the matter, and
rather than kick up a fuss Ron dropped it without flying off the handle and
starting a screaming match.
It was actually a little bizarre, since as far as Draco had seen in his first
life Ron Weasley was always three seconds away from exploding in a fit of
ginger anger. Was it another difference that could be chalked up to mysterious
changes in the timeline? Or had Weasley always been more patient with those he
was somewhat friendly before.
Shaking away his ponderings, Draco smirked weakly at the still smoldering
Potter and tapped at the latch. "Alohomora. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Rusty hinges in need of a good oiling squeaked loudly in the quiet corridor,
turning out to reveal a trio of huge furry fanged faces drooling in sleep.
A silent beat passed.
"Bugger." Murmured Harry.
***** The Malfoy Conspiracies *****
Every time Harry passed Draco in the hall, he sent the blond boy a dirty look.
After five times Hermione started giving him weird looks, and by the tenth time
Ron had also clued in.
"What crawled up your arse and died, mate?"
"Ron!" Hermione shrilled quietly, brown eyes narrowing at the freckled ginger's
rudeness before she decided to give Harry her full attention.
The three Gryffindors were seated in History of Magic, letting Professor Binns'
dusty voice roll on while they chatted quietly in the back. Hermione had been
reluctant at first, but after much nagging by her two friends she'd caved and
accepted the point that she could learn everything about the subject from
independent reading.
Doodling a sloppy little star on his parchment, Harry drew his eyebrows
together in thought before sighing. "I'm just a bit mad with Draco, I guess."
"Yeah we figured that one out." Ron muttered, watching the dark ink blot over
Harry's spare bit of parchment. "What we want to know is why."
Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, idly poking at his scribbles and
observing the way the drying ink grew stickier as the seconds passed. "I
thought we were friends. So why did he try and lead us around by the nose like
that? Shouldn't he have just trusted us to believe him and come along?"
"Probably." Hermione agreed easily, wrinkling her nose at the reference to the
boys' rule breaking adventure. She'd already said her piece about the little
undertaking, and there was no point in beating a dead horse. Harry and Ron
would either straighten up and take school seriously or they'd end up in big
trouble. "But there isn't much that can be done about it now, is there?"
The flicker in Ron's bright blue orbs was heavy as he steadfastly met
Hermione's gaze. Then he gave a very deliberate shrug and turned his attention
back to Harry. For an instant, the sight of Ron almost daunted Hermione. Most
of the time he was a typical eleven year old boy making dirty jokes and talking
about the hobbies he enjoyed, but there were times he seemed full of an odd
kind of maturity.
"Just drop it this time, Harry." Ron suggested, cracking the knuckles of one
hand and sparing a glance for Binns' droning ghostly form. "He's a Slytherin
and a Malfoy. He might be a half-decent sort, but telling the truth probably
isn't his first choice."
In his heart, Ron wasn't exactly leaping for joy at the thought of defending a
Malfoy. He'd grown up hearing stories about how awful the Malfoy family in
general had always been and how terrible its current Lord was. The feud between
the muggle-loving Arthur Weasley and the muggle-hating Lucius Malfoy was
practically an unwritten law of the universe.
But even though Ron didn't want to give Draco a chance simply because of the
blond's name, he knew he should. Draco had been a sneaky little Slytherin when
he tried to trick Ron and Harry, but that didn't mean he was evil. And Molly
Weasley had taught her children to always try and do the right thing.
"Just probably doin' what his parents taught him to do. It's no big deal
anyway."
The shaggy auburn strands of Harry's mane fell into his emerald eyes as he
tilted his head and re-examined Ron in light of the ginger's new defence of
Draco. While Ron had never outright rejected the other boy, there had still
been a certain distant wariness between them. So if Ron thought he ought to cut
Draco some slack over the little betrayal, Harry supposed maybe he ought to let
it go.
"Whatever." Harry decided, picking at the seam of his robe sleeves. "Anyway,
did you see what it was sleeping on?"
The sudden change in topic and the eager note in Harry's voice was enough to
make Ron blink in surprise. "Well I wasn't exactly looking at its feet, you
know?"
Waving off Ron's confusion with a huff, Harry leaned in and lowered his voice
conspiratorially. Caught up in the bespectacled boy's eagerness, Ron and
Hermione mirrored his action. "It was sleeping on a trap door. Think. Why would
Dumbledore keep something like that in a school?"
"It's guarding something." Hermione finished for her friend, smiling faintly
when Harry practically beamed in triumph. Part of the bushy haired girl wanted
to tell the boys to just drop it before they all got in trouble, but her
curiosity won over her respect for the rules. "Something like that package
Hagrid took from Gringotts?"
"Shhh!" Ron cut in over their whispers, bending forward and scribbling on his
parchment like a man possessed. His head cut off the eye contact between Harry
and Hermione, but before either of the first years could complain about it the
ginger continued. "Don't freak out, but Neville's staring at us."
The round-faced blond was inspecting Harry and his friends with a little too
much focus for the look to be accidental. He didn't seem suspicious of them,
but rather merely curious. Which was fair, since while History of Magic wasn't
very interesting whatever the trio were discussing was much more intense.
Neville was seated two rows over though, and wasn't close enough for
conversation.
"Do you think he's going to try and stick his nose in?" Harry wondered after
Neville finally shrugged and turned back to watch Binns with slightly glazed
eyes.
"Maybe."
"Nah." Ron denied before Hermione could even work herself up into a lather with
speculation. "Neville's a decent bloke. He'll probably just ask what's goin' on
and leave it at that. We'll just tell him we were talking about Quidditch. If
we let it spill that Harry made the team, I reckon he'd even believe that you'd
be interested, 'Mione."
Hermione digested that in silence, deliberately choosing not to take offence at
the implication she wouldn't talk to her friends if they just wanted to natter
on about quidditch. Ron was right. Hermione had better things to think and talk
about than a bunch of boys chasing balls around on broomsticks. But Ron being
right didn't mean she'd let the comment go unchallenged.
Friends did tease each other.
"Neville would believe that. Anyone would expect me to be worried that Harry is
going to get his head knocked off by a bludger, so deflecting Neville's
curiosity like that – well I'd have to say it's almost positively Slytherin."
The expression of utter horror that crossed Ron's face was enough to make the
other two Gryffindors snicker.
===============================================================================
Draco pulled his silver and green Slytherin tie tight around his neck, fitting
it so closely he briefly envisioned that it was coarse rope and a noose under
his fingers rather than silk. His white-blond hair had been combed to the side
a few hours ago but had grown shaggy since, and he'd given up using sculpting
gel a few weeks into the term.
All in all, he'd started looking a little less primly put together and was
faintly reminded of his horrible sixth year when there'd been no time to waste
on prettying himself up. His mother would have a conniption when she caught
sight of him., but Draco couldn't bring himself to give a damn. He had too much
riding on his shoulders and the nightmares of living under Voldemort had
returned.
By the time the war actually came again he'd likely have gone utterly mad.
Sighing at his reflection in the mirror, Draco turned away and left the
bathroom. "Let's go. Vince. Greg."
The two beefy boys rolled over their beds, robes rumpled from laying about for
a few hours before dinner. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle really gave much of a damn
about how they looked, so Draco only sighed and silently cast a wrinkle
removing charm.
Tuning out the rough thanks that his minions rumbled out, Draco twisted and
cocked a slim blond eyebrow at Blaise Zabini. The silent summon was enough for
the half-Italian wizard to roll his blue eyes and make a disgruntled face.
"Let's head out then, Malfoy." Blaise hummed, preventing Draco from verbally
ordering him about. The Combing his fingers through the wavy hair he'd
inherited from his mother, he quickly moved to lead the pack of Slytherins up
to the Halloween feast.
"Where's Theo?"
Breezily belting out a "Who knows?". Blaise pushed open the door to the common
room and sauntered out into the corridor. "Probably holed up in the library
with a book."
Draco just made a noise of comprehension before bringing up the upcoming
quidditch season, and swallowed back the relief he felt when Blaise accepted
the change in topic. He'd been so caught up with rearing Potter's group of
blood traitors that he'd let his own friendships wither. Blaise had been his
only true friend for most of his life, and no doubt the other boy felt slighted
when Draco practically blew him off to go hang out with Potter of all people.
Potter, Weasley, and Granger might be less annoying than he'd always thought in
his first life, but they'd never be Blaise. The so-called Golden Trio would
never know how it felt to basically inherit darkness.
Blaise's father might have been a rich Italian pureblood with no reputation for
ill deeds, but everyone suspected Arietta Rosier had murdered all her husbands
and expected Blaise to be just the same. Nevermind that marriage vows made
murder extremely difficult and that all of Arietta's husbands had been
geriatric with one foot in the grave already, or that Blaise's arrogant vanity
was little more than a defence against a world that expected him to be a
homicidal philanderer.
The Zabini heir had been boxed in by the circumstances of his birth, just like
Draco had been boxed in by his. Blaise had become Draco's only true friend for
many years, and he deserved a little more kindness from the blond. Which was
why when they entered the Great Hall for dinner Draco spared only a nod for
Potter's gang and kept the conversation with Blaise moving.
"Look, I still think that the team could do better than Derrick and Bole. Those
two can't even find their own arses with both hands, much less the bludgers."
Blaise drawled as they took seats at the end of the Slytherin dining table. His
insult was tempered by the fact that he did a quick look about to make sure no
members of the quidditch team were listening in to his commentary.
Wetting his lips with a sip of pumpkin juice, Draco tuned out the piggish
sounds of Crabbe and Goyle stuffing their faces with all the ease of long
practice. "I'd agree, but I doubt there are better options. Flint might be a
troll, but he wants to win. He wouldn't pass up better Beaters just because
he's feeling sentimental about those two."
"You may be giving him too much credit there."
Draco thought back to his second year when Flint had instantly booted his
longtime friend Higgs off the team in exchange for an untrained Seeker and the
promise of top of the line brooms. "No, I don't think I am."
Blaise looked briefly confused by the blond's surety, but shrugged it off and
moved the conversation to their latest potions assignment.
Thankful for his years of experience in the subject, Draco was able to lazily
provide Blaise with all the answers while his eyes kept wandering back towards
the doors. He could barely eat because of the ball of tension in his stomach,
and at any moment Quirrell was supposed to come barreling in screaming about a
troll.
Proximity to the door was exactly why Draco had subtly directly their group to
sit at the end of the dining table. He needed to be out quickly and make sure
Potter didn't get into any stupid heroics. Since Granger wasn't sobbing in the
bathroom, Draco doubted the Boy-Who-Lived would go troll hunting, but one could
never be too careful.
"Draco?"
"Yes?"
Whatever else Blaise was going to say was cut off by a thunderous boom, the
doors to the Great Hall flying open to admit Quirrell's scurrying form.
"Troll!" The Defense Against The Dark Arts professor squealed, purple robes
fluttering as he dashed between the tables towards the staff table. "Troll in
the dungeons!"
Everyone sat in shocked silence as Quirrell stumbled to a stop. "Thought you
ought to know." Then he tumbled to the flagstones in a faint.
Then the screams started.
===============================================================================
"Are you barking?" Ron demanded as he and his friends shoved through the crowd.
"Look, I'm just as Gryffindor as you but that doesn't mean I want to run off
and fight dark wizards right now."
Harry just rolled his eyes and pushed harder, bowling between a pair of third
years with Ron and Hermione on his heels. "Look, it makes sense alright? How
else would a troll show up here unless someone let it in? And if they let it
in, they'd have to be doing it as a distraction."
"I think Ron's problem has less to do with your thought process and more to do
with your recklessness." Hermione commented primly, having to raise her voice
to be heard over the frantic chattering of the crowd. "Just how do you think
you're going to beat a criminal that the cerberus can't? Or have you been
hiding some special power from us, Harry?"
"Potter!" Draco barreled through the crowd, panting slightly with a hint of
color staining his pale cheekbones. "There you are!"
"Well hello to you too, Malfoy." Accepting the addition to their argument with
aplomb, Harry gave Ron and Hermione a pleading glance. "I'm not saying we have
to go and try to duel whoever is trying to get by that dog. We could just….
keep him away… somehow."
Draco made a face of utter revulsion. "Merlin, Potter. Did the Killing Curse
give you brain damage when it bounced off your thick head?" It wasn't
surprising that the blond managed to connect the dots without context and know
exactly what they were debating.
Whatever caustic reply Harry intended to shoot back was interrupted by the
sudden appearance of a tall, redhaired fifth year. "Ron! There you are!" Percy
Weasley barked, anger and relief mingling in his voice. The freckles that
spanned the bridge of Percy's nose were stark against the anxious whiteness of
his face.
"Whatever." Percy decided, nodding once to himself. "Just stay close to me and
don't wander off." Pressing on by the tight knot of first years, Percy cast a
glance at Draco. "You come too, Malfoy. I'll let the portraits know to get word
to your Head of House."
Any foolhardy plans to go troll hunting or dark wizard catching were instantly
scuppered by the hawklike blue gaze of the Weasley prefect. Shouting over the
din and managing to get the lower years into a line, Percy frogmarched them
right up Gryffindor Tower to the portrait of the Fat Lady with all the focus of
a drill sergeant.
"Blue bottle." Percy told the portrait, one hand on his youngest brother's
shoulder and clutching so tightly it was a wonder his nails didn't pierce
through Ron's second-hand robes.
Obligingly the Fat Lady swung forward to reveal the passage into the Gryffindor
Common Room, and the crowd of students poured in like a stampede of
wildebeasts. Percy's shouts of "No pushing! No pushing!" went unheeded.
"I think I'm going to be sick." Draco decided as he was greeted by the most
lurid display of gold and red he'd ever seen. The couches were red and embossed
with gold. The wallpaper was gold and embossed in red. Even the fire that
crackled in the hearth seemed unnaturally red.
In his first life, Draco had never bothered with the common rooms of the other
Houses. He knew where all of the entrances were, but the rare times he'd had to
hunt down a student he'd simply knocked on the entrance and told one of the
students living there to fetch whomever he sought. The Malfoy boy had also
never been possessed by the urge to try to break in exploring either.
Slytherin was the best in Draco's opinion, and bothering with the rest had
simply been beneath him. But now that he'd actually seen the inside of
Gryffindor's common room – as disgustingly vulgar as it was – he was half
tempted to make a quest of it and break in to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for good
measure. It was a proper Hogwarts adventure that appealed to the nearly dead
boy in him.
"Does it not got enough snakes and skulls for you?" Ron muttered belligerently,
letting Hermione take him and Draco by the elbow and lead them over to one of
the windows that looked out over the ground. Harry trailed after them looking
vaguely mutinous.
"Suppose not, Weasley." Draco rejoined, silver eyes considering Harry with a
sharp glitter. He couldn't claim to be an authority on the first Potter, but
when he was honest he could admit that it seemed like Potter had stumbled into
his various escapades by accident. The realization that Harry's relentless
curiosity was an enormous factor left him feeling rather vindicated.
Still, he couldn't have Potter rushing off to his death. The first time around
it had taken Harry most of the year to work through the mystery and face the
Dark Lord. Letting them collide earlier than that might not have the best
results.
"So what do you say to a little you show me yours and I'll show you mine?"
Draco proposed with a smarmy smirk, waving one hand at the crowded common room.
"Now that I've seen it, it's only fair that you get to see where the better
sort spend their nights."
"Draco!"
"You mean the Hufflepuffs?"
"Nah, he's obviously talkin' about the Ravenclaws mate."
Ignoring the scandalized way that Hermione breathed his name, Draco inwardly
gloated in having temporarily redirected the focus of Potter's questing.
Breaking into other common rooms might be against the rules, but rules were
made to be broken, and it wasn't like Dumbledore would expel Saint Potter
anyway. "You two are a comedy act. Did you know that?" The Slytherin sniffed,
concealing his inner thoughts.
===============================================================================
"Look, I'm telling you it's Snape!"
Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Draco tried to force back the throbbing
headache building between his ears with sheer willpower. He'd known that the
Gryffindor trio could be relentless, but he thought they could clue in and
leave him for a few hours in the library to enjoy some quiet rather than
bombarding him with their conspiracy theories.
The latest being that Snape was trying to steal something, and that he'd been
bitten by the cerberus up on the third floor. Snape had also jinxed Harry's
broom during the quidditch match they'd had earlier in the day, because the
greasy professor was just that evil.
Although maybe Draco was being just a little uncharitable. He knew all about
the various suspicions Harry had in his first year from Granger. If he hadn't
heard them all before in preparation for his trip to the past, he might have
been remotely interested.
As it was, Draco was just irritated. Harry and Hermione were like clingy little
leeches and had decided they were the best of friends just because he sent
Granger a gift and helped them with their classwork without even being asked.
Only Weasley was a little standoffish, and soon pigs would be flying because
Draco found himself half-heartedly admiring the ginger's determined caution.
A Malfoy finding something redeeming in a Weasley.
Fuck. Slap some dung in his hair and call him a Hufflepuff.
"Maybe it is." Draco agreed mildly, no longer interested in fighting over it.
The alchemical text in his hands was calling, and the first time around he'd
barely had the time to research the subject once he found it interesting. "Have
you talked to Hagrid yet?"
"I… what?" Tilting his head at the sudden change in topic, Harry glared at the
book that his blond friend seemed so absorbed in. He hadn't thought Draco was
like Hermione, but apparently, they were the same in that way. Put a good book
in their hands and they couldn't be torn away.
Turning the page with a crinkle that practically echoed in the hushed air of
the library, Draco flickered his silver gaze up to Harry's emerald before
looking back down at the yellowed pages. "Well whoever is trying to steal from
Dumbledore – Snape or not – don't you think Hagrid would know about it? He did
pick up whatever it was from Gringotts, and he's the Gameskeeper. If he doesn't
know about that giant drooling thing I'll eat my own socks."
Harry mulled that over for a minute before grinning wildly. "Fair enough, now
let's go."
At that, Draco finally stilled and gave the nagging Gryffindor his full
attention. He wasn't stupid, and Draco knew exactly what Harry was asking. The
auburn haired Boy-Who-Lived wanted Draco to come along and sit in Hagrid's
stinking hovel while they pumped the half-breed for information. "Shouldn't you
be finding your sidekicks and taking them along?" he pointed out dryly.
Snorting at the designation of Ron and Hermione as his sidekicks, Harry huffed
and muttered to himself below his breath before fixing a burning green stare on
the reluctant Malfoy. "We'll go find them first obviously. So put the book away
for now and let's go already."
Briefly, Draco contemplated beating Potter around the head with the copy of
Alchemical Achievements of the 18thCenturythat he was reading. Just for a split
second, he indulged in the fantasy of smacking the little needling bugger and
earning himself some peace and quiet.
Alas, Draco couldn't afford to turn down a direct face-to-face invitation to
take part in the latest Harry Potter shenanigan. It was one thing to be scarce
and difficult to find, but turning down the boy directly might hurt their
tenuous friendship.
Friends with Potter.
The thought made Draco want to gag.
Steeling himself in the knowledge of his own Slytherin and pureblood
superiority, Draco shoved the historical textbook in his back and nodded
imperiously at Potter. So what if it might make people associate him with a
blood traitor? So what if he had to take tea with a filthy half-giant oaf? So
what if Draco already knew all of the secrets they could squeeze out of Hagrid
and the entire venture was a waste of time?
Part of Draco was honestly and earnestly flattered. In Draco's actual first
year, Potter had turned down his offer of friendship. And the denial stung. It
wasn't only because he – a Malfoy! – had been rejected in favour of one of the
dirt grubbing Weasleys. Draco had been hurt by Harry Potter's rejection,
because when he'd held out his hand he'd been making an earnest effort to be
liked. Draco had assumed that Harry Potter could be a true friend, like Blaise
had become, and reached out in an effort that was entirely un-Slytherin-like.
Draco had always claimed that he was just looking to build alliances with the
famous Harry Potter, but in that moment on the train Draco had been just
another boy trying to find someone to connect with. The rejection had hurt more
than anything else he'd ever experience up until that point in his life,
because for a few minutes Draco had made himself honest and vulnerable.
So even though he was more than a decade older, and even though he'd crossed
timelines, and even though the redhaired Harry Potter wasn't the same person as
the dark-haired Harry Potter, Draco felt a little thrill. He'd only ever hated
Potter so ardently in the first place because he'd been rejected, and when this
strange little Potter sought him out it soothed that old wound in his pride.
"Fine, Harry. We'll find Granger and Weasley and then go down to Hagrid's hut."
The toothy smile Harry gave Draco was enough to make his chest purr with
satisfaction.
===============================================================================
Lucius pressed a dry kiss to his wife's knuckles before gently lowering her
hand. He took great care in settling her hand amidst the downy softness of
their bed's sheets. Narcissa was lingering in the fugue state between sleeping
and waking he knew, and Lucius had no desire to disturb her.
There would be enough confrontation that night without upsetting Narcissa.
"Lucius?"
Pausing at his wife's sleepy call, the rich pureblood briefly considering
blowing off his meeting with Yaxley and Nott. It still struck Lucius from time
to time how odd the depth of his affection for Narcissa was. He had never
expected love in a marriage that was essentially arranged, but in the end he'd
come to care ardently.
But Lucius hadn't become so powerful and dangerous by letting sentimentality
outweigh his plans. So instead of crawling under the sheets and holding his
wife, Lucius murmured a low promise to return shortly and left the bedroom.
Lucius swiftly moved through the hallways of the manor, unerringly travelling
directly to his study. He spent no more than a half dozen seconds in the room,
only pausing long enough to check the estate's wards – paranoia paid – before
travelling through the floo.
When Lucius stepped into the dimly lit foyer of Nott's Manx townhouse, he was
every inch the Malfoy Lord. Not a hair was out of place, and his grey eyes
betrayed no discomfort at the obviously muggle city that was visible through
the windows.
"Lucius."
"Theodore."
In his younger years, Theodore Nott Senior had been a darkly striking man. His
brown hair and brown eyes were common enough, but there was a harsh sort of
violence burrowed beneath his skin and seeping out from his pores. Even now
that his hair had gone white and his limbs thin with age, Nott still held that
sinister gravity.
After having greeted the other rich wizard as a peer, Lucius turned to favour
Corban with a sneering "Yaxley." The blond middle-class Death Eater cringed
faintly beneath Lucius' disfavor like he'd taken a blow before he could master
himself and reply with a curt "Malfoy."
Nott let that exchange pass without comment, because it was known in certain
circles that Yaxley was possessed by a rather odd fear of Lucius Malfoy. None
of their mutual acquaintances could identify why Corban regarded Lucius with a
mixture of absolute terror and the expectation of revenge for the slightest
disrespect.
Even Yaxley himself didn't know, because Lucius had taken the memory from the
weaker wizard and left behind only the impression of fear. Only Lucius knew the
truth, and he intended to keep it to himself.
It had been years ago – shortly after Draco was born – that Lucius had
discovered Corban was making rather lascivious comments regarding Narcissa's
beauty. Magic and oaths meant that nothing would ever come of it, but that
hadn't stopped Lucius from working himself up into a rage at the insult. So
many forgot that the name Malfoy meant not only elegance but also violence.
Only after hours of bloody torture had Lucius been satisfied, and then he
obliviated Yaxley.
Murdering Corban might have deprived Lucius of a possible pawn, but torture and
memory charms ensured that he had a petrified cat's paw to do his bidding when
more finesse than Crabbe or Goyle had was needed.
"Yaxley, go."
And Yaxley went.
A spark of amusement curled the corners of Nott's thin lips, and as the blue-
eyed blond fled the premise he gave a raspy bark of laughter. "Come Lucius." He
cajoled after his derisive chortle faded away. "Can I tempt you with a bit of
brandy?"
"Elm's I presume."
"Would I dare offer anything else?"
The two wizards settled into a pair of chintz armchairs in Nott's study.
Constellations wheeled by the window after Nott conjured up an illusion to
spare them from having to look out at the muggle city Nott's townhouse had been
built in. The property was unplottable and well hidden from muggle filth, but
not even the Sacred Twenty-Eight could prevent the muggles from breeding like
rabbits and building around the hidden sanctuaries of wizardkind.
Lucius took a small sip and savoured the heady burn of century and a half-old
Dragon Barrel brandy. "Would I be remiss to assume that you have no knowledge
of why I decided to call on you tonight?"
"I have suspicions." Nott leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle while
he studied the collection of stars that made up Libra. "Yaxley is much more
discreet than those other two oafs you have throwing themselves at your feet,
but for those of us that know your inquiries couldn't have been clearer."
A white-blond eyebrow cocked as Lucius revaluated his fellow dark wizard. He'd
been very careful about what sort of information he'd been asking about,
because even after his fall directly looking into the Dark Lord's past could be
dangerous. Instead Lucius had focused on collecting rumors regarding the very
first Death Eaters. He supposed he should be relieved that Nott seemed more
amused than angry at his prodding around.
"Well then. If you know what you claim to know, then perhaps we might be best
served to be on the same page." Throwing down the gauntlet, Lucius swallowed
another mouthful of brandy and waited. He could be patient – especially in
regards to this matter.
Normally, Lucius could easily put Draco's arguments out of his mind. He loved
his son, but the boy was a touch spoiled and could throw irrational tantrums if
he didn't get his way. But when Draco had stood before him the day before they
took Draco to Hogwarts and boldly suggested that Slytherin's own heir had less
than pure blood, Lucius found the idea needling in his brain.
And the more he thought about it, the more Lucius suspected that Draco's
irreverent proposal had been true. Lucius knew all about the Gaunt line and
their connection to Salazar Slytherin. But if the Dark Lord was a Gaunt, why
would he not simply proclaim himself as such? The Gaunts were members of the
Sacred Twenty-Eight after all, and even if they'd inbred the purity of their
blood was impeccable.
In proclaiming himself Lord Voldemort rather than Lord Gaunt, the Dark Lord had
been making an implication that his followers willingly ignored.
After an eternity, Nott took a sloppy slurp of his drink and finally unbent
with a great gusty sigh. "Yes. The Dark Lord was a half-blood."
Silver eyes drew narrow, and with his memory flashing back to a mysterious
diary he'd always assumed had been taken as a trophy, Lucius knew. "Tom
Riddle."
"Exactly."
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