Chapter Text
Draco is only thirteen years old when Grandfather Cygnus passes away.
He stands in a black suit under the scorching hot sun. The day is bright and clear, not a single cloud in the sky. The air smells of honeysuckle and roses, decadent and rich. There is an energy in the air that cannot be described. He doesn’t listen to the droning of the sermon as it washes over him, only stares transfixed at the deep dark grave that awaits his grandfather’s body.
The plot of land had been picked out long ago. Nestled comfortably in between a whole litany of other highly esteemed members of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. If he flicks his eyes to the left he can see Great Aunt Elladora’s tombstone. And behind her, Walburga Black — that had been his grandfather’s sister. Draco can’t help but shiver at the thought of the old crone, though he barely remembers the times that his mother dragged him along with her to the London townhouse.
The Black Abbey seemed a much finer home to Draco than Number 12 Grimmauld Place ever had — Cygnus had got the better side of the deal there, surely. The sprawling estate may not have been the ancestral seat of the house, but it was grand on a scale that the London house could never hope to be. A country estate that rivaled even Malfoy Manor for wealth and splendor. It seemed a much more proper place for Draco’s mother to have grown up, for his Grandfather to have lived out every long year of his life.
He tilts his head as he gazes at the grave. How long had the earth been waiting to claim Cygnus Black for its own?
It always seemed odd to Draco that such an old man should live so very, very long. By all accounts, Cynus should have died years and years ago. He had already been ancient, rumor had it, when he took Druella Rosier to wife and produced his three daughters.
Draco had always used to hate the days when his mother insisted they visit her father. Black Abbey may have been more comfortable than Number 12, but Grandfather Cygnus was just as intimidating as Great Aunt Walburga. The man looked more like an inferni than a living, breathing person. He was a solitary and singularly vicious man, the perfect picture of the Black Family’s inherent fury and madness. He doted on Draco, of course. The only grandson. The only grandchild that he would acknowledge at all. He doted on Narcissa too, for providing a boy that could make the family proud.
‘Not like your whore sister,’ He would say, before Narcissa had the chance to cover her sons ears.
Cygnus used to like to clutch at Draco with his cold, skeletal hands. He liked to touch Draco’s hair, look in his eyes. He liked to pass judgement on Draco in one way or another, mention how pretty he was, or how clever, or how he looked like Druella more than he looked like anyone else. No one left Draco alone in a room with him, and no one ever told him why.
Standing under the scorching hot sun at his grandfather’s funeral, Draco thinks he should be sadder. He should feel the grief like a sting in his chest. More than anything he feels like his grandfather has ruined what would otherwise be a beautiful summer day. When he looks at his mother’s face, she doesn’t look particularly sad either. Her face is a perfectly placid lake, smoothed over without a single ripple of grief. The only sign that she needs his support is the hand that stays fixed on Draco’s shoulder, keeping him beside her, keeping him there as something to lean against.
She is the only reason he suffers through the day without complaint. He stands up straighter in her honor. If his mother needs strength, he has more than enough to give her. He will be the steady force that she needs him to be. So Draco doesn’t fidget, no matter how much he chafes under the heavy fabric of his black funeral robes. He doesn’t whine about how long the ceremony takes, doesn’t try to slip away from his mother and father when he sees Pansy in the crowd. Draco is steadfast in the face of his duty.
But oh, Merlin, he wants to stop being steadfast. He wants it in particular when old Cantankerous Nott corners him. He speaks in his wizened old voice — rough and haggard and even more ancient than Cygnus had been — about how Draco was the last scion of a noble house, how it was Draco’s responsibility now to ensure that the line didn’t die out. Draco was sure that if the Nott’s had a daughter going around the same age as Draco, he would be pushing for a marriage contract. There was always Theo, he supposed — but he couldn’t see old Cantankerous going for that. It may have become more common, but two men marrying wasn’t often the done thing in pureblood circles. If nothing else, it made the point of heirs an absolute pain.
Being an heir truly was exhausting work. It was bad enough, to have the weight of the Malfoy family on his shoulders — but now he would be expected to name one of his children for House Black too. If he married Theo, they’d have to find some poor fool to birth three children for them, just to satisfy each and every family line that was needed.
All of the esteemed guests gather inside the Abbey when the funeral is over. They nibble on food provided by the elves, they drink expensive wine and whiskey, and Draco remains by his mother’s side until the sun has long set and the Malfoys are the only family that remain in the building. Of course, just because the traditional, modern parade of grief had been preformed and finished, that didn’t mean that the night was done. There were rituals yet to be preformed, Black Family funeral rights that could never be spoken in the presence of outsiders. Those traditions were old. Most of the wizarding world had moved on from the old ways. Even the Malfoys didn’t favor them. But not the Blacks. Never the Blacks.
His father almost looked blase, as he checked his pocket watch and observed the hand tick closer and closer to midnight. When the time grew near enough, he rose to his feet, brushing non-existent dust from his coat as he shifted.
“I’d best leave you to it,” He said, in the particular way of his that betrayed his relief at having found an escape. “Come along, Draco.”
His father is half way out the door, and Draco half way behind him, before Narcissa manages to speak. It is second nature to follow his father’s commands. His body had reacted before his mind could.
“Lucius.” His mother says, firm.
Draco stops as if she had said his own name. He looks over his shoulder at her in hesitation. He is stuck half way between them, uncertain which to follow. Mother’s eyes meet fathers, long moments of silent contest. Narcissa breaks the silence first. She always does. In whatever contest of wills they have, she usually comes out on the bottom. He can’t blame her for that. He’s never won a staring contest with Father either.
“Draco should take part in this.” She insists. “It will be important for him later, to know what needs to be done.”
“He is a Malfoy.” His father says, finally, as if that should be the final word.
Something flashes across her face. Something firm and defiant. He’s never seen that look before, and it makes his stomach twist. There will be trouble for this later, whatever the result may be.
“He is a Black, too. The legal heir to this estate.” Her eyes are hard, cold. Father’s eyes flash too, and Draco swallows past the lump in his throat.
“I’d like to stay with Mother.” He says, before he can think better of it. “She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
A beat. A flash.
Yes, there will be trouble for this later.
“As you like.” Father says, and leaves the room.
The Black Family death rituals were intricate and exhausting in nature. Still, Draco couldn’t help but be utterly enamored by the practice of them. His mother and he, all alone against the backdrop of night, basking in the light of candles that had lit the way of centuries of Blacks off to the afterlife.
The ritual circle was slim with only the two of them. That was part of the tragedy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They were the only two left, the way his mother had looked at it. Regulus buried, Andromeda disowned, Bellatrix and Sirius languishing in cells. The once prolific House of Black had diminished and dwindled until Draco and his Mother were the only two left to preform the burial rites.
He wondered if the circle would be stronger, if they had more bodies to fill it out. The ancestral magic was potent enough that he could already feel it rushing through him when his mother called upon the Darkness to ease her father on the death journey. It swelled in his chest as they recited, in perfect tandem, a litany of names. Ancestors to take Cygnus Black by the hand and welcome him into the world beyond, where all was magic, where he could be reborn again in the celestial sphere. And when they blew out the candles, the ancestral magic faded, and the two of them remained alone.
“You’ll have to remember this,” His mother told him, an arm around his shoulder when she guided him across the estate and back into the Abbey itself. “Someday, you and your children will be doing this for me.”
He looked at her quickly, then shook his head. “No, never.”
“You’ll break your mother’s heart, little dragon.” Slightly scolding, slightly amused. “Would you deny me the burial rights of my family?”
He wonders if that’s a genuine fear for her. Would he shake off the yoke of the Black Family mantle and decide to follow exclusively in his father’s footsteps? Malfoy Pride wouldn’t let Lucius wish for anything else from the future Lord of his estate. To be a Malfoy was to be loyal to your family name above all else.
“It isn’t that.” He tells her, shoulders stiffening. “You speak as if I’m ever going to let you die. I’ll have found a cure for mortality by then. You’re going to live forever.”
A smile crossed Narcissa’s face. The first of the day. She looked softer when she smiled, she always had. She looked kind and warm and so full of love that Draco almost wanted to shy away from it. He didn’t know what to do with so much love.
“Ah, I see.” She says, with a nod of her head. “In that case, you may forget the entire thing.”
“I’ll never do that either.” He tells her, just to see the flicker of her smile again.
Her arm unwraps from his shoulder as they step across the threshold of the house, but her smile continues. “You’re a good boy, Draco.”
He hums, a soft thing. That compliment wasn’t rare from his mother, who doted and spoiled him with the best of them. It was rare from Father. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he got a compliment from the man who raised him. Not since before he started school, surely. From there on out it had been scoldings and punishments that Draco had earned by being second best. He considers it as he glances around the entryway, the inherent magic of Black Abbey coming to greet them both. The magic in this house felt warmer than that of Malfoy Manor, the phantom sensation of sitting before a roaring hearth and knowing you were safe.
“Does that mean I can stay up a while longer?” He asks, trying his luck with his mother in her softened state. “I’m far too skittish for bed.”
She glances back at him, her eyes examining his face. Her smile turns fonder, almost amused.
“Very well.” She tells him, with a nod, and ascends the stairs to the room where her and father will be spending the night tonight.
The bottom two floors of Black Abbey become Draco’s playground in the dark hours of the night. Exploring a home like this was a rarity. On childhood visits Draco had been supervised at all times — and it would have been seen as uncouth to snoop around another’s house in search of secrets and treasures.
Draco couldn’t deny that he had long been itching to explore the Abbey. He had a fascination with the house that had been stoked with every story his mother told him. This was the realm in which she had grown up, one of three sisters. It all sounded rather like a fairytale — his father the prince who came to whisk her away at the end of the story. This was a house that had held balls to rival all others.
Legend had it, the Black Abbey was built on land once inhabited by Morgan la Fey.
Draco explores with quiet footsteps, socked feet making hardly a sound against the sturdy hardwood floors. He examines slumbering portraits on the walls, and spends rather a long time gazing at the one that hung proudly in the foyer. Durella Black and her daughters. Narcissa was easy to spot, younger than Draco has ever seen her, ethereal and beautiful. She had her Druella’s colouring, pale and delicate, much like Draco himself. Bellatrix was a stark contrast to the other two figures in the picture. She had the classic Black looks. Hair as dark as midnight and sharp eyes. She was a great beauty, strong and vivid.
Another starkly noticed detail was this: the gap between the two sisters where another should have been. Cygnus must have gone as far as to have the third sister — Andromeda, wasn’t it? — magically removed, or at least obscured. Andromeda was the elephant in the room during nearly every visit to this house.
There were other portraits too, and photographs as well, with distant or long dead family members that smiled out at Draco. One photograph set atop a piano in a hidden drawing room. His mother again, smiling widely, arm in arm with a young, dark haired man.
Far greater treasures that pictures and portraits can be revealed with careful enough exploration. He has long learned from Uncle Severus that if one wants to uncover the truth, one must leave no stone unturned. A curious spirit should always be encouraged.
So Draco explores the Abbey with a single minded intensity.
He hunts through drawing rooms and libraries, gazes with wide eyed wonder at the grand ballroom, acquaints himself with the house elves down in the kitchen. It’s when he’s on his way back up and through the foyer that he notices the door.
Draco is fairly certain that the ornate double doors — gilded with gold, intricately carved with a star map so finely detailed that it almost makes him gasp — hadn’t been there before now. He has walked through this foyer a dozen times, throughout the day and night. The door is new.
It’s new, and something about it seems to call to him. It’s like there’s pure magic coiling through his blood, encouraging his hand to reach out and touch the golden handle. It is warm to the touch, as if it has been bathed in sunlight.
The door opens silently when he pushes; the hinges well oiled, allowing Draco to move as silently as a ghost.
The room inside the door is just as lavishly gilded as the doorway that allowed entry to it. The heptagonal room is lined with gold framed mirrors from floor to ceiling, reflecting Draco after Draco back at him as he walks to the centre.
The central focus of the room is what appears to be a telescope — far more expensive than any Draco has seen before, larger than any of the telescopes that they’ve used in astronomy class thus far. It’s crafted of scuffed, burnished gold. He glances up and finds that the roof of the room is a perfectly clear dome of glass.
He rests a hand on the scope as he cranes his neck to look out at the night sky. The stars seem all the brighter now, as the clock strikes three am. The witching hour. He feels a sharp sting of pain and tears his hand away from the telescope. His palm is bloody when he looks at it, a small cut that seeps red. When he looks, accusingly, at the telescope, he can’t see anything sharp that may have inflicted the wound. Only the gold glitters back at him, wet with his own blood.
The image of Draco in the mirrors moves with him during his examination. But when he glances up, he realizes that not all of the images are of him at all, anymore. Looking back at him from behind a mirror-image telescope is a young man with dark hair. It is then that he notices that every mirror is topped with a name.
This one is Regulus. He gasps, and takes a step back, but the Regulus in the mirror doesn’t copy him. He only stands straighter and smiles a savage smile.
He can only be Regulus Black — his mother’s cousin, most beloved and often spoken of. Regulus Black died in the late days of the last war with Voldemort. It was the death that had broken Walburga Black’s heart beyond repair.
Draco cranes his neck around the room — and finds that not a single image reflects what he expects it to. Another man in one — Alphard, older than Regulus appeared. A tired looking woman in another — dressed in old fashioned clothing and standing under different stars. Aside from the singular mirror still reflecting his own body, all the others are showing him something different. His body shakes slightly as he turns through the loop of them, glancing at one after the other. Each mirror someone new, each inhabitant examines him with a cold kind of interest. When he finishes the loop in three-hundred and sixty degrees, he comes back to the first mirror.
Regulus looks back at him with hawk-sharp eyes. The tilt of his head is otherworldly, yet familiar. He seems to straighten his shoulders as he examines Draco, determination settling in across the expanse of him. His eyes turn commanding, and elegant fingers point to the left, toward the only mirror in the room that shows Draco. Its shimmering around the edges now, he can see it out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too afraid to look at it straight on. He doesn’t want to see his own name painted on its apex, the dotted line on some devils contract that might tie him to the place forever.
Regulus’s lips shape a word, soundless in the mirror, yet Draco can still make it out —
“Look.” The ghost of a man is demanding of him.
Over long years Draco has been taught well to respond to authority. As much as he doesn’t want to do it, he looks. Turns his head, and his body, to look in the mirror. The glimmering intensity of it, the way it warps and shifts and pulls at his mind, a cloying thing, until he’s stumbling forward. He only stops himself from falling against it by catching the weight of his body with a bloody hand.
And there it was, like a name signed in blood. A devils contract indeed.
Draco looks into the mirror, and the mirror looks back into him.
This is what it sees in him: Black blood like poison in his veins, magical blood tracing up the lines of a family tree. There was power in blood like that, the natural fucking selection that made people treat the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black like pureblooded royalty. With power came gifts. They ran down along the tree and cropped up from generation to generation; the madness and the beauty, the ability to shift the details of ones face like a creature undergoing metamorphosis, and this, the most cursed gift of all, to look inside yourself and find only the future waiting for you.
The gift clicks open in Draco like a long awaited Pandora’s Box, and with a frantic breath of air, the future comes spilling out.
Potter,
The letter begins like that. It would have felt too wrong for Draco’s hands to spell out the delicate letters of ‘Dear Harry,’ as etiquette might have demanded. His finger shook even has he wrote the single word instead.
What was he supposed to say?
How was he supposed to do this, when it felt wrong down to his very core? Potter didn’t deserve anything from him, not when he had rejected Draco so solidly at the very first chance he got. Oh, but that still stung. Draco understood the root of his grudge was a childish one, and yet it still festered beneath his skin like poison.
Potter,
You’re a proper twat, and I’ve always hated you. But as it turns out, prostrating myself before you and begging for forgiveness might be the best way of keeping my family alive in the coming years. Not that I need forgiveness from the likes of you—
He saw flashes of it now, again — aftershocks that had been plaguing him non-stop ever since they left Black Abbey.
The darkness over Malfoy Manor, dark omens for dark times and the man with red eyes and a snake’s face that ruled over Draco’s world like he was a King. His mothers sobbing cries and the emptiness of his father’s eyes. The pain of the mark that burned itself into Draco’s skin, his own deranged grief and the way he cried when…
He shakes himself away from the reverie and lets out a noise of discontent when he finds the already useless letter stained with his own tears. He is angry when he wipes the evidence of them away from his face.
That is a future he doesn’t want.
He doesn’t want to be trapped.
He doesn’t want to be in pain.
He doesn’t want to see Harry Potter’s dead body, at the end of an utter failure of his life. No. That least of all. Potter was infuriating. Potter had rejected him. Potter had a hero complex and constantly demanded attention, all because he had failed to die as a stupid baby. Potter was also Potter, who rushed into danger every chance he got, just because he felt like he needed to save everyone.
The idea of Potter dying, even years from now, made Draco feel unsteady on his feet, like the world was going to fall apart beneith them. The phantom sense of dread from the vision still clouded his judgement, the secondhand emotions from a Draco far older than he currently was.
Potter was a stubborn fool above all else, so he couldn’t be trusted to keep himself safe, to circumvent this future. He would need Draco to keep an eye on him. It would be a hell of a lot easier to do that if they weren’t spitting venom at each other with every breath.
He picks up the quill and begins again.
Potter,
I’ve been a proper twat to you for the last three years, so I wouldn’t blame you if you tore this letter to shreds before reading it. I hope you’ll read what I need to say before indulging in any of those dramatic flights of fancy.
Though, the risks being what they are, I’d better cut right to the chase, hadn’t I? Here goes, then:
Potter, I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done and said to you since the day we met. I’ve come to realise lately that I was wrong about all of it. I won’t try to make excuses, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for the things I’ve said and done. On the contrary, you would be perfectly within your rights to continue loathing me until the day I die.
So, I suppose, rather selfishly, this letter is more for me than it is for you. I suppose you aren’t surprised that I’m being selfish even now. I needed to say this to you; I need the apology to be out in the open air, mainly so I can hold myself accountable for all of it. That isn’t the kind of person I want to be anymore. I don’t like the path that it’s put me on. I want to be different.
So, I’m sorry. I’ve been beating myself up about my afformentioned twattedness all day now, so if you’d like an itimised list of all the things that I am oh so very sorry for, I shall be happy to provide. When you come back to school three weeks from now you’ll find me to be much less of an annoyance.
With respect,
(And a healthy does of repentence, of course.)
Draco Lucius Malfoy
Draco sealed the letter the moment it was dry enough to fold over. He even went as far as using one of the decorative seals his mother had gifted him for his birthday — a Narcissus flower decorating the pale green wax that dripped and solidified onto the parchment.
He didn’t let himself think on it any longer than he needed to before he walked to his owl and attached the letter to her leg.
Now wasn’t the time to second guess his choices.
Now was the time for a leap of faith.
For now, there were more letters to write — and then a conversation to be had with his parents regarding his classload for the coming year.
A heavy sigh escaped him as he sat back down at his writing desk. The quill found its way back to his fingertips and he set it to paper again for another agonising apology. ‘Dear Granger’, his handwriting spilled out across the page.
“Divination.” The word came out of Severus Snape’s mouth with a sneer. “And Muggle Studies? Dare I ask what has inspired you to pursue subjects such as these?”
They sat in the gardens of Malfoy Manor on delicately painted chairs wrought from iron. A full tea service had been laid for them, a flight of fancy that his mother had taken — an effort, he supposed, to make up for the fact that his birthday had been quite throughly overshadowed by the death of his Grandfather this summer. When he had requested a conversation with his Godfather to discuss his classes for the coming year, she had insisted on making quite the affair out of it.
The fact that Severus had gone along with the ordeal and taken the offered tea and cakes revealed more than it should have about his regard for Narcissa Malfoy and her son. Severus was an aloof man at the best of times, but on days like this it was impossible to forget how deeply he cared for his godchild.
Draco takes a long sip of his tea as he considers it. The derision in Severus’s tone had been unmissable. He thought the subjects beneath him, and therefore beneath Draco. He considered it. What lie could he tell Severus to explain his sudden change of heart on the matter? Months ago he would have laughed in your face if you suggested that he take up Divination. But months ago, he hadn’t seen the future in a mirror.
His eyes flicked toward the french doors back into the Manor, as if he might see his father lurking behind them and ready to accuse Draco of bad behaviour. He hadn’t told anyone what happened that day at Black Abbey. His father, because he was afraid. His mother, because he knew she would be.
“Draco,” Severus’s voice softens on the word. Apparently he had been silent for long enough to convince Severus to barrel onwards without a reply. “I believe you much more suited to the study of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, as we had previously planned. They will serve you far better in the long run than anything else you might learn in these other endeavors.”
“Oh,” Draco said, with a surprised laugh. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I still want to take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I’d like to take every elective this year.”
“Every elective.”
“Just so.” Draco hummed, with a sip of his tea. “I know the workload will be a large one, but I assure you I’m more than capable. I’ve been studying half of these subjects since I was still in diapers. I would be able to handle it.”
“I have no doubt about your capabilities, Draco.” Severus assures him, though he sounds like his teeth are being pulled with every syllable. “What I am concerned about is your sanity.”
Draco rolls his eyes, and is promptly hit with the gentlest of stinging hexes. That was rather cute, when he thought about it. His godfather had such a soft hand when it came to disciplining him. A stinging hex couldn’t hold a candle to what Lucius Malfoy conjured up when the need arose.
“Why, Draco, do you suddenly want to take Divination?” Severus asks him. “I will not abandon the subject until I have heard the truth, so do not presume to think that you can worm your way out of this conversation.”
“Oh, but I never presume.” He looks down at his teacup. Just dregs of liquid and tea-leaves staining the white percaline. A sigh escapes him. “You won’t tell my father, will you? I don’t want him to know why.”
Severus studies him. Sharp eyes. Intense and dark behind the rest of his face.
“I won’t tell your father.” The promise sounds grave. Draco believes it in an instant.
“Something happened, while I was at Black Abbey for Grandfather’s funeral.” The truth feels like damnation on his tongue, the secondhand fear of the experience causing his hand to shake slightly as he lowers the teacup back down onto its matching saucer. “I think — I think that I had a vision.”
That was an understatement. A vision would have been brief. It would have been a flash, or something… less, than what Draco experienced. He couldn’t even process half of the things he had seen when he looked in that mirror. The memory of it still shakes him. And he knows — he knows down to his core that those things are going to happen unless something big changes.
“And what did you see, in this vision?” There’s a terse edge to Sev’s voice. A worry.
“The future.”
“Do not be a brat, Draco.”
He shakes his head, a small gesture. “Things I don’t want to be true. A person I don’t want to become. Your fate, mine, my mother’s — I don’t want any of it to happen. And if i’m going to prevent it, i’m going to have to… do things I never expected I would. That starts with learning how to…understand all of this.”
“Therefore: Divination.”
“Quite.” A breath “So. Twelve O.W.L’s. Can we make that happen?”
“If it can be arranged for Miss Granger, I don’t see why the same can’t be arranged for you.” Severus sounded exhausted as he said the words. His fingers drummed against the table.
“Of course Granger is taking twelve subjects. Swot.”
He said it half to see the way Severus would fight a smile. To diffuse the tension. Sev didn’t push the subject further, didn’t push for more information. He trusted Draco enough, somehow, to know that Draco would tell him more of the truth when he was ready.
For now, he allowed Draco to pour him a second cup of tea, and began to complain about the forthcoming batch of first years that were bound to make him miserable.
There was a muggle saying that Draco had become familiar with during his time at Hogwarts: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Draco had rather a different view of the matter when he was at home for the summer. Breakfast seemed to be the most exhausting meal of the day. Breakfast was when Draco was too tired to have all of his walls up; too sensitive to stand up to his fathers poking and prodding.
It’s worse, now.
He hasn’t been sleeping well, since Black Abbey.
“Stop slouching, Draco.” His father commands from behind his copy of the Daily Prophet.
Father always semes to know when Draco’s posture is less than perfect. As Draco straightens his back and sits up properly, he wonders if Lucius gets a little shiver down his spine when Draco slouches at Hogwarts. Can he sense it from miles and miles away? Draco wouldn’t be surprised.
“Yes, Father.” He intoned, dutiful.
It was as he picked up his teacup, which knew to magically refill itself with his favourite blend at least thrice at breakfast, that the picture on the front of the Daily Prophet caught his eye.
Sirius Black, feral and screaming silently from the page. He did a double take.
He saw the flash of it. The less-feral and significantly better groomed version of Sirius Black caught in the middle of a duel with his father. Dark hair bathed in flashes of red and green. That was the future.
The present was this: Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban several weeks ago, and the Ministry had been running itself ragged to try and catch him ever since.
The flash of the future reminding Draco of its presence inside his head shook him. His teacup shattered against the table before he could catch it. The delicate glass had been part of the Malfoy heirloom collection since the mid 1800’s. A soft gasp escaped Draco as the scalding hot liquid spilled onto his lap. He pushed back from the table at the same moment that the Daily Prophet was slammed down on its dark wooden surface, obfuscating the view of Sirius Black.
Draco stood frozen for seconds too long, as he received one of his Father’s coldest looks. “I’m sorry, Father.” He stumbled over it. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
“Oh, Darling.” Narcissa cuts in, far too quick. “The tea must have burned you through the cup. Tipsy charmed it too hot again, undoubtedly.”
It was a lie. The tea was the perfect temperature, down to their exact specifications. She was trying to save his skin, trying to cover up his own mistake and blame it on someone else. Part of him hated that she needed to do such a thing. Another part of him was grateful that she cared enough about him to lie. In other houses, he would have already been at the other end of a whipping — if the stories about the various Lords and Ladies of the Black Family had been true, Walburga would have already had him under the cruciatus curse.
Lucius huffed out a displeased noise, even as Draco began to nod his head.
“Yes,” Draco said. “That’s it, Mother.”
“A boy your age should be more disciplined than that, Draco.” Father told him, stern voiced and stern eyed. Punishment had not been wiped completely from the agenda, Draco knew his father well enough to glean that from the first word. “If a bit if pain is enough to make you cause a scene like this at your age, I shudder to think how you’ll be behaving as the head of this house.”
Draco watched him as his father pushed away from the table, chair scraping against the cold hardwood floors. His mother had fallen silent. He couldn’t blame her for that. The smart thing was to know when your battle had been lost.
“Your mothers House may have been prone to its fits of dramatics, but Malfoys are more restrained than that. I will not have you inheriting bad habits, Draco.”
Yes, Draco knew what he was supposed to be. Restraiend. Calm. Proud. He remembers his mothers face at the funeral, a placid lake, and tries to school his own expression to match her. A placid lake. Smooth. Iced over. Nothing underneath.
It was just an accident, the child in him longed to say. But there was no room for accidents in the Malfoy family. Accidents were for children and fools, and Draco could be counted among neither if he was meant to inherit the family name and fortune.
Were you restrained when you tried to kill Harry Potter last year? A traitorous part of him longed to say. No, his father had not been the perfect picture of the calm and dutiful Malfoy Lord. Now those were words that would easily earn him a bout of cruciatus. Those words were poison. That was the Black in him, perhaps. Fits of dramatics indeed. He knew the reputation the Black Family had:
Beautiful, sharp, powerful. Spitting mad, spitting fire, and like stars they glowed brightly until they either burned out or exploded. No restraint. Nothing calm. Though yes, they were exceedingly proud. There were so few of them left now, and deep down Draco knew his father detested the fact that Draco would always be counted among their number. The last hope of dying line, with duty beyond that of his father’s house.
He swallows past the poison trying to claw his way up his throat. He wonders if this is how Mother feels. Denying herself the fury that was her birthright. When he looks at her, she is a calm and placid lake again, but her eyes betray her fear.
“I’m sorry, Father.” He says, again, the picture of restraint. “I’ll do better from now on, I swear it.”
Lucius Malfoy smiled at him, but it wasn’t gentle. There was malice in that grin, a cold kind of joy. This was no benevolent father offering forgiveness. “Of course you’ll do better, my dear son. I’ll teach you how.”
He extended a hand to prompt Draco to walk beside him, out of the dining room and into his father’s study.
Draco didn’t need to see the future to know that this was a lesson that would hurt.